Scottish Brides (8 page)

 

Hadden was an ordinary man with ordinary needs
and an ordinary temperament. This is to say, he was kind, understanding, hardworking, good-tempered, and logical. Especially logical.

But as he and Andra collapsed to the sheepskin, it was too vividly borne in on him that, where she was concerned, his logic failed him. Her stubborn insistence on independence stirred him into a brew of frustration, anger, and sexual insanity.

In fact, every kind of insanity. And it was no wonder, because although Andra was generous, conscientious, and tender, she was at the same time the most unreasonable, emotional, immature creature on the face of the earth.

They straddled the bench, the sheepskin cradled them, and Andra took long breaths as the tension of orgasm slowly eased. He smoothed his hand down the curve of her spine. “Are you all right, darling?”

She rubbed her cheek against the fleece. “Hmm?”

He smiled. She was exhausted, and he felt almost sorry for her and almost remorseful himself for subjecting her to such a barrage of carnal stimulation.

But, damn it, how else was he supposed to make her sit still long enough to listen to him, except to tempt her and pleasure her until she was too limp to run away? As heaven was his witness, he'd tried everything on his first visit. He'd kissed. He'd cajoled. He'd promised. He'd begged. He'd tried sound reasoning, although in the entire history of civilization, such a tactic had never worked on a woman. Nothing succeeded. Andra fled commitment like a rabbit fled a hawk.

And what woman in her right mind would flee commitment with him? She had to be as insane as she made him.

Gently, regretfully, he separated their bodies. If it were up to him, he would stay inside her forever, bringing them both to passion's explosive release time and again. But the sun had set. Light was rapidly fading. He glanced at the closed trapdoor. He didn't know Sima's plan—hadn't even known she had one—but he would guess she had no intention of letting them out tonight. What was it she had said as she urged them to eat hearty? '
Tis a long time
until mornin', and a fair climb t' the top o' the tower.

He'd been too angry to guess her plot then . . . but if he had, he would have been a willing participant. Somehow, no matter how vigorously Andra denied him, he had been determined to find out what he had done—or said—that had frightened her.

His hand flexed where it rested on the sweet curve of her buttock. He'd found out, all right.

He'd shouldered a measly few of her responsibilities. He'd been
fool enough to try and make himself indispensable.

Now, as the heat of the day died, she shivered, and he knew that, no matter how he wished to settle this matter of their union before she could recover her composure, he had to care for her while he could see well enough to do what must be done. “Rest, darling, and let me care for you.”

Her head half rose off the bench in instinctive rejection.

He was taking responsibility again. Well, she would just have to get used to it. Pressing his hand to her cheek, he said again, “Rest.”

She sighed and relaxed. Perhaps because she had begun to accept him as her consort. Most likely because she was too tired to struggle.

Swinging one leg over the bench, he stood, strode to the trapdoor, and pulled on it. As he expected, as he hoped, the lock held firm. They had to remain here for the night. He had the night to convince her she was his.

Working quickly, he gathered the lengths of cloth Andra had dropped beside the trunk. In the corner, he made a mattress of tartans and a bolster for their heads. He folded two at the foot to use as covers. Pressing his hand on the softness of the makeshift bed, he decided that once he placed Andra between him and the wall, she would not get to leave until they had finished this affair—to
his
satisfaction this time.

Making his way to Andra's side, he found her sitting, weaving just a little, wrapped in the sheepskin. “That's good.” He slid his arm under her knees and across her back and lifted her. ”We'll use this beneath us, too.” Laying her down in the middle of the makeshift bed, he spread out the sheepskin, then climbed in beside her.

He felt her trying to gather herself to do something—what, he couldn't imagine, but it was always that way with Andra. Whatever he couldn't imagine, she did, and he wouldn't let the reins change hands now. So he pulled the covers over them and said, “It was just as you suspected.”

“What was?”

Slipping his arm beneath her neck, he hugged her head to his chest. “The marriage kilt was just an excuse to come to you.” He heard her draw breath, but he continued without pause. “I'm grateful to Lady Valéry for that, although I imagine she sent me off for no other reason than the fact she was heartily sick of having me stomp around her home. You see, the recording of Scottish traditions is the only thing that moves me to passion.” With his hand on her back, he urged her closer. “Or, shall I say, the only thing that had
formerly
moved me to passion.”

Andra cleared her throat before she spoke, and she sounded tremulous and unsure. “I haven't said, but I think it's a noble thing you do.”

It didn't surprise him that she avoided any mention of his ardor for her, and it much pleased him that she snuggled against him without a struggle. Her mind had not accepted the truth of her new circumstances, but her body understood very well. “I don't know that loving you is noble, since I have no choice, but it is challenging.”

Her hand hovered over his chest, touching down several times before settling on the place over his heart. “I didn't mean—”

“The thing is, I couldn't comprehend why you had rejected me in such a callous manner, but now that you've explained, I see the problem.”

“I explained?” Her fingers clutched the hair on his chest.

Gently, he loosened them. “So—references. I'm willing to get you references.”

“For what?” Her voice rose a pitch.

“To say that I am a steady man, not given to flights of fancy nor fits of infatuation.” The darkness of a Scottish night in the midst of the Highlands was blacker than any Hadden had ever encountered, and that darkness cloaked the tower now. He could see nothing but the square of star-bespeckled night sky through the window, but he read Andra's confusion and fear without difficulty. “Lady Valéry, who has known me since I came into her household at the age of nine, would give me such a reference.”

“Lady Valéry.”

Andra's parrotlike performance made him grin. He'd turned her upside down. Now he was shaking her, and if he were lucky, when she regained her balance she would see their future as he saw it. Discreetly keeping all amusement out of his tone, he said, “You've met Lady Valéry, I believe, on one of her jaunts through the Highlands, and would admit that she is a woman of honor.”

She squirmed. “Of course, but I don't understand why you think these references would be important to me.”

He ignored that. She did know, and if she wanted to play the dunce, then he could do the same. “I can also offer Sebastian Durant, Viscount Whitfield. Now you might not know him, but I assure you—”

“I met him at the christening of the MacLeod son.”

“Ah.” She knew Ian and Alanna. Another link between them. “Ian MacLeod is my cousin.”

“He's charming.”

Hadden could hear the smile in her voice, and he didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. “Only if you like dark-haired, handsome men with a shade too much seductiveness.”

She slid one leg across and nestled her calf between his. “I didn't think he was
too
seductive.”

“I had to thrash Ian once when he tried to take advantage of my sister.” Hadden caught her thigh and pulled her tightly against him. “I can do it again.”

“So you're given to violence.”

She still wore her garters, he realized, and he untied the one. “I defend my own.”

She gave a funny little trill, and he realized she was giggling. “He's married, Hadden, and he can't take his gaze off his wife. If you trounce him, he'd likely wonder why.”

“Humph.” He knew she was right. Ian didn't give a damn about anything except Alanna and their children and Fionn-away Manor. But, damn it . . .

“Viscount Whitfield?” she prompted.

He couldn't allow himself to be distracted by an absurd surge of jealousy. Not when his goal loomed so close. “Sebastian.” He rubbed his chin on the top of her head and tried hard to focus. “One introduction to Sebastian, that's all it takes, and you know he is a hard man with very little tolerance for injustice.”

“He scared me,” she admitted. “He's too intense, and he watches his wife—”

“My sister.”

Andra's head came up so fast, she cracked his jaw with her skull. “She's your sister?” She rubbed her head. “Ow.”

“Yes. Ow.” He rubbed his chin. She was communicating, talking about his family, his friends, and not resisting him with every fiber of her being. A cracked jaw was a small price to pay.

“Of course.” She sounded excited. “You look like her! The hair and the eyes and the . . . you're both handsome.”

“Well-formed?”

“Extremely,” she answered. “But unlike you, your sister is not conceited.”

“Ow,” he said again, although he wasn't offended. She was teasing, treating him as normally as she had before he'd uttered those fatal words—
marry me.
It was another breakdown in her defenses, and he began to think that perhaps, just perhaps, his plan would succeed. “So Sebastian is my brother-in-law, and you might think he is prejudiced in my favor. But I assure you, he detests the Fairchilds—remember, I told you the family is the most dissolute bunch of blackguards you'll find this side of Hell—and if I were like them, he would have no compassion for my suit. He would tell you I was unworthy and blast me for daring to court a lady of integrity. But he helped me go to university, and since then I've worked with him and for him, and you can trust him to tell you the truth.”

He paused and waited until she acknowledged, “I'm sure that he would tell nothing but the truth.”

“Exactly. And finally, I must offer my sister. There is no one else alive who has known me my whole life, so it has to be her.”

“For what reason?”

“Mary will gladly testify that I have never proposed to a woman before, not even when I was five and fancied myself quite a ladies' man.”

“Oh.”

It was a tiny sound, and one he found infinitely fulfilling. “There's Ian and Alanna I can call on to write me a reference. And the men and women I met and worked with in India, although those letters will take time to reach us, but all of them will say much the same thing.”

“That you're not flighty in matters of the heart, and that you can be depended upon?”

“Very good.” He cradled her in both his arms, holding her as close as he could in the hope that, if the words did not reach her, the closeness would. “I will not leave you, no matter how you try to drive me away. I'm not your father or your brother or your uncle; I'm Hadden Fairchild, and I've never loved another woman, Andra, and I never will.”

She didn't say anything. She didn't return his vow of love, or say that she would read his references, or that she believed that he would remain with her always.

Yet neither did she protest his insight that the abandonment of her menfolk had created her terror of the bonds of affection.

He wasn't satisfied, of course. What he sought was her absolute surrender. But he couldn't force that, and he knew that he'd planted a new thought inside her head. That he was the man she could depend on.

 

Andra heard Hadden's breath deepen as he slid into sleep. She noted that his grip on her did not loosen, and she was reminded of that other night they had shared. Even in the depths of sleep, the man held what he cherished. Did she believe he would do the same in the light of day when faced with the hardships of the life she led? He was a fine, well-traveled English gentleman, used to amenities. Even if he were to throw his fortune into Castle MacNachtan, it would be years before the conditions would be more than just tolerable. Did she believe he would remain with her regardless of the rugged living conditions? More important, could he shoulder the responsibilities of being her husband without shirking? And when they fought, as all married folk must, would he not flee back to London, but still come to her bed and kiss her good night?

She didn't know the answers. Not really. Not even if she accepted the references he urged on her. Not even if she considered the man himself and all she knew of him. No matter what decision she made, she might lose.

Could she bear that? To perhaps once again see the back of a man she loved as he rode down the road away from her?

But one thing was certain: if she rejected his suit, she would see the back of him anyway.

With a sigh, she eased herself out of his embrace and slid over the top of him.

He came awake immediately and grabbed at her. “What are you doing?”

It might not be that easy to reject him, she realized. In fact—she bit her lip against a laugh—he'd even taken the extreme measure of spreading those fertility goddesses throughout the tower. If they worked . . .

“Andra,” he snapped, “where are you going?”

“I'm cold. I'm going to get another cover.”

He still held her as he debated, but he must have decided she couldn't escape, for his fingers slid away and he grudgingly gave permission. “Don't be long.”

“Gracious,” she muttered as she made her way across the room, and when she came back, tartan in hand, she wasn't surprised when his hands came up to meet her.

*      *      *

Morning sunshine and the babble of voices assaulted Hadden, and he lay with his eyes and ears closed tightly against them. He didn't care to be assaulted after a night spent on the floor on a makeshift bed trying to sleep with one eye open in case Andra made a dash for it.