To Catch a Highlander (18 page)

His control was even more sorely tried when he was forced to watch Sophia's full, sweet lips close over the bowl of her spoon as she pretended to eat the soup placed before her, talking easily. His body flamed anew, hardening to the point of readiness.

Worse, the loud rain caused her to lean forward whenever he spoke, suspending his breath as her breasts pressed against the dangerously low edge of her gown.

Though he absently listened as she spoke of this and that, Dougal could not look away. The creamy, round fullness of her breasts claimed his attention; the shadowed valley between them made his fingers itch to discover more. He'd love to lean forward and trail his lips along that lush line of naked skin, and—

Blast it, he was far too experienced to be affected by a woman in such a way! She'd insulted him before dinner, laughing at him with a mere servant, yet he couldn't hold on to his anger. Outside, the storm faded until only a faint
drip, drip
from the eaves remained.

The gold of her hair as the candlelight flickered over it… the soft rose of her cheeks… the intriguing hollows at the base of her neck… With each laugh, each gesture, she inflamed him more, made him burn to see, to feel, what lay beneath her silk gown.

The door banged open, and Mary set down a thick slab of dry, burned lamb, heavily peppered until it was inedible. Dougal watched as Sophia surreptitiously found the jam and bread discreetly tucked to one side of her plate, then made a show of cutting it as if it was a bit of the burned lamb.

He waited until she lifted the fork to her lips, then captured her wrist, her skin warm beneath his fingers.

Her gaze flew to his, her lips trembling the faintest bit.

"Strange," he said, rubbing his thumb over her wrist. "I don't seem to have jam and bread on my plate."

Anger flickered in her eyes, and she pulled her wrist free. "I am sure it was an error. Shall I have Mary bring you some?"

"Yes. Two pieces, please."

Sophia's delicate brows rose. "I thought you
liked
Mary's cooking."

"I do; I just love bread and jam more."

Plainly unsatisfied by his answer, she reached for the bell pull and tugged it. When Angus appeared in the doorway, she frowned. "You were to stay with my father."

"He's asleep, so I came t'help Mary," Angus said, triumph in his gravelly voice.

"I see. Very well. Please bring some bread and jam for Lord MacLean."

Dougal wasn't surprised when the butler stomped back in moments later and said in a voice heavy with satisfaction, "There's no more jam to be had."

"Or bread?" Dougal asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"Nor bread," Angus said with a smirk.

Dougal flicked his hand in the butler's direction. "Then you may go."

Angus's smile faded, and he glared at Dougal until Sophia said softly, "Angus, that will be all."

The butler scowled but obediently tromped from the room.

"He loves me," Dougal said simply.

Sophia's lips twitched. "I doubt that."

"No, no, I'm certain of it. He's constantly staring at me and cannot seem to stay away. But the most telling symptom is the way he gets upset when I pay attention to another woman."

She laughed, a sweet, light peal that made him smile in return. "It sounds as if you've had experience in this area."

He shrugged. "I have never suffered from a lack of attention. When I was younger, it was quite heady, but later, I realized that most women attach themselves to a man because they want something."

"Your wealth?"

"Or marriage. Or to brush against the magic of the curse."

Her gaze flew to his.

"Allow me to explain it to you." He leaned forward, allowing his gaze to drift over her as he spoke. "Long ago, my family was known for two things: their success in gaining wealth and their horrid tempers."

"Sounds as if things haven't changed much."

"Oh, we've grown far milder over the centuries. One of my ancestors, a man of great pride, lost his temper while bargaining with the village healer, a beautiful woman who was rumored to be half fairy."

"Naturally. There is always a fairy or a witch involved in these sorts of stories."

He smiled, then continued, "The disagreement grew, and my ancestor said some very unkind and untrue things, as people who do not control their tempers are wont to do. In return, she cursed him and his family. Every time they lost their tempers, storms would gather."

"That could be a boon in dry weather."

"Ah, but it is a curse, so there is a catch. Though we cause the storms to gather, we cannot make them cease. Raging torrents can cause mudslides and floods; lightning is dangerous; and then there is the wind…" He was silent a moment, thinking of the many times he'd struggled to control his temper. "Fortunately, a normal flare of anger seems merely to cause storms of an average variety."

"Like today's?"

"Yes. It is only when we completely lose control that horrible things happen."

She glanced at the rain-spattered windows and looked back at him. "It's true, then," she said with calm acceptance.

"Yes, it's true. The only way the curse can be lifted is if every member of a generation does a deed of great good."

"Great good? What is that?"

He smiled. "No one knows. Which is why the curse has never been lifted."

"Does the curse affect your entire family in the same way?"

"There are some slight variations. When Gregor grows angry, it tends to hail and snow."

"He has a cold disposition?"

Dougal almost laughed. "He used to, but life has warmed him up. Now he's happily married to a woman he met when they were children. They were best friends until a year ago, when they were stranded together at an inn for a week."

"Stranded?"

"By a snowstorm."

Her lips formed an O, which was distracting, to say the least.

Dougal forced himself to continue. "When my sister causes the weather, it's usually over a very limited area, and there is the distinct scent of lilacs in the air."

"I would think you'd have all learned how to control your tempers by now."

"It's not as easy you might think. I, for example, grow especially furious when people play me for a fool." He offered her a bland smile. "Fortunately, that doesn't happen often."

Her lashes dropped over her eyes. "And your other brothers?"

"Hugh is very even-tempered and rarely gets angry, but when he does—" Dougal shook his head. "You wouldn't wish to witness that."

"And what of your eldest brother?"

"Alexander has the worst temper of us all but also the best control. I can remember only one or two times when his control slipped, and it was horrid. One time, an entire village washed away, cottages and all. He was nineteen at the time and took it very hard."

She absorbed this, saying after a time, "I imagine you are all a bit guarded."

They were deeply guarded—especially since Callum's death. Quick to bring to laughter and equally quick to anger, Callum had been the family darling. It had been his hot temper that had finally put him in a situation that caused his death.

Dougal forced the unwelcome thoughts aside. "I am usually not quick to anger, and had Angus not surprised me today, I would have been able to react differently."

Sophia gaze rested on his injured eye. "I would say a black eye is just cause for a bit of anger."

"Alexander would have maintained his temper and made his point another way. I am not very good at that. I cannot let things be."

"Neither can I," Sophia confessed with a faint smile. "Red says no one can make a stand in an empty road any better."

"Well, I owe our grim friend for this afternoon, and I'll not forget it."

Her smile faded. "You don't seem the type of man to hold a grudge."

"I am
exactly
the type of man to hold a grudge, my dear." His gaze locked with hers. "You might say it is a family trait, too."

She sent an uneasy glance at the window, and Dougal tossed his napkin onto the table. "Come. Let's retire to the library for some wretched sherry."

She looked at her bread and jam. "But I haven't yet eaten."

"Don't tell me you didn't get enough of that delicious onion soup?"

He pulled her chair from the table, watching with a satisfied smile as she dropped her napkin beside her plate and stood.

"Very well," she said.

He proffered his arm, pulling her hand through until she was cozily tucked against him, her breast pressing against his arm. He was so much taller that he could see directly down her gown to the delicate chemise underneath. The fine lawn was decorated with a tiny rosette that echoed the larger one on her gown.

Desire flashed through him. By God, he was going to enjoy this evening! He was going to enjoy pressing his little scheming hostess into improprieties she'd not soon forget. He didn't need a storm to make his point; he had his own powers of persuasion—and he'd use them all on her.

He led her to the library, to the table holding the sherry. "Will you do the honors?" He leaned forward and added in a low voice, "Or perhaps you'd like us to do it together—your hand under mine, your fingers wrapped about the neck of the decanter as we—"

Color flooded her cheeks, and she said in a breathless voice, "I will be glad to pour us some sherry—though I'm surprised you wish for some more."

"It is wretched, but your cook has ruined my palate. When I return to
London
, I won't know good port from bad, burned meat from raw, and don't begin to talk to me about soups."

She chuckled. "I'm sorry there was no more bread and jam."

"Not as sorry as I was. But so long as there is sherry in that decanter, I will make do." He walked to the door and closed it, the sound loud in the room.

Her color deepened. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I don't wish that brute of a butler to storm in here if I make you laugh. You don't mind, do you?"

She did mind; he could see it in her stiff posture. But she merely murmured an agreement and busied herself with the decanter and glasses.

Dougal watched as she poured them both a generous amount.

She was lovely in the candlelight, the warm glow turning her hair a more mellow gold, touching her skin with peach, tracing the plump line of her mouth. Dougal's body tightened, and he fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and bend her with the fury of his passion.

But he would not give her that satisfaction. He would make her want
him
—wildly, desperately, with every bit of the desire he could see in her turquoise eyes. And he'd do so using the very weapon she thought to use against him: her skill at cards.

He took a hard gulp of sherry, letting the acrid taste clear his thoughts.

He turned to Sophia and smiled. "Let's while away the time with some cards. Would you enjoy that, my love? I'm very certain I would."