Scandal in Scotland (14 page)

They sat there in the chilled carriage, their skin warmed by each other, his arms about her, her face buried in his neck, savoring and hoping … both afraid to move.

A letter dated two years ago from Michael Hurst to his brother William, regarding a meeting
.

I fear I will not be arriving in Paris by the fourteenth as I had hoped. To my shock, my assistant, Miss Smythe-Haughton, has decided that the care of a small thief was our—which apparently means my—concern. As you know, I do not enjoy children, and I would think a bluestocking like Miss Smythe-Haughton would feel the same. But upon being faced with the choice of an informative trip to Paris or undertaking to correct the ill-bred activities of a troublesome waif, Miss Smythe-Haughton has inexplicably chosen the latter. I would leave without her, but she has our tickets and refuses to part with them until the present situation is resolved to her satisfaction.

My dear brother, never allow a woman to hold all of the cards. You will regret it every time.

         
C
HAPTER 12

I
n the months following the end of their relationship William had dreamed of these moments: of the warmth of her in his arms, her head upon his shoulder, of her sensual scent. Everywhere he went, he saw things that reminded him of her—the way a woman might tilt her head, or a random playbill tumbled down the street by a playful wind. It had seemed the universe was conspiring against his determination to forget her.

Oh, he’d been a lovesick fool, one of the worst, longing for lost moments.

It was difficult to realize that those moments were his again—his to live and to savor.
But not for long
, cold reality whispered in his ear.

A prudent man would take this gift of unexpected passion for what it was, a moment’s impulse for them both. But with Marcail, he was never prudent. He couldn’t be.

Marcail stirred and lifted her head, meeting his gaze with a faint blush, an awkward smile touching her soft, swollen lips. “That was … surprising.”

“So it was. But it was always that way between us. One spark, instant flame.”

She winced as if that thought pained her and he frowned. “Marcail, are you well? You winced—”

She flushed. “I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting—” Her color deepened even more as if embarrassed by her own words. She gave an uncertain laugh. “I’m sorry. I-I’m just overwhelmed. That was lovely.” Her gaze met his and he could see the sincerity in her violet eyes. “It was perfectly lovely.”

With an awkward smile, she turned away and began to gather her clothes, her movements jerky and unsure.

Now that some of William’s blood had returned to his head, he remembered how she’d gasped that it had been “so long” since she’d experienced a man’s touch. How could that be if her relationship with Colchester was what it seemed?

And her urgency was not the response of a sated woman. It was the reaction of a woman long denied.

She’d hidden so much about her private life from him. Could the real nature of her relationship with Colchester be one of her secrets?

He caught her wrist as she lifted her gown from the seat opposite.

Her surprised gaze found his. “Yes?”

William sensed the hope and the multitude of questions contained in that one word. “Marcail, don’t—” A flood of “don’ts” fought for expression.
Don’t be so protective. Don’t pretend things are as they are not. Don’t hide yourself from me
. He didn’t know which to say first.

“Don’t what?” she asked. When he didn’t answer immediately, her expression closed and she tugged her wrist free and continued to collect her things.

He knew then that the moment was lost.

“I know what you meant to say. Don’t count this interlude as more than the whim of the moment? I shan’t, I promise you.”

“No. That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It should have been.” She started to slip from his side, but he held her there.

“Stand down, woman. We must discuss this. We’ve spent too many years with words left unsaid between us, which hasn’t done either of us any favors.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, but as she looked at his expression, she sighed. “Very well, but I’m cold. I must at least dress.”

He allowed her to slip away, fighting the urge to drag her back onto his lap.

She set aside her clothing, found her reticule, and pulled out a handkerchief before pinning him with a cool gaze. “Please turn away a moment.”

Blast it all to hell, he didn’t want to turn away. He wanted her to—

Damn it, what
did
he want? He frowned and did as she’d asked, using his extra cravat to clean himself before he tugged on his breeches and shirt. As he slipped back into his waistcoat and coat he heard the rustling of Marcail’s skirts as she put herself to rights.

The silence seemed heavy and awkward, exacerbating his already irritated spirits. He wasn’t used to people questioning his orders or asking him to explain himself, damn it. He wanted what he wanted, the way he wanted it. What could be simpler than that?

And yet, though he had no problem ordering his crew about, he found himself uncertain in the presence of Marcail—a feeling he distinctly disliked. He was a man of action, of decision, not some maudlin mock-shirt like his brother Robert, who thought it amusing to feign being in love and utter flowery phrases as if words were free.

With Marcail, William became entangled between what he wanted and what he felt, which seemed destined to be at odds. At this very moment, he was torn by three disparate, distinct, and conflicting emotions. First, release at their heated coupling; followed by frustration at the realization that somehow even that wasn’t enough; and then last, pure irritation because, damn it, he had no idea what he really wanted, either from her or himself.

Well, he knew
one
thing he wanted, which was to bed her again. And again. And several hundred more times after that. Judging by her eager response, she felt the same.
I think
.

And there he was again, uncertain about—about everything, damn it.

“I’m finished if you wish to turn around now.” Her rich voice broke the silence and washed over him. He wrapped the clean cravat about his neck and turned to face her.

In a remarkably few minutes, she’d managed to put herself back together neatly and perfectly. Her black hair was smoothly wrapped about her head, her gown seemingly uncreased, her color returned to normal. If anyone had opened the door of the coach, they’d have seen a cool, calm, and collected Marcail Beauchamp and a mussed, heated, and irritable William Hurst.

She deftly arranged her skirts so they fell in delicate folds about her feet. “William, I feel that I must thank you.”

He scowled. “What for?”

“For the—” She waved her hand, the gesture so graceful it could have been a part of a dance. “You know.”

He did know. He’d expected many things, but a dismissive “thank you” wasn’t one of them.

She was so damned contained and unbothered by their passion while his body still hummed with it; his cock still pulsed as if she held him now.

She chuckled, inflaming him more. “It was excellent fun, wasn’t it? I wonder why we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off last night.”

“Indeed. We wasted nearly twenty-four hours.”

She flushed at his mocking tone, but lifted her chin. “It was a surprise, but I am glad it happened. I was just—”

“—hungry for a real man,” William finished.

She stiffened. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“Wouldn’t you? It is becoming more and more apparent that Colchester isn’t the perfect peer he so likes to pretend. What’s wrong, Marcail? Why has it been so long since a man has touched you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“In the throes of passion, you said you hadn’t been touched in a long time.”

“I-I said that?”

“Yes. Twice. And I could feel the truth—you haven’t been with a man in a
very
long time.”

Marcail didn’t know where to look; her cheeks felt as if they were afire. “I don’t recall saying that. Perhaps you are mistaken.”

He slanted her a disbelieving look as he tied his cravat and tucked it into his waistcoat. “What else could you have meant?”

She sent him a resentful glance. “It doesn’t matter what was said. That part of my life is private, thank you.”

He flicked a half smile her way. “I know that you don’t love Colchester.”

“I never claimed to. My relationship with Colchester is purely business. I wrote that in the letter I sent you.”

“You don’t need to remind me; I remember every damned word. The trouble is, I’m beginning to doubt it is true. In the last few days I’ve begun to realize that much of what you said and did at that time makes very little sense.”

“The part about Colchester was true then, and it is true now. Our relationship has been beneficial for us both.”

He smiled and leaned back in his seat. “And that’s all you want.
Beneficial
.”

She flashed him a look. “It’s all I’m allowed to have.”

“The trouble with that is, as coldly and calculatingly as you’ve arranged your life, you’re as hot natured as am I. You can’t stop yourself where I’m concerned any more than I can stop myself.”

He was right. She couldn’t even sit in the same coach without constantly being aware of him and yearning to touch him. But admitting that would just encourage him, and she’d encouraged him enough today already. “You’re exaggerating our situation. We succumbed for a moment; don’t make more of it than it is.”

“You can deny it when we’re not touching. But once I do this—” He reached out and grabbed her wrist, his large hand encircling it easily. “I can feel the flutter of your pulse beneath that delicate skin of yours. How can you deny that?” his deep voice rumbled.

She jerked her wrist free. “Stop that! What happened in this coach is a result of the passion that we share—that much is correct. The rest of it—that I’m not satisfied with Colchester—is mere drivel.”

He settled back in his corner, a faint smile curving the hard line of his mouth. “We’ll see about that, my little liar.”

She shrugged and undid one of the curtains, tucking it aside and allowing the morning light to flood across them. “I hope we stop soon; I am famished.”

“Of course you are, after …”

Her cheeks flamed, but she said no more, merely picking up her cloak and spreading it over her lap.

When she’d first sent William away, she’d thought she’d known what she was giving up. It hadn’t taken her long to realize she’d grossly underestimated the cost of her decision. She’d missed him an agonizing amount. Though Colchester had attempted to comfort her, she’d been inconsolable.

She’d expected to miss William’s love, but she hadn’t expected how much she would miss their physical relationship. In the months after his departure she’d ached with loneliness and the desire to be held once more, a longing that only William could have assuaged.

Now, having experienced their passion anew and discovering to her astonishment that it flared even more brightly than before, she wondered how she would find the strength to turn her back on it once again.

With a careless finger, William flicked a tassel that hung from one of the curtains. “This is quite a coach. It makes mine look positively meager.”

She glanced around the interior and shrugged. “It’s well sprung. That’s all I really care about.”

“I must commend Colchester on his taste, both in coaches”—his gaze flickered across her—“and in other areas, as well.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him when I next see him.”

“Please do. I’m sure Colchester pays a good deal for his luxuries, though I daresay you are the most expensive.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Actually, I ask him for very little. He just likes to give extravagant gifts. It is a failing of his.”

“A failing? So he’s not the paragon of perfection you once thought him.”

“I am even more fond of Colchester now than when I agreed to be his mistress. People say he is a fribble and worse, but they don’t know him. Few people really do.”

“Except you.”

She hesitated. “No matter what you think, Colchester’s been nothing but kind to me. He has supported me in my career as no one else could have.”

William heard the gratitude in her voice and the taste of jealousy was bitter in his mouth. “I am surprised that Colchester allows you to still tread the boards.”

She raised her brows. “Allow? Colchester doesn’t ‘allow’ me anything.”

“He has no say in your career?”

“Why should he? It is
my
career.”

William frowned. “Your relationship with the earl is rather odd.”

“It works well for us.”

He shrugged and looked out the window, amazed by his seeming determination to hurt himself as much as possible. He was a complete and total fool if he’d thought to go on this journey with Marcail and not relive the past.

He couldn’t seem to stop digging, as if he hoped to find a key that would unlock some understanding of those events. He’d thought they’d been happy. And now, after their passionate lovemaking, she couldn’t deny they still shared an attraction.

The whole thing was beyond William’s comprehension. But nothing had been normal from the first time he’d seen her. He wasn’t the sort to fall instantly, deeply, madly in love with a beautiful, exotic actress whose past was shrouded in more mysteries than the Egyptian pyramids. Yet he’d done so the instant Marcail’s beautiful violet eyes had met his across a crowded room.

He picked up his hat and settled the brim so that it shadowed his eyes.

Marcail was looking out the window, a pensive expression on her face. She looked achingly beautiful.

He remembered the first night he’d seen her. He’d known who she was, of course, who hadn’t? Even a new captain with six months left in his navy commission knew that one didn’t visit London without attending four much discussed events: Astley’s Amphitheater to see the wild animals, Vauxhall Gardens for the fireworks and evening concerts, Madame Tussauds to view the famous wax displays, and Drury Lane to see a performance by London’s newest star, Miss Marcail Beauchamp.