Legends (7 page)

“I hope that’s you,” he called, “and not some badass brownie who broke in to case the joint.”

She turned off the kerosene lamp in the front room and strode into his view wearing the long white robe bundled tightly around her. The linen nightgown shown under her chin, where a strip of white ribbon tied it shut. On her feet were bulky gray socks, probably from the same silver-gray breed of sheep who’d supplied the wool for his sweater.

Douglas felt the quick, uneven slamming of blood through his veins. Even wrapped in a ton of wool and linen she was arousing.

Her eyes glanced over him with disdain; stroking her wind-tangled hair, she knelt on the hearth. With her chestnut mane trailing down her back in turbulent rivers of gold and red, she began banking what remained of the night’s fire.

“You must love to walk on the moors,” he ventured politely.

“Good night, Mr. Kincaid.” She finished with the fireplace and went to the heater near his cell. As she bent over the controls Douglas inhaled the scent of her body and hair. She smelled like the night wind, but also spicy, like wood smoke. Abruptly Douglas imagined himself surrounded by that intriguing fragrance, his face nuzzled into her hair, his body bathed in her scent through intimate contact.

She straightened, but the set of her shoulders conveyed fatigue or defeat; he wasn’t sure which. “If you get too cold during the night, bang on the bars of the cell and wake me up,” she told him in a clipped, formal tone. “I’ll turn the heater up a wee bit.”

“Listen, Goldie—”

“Goldie, is it?” She arched a brow.

“She’s the woman who won’t tell me her name.”

“What happened to Jumbo?”

“She went for a walk and got eaten by a wolf. Or maybe a brownie ran off with her. I don’t know. But I like Goldie better, anyway.”

She made a weary, disgusted sound. “I know there’s an insult in that somewhere, but I can’t figure it out right now. Good night.”

“Not an insult. An apology.”

Her eyes flickered with surprise. “I didn’t expect an apology. What does it mean?”

“In America the dictionary defines it as a request for forgiveness. What does it mean in Scotland?”

She sighed at his coyness, “Prisoners aren’t supposed to apologize. In fact, in all I read about the great Kincaid, I never saw a reference to him apologizing for much of
anything
.”

“Dammit, you’re not making this easy. All I’m saying is that I’m sorry for insulting you and your late husband. Apology ended. Good night.” He paused, then added with a jaunty twist, “Goldie.”

Obviously bewildered and wary, she angled across the room to her own bed, her gaze never leaving him. “Don’t try to con me, you gangster.”

“I can’t make any long-term promises, but you’re safe for tonight.”

“Hah.” She pulled back a pile of thick, fluffy quilts. Her bedstead was tall and heavy; there were two mattresses and a set of springs topped by white sheets, several pillows, and the stack of quilts. The bed was wide enough for two, he decided. It had great pleasure potential, much like its owner.

She stripped her robe off and tossed it over the bed’s tall corner post. The white linen gown floated around her, as revealing as a canvas tent but very graceful. She glanced over her shoulder as she climbed into bed, and saw him watching her.

“Get used to me,” she said, frowning at him. Quickly she slid under the covers and pulled them to
her waist as she lay down, her hair streaming across the pillows. The last rays of the banked fire cast amber light on her, along with seductive shadows.

Oh, I could easily get used to you
, Douglas thought.

“Get used to me,” he replied lightly. He pulled his sweater over his head and dropped it on the wooden table in the cell. Slowly he ran his hands over his bare chest and stomach. Even though he couldn’t see her face well in the dim light, he felt sure that her eyes were on him. “Did you knit me any pajamas?” he asked. “Or maybe an electric blanket?”

“There’s a set of long underwear in the bottom of the little chest of drawers.”

“An appropriate place,” he quipped, as he crossed the cell to the chest. The long johns were bright red. “Oh, good. Now I’ll match my socks.”

“I know you like to be well-dressed.”

He tossed the long johns on the table and sat down in the wooden chair beside it. After he kicked his sandals off he unfastened his trousers. Then he stood to give Goldie the full effect. Slowly he pushed the trousers down his hips.

“You’ve got a nice private bathroom for changing clothes,” she said quickly.

“You’ll just have to put up with my lack of modesty. Don’t watch, if it embarrasses you.”

She mumbled something dire in Gaelic and ended with English. “I’m not embarrassed by the likes of you.”

“Good.” His trousers fell to his ankles. Across the room he heard an unmistakable gasp. Douglas glanced toward the chest of drawers. “Are there any shorts or briefs around here?” he asked innocently. “You’ll have to forgive me for not asking before. I’ve been a little distracted.”

“Aye, they’re, uhmmm, somewhere.” She cleared her throat. “The dresser. Second drawer from the bottom.”

Douglas stepped out of his trousers and stretched
with as much show of nonchalance as he could muster, considering the state of his arousal. Wearing nothing but knee-high red socks, he ambled across to the chest and took his time finding a pair of briefs.

Folding his naked body into the upholstered chair near the bed, he drew one leg up, then the other. With unhurried movements that would have done justice to an exotic dancer, he teased the briefs along his thighs, arching his back a little. His sense of drama had won him A’s in the college acting classes he’d taken for fun.

Finally he stood, slid his hands over his rump, tested the briefs’ waistband, and gazed down at himself in solemn scrutiny. “Well, what do you think, Goldie? Impressive, isn’t it?”

From across the room came the deep, resonant drone of snoring.

Douglas gazed at her dark form in disgruntled surprise. It took him a second to realize that the snoring was absurdly exaggerated.

He grinned. By the time he got into bed he was laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes. He was the prisoner of a woman who had infuriated, harrassed, and insulted him more than any person in the world. He hated to admit it, but he was beginning to like her.

Elgiva read the old poem again, and frowned.
Only true love shall soothe the pain
. Her mother, solemn and practical, had always said that the line referred to love for Scotland. But her father, a daydreaming romantic, had insisted that it meant the love between a man and a woman. Considering their opposite natures, it was amazing that her parents had been so perfect together.

One Christmas night twenty-five years ago was etched indelibly in Elgiva’s mind. She and Rob had tiptoed from bed, shivering, and had hidden behind the shabby drapes in the master hunt room at MacRoth Hall, giggling over the fact that both of their parents were tipsy from too much ale.

She and Rob had been entertained watching their
normally reserved mother and father snuggle close together on a sagging couch while a musty stag’s head peered down at them with its one remaining glass eye. Rob had wrinkled his nose at the kissing and hugging, but Elgiva had been old enough to appreciate the romance of it.

Though it had hardly sounded like romance.

“David, you’ll be a silly old man, the kind who sings to himself and dances under the full moon,” Mother told Father between kisses.

Father laughed. “Aye, and I plan to live to be a thousand just to torment you.”

“I’ll scold you every day of it,” she retorted, but nibbled his ear. Then she looked at him and said so low that Elgiva could barely hear, “When you pass on, I wish to follow the next second.”

Mother had gotten that wish, though much sooner than a thousand years. Swallowing hard, Elgiva shut the book of poetry and sat gazing wistfully at the worn leather cover.

“That must be a cookbook. You look pensive—as if you’ve lost the recipe for something.”

Douglas Kincaid’s droll, richly timbered voice slipped into her veins like sweet wine. She looked up at him and blinked owlishly. He lounged in one corner of his cell, wearing nothing but his trousers. His torso glistened with sweat from all the push-ups he’d performed during the past two hours. The muscles of his chest and stomach trembled and flexed each time he inhaled.

“Lost the recipe,” she repeated blankly.

Elgiva stared at the potent masculinity being displayed only a few meters away, behind thick bars. Who needed protecting from whom? She was beginning to resent those bars.

She had taken to reading the book of Scottish poetry to keep from ogling him helplessly. The sight of his hard, lean body pumping like an unstoppable machine had made her weak inside. Looking away hadn’t solved the problem, because the soft, urgent
sounds of his breathing had induced even more imaginings.

Now Elgiva leapt up and busied herself returning the book to a sideboard against one wall. “Lost a recipe. Aye, you might say that I did. Long ago. Well, time to go let Shom back in. If he stays out in the sunshine much longer, he’ll have spring fever months before it’s due.”

Sensing Kincaid’s dark eyes on her, Elgiva fussed with the other books stacked atop the table. “You’ve been in a bonnie mood today, Douglas. Things will go pleasantly if you keep your spirits up this way.”

“I’m finally adjusting to life without phones, that’s all. Do you want to know how many phone calls I average during a workday? Upward of a hundred. You did a cruel thing by making me give that up cold turkey. But if I’m mellowing out, it’s only because I know that somebody’s going to spring me from this joint soon.”

“You’ll be here until the MacRoth estate is free and clear. But if your fantasy cheers you, keep believing it. I like you when you’re lighthearted.”

“Why,
thank you
. I wouldn’t want to depress you with my insignificant problems.”

His taunt was mild—charming, in a sardonic way. She curtsied slightly, enjoying the new atmosphere. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get my pudding started for supper.”

He groaned. “You realize, of course, that I’m doing a push-up for every calorie you feed me.”

“Then you should add a few thousand.”

He shrugged, came forward, braced one long arm on the cell bars above his head, and leaned, hip-shot. He scanned her from head to foot, slowly. “Might as well do push-ups. I’ve got no other way to release my tension.”

“Poor man.” She sighed dramatically and added, as if speaking to a third party, “And him so accustomed to getting his way with women.” She eyed him boldly. “You won’t find a good wife if you wait
much longer. You’re getting a wee bit long in the tooth.”

He smiled wickedly. “It’s not the length of my tooth that matters to women. Don’t worry about me, doll. I’ll marry the
perfect
wife.”

“Oh? Dumb as an ox and twice as forgiving?”

“No. She’ll be extremely intelligent and have a brilliant grasp of business. I want a partner—someone I can trust to head a few of my biggest projects. But she’ll also be an expert at entertaining. She’ll be the kind of woman who can organize a party for fifty of my favorite stockbrokers one night and host the President and First Lady for lunch the next day. She’ll know how to pick the classiest clothes and the best wine.”

“I think you need a harem. The poor woman is going to be worked to death.”

“Oh, she’ll be a brilliant manager, and her staff will handle the details. Whenever she needs a rest, I’ll take her down to my island in the Caribbean. Or to the chateau outside Paris. Or the ranch in Colorado. Or the estate in Florida. Or my
new
estate in Scotland—”

“Don’t marry a homebody. She’d get confused trying to figure out which home.”

“I’ll want her to love kids and dogs.”

“Well, you can always buy her a few.”

“She’ll be beautiful, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And blond. And blue-eyed.”

“And petite. You forgot petite.”

He sighed happily, as if picturing the future Mrs. Kincaid. “Yes, petite. Thank you for reminding me.”

“But you’d be mean to marry a petite woman, Douglas. She’d only get crushed by your ego. A flattened blue-eyed blonde. Ugh. You need a big, swarthy woman who’ll remind you of your Neanderthal background.”

“Doll, I’ve got one of the world’s best collections of sapphires. I’ve been buying them for years. They’re
the perfect color for a blue-eyed blonde to wear. Now what would I do with ten million dollars worth of sapphires if I changed my mind?”

“You don’t want me to tell you what you should do with your sapphires.”

He chuckled sardonically. “No, I think I can guess.” Arching a black brow, he gave her an appraising look. “So why haven’t you remarried?”

“There aren’t a lot of likely men in Druradeen. It’s a small place.”

“What? You don’t know any eligible bachelors in the kidnapping business?”

Elgiva huffed in exasperation. “Plus I have no dowry to offer.” She shot him a scathing look. “Yet.”

“Dream on, doll.” He studied her, looking intrigued. “Why do you need a dowry?”

“Marriages are built on practical concerns. Land, money, children. I have naught to offer.”

His gaze trailed down her sweater and skirt. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. In that green evening gown you could have made any man forget about dirt, dough, and dynasties.” His voice became coy. “In the meantime, I wouldn’t mind being entertained. Have you got the green dress here? Wear that when you do your knitting.”

“It’s a joy to watch such an overindulged beast learn the merits of patience.”

“Patience? You mean I’ll get what I want, eventually?”