Pleasured (10 page)

She had dismissed him—
dismissed
him, like a servant or
a guest who had outstayed his welcome. Just sent him on his way—after she’d tied him up in knots. Teasing and arousing him until he was ready to burst, then shoving him aside at the sound of another man’s arrival. No wonder he was wound like a too-tight clock, ready to spring apart in every direction.

Jealous! Him! It was absurd. Devil take it, he was the Earl of Mardoun; he had never felt jealousy over a female a day in his life. Women were easy to come by and easy to let go. When a mistress had sought to rouse his jealousy, threatening to give her favors to another gentleman, he had merely smiled and wished her Godspeed.

But there he had been, jealousy spearing him like a red-hot lance when the man had casually entered Meg’s cottage as if he owned the place and everything in it. Fury had swept over Damon, all his frustrated, pent-up hunger swirling into a chaotic need to strike out. He had been eager to fight, wanting to smash his fist into the fellow’s face, some deep, primitive instinct in him hungry to draw blood.

He thought of Meg throwing herself between them. It had given his heart a lurch, knowing that if he had already started to swing, he might have hit her. Then, bizarrely, lust had shot through him anew at the sight of her, standing her ground as fierce, as haughty, as demanding, as a warrior queen. How strange that her denial of any obligation or tie or subservience to him should make him desire her even more.

He had also felt a fool to learn the fellow was her brother. How was he to have guessed that? The big, blond bear of a man looked nothing like Damon’s golden-eyed, fiery-haired Scottish temptress. He could not blame her brother for lash
ing out at him. Who wouldn’t, upon finding a half-dressed stranger in his sister’s house? And if the man—what had she called him, Coll?—and what sort of name was that?—if Coll was in the right of it, that meant Damon was in the wrong, and that was another position he was unused to occupying.

Then, as he stood there, roiling with unspent anger and unsatisfied lust, Meg Munro had told him to leave her house. Crisply, coolly given him his congé
.
He ground his teeth just thinking about it.

The only thing to do was to avoid her. If she thought to make him dance to her tune, she would find out she was sadly mistaken—though God knew, Meg was bloody good at playing the tune. She blew hot and cold, beckoning then retreating, building one’s frustration to a snapping point. He was not one to delude himself that no meant yes. If a woman did not cast out lures, he did not follow. He had not, after all, pursued her after her blatant rejection of his invitation. He had done nothing . . . until she stepped under that waterfall in the cavern.

She had to have known the picture she presented, standing there with the water sluicing over her, the hunger it would pull up in a man. Then—sweet Lord—she had invited him into the water, too. Asked him to join her. Urged him to stand only inches from her in that warm stream, her mouth close to his, her body ripe and temptingly revealed in the garments clinging to her.

When he had kissed her, there was no denying her response. She had kissed him back, rising on her toes to deepen the kiss. He had felt the response of her body beneath his hands. Then, as the need had surged up in him, she had
broken off and run away.

It had been hellishly frustrating. But only minutes later, when he had kissed her in front of the fire, no reluctance had been in her, no shyness or rejection. She had been eager, hungry. He remembered the moan that had escaped her when his fingers found her center, the sweet pooling of desire there. The scent of her was still on his skin.

His steps slowed, heat rising in him again at the memory. He realized suddenly that he had come to a complete stop, standing there daydreaming about the woman like a moonstruck calf. His jaw tightened. It was best he remember that right after that kiss, she had sprung away from him, turning once more into a sharp-tongued virago.

Meg Munro was playing him like a fish on the line.

“Lord Mardoun! Sir!”

Damon turned and saw the head groom riding toward him down a narrow path he had not even noticed.

“Thank heavens you’re all right, sir!” The groom pulled the horse to a stop and jumped down. “You are all right, aren’t you, my lord?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I wasn’t paying enough attention and got tossed off.” He wasn’t about to go into what had actually happened. Noticing the man’s gaze going to his damp clothes, Damon added, “Into the sea.”

“Aye, weel, makes for a softer landing, that. Red Ryan’s a good horse, though. Not usually sae skittish.” His tone was anxious, and Damon knew he was afraid Damon would get rid of the animal. It increased his respect for the man, already bolstered by his ability to judge horseflesh.

“No, it was not his fault. You’re right; he’s a good horse.”

“Guid, then.” The man brightened, then hastily added,
“I mean, it’s guid to see you’re unhurt, my lord.”

“I trust Red Ryan returned home.”

“Oh, aye, my lord. Joseph found Red grazing in the pasture. I dinna ken what had happened to you, but I dinna want to worry the lassie, so I went looking for you first.”

“Exactly right.”

The groom extended the reins of the horse to him. “Just tak that path up to the house, sir. It cooms out below the gardens. It’s faster that way, you ken. Not well marked, so it’s easier to wander astray there, but Goldie knows the way well. Gie her her heid, and she’ll tak you there true enough.”

The man was right. Goldie was a bit of a plodder, but she was certain of her route. And if Damon had not been damp and increasingly cold as the afternoon slid away into the half-light they called gloaming here, he would have enjoyed the view of the loch and the large, gray house on the other side, of his own Duncally rising above him in a way that lifted the heart.

Predictably, his valet was aghast at the damp, dirty state of Damon’s clothes. As Blandings directed the servants to fill up the tub with hot water, he picked up the garments one by one, tut-tutting over their state. Damon had to smile at the horror on the man’s face as he inspected the earl’s boots.

Damon sank into the bath with a sigh of satisfaction, leaning back to soak, letting the heat seep into his bones and banish his weariness and aggravation. A faint, pleasant scent of pine permeated the water from some oil Blandings had put in. It made Damon think of Meg’s cottage, nestled among the Scottish pines and white birches.

It had been a relief to see that cottage as it carried the prospect of warmth and rest, but something more had
tugged at him. Quaint and charming, it had fit into the curve of the trees as if it had been there always, the dun hues of its stone walls and thatched roof blending into the browns and greens of the landscape around it. Flowers of all sorts were bright splashes of color against its dull walls. On the lift of the breeze came the scents of pine and rosemary and sage and half a dozen other smells he could not identify, mingling pleasantly in his nostrils. Even still charged with lust and bound with sexual frustration as he had been, his first thought had been of peace and contentment. Of welcome.

He had followed her into the tiny house, and it had wrapped around him, dizzying his heightened senses. Dim and warm and redolent with herbs and spices. He had looked around him, surprised by the cabinets and row upon row of shelves lining the walls, filled with jars and bottles and bags, some empty, others filled to varying degrees with herbs or liquids or creams. Plants of all sorts hung in bunches from the ceiling on one side of the room, and the entire place was permeated with odors, some sharp and pungent, others mellow or sweet or richly, darkly earthy. He had been drawn to it, as he usually was by the foreign, the unfamiliar. It was intoxicating. Exotic.

Damon drifted on the memory. He thought of looking across the room and seeing Meg’s bed, half-hidden from the rest of the cottage by a wooden screen. The partial concealment only added to the allure, lending an air of secrecy to the soft, inviting expanse. Impossible not to think of sinking into the bed with Meg beneath him, naked and eager.

Meg had gone behind the screen to undress, and though she had been invisible to his eyes, his mind had seen her well. Each plop of a sodden garment on the floor had carried
through the silence of the room and vibrated within him. He had imagined her white body revealed inch by inch—the full globes of her breasts, rosy-tipped, the sweet curve of her body, in at her waist then out again to her hips, the indentation of her navel, beckoning the touch of his fingers, the soft triangle of hair, as fiery as the locks on her head.

Even now, as he remembered the moment, the hunger that had gnawed at him all afternoon sprang again to full, clawing life, and he knew he was a fool to think he could ignore Meg Munro. He wanted to see her again, to be in that bed with her, to explore and taste her. To sink into her heat and softness until he was mindless with pleasure.

What did it matter if it took a little time and patience to win her over? He had plenty of time here and little to do. He need not give over his power by pursuing her, but he could wait and watch. He could woo. He could let her lead him on or he could pull her back.

But before this was over, Damon promised, he would have Meg Munro.

9

M
eg woke up, her heart
pounding, her skin dewy with moisture. She sat up, shoving the thick braid of her hair back over her shoulder. Strands had tugged out of the braid and coiled damply all around her face. She had been dreaming. She wasn’t sure about what, but she knew it had left her hot and sweating and breathless, a deep, sweet ache between her legs. And she knew it had featured the Earl of Mardoun.

She flopped back against the pillow. Outside, the sky had lightened, so that her room was dimly visible around her. It must be near dawn. Any thought of falling back into slumber was useless. What a nuisance that man was; now he was invading her sleep.

The Earl of Mardoun. Master of Duncally. Her mouth twisted wryly. He had kissed her senseless, had made her ache and yearn and feel all sorts of sensations she never had before, and she did not even know his first name. Indeed, she was not sure of his last name. The family had been MacKen
zie once, long ago, before the last female heir had married an Englishman. She wondered what the women he took to his bed called him. Mardoun? My lord?

A little giggle escaped her lips at the absurdity. She could not imagine a man of his importance, his stature, his hauteur, allowing some ladybird the use of his given name. But, in retrospect, he had little hauteur in him yesterday afternoon when he had hauled her up against him and kissed her so deeply, so fiercely, that she had felt it down to her toes.

Letting out a low noise of frustration, she sank her fingers into her hair, shoving it into further disarray, and slipped out of bed. Whatever was the matter with her? How had she come to this—twisted into knots over a man, so twisted that she dreamed of him? And over such a man!

Going over to the window, she shoved it open and let the cool morning air wash over her. The sounds of the birds waking came to her, the familiar scents of trees and plants perfuming the air. In the morning silence she could even hear the distant trill of the burn tumbling over the rocks on its way to the loch. It was home, familiar and wonderfully peaceful, but for once the sight and sound of it did not ease the tangle of feelings inside her.

What was she going to do about the Earl of Mardoun?

She wanted him. He was a wonderful thing to look at, with that long, muscular frame and the intense dark eyes, the thick sweep of black hair. From the instant she saw him, just the look of him had stirred something deep within her. And if she was honest—as Meg prided herself in being—more than that drew her. He was unlike any other man she had ever known.

Meg had told Gregory that she knew the earl’s ilk, that
he was the same as the young aristocrats Andrew would bring home with him on holiday, but it had taken only a few minutes with the man to know that was not true. Aye, pride was in him in full measure, an arrogance that scraped at her nerves. But he had none of the bumbling or uncertainty of those callow youths, made no attempt to impress or intimidate. Instead, power and certainty radiated from the man, a casual acceptance of his place in the order of things.

God help her, that quality drew her. He knew the world, had seen things Meg had never known or even heard of. He was polished and sophisticated, with a dry wit and a voice as smooth as silk. He was unknown, unfamiliar, and he challenged her, rousing some deep and primitive instinct to bring him to heel, to pierce that cool and confident exterior and bring forth the heat that lay beneath. To find the fire in him that matched her own.

But being attracted to a man and letting him into her bed were far different things, and until yesterday Meg would have said she had no problem keeping a man at a distance, however sinfully enticing he was. But yesterday’s kisses had shown her weakness. His touch, his mouth—Lord, the very scent of him, it seemed—set her afire. She wanted him with a fierce hunger she had never before experienced, never even realized she could have for a man.

But how could she give herself to such a man? How could she lie with someone who had no thought for others, who was capable of callously tossing out his own crofters because he saw more profit without them? A man who valued gold over people and himself over everything. She had seen for too many months now the results of Mardoun’s orders—the families cast adrift, old women and men expelled from the
homes they had lived in since childhood, and children torn from the only world they knew—to believe he was a man of character. He was cruel and thoughtless, and a devastating smile could not change that.

Some would argue that passion did not require love or even liking, that all that mattered was seizing the pleasure she craved, even if only for one night. Indeed, many around the glen believed that was precisely Meg’s pattern and that of the Munro women before her—taking and discarding lovers as the whim moved them.

But in fact the Munro women, while they valued their freedom from the constraints of men and marriage, believed in love and fidelity. Her mother, Janet, had taken no other mate than Alan McGee, and she had loved him till the day she died. Meg had always assumed she would do the same. She had begun to think that she would never fall in love, but even if that was not her destiny, it did not mean that she should lower her standards.

If she gave in to her desires, if she lay with such a man, without any sort of affection or even respect between them, then she would be exactly the sort of low creature Mardoun had assumed she was. She would not, could not, do that. It seemed the worst sort of jest that the one man whom she had ever wanted was the one she wanted least to be with.

Thank heaven Coll had come along when he did. From the look on the earl’s face as he left, Meg suspected that Mardoun would not be importuning her again. She only needed to avoid Duncally while he was here. He would soon return to London, and her problem would be solved. The key, she knew, was to keep busy.

Over the next few days, Meg threw herself into drying
and grinding, mixing and distilling. She visited a mother with a sick child. She went to the caves seeking replacements for the mosses she had lost in the fiasco at the beach. She made Susan Murray an infusion of Our-Lady’s-thistle for her man, not saying (since she was sure Susan knew it full well) that the best solution to Duncan Murray’s stomach ailments was for him to limit the whiskey he imbibed. And if Meg’s busy fingers could not keep her mind from straying to thoughts of hot dark eyes and a smile that would lighten one’s heart, well, surely that would pass.

One afternoon she heard a tuneful whistling coming toward the cottage, and she smiled, setting aside her work. She knew that merry lilt, the tone, the tune. The man walking up the path to her door was tall and handsome, his thick, blond hair shot through with streaks of gray and worn a bit too long and shaggy. That casual, careless inattention to his grooming was, she reflected, one of the similarities to his son that would make Coll scowl if she pointed it out.

Their father’s square-jawed face was another, though on him the lines were softer. Alan McGee’s eyes were not so vivid a blue, and far more wrinkles ran out from his eyes and alongside his mouth. The hands, too, were different, not wide and work-scarred, but with long, sensitive, agile fingers capable of coaxing the saddest, merriest, loveliest of notes from the strings of a fiddle.

“Meggie, my love,” her father said, stretching out his hands and taking her into a hug. He was warm and smelled of aromatic pipe tobacco, his rough wool jacket scratchy against her cheek.

“Da.” She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’m so happy to see you. Come in and sit. Let me make you some tea.”

“Nae, no more tea, lass, though I’d take some of that fine plum cordial of yours.”

“Then you shall have it.” She linked her arm through his and led him inside. “Coll told me you had returned from Edinburgh.”

“Did he now? Haven’t seen the lad. Don’t expect I will ’less I beard him in his den.”

“I don’t think Coll will eat you,” she tossed over her shoulder as she pulled a bottle and cups out of a cabinet.

“Aye, weel, he’ll roar loud enough, I expect.” Alan shrugged philosophically. “I canna blame him. I was no’ the father I should hae been to him.” He took a sip of the cordial and let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Ah, that’s it, lass. There’s none can touch your plum cordial . . . though I wouldna hae said so to your mother. Proud of her cordial, Janet was.”

“And rightly so. She taught me how to make it, after all.”

“Aye, she did. And though she’d hae had my heid if I’d agreed, she said yours was sweeter.” His eyes twinkled. “I would tell her I preferred a bit of bite with mine.”

“I’m sure you did, you old flatterer.” Meg patted his hand.

“It’s ayeways been easier with you. It’s that way with dochters, I’m told. Sons, now . . .” He shrugged. “No doot that’s why you dinna see a flock with two rams, do you?”

“I suppose.” Or perhaps, she thought, she had just not needed as much from him as Coll had. She changed the subject. “How was Edinburgh?”

“Grand as ever. There’s ayeways somewhere that needs a fiddler, you ken.” He began to talk of the dances he’d played, both large and small, the pipers he’d joined, old friends he had seen again. Finally, with a sigh, he said, “Still, it wears
on you, the noise and the people. A body canna find a spot to be quiet in. And the Highlands call you back.” He settled back in his chair and took another drink.

“I don’t think I could stay in the city as long as you.”

“Och, no, you couldna. Your ma would hae run from it screaming, as well. There’s some as are made for the braes and the burns. I expect you’re one of them.”

“I might like to see the city sometime,” Meg protested. “I would like to travel.”

“Aye, you micht, true enough, but I wager it wouldna suit you lang.”

“You’re probably right.” Then, because it had been on her mind recently, Meg said, “Da . . . did Ma ever tell you aught about her mother?”

“Faye?” He looked at Meg in surprise. “Nae, not much. She never knew her, you ken. Faye died bearing her, and her gran brought Janet up.”

“I remember Gran a little. She had a cloud of fluffy, white hair, and she liked to slip us a sweet when Ma wasna about.”

“Did she now?” Alan laughed. “I thought she was a fearsome woman. Course I was courting her granddochter and she dinna favor me much.” He chuckled. “Gran Munro did not favor anyone, as I remember.” He shook his head, his eyes lit with a distant fondness. “But Faye, now . . . there was a beauty.”

“You knew her?” Meg straightened. “You knew Ma’s mother?”

“Oh, aye. Weel, Janet was eight years younger than me, so I was a lad when she was born. And everyone round the loch knew Faye Munro. Och, but she was beautiful. I
remember I thought she must be an angel. You favor her, lass.”

“Really?” Meg leaned forward, intrigued.

“Indeed. Though her hair was black as a winter night, not flaming like yours. But she had those same shining gold eyes. I mind Gran Munro saying once, when you were wee, that you had Faye’s bright eyes. Fair made her cry, that. Only time I saw tears in her, I’ll tell you.” He gave a sharp nod.

“I didn’t know,” Meg said wonderingly.

“Janet’s gran wasna wont to talk about Faye, and Janet dinna like to press her, for it made the old woman sad to speak of her. She was young to die, Faye, and oh so bonnie.” His face was tinged with sadness. “I maun write a lament for her. That would hae pleased your ma. I’ll play it at Janet’s graveside.”

That was, Meg thought, exactly the sort of sweet, artistic, and theatrical thing that was typical of her father, the sort of gesture that brought a wistful smile from most women—and earned a roll of the eyes from Coll. Meg’s reaction was usually a bit of both.

“Do you know who Ma’s father was, then?” Meg asked, pulling him back from his bittersweet reverie.

“Oh, nae! None do. If Gran knew, she never told. That woman was silent as the grave if she took a mind to it. Everyone wondered, even years afterward. No one could name any man she favored, you ken, and Faye never spoke of him. The Munro women were ayeways something of a mystery to the rest of the glen—and all the more alluring for it.” He gave her hand a pat. “There were rumors, of course. Some said it was a British soldier after Culloden, that one of them found Faye in the woods one day and had his way with
her. It wasn’t an unlikely story, and you could see why she and her ma wouldn’t have spoken of it. Others were more romantic—a lover who died in battle. Even Bonnie Prince Charlie himself.”

“That seems a bit unlikely for a man running for his life from the British, I’d think.”

“Aye.” Alan grinned. “That’s what your ma said, too. You Munro women are a sadly unromantic lot. There were other tales, even more fanciful—they said he was a selkie or maybe a fairy king, drawn by Faye’s great beauty. Janet suspected her father was one of the MacLeod brothers, from sooth of Baillannan. The MacLeods had flaming hair, you ken, like your ma and you.”

“The MacLeods.” Meg narrowed her eyes, considering. “Robert MacLeod?”

“Nae; he’s their cousin. There were two or three of those lads, all gone by the time I was wooing your mother. David was the one Janet thought, for he moved away after Faye died.”

“Where did he go?”

“I dinna know.” Alan tilted his head, considering. “You should talk to Angus McKay if you want to find out anything there.”

“Old Angus?” Meg lifted her eyebrows. “Why?”

“Weel, he’s a cousin to the MacLeod lads on his mother’s side, you ken, and he and David were great friends as I remember.”

“I’m not sure my curiosity is enough to make me beard Angus McKay in his den.” Meg chuckled. “Still . . . he does like my comfrey cream when his joints are aching. Perhaps a pot of it would make him a wee bit friendlier.”

“Aye, there you are. You can sweeten even old Angus.” Alan drained his glass. “Ah, weel, I maun be gaun. I maun practice if I’m to fiddle at the Grieg girl’s wedding tomorrow. Will you be there?”

“Of course, especially if you will be playing.”

“Miss Meg!” The urgent, high-pitched voice made Meg stop and glance toward the window. “Miss Meg!”

Meg jumped up and went to the door, her father on her heels. Tommy Fraser was running toward them, his arms waving wildly. He stumbled to a stop before them, bending over and gasping for air.