Pleasured (24 page)

Lynette continued to improve over the days that followed. Her fever abated, and though her cough lingered, she used the tent only at night. Her tiredness remained, and she slept a great deal, leaving Meg with much time on her hands.
After Damon’s apology that afternoon, he seemed to withdraw, his manner turning formal and polite. He suggested that he and Meg take turns staying with Lynette, couching his words in such a way that it seemed he was considerately giving Meg time to rest. But Meg could not help but feel he was avoiding her, and the thought made her ache.

He was right, of course. He was being a perfect gentleman, treating her with the utmost respect, as he would any lady, not as a doxy who had once warmed his bed. She should be glad, Meg knew. Relieved.

However much it had warmed her to learn that he had not known about MacRae’s rough methods, let alone endorsed them, it did not make him any less an aristocrat. That he was not wicked did not make him good. As Coll had said, he would soon hire another manager, and it would still profit Damon to evict his crofters. Would his regret and guilt over MacRae’s actions keep him from continuing the clearances, or would he carelessly, selfishly set them in motion again, even if in a less ruthless fashion?

It would be foolish indeed to love such a man, and Meg was no longer sure she could give her body to him without offering up her heart as well. Indeed, she could not help but think that it would be wrong of her to even try to separate the two.

One afternoon as Lynette slept, Meg stood at the window looking out, restless and bored, wishing Damon had not left the room the moment she entered. The main entrance of the house lay before her, with its long drive to the ornate
formal gates. This pleasant prospect had a view of the moor, still covered in heather, and the green hills in the distance, though it did not have the dramatic sweep of the staggered gardens dropping down to Loch Baille that was visible from her own room.

As she watched, Damon came into view, and she leaned closer to the glass, watching him. He strolled down the drive between the rows of lime trees, hands in his pockets and head lowered. She wondered what he was thinking, if he was still haunted by the demons of regret and guilt she had seen during Lynette’s illness. Meg thought of his drawn, stark face when he came to her cottage, pride stripped, to beg for her help. The expression when he turned to her at his daughter’s bedside, his voice thick with emotion as he castigated himself for his failings as a father. A pliant, tender warmth bloomed in Meg’s chest, a desire to cradle him to her and comfort him, as strong in its own way as the heat that had speared through her when they came together in passion.

Letting out an exasperated noise, she turned, grabbing up her book and once more plopping down in the chair. She had to stop thinking this way. Damon now thought of her as his child’s caregiver, not a woman to be desired. She should prefer it that way. When a nobleman took a peasant girl into his bed, it never ended well for the girl.

She opened the book and began to read determinedly, though after ten minutes she could not have told anyone what the book said. When the door opened and Damon stepped in, Meg’s head snapped up and she had to fight back the smile that sought to curve her lips.

“How is she?” he asked, nodding toward the bed.

“Sleeping.” Meg was very conscious of Damon’s stand
ing beside her, of his long, muscular legs, and she could not help but remember the line of his naked thigh and hip, the hollow there that had invited the touch of her thumb, the smooth glide up over the ridge of his pelvic bone and the latticework of muscle and ribs widening to his shoulders.

Meg pulled her mind away from that treacherous path, realizing as she did so how short and abrupt her answer to his question had been. She began to babble about Lynette’s condition, trailing off when she realized that now she sounded nervous and dim-witted. She rose, closing the book on her finger to hold the place.

Damon glanced down at the cover, and his eyebrows lifted. “
A Compleat Historie of the Honorable Name of Rutherford
?” His lips curled, dark eyes twinkling. “You hope to be put to sleep, I take it?”

Meg chuckled. “It was the only thing in my room to read.”

“I am certain we can find something more interesting in the library for you.” He reached out to take the book, and his fingers grazed her hand. His eyes darkened, and for an instant something so dark, so hungry, was in his gaze that it took her breath away.

She knew then: Damon still wanted her.

The question was, what would she do about it?

22

D
amon shrugged out of his
jacket and handed it to his valet. His insides were jumping, and it was difficult to sit still as Blandings put on gloves to kneel and slide off Damon’s boots, then set them by the door to clean later. Damon knew he should be grateful for his servant’s precision and care, for his utter loyalty, and he was, most of the time. But right now he wished the man to the devil. Damon could barely stand his own company, much less that of anyone else.

He was scattered and burning and eaten up with thoughts of Meg Munro, and there was, Damon knew, no surcease for it. She had been in his home for five days now, and he was at his wit’s end. At first, he had been so shaken by Lynette’s illness, so afraid that his daughter would die, that he had not thought of Meg’s beauty or his desire for her—or, at least, those thoughts had merely been part of the whole awkward situation between them, a low, underlying hum of turmoil beneath the dread and pain.

However, when Lynette passed the crisis of her illness the other morning and he swept Meg up in relief and joy, the dam of his anxiety exploded and everything he felt about Meg came rushing back in on him, fierce and bright and free. She was beautiful. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted any other woman. But it was scarcely the time or place to let such feelings show. He felt wrong and guilty even to experience that shaft of longing when his daughter was still ill, still needing him and Meg. Fortunately he had been able to pull himself back, to not give in to the quick, hard urge to kiss Meg or hold her longer.

But when he saw that Hudgins had placed Meg in the bedroom at the end of his balcony, only a few steps away from him, lust had nearly choked him. It was a wonder he had not gone straight to her room and pulled her into his arms right then and there.

Every moment since had been a peculiar combination of pleasure and torment. Even sitting with Meg at the dining table was enough to spark his hunger. Watching as she sank her teeth into a piece of apple and the way her pink lips closed around the fruit, he could hardly keep track of what she said. The scent of her perfume, a subtle hint of lavender, teased at his nostrils; the sound of her light laughter was like her fingers brushing over his skin.

Driven by the razor-sharp bite of desire, he had taken to leaving the sickroom to spend long minutes walking through the gardens. Yesterday he had spent half the morning riding. He had suggested that they start taking turns sitting with Lynette—and then he found himself miserably thinking about Meg the entire time he was away.

It should have been easier now that Lynette, progressing
more rapidly than he had ever seen her do before, no longer needed someone sitting with her all the time. One of the maids would spend tonight on a cot in Lynette’s room. He would be able to sleep the night through. But how the devil was he to snag even a minute of ease when all he could think of was that Meg lay soft and warm in her bed only a few steps away from him?

With a low growl of frustration, Damon turned away, yanking at his neckcloth. He felt as if he might choke.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Blandings said neutrally.

“Nothing.” Damon jerked the long, white cloth free and balled it up, throwing it onto a chair. He started on the buttons of his waistcoat, watching balefully as his valet snatched up the neckcloth from the chair, then turned to nimbly grasp the shoulders of the waistcoat and slide it from him. When Blandings moved to unfasten his cuffs, Damon shook his head and waved him off. “That’s enough. Go on to bed. I shall do the rest myself.”

When Blandings left, closing the door softly behind him, Damon heaved a sigh and ran both his hands into his hair, squeezing his palms against his head as if he might press some calm and reason into it. He walked to the door leading out onto the balcony. Blandings had already pulled the curtain closed, but Damon shoved it open again.

He thought of all the evenings he had stood on the balcony, gazing down at the valley below him, imagining Meg in her cottage, imagining himself there with her. Remembering in vivid detail each moment of the night he had spent with her, until he was full and aching, pounding with the hunger to go find her and take her into his arms, to kiss her until she was as breathless and aching as he.

It was ironic, he supposed, some sort of cosmic jest, that now she was here, only steps away from him down that balcony, and yet as far removed from him as she had ever been. He turned away, cursing under his breath. What demon had possessed his butler to put Meg into a room that lay on the same balcony as his own?

It had been expedient to put her in the room directly across from Lynette’s. Hudgins would not have considered that Damon would be so tauntingly close to her. Or, maybe Hudgins had thought Damon wished to have her where no one would know if he slipped along the private balcony to her room. Probably the entire staff was aware of the night he had spent with Meg; servants always seemed to know every detail the instant it happened. Hudgins probably assumed Meg was Damon’s mistress; it wouldn’t have occurred to the man that Damon would have made such a cock-up of the whole matter. That he would have lost Meg before he had well won her.

Damon leaned his head against one of the panes. The glass was cool against his heated skin and he rested there for a moment, wishing he could as easily soothe his fevered thoughts. But those raced on as though he had no will. He wondered if Meg was already asleep in her bed. He could picture her face relaxed in sleep, lashes shadowing her cheeks, her soft lips slightly open and so eminently kissable. He could imagine her body, soft and warm in a virginally white night rail, the thin cloth covering without really concealing the soft mounds of her breasts, the dark nipples. Or naked, as she had been their one night together, sleeping in his arms, soft and vulnerable and so very much
his
.

He rapped his head softly against the glass a few times.
He could not seek Meg out. She did not want him, spurning him not once but twice and with great vehemence. She was under his roof, his protection. He had invited her, nay, begged her, to come to Duncally to help his daughter, and she had been good enough to do so despite her opinion of him. She had just saved his daughter, and he was more grateful to her than he could express. It would be the act of a scoundrel to pay her back by importuning her.

He turned away and picked up a book determinedly. But as soon as he sat down, it lay unread on his lap. Meg was probably still awake. It was but nine o’clock; time had crawled for the past hour. Perhaps she was gazing out her door, too. Or she might have stepped out onto the balcony. She could be standing at the other end of the stone walkway, the moonlight drifting over her, her long hair ruffled by the breeze.

With another muffled curse, Damon stood up, the book sliding with a thump to the floor. He picked it up and set it back down on the table, rather harder than was necessary, and started toward the door. Swinging it open, he stepped out onto the balcony.

It was deserted, and he the only figure on the walkway. Meg was still awake, he saw; the soft glow of her lamp slanted onto the railing through the panes of glass in her door. It would require only a few steps to go to her; a single, empty bedchamber separated their rooms.

His mouth went dry as he thought of walking to her door. He imagined looking in and seeing her in front of her vanity, brushing out her molten hair. Watching her raise her hands to unbutton her dress, her fingers moving down her back in slow temptation.

Bloody hell! What was the matter with him? He was not going to lurk outside her window like a bloody voyeur. He should just go to her. Open that door and take her into his arms. He was the Earl of Mardoun, for pity’s sake. Most women would welcome his attentions. He could give her anything she wanted, offer her much more than a cottage in the Highlands. He could give her the sort of life a woman such as Meg deserved. He could show her a world she’d never seen—Italy, Greece, anywhere she wanted. He would take her to plays and the opera, drape her in jewels, dress her in the finest silks.

All the things Meg did not care about.

She had accused him of trying to buy her, and here he was, wishing he could do just that. Meg did not care what a man could give her. She gave herself only as she wanted. If she came to him, it would be because the same fire burned in her blood for him, because she yearned for his touch, his mouth, as much as he wanted to feel hers. No matter how frustrating that was, it was also one of the many things that made Meg infinitely desirable. She cared not a fig for the Earl of Mardoun. It was Damon whom she would bed . . . or not.

The best course would be for him to go back inside. In truth, the best thing would be for Meg to return to her cottage. That would remove the temptation and end his torment. Yet that was the last thing he wanted.

He gripped the stone railing as he stared out into the night, reminding himself of the many reasons he should turn around and go back into his bedroom. A sharp click cut through his thoughts, and he whirled around. Meg stood in her open doorway.

Meg had told herself she was not going to give in to the feelings that had been tumbling inside her for days. She had a long list of reasons in support of her decision. But she had found that none of those reasons seemed adequate when she looked at Damon. The certitude of his leaving, the impossibility of any future between them, the foolhardiness of wanting a man who would never love her, meant nothing, it seemed, against the way her heart picked up speed whenever he appeared or against the heat that arose in her when she saw him walking toward her, those long, lean legs eating up the space between them.

And when had Munro women ever done the safe thing? When had they trusted their heads over their hearts? Tonight, as she changed into her nightgown, as she took down her hair and sat brushing it out, she kept thinking about Damon in his room. She knew he was there; she had heard him walk past her door.

Meg knew and admitted that she waited—hoped—for Damon to reach out to her, to take her in his arms and kiss away her objections. However weak it was of her, she wanted him to seduce her. She yearned to hear his voice cajole her with soft, low words, to have his fingers tease across her skin, lighting her desire. She ached to feel the heat in him and the rise of exhilaration in herself as she saw the bonds of his control slip away from him.

Meg stood up and began to pace about her room. She was restless and discontent, too hot, too on edge, too eager and melting and full of turmoil, to go to sleep. If she wanted him,
she thought, she should admit it, not only to herself, but to Damon. There was nothing to stop her making an advance toward him; after all, she was a woman accustomed to taking charge. It would be humiliating if he turned her down. But that would, at least, make it easier for her to leave Duncally. Still, something inside her quailed at the thought. Was she willing, really willing, to commit herself so blatantly?

A noise disturbed her thoughts, and she turned toward the balcony. Nerves began to jitter in her stomach. She hesitated, then slipped the sash from its knot and shrugged out of her brocade dressing gown, leaving it over the end of the bed. Stepping out of her slippers, she went on silent feet to the door of the balcony and looked out.

Damon stood at the other end, in front of his bedroom door, staring out into the darkness, his hands braced on the stone rail. He wore no jacket, and his lawn shirt hung loose outside his breeches. A breeze stirred the thin material, pressing it against the long, flat line of his chest and stomach. His feet and calves below his breeches were bare, and the sight did curious things to Meg’s insides. Taking in a steadying breath, Meg opened the door.

He whipped around and saw her, and he went utterly still. Meg’s heart pounded in her chest. She realized that with the low light of her lamp in the room behind her, her form must be silhouetted against it, visible, if only vaguely. She thought of moving out of the light, but she did not.

“Damon.”

For a moment she thought he would not answer her, but then he spoke, his voice rusty. “Meg.”

He moved closer, and she stepped out onto the balcony to meet him. She should say something, make some sort of
conversation to ease the moment. But, she realized, she did not want to ease the tension thrumming in the night air. Damon stopped only a foot away from her. She could see the pulse throbbing in his throat, and she knew a wild desire to press her lips to the spot. Damon’s body was taut as an arrow string. Meg reached out and curled her hand around his wrist. He jerked slightly beneath her touch, his eyes going black as pits. She slid her hand up his arm.

His hand lashed out, and he pulled her to him.