Scottish Brides (17 page)

“Stop fashin'.” His voice took on the cadence of the local accent, sliding beneath her skin; his tone—one of endearment—made her inwardly quiver. Then he reverted to his normal voice. “Besides, you've only got slippers on, and the path's rocky.”

I got to the stone, didn't I?” Rose grumbled, none too gratefully.

“As your host, I should do all I can to ease your stay.”

And drive her witless. Rose could feel the rumble of every word reverberating through his chest, could feel each and every one of his fingers as they gripped her—one set across her midriff, just beneath one breast, the other set wrapped around one thigh. Held firmly, effortlessly—far too easily—she felt increasingly helpless, increasingly vulnerable, in a distinctly unnerving way.

Just thinking about it made her breath seize.

She tried a last wriggle; he only tightened his hold. “Just hold still—we're only a few minutes from the beach.”

Would she reach it sane?

When Duncan's boots crunched on the gravelly shore and he lowered her into the rowboat, Rose wasn't at all sure how competent her mind was. Her senses were rioting, in excellent health. Rational thought, however, when close to Duncan—especially when in contact with Duncan—seemed beyond her.

Not a comforting prospect. Especially as, settled in the prow of the boat watching him bend to the oars, she had a strong suspicion he knew it. There was nothing to be read in his face, however, nor in his eyes. Affecting a calmness she was far from feeling, she lay back and enjoyed the scenery. Soaring peaks, rippling muscles and all.

The peaks were impressive; the man who rowed her to shore, no less so. The boat glided powerfully across the water, impelled by steely muscles that flexed and relaxed, then flexed and relaxed again; the rhythm was both soothing and, at a different level, evocative.

Evocative enough to remind her of the extent of Duncan's physical prowess: he was an excellent rider, an expert marksman, a skillful climber, a noted whip. His need to excel had always found expression in physical pursuits; she'd bet her life he was also a superb lover.

Feeling heat in her cheeks, Rose shifted her gaze to the craggy peaks. Despite Clarissa's conviction, they were far less threatening.

Duncan rowed directly to the boathouse, easing the row-boat into its berth, leaving the punt bobbing astern. The loch was at its summer level; he had to haul himself up to the wooden wharf. He accomplished the deed easily, then tied the rowboat up. And turned to Rose.

In time to catch the distinctly nervous look in her eyes. The sight tempted him to smile in rakish anticipation; ruthlessly, he suppressed the impulse. Rose could read him too easily, and he had no intention of pushing her into doing something unpredictable, into attempting to escape just now, just when he almost had his hands on her.

He'd spent the journey from the island carefully planning what came next. And ignoring the way she'd been watching him, the way she reacted to him. He was far too experienced to consider a rowboat in the middle of an open loch—over-looked by a house full of guests, no less—as an acceptable venue for what he had in mind.

He was determined to take things slowly—to stretch the moments, to appreciate each and every encounter to the full. Rose had teased and taunted him for years. Now it was his turn.

He waved her to her feet, then, with an impatience not entirely feigned, gestured her nearer. She edged to the center of the boat to stand before him, her expression an attempt at prosaic practicality. She lifted her arms and extended her hands to him.

Duncan grinned, stooped and swooped; gripping her under her arms, he hoisted her.

Rose gasped and clung wildly. Duncan lifted her out of the boat as if she were a child, then swung her to the wharf. But he didn't put her down. The wharf was a narrow walk-way lining the wall of the boathouse; holding her before him, her toes clear of the planks, Duncan turned, took one step—and pinned her against the wall.

Rose's eyes flew wide. One look into his revealed the danger.
“Dunc
—!”

That was all she got to say before his lips sealed hers.

Seared hers.

He proceeded to set her alight.

Rose tried to hold aloof, tried to hold firm, tried to maintain some degree of control . . . and failed on all counts. His lips were commanding, demanding. Ruthlessly, he captured her awareness and held it—appalled, aghast, excruciatingly awakened—totally focused on their kiss. On the hot melding of their lips, the searing sweep of his tongue, the heavy weight of his chest, his hips, pressed against her much softer flesh. The artful, evocative temptation he pressed on her held her captive, unable to think, unable to act—able only to feel.

The thought of physically struggling never entered Rose's head; hands gripping his upper arms, she tried to mentally pull back from the engagement, to regain some degree of equilibrium, only to discover her wits scattered, her senses reeling.

He immediately drew her back, into the maelstrom, with even more evocative kisses, with heat, and yet more heat, until she felt like she was fighting a losing battle against a wildfire out of control. Flames licked greedily, now here, now there—she doused one outbreak, only to see another flare.

Then he caught her, and she burned, kissing him back with the same heat, the same passion, the same wild and reckless urgency. The pressure of their lips, the wild tangle of their tongues, only heightened the physical need.

It was then that he finally set her down. Slid her down until her toes just touched the floor, his hard thigh parting, then wedging firmly between hers. She gasped; he drank the sound, then angled his head and deepened their kiss.

And closed both hands over her breasts.

She melted—there was no other way to describe the sensation, the pure wave of hot desire that flooded her, liquefied her bones, pounded through her veins and pooled deep within her. His fingers firmed, kneaded, caressed—all too knowingly. She arched and offered herself up to them, to him, beyond thought, beyond reason, totally engrossed in the passion that burned so hotly between them. Locking her fingers in his hair, she pressed herself against him and thought she heard him groan. Releasing her breasts, he swept his hands down her body, over her hips, then closed both hands about her bottom and lifted her to him.

Rose couldn't believe the compulsion that battered her, the sheer, driving need to lift her long legs and wrap them about him. Her skirts defeated it, saved her from that too-revealing act, but she knew it in her bones—and so did he.

And it was that that saved her; as Duncan slowly eased back from their kiss, soothed and dampened the fires, doused their burning flames, she knew that as truth. And any doubts she might have been inclined to develop were laid to rest when she opened her eyes—and stared into his, darkened and burning. His lips, wicked things, kicked up at the ends; he bent his head and brushed them lightly across hers, swollen and aching, in a final caress, then drew back and trapped her gaze.

One dark brow rose, teasingly, tauntingly. “Just so we know where we stand.”

The words reverberated through her; Rose managed not to gape. She knew precisely where she was approaching at present. Across his thigh.

With another wicked glance, he stepped back—he steadied her when her legs quaked. For one long instant, Rose could do nothing but stare at him, trying to take it all in, trying to reestablish reality when her world had turned upside down.

He, of course, just watched her—like a very large jungle cat. Rose dragged in a deep breath. Her head still spun, but she didn't dare take her eyes from his. She'd very nearly offered him an invitation she had never offered any man. She couldn't take that in, could not believe it—could not understand the force that had warped her common sense and driven her to it. The man before her was Duncan—yet he wasn't.

This
wasn't
the youth she'd grown up with—and the difference was significant.

Before she could follow that thought to any logical conclusion, the gong for lunch boomed in the distance.

Duncan grinned—the very essence of male wickedness—and held out his hand. “Much as I'd rather have you instead of a cold collation, I suspect we'd better go in.”

Rose sucked in a breath and drew herself up, but didn't take his hand. “Indeed.”

She swung about and marched to the door. And continued to march up the slope to the house, all too aware of Duncan prowling easily beside her.

He was dangerous. She felt it in the air, a premonition that set her nerves quivering. He was dangerous in the way men like him were dangerous to ladies like her. She'd known it after he'd kissed her on the terrace; he'd now confirmed it beyond doubt.

How he now viewed her, she couldn't imagine—any more than she could guess what he might do next. Was he simply teasing her, now he'd discovered he could? Paying her back for all the years through which she'd had the upper hand and exercised it ruthlessly?

He was as ruthless as she in that respect; the thought made her quiver even more.

A wayward thought wafted through her distracted mind; she stifled a disgusted snort. She had to be still distracted or she'd never have thought of it. Duncan could not be interested in her as a wife; she was nowhere near perfect enough for him.

She'd lived all her life knowing that; she'd never thought otherwise. Duncan would marry perfection. Not even Clarissa had lived up to his standards. But he would keep looking, and someday he would find her, the perfect wife for him. He was nothing if not persistent, dogged, incapable of accepting failure—just witness his efforts to save Ballynashiels.

He'd find his perfect wife and marry her, which was all very well. That didn't explain—give her any clue—as to what he thought he was about with her. And she could no longer handle him; she was no match for him, had no counter to his experience in this particular sphere.

She didn't have a clue what he thought, what he wanted, what he might do—to her, with her—next.

The house loomed before them. Rose lifted her head, squared her shoulders and refused to even glance at Duncan. Sliding back into their old ways, their old relationship, was no longer a viable option. She would have to act in the only way she could.

Avoid him—possibly forever.

Four

 

 

 

Clarissa retired immediately after luncheon, appar
ently still fragile after the events of the morning. From the other end of the room, Rose watched her go, and started thinking—fast.

“I really need to write some letters,” Jeremy confessed—just as Duncan strolled up.

“Make use of the desk in the library,” Duncan offered, the epitome of the urbane host. “You'll find everything you need there.”

Jeremy hesitated. “You're sure I won't be putting you out?”

“No, no.” With an easy smile, Duncan waved the suggestion aside. “I've completed all the estate business necessary.” His gaze swung to Rose. “I rather think I'm more in need of relaxation.” The timbre of his voice altered subtly; his gaze, holding hers, grew more intent. “I was thinking of a game of croquet.”

Rose didn't bat an eye. “Croquet?”

“Hmm. Somewhat combative for a lady, I know, but I wouldn't have thought that would deter you.”

He was pricking her deliberately, challenging her, doubtless in the hope that she'd rise to his bait and forget that the croquet lawn, while not far from the house, was surrounded by a screening hedge—a completely private enclosure for a game that, unless she missed her guess, would have very little to do with hoops and mallets. Not unless she used one on him.

Rose smiled and rose—and limped around her chair. “So sorry to disappoint you, but I seem to have turned my ankle.”

“I say.” Solicitously, Jeremy offered his arm. “Is it serious?”

“Oh, no,” Rose replied. “But I think I should rest it for the afternoon.”

“How did it happen?” Jeremy asked as she leaned on his arm.

Rose shrugged lightly and looked at Duncan. “Perhaps on the island—it was rather rocky.”

“Or perhaps,” Duncan said, his tone carrying an implication Jeremy heard but couldn't interpret, “it happened in the boathouse—you seemed to experience some difficulty there.”

Rose stared at him calmly, then lightly shrugged again. “Perhaps,” she said, her eyes on his. “But I'm afraid I won't be able to accommodate you.” She let a second elapse before adding, “With a croquet game.”

With that, and a calm look just for him, she hobbled off on Jeremy's arm.

She made very sure she was not alone at any time for the rest of the day, and the whole of the evening. Lady Hermione gave her a very odd look when she offered to play and sing for the company. Rose ignored it; she had already decided that being on the piano stool, under the eyes of the entire company, was about as safe as she could be.