The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (20 page)

This—what they shared, what was welling and swelling and burgeoning between them—was all that mattered.

This, and the conflagration spreading like wildfire beneath their skins.

Distantly she wondered whether it was entirely her imagination that beneath her fichu, the necklace burned hot, and the pendant between her breasts grew heavy.

Dominic hadn't seen the kiss coming, but regardless, not even in his wildest and most wary dreams had he ever considered that she—with just one kiss—could undo the control he'd spent the last decade and more perfecting. But the first touch of her lips had struck straight through his defenses, had connected directly to that inner self he normally kept well leashed, and tripped the lock. And the hunter had responded, shouldering his rational and logical self aside in an overwhelming drive to capture and seize, seduce and possess.

Possession—possessing her—currently burned as the central critical focus in his mind.

He'd thought that she would run and save them both, but no. Far from being sensibly frightened by the raw power of the passion they'd between them evoked, the witless wanton was urging him on, as if she couldn't wait to lie spread beneath him.

If neither of them came to their senses soon, she would, most likely on his desk.

The thought made him groan, the sound trapped in the kiss.

She heard, and only kissed him even more seductively.

When had angel transformed into siren?

Relegated, as it were, to a corner of his brain, he was reduced to battling to regain his own reins.

The taste of her—sugar and spice had never been so nice—didn't help.

The warmth of her body, lithe and elementally feminine, pressed flagrantly to his helped even less.

As for those tracing, tantalizing touches that laced fire over his skin . . .

For long moments, the battle hung in the balance; his lips and tongue engaged with hers, his senses ravenous for more of her in whatever way more might come, he feared he wouldn't win—wouldn't be able to draw back before . . .

He dragged in a breath, searched desperately through his mind and hauled two images to the fore. Bryce and Gavin in one, the castle and his clan in the other.

And he was suddenly in control again.

Able to block out the compulsive desire thudding in his veins and ease back from the kiss, finally to break it.

He raised his head. His breathing ragged, he stared into her face.

Waited to see what she would do, how she would react; he honestly had no idea.

Her lids slowly rose, revealing emerald eyes glittering with gold. Her gaze steady, she looked into his eyes, searching them as he searched hers.

Then her lips, swollen and slick, gently curved.

“I'll leave you to finish with your papers.” Her voice was low and husky. She held his gaze for a moment more, then stepped out of his slackened hold.

He straightened from the desk as she glided to the door.

Reaching it, she glanced back at him. “I'll see you in the morning.”

She opened the door and stepped through, then gently closed it behind her.

Leaving him standing, stiff and hard in every possible way, staring at the door—and fighting another battle not to follow.

That there had been no further sirenlike lure embedded in her parting words was quite possibly the only reason he won.

Jaw clenching, he finally managed to get his feet to move and carry him around the desk. Easing down into his chair, he stared at the numerous papers awaiting his attention.

But all his senses, all of his mind, continued to be filled with her.

And the next step she'd clearly decided on.

He'd been waiting for her to declare her wishes, to issue an invitation impossible to misconstrue; he should have known she wouldn't do anything by half measures.

He would have liked nothing better than to oblige her, whenever and wherever she wished, but . . . if he'd needed any demonstration that his decision to defer broaching the physical aspect of their pending union until later, until after they'd reclaimed the goblet and saved the clan, was not just wise but now critical, she'd just provided it.

Fingers tapping the desk, he tried to think of a way around that conclusion—tried to convince himself his loss of control had only come about because she'd taken him by surprise. That next time would be different.

The truth was it might not be. How long it would take him to be certain of his control with her he couldn't claim to know.

What he did know was how deeply immersed in those heated moments, in her, he'd been. The Cynsters could have come tramping through his house and he wouldn't have noticed.

Long minutes ticked by, then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “Damned female!” She'd shattered his control once; he needed to remind himself why she couldn't be allowed to do so again.

Picking up his pen, jaw clenching, he dipped the nib in the inkwell and wrote down all the reasons he couldn't—shouldn't—bed his countess-to-be
yet
.

A
ngelica lay in the beautiful bed in the countess's bedroom and stared at the canopy overhead.

Self-control was a trait she understood well and applied constantly, yet she hadn't been in control through that kiss. Not that that concerned her in the least; it hadn't at the time, and didn't even now, but he . . . he hadn't been in control at the start, nor through most of that wild exchange, but he'd seized and exerted rigid and absolute control at the end.

And she wasn't so sure about that.

Especially given he'd let her go, had let her slip from his arms without any sign of wanting to prolong the moment.

“Hmm.” Fingers twisting the rose quartz pendant, she wondered what that meant.

Regardless, she was content with her progress. She hadn't intended matters to go even as far as they had, not tonight, and, indeed, she was grateful he had exerted control and drawn back—because she had a sneaking suspicion she never would have, and after three nights in a mail coach, she wasn't at her best, and she wanted to be at her best for her first time.

But now that she'd learned their route to the castle, how long the journey would take, and where they would be halting each night, she was even more convinced of the rightness of her decision. She needed to be established as his countess in all but name
before
they reached the castle. Once they walked into his keep, he and she both would focus on what they needed to do to get the goblet back—that was simply the way they were made; they both understood duty and the necessity of getting the most important things done first. Once at the castle, they wouldn't have time to establish the physical side of their union; if they didn't arrive with the connection already in place, neither of them would be able to draw on the inner strength she was convinced would flow from the consequent deepening of their regard.

From the love their lust would transmute to.

“So . . . tomorrow night.” Tomorrow night she would make her bid to storm his castle. Tonight's interlude had been highly encouraging; it had also shown her the way. “Surprise. If I don't want him shortchanging us, I'll need to shake the arrogant Earl of Glencrae to his very large boots.”

The idea made her smile. “Yet another challenge.”

Smile deepening, she turned on her side, snuggled down, and gave herself over to catching up on the sleep she'd recently missed, and the sleep she intended to miss the next night.

Chapter Ten

I
t was much easier to deal with passion and desire in the cold, hard light of morning.

Dominic waited until Angelica joined him at the breakfast table, then signaled MacIntyre to leave them.

Once the door had closed, he looked down the table; she was slathering jam on her customary slice of toast. He waited until, sensing his regard, she looked up, then he caught her gaze and evenly said, “Our exchange last night was unwise. As you instigated the incident, I'm not going to apologize, but regardless of my compliance last night, given how important reclaiming the goblet is to us and to so many others, it will be best if we avoid any further intimacies until after we've achieved that goal.”

She looked levelly at him; for a long moment, she didn't react. Then she blinked, and searched his face, as if examining not his words but him. “Was that your considered and previous opinion? Or is this declaration
because
of what occurred last night?”

He tried to keep his frown from his face, but didn't entirely succeed. “Last night provided a perfect demonstration of why we should keep a reasonable distance. I—we—cannot afford to be distracted from our currently overriding and critical purpose. Conversely, later, we'll have plenty of unencumbered time in which to give such matters our full and undivided attention.”

“Hmm.” She arched her brows. “There is that—the prospect of us applying our full and undivided attention to the matter.”

He set his jaw; now was not the time to respond to such taunting. He waited, but, her gaze now distant, she merely crunched her toast, apparently lost in considering . . . he didn't want to imagine what.

After another full minute of crunching, he gave in and prompted, “So you agree? No more intimacies until later—until after we have the goblet in our keeping.”

She blinked. “What?” She refocused on his face. “Oh. Well, if that's your declared position”—she shrugged—“far be it from me to argue.”

He looked at her, at her expression, which had remained devoid of any strong emotion. They might have been discussing some minor social issue for all that showed in her face.

And he had absolutely no idea what that meant.

Frustration rose; he couldn't be sure he'd successfully corralled her sirenlike tendencies, but he had no wish whatever to discuss the matter further, especially not with her. Pushing back his chair, he stood. “I have business in town, close by the castle. I'll see you at luncheon.”

“Yes, all right.” She peeked under the teapot lid. “Can you send MacIntyre back—I could do with more tea.”

Jaw clenched, he walked out of the room, entirely unsure who had won that round.

H
e next set eyes on his countess-to-be as he strode back from a discussion with his Edinburgh-based agent. She and Brenda were standing on the pavement of High Street opposite Tron Kirk, apparently examining the construction of its spire.

She spotted him as he crossed the street. Her face lit—and his lingering irritation over their morning's encounter fled. She had a smile like an angel and eyes to match, and she used both shamelessly, yet as long as it was him she was beaming at he felt it would be churlish to find fault.

On reflection, he'd concluded that their exchange over the breakfast table had been a clash without the clash; she hadn't specifically agreed with his stance, but at least she'd acknowledged she now knew what it was. What she did next . . . wasn't in his control. He'd have to wait and see, then counter whatever move she made, which, given he was highly experienced in that particular field and she wasn't, shouldn't prove too difficult.

Discussing whisky sales with his agent had had a calming effect.

“Have you completed your business?” Tipping up her red-gold head, now crowned in a fetching bonnet, she studied him as he halted beside her.

“Yes. I'm on my way to see about the horses. The stables I use are near the palace, so I can walk you home.” He glanced at her new finery, which included a finely wrought parasol, presently furled. “If, that is, you've finished shopping and are headed that way?” It was only eleven o'clock; if she wanted to shop more, she had time.

“Yes, indeed. I managed to find everything I needed. I sent the parcels to the house with a delivery boy so Brenda and I could stroll.”

“In that case . . .” Taking her hand, he wound her arm in his. She smiled and they set off, strolling through the crowds ebbing and flowing up and down the High Street.

She was wearing a new gown in fresh spring green that showcased her figure exceptionally well and complemented both her complexion and her stunning hair. He was aware that passersby were surreptitiously staring, but she seemed oblivious. While she clearly appreciated what beauty she had, and would, he felt sure, use it as a weapon against him or any other male in her sights, and although she clearly liked fashion and pretty things as much as the next lady, he was starting to suspect she had no truly vain bone in her body.

They'd crossed North Bridge Street and resumed their progress along High Street when she slowed, then glanced at him. “From what Eliza said, the house she was held in was somewhere near here.”

Looking into her eyes, he saw nothing more than her usual curiosity. “It's in Niddery Street.” He tipped his head across High Street. “Over there.”

Her eyes lit. “Can you show me?”

He didn't bother asking why; the answer would be that she simply wanted to know. He was starting to understand what drove her—not all that difficult, as it was similar to what, given the same situation, would have driven him.

They parted from Brenda, her presence unnecessary now that he was escorting Angelica. When they started down Niddery Street, Brenda walked on.

Halting opposite Number 23, Dominic tipped his head across the street. “That's it.”

Angelica studied the façade, remembered what she'd heard of Eliza's rescue. “Eliza and Jeremy told me about the . . . vaults—is that the term?”

Dominic nodded.

“Do you know where they are—these vaults?”

“Yes. But no, I won't take you to see them.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because you're not dressed for it.” When she blinked at him, he continued, “Did your sister and Mr. Carling tell you the story of the vaults?”

She shook her head.

He turned her back up the street. “They were originally the spaces between the foundations of the two bridges—South Bridge and North Bridge.”

She allowed him to lecture her about the vaults and their occupants, and why as a lady she couldn't visit, and pretended not to notice that he was leading her back into High Street and on toward his house; she hadn't expected him to take her into the vaults, but she'd wanted him to deny her something before she asked for what she really wanted.

When they reached the top of Vallen's Close, she halted and looked up at him. “Where are these stables you use, and is the massive chestnut you often ride there?”

He hesitated, then said, “The stables are on Watergate, and, yes, Hercules is there.”

She beamed. “In that case, I'll come with you—I've heard rather a lot about your very large horse.”

His eyes on hers, he hesitated some more, clearly uncertain over what she might be up to. Confident that nothing of her machinations, much less her intentions, showed in her face, she waited for him to probe. Instead, his lips firmed and, with a barely detectable air of resignation, he nodded. “Very well.”

Resettling her hand in the crook of his elbow, he turned and they continued along Cannongate to Watergate and the stables.

Dominic's suspicion that his not-so-innocent intended had some ulterior motive in wanting to accompany him to the stables proved well founded. After duly admiring Hercules, her interest clearly genuine, and simultaneously charming old Griggs, the stable master, she demanded that she choose her own horse.

Well, not demanded, precisely, but she insisted on both having her say and sticking to it in the teeth of his opposition, implied as well as stated, and with Griggs on her side, and Dominic not having any grounds on which to deny her horsemanship other than his own prejudices, he was driven back, step by dainty step, until he discovered himself with his back against the wall and not a leg to stand on.

Hands on his hips, he looked into her face, at her expression—one of unflinching and unwavering determination. Stubborn didn't come close to describing the resolution burning in her eyes.

He saw it all now, saw their excursion down Niddery Street for what it had truly been, but she'd backed him literally and metaphorically into a corner and left him with no choice. Lowering his head so his face was closer to hers, he gritted out, “All right.”

Triumph flashed through her eyes, but she was wise enough not to crow.

Keeping his voice low so Griggs, waiting further down the aisle in the expectation of making an unexpected sale, wouldn't hear, he said, “You can have the damned filly, but you will leave the negotiations to me.”

She beamed. “Thank you.” Stepping back, she left him with a clear path down the aisle.

He considered Griggs, then, without looking at Angelica, said, “Come with me, but don't say a word. However, make sure Griggs knows how much you've set your heart on that horse.”

She brightened even more and did as he asked, allowing him to use Griggs's dual wishes—to sell a horse that few riders could handle, and to ingratiate himself with the future Countess of Glencrae—to drive down the asking price on the spirited black filly his devilish angel wanted for her own.

After more than an hour of manipulation—hers, his, and Griggs's—as well as the inevitable bargaining, Dominic quit the stables with the horses for the following morning organized, a brilliantly beaming Angelica on his arm, and an unsettling suspicion that in warning him to be wary of her, his instincts had been nothing but right.

They reached Cannongate. He glanced down at her.

She looked up, studied his face, his eyes, then smiled—a much more unnerving, understanding smile. Then she patted his arm, looked ahead, and murmured, “Don't worry—you'll get used to it.”

He nearly snorted. He would have loved to deny the assertion categorically . . . except he had a sinking feeling she was right.

“T
he long and the short of it,” Devil said, “is that although we've located all the Scottish peers known to have been in London on and around the night of the Cavendish soiree, not one of them looks anything like the laird, nor is there any reason to suppose that kidnapping Angelica, let alone the other two, ever entered any of their heads. More, I had a chance to speak with Cavendish and managed to introduce the subject of Scottish peers—he assured me no such gentleman attended his wife's soiree.”

Vane grimaced. “That is indeed the sum of it.”

A brooding silence fell over the library where Devil, Vane, Demon, Gabriel, Breckenridge, Jeremy, and Martin had gathered to pool all they'd learned.

Alasdair, better known as Lucifer, Angelica's other brother, had only just returned to London after fetching his wife, Phyllida, and their tiny baby daughter, Amarantha, from Devon. Phyllida had not approved of not being in London to support Celia, and she had the added advantage of being able to distract her mother-in-law with her new grandchild. Lucifer now sat in a chair before the desk, fingers steepled before his face. “Perhaps we're approaching this from the wrong angle.”

“There's another?” Martin asked.

“Yes.” Lucifer spread his hands. “Who was it who inveigled Angelica out of Lady Cavendish's salon?” He looked around, but no one answered. “She wouldn't have gone off on her own. Even if we credit the substance of her notes, that she's gone to help a friend desperately in need, someone must have contacted her at the soiree—given her an urgent message, at least. Something of the sort, otherwise she wouldn't have left. And that someone doesn't have to be the laird—he might still be behind it, but as with Heather and Eliza, he might have used some pawn, in this case someone who had the entrée to Cavendish House.”

“You're right,” Gabriel said. “Whoever contacted Angelica and got her out of the house is the key. We leapt to conclusions about the laird and Scotland—which may yet be true—but we overlooked that.”

“Well,” Demon said, “it's harder to get at that point without talking to other guests who attended the soiree, which we didn't want to do because we don't want Angelica's disappearance made public.” He studied the others' faces, his gaze coming to rest on Martin's. “Are we going to risk it getting about that she's vanished, or . . . what?”

Martin considered, then grimly shook his head. “That's the one thing she asked in her note—that we conceal her absence from the ton. And our ladies have done a magnificent job doing just that. If we act to overturn their good work—”

“We'll never hear the end of it.” Devil grimaced.

“Wait a minute.” Vane sat forward. “There's one source of information that might prove sufficient for our needs.” He looked around the circle. “The ladies themselves. The grandes dames, too. Whoever was there that we can safely interrogate.”

Gabriel snorted. “
Safely
interrogate? With grandes dames, there's no such thing. However, I take your meaning—they might have seen something without realizing its significance, and it's perfectly possible that between them they might well know who Angelica spoke with just before she disappeared. So . . . Helena was there, Celia of course, and Louise must have been because Henrietta was there, too.”

“Who else?” Devil picked up a pen and started making a list.

In the end, the list numbered six. Devil agreed to speak with his mother, Helena, and his duchess, Honoria, both of whom had attended. Demon volunteered to pin down his mother, Horatia, and Gabriel similarly agreed to approach Celia. Lucifer was deputed to ask Louise and, if he could manage it, talk to Henrietta, too.