Susan Johnson (7 page)

The thought of a
particular
someone else had crossed his mind, of course, several times since he’d met the pale and lovely Lady Graham. But with Robbie’s life at issue … “Not tonight,” he said, his grin still in place, his insolent blue eyes offering unbridled pleasure. “Are you available?”

“I should make you wait,” she muttered, sulky still.

“If you had the patience, you might,” he softly goaded.

“
You
apparently have enough for both of us.”

“How fortunate, then. Are we through with your game? Or do you want me to continue playing the dominant male?”

“A role to which you’re eminently suited,” she spat,
her frustration still explosive. “I hate those elusive orgasms.”

“You’re greedy, pet. They can’t all be consummate sensation.”

She gazed at him from under half-lowered lashes, her glance still gimlet-eyed.

The blue of his eyes, in contrast, was pure angelic sunshine. “I see.…” he said with a small repressed smile, a perceptive man when it came to interpreting female glances. “Apparently, some improvement is required here. Why don’t you tell me what kind you like, and I’ll see what I can do.” The teasing in his voice was familiar and warm and not at all the sovereign Lord.

“Oh damn you,” she said with a sigh. “As if you don’t know.…” Leaning back in the upholstered chair, the burgundy damask handsome foil to her ivory skin, she stretched like an indolent cat, her resentment fading. Johnnie Carre was always capable of amusing her in the best possible way. “With that cock at attention,” she added with an answering grin, “how can I stay angry?”

“How indeed?” he immodestly replied, but his smile was boyish and charming and exclusively hers that night in his private dining room at Goldiehouse.

But before she left in the morning, with grace and care and utmost diplomacy, he made her understand she must stay away until Robbie was home safe. He wouldn’t take any chances the negotiations might go awry, he told her. He needed his full concentration on Robbie’s release. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by seductive ladies no matter how lovely, he declared. He convinced her finally with a persuasion backed by a noteworthy stamina. And when he finally fell asleep toward morning, he was pleasantly content; in a few hours Lady Graham would be alone in his home.

Elizabeth rose the next morning after a dreamless sleep, Willie’s French wine no doubt accounting for her untroubled slumber. After a breakfast that would do justice to a hardworking farmer, with Helen’s assistance she dressed in an exquisite tartan gown of silk in shades of green and red. Consciously ignoring thoughts of the gown’s previous owner, Elizabeth retraced her journey of the previous night through the descending corridors of the castle and found her way to the courtyard.

She intended to spend the morning exploring the grounds.

A lady’s horse, saddled and held ready by a stable boy, stood at the front door. Janet must have stayed the night. Highborn slut.

Chastising herself a moment later for responding to that notion with a flaring resentment, Elizabeth briskly traversed the broad courtyard as if she could leave behind her annoyance at the palace door. Passing through the old castle gates, she stood on a gentle rise near the grassy moat surveying the sweep of green landscape falling
away toward the river, wanting to forget Janet Lindsay and all the women in Johnnie Carre’s love life.

He was a libertine by reputation, the evidence of which she’d witnessed herself. He made no distinction about whom he slept with, and she would do well to put him from her mind.

In the following days she saw little of the castle’s Lord. Johnnie Carre wanted no untoward problems arising over Robbie’s release, and Elizabeth Graham’s simple presence posed a threat. He had no practice in temperance with women. It was best he didn’t see her.

His subconscious, however, responded less well to the logic of restraint, and his dreams were frequented by constant, combustible images of Elizabeth Graham in his bed.

Elizabeth spent long hours in the library at Goldiehouse, fascinated by the Carre collection of architectural books and carefully maintained models of the various additions to the family seat. The love of building had apparently been passed down the generations, each heir taking on a project to further beautify Goldiehouse. The newest working model was grand in scale, designed in the classical style; the foundations for a new wing were being laid facing west. More intimate, more human in scale, it looked as though the latest Earl of Graden intended to live in a less feudal environment.

She became friends with Munro, the young architect only recently returned from Vicenza, where he’d gone to study Palladio’s country villas. She visited him often in his office, listened while he spoke glowingly of Palladio’s vision of making his homes one with their natural setting. And she asked serious questions as he showed her drawings by the master and pointed out Palladio’s elements of number, measure, and proportion as the means of making architectural space conform to natural principles. Her interest in design and workmanship was more than that of a dilettante, for her own plans included the construction of a home. With Hotchane’s inheritance
she intended at last to live independently, and to that purpose she had a land agent searching for property in Northumbria at a suitable distance from her father’s meddling.

She ate her meals in her tower room or in the kitchen with the large, friendly staff. She spent cozy hours over tea in Mrs. Reid’s parlor, too, listening to the housekeeper’s stories of the Carre family. She wasn’t invited to dine with Johnnie and his men—a deliberate decision on Johnnie’s part. Knowing the fragile state of his resistance to her, he chose the safe ground of complete avoidance. Particularly in light of the drinking customary at dinner with his men. After the brandy or claret had made several rounds of the table, he knew he couldn’t trust his restraint.

They met in the formal garden one afternoon though, very much by accident. Saving time, Johnnie had cut through the garden after having met with his architect, Munro, down by the river. They had discussed the projected height of the dome over the small orangery attached by a covered walkway to what would be Johnnie’s suite of rooms in the new wing under construction. It was a question of proportion from a distance, and both men had agreed on a lesser height after observing the site from several vantage points. Particularly from the riverbank, the planned elevation would have disturbed the harmony of the skyline.

Late for a meeting with Kinmont to determine their reply to the newest terms delivered that morning from Godfrey, he rapidly strode through the symmetrical parterres, vaulting over the orderly floral borders as he came to them, leaping across the small reflecting pool at the entrance to the garden rather than waste time circling it. Sweeping around the box hedge separating the pool from the gravel walk leading up to the house in a flying turn, he hurtled into a body.

Automatically, his hands came up to steady Elizabeth as she stumbled backward with a small cry. And the books and papers she was carrying tumbled from her arms.

Her eyes flared wide in apprehension. Whether his
touch had alarmed her or the suddenness of his appearance was the cause, perversely he found himself stirred by that apprehension. As if he were the hunter and she his prey. An inherent emotion, perhaps, in a man trained to the chase; he didn’t question what it meant. But he was acutely aware of his response, and his fingers reflexively closed more firmly on the soft flesh of her upper arm. How can it hurt? a part of him insisted; a hostage isn’t sacrosanct. Certainly in the history of the Borders women had been violated; it was the norm rather than the exception. She knew it. He knew it.

His feelings showed in his eyes.

She should be more fearful, she thought, with this powerful man towering over her, holding her captive, the message in his luminous blue eyes unselfconsciously direct. “I’m sorry,” she said instead, as if
she
had abruptly collided with him, and only politesse was on her mind. Or, perhaps unconsciously, she was apologizing for her sudden response to his candid look.

He hesitated for a moment. Her softly uttered phrase struck him oddly. Had he misinterpreted her apprehension? Could she simply be offering a mundane courtesy? Or had he indeed heard an enticing sensuality beneath the simple words? But then the literal meaning of the phrase became clear, and regret of another kind forcibly struck his consciousness. Negotiations were well along for Robbie’s release. His brother would soon be out of Harbottle prison, so acting on carnal impulse at the moment seemed foolhardy. Even if she were willing.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, more bluntly than she, his voice harsh with the logic of restraint. “Let me help with your scattered books.” And so saying, he released her and stooped to gather her books and papers from the raked gravel path.

Her slippered feet were mere inches from his hands as he stacked the few books and brought the papers into order. Her legs were as close. He smelled the fragrance of Mrs. Reid’s clover-scented soap, and he couldn’t forestall the spontaneous image of Elizabeth Graham lounging in her bath, a hand-milled ball of soap in her palm, steam rising around her, her breasts half-submerged
in the heated water, her hand leisurely rubbing Mrs. Reid’s soap over the swelling mounds.… A spiking lust flashed through him at his lascivious imagination, and he ground his teeth in resentful frustration.

The width of his shoulders beneath the utilitarian buff wool startled Elizabeth at close range. She’d not seen his athletic body so vividly before, at her feet, as it were. How would those brawny shoulders feel beneath her hands, how intoxicating the stir and shift of hard muscle, the lithe grace and power? Suddenly captivated by the irresistible virility of the Laird of Ravensby, she clenched her hands against the impulse to brush her hand over those powerful shoulders.

He came upright with a graceful energy before her control weakened.

“Here,” he said, handing her the books, the papers stuffed hodgepodge between them.

“Thank you,” she replied on a small caught breath, feeling as though she’d only narrowly escaped disaster.

And they stood for a moment like uncertain adolescents, unable to converse when raw sensation overwhelmed them.

Johnnie spoke first because he was more accomplished at social banter. Years of pursuing women had polished his graces. “You’re interested in architecture,” he said, noting the books she’d dropped.

“I’m planning on building a house,” she quietly said.

“You intend to live alone?” He shouldn’t have said “alone” with that particular emphasis. He should have better masked his feelings.

“Yes,” she said. His insinuation had been plain, palpably sexual. “I
wish
to live alone,” she added, as if further definition would shield her from his potent sensuality.

It was suddenly too much, Johnnie abruptly decided, after days of avoiding her and thinking of her, days of denial and restraint. Never a man of indecision, he struggled as a clear choice offered itself. Elizabeth Graham stood inches away, breathtaking even in a plain dove-gray linen gown made for a slightly larger woman.
She looked more fragile, more delicate, the green of her eyes intensely vivid in contrast to the pale gown. The word “unguarded” came powerfully to mind, sharp-cut as a whip on his back.

He could take her now on the clipped green lawn in full view of the house, or damn his pride and call retreat. He could pick her up and carry her, struggling or not, to his rooms and not let her out until Godfrey’s minions came with his brother. Or he could turn away.

He debated momentarily under the warm spring sun in a parterred garden shaped by the concept of restraint. And those few seconds seemed a lifetime to a man much motivated by instinct, a successful commander who understood that indecision often meant the difference between life and death.

It salved his conscience in the end that he was decamping for Robbie.

“I wish you luck then,” he softly said, “living alone.” An easy sensuality lay beneath the casualness of his words, as if he knew intrinsically women always wanted him.

He bowed then in a swift, graceful leave-taking.

And she felt for a moment when he’d gone as though she’d won. But the small insolence in his parting words lingered in her mind. He knew how women responded to him. And she was intelligent enough to realize that victory had been granted her.

They met each other once more, the following morning when Johnnie walked into Munro’s office and found Elizabeth there. He stopped on the threshold when she turned at the sound of the door opening, the sight of her breathtaking in the plain, unadorned room. Her light coloring, the lemon-yellow gown she wore, were the only source of brilliance in an atmosphere of unmitigated browns. The paneled walls, plank floor, the woodwork and doors, Munro’s desk and drawing table, all contrived to frame her fair beauty.

“Come in, Johnnie,” Munro welcomed him. “Add
your expertise to the topic. Lady Graham and I were analyzing the merits of garden architecture.”