Pleasured (3 page)

Meg clicked her tongue with annoyance. What was she doing, thinking about Mardoun or his lady? The gentry were nothing to her—especially someone as vile as Mardoun. The earl was not the only one evicting his crofters from the land their families had lived on for hundreds of years. Landowners such as Isobel Rose and her new husband who cared more for their people than for gold were in the minority, and all over the Highlands, the Clearances were tearing people from their land, setting them on the road, with no place to go and only the clothes on their backs and the goods they could carry. But Mardoun, as the largest property owner in the area, was responsible for more of the displacements, and worse, he was notorious for the cold and callous way he tossed his crofters out with little notice.

She had despised the man without ever laying eyes on him—which made it all the stranger that when she had seen him today for the first time, she had felt such a strange, strong frisson of excitement. Meg thought again of that lean, compelling visage—the dark, intense eyes beneath the ridge of his brow, the thick, black sweep of hair, the arrogant tilt of his head, the sensual curve of his mouth. Amazingly, her insides warmed again at the thought of him.

Her reaction astonished and appalled her in almost equal
measure. Meg had never been one to swoon over any man. She had been the object of male pursuit for years—she was too honest to pretend she did not know that men found her desirable. As far as she was concerned, her friend Isobel’s elegant blond beauty was more attractive than her own flame-red hair and too-wide cheeks, but her looks had a certain flamboyance that drew men, which was only enhanced by the reputation the Munro women had always carried. Many men assumed that a woman who lived freely was free with her favors, as well.

Meg had always been quick to dispel that notion. Meg Munro was not a woman to settle for anything less than the deepest of feelings, and no man had managed to disrupt her thoughts, let alone capture her heart.

It was ridiculous to think that a strange man sitting in a carriage—a man, moreover, whom she considered a blackguard—could so immediately, so effortlessly, stir her blood. It was more than ridiculous; it was impossible. Whatever strange sensation had run through her, it could not have been desire. She had not even gotten a proper look at him. It had been a mere glance, no doubt a trick of her eyes that made her think he was far more handsome than he was. The idea of some sort of immediate visceral connection between them was ludicrous, the stuff of the Gothic novels Isobel’s aunt was fond of reading.

A closer look would no doubt have shattered that first illusion. The mystery had intrigued her—that momentary glance, the deep, dark eyes, the way the sun had highlighted the fair skin of his face amid the pool of shadow inside the carriage. If he had stepped out, she would have seen . . . what? Perhaps he would have proved to be shorter than she
and potbellied. Or a vacuous fop, dressed in a chartreuse jacket and sporting a gigantic posy in his lapel.

She giggled at the image. But, no, she could not believe that the lean, strong features and proud head indicated anything but an equally powerful frame. And it was hard to picture that burning gaze turning blank and vacant.

It was easier to imagine that mouth in a hard, cruel line, disdain etched upon his features. Yet, just thinking of him, she felt a treacherous warmth twining through her again. With a disgusted noise, she shook the image from her mind and strode briskly to her cottage.

She had things to do—those mushrooms she’d spotted on her way to the village earlier and vegetables to harvest, not to mention the tonic for Aunt Elizabeth and a poultice for Ben Fleming’s gout. And old Mrs. McEwan was in need of something for her lumbago.

Meg’s steps slowed. Mrs. McEwan’s daughter Sally was cook at Duncally, and it would be easy enough to take her a pot of salve for the old woman. Sally would no doubt welcome some fresh herbs as well, now that the earl was there and expecting tasty dishes. The cook was always eager for a good gossip. Perhaps this was a good time to visit the castle.

Early the next morning, Meg plucked handfuls of herbs from her garden, mint and rosemary and thyme, and tucked them into a basket along with a bag of fresh mushrooms, a pot of salve, and a bottle of her best plum cordial, which was Granny McEwan’s favorite. Then she set out for the
Duncally kitchen. It was a pleasant walk up the hillside to the castle if one knew the way through the woods, and the last climb up the steps and terraces of the gardens offered a sweeping view of the loch, where one could see the jumbled ruins of the old castle and the gray bulk of Baillannan across from her.

Meg passed the Duncally mews with a wave to the falconer as he stood, heavy glove on his hand, waiting for a hawk that swept in on wide wings. She then walked through the wide, manicured sweep of the lowest garden and started up the steps to the higher levels. Duncally was usually a quiet, deserted place, with only a skeleton staff about to keep the gardens and house neat and ready for the master’s potential arrival. But now it hummed with activity, though conducted in a hushed and unobtrusive manner.

“Meg Munro!” Sally McEwan cried as Meg stepped through the door. “Bless us, child, you maun hae read my mind.” Sally bustled forward to take the basket from Meg’s arm. “I was just about to send Josie to your cottage. Here is himself, saying we maun hae mushrooms with the chicken tonight, and me thinking if I sent Josie to pick them, we’d find everyone dead in their beds tomorrow morning. Oh! And fresh rosemary!” Sally held up one of the small sacks and sniffed dramatically.

“This is for your mother.” Meg dug the pot from the basket.

“You
are
an angel.” The older woman popped the small jar into one of her capacious pockets. “Come, sit doon. I hae not seen you in this age.” Sally took the basket and handed it to a kitchen maid, saying, “Here, lass, put these awa’ and fetch a cup of tea for us.”

“Are you sure you’re not too busy?” Meg glanced around at the bustling kitchen.

“Och, we’ve been nocht but too busy for the week past, and I see nae hope of it getting better. Take your moment while you can, I say.” Sally steered Meg out of the busy room and into the servants’ dining room, where Sally sank down on a chair and fanned her red face. “How did you ken my mither was down in the back? Sometimes I think you maun hae the sicht like your gran.”

“No.” Meg smiled. “I heard it from Mary Grant. Is she in much pain?”

“She’d not be feeling bad at all if she hadna tried to lift a sack of meal all on her ane,” Sally retorted unsympathetically. “I told her I’d send Tommy to help her, but, no, she maun do it richt that morning ’fore he got there.” Sally shrugged. “Well, you ken how she is.”

“Aye, I do.” One of the kitchen maids brought in a pot of tea and cakes, and as Sally went about pouring it, Meg went on, “Who is ‘himself’ that must have mushrooms with his chicken? Mardoun?”

“Nae, not the earl. I’ve not seen that one since we lined up for our curtsy yesterday. ’Twas Hudgins.” Her sour expression left little doubt as to her feelings for the man. “That fancy Sassenach butler who came to set us all in order. Och, it would break that man’s face to smile. It’s for the little missy, says he, she’s partial to mushrooms. And there’ll be no more haggis at their table—Hudgins tossed it on the dust heap last night. The poached salmon will do, ye ken, but his lordship’s ‘palate’ is too ‘refined’ for blood sausage. I ask you, what sort of man does no’ like a bit of blood sausage
with his breakfast? And what is a
palate
? Some fancy English thing, I suppose.”

“Mm.” Meg hid her smile.

“And if
he
isna bad enough, here’s Mrs. Ferguson ayeways popping in to check on everyone.”

“The housekeeper? But she is always here.”

“Aye, and I’ve learned to put up with her sermons and her rules. But now she’s worried this English butler will find her wanting. So she’s forever sticking her nose in, harrying the maids and telling everyone they’re taking too long to do their jobs. Well, they’d do them much faster, wouldn’t they, if she were not here bleating at them?”

Meg did not bother to hide her smile this time. She had been on the receiving end of Mrs. Ferguson’s sermons a time or two. “Who is ‘the little missy’? Surely he was not talking about the countess.”

“Nae, the countess passed on nigh a year ago. It’s the earl’s daughter I mean—a pale, little thing, trailing about with that woman hovering over her. She maun hae the windows closed lest she catch cold. She canna do this and she maun be careful there—”

“The earl’s daughter is sickly?”

“Aye, it seems so.” Sally frowned. “Though it’s not the lass, ye ken, who does all that fussing. It’s the governess. The woman seems to think the Highlands are full of wild creatures out to gobble the lass up. She frets when Miss Lynette gies oot to the gardens or doon to the falconry. Fair taken wi’ the birds, Miss Lynette is.” Sally paused, considering. “The lass was lively enough when she was talking to Jamie.”

“They are in mourning, I take it.”

“Aye, I suppose—though I canna say
he
looks grief-stricken.” Sally leaned forward confidentially. “I hear Mardoun dinna live with his lady and the lass. He wasna even in the country when the countess died.” The cook leaned back, giving a shrug. “Course, they’re English.”

Meg took a sip of her tea and said casually, “What is he like—the earl, I mean?”

“He’s a good-looking devil. Dark as Lucifer and just as handsome. But beyond that, I dinna know.”

“Well, you know he does not like blood sausage.” Meg grinned.

“Aye, there’s that.” Sally chuckled. She paused, cocking her head to one side, listening to noises in the kitchen. “Och, there’s Mrs. Ferguson now. Best get back to the chopping board or I’ll no’ hear the end of it.” Sally shoved herself up from the table.

Meg hopped to her feet as well. “I’d best leave, or she’ll be asking me why I was not at kirk on Sunday.”

“Aye. Thank ye, lassie, for the medicine for Ma.” Sally took Meg’s hand, squeezing it. “Ruth will hae set your basket by the door.”

Meg escaped with only a dark scowl from the housekeeper, who was more intent on scolding one of the housemaids than tending to Meg’s morals this morning. She picked up her basket, now filled with vegetables from the cook’s garden and a little pouch of coins, and slipped out the rear door.

She glanced to her right where another set of steps led to the main terrace. It was empty, as was the garden below, apart from a pair of gardeners trimming the hedges. Not that she had really expected to see the earl—or anyone else. She
started along the flagstone path leading to the lower gardens. She had not yet reached the stairs when the sound of footsteps behind her made her stop and turn around.

There, at the edge of the terrace, stood the Earl of Mardoun.

2

M
eg’s stomach lurched as if
she had gone down a step she had not realized was there, and suddenly her muscles seemed not to work. Any thought of the earl’s being too thin, too fat, too anything other than brutally handsome, was instantly, clearly wrong. His wide shoulders filled out a plain but exquisitely cut black jacket, and his equally well-tailored fawn breeches left little doubt as to the musculature of his long legs. Gleaming boots, a snowy-white shirt, and an artfully tied neckcloth completed the picture of a London gentleman. But such elegant details scarcely registered. It was his face that held her captive.

No shadows, no dark recesses, obscured him here; he was bathed in the golden morning light. His square-jawed face was just as compelling as it had been yesterday—strong features sharply etched, as if cut in marble by an expert hand, and eyes dark and fathomless, their depths pulling her in.

“I can see that tales of the beauties of Scotland are not exaggerated.”

At the sound of his voice, something hot and thick and unfamiliar uncurled inside Meg. She realized, a little appalled, that her fingers were trembling. She clutched the handle of the basket more tightly to still them as her mind scrambled for a reply. Normally words came easily to Meg, but at this moment, she had been rendered mute.

Embarrassed by her unaccustomed ineptitude, she dropped a hasty curtsy and whirled, hurrying to the steps. Head down to watch her footing as she rushed down the stairs, she mentally castigated herself. How could she have stood there, dumb as a sheep, and then curtsied to the man like a scullery maid? She was Meg Munro, an independent Highland woman, not some serf to bow her head when a lord passed by.

As she reached the bottom of the steps, she lifted her gaze, and an absurd, annoying shiver went through her as she saw the earl trotting down a set of stone steps at right angles to the one she took.

“No, stay,” he said, striding toward her, and he smiled.

His smile was a fearsome thing, she thought, lighting his dark eyes and softening the sharp angles of his face. No doubt it had conquered many a girl’s virtue over the years.

“I did not mean to frighten you away,” he went on, slowing as he came closer, like a man approaching a scared animal.

His words struck a nerve. Meg faced him. “I don’t frighten that easily.”

“That’s good to know.” The curve of his lips was more intimate now, and his eyes swept down her in a swift but
unmistakable glance. “Then you will not be too timid to tell me your name.”

Meg was not a novice at parrying a gentleman’s advances. Over the years more than one of Sir Andrew’s friends visiting at Baillannan had assumed she would succumb to his flattery or be bought by his coin, and she had given them swift, sharp setdowns. Today, however, instead of telling this man that he had no need to know her name, she merely lifted her chin in a challenging way and said, “I am Margaret Munro.”

“Margaret Munro.” He rolled the words in his mouth as if they tasted sweet to him. “’Tis a lovely name. It suits such a lovely woman.”

“I am glad you approve,” she retorted tartly.

His eyes widened slightly, a little breath of a chuckle escaping him. “Do compliments raise your hackles, Miss Munro? I shall have to be careful, then, for the sight of you spurs compliments.” He moved a trifle closer. “I saw you in town yesterday.”

“And I saw you.”

“So you did. What good fortune, then, that you should visit Duncally today.”

She stiffened. Did he mean to imply that she had sought him out? “’Twas not good fortune brought me here. It was business.” She lifted her basket a little higher on her arm and gave him a cool smile. “Now that business is done, I’d best leave. Good day, sir.”

“But wait, you cannot leave yet,” he protested in a light, flirtatious tone. “I have learned nothing about you save your name.”

“Dinna worry,” she tossed over her shoulder as she
walked away. “I am sure any number of people will be happy to tell you about Red Meg Munro.”

Damon watched Meg stroll off, taking the curving path past the roses. He followed at a leisurely pace, stopping at the stone balustrade to watch her move down the long slope to yet another level, where grand stone steps split and cascaded on either side down the last steep drop.

The wide, green swath of the lowest level of gardens lay before him, ending at the dark gray waters of the loch. But he did not study the magnificent view of land and water, only the small feminine figure striding along the promenade dividing the formal garden in half. She wore no cap or kerchief; the sun turned her hair to fire.

Red Meg Munro
. He smiled to himself. The name suited her, all heat and boldness and allure. God, she was beautiful! In her simple, slightly faded dress, without artifice or adornment, she would cast into the shade the most fashionably dressed, coiffed, and elegantly jeweled lady of the
ton
.

The plain dress was not revealing, but neither could it conceal the sweet swell of breast and hips, and his hands itched to slide down her, discovering each curve and dip of her body. Only a saint would not feel lust stir at the sight of her vivid hair piled on her head in a thick, haphazard mass of curls.

But it was her eyes—huge and clear and astonishingly golden—that pierced a man to his very soul. He had been struck by her beauty yesterday, so much so that when he’d seen her from his study window this morning, he had
bolted out of the house like a green youth to intercept her in the gardens. Then she had looked up at him, the sun full on her face and her eyes the color of molten gold, and the flood of desire that surged through him had been so swift and fierce it was all he could do to remember how to speak.

What he had seen of her after that—the eyes and face and figure even more alluring up close, the soft fragrance that clung to her, the creamy voice with its soft hint of Scottish burr—had done nothing to lessen that desire. And her bold manner in speaking to a strange man, without blushes or shyness, the flirtatious challenge to find her that she had tossed over her shoulder, hinted of a woman well aware of the response she called up in a man . . . and perhaps willing to answer that response. Unconsciously, his fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, gliding up and down the material as he watched Meg disappear around the corner of the falcons’ cages.

The prospect of meeting with the estate manager in a few minutes was even less appealing now. With a sigh, Damon went back to the house. As he stepped inside, he caught sight of the housekeeper bustling down the back hall toward the servants’ stairs. MacRae could wait.

“Mrs. Ferguson.”

The plump, gray-haired woman whirled around at the sound of his voice and hurried toward him, her forehead creased. “My lord! Is aught amiss? What can I do for you?”

“No, everything is fine. Excellent. I merely had a question—it occurred to me that you would be the person who would know most about the locals.”

The woman preened a little. “Indeed, sir, though I am
from Glasgow originally, I have been here at Duncally nigh on twenty years, so I know the area well. Is there some service you require? Some place you wish to visit?”

“No. But I wondered what you know of Miss Margaret Munro.”

“That one!” The housekeeper puffed up like a pouter pigeon. “Did the girl bother you, sir? Indeed, I must apologize. She should not have ventured into the house.”

“No, no,” Damon assured her hastily. “She did not bother me.” That was a lie, but he did not think his middle-aged housekeeper would appreciate hearing exactly in what manner Meg Munro had disturbed his peace. “I ran into her in the gardens.”

“She should not go through the gardens.” Mrs. Ferguson tsked. “I shall have to speak to her. She has always been a wild thing—bold as brass. I hope you were not offended.”

“No, no offense, nothing of the sort. I simply wondered who she was. If she, um, was employed here?”

“Oh, my, no. You must not think I would hire such a hussy!” Seeing the earl’s raised eyebrows, she went on hastily, “I beg your pardon for my blunt speech.”

“No, please, go on.”

“Meg brought herbs and such for the kitchen. No doubt she had some tonic or other. It’s all nonsense, of course, but the people of the glen are a superstitious lot, and they believe she can cure them of ills. It’s the devil’s business, I say. I have tried to help the lass, I can assure you. ’Tis not her fault that she was brought up the way she was—born on the wrong side of the blanket and all.” The housekeeper leaned forward and lowered her voice confidingly.

“Ah, I see.”

“Her mother was raised the same before her. The Munro women have a long history of being headstrong and wayward. ’Tis said they never marry. Certainly her mother did not. They live all alone at the Spaewife’s Cottage.”

“Spaewife?” Damon repeated blankly.

“Aye, sir, it’s a word for a woman who has the sight. They say that one of the Munro women was a spaewife—well, more than one. The Munros roam about, plucking up leaves and roots and who knows what to make their godless potions. It was no surprise to me that some of them were burned at the stake in years past—though, of course, I cannot hold with that. It’s a matter for God himself to judge, I say.”

“People think Miss Munro is a witch?”

His skepticism must have come through in his tone, for Mrs. Ferguson straightened and drew her mouth into a prim line. “Nae, not a witch. But to hear the folks around here tell it, it’s her that cures those who are sick, not the grace of God. It’s why few condemn their licentious behavior. For generations they have been, well, the sort of woman that I cannot bring myself to name.” She gave him a significant look. “They have always had a ‘special relationship’ with the lairds of Baillannan.”

“The lairds of Baillannan? That gray-stone manor house?”

“Aye, my lord. Sir Andrew and before him Sir John. Meg’s mother, Janet, was Sir Andrew’s nurse when he was a babe, and Janet was
uncommon
close to Sir John. I would not like to think there was anything to the rumor, but given the circumstances . . .” Mrs. Ferguson’s voice trailed off. “Well,
you can see that she is not the sort whom I would allow to work at Duncally. Why, she would have the men all in an uproar, a lass like that. Our servants are of the highest character, I assure you.”

“I have no doubt of that, Mrs. Ferguson.”

Damon dismissed her and stood there for a moment longer, a faint smile on his lips. So Red Meg Munro was a mysterious, wild woman of the woods, gathering plants and making potions and doing as she pleased. All his housekeeper’s remarks concerning Miss Munro’s lack of suitability had made her more appealing to him by the moment. Clearly she was no blushing virgin, but a woman of experience.

He was beginning to think that this trip to the Highlands might just turn out to be quite entertaining.

Meg hardly noticed the woods around her as she walked back to her cottage, nor did she stop even once to take in the view of the loch or Baillannan, for she was far too busy arguing with herself. Why had she tossed that parting comment over her shoulder at the earl? She had meant the remark to be needling, but somehow it had come out almost flirtatious. She was not above a little harmless flirtation; but that had been with Gregory Rose, or the shopkeeper’s son—men who knew her, men who understood that it was a pleasant little game and nothing more.

Mardoun was another matter altogether. He was a stranger and, worse, an aristocrat. Accustomed as he was to
being pampered, flattered, and pursued by eager women, he would doubtless assume she had been throwing out lures to him.

Which she most assuredly had
not
. Meg Munro did not pursue any man—least of all someone like the Earl of Mardoun. Titles and wealth did not fill her eyes with stars. She had, she would admit, felt a quiver of attraction when she saw him. But that did not mean that she
liked
him. Anyone would feel a little jolt upon seeing so handsome a man.

Meg thought of his eyes, dark and unknowable, like bottomless pools. She remembered the quirk of his mouth and the tiny scar just above his upper lip that made her imagine pressing her lips to it. The square set of his jaw and the jet-black hair. His voice, deep and rich, which had seemed to vibrate in her. She remembered the way he had looked at her and the way he had smiled.