Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (50 page)

He levered himself away, and she felt the loss of him—of his heat and his weight and his reassurance. But before she could pull him back, he found her hands, and interlaced her fingers with his, holding her in a different way as he placed their hands over her head.

And then he was kneeling between her legs, kneeing her thighs apart, and she was open to him, stretched past the limits of experience and imagination, as his body settled between her hips. And he was pushing into her, stretching and filling her slowly, making his way into her body until he was fully sheathed within.

“Quince.” He said her name like an oath, like a prayer.

But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer him. She felt heat and pressure, and pleasure and pain all swirling together, tumbling her up like a mountain burn, rumbling through her. She wanted to move, and he was moving with her, flowing into her, ebbing and advancing, reaching higher and higher with every surge of his body into hers.

He made a sound that was both elation and anguish, and he gripped her fingers as if he, too, feared being swept away. As if he could no longer hold back the force of the want.
 

He leaned his weight onto his hands where they were joined above her head, and she felt her body bow upward, toward him as he surged into her, pushing deep into her core. And then deeper still, because he bent his head and took her breasts between his lips and teeth, closing down around her peaked nipples, sucking and laving and sending a burst of hot bliss showering through her body.

And still she was greedy, hungry for more—more of the playful torture of his teeth on her skin, more of the erotic friction of his belly against hers, more of his strength. More.

And then he let go of her hands, and she was loose and soaring, untethered to the earth, held aloft on pleasure. He skimmed his own hand down the side of her ribs, sliding along the flat of her belly, grazing across the dark chestnut hair that covered her mons. He stroked her there, before he parted her flesh and brushed a feather light touch across the exact spot where his tongue had been before.

Heat built into a sensation that burst within, and she was gone, rushing over the edge.
 

And he was with her, shouting her name, holding her fast, swept away with her, falling and floating down the wide river of their love.

She stayed there, floating, gasping for air, listening as their breathing and heartbeats eventually slowed, and their bodies cooled. It seemed forever before she even wanted to open her eyes. But there he was.
 

“Strathcairn,” she breathed his name. “You certainly do ken to give a lass a thrill.”

Alasdair lay on his side next to her, stroking her tangled hair away from her temple. He leaned over to kiss her there. “Thrilled enough to be wanting more?”

“Aye.” She was lingering in the last of the drowsy bliss, in no rush to let the languorous feeling of peace and rightness dissipate. “Give me a moment, or two, and I will certainly want more.”

Chapter Thirty

Alasdair had the Reverend Talent run to ground like the rat he was early the next morning, because, as his young wife had so perceptively said, what could not be avoided ought to be tackled straightaway.
 

And so straightaway, Sebastian was enlisted to put his cool perceptiveness to work. His secretary quickly discovered the rat holed up close by, at the village inn. It was as Alasdair had predicted—animal instinct only ever got a person so far. But to make sure that the reverend got no farther, he had Seb, backed by two of Castle Cairn’s brawer gamekeepers—a pair of rough, strong-legged lads—make sure the reverend accepted Alasdair’s invitation to join him at the Castle.

They waited together, he and Quince, hand in hand, united against their common enemy.

“Oh, by jimble. There’s something you should know.” Quince turned to him with whispered urgency, as footsteps could be heard in the corridor. “Do you remember how you called me a zealot?”

“Aye?” Alasdair smiled in acknowledgment.

“Well, I am strictly an amateur in comparison to the reverend. He is the real zealot. ‘The ends always justify the means when doing the Lord’s work,’ he said. Or something very near. But you get the gist.”

“I do, indeed.”
 

“He’s utterly devoted,” she went on. “All that mattered to him is that the money I gave could be used to glorify the Lord, and nothing should be put in the way of me continuing to do that.”

“I see.” Alasdair squeezed her hand in reassurance. “Thank you for telling me.”

“And he’s smart, and imperturbable. Nothing I said, no attempt at logic would sway him.” He could hear the worry in her voice.

“It will be all right, Quince. I promise.” Though he was sure had Quince been trained up for the law, she would have made a formidable speaker. He himself
had
trained both in Parliament and the government for just such a moment, and he was more than prepared to use every rhetorical trick at his disposal to get and keep an edge ahead of Talent.

And then their nemesis was there, the Reverend Talent, shown into the estate office by McNab. Sebastian and the lads hung back in the corridor, and let the reverend come in alone.

“My Lord Cairn.” Talent bowed, hat in hand, very correctly. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did.” Alasdair said nothing more, but gestured to a chair on the other side of the desk, wanting to take his time and proceed in a thorough, controlled manner.
 

“Lady Cairn.” Talent acknowledged Quince with a smile so snidely pleasant it was guaranteed to make Alasdair’s blood boil.
 

He managed to control himself, and kept a firm grasp upon his temper. But at his side, Quince was not so deliberate—she was almost twitching with an itchy restlessness. Patience and deliberation were clearly not her strong suits—a sort of straightforward bravery was.
 

“It’s no use, Reverend Talent. I’ve told my husband all. I’ve told him that you’re blackmailing me, and why.”

Talent absorbed that information in silence, with only a raised brow and a tight smile that told Alasdair the reverend wasn’t quite sure if he believed her.

So Alasdair decided to make it more complicated.
 

“I don’t believe her, either. Not that you aren’t trying to extort money from her—that I believe—but that she has actually done any of the things she says you’ve accused her of. I can’t believe her capable.”
 

Beside him, Quince gasped at such an unexpected gambit.

To strengthen his argument, Alasdair let go of Quince’s hand and strolled around to sit on the edge of the desk directly in front of Talent. “No, I don’t believe her at all.”

“You should,” the reverend maintained. “You—”

Alasdair cut him off, determined to keep him off balance. “And am I to take the word of an admitted blackmailer?”

Alasdair’s accusation caught Talent off guard. “No. I— I didn’t admit to—”

“Of course, you just did. “ Alasdair slapped the flat of his palm against the desk as if he were hammering a judge’s gavel. “Your very presence here today is an admission of that fact. Your very presence in this village, over a hundred miles away from your parish, is evidence of the fact that you came here with the express purpose of luring a wife away from the influence of her husband and the sanctity of her marriage—a marriage you yourself performed. What on Earth were you thinking, Talent, to be so devious? To act in so ungodly a manner. What on Earth do you expect your bishop will say? Good Lord, Talent, you have got yourself into a world of trouble.”

“My bishop? But you should want to keep him from knowing. Her ladyship—”

“Do you have proof of her ladyship’s involvement?” Alasdair pressed, leaning forward to physically loom over Talent. “Can you show me this beyond a shadow of a doubt?”

“Well,” he hedged. “You have my word—I know exactly what and where—”
 

“Exactly what, if you have no proof other than the word of a blackmailer?”

Talent drew himself together. “Rumor and innuendo will be enough to see her ruined.”

“Ruined for what?” Alasdair immediately fired back. “Her prospects? I’ve already married her.”
 

“Her standing in society,” Talent countered. “Edinburgh—”

“Society?” Alasdair roared. “Think, mon! If I don’t believe you, who do you think will?”

“But the rumor will get out, and—”

“Think, you addlepated preacher. That’s the terrible thing about rumor, Talent—it will get out, most assuredly. And nothing travels faster than its stink. But it fouls everything it comes into contact with, Reverend. Everything and everyone—Saint Cuthbert’s, the charity workhouse and all the good work you’ve done there, and you yourself. No one will escape being tarred with a fouled brush. Think hard before you choose to ruin everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”

“But—”
 

“If the rumor that the workhouse has knowingly been running on the proceeds from stolen goods—certainly aiding, if not abetting a criminal activity—reached the Edinburgh Presbytery, or God help you, the General Assembly of the Kirk of Scotland, I’ve no doubt they would close the workhouse down, and transfer you God knows where. Even here, to serve my village. Wouldn’t that be an apt punishment?”

Talent paled, but rallied. “But either you believe she did it—or none of those things you are talking about could have happened.”

“Of course not,” Alasdair agreed to confuse him, before he ground on. “It’s the rumor, Reverend. Once you let that particularly stinking cat out of the bag you’ll never stuff it back in. You won’t be able to keep it from going places you didn’t even know existed—the Rector of Saint Cuthbert’s, the Presbytery, the General Counsel of the Kirk. No, no,” he counseled in his best and most prudent ministerial tone. “Best not to even start, but go home and keep your peace. Then all will be well.”

“But what about her?” Talent pointed at Quince in accusation. “What about all the wrong she’s done?”

“If she did it—and I still await your absolute proof that such a decided and well-known flibbertigibbet could have done even half of the things of which you accuse her—it was all in the service of God. And who is like to object to that? Besides the Presbytery and the General Council, who take a graver view of such moral matters?”

“But—”

“No. Leave it be,” he advised.

But Talent still showed signs of rebellion—his face was flushed with ruddy heat, and his eyes glittered with that zealous need to be right.

So Alasdair rose and moved closer. So close Talent had to move his feet, lest they be stepped on. And he leaned over the clergyman in such a way that Talent had to crane his neck and look almost directly upward to meet Alasdair’s eyes. “And furthermore, Talent, if you persist in this foolish enterprise, I find I’ll have to simply break your goddamned nose. Or better yet, I’ll let my wife break your nose herself, while I hold you. She’s got a hell of a right.”

“What?” Talent shot out of his chair, knocking it over, scrambling backwards, gaping at Alasdair and Quince alike. “But she’s—”

“Entirely capable,” Alasdair finished with a vast deal of satisfaction. “Never underestimate the power of a woman to accomplish what’s right, Talent. Never.”

Talent backed toward the door.

“Mr. Oistins?” Alasdair called.

“My Lord?” Sebastian was immediately at the door, his braw lads behind him.

“Please see that the reverend is safely put on the Post leaving for Edinburgh, so he might return to his parish in peace. And in one piece. No need to mention this to the staff, of any of the villagers, or I doubt I should be able to answer for Mr. Talent’s safety.”

“Most assuredly, my lord.” Sebastian bowed in his restrained, vigilant way. “I will see to the reverend’s safety myself.”

“No!” the reverend cried, clearly unnerved at such a prospect. “Don’t touch me. I’ll see myself out. I’ll get my own transport back to Edinburgh.”

“Nevertheless…” Alasdair let the thought—innuendo and threat—hang in the air. “Do what you will, Reverend Talent. Let your conscience be your guide. But remember, everything—all actions—have a cost. Be sure you are prepared to pay yours.”

His words were met with silence for a long time, until Talent finally said, “I understand you perfectly, my lord.”