This Perfect Kiss (12 page)

“The pub burned to the ground years ago. The owner is dead. This is a desolate area frequented by scoundrels and smugglers and an occasional revenue cutter.” He tipped back the tricorn with his finger. “What did you and dear Grandmamma talk about that made you bolt like you had the devil on your tail?”

“ 'Twas after ten o'clock. You were late.”

He had been less than fifteen minutes late arriving home. “You could have asked my driver to take you wherever you wanted to go, Christel.”

“Would that have prevented your riding after me, my lord?”

“Aye,” he snapped in irritation, leaning heavily on his elbow against the saddle. “I could not sleep tonight worrying if the
Haggis
or
Wulvers
had dragged you off into their beds, never to be seen again by mortal man. I promised to get you home. Remember?”

“Wild Haggis live in the Highlands. Werewolves are from the Shetlands. I think I am safe on a beach in Ayrshire.”

Drawn by the urge to brush the moisture from her cloak, he started to lift his hand. The dog growled, and having momentarily forgotten the cur, Camden glared at it. “I trust that if that fanged beast were to go for my throat you would call it off?”

“Mayhap 'tis your temperament and intent with which he disagrees. Next time, try coaxing him with a bone. I have discovered he
can
be bought with food.”

“You mean he can be bribed by a pretty face and food.” His eyes were warm as they encompassed her.

“A matter of perspective. Sometimes kindness is the best bribe.”

His gaze ranged the length of her. “I had expected to see you passed out on the beach two miles ago.”

She turned and started walking. “Not all women are maidens in distress, my lord. I have two feet. I am capable of using them. I hope your business this morning was not too taxing.”

“Among other things, the
Anna
has damage to the rigging. Bentwell will be taking her to Glasgow to be refitted.” He grabbed her elbow and turned her to face him. “Tell me what my grandmother said to you.”

Christel peered ahead of her. “We chatted about the weather, dead leaves and you. Then I left. How did you know where to find me?”

“ 'Tis low tide. You spent a lot of time down here when you were younger, collecting your treasures. The beach takes you home.” His voice softened. “Do not allow anything she said to upset you. She is old and set in her ways about certain things. I am afraid she is very much a snob.”

Christel started walking again but not so fast that he could not keep pace. He stepped over driftwood. “Anna missed saying good-bye.”

She remained silent. He didn't understand why he felt as if he'd been talking over a tied tongue. “I am saying that you are family, Christel. You are welcome at Blackthorn Castle to visit her while we are in residence,” he said.

He didn't think she had heard. He realized she had when she turned her head and nodded jerkily, as if she hadn't been sure what to say.

“Why do you not love it here?” she asked after a moment. “How could you ever leave?”

The whisper of the waves breaking against the beach filled the silence between them. Then he looked down to adjust his step. Water dripped from the rim of his tricorn onto his shoulders. “I found the open sea more to my liking. Out there, a man lives or dies by his own wits and actions. I felt as if I made a difference.”

“A man in command of his world.”

He laughed. The horse nudged his shoulder. His hands went gently over the bay's long muzzle, and he soothed the animal with a word. “I was in the service of the king. I lived my life being told what to do by some higher authority. I was adept at following orders.”

Aye, he had followed orders all the way to hell.

Her eyes squinting, she cast a sidelong glance at him. “So you think I have an intelligent brain?”

“Did I accidentally say that? I take it back. If you were smart, you would be sitting in front of a fire warming your hands.” After a moment, he said, “I should not have kissed you last night.”

“In that we can stand in agreement.”

Imprisoned by his imagination, and the manner of unfinished business between them, he found himself smiling. “However, I did not say that I did not enjoy kissing you. Or that I would not do so again. Indeed, I am lost as to what overcame me that I should have stopped.”

She turned, her narrowed eyes accusing him of being blatantly ungallant. “Is that right?”

“God's truth.”

“Do you want to know my theory?”

He dragged his gaze from her mouth, then met her eyes again, the heat from his skin pressing against her own. “You have me intrigued.”

Folding her arms beneath her cloak, she gave him her first real smile that day. “My first thought would be that you were entirely too shocked by my response. But clearly, unless a lightning bolt struck you, I can see that not much of anything is shocking to you anymore.”

“And your second thought?” he asked.

“Perhaps you knew if you continued, it would mean more than mere intimidation on your part.”

His brow shot up. “Intimidation?”

“Aye. Men are notorious for coercion tactics against the weaker sex. 'Tis a way of putting us in our place.”

He made a scoffing sound protesting her description of females. “And where might that place be?”

Except beneath a man,
he thought with little temperance.

“Last night, you attempted to prove to yourself that you were no longer attracted to me. When that failed, you resorted to following me today to prove to yourself that
I
was still attracted to you.”

This time he laughed, and he admitted she was partially right. He
was
attracted to her.

He took a step nearer. “I kissed you last night because I thought you were the most beautiful thing I had seen since moonlight.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“You had that red mouth of yours so near mine, so tempting that a damned monk would sin just for a taste. So I took advantage of your lack of defenses to claim what I wanted. Admittedly, I did hesitate when you threw yourself in my arms and kissed me back, because, despite what you think, I
am
still capable of feeling shock.”

“You mock me, Carrick.”

“ 'Tis not my intention.” He didn't have to lift her chin very high before their eyes met. “The truth is I
want
you. More of you. But if we ever go farther than a kiss”—his gaze traveled the length of her body, pausing on her breasts in a way that made her skin flush—“both of us will be naked and in a warm bed. That I promise, my pretentious flower.”

And it
was
a promise, deep and dark as sin, dangerous stuff as he bent his head slowly to kiss her, allowing her room to back away, to escape now if she so chose. He would walk away no questions asked and accept last night as a one-night memento of his time spent here.

He leaned his hands against the horse, trapping Christel between his arms. “Ah, I have succeeded in leaving you speechless. And you have given light to this dour day, when I did not think either was possible on a cold December morn as this.”

With a small turning of her head, she managed to avoid the kiss. “Pretentious flower?”

He flicked at her beautifully disheveled bun. “Weed then.”

She studied her toe, drawing circles in the sand. “Then I will be your lady bird of convenience while you are in residence?”

The soft-spoken words did not disguise the steel in her tone. Still, some last shred of desire warred within him. “There is nothing convenient about you.”

Her ire awakened, narrowed her eyes. “What is to be my worth then? A hundred shillings? A pretty gown? A town house in Mayfair? Is that not what you give your mistresses?”

This time he was the one to laugh. “I did not say I wanted a mistress.”

“Then I am not worth a pretty gown or house in Mayfair?”

His smile was subtle and warm. Deliberately, he lowered his head until his breath caressed her temple. “You told me you did not want to go to London.”

The muffled rattle of a carriage sounded from up the seacoast road some distance away. A black, stately coach and matching black horses came to a halt at the road juncture some distance away.

Her attention snapped back in accusation. “I thought we agreed to keep my arrival inconspicuous.”

“The carriage is for me, not you.”

“I . . . do not understand.”

“Unlike you, I do not have the ability to walk miles.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her into the saddle, then adjusted the stirrups to fit the length of her legs. “After making inquiries this morning, I learned Seastone's caretakers are still living at the cottage. They have been informed of your arrival.” He did not allow his hands to linger before he straightened. “I promised you I would accompany you halfway. I am a man of my word. Go home, Christel.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. He stepped back.

Until this moment, he hadn't thought her capable of tears. He'd only seen her strong and determined. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You may return the horse at your convenience.”

The wind plucked at her hair and the fastenings on her cloak. Then she nudged her heels against the side of the horse and the gelding shot forward like a ball from a cannon, sending a flock of standing seagulls fluttering into the air with flapping wings.

At once, she reined the horse around. The color high in her cheeks, she pranced the horse sideways, holding his gaze. He watched as her smile of gratitude changed into something more pensive before she swung away again, leaving him alone once more.

Chapter 7

C
hristel awakened with a start. A feral growl from deep in Dog's throat brought her abruptly out of a deep sleep. The coals in the brazier provided the only light and warmth in the room. She could barely make out Dog's shape against the low-burning fire in the stove. He stood at alert, his hackles on end, his tail extended straight as an arrow as he faced the window. Yesterday, Blue had told her they had spotted wolves in the area. But this seemed different.

Working a sash around her waist, she stood and peered through the darkness at the bedroom door. The hound emitted another low growl. “What is it, Dog?”

For lack of anything creative, she had finally decided to name the hound “Dog” since he seemed to respond to that name best.

Her room was on the second floor. She drew aside the curtains. To see out, she had to scrub a circle through the frost on the glass. Seastone Cottage squatted on a rise overlooking the sea. Snow had been falling for most of the day, leaving a blanket of white covering the rolling hills. A forest of beech and chestnut trees once stood grand on the land, shielding the cottage from the ice and the wind sweeping off the sea. But the timber had been taken and sold years ago. Directly south, on a clear day, she could see the dark towers of Blackthorn Castle. But tonight heavy clouds enshrouded the coastline.

Christel dropped the edge of the curtains and turned to the smoldering fire burning in the stove.

Two weeks had passed since her return and the weather had done little more than sleet or snow.

A tap sounded on the door, causing her to start. “Mum,” she heard Heather rasp on the other side. “Ye be wanted downstairs.”

When Christel opened the door, Dog whipped past her. Heather held a candle in one hand. She was a young girl and married to Seastone's caretaker. “Blue says the horses in the barn be throwin' a raucous. He be concerned and is going out there.”

Christel swept past the girl and down the stairs. Blue was standing at the back door in the kitchen, wearing heavy jackboots and winter garb, attempting to stuff wadding down the barrel of a long rifle using only one arm. He lifted his head. A heavy woolen scarf covered his thatch of straw-colored hair. “You are not going out there alone,” she said.

She was reaching for her cloak when Dog started clawing at the door. “Mum,” Blue said looking out the window. “We have visitors.”

Christel stepped in front of him and looked outside. Three men on dark horses were in the yard. One dismounted, handing the reins to the bulky rider on his left. He stood for a second, staring at the cottage while saying something to the men. He then trudged forward through the drifts. He wore a tricorn and a heavy cloak that scraped the tops of his boots. But even after nine years, Christel recognized him.

She flung open the door. “Put away the rifle, Blue.” She could not contain her excitement as she watched Leighton St. Giles push through the snow toward her. He picked up his pace and met her at the door.

“Leighton!” Laughing, she pulled him inside. “What ever are you doing here this time of night?”

“Christel!” He brought her hands to his lips. He was still tall and golden, with wheat-blond hair clubbed at his nape and light brown eyes that danced with merriment as he held her at arm's length. No one ever smiled quite like Leighton. “Look at you. No longer the skinny waiflike creature in breeches I used to tease. A comely lass all grown up.”

She tested his upper arms and shoulders. “As have you. I feel real muscle, not bone.”

“I had heard you returned,” he said.

They shared a smile. He reached down and petted Dog. “A family pet?”

“He came with me from London. He was a stray. What are you doing here?” she asked again.

He removed his tricorn and used it to brush snow from his cloak. “I am duty bound by family obligation to appear before Blackthorn's dark ruler. My illustrious brother summoned me home from a delectable month at a friend's estate near Kilmarnock.”

He looked around the mud room, his gaze touching on Blue McTavish and his wife standing in uncertainty in the kitchen. “Is it just the McTavishes with you?”

“You were expecting a crowd?”

He looked around the small kitchen. “You do not mind if I stay until morning? I should be able to continue on to Blackthorn Castle at first light. The weather is a damnable inconvenience.”

“Of course you will stay. What about your friends?”

“They are on their way south. Pressing business. Unlike mine, theirs cannot wait. I will tell them I am remaining here.” His gaze touched Blue standing in the kitchen still holding the long rifle. “My horse needs tending,” he said. “Have you grain?”

Blue hastily set aside the rifle. “Oats, Lord Leighton. I will see to your horse.”

“Take the dog, Blue. He probably needs to go outside,” Christel said, then asked his wife to ready the other bedroom on the second floor. Blue and Heather shared the room downstairs off the kitchen.

“Aye, mum.”

Watching Heather go, Leighton drew back on his leather gloves. “If you have mead or ale or any
hot
fermented beverage, I would not mind a cup. I am frozen to the bone.”

He went outside into the blowing snow. Christel shut the door and pulled aside the curtain to peer out the window. Leighton approached the other two men. Both had remained atop their horses. Of the riders, she could only make out their heavily cloaked bodies and the tricorn hats. One swung his horse away, and she glimpsed the scabbard he wore. The other continued speaking to Leighton before he, too, followed the first rider into the night. Leighton trudged back across the yard. She opened the door for him and he blew in with the wind and snow.

“It is still blowing hard out there,” she said. “Perhaps you should have offered the stable loft to them.”

Leighton removed his tricorn and gloves. “They will be well enough. There is another inn in Maybole if they choose to bed down before dawn.”

A whisper of fabric turned her toward the kitchen. Heather stood in the doorway. “The second bedroom upstairs be prepared, mum.”

“Will you make warm mead and bring it upstairs?”

“Aye, mum. The fire on the stove is still warm. I will tend to it.”

Christel grabbed a lantern. Leighton followed her up the stairs to the room tucked at the end of the corridor down from where she slept in her parents' old room. The ceiling slanted low, and Leighton could not walk halfway into the room and stand straight. He looked around at the bare walls before settling his gaze on the box bed. She set the lantern on the scarred maple dresser.

“The room is free of dust at least,” she offered in way of condolence, as the room would not be anything to which he was accustomed. “But I am afraid your feet will overhang the bed. I outgrew it myself when I was twelve.” Before she had gone to live at Rosecliffe.

Leighton was looking at her standing in her robe with the light in the corridor behind her. “It will do, Christel. Thank you.”

She walked to the doorway. “It is remarkable that you made it this far in the storm. The road to Seastone Cottage is quite out of the way.”

Leighton leaned an elbow against the dresser. “Not if you miss the detour to Blackthorn Castle,” he said.

“Who were your friends?”

He suddenly laughed. “Suspicious of everything, are you?”

She returned his smile. “The past few years have taught me to trust my suspicious nature.”

“They came with me from North Ayrshire. We missed the road to Blackthorn Castle and ended south quite by mistake. I had heard that you returned and guessed that if you were anywhere at all in Scotland, 'twould be here.” His smile momentarily faded as he studied her. “You are looking well, Christel. I like your hair.”

“Liar,” she said. “Men do not like short hair. They find it uninspiring and shocking.”

“Aye,” he said consideringly. “Short hair does make it rather difficult to conk you over the head with my truncheon and drag you by your tresses to bed for a lusty night of entertainment.”

“Only if I am not willing,” she teased with a flavor of steel behind her words. “ 'Tis a way to find oneself gelded otherwise. Tresses or nay.”

“Ahh, little Christel, you have not changed a bit, have you? Still the firebrand. What does my brother think about your return?”

She was suddenly glad for the dearth of light, for she felt her cheeks warm. She had not seen him since the day at the beach when he had given her his horse. “He has been kind.”

“Kind?” Leighton scoffed. “He is in a perpetual state of annoyance with the world, at war with himself and his own demons. ‘Kind' is not a word I would use to describe him. But Grandmamma is fond of him, so for her sake I will pretend to be glad to see he returned. I will be just as content to see him leave again.”

“An English revenue ship stopped him on his way here,” she said after a moment. “Would you know something about that?”

The grin fell from his face. “The English have been boarding everyone these days. They are a suspicious lot.”

“I am no longer in the business,” she said. “I have a chance to begin afresh with my life, Leighton. So if you are still involved—”

He set a finger against her lips. “That war is over for me. You will understand that I would prefer my brother never know my loyalties on the matter. Treason is a serious stain on my honor.”

“We made you rich, Leighton,” she said. “You had no honor.”

“Aye, there is that.”

“It would hurt your brother to learn the truth about his family,” she said. “I would never be the one to tell him how deeply you were involved with the war against England.”

“I doubt it would help your cause with him either.”

An invisible band squeezed her chest. “He knows about me. Lieutenant Ross was the one who intercepted the ship.”

Leighton scratched his stubbled chin. “Interesting. And then my brother calmly questioned you about your family's illicit activities with the Sons of Liberty and the smuggling empire your uncle and in-laws built and left it at that?”

“My in-laws are decent people. We all did what we had to at the time.
I
did what I had to.” She lifted her chin. “I meant it when I told you the war is over for me. I have a chance to begin afresh with my life. I have no secrets from your brother.”

“We all have secrets, whether we want them or nay.” Leighton turned to the window and edged aside the curtain. “Did he talk about Saundra?”

“He told me . . . what Saundra did.”

“I guarantee, imp. My big brother did not tell you everything.”

B
y morning, the storm had moved east, leaving behind a rare blue sky and a rolling landscape glittering white. Not a cloud marred the sky.

Christel had overslept the dawn by at least three hours if the position of the sun was any indication. She washed and dressed, then went downstairs to total silence. Slipping through the doorway at the end of the corridor, she entered the warmth of the kitchen.

Blue's young wife turned from the countertop, where she was pounding bread dough. “Good mornin' to ye, mum,” she said cheerfully. “Ye gave me a start.”

Christel looked around her. She reached for a mitt and lifted the tin coffee pot from the stove. “Where is everyone?”

Heather turned the bread dough over on a wooden block and began beating the other side with equal intensity. “Blue went with Lord Leighton to the barn. They have no' returned. I gathered eggs. Breakfast be ready for ye.” She directed Christel's attention to the table in front of the hearth. “I made scones.”

With a mental groan, Christel calculated the supplies used to make scones, then walked to the table and picked up a small cut-glass bowl filled with what looked like rare strawberry preserves. “What is this?”

“Why, 'tis strawberry preserves, mum.”

“I know 'tis strawberry preserves. Where did this come from?”

Christel had made an accounting of all their supplies in the larder only three days ago. Strawberry preserves had not been among their supplies.

“Lord Leighton presented us with a jar of strawberry preserves in exchange for your hospitality, mum. From the French court of Versailles, he told us. Versailles is where the kings and queens of France reside.”

Christel tamped down a surge of irritation. Strawberry preserves, like brandy, tobacco and chocolate, were staples of the smuggling trade this time of year, commanding premium profits from the rich. How had Leighton happened upon strawberry preserves? He had sworn . . .

“Good morning to you, Lady Sunshine,” Leighton said from the doorway. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and smiled at her. “A simple ‘thank you' will suffice as my reward before I bid farewell.”

He wore his cloak partially open and over his shoulder. He was clean shaven and fashionably turned out in a smart riding jacket, waistcoat, and buff riding breeches, as if he'd had substantial practice making himself presentable in a lady's cottage. She didn't remember seeing a satchel with him, but he must have had one on his horse, for he had changed his clothes.

Christel directed her gaze to Heather. “Have we cream in the cellar?”

The young woman looked at Christel as if she expected it was a trick question. “Aye, mum. Ye put it there yourself only yesterday.”

“I would like some for my coffee. Thank you.”

Heather startled at the request. She wiped her hands on her apron, then, with a backward glance at Leighton, hurried away.

Christel set down the bowl of preserves. “The gift was very magnanimous of you.”

“I thought so, too. The jam is Anna's favorite and quite rare to come by. If you want more, I can direct you to the bakery in Prestwick that sells the stuff. For another bucket of silver, he will also sell you hot bread and butter.” The lift of his lips became a trifle self-mocking. “I have a soft spot for my niece.”