Samantha James (13 page)

Her head jerked up. “A maid…Surely the hotel—”

“No need for one, not when your husband is here. I would consider myself a most inconsiderate one if I left you when you most need me.”

Her gown dropped to the carpet, along with her layers of petticoats.

“There, now. That must feel so much better. He pressed a warm kiss on her nape, a kiss that made her quiver inside.

The feel of his mouth on her skin sent shivers of pleasure all over her skin.

“You’ve developed a chill? We must hurry then and get you into bed.”

Deft male fingers tugged at the laces of her corset. Maura sputtered, then gasped as he turned her. “I…you…wait!”

Her stays landed atop her skirt, her chemise tugged over her head.

No longer confined, her breasts spilled free. Some faint sound escaped her lips as she glanced down and confronted her nudity.

“Hush, Irish. Modesty is not a word that should exist between husband and wife, don’t you agree?” A kiss was planted at the rise of each breast even as he stripped her drawers down her legs. “Beautiful, Irish. Beautiful.”

His hands in her hair, he tugged the pins that held it. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, over his hands. Her shoes were next, her cotton stockings peeled away. “There, you see? No need for a maid after all, not with a considerate husband at hand. Now then, let’s get you into bed.”

In all honesty, Maura wasn’t sure she’d have
made it under her own power. She was about to swoon from embarrassment—or shock. Perhaps both, she decided in utter mortification, just as a muscled arm slid beneath her knees and she felt herself lifted. And then all she could think was how he accomplished it with such effortless ease.

Then he did the unthinkable. In seconds his jacket and shirt were off, revealing the powerful plane of hair-roughened chest.

At last she regained her powers of speech. “What if this malady is catching?” she cried. “Perhaps you should sleep elsewhere tonight.”

“Nonsense! Unfortunate, I admit, if that proves to be the case.” An exaggerated sigh. “But I won’t stand accused of being an insensitive husband. And if so, at least we can make our recovery together. And if we are not ill, well, who knows? We may decide to stay a few days longer—our honeymoon—and languish here in bed if we choose.”

Maura’s thoughts were a wild jumble. Oh, but he was so pleased with himself! His ploy was utterly transparent, his amusement unmistakable, his audacity boundless. Why bother to mask it behind so-called concern?

And why did she even care, when it was already done?

But it appeared he wasn’t done. His hands were at his waistband. A few swift moves and he stepped from his trousers. Her mouth grew dry. He was close enough to touch. His buttocks looked hard and taut. He turned.

Naked.

She could have looked away. She should have looked away.

She didn’t. Some crazed madness had come over her that she didn’t, and this was the most mortifying of all! Inhaling sharply, she flung herself over, pillowing her face against her arms with a moan. Imprinted in her mind’s eye was the image of raw, stark virility.

Alec extinguished the bedside lamp and slid into bed beside her.

“Come, Irish, let me warm you. Let me keep away your nightmares.”

A strong hand descended on her hip. A long arm captured her, snared her close, as close as a man and woman could be without being joined. It was as if she lay cocooned within every inch of him.

She struggled to still the frantic throb of her pulse. She was half afraid to breathe, to move, for fear of stirring the part of him that so dominated her mind.

His body radiated heat. Her heart hammered.
But Alec did nothing more than stroke her arm and shoulder, a featherlike touch that was oddly soothing. Little by little she felt herself relax, drifting into the world of dreams.

Much, much sooner than Alec had hoped.

When Maura woke, the bed was empty. She had slept soundly, more soundly than she expected in light of the fact she lay nestled against Alec the night through.

She was bathed and dressed when he reappeared. They breakfasted in the hotel dining room, then it was off to the train station. Alec’s coachman Douglas met them at Ayr. Alec handed her into the coach and settled across from her. He remained coolly polite, if a bit distant. Or did he merely ponder? Regardless of the reason behind his silence, it rattled her nerves. And in her nervousness, she began to prattle.

“It’s dreadfully dreary, isn’t it? We’re in for a
spot of rain, from the look of those clouds. Oh, look, there is a peat bog! And you dared to call Ireland a soggy bog of an isle, do you remember? There are no more peat bogs on McDonough lands, you know. One year my father traveled all the way to Donegal so the castle and our tenants would have fuel for the winter. The weather was horribly brutal that year, I believe. I couldn’t have been more than ten or so, but I shall never forget.”

Ten minutes later she spied a pony. “Is that a Shetland?” She gave a delighted laugh. “It reminds me of the ponies in Connemara. Have you ever seen a Connemara? Connemaras pulled the carts of peat back to McDonough—”

She broke off. Alec surveyed her, his expression rather vexed.

Maura turned defensive. “What?”

A brow quirked high. “I had no idea I’d wed a mockingbird,” he drawled. “I wish your uncle had seen fit to tell me.”

“Well, if you weren’t so rude as to sit there like a stump of wood and instead make the effort to converse now and again, there would be no need for me to fill the silence,” she informed him loftily.

“A spate of temper! Why am I not surprised? You’re a fierce little creature, aren’t you?”

Maura cast him a virulent gaze. Her chin firmed. She wouldn’t let him bait her. She proceeded to gaze out the window the rest of the way home.

Certainly she did not deign to venture a single word.

Back at Gleneden, she handed her hat to a waiting maid, then requested that her riding habit be laid out.

There was a tap on her shoulder. “I fear your ride shall have to wait.” Alec gave a nod. Maura looked beyond his shoulder to discover that the skies had opened up like a floodgate. Rain lashed the windowpanes.

“Of course, living on that soggy bog of an isle called Ireland, no doubt you’re used to a little rain.”

“You,” she declared aloud, “are a wretched creature to torment me so. But no doubt the sky is as moody as Gleneden’s master.” Directing an acid smile his way, she removed her gloves and handed them to Aggie, the maid. “I think I should like tea in the red parlor.”

The little maid seemed puzzled. It was Alec who supplied the reason why.

“I think, Irish, you mean the gold parlor in the north wing, the family wing. There is no red parlor, although there is a pink parlor in the guest wing.”

Maura glanced at the maid. “The gold parlor, then, please.”

“The gold parlor it is, your grace.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and hastened to do her mistress’s bidding. Maura glared at Alec, then turned toward the north wing. The beast was enjoying himself at her expense far too much.

But it impressed upon Maura exactly what she was up against. Since her arrival, her search for the Circle of Light hadn’t extended beyond more than half a dozen bedchambers in the north wing, and a cursory search of the garret where she found the candlesticks she’d given to Murdoch.

Sitting in the gold parlor with her tea, she reminded herself there was no need to be disheartened. Gleneden Hall was simply larger than she had expected. The hardest thing was figuring out where a pirate who had lived two hundred years ago would have hidden the Circle—hidden it where no one might find it in the next two hundred years.

Because no one had.

It was still here.

Somewhere.

That strange sense that it was here had not lessened.

If anything, it was sharper—even more keen—stronger than ever. She felt it every time she passed the portrait of James McBride, seventh Duke of Gleneden. And every time, as well, it was as though she’d been plunged into a vat of ice. Something gleamed in his eyes, as if he taunted her.

And each and every time, she cursed his blackguard soul. Maura stirred her tea restlessly and replaced the little spoon on the saucer. Her gaze circled the room, coming to rest on a painting of a basket of fruit above the sofa. Poking her head in the hall to make certain no one was about, she scurried back inside to peer behind each of the six paintings in the parlor. No hidden compartments behind any of them. No secret drawers in the long low table behind the sofa. She chafed. If Alec weren’t in the house, she could prowl to her heart’s content.

Returning to her tea, she glanced out the window. The rain had begun to lessen. The hours of travel had made her long to be outdoors. If the rain stopped and there was enough daylight left, she would walk to the wishing well. Maura smiled. It was not a place of whimsical beauty, but rather one of whimsy. She and Alec’s mother had something in common. They both liked it there.

“Your grace?”

Maura glanced up. It was Aggie, and only then did she realize that the girl had called her twice. She winced inside. She wasn’t used to being addressed as “your grace.”

“Yes, Aggie?”

“His grace requests your presence in your room, your grace.”

“Thank you, Aggie.” Did he think she would scurry to his summons? By heaven, he could wait.

A full fifteen minutes passed before she strolled to her room. Alec was sitting in one of the large wing chairs in front of the fireplace. Judging from his expression, it didn’t appear he’d been waiting impatiently.

He got to his feet. In one hand was a small beribboned box. He tapped it against his chest.

“Did you think I forgot our bargain at Madame Rousseau’s?” he asked.

Maura’s heart bounded. Her stockings! She snatched at the box.

Alec held it high above his head. “Take care you don’t lose it!” he cautioned. “Remember our promise. Whatever you bought, you promised to wear.”

“Yes, yes!” She was the impatient one.

“And whatever I chose, you will wear as well. I have your promise?”

“Yes! I promise!”

He handed her the box. Maura ripped off the ribbon, held the stockings to her chest and crowed, “I cannot believe it. My very first pair of silk stockings! My very own!” In the midst of her dancing up and down, he caught her elbow and wheeled her around. He pointed to the door.

Aggie and half a dozen other maids filed in, each carrying several round boxes, which they stacked near the armoire. When they withdrew, Alec nodded to Maura.

She fell to her knees and tore off lid after lid from box after box. His shoulder propped against the door, Alec looked on. By the time she was done, clutched to her chest and scattered all around, were dozens of sheer, silk stockings. Maura was laughing helplessly.

She looked up at Alec. “Oh, my word, you bought every last pair in the shop, didn’t you?”

“I believe Madame said something to that effect, yes.”

Alec looked on thoughtfully. Had she asked for everything, he would have purchased little or nothing. But all she wanted was that one simple thing, and that nearly pried from her! Now, he wished he’d bought nearly every last item in every last shop on the street.

For God help him, it was bloody well worth it to see her light up like this.

Tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks when he tugged her up to her feet. She threw her arms around his neck. “Alec McBride, you are quite mad!”

Caught up in some strange awakening deep in his gut, he sucked in a breath. He handed her his handkerchief to wipe away her tears. He’d never seen such joy for something that, to him, was so trifling.

Her reluctance had gained her far more than greed or insistence. She claimed it wasn’t money or his title that she hoped to gain. Had her being caught in his bed indeed been an accident? If only he could be sure.

All he knew was that he wouldn’t have traded anything in the world to miss the glow on her face in that moment. The light shining from her beautiful green eyes was simply beyond price.

Throughout dinner, every so often Maura allowed her slipper to dangle from her toes, angled her leg out from beneath her chair, bunched up her skirt ever so slightly to admire her stockings.

Over tea, Alec glanced at her. “Irish, are you doing what I think you are?”

“I am doing nothing, sir,” she said primly.

He set his cup on the saucer, neatly folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. The next time she angled her leg out he reached beneath the table and caught the back of her calf.

“So you like your new stockings, do you?”

“I do indeed.”

He ran his fingers up behind her knee and gave a full, throaty laugh. “Well, so do I, Irish. So do I.” His hand was roving now, almost to her silk ribbon garters. Maura’s eyes went huge.

The evening passed far more quickly than she’d anticipated. After the last dish was removed, Alec pushed his chair back. Maura started to do the same. His voice stopped her.

“Wait,” he said softly. “Your hands. Let me see them.”

She glanced at him, surprised when he turned to face her. “What?” Her hands ducked instinctively beneath the table, into her lap.

He shook his head, his scrutiny suddenly piercingly intent. “Your hands, if you please, Irish.”

Maura’s heart was suddenly pounding. She shifted so she faced him, then started to lift them from her lap. Lean fingers caught at hers. Turning her palms up, he cradled her hands within his.

“Your hands are scarcely larger than a child’s,” he murmured.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Alec’s hands, lean and strong, far eclipsed her own.

His expression was shielded from her. He stared so long and so hard she instinctively started to withdraw. As soon as he felt it, his fingers banded her wrists.

All at once she quivered, both inside and out.

He glanced up, his gaze snaring hers. “Why are you trembling?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Maura looked down where his fingers encircled around her wrists. His hold was strong, yet somehow gentle.

Suddenly he pulled the ring from her left hand, the plain gold band he’d slipped on her finger in Ireland. Almost before she knew it, he’d exchanged it for another.

Maura turned her hand over and stared. The ring was simple but beautiful, a large sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds that winked in the light.

Her lips parted. “Wh-What is this?”

His expression was solemn. Intent. “For over two hundred years, every Duchess of Gleneden has worn this ring.”

“But…your mother—”

“Is now the Dowager Duchess. Once my mother came out of mourning, she replaced this ring with
another given to her by my father, one she treasures greatly for the sentiment it represents. But as my bride, this ring belongs on your finger.” He paused, then said softly, “It looks lovely on you, Duchess.”

Lifting her hand, he bent his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. There was a catch in her heart. Somehow it was as intimate as if he’d kissed her mouth.

Suddenly she wanted to cry. Her throat grew hot. The tenderness of his touch, the way he looked at her—it melted her insides. Was she falling in love with him? She couldn’t…shouldn’t!

The truth was like a betrayal. She despised herself. Her deceit. His ring made her mission here all the more unpalatable. She had no right to wear it. Alec would hate her when he discovered the truth—and it was killing her. She hated that she must hide her deceit.

He rose to his feet, their fingers still linked. Taking a deep breath, Maura rose, too.

A glimmer of a smile touched his lips. The serious moment was gone. “What do you say to a glass of wine in the gold parlor, Irish? Or perhaps the great hall. It’s quite cozy to sit in front of the fire with a glass of brandy.”

“That might prove difficult. Despite the rain, it
was quite warm today and thus there is no need for a fire,” she found herself teasing back.

“Then perhaps you’re ready for your other present.”

Her smile wavered. “But this—”

“Is your wedding ring,” he finished, “not a gift. As Duchess of Gleneden, it is your right to wear it.”

A maelstrom of emotion churned in Maura’s chest. In her mind, a silent conflict warred. Her deception tore at her more and more each day. But, dammit, she had no reason to feel guilty. The Black Scotsman had stolen from her clan. She was here to reclaim the Circle, and she was close—so close! When she thought of all the items of value in this house…But a fraction of their worth would feed every family on McDonough land for many a year.

Damn the Black Scotsman. Damn, damn, damn him!

“Are you ready for your other present?”

She had no idea that Alec took note of every emotion that played across her features.

She shook her head. “Your grace, I have what I want—my silk stockings. Many pairs of silk stockings, if you recall.” She forced a laugh. “I have no need for anything else.”

“You cannot renege. A bargain is a bargain. Yes,
you have your choice, but you’ve yet to see mine, which you’ll find in your room.” A rakish brow climbed high. “Aren’t you curious?”

Aye, she decided. Curious, yes. And most certainly dubious.

“Go,” he said softly.

She knew she had no choice. What had she been thinking, to make such a foolish promise? Gathering up her skirts, she gingerly climbed the stairs to her room. With every step came the urge to turn and run. But if she ran, it would be right back into his arms. And if she awaited him upstairs…

There would be no evading him.

In her room, Maura went straight to the bed. Laid out upon the counterpane was a sheer lace nightgown. She decided she’d never seen anything quite so lovely in her life. She ran a hand over it almost reverently, the gossamer lace so fragile and delicate she was almost afraid to touch it for fear it would disappear.

“Do you like it?”

The door clicked shut. It was Alec, his voice low and husky. He’d come inside without her being aware of it.