Duchess of Mine (9 page)

Mrs. Cameron smiled at the lady. “Would ye
care to go inside and clean up a bit? Then the lads can talk for a
spell, the way they always like to do.”

Lady Fleur nodded and waved at both Duncan
and Rory. “Excuse me, but I’ll be right back.”

“All right,” Rory said, then noticed Duncan
held his hand up in a proper wave to Fleur who smiled as she
stepped away. Duncan even bore a small grin for the lady.

Once Lady Fleur disappeared into the giant
stone house, Duncan and Rory turned toward each other, both their
smiles gone.

“Duncan,” was the only blasted thing he could
think to say.

“Captain MacKay.” Duncan bowed his head a
little.

Well, mayhap he’d overreacted earlier, Rory
reconsidered, since Duncan had clearly opened with a respectable
title.

“Did the troops find anything?”

Rory shook his head. “Nay. Not a thing. Not a
trace of any mosstroopers either.”

Duncan grunted an acknowledgement then looked
toward his mother’s house.

“I thought perhaps I should buy her new
things.” Rory wanted to kick himself at the way his voice sounded a
pinch intimidated—higher than usual and perhaps a tad whiny too.
“Did ye ken what she lost, so I could replace whatever it was?”

Duncan looked at Rory again, his red brows
arched slightly. “I can’t believe it, but I forgot to ask what she
lost. Good thinking, Captain.”

The compliment mixed with the fact that
clearly Duncan hadn’t thought of what Rory had shot a boost of
confidence in him that he’d wished he’d had all day. Rory didn’t
know what it was about Duncan, mayhap the slight age difference or
the fact that the man had half a foot on him or he had much more
battle experience, but he felt slightly off balance around him.
Rory’s brother, John, had asked for Duncan to help train the
troops, which Rory hadn’t felt he needed. But the truth was, he
did. Duncan knew a hell of a lot more than he, and Rory was trying
to glean as much as he could. Afterwards, he’d prefer to be rid of
Duncan. Besides, wasn’t the man itching to go back to Sweden? It
was obvious he hated being here by making ugly scowls every time
someone said the word Durness.

But Rory thought this one of the most
beautiful places in all of Scotland. He’d been to the Lowlands,
he’d been to London, but for him nothing compared to MacKay
country. Ach, the lochs that surrounded the land, the majestic
green hills, everywhere was a treasure of colors and sights. Hell,
he even loved learning about the agriculture. What kind of
irrigation ditch could bring the most water to which kind of crop
had been fascinating to study, and he was seriously considering
offering some farmers a little money for trying their hand with a
few potato crops. With all his thoughts regarding the land, Rory
often wondered if he might appreciate it more than his older
brother, always so busy with the politics of survival, thanks to
conniving Cromwell.

Rory couldn’t help but smile up at Duncan
after receiving the praise. “Thank ye. That’s kind of ye to
say.”

Something about Duncan seemed to relax as he
nodded. But he looked toward his mother’s house again, which
annoyed Rory.

“We’ll ask about her things when she returns,
hmm?”

Rory nodded and reminded himself to make sure
and say something before Duncan. Even if it was petty, he wanted
Lady Fleur to know he had thought about her things more than Duncan
had.

“I should warn ye . . .” Duncan turned back
to him, his shoulders flexing as if he were nervous. “My mother
asked for the lady to stay with her. After, my ma thought it best
for the lady to stay in Tongue, but the request was offered
nonetheless.”

Rory looked to the house too. Muffled sounds
of the two women laughing filtered through the manor, and he wished
he could feel carefree like that. He wanted the lady close. He
wanted her within an arm’s distance, and if she stayed here . .
.

Well, he’d have to find a reason to stay in
Durness too, wouldn’t he? His troops needed to rest before the
journey back to Tongue anyway. Why not have them holed up in the
local inn and taverns? He’d splurge on them. They deserved it.
Although, he wished they were more physically fit like Duncan, but
they would be in time.

He decided not to say anything to Duncan just
yet. Best to see what the lady wanted to do. However, it would be
considered rude for Lady Fleur not to stay with Mrs. Cameron once
the invite was issued, although forgivable, he thought.

He nodded and stared at the front door,
hearing the women talking animatedly. Finally, Mrs. Cameron emerged
with her guest, both smiling and talking about French wine.

Mrs. Cameron beckoned with a wave of her
hands. “Come in, lads. We’ve decided to sup and have wine.”

Duncan glanced over at Rory with a wary look.
Rory wasn’t too sure if he gave the same stare back. Well, wasn’t
this a wonderful turn of events, where he’d be stuck with the
taciturn Duncan for much too long.

Chapter 8

T
he supper turned out to be wine at
Helen’s house then dinner at a nearby tavern. It was large enough
to fit at least a hundred people, most of whom were Duncan’s men.
The smells permeating through the tavern were wood, beer, and some
kind of meaty stew that had actually tasted wonderful, although
Fleur was a little scared of food poisoning, what with being in the
seventeenth century and all. There was the scent of the ocean in
the tavern too. The misted salt stung Fleur’s nose a tad. The
tavern was warm, dark, and loud with a lute and fiddle player who
argued as much as they played music.

Many of Duncan’s troops greeted him with
something close to awe and stared at Fleur like the alien she was
in this environment. They openly rubbernecked, gawked, and
whispered while she ate. Probably because she was still in her
black running suit and Adidas and not a long dress as every woman
wore. Feeling a bit apprehensive about her garb, she wondered how
to talk to Helen about needing a change of clothes, but never got
around to it. After the stew was cleared from the table and Duncan
somehow vanished too, she decided to chase him down and have a talk
with him about his young troops. She found him at a corner table,
alone.

Once sitting next to him, she asked, “Is it
possible to tell your men not to . . .?”

“Stare at ye?” His voice was quiet but
rumbled through her chest when he leaned into her ear to talk over
the din of the music and hum of the folks’ continual chatter.

She nodded, looking up into his multi-colored
hazel eyes. She really liked the orange starbursts around his
pupils, which had gotten rather large. Dilated pupils were a sign
of sexual attraction—that had been an article Ian had tried to make
her read while on the airplane to Scotland. Ian had gushed that it
was a wonderful indicator and could reveal more information than
invasive genital measurements in sexual studies. God, why had she
just thought of that? Suddenly finding the air a bit hard to
breathe, she wondered if her pupils were as large as Duncan’s.
Well, the tavern was incredibly dark, that’s probably why he looked
at her the way he did. She kept repeating that to herself as she
couldn’t help but stare into his eyes.

He cracked a small lopsided smile. “I can try
to talk to the lads, but I doubt they’d stop.”

Sense finally came back to her. Actually, it
was anger. She huffed and crossed her arms under her breasts. From
her periphery, she realized Duncan had noticed her movement.
Something a lot like desire tripped her heart then sped through her
body, then lulled around her breasts and at the apex of her legs.
Okay, it was desire, but there was no point to it, now was there?
She would leave soon.

“I’d think ye’d be used to it.”

Fleur turned to Duncan with an arched brow
clearly aimed at him, but he didn’t further clarify what he’d
meant. “Used to what?” she finally asked.

He leaned close, close enough his nose
nuzzled into her hair, a lip just touched her ear. A zip of dark
and beautiful energy nudged between her legs. She hardly heard him
speak what with her body beginning to buzz for him.

“Used to being stared at.”

She spun to face him, finding his lips mere
inches from hers. She liked the way the candlelight blazed against
the red stubble of his cheeks and chin. She liked seeing his eyes
turn a dark green. She liked watching his nostrils flare slightly.
Still, something about his comment bothered her, and what amazed
her was before she could stop herself, she let him know it. “Why?
Because I’m Indian? I should get used to being stared at because
I’m a little different? Is that what you think?”

He straightened in his chair and gained a few
inches distance from her, making her wish so badly she hadn’t said
anything. What was wrong with her anyway? She never was
this...argumentative. Sure, she hadn’t been completely quarrelsome
with him, but she found herself pointing any and all discomfort
right at Duncan. The one person she liked the most since arriving
in this odd time.

Wait—had she really just thought that?

His jaw line kicked, but he said, “Aye,
they’ve never seen a woman like ye, but ’tis because ye’re the most
bonny—beautiful lass they’ve ever seen. They ever
will
see,
for that matter. That’s why they stare. That’s why I thought ye’d
be used to it.” He leaned farther away, staring at the fiddle
player who finally found a boisterous tune.

The flattery augmented the already sparkling
energy zipping through her body, and she crossed her legs,
something again she observed Duncan took note of too. God, she
liked the way he’d reticently take peeks at her.

But why? Why like something that wouldn’t
last? And why hadn’t she said thank you to the compliment? She knew
she should have. Should have acknowledged it. If anything, she
didn’t want Duncan to think she was a brat who expected such
accolades or was used to being stared at for such a reason.

However, she sat mute, looking at the fiddle
player who had started to hum with his melody. The lute musician
drank a beer with his eyes closed and bobbed his head to the
beat.

She wanted Duncan to kiss her. The thought
interrupted her mind and instantly her body stopped, then jerked
into a too vibrant and delirious state. It became so clear in her
mind—he’d plant those perfect dusty pink lips of his on hers, and
she’d lick at the seam of his mouth until he opened for her, then
she’d plunge...Dammit, what was wrong with her?

Annoyance at herself and her damned endocrine
system flooded her thoughts. She’d never wanted a man she’d known
less than a day to kiss her before. She didn’t do those sorts of
things. Dating had been somewhat interesting thus far. She’d find a
man who had similar likes, dislikes, same political party
affiliations, comparable education, then have the requisite coffee.
Then a lunch. If she liked the guy, then dinner. A kiss. It was a
linear path to finding success in a relationship. After the kiss,
if she still liked him, there would be more dinners. Maybe sex. All
right, she’d had sex only twice, thinking it the logical end to the
successful dating system. But it had felt horribly wrong. However,
that hadn’t made any sense then and sure didn’t now. The dates had
been productive—the two men she’d had sex with had been worthy
guys, both quite compatible with her, she’d thought.

Rachel had asked the question,
But what
about your heart, Fleur?
Wasn’t compatibility good for her
heart? A good match of minds would shield her from the agony
of...losing someone. Although, Fleur knew it wouldn’t actually
prevent loss. She knew it logically. But still, wasn’t there
something to help that anguish?

So she kept persisting at the dating
trajectory. It had to be the right path. She just hadn’t found a
like-minded enough man yet. But once she did, then the success
would be equated in terms of...she’d actually never thought of
marriage in the conventional sense. Maybe living together. Adopting
a child eventually. Things that seemed reasonable and rational.

But kissing a stranger? In a tavern, no less?
When she couldn’t wrap her head around where the hell she was? This
was insane.

She suddenly turned to Duncan, angry. “You
can’t just call me ‘the most beautiful woman’ and get away with it,
you know?”

“Oh?” He kept staring ahead at the fiddle
player, but his lips quirked up at the corners.

“No way, buddy.”

“Buddy?” He still didn’t look at her, but
drank some of his beer. The bob of his Adam’s apple with that light
dusting of red whiskers rocked straight into her groin.

“That’s right.” Her voice cracked. “There are
serious consequences to what you just did.”

“Aye?”

“That’s right.”

He suddenly leaned very close, staring down
at her as his face finally halted a few inches from hers. His eyes
seemed to drink her in more than he’d drunk his beer. His gaze
sought hers, but then flickered down to her lips. “What are these
consequences, hmm?”

She was going to do it. She was going to kiss
him. Just lean forward—her heart thudded so loud she was sure
everyone in the room heard it, her whole body tightened in
excitement—and kiss him.

“Lady Fleur, there ye be.”

Fleur glanced up at Rory, holding a few
wooden tankards full of more beer with Helen standing beside him,
grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Helen sat close to Fleur, leaning
into her ear while Rory took the only available seat then divvied
the beers on the table, continually smiling slightly, maybe a tad
forcibly.

“I can take Mr. Rory MacKay back where we
came, if ye need time alone with my son?” Helen whispered.

Duncan had distanced himself from Fleur, even
crossing his massive arms across his chest and spreading his legs a
little wider apart, as if bracing for her to attack him. Some
naughty part of her thought about bending over to see up his kilt.
Would the carpet match the curtains? She almost giggled at her
erotic thoughts, but then glanced at Duncan’s mother, which, of
course, was more than an icy splash of water on her fantasies.