A Highland Duchess Page 9

  What had she been like before her marriage? Had she awakened in the morning eager to explore the day, knowing, somehow, that only good things would come to her? Had she seen each new adventure as something to be treasured, to learn from, to experience? In the intervening years, had all of that joy, all of that excitement and wonder, been leeched from her?

  His curiosity about her was unwise and perhaps dangerous. He was due to be married—he should remember that fact.

  Before he could change his mind, he summoned the young footman. After giving him an explanation carefully crafted in innuendo and vagaries, he sat back.

  “Do you know what I expect of you, Jim?”

  The young man was from Lochlaven, a Scot, and therefore loyal. “I am to say that I’m there for the mirror, sir. And then bring it back to you, straightaway. I’m not to let the man know your name or the lady’s whereabouts but only to tell him she’s fine and in good health. Once I have the mirror, she’ll be returned home.”

  “Exactly,” Ian said.

  He inspected Jim’s attire. The footman was dressed as any young man might be in bustling London: black trousers, white shirt, and a loose-fitting jacket.

  “I’m depending on you, Jim,” he said. “Both for this errand, and your discretion.”

  The young man nodded. “You have it, sir.”

  “Off you go, then.”

  After Jim left the room, Ian indulged in a moment of self-congratulation and tried to ignore the fact that it was tempered with regret.

  The rain had lasted all day, the intensity of the storm varying depending upon the hour. Darkness came early, with the clouds obscuring the last of the sun and thunder heralding the approach of night.

  Emma left the dinner tray untouched, feeling very much like a prisoner indeed. She stood, leaving the bed where she’d finally become interested in Jane Eyre. Perhaps there was too much of a resemblance between the two of them. She was as lonely as poor Jane and just as certain that the condition would never be rectified.

  She opened the door, glorying in the fresh breeze from the rain-drenched air. The sconces on the other side of the building had already been lit and appeared blurry through the curtain of rain.

  Several windows were lit on the first floor, and a door open as well, almost as if it were an invitation.

  If she had any sense, she would simply close the door and retreat to Jane Eyre’s world, one that seemed—even deprived and sad—safer than her own.

  She’d been sensible all day. Besides, she had an acceptable reason to seek out Ian. She needed to discover if he’d heard from her uncle.

  The staircase was slippery, wet from the rain, and she held tightly to the banister on her descent. She loved storms, loved the majesty of them, the sheer power of God and nature. When the ground trembled from the thunder, she halted on the steps, looking toward the garden. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky like the claw marks of some atmospheric monster.

  Storms made her conscious of her own humanity, of her infinitesimal ranking in the world. She had no power, was as subject as any person to disease or death. Religion taught her that she was prone to sin, frail by the nature of humanity. Yet the same realization of her weaknesses made her conscious of her strengths. She had survived a great many things, from illness as a child, to the death of her parents, to the horror of her husband and his entertainments. She’d persevered even when she’d doubted her own capacity to do so.

  The light flickered, caught by the increasing wind, as if the storm overhead was as suddenly anxious as she felt. Her anxiety was fueled not by fear but anticipation, a shiny soap bubble ready to burst.

  The voice of her conscience, her keeper, whispered warnings. She ignored them.

  A few minutes later Emma stood in the doorway of the strangest room she’d ever seen. Two long oak tables stood parallel to each other in the middle of the room. On the table at the farthest end was a series of glass boxes, each large enough to hold one of her bonnets. The table closest to the door bore several beakers and jars made of glass, a mortar and pestle, a large leather book, and a peculiar structure made of brass standing nearly two feet high that she guessed was a microscope.

  Seated in front of it on a tall stool was her brigand. This afternoon he was neither abductor nor thief but a scientist. Two of the four wall sconces were lit, creating pools of flickering light and shadow. Beside him sat another lamp, tall enough that it rained light down on him.

  For several moments she watched him. His face was tight in concentration. He would periodically press his eye to a long cylindrical tube, then frown, sit back, and make a notation in a small notebook at his side. Twice, he did this, each time adjusting a knob on the side of the eyepiece.

  Finally, he reached up to pull the lamp closer and saw her.

  For long seconds neither one of them said a word. She should have asked if he minded the interruption. Or perhaps she should have inquired as to his study. Instead, Emma was frozen to the spot, overwhelmed by the sheer masculine beauty of him. He sat ringed by light, his dark hair a little unkempt, the intensity on his face fading to something like caution. His eyes were unreadable but they weren’t cold. Instead, they seemed to blaze with emotion.

  She’d never before considered that a man might be viewed as more than he was because of his actions. Did she see him as more handsome because he had been kind? Because he had been decent and honorable, was he more attractive? No, Ian would be considered handsome by any female, even viewing him the first time.

  “I’ve sent a footman to your house,” he said. “But he hasn’t returned yet.”

  There, the answer to the question, the reason she’d searched him out. Now she could return to her borrowed chamber. She didn’t move.

  “Is there no one else with whom you could live?” he asked. “A friend? A relative? Anyone who wouldn’t strike you?”

  Surprised, she could only stare at him for a moment.

  “Must you return to that house?”

  “I have no friends,” she said, “and my uncle is my only relative.”

  “Must you live with him? Couldn’t you set up your own establishment?”

  “My uncle controls my funds. I have a quarterly allowance but little else.”

  “How did that come about?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not certain if it was Anthony’s wish or if my uncle simply assumed that role.”

  “He hasn’t evinced a great deal of interest in your well-being, Emma. Nor can I forget that he struck you. Does he do it often?”

  “Not often,” she said. She’d learned to avoid her uncle when he was in one of his tempers.

  The anger in Ian’s eyes didn’t frighten her because she knew it wasn’t directed toward her.

  “I have no right to be concerned for you,” he said. “But I am.”

  His voice was low, warm, and too alluring. But, then, so was the man himself.

  “Thank you,” she said. No one had been concerned about her for a very long time, and for that alone she was grateful to him.

  “But you have no intention of doing anything else but returning to Alchester Square.”

  There was nothing else she could do. Her uncle, for all his flaws, was not as hideous a companion as Anthony, and she’d endured him for four years.

  She only shook her head.

  He blew out a breath, obviously exasperated. Her brigand was evidently free to do what he wanted when he wanted. Were all Scots the same?

  “I’ve been wondering what you’ve been doing all day,” he said finally.

  “Reading,” she said, grateful that he’d changed the subject. “But, then, the rain made me melancholy.”

  “I told myself not to seek you out. It wouldn’t be wise. And here you are, come to my lair.”

  “Ah, the infamous lair. I was b
lindfolded once, to prevent my knowing its location.” How very easy it was to smile at him.

  She took a few steps into the room, placed her fingers on the edge of the table at the corner. A good six feet separated them. Neither moved to close the gap.

  “I think it’s a laboratory, instead,” she said, looking around her. “Tell me, do you bring all your prisoners here?”

  He laughed, charming her. “I’ve only had one,” he said. “And she’s more a guest than prisoner. Still, I wouldn’t want to bore her.”

  Emma shook her head. “I doubt the work you do would bore anyone. The men last night seemed fascinated, at least from what I heard.”

  “Yes, but they are easily fascinated. Give them a speck of a germ, and they can pontificate on it for hours.” He stood. “I, on the other hand, have been fixated on something else all day.”

  “Have you?”

  A dozen sensations, each one of them startling, seemed to drift over her like fog. Awareness, not only of herself, but of him. Heat, from his look and her own body. Confusion, that she should be able to feel such things. Fear, that she might have changed in the last four years, become a creature instead of a being. Loneliness, that seemed to make a mockery of anything else.

  “You should go,” he said, coming toward her.

  Yes, she should. Oh, yes, she should.

  She stretched out her hand, and it trembled in the air. He regarded it for a moment, then met her eyes.

  “Emma,” he said, his voice low, his tone warning her. Suddenly, his gaze shifted. He stared beyond her, then uttered an oath.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Chapter 11

  Ian moved to the doorway and pulled his footman inside.

  Jim looked as if he’d been in a brawl. One cheek was bruised and his left eye was badly bruised. Tomorrow it would boast a shiner. A sleeve had nearly been torn from his coat, and the front of his shirt was badly ripped.

  “The earl, sir, he wasn’t for letting me go.”

  Ian pushed him onto a stool, conscious that Emma had come to stand beside him.

  “He said he didn’t have any damn mirror, sir, but that he was holding me hostage for his niece.” Jim sent a cautious look in Emma’s direction, making Ian think that the earl had a great deal more to say than that.

  “I take it you didn’t approve of the plan.”

  Jim grinned, showing where one tooth had been lost to the cause of freedom.

  “I’ve four brothers, sir. If I couldn’t fight off an Englishman, I’m not worthy of being a McNair.”

  “Take yourself off and have Glenna look at you,” Ian said. As the footman made his limping way to the door, Ian called after him. “Have you had your fill of London yet, Jim?”

  The young man turned and grinned again. “Not yet, sir.”

  As he watched the footman leave, Ian made a mental note to have his factor increase Jim’s pay and give him a bonus besides. God only knows what complications would have arisen if Jim had been the Earl of Falmouth’s guest.

  Now what the hell did he do?

  With Jim returning empty-handed, Ian’s choice was threefold. Either he could threaten Emma’s uncle further, which wouldn’t be reasonable. He could go to Chavensworth himself and retrieve the mirror, if he was still set on obtaining the Tulloch Sgàthán. Or he could simply forget about the damned mirror, take Emma back to her home as quickly as possible, and hie himself back to Scotland.

  Of the three choices, returning to Scotland was the wisest.

  Why, then, was he so reluctant to do exactly that?

  Emma turned and walked away from him, moving to stand at the door looking out at the rain and the darkened garden. He knew the view well; there was nothing in the scenery to occupy her thoughts to such a degree.

  “I’m sure there’s some reasonable explanation,” she said.

  How very calm she sounded. How very composed, as if she’d retreated to her Ice Queen role. Yet he wanted to see her eyes, to see what kind of emotion she struggled to hide.

  “It’s time for you to go home,” he said.

  “And the mirror?”

  “It no longer matters, Emma.”

  At that remark, she turned to look at him. In her blue eyes was such misery that he wished he was more sorcerer than Scot. He would’ve pressed his hand across her eyes to close them, then banished that look with a kiss upon each eyelid.

  “No,” she said, surprising him. She held up one hand in an almost queenly gesture. “We’ll go to Chavensworth,” she added.

  She looked straight at him, her stare direct and intent. “It’s what began the whole thing, isn’t it? If, as you say, the mirror belongs in Scotland, then that’s where it should go. I don’t want it.”

  He should have refused the offer, sent her home and planned his departure for Lochlaven in the morning. But he knew only too well why he was willing to go to Chavensworth, and it had nothing to do with the errand he’d wanted to perform for Lady Sarah.

  She walked toward him, hesitating only a few feet away. Her face was flushed.

  She was a widowed duchess; he was a betrothed earl. She was wealthy but so was he. She was hiding from life; he embraced it in all its wonder, wanted to study it, learn it, understand it, and perhaps even document it.

  Yet despite their differences, and in concurrence with their similarities, he felt a bond to her. Perhaps they might become friends. True and valued, loyal friends to whom each might say anything, from whom each might ask anything. Or perhaps they would become lovers, stepping too close to a precipice and a danger against which neither of them was prepared.

  The scent she wore, one of lilies and roses, hinting at springtime, would forever remind him of her, and possibly this moment of sadness and regret, layered over a strange and exultant kind of joy.

  She looked down at the floor, rather than at his face. He wanted to reach over and tilt her chin up so he might see her eyes. Instead, he remained where he was, not impinging on the invisible wall she’d erected around her.

  Ian realized, suddenly, how difficult returning to Chavensworth would be for her.

  “We don’t have to go,” he said. “I’ve already written Lady Sarah and told her that it was a fool’s errand, and one I regret attempting. I don’t like to see that look of sadness in your eyes,” he added. “Nor did I have any intention of saying that to you.” He shook his head. “I seem to say and do idiotic things around you, Duchess.”

  “Am I to blame, then, for your insensibility, brigand?” Her small smile robbed the words of their tartness.

  “What if I should say yes to that? Yes, Emma, it is all your fault. I lay all of my flaws at your feet.”

  “Then I would say it’s a weighty burden for anyone to take on, let alone a mere duchess.”

  He laughed, delighted with her sense of humor.

  She stepped closer, reached out one hand and touched his arm. He covered her hand with his, knowing that he should have moved away.

  The Duchess of Herridge was going to prove to be difficult to ignore, not to mention forget.

  “I don’t mind going back to Chavensworth,” she said, and he could see the lie in her eyes. But he didn’t question her on it.

  “Tomorrow, Ian.”

  He nodded, allowing her hand to drop, wishing that she would leave before he dishonored himself.

  Being proper reminded Emma of being the Duchess of Herridge, the Ice Queen. Dear God, she wanted to erase every single one of those memories. She wanted to feel desire without debauchery. She wanted to feel passion, unencumbered by shame or humiliation. She wanted his honesty and her own.

  Slowly, so he would not think this a thoughtless act or one she’d not fully considered, she took another step toward him, placed her hand on his chest and smiled.

&nbs
p; Ian shook his head.

  She nodded.

  Ian took her hand, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. The look in his eyes created a fire inside, heat so molten that she felt as if she were melting from it. Still, he didn’t move, other than to brush his thumb across her knuckles slowly.

  Must she seduce him? She’d never done so before. How very strange that she was quite willing to do so now.

  “Are you very certain, Emma?” he finally said.

  More so than at any time in her life, but how did she tell him that, without telling him the rest?

  Without speaking, he dropped her hand, turned, and extinguished the sconces and the lamp on the bench. When he reached her side, he took her hand again. Within moments they were racing up the steps, caution forgotten, prudence buried beneath excitement.

  She was first inside the room. He closed the door firmly behind her, the click of the latch imprisoning them in the room together.

  He bent his head and kissed her again, softly at first, then deeper. His tongue traced her bottom lip, exploring, enticing. She’d no choice but to open her mouth to his, a soft gasp escaping her.

  His hips moved against her, pushing subtly, the hard bulge between his thighs leaving no doubt of his desire. The rhythm of his advance increased, slowly at first, then matching the movement of his tongue in her mouth.

  He pulled back and left her then, and she heard a lamp being lit. In the soft glow, he began removing his jacket, then the shirt, his torso revealed as he stripped himself bare. Small bronze nipples peeked through the black hair covering his chest. Her gaze followed the trail of hair down the center of his stomach and then veered away as his hands went to his trousers.

  A moment later she heard the sound of his shoes hitting the floor. Her gaze returned to the sight of him removing the rest of his garments. When he was done, and gloriously naked, he made no move to cover himself.

  Muscles shaped his upper arms, rippled down his sides and stomach, and thickened his thighs. The most arrogant part of him, even now throbbing and swelling, rose from a nest of hair as black as that on his chest.