The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (19 page)

She flicked out her napkin. “The first gown from each should be delivered tomorrow morning, so I'll be able to go out and purchase the other things I need.” As he settled in his carver, she looked up the table at him. “Tell me—is there any reason that, dressed as a young lady, I need to avoid notice here, or can I walk and shop freely?”

He considered the question while the soup was served. “Your family will have accounted for your absence—they won't have allowed your disappearance to become public knowledge.”

“Definitely not. I did ask them to concoct a suitable tale, and we've grown rather experienced in that skill of late.”

He inclined his head. “Precisely my point. So there's no reason to assume that if anyone not in the know sees you here, they'll think it odd. They'll assume you're here with family or visiting friends. The only reason to hide and race back here is if you spot anyone from your family, or anyone who might be close enough to know of your disappearance and raise an alarm.”

“All right—so I can roam freely, but I should keep my eyes peeled.”

That decided, they gave their attention to the meal.

Angelica was particularly pleased with the standard of the dishes. She'd already won over Mrs. McCutcheon, and Janet, and was working on MacIntyre, but overall the staff had proved very ready to embrace her as their soon-to-be mistress and accord her the control due to Dominic's countess.

In some respects, the household reins were already in her hands, but she was being judicious in how she managed them. She'd always viewed controlling any reasonable-sized staff as similar to managing a team of horses; one needed them all running in stride and in the same direction, but the best results were invariably gained through having a light hand on the reins.

As the meal progressed, her satisfaction mounted. She wondered if Dominic would notice any change.

Eventually, with the end of the main course in sight, he leaned back in his chair and regarded the remains of the guinea fowl on his plate. “That was excellent. I can't recall ever having better. I must remember to compliment Cook.”

She smiled delightedly. “Please do. Then Cook can pass your compliments on to your new undercook, who will then decide that this is an excellent household in which to work, meaning one where her skills are appreciated.”

Dominic paused, then asked, “I have an undercook—a new one?”

The angel at the end of the table nodded, transparently pleased with herself. “While I was waiting for Janet to return with the walking dress, I met with Mrs. McCutcheon and MacIntyre. We agreed that in order to cope adequately with all future requirements, the household needed an undercook, and Cook knew of an excellent candidate who was trying to make up her mind which of several offers to accept.” She grinned, her green-gold eyes alight. “So you've stolen the French-trained undercook the Earl and Countess of Angus thought they'd successfully wooed.”

There was competition for undercooks? “I didn't realize . . .” He waved a hand. “No, forget I said that. You may rule the household as you deem fit as long as I have no mutinies in the ranks.”

“Of course there'll be no mutinies.” She humphed, but her dimples assured him she wasn't offended.

He'd never shared such exchanges with any other female. Back-and-forth comments about ordinary day-to-day things, quick verbal jousts spiced with challenge, laughter, and the camaraderie of shared goals.

Mitchell had been gone for nearly four years; no one could ever take his cousin's place, but Dominic's unexpected countess-to-be seemed to be carving out her own niche in his otherwise closed and very private world.

That she had so eagerly, efficiently, and effectively stepped into the shoes of his countess-to-be here, too, was reassuring.

He studied her while dessert was being served; when all but MacIntyre had withdrawn, he asked, “Do you enjoy organizing staff, and so on?”

“Of course. It's—” She paused, then went on, “If your role is to manage the estate and all that entails, then my role is to manage your households, and all that's associated with that.” She waved her spoon. “It's what I've been trained for—exactly what I expected to do with my life. And now I'm doing it.” She looked up and caught his eyes, her own shining. “I did mention that I thrive on challenges, although to give your staff their due, I've thus far found them all very able.”

She was in her element and knew herself to be. Any lingering guilt over having pressured her into helping him and through that marrying him—over having kidnapped her and taken away her choices, even taken her away from a life she might have preferred—faded. By luck, or fate, it seemed he'd offered her one thing, at least, that in terms of her future she'd wanted, needed, and had most likely been searching for. Being his countess would, indeed, give her the life she'd anticipated, and he was relieved by, and content with, that.

Licking the last of an especially creamy crème anglaise from her spoon, Angelica sighed, then looked up and caught Dominic's eye. He'd already cleaned his plate and was sitting back, his gaze on her, as it often was.

She wasn't surprised by the scrutiny; he was trying to learn to read her, to understand her, preferably to the point of being able to predict her, and so control her. She smiled. “Assuming that, as it now appears, we'll be able to quit Edinburgh on the day after tomorrow, what's our route to the castle?”

He hesitated, then uncrossed his long legs and rose. “Let's go to the library. Or would you rather sit in the drawing room?”

“No—I like libraries.” And she wanted to see his domain.

He waved MacIntyre back, drew out her chair, then offered his arm. Delighted, she placed her hand on his sleeve, registering the steel beneath it, and allowed him to conduct her out of the dining room, across the front hall, down the corridor, and so to the library.

She hadn't lied; she did like libraries, and this one epitomized all she thought best in them—beauty, functionality, and comfort. The walls were lined with glass-fronted bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes; the lettering on the spines winked gold and silver, while the covers created a random patchwork of soothing colors. As in the rest of the house, golden oak prevailed. Spaced along one wall, three pairs of long velvet curtains, presently drawn against the night, testified to wide windows that during the day would let in plenty of light. She wondered what the windows overlooked; she hadn't yet ventured into the gardens at the sides and rear of the large house.

A fire burned cheerily in the large fireplace opposite the windows, the flames throwing golden light deep into the room.

The desk gracing one end of the room was larger, more ornately carved, and also showed more evidence of use than the one in the London house, its surface all but obliterated by papers of one description or another; legal papers, letters, orders, invoices—she glimpsed examples of them all as Dominic led her to one of the two armchairs angled toward the desk.

Twin lamps, one on either end of the desk, were already lit.

Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she sank into the chair and watched while he circled the desk. He bent, opened a drawer, pulled out a map, then walked back around the desk. Grasping a nearby side table, he drew it between the armchairs, sat in the other chair, and spread the map out so they both could see. “This is our route—from Edinburgh via the ferry across the firth and on to Perth, then via Pitlochry, Drumochter, and Kingussie to Inverness. From there, we head west, through Eskdale and Strathglass. Cannich is the last town of any description before we reach Loch Beinn a'Mheadhoin and the castle.”

Dominic sat back and gave her time to familiarize herself with the route. When she looked up, he caught her gaze. “You said you ride well, but how well? Be honest—this is important. I can't organize a mount for you if I don't know your ability in the saddle, and once north of Edinburgh, the odds of finding a decent replacement are next to none.”

The look she bent on him was exasperated. “I'm a Cynster. We all ride and ride well—it goes with the name.”

He held her gaze. “Eliza.”

She pulled a face. “She's the exception that proves the rule. Truly, I know of no other Cynster who isn't an excellent rider.”

He hesitated, then inclined his head. “Very well. I'll assume you'll at least be able to keep up with Brenda and Griswold—they're the slowest of our group, but they aren't slow.” He got the distinct impression that she bit her tongue, but after a second she nodded, and he went on, “Thankfully, that means we can ride the whole way, which will be faster—having to use a gig or curricle on those roads would slow us significantly.”

“You'll be hiring a horse for me from a stable here?”

He nodded.

“In that case, I want a mount at least fifteen hands high, sleek and nimble rather than overly muscled, and with some degree of spirit.” The gaze she leveled at him was serious and direct. “Given we need to ride fast, you won't be inclined to hire a slug, but do bear in mind that the fleeter the horse, the faster I'll go.”

She was lecturing him on horseflesh? “I'll bear your preferences in mind and see what I can find.”

“Good.” She looked back at the map. “Where are you planning to stop for the nights?”

“Perth, then Kingussie if at all possible, although reaching it within the day will be very hard riding, and then Inverness. From Inverness, it'll take us three to four hours to reach Cannich, and about an hour more to the castle. Naturally, that's dependent on the weather, but it seems to be holding—the roads should be dry.”

Angelica studied the map; when she set out on a journey, she liked knowing where she was heading. Dominic glanced at the papers on his desk, but remained in the chair, watching her.

Once she was satisfied she had a firm grasp of their geographical direction, she turned her mind to their personal direction. If he needed to work on his papers tonight, she should leave him to it, but having decided that they needed to move forward in the physical sense now, before they reached the castle, what was her best next move?

The answer seemed obvious.

Raising her gaze from the map, she met his eyes. “I believe I'll retire—none of us got all that much sleep over the past nights.” She rose.

As she'd expected, he got to his feet, too. He bent and moved the side table toward the desk, out of her way, then straightened with the partly folded map in his hands. The desk was behind him, the side table to one side.

She had to pass him to reach the door. She stepped forward, and paused. Close.

Tipping back her head, she met his eyes, smiled as if intending to wish him a good night. Instead, she stepped closer, reached a hand to his nape, and drew his head down as she stretched up to the very tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his.

She had an instant in which to savor his shock, then—

Fire
.

Heat erupted—between them, around them. Searing flame welled, swelled, then raged through her, through him, and burned.

And she was no longer kissing him—he was devouring her.

One large hand had speared into her hair, cradling her head and holding her to the kiss, holding her captive while his lips crushed hers in urgent, greedy, ravenous hunger.

The force of that unleashing transfixed her, caught and held her senses—as if he'd been waiting for this moment, anticipating and wanting, but had held back, just as she had.

Now all restraint was gone.

His tongue cruised the seam of her lips, blatantly tempting, aggressively challenging; instinctively, she parted them and felt novel pleasure surge as his tongue boldly thrust into her mouth and laid claim.

Hard and commanding, his lips moved on hers, supping, taking, hungrily savoring; his tongue caressed, explored, branded and incited, impressing stark passion and searing desire on her giddy senses, setting them and her wits spinning ever faster.

She might have been brazen in initiating the exchange, but there was nothing reluctant about his response. He kissed her like he wanted and intended to devour her inch by sensual inch. He could not have made that statement more clearly—more boldly, more ruthlessly—and while her heart sang, her body and her senses gloried.

His other hand had spread over the back of her waist, his touch a heated brand even through the silk of her gown. She felt him shift, moving them both, then the angle of the kiss changed to one less strained; some dim, distant, still lucid part of her mind realized he'd sat on the desk, reducing the difference in their heights and pulling her between his thighs.

Perfect,
her inner wanton purred. Now she could kiss him back, could with more firmness return his flagrant, diabolically sensual caresses. She might not have had much experience to call on, but if he could, then she could; taking that as her guide, she set about returning his every favor.

She remembered her hands; after that first moment, they'd fallen limp on his shoulders. Raising them, she speared her fingers into his black locks—and was momentarily distracted by the silky softness. She played, clutched, used her hold to press a boldly deliberate kiss on him, then she eased her grip and sent her hands wandering. Over his cheeks, fingertips lightly stroking down, learning. Down past his hard jaw and over his collar to sweep across the width of his shoulders, and savor.

Then he edged the kiss into new, deeper, more intimate territory, ruthlessly jerking her attention back to the increasingly heated communion of their mouths. She'd never kissed a man like this—had never known she could, never even guessed that a kiss, simple or otherwise, could descend into this, an exchange so laced with latent passion and desire that like ambrosia it addicted her, mind, body, and senses completely, and rendered anything else—all and everything else in the world—secondary, of little import.