To Catch a Highlander (9 page)

"Indeed." Dougal turned his attention to the salvers on the table and lifted the cover from the first one.

On the platter sat the roast, half of it black, the other half bloody. A wilted spring of parsley sat beside it, as if Mary couldn't quite allow the roast to leave her kitchen without trying to disguise it.

Silence hung over the table.

Dougal set the cover to one side and removed the covers from the other dishes: a bowl of something green that sat in an oily liquid; a thick slab of pork in the middle of a large, chipped platter; some turnips floating unappetizingly in water; and a basket of undercooked bread.

Sophia thought the turnips were a nice touch.
No
one liked turnips.

Dougal picked up the carving knife. "Well, my dear?" he asked pleasantly, an amused glint in his eyes. "How do you like your meat? Raw? Or burned to a charred mess?"

Sophia sighed. "The kitchen is in such poor condition that it's almost impossible to make a good meal. I don't know how Mary manages as well as she does." Sophia picked up the closest dish and held it out to Dougal. "Turnips?"

"Of course, I'll have some." He took the dish from her hands. "As will you."

"Oh, I don't think—"

A large spoonful of turnips plopped onto her plate.

She started to protest, but Dougal put even more onto his own plate.

To make matters worse, he added in a deep voice that made her shiver, "I love turnips."

It was indecent that the man could make a sentence as abhorrent as "I love turnips" sound like an improper proposition.

But Dougal MacLean managed it.

"It's a pity about the kitchen," Dougal said. "I'll have to look at it. Do you think you might give me a tour of the house in the morning?"

Her heart lifted immediately. "Of course. We can do it first thing after breakfast." Oh, could she give him a tour! She couldn't wait.

Dougal picked up the carving knife and pointed at the roast. "Do you prefer burned or raw?"

"I'll have the burned portion, thank you."

"Excellent choice. The turnips will complement them perfectly." He winked at her and filled their plates with such amused spirits that Sophia found herself watching him through her lashes.

What was wrong with this man? Surely, he wasn't used to such horrid meals? Yet to watch him eat with such enthusiasm, you'd think he was starving.

Perhaps that was it. He'd said he was hungry after his journey, then there had been the delay of Red's accident. No wonder the man had been able to eat the horrid meal!

Dinner progressed, with Dougal asking questions about the house and lands. Sophia kept her answers as disparaging as possible, mixing in just enough actual facts to make her comments seem truthful.

Finally, Dougal placed his fork on his plate. "Are you finished? You haven't taken a bite."

"I had some bread and butter earlier, when Mary brought a tray for Red," Sophia lied. "I fear it quite spoiled my appetite. But you haven't eaten much, either."

"I ate so much soup, it filled me up."

Dougal stood and moved to her side of the table. "Allow me," he said, helping her slide back her chair.

As she stood, his hands brushed against her shoulders, and her skin tingled.

She glanced at him, wondering if he felt the same, and found him standing close. Much too close.

He bent, his lips by her ear. "My dear Sophia, I realize you must spend some time with your father, but can I entice you to have a glass of sherry with me before you retire?" He traced a finger down her cheek. "It would make the horror of the library almost bearable."

It would also provide a chance to test his boundaries and discover his feelings about a game of chance.
Keep your eyes on the prize, Sophie
.

She smiled up at Dougal. "A bit of sherry would be just the thing. I can imagine nothing more pleasant."

His lips were but a few inches from hers. She found herself looking directly into his eyes, dark green with faint swirls of gray, his lashes shadowing them mysteriously.

Sophia's breath caught in her throat. She had to fight the urge to lean forward, ever so slightly, and press her lips to his hard, carved ones.

Her chest tightened. All she had to do was—

The door banged open, and Sophia jumped as Mary swept in, Angus hard on her heels. He gave Sophia an apologetic gesture. "Mary thought ye might be finished with dinner."

"Mary is correct. Lord MacLean and I will have some sherry in the library." She looked meaningfully at Angus. "I trust the fireplace has been prepared?"

Angus beamed. "Aye, it should just be catching proper-like now. Yes, indeed." He gave her a broad wink.

She almost winced at his obvious hint, glancing back to find Dougal regarding her with an urbane smile, nothing in his expression showing that he had understood Angus.

Relieved, she allowed him to escort her to the library. Her fingers rested on his arm, and she was amazed at the muscles she felt through the fine cloth of his coat. Were all men of fashion so strong?

Dougal looked down on Sophia's golden curls as she kept her gaze pinned on his forearm. In all his days, he couldn't remember being so amused. He still wasn't certain what MacFarlane and his tempting daughter were trying to do, begging him to stay and then making his visit so inhospitable, but he'd be damned if he'd leave before he found out.

His gaze dropped to the line of her neck and down to the tempting breasts mounded above that cream-colored lace. Whoever had made her bronze gown had known how to tempt a man; it showed just enough—and hid just enough—to make a man yearn to rip it off.

They entered the library, where a small fire was just catching in the fireplace. The room was still inordinately chilly, the colors and furnishings still dark and oppressive. But as Sophia entered, it seemed as if the gleam of her bronze dress and the diamonds flashing at her throat and ears lit up the entire chamber with a new, warmer light.

"Oh, dear. The fire isn't very well laid." She peeped up at him through her lashes in an endearing manner. "Would you mind?"

He reluctantly released her arm and bowed. "Of course." He crossed to the fireplace, his arm still tingling from her touch. He could almost taste the tension whenever she was near, and it was growing stronger.

Dougal's entire body was aflame. God, he loved the chase, the feint and parry as potential lovers fought for control of each other and themselves. And that was what he wanted from Sophia MacFarlane. Before he left, he was determined to have Sophia in his bed.

He looked at the fireplace and noted that even with a small flame, smoke was already seeping into the room. He grasped the rusty poker and stirred the small flame, scattering and weakening the blaze rather than making it grow higher. Though his efforts dimmed the fire, a thick curl of smoke immediately lifted up from the front of the fireplace.

From behind him, Sophia said. "Oh, dear. I forgot about that chimney. Actually, all the chimneys in the house are in disarray."

"Yes," he agreed. "Almost as if someone had bricked them partway up."

Her gaze darted to him, a crease on her brow.

He smoothly added, "I daresay it's nothing but age. My oldest brother lives in a castle built in the twelfth century, and every chimney smokes." He took a deep breath. "Ah, the scent of wood smoke! It reminds me of home."

She didn't look pleased.

Smiling to himself, Dougal moved to the small table holding the decanter and glasses. "Shall I pour the sherry? If you think you can stomach it."

She raised her chin. "I would love some."

"Excellent." He poured them each a glass and returned to her side. Their fingers brushed as he handed her the glass. He watched as she placed her lips delicately on the edge of the glass and slowly tipped it, letting the ruby liquid barely touch her lips before tilting it back down.

She wasn't drinking the sherry, just as she hadn't eaten dinner.

Dougal took a sip. It was acidic, but he'd had worse. "I hope your father is not too uncomfortable."

"He'll still be sleeping. I wish he'd watched himself coming down those stairs. He knew about that board, because he's the one who—" She stopped, then finished smoothly, "who knows all of the loose boards in the house, and running down the stairs was foolish."

"I almost tripped over that step myself."

Her gaze flew to his. "You did?"

It amazed him how pale her eyes were. Set in such dark, thick lashes, they seemed almost to glow. "Yes," he said slowly. "I did."

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked genuinely unhappy. "I'm sorry about that. I'll have Angus fix it."

"I already asked him do it when the doctor was with your father."

"Oh." She frowned a moment. She sighed impatiently, as if shaking off an unwelcome thought, then set down her glass and crossed to a small table by the window. "Goodness, I am restless tonight."

"Perhaps we should do something to distract your mind from your father's condition." He took a reflective sip of sherry. "Do you have a chess set? We could play that, I suppose."

"There's no chess set here. However," her voice quickened slightly, "I do believe there are some cards."

"I had no doubt there would be," he returned.

She shot him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"Since your father is a notorious gambler, naturally there would be a pack of cards somewhere in the house."

"Very true." She turned to a small table and opened a drawer, removing a deck of cards, the evening light caressing her cheek. "This will be just the thing to keep my mind from my troubles."

He crossed to join her at the table. "Excellent! I never turn from a game, myself." He set down his sherry and pulled back a chair for her, waiting until she seated herself and then taking the chair opposite hers.

She watched him from beneath her lashes, noting his athletic grace and the way the lace at his cuffs dropped over his masculine hands with such effect.

Idly, she shuffled the deck, her fingers moving nimbly over the cards.

Dougal found himself watching her hands, the way her slender fingers caressed the cards. He thought of those fingers caressing him, sliding over his—

"Dougal?"

His name slid through her lips like velvet over bared skin. His heart thundered in his ears; his body tightened. "Yes?"

Her eyes, so pale and yet so bright, met his. "I was wondering…" The sound of the cards flipping through her lissome fingers filled the quiet.

He leaned forward, impatient. "Yes?"

"Did you bring money with you, or shall we play for markers?" She flipped the stack of cards to the table with a professional twist of her wrist. "I don't play for less than a guinea a hand."

His lips twitched. "The question is not if I have money. The question is, do you?"

"I don't need funds, as I don't plan on losing," she said, her gaze mocking.

For a moment, he thought he'd heard her incorrectly. Slowly, he said, "I beg your pardon, but are you saying you could
beat
me at a game of chance?"

A dismissive smile rested on her lips. "Please, Dougal, let's speak frankly," she drawled softly. "Naturally, I expect to win; I was taught by a master."

Dougal was entranced. He'd been challenged to many things before, but no one had so blatantly dismissed his chances of winning. "A guinea a hand?"

"At least."

"I didn't realize I'd need a note from my banker, or I'd have brought one with me."

Her eyes sparkled with pure mischief, which inflamed him more. "If you've no money with you, then perhaps there are other things we can play for."

The words hung in the room, as thick as the smoke that seeped from the fireplace. Like a blinding bolt of light from a storm-black sky, everything fell into place.
This
was why she and her minions had worked so hard to convince him that the house was worthless. If he thought it of low value, he'd be eager to wager the deed.

Of all the devious plots!

Yet Dougal found himself fighting a grin. He'd been feted and petted, fawned upon and sought out, but until now, no one had gone to such lengths to
fleece
him.

Dougal couldn't look away from Sophia. He knew his own worth; women had paid attention to him for so long that he took it for granted. He'd dallied and toyed, taken and enjoyed. But never, in all of his years, had he so desired any woman as he did this one. The irony of it was that she desired him, too—but only for the contents of his pocket.

Dougal didn't know whether to laugh or fume. He should be insulted, but instead, he found himself watching her with new appreciation.

Who was this woman? She was such a mixture of question and half-answer that he might never know her. While her appearance and behavior were those of a gently bred woman, he couldn't forget his first sight of her, dressed in soot-smeared clothes, helping Angus brick up the chimney.

There was so much about Sophia MacFarlane that intrigued him—and it dawned on him that perhaps this was why the women of
London
had palled. He needed someone less concerned about propriety and more willing to bend rules. Someone deceptive. Someone more like himself.