Kathryn Caskie - [Royle Sisters 02] (12 page)

“I do apologize, Apsley, but I only
boost
the reputation of my fiancé.”

Laird and Apsley swung their heads around to see Anne standing in the doorway.

She walked across the library and joined the two gentlemen near the desk. “And, since I can only be promised to one gentleman at a time…” She fashioned a look forlorn of all hope. “Well, you understand, don’t you, Apsley?”

“Anne, I thought you were abed.” As soon as the words left Laird’s mouth, the image of Anne in his own bed, her pale skin bared to his touch, filled his mind.

Hoping to whisk the heady notion from his mind, he busied himself by filling a glass with wine punch and handing it to her.

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I have had two glasses already—and you know how wine affects me.” She tossed a covert wink at him as she brought the crystal to her mouth and sipped from it anyway.

He watched how her body curved as she tilted the glass, and he imagined it curving against him. Then he felt his bollocks tighten with excitement, and he knew he was lost.

“I was looking for something to read—again. I wrote a note to my sister Elizabeth asking her to send down a few books if she could spare them. Haven’t received any
letters
in reply, however.” She touched the glass to her lips and drank deeply of the wine punch, then turned her delicately boned countenance to face him directly. The tip of her pink tongue slipped across her lower lip. “You were going to assist me with
my
search of the library, Lord MacLaren.”

Ah, the letters
. Laird stepped behind the desk to conceal the growing evidence of his misplaced desire for her. “Yes, I did promise.”

“Did you find anything yet that might interest me?” Anne raised her blond eyebrows questioningly, but her gaze lingered upon his chest.

“Not yet, but I have not given up.”

Then it occurred to Apsley just what their veiled
conversation was all about. “Damn me!” He started to laugh, coughing on his last swig of brandy. He waved his lace-fringed hand in the air. “You are both searching for those bloody letters—in
here
!”

“Shh!” Anne angled a vertical finger to her lips, drawing Laird’s attention to them and holding it there. Making him want to taste them. To kiss them.

“Oh, do let me help with the search.” Apsley’s eyes flashed excitedly as looked back and forth between Laird and Anne. “This will be such fun.”

“Splendid idea, Apsley.” Laird clapped his friend between his shoulder blades.

“What?” Anne furrowed her graceful winged eyebrows. “He can’t—”

“Search the stables?” Laird broke in. “No, I don’t suppose he could, even if it is the only place we have not searched.”

Apsley laughed. “I see what you are up to here. Think it would be great fun to watch the viscount dig around in the muck, don’t you?”

“Well, you asked. And the stables have not been searched.” Laird lifted the decanter of brandy to Apsley, who shook his head.

“No, no. I am off. Being the third carriage
wheel has never been my preference—unless the other two are buxom redheads. In that case, I might be swayed.” Apsley chuckled to himself as he sauntered off for the doorway, but turned before stepping into the passage. “But I will take on the stables at first light…or…certainly before noon. Only, hear me now, if
I
find the letters, I get to read every one of them—first. Good night, all.”

“The stables?” Anne brought her bare hand to her mouth and laughed richly.

Laird’s lips twitched. “My father would have never entered such an untidy place. Apsley can search as long as he likes.”

Anne swallowed the last of her cordial, then circled around the desk to where Laird stood. She raised her empty glass to him.

“You are not asking for more, are you? What about your delicate constitution?”

“Oh stop, Laird. You know very well that I was not truly looking for an unoccupied chamber pot when I came into your bedchamber.” She raised her glass and allowed him to fill it.

“I know,
darling
. You were looking for
me
.”

Anne smiled almost coquettishly as she set her glass upon the desk. She grabbed his shoulders
playfully and yanked him to her. “How did you know,
my dear
?” She tilted back her head and made to laugh at their joke, but she didn’t. Their eyes met, and both became instantly silent.

He looked at her, wondering who would be the first to put an end to this dangerous, teasing game. In the end, he decided it would be he. He cupped his hand behind her neck and pulled her into a rough kiss.

Anne leaned back, but did not leave his embrace. “Why do you do this, Laird?” She shook her head so slowly and moved so slightly that at first he didn’t comprehend her question. “Why do you play the rake whenever I come too close? When a moment becomes weighted?”

Laird averted his gaze and sighed. “I-I honestly don’t know.” He peered into her eyes again and waited, knowing somehow that she would offer some answer.

“I think you do. I think it is your armor. Your protection against intimacy.”

Laird forced a hard laugh. “Kissing you is my protection against intimacy?”

“Kissing me, like that, is no different than pushing me away. Keeping any chance of tenderness at a distance.”

She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. You are a strong man, a kind man, a noble man—a man capable of anything you set your heart and mind to do. Laird, you don’t have to pretend you don’t care, when you do.”

Laird turned his head away, but Anne caught his jaw with her hand and made him face her again. “You do not have to protect yourself from me. I’ll never hurt you.”

Something broke inside him then, and he wanted nothing more than to hold Anne to him. To kiss her. To love her. His eyes burned as he stared at her face.

Christ above, she is so beautiful.

Instinctively Laird brought his hands to her waist and pulled her firmly against him. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the cad that drove him to her now. It was his need for her. But words failed him.

At his touch, Anne stiffened, and an expression of circumspection came over her.

How he ached for her, and he knew with certainty that she could feel his hardness against her now. He readied himself for the sting of a slap to his cheek.

But it did not come.

Instead her breath came fast and hot, and still she did not pull away. Her gaze, filled with wary expressions of arousal and alarm, lingered on his mouth. “We’re engaged,” she said. “I do not think the world would think anything of it if we simply kissed.”

Rather than give her another moment to reconsider her position, he angled his head to kiss her. Laird pressed his lips to hers, and held them to his, sucking gently, then sliding his tongue along her lower lip.

“Oh,
my Laird
,” she murmured, the moment he lifted his mouth.

Laird smiled at her. “That’s right, lass. You’ve got the right of it now.” His voice was deep and husky, almost a growl, and it tickled her ear, and lower, too.

She felt the roughness of skin against her chin, the taste of the brandy on his lips, and all she knew was that she did not want this bliss to end.

Her resolve to remain impassive had all but dissolved. She wanted to go on pretending she really was his. Wanted to continue imagining a future with Laird…as his wife.

She wanted more than a kiss.

Her nipples hardened beneath the smooth satin of her gown, and she knew he became instantly aware of this, deepening her disgrace.

She felt a tug on the ribbon at the scoop of her neckline, and the tips of her breasts, peeking out from her silken chemise, were bared to him. A flush swept up from her middle, blossoming on Anne’s cheeks.

His hands tightened around her waist, whisking her around, and sitting her on the desk. He took her mouth again and kissed it, hard and deep, while pushing her knees apart, and moving between them.

Only a wisp of a chemise and a cool sheath of satin separated her core from his maleness. The thought drove her mad.

He leaned against her, and she slammed her hands behind her on the desk to keep from falling flat onto her back.

Laird slid a hand against her back, then dipped his head, and with his mouth, nudged one of her nipples free, and then the full roundness of her breast followed. His free hand cupped it, and he raised its pink peak to his mouth, drawing color into her nipple as he licked and sucked.

Anne moaned. This was so wrong, she knew, but nothing had ever felt so right to her as this moment. A shiver fluttered through her body, making her breast quiver.

His gentle hand slid inside her chemise and freed her other breast, and now he stroked her swells, flicking thumbs over the hardened tips.

Anne squirmed, and she flung up one hand, cupped it behind his neck, and drew his mouth to her breast once more, urging him to loose his magic on her, to bring her nipples, each in turn, into the furnace of his mouth.

A tension began to wind in her core as he fed on her, and intuitively she wound her legs around his muscled thighs and pulled herself against him.

Laird moaned, sending unbearably sweet vibrations through her nipple. He leaned up and plunged his tongue into her mouth, sliding inside along the soft flesh.

Lifting her other hand from the desk, she grabbed his shoulder and fell onto her back, pulling him down atop her.

She felt his hand, pinned beneath her, pull free, and then she felt it slide up her leg, bur
rowing under her skirt and chemise, riding up past the ribbon that held her stocking. Then his fingers trailed up the smooth, sensitive skin of her inner thigh. And he touched her.

There.

His fingers moved between her folds, stroking her, drawing forth the slickness of her womanhood.

“Laird,”
she gasped.

He stopped then.

No, no, don’t stop.

He lurched back and stared down at her thighs spread open to him.

At her face.

He backed up and pulled her skirts down over her knees. “I-I’m sorry, Anne. Bloody hell, I haven’t changed.” Disgust was plain in his voice. “I haven’t.”

He stared at her as he stalked around the desk and out of the library, leaving a trail of oaths in the air behind him.

Anne crawled from the desk and folded onto the floor. “God, I am such a fool.”

T
he chamber lamp Anne carried cast a perfectly round glow on the treads as her leaden legs plodded up the grand staircase and down the long passage.

She’d walked this same path dozens of times, in the day as well as the night, but never before had she felt so lost and in need of a guiding light.

There was a glowing coal fire in the fireplace, and the ewer had been filled with hot water and set upon a small brass brazier before the hearth to preserve its warmth.

She poured the water into the basin on the washstand, stripped off every thread of clothing, and scrubbed a dampened cloth roughly against her skin. Bah! As if it were possible to
wash away her humiliation so that her dignity might return.

It wasn’t his fault, not truly. She had allowed herself to give in to the fantasy they had constructed together.

She had let herself believe that this farce was somehow becoming real.

She had given in to the heated, passionate longings that burgeoned inside her for him.

At least she hadn’t fallen in love.

She was such a fool. Laird had reacted exactly as she should have expected him to. He told her he was a rake at heart, and part of him always would be. He responded to her sensual game, matched her lustfulness. However, just when the blackguard he claimed he used to be would have slaked his need with her, Laird had simply turned away.

He spared her ruin.

For the second time.

Dear God. Laird
had
changed.

By the horrified look on his face before he raced from the library, she was certain he believed himself wicked beyond redemption.

The wine she’d consumed was making her confused and weary. So Anne quickly dried her
self, then slipped her dressing gown over her shoulders and set about pulling the pins from her hair.

But her comb, however, was nowhere in sight. A maid had likely put it away. Anne pulled the top handle of the low bedside chest of drawers, but the flickering candlelight did not reach the depths of the drawer. Anne fumbled her hand around inside for the comb, when suddenly she felt a folded sheet of foolscap wedged far back, ready to fall out of reach.

Heavens, could this be one of the letters?

Her heart pounded madly as she dropped to her knees and shoved her arm deep behind the drawer, and after a long minute, withdrew the letter. But there was just this one. Still, it could be…

She held it near the chamber lamp and, with shaking hands, opened the letter from its folds. It was written to Laird. Her gaze dropped to the signature, and her excitement with it: Graham.

Blast
. Just one more disappointment.

With a sigh, Anne slowly refolded the letter and set it down on the chest of drawers. She leaned over and blew out the candle, then curled
up on the edge of the tester bed and closed her eyes.

What happened in the library wasn’t Laird’s fault.

He had changed.

He was a gentleman.

She’d be sure to tell him so in the morning.

It was still dark when Anne was jolted from her sleep. The sound of carriage wheels spraying pebbles against the front of the house propelled her from the tester bed and to the window.

She peered down just as a footman raised a lantern and opened the carriage door. Wild, drunken female laughter burst from inside the cab.

Anne pressed her hands and forehead against the cool windowpane, hoping for a better look at the occupants in the carriage.

Apsley climbed down the step to the gravel with what appeared to be an empty bottle in his hand. A woman’s bare arm reached out and caught his sleeve and tried to pull him inside again. Apsley laughed and dropped the bottle on the ground, and then he obliged her.

And then, she saw
him.

Laird stepped down unsteadily from the carriage. His foot slipped from the step, and he came down hard on the gravel.

He braced himself with a groping hand against the door. He looked back inside the cab, just before a sable-haired miss leaned her head outside the cab and angled her mouth toward him for a kiss.

Anne’s body quaked and she lurched back from the window.

Why? Why?
Oh God, she could watch no more. It hurt too much.

She whisked the brown velvet curtains closed against the offending sight. Her eyes welled with hot tears as she turned and ran for her bed. Great sobs rose up inside her throat. She tore the sheets and coverlets back this time, then climbed into bed and threw them over her head to block out the sound, too.

What had she expected?

Perhaps Lady Henceforth was right all along. A tiger cannot change its stripes.

Laird was and always would be a rake. He hadn’t changed.

Anne had just been too dim-witted to realize it.