Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (38 page)

She sighed. “That, my dear Strathcairn, is what the philosophers would call a circular argument. We will go around and around until dawn, and still not find the answer. So I will attempt to seize the moral high ground—although I am clearly not accustomed to such heights—and make a concession. I will
try
and be good. I will put my past behind me, and be scrupulously polite to your secretary, and promise not to steal the silver, or cheat your guests at cards, nor set up a running dice game with the footmen—”

“Devil take me,” he laughed. She had astonished him out of his nebulous ideas of seduction. “Have you really run a dice game with footmen?”

“Gardeners mostly, since Winthrop House always ran short on footmen. And grooms, as well as the occasional ostler.”

“Devil take you. I’ll add running dice games to your long and varied lists of sins.” He had meant to be teasing, but from the guarded look that instantly darkened her eyes, his jest had wounded rather than amused.
 

“I hadn’t realized you were keeping a running list. Don’t forget to add highway robbery.”

“I haven’t forgot.” He was careful to keep his tone light. “It’s right up there at the top.”

Her sigh was quiet, but weary. “Are you ever going to forgive me, really?”

She had brought them neatly to the heart of the problem, because the truth was, he did not honestly know if he could ever truly forgive her—forgive her enough to forget what she was capable of. Forgive her enough to trust her.
 

To trust her with his heart. To trust her with his family.

Because what she had done was very nearly unforgivable—at least in the eyes of the law.

Which was why he needed to get the morally compromised lass off of his bed and into her own. Alone. Before he was tempted to take advantage of all that drowsy kitten softness, and get her in the family way. He was a man, and he was only human.

No better way to put her off than with honesty. “I don’t know. I’ve never been married to a criminal before.”

She absorbed that uncomfortable truth slowly before she spoke lightly. “I suppose I ought to be honored that I’m the first.”

“You’re meant to be.” He tried to lighten the heaviness of the moment by reaching out to touch her, taking her hand.
 

She squeezed his fingers in response before she pulled a tight breath into her lungs. “I am truly sorry that I got you into this, Strathcairn. You ken it’s not too late to find a way out—to annul the marriage.” She drew in a tighter breath. “And then you can have the sort of wife you deserve. One who doesn’t have to
try
to be good.”

“Nay.” He didn’t want another wife. He wanted her. Only better.

“No? Do you really mean for this marriage to be lasting and binding?”

He had never in his life reneged or broken a promise, and he didn’t mean to start now. He was a man of his word. “I do.”

She inched closer, as if she wanted to read his face more clearly. “Forever—until death do us part—is a very long time. Unless you mean to have better aim next time.”

“There won’t be a next time, Quince. I spoke my troth.” He was hanging out there in the breeze on this one, exposed from every angle. But it felt good—it felt like a thrill. “And it still seems best—the only way that I can keep you safe from all harm.”

She took her turn at being philosophical. “No one can be safe from all harm, Strathcairn. And I don’t want to be cosseted and kept. I can’t think of anything more confining. Except perhaps, marrying without affection.” She peered at his face. “Does it not bother you? To be married without affection?”

How devastatingly straightforward and forthright she was. But he had to be something more than straightforward—he had to be truthful. “I did not say I was without affection, Quince. Nor are you without some sort of affection for me. You wouldn’t be here, lying comfortably on my bed, if you did not have at least some small affection for me, would you?”

“Nay,” she said quietly, but just as truthfully. “I suppose not.”

She edged closer, and closer still, until she had insinuated herself comfortably against his side, nestling naturally within the curve of his body, with her bandaged hand trailing across his chest, her fingers drawing idle circles on his flesh.
 

And somehow he had just as naturally put his arms around her, drawing her flush against his side, holding her comfortably against his chest.
 

And once she was there, so close, her mouth tipped up towards his, and it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss her, to taste the sweet gift she offered, to close his eyes and surrender to the inevitable rightness of having her in his arms.

He liked her this way—soft and open and honest, and sighing into his linen. It was deeply intimate, seeing her this way, with her hair unbound and her feet uncovered, undefended by the sharp claws of her wit.
 

How he ached to have her, this blazing, trusting, untrustworthy lass. But if she was a treasure worth having, she was a treasure worth waiting for until there were no more misunderstandings, no more recriminations or distrust. He felt it to his bones.

“It will all be fine, Quince.” He said it as much to convince himself as her.

“Will it?” She did not seem at all so sure.

“It will. I promise.”
 

She closed her eyes, and lay there with him, and he let her think about that for a good long time. Long enough for her breathing to become quiet and shallow. And he indulged himself for a further few minutes by snugging closer and simply watching her sleep. Plotting the constellation of her features—two doe-shaped eyes, with two straight, slanted eyebrows, one straight elegant nose, and one mouth.
 

Taken apart her features were normal—typical, even. But put together, the unique combination that was her face was magic. Even enchanting.

She had enchanted him. From the very beginning, he had been susceptible to her dark fairy combination of mischief and excitement. And he was more than susceptible now.
 

So susceptible that he wanted nothing more than to roll toward her, and curl himself around her, and hold her close all through the rest of the night. But he was Cairn, and a gentleman, and the gentleman who wanted wee Quince Winthrop as his Marchioness of Cairn was going to have to wait until he was asked, even if he did have a cockstand that would surely keep him awake into the wee small hours.

So instead of spooning himself against his for-once-complaint wife’s pliant back, Alasdair rose and tossed on a robe before walking around to the other side of the bed, where he slid his hands around his soft, warm wife. She stirred and rolled toward him, and came into his arms as if she were climbing a tree—all acrobatic arms and athletic legs wrapped around him, taut and warm and blissfully ardent.

It was everything he could do to stand still and wait, and endure the agony of arousal and half-hope that she would do something more. That she would stir, and rustle her agile, larcenous fingers through his hair. That she would ply her teeth to the side of his neck and bite down ever so gently, delicately abrading his flesh. That she would turn and taste him with lips and tongue, and kiss him until he was so dizzy with wanting it was everything he could do not to fall down.

And then she did.

She tasted of sugar and whisky and want, sweet and unbridled and untainted by the misgivings and hesitation that arose during the day.
 

He kissed her back, giving her everything he could, taking everything she offered until the ache of longing grew so strong it all but choked the heart from him. He turned away from the kiss, afraid she would taste the pain and uncertainty on his lips. Waiting for her to turn away from him, as well.

But still she clung to him, subsiding with a sigh onto his shoulder, so he carried her slowly back through the connecting door to her own bed. He laid her down, and took a minute to straighten the tangle that she had made of the covers.

“Good night, sweet Quince.”

Her eyes blinked open for the merest moment. “You know,” she said on the whisper of a sigh, “you really aren’t so bad when you’re being nice.”

He smiled at her, even though she could no longer see him. “And you really aren’t so bad when you’re being good.”

She smiled back, but didn’t open her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone.”

That warm feeling welling in his chest was affection, and something more. Something sweeter. “Don’t worry, brat. I won’t.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Turnabout was fair play, and Alasdair turned the tables by taking himself into his wife’s bedchamber indecently early, just as the dawn was creasing the eastern sky. He drew the curtains from the big bow window overlooking the green park, and let the golden morning light fill the room. “Good morning, sweet brat.”

And yet, on she slept despite the streaming daylight. Sweet, annoying brat.

“Time to get up.” He reached for the delicate rounding of her shoulder where she lay sprawled diagonally across the bed, and gave her a rough shake. “Wake up.”

“Why?” she groused, and pulled the covers tighter about her.

“Because it is time to be up and about. There are things to be done. Your days as a lady of lazy luxury are over.”

“My days as a lady of lazy luxury have yet to begin.” Her voice was cottony, and full of sleepy discontent. “Go away.”

He might have actually felt sorry for her if he hadn’t been so deprived of sleep himself. It had taken a very long time for him to fall asleep again last night, for reasons he would rather not examine too closely in the light of morning.

But he was not about to be swayed by a warm bedroom voice. Or aroused. Not yet. “Either you can get up on your own, or I can come into that bed and get you.”

She opened one eye, and gave him a baleful stare. “Promises, promises,” she muttered as she rolled onto her back. “If this is what having a husband is like, I’m not sure I want one.”

Amusement, attraction, repressed need, and whatever else was sidling about his veins, made his blood sing. “You’ve got a husband anyway, so be nice to him. He’s brought you chocolate.”

The moment he said the word, her whole demeanor changed. “Have you really?” She groped her way to a sitting position, and made an instructively grabby motion with her hands. “You might not be such a bad husband after all. Give.”

While he handed her the cup, her white cotton chemise slid off one shoulder, and made interesting twists around her trim torso, which he admired her as she took a tentative, delicate sip.
 

“Oh, holy chocolate tarts, yes.” She took a more satisfying gulp of the unsweetened brew.
 

Trust Quince to like her morning chocolate bitter and dark. Trust him to like that about her.

She took another deep guzzle from her steaming cup. “Aaahh.” She pushed that flowing, fall of hair out of her eyes, and blinked into the sunlight.
 

By God, she was beautiful. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, every pulse and breath and inch of tingling skin. She was temptation incarnate, moving and sighing with an innate animal grace that had him straining at the constraints of gentlemanly behavior, as well as the close of his breeches.
 

But if she had recovered from her injury enough to wake him up and arouse him in the middle of the night, she was well enough for a longer foray out of bed. Whatever else she might be ready for
within
the bed was a topic he would explore later. “Drink up and then come along. There is much to be done today.”

“Like what?” She was the picture of tousled skepticism.
 

Like a hundred things. A thousand. He could make a list right there, on the spot. “Like acquainting you with the estate. Why don’t you put on your riding habit?”

“Don’t have one.” She regarded him with something of her former mischievousness across the steam from her cup. “I rode in breeks, remember?”

As if he could forget. “I do. Quite vividly.” He pushed aside the erotically charged image that came galloping into his brain—a treat to savor another time, on another sleepless night—and smiled at her anyway. “Then we’ll walk.”
 

It would take a great deal longer—days, even weeks—to show her the whole of the estate if they hiked, but perhaps that would be for the better. They would spend the time getting to know and understand and appreciate and hopefully enjoy each other in ways that they hadn’t in Edinburgh. And her arse wouldn’t be as sore from all the riding.