The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (8 page)

Devil looked at his wife, then covered her hand on his sleeve with one of his. “If this is a kidnapping, then one way or another, we'll know by midmorning.”

“M
mm . . .” Mirabelle Guisachan, Countess of Glencrae, lolled on her side, pleasantly exhausted, and gave thanks, yet again, for her lusty lover.

Of course, he was a good few years younger than she, but she'd kept her figure and her skin was still fine, especially when viewed in flickering firelight, the only way she allowed him to see her unclothed. As he generally only visited her after midnight, that was easy enough to arrange.

He lay on his back on the bed behind her, getting his breath. One large hand idly stroked her naked flank. “Have you had any word from Glencrae?”

When she didn't respond—she didn't want to think of her son, a sure way to destroy her pleasant mood—her lover came up on his elbow and pressed a heated, teasing kiss to her bare shoulder while his hand caressed the lush curves of her derriere. “Is he any closer to getting you your revenge?”

“No . . . well, perhaps he is. I don't know. I told you he left for London two weeks ago.”

“But what do you think of his chances given there's only one sister left unclaimed?”

“Actually, that fact—that she
is
his last chance—seems to have finally spurred him to take a personal interest in my cause.” Men always liked to have their egos stroked, so she half turned and murmured, “But I'll never forget that it was you who reminded me of the goblet. If you hadn't, I doubt I would ever have found a way to bend Dominic to my will . . . and, dearest”—raising a hand, she caressed her lover's lean cheek, then stretched up and placed a kiss on the curve of his jaw—“I
do
so like forcing that intractable son of mine to do my bidding.” Smiling into her lover's eyes, she purred, “Rest assured I'll never forget your part in gaining me the revenge I so deserve. I will, I suspect, be forever in your debt.”

Her lover smiled. Knowing his face was in shadow, he didn't bother making the gesture reach his eyes. Yes, he'd reminded Mirabelle of the goblet her son had had in his custody, and he'd urged her to take it, but he'd wanted the blessed thing himself . . .

He forced the hand that had been fisting at her hip to relax, forced himself to stroke her ageing skin. She'd been easy to seduce, easy to bend to his purpose, but then she'd seized on the goblet as a way to force Dominic to enact her ridiculous revenge, and had hidden the damned thing.

Bending his head, he cruised his lips over the curve of her shoulder. “You never did tell me where you've hidden the goblet. Are you sure it's safe from his people?”

She grinned. “Trust me, it's hidden in a place where no one will ever think to look. They've ransacked the castle, searched high and low, and haven't even come close.”

His lips tightened. She had, for some reason, been utterly resistant to his every approach to learn where the goblet was. His hours in the castle were too short, and too fraught with the danger of exposure, for him to mount any search of his own; he couldn't afford for any of Dominic's loyal clan to see him within the walls.

“Still,” she murmured, her mind drifting down its own path, “if he doesn't get me the revenge I want—doesn't bring me one of Celia's daughters and ruin her—then I will ruin him.” Her voice strengthened. “Him and his precious clan. I will
laugh
as they're turned out of this place and driven from this valley.”

Her words dripped vicious vindictiveness like venom.

Which, he had to admit, suited him well enough. He couldn't imagine the Cynsters wouldn't guard their daughters well. Perhaps they might even catch Dominic and string him up, plunging Clan Guisachan into abject disgrace. That prospect was one he could savor. Who knew? Mirabelle's crazy scheme for vengeance might spell disaster for Dominic and his clan on a scale even more dramatic than he himself had planned.

Regardless, when, as seemed highly likely, Dominic failed in his bid to kidnap the last of Celia Cynster's daughters and bring her all the way north to the castle, then, courtesy of Mirabelle's vindictive streak, her lover would gain all he'd ever sought in seducing her in the first place.

He would see Clan Guisachan evicted from this place, from all the fertile fields they currently possessed, from their ownership of the teeming loch and the surrounding richly timbered forests. He would see them leave, and be there, poised and ready to seize their lands.

And he would see Dominic Lachlan Guisachan devastated, derided, and left a broken man.

Slumping back in the bed, Mirabelle's lover draped one arm over her and let himself relax. With his ultimate goal all but assured, he could afford to be patient and let the silly bitch use the goblet to pursue her ludicrous revenge.

Chapter Four

I
n the breakfast parlor the next morning, Dominic sat and worked his way through his usual hearty meal, and brooded on why he didn't feel happy, or at the very least content.

By any standards, last night had been a coup. He'd gone to the soiree expecting to do no more than observe Angelica; this morning, she was under his roof, and had agreed to his bargain, the critical first part of it at least, and once she climbed down off whatever high horse she was on, she would see the sense in the rest and agree to that, too.

He should be ecstatic, or at least ecstatically relieved. Instead, he was unsettled, somehow unsatisfied.

“Good morning.”

He looked up and watched the source of his disquiet glide into the room. She'd attempted to restrain the red-gold silk of her hair in a neat bun, but tendrils had already escaped to lick like tiny, gilded flames about her forehead, cheeks, and alabaster throat. She was, perforce, wearing the silk gown she'd worn to the soiree; the blue-green shade suited her, perfectly framing her creamy skin. Much more of the latter was visible this morning; she'd left off the lacy neckpiece that, last night, had filled in the gown's scooped neckline.

The result was potently distracting, yet, as had happened the previous evening when he'd first seen her across the Cavendish House salon, it was the way she moved that transfixed his senses.

After glancing at him, she'd halted and looked around the room. Completing her survey, she smiled at Mulley as he hurried to draw out the chair at the opposite end of the table. With an effortless, intensely feminine grace, sleek, subtle curves shifting beneath the silk gown, head held proudly, her very posture, her every gliding stride ruthlessly holding his awareness, she walked to the chair and sat down.

He was a natural hunter, born and bred to stalk, to circle, to study his prey with cold calculation until he knew just how to bring it down. It wasn't only game he hunted in that fashion, with that same cool deliberation.

The way she moved brought his hunter's instincts roaring to life, and locked them on her.

She picked up her napkin, shook it out, and laid it in her lap.

He breathed in, slow and deep, and seized the moment to reaffirm his previous assessment. By any man's judgment, she qualified as
fair,
using the word in all its romantic glory. Her skin was flawless, a milky alabaster, her cheeks tinted the faintest rose. Every line of her face, every feature, from her pale forehead, delicately arched brown brows, her large, lushly fringed green-flecked golden eyes, her straight little nose, her lips, the upper provocatively bowed, the lower lusciously full, to her firm, rounded chin, might have been drawn by a master artist intent on conveying the elemental female—graceful, elegant, delicate, yet intensely feminine, vital and alive.

She was shorter than her sisters, but with her burnished copper hair an all but living flame added to the impression of sheer feminine force she projected, her lack of inches barely registered.

No one viewing her would imagine she was mild. Meek didn't even enter her equation.

Passionate did. Also willful. Expensive, too, but that didn't concern him.

Finally looking up the long table at him, she arched a brow. “I take it this house isn't normally kept staffed.”

Her voice was low-pitched for a woman, faintly husky—one tone away from sultry; another aspect of her that stirred him regardless of any intent on her part. “No. It was shut up when my father retreated from London and hasn't been opened since.”

“You didn't use it while you were here?”

“It's a trifle large for a bachelor's abode.” Before she could ask, he went on, “I had lodgings in Duke Street during those years.”

He studied her face, then returned his gaze to her eyes; they appeared brighter, her gaze more definite and assured than it had last night. “I take it you haven't changed your mind.”

“No, I haven't. I did tell you I wouldn't.”

Mulley had left the room; seizing the moment, Dominic asked, “Not even about accepting my offer?”

“Especially not about that.”

Mulley came back in. Dominic subsided, watching as his majordomo presented her with a rack of toast.

“As per your request, miss. Just out of the oven, so they're a wee bit hot.”

Angelica smiled. “Thank you, Mulley. And my compliments to Brenda, too.”

Mulley blinked, surprised but pleased that she'd known his name. She'd grilled Brenda about the household that morning, and later the maid had asked what she'd fancied for breakfast so it could be made ready.

After making sure the butter and strawberry jam were within her reach, Mulley said, “The teapot will be here momentarily, miss.”

“Lovely.” Angelica helped herself to a thick slice of toast from the silver rack that needed a tad more polishing. Rather like the room in which they sat. Although a nice size for a breakfast parlor, with morning sunlight streaming in through windows overlooking an overgrown garden, while someone had made an effort to make the room habitable, cobwebs still hung in the corners and dust lingered in the air and in the crevices of the ornate sideboard.

The table, however, had been thoroughly cleaned and polished, and laid with crisp new linen, while the crockery was an exquisite Sèvres with which no one could find fault.

Slathering her toast with jam, she reviewed her plans. Other than writing to her parents, she'd decided today would be a fact-finding day. She needed to learn as much as she could about Glencrae-Debenham-Dominic, in all his incarnations, and they needed to work out the next stages of his plan.

Brenda appeared at her elbow with the teapot. Mulley was hovering by the sideboard.

Mouth full, Angelica smiled her thanks and relieved Brenda of the pot. As she poured, from the corner of her eye she saw Dominic direct a look at Mulley, who, somewhat reluctantly, left the room, taking Brenda with him.

Dominic transferred his gaze to the confounding female at the other end of the table—the one he was committed to marrying, regardless of her present equivocal stance. As he watched, she took a sip of her tea, then, setting down the cup, lifted her slice of toast and took a neat bite. A tiny globule of jam decorated the corner of her lush lips; with one fingertip, she caught it, then stuck out her tongue and licked the sweetness from her finger. Slowly, as if relishing the taste . . . then she leveled her bright green-gold gaze at him and arched one delicate brow.

His face he could control. The rest of him was less manageable. Resisting the urge to shift in his chair, he forced himself to remain absolutely still, unmoved and unmoving.

He had no intention of playing such games with her, not until she agreed to their marriage, and perhaps not even then. Ladies like her needed no encouragement to use their wiles; he had no doubt that, inexperienced or not, she would attempt to wrap him around her little finger. She wouldn't succeed, but she would try; he suspected that instinct ran in her blood, just as somewhat different instincts ran in his. He hadn't forgotten that she hadn't explained
why
she'd decided to, by her own admission, hunt him last night. For some reason, she'd set her sights on him; experienced as he was, he fully intended to use that—whatever had sparked her interest, her agenda, with respect to him—to his own ends.

Ultimately, she would marry him; neither his honor nor hers would allow any other outcome. In reality, the only question remaining was when she would deign to agree.

Holding her gaze, he lifted his coffee cup, sipped, then lowered the cup.

Before he could speak, she waved her toast. “One thing that's puzzling me—you said you hadn't expected to kidnap me last night, but why, then, was your carriage in the alley, waiting?”

It took him an instant to shift mental tracks; by the time he realized that was precisely why she'd asked, he already had. He inwardly sighed; dealing with her clearly wasn't going to get easier. “Because I'm not as reckless as you imagine. I didn't know whether your brothers or cousins would attend the event as guards. If they had, I would have slipped away before they caught sight of me—having my carriage in the alley gave me an extra escape route. While as Debenham I might have been safe from the scrutiny of the rest of the ton, from them? Alerting any of them to the identity of a man even
like
the laird they were seeking wasn't part of my plan.”

She swallowed, nodded. “Very wise. If they'd set eyes on you, they would have asked questions. Pointed, pushy questions, and they wouldn't have let be until they knew every last little thing about you.”

“Indeed, but as I've successfully avoided their attention while managing to recruit you to my cause, perhaps we can address more pertinent issues. Such as”—he captured her gaze—“that the journey from here to the castle takes at minimum seven days. I've sent my coachman and groom to scout out your family's response to your disappearance—as I'm sure they'll be watching the roads north, we won't be able to leave immediately, certainly not today. You will, consequently, be in my company, living under my protection, for several weeks at least before I'm likely to regain the goblet. Before, according to our revised bargain, you will make your decision whether or not to accept my offer of marriage.”

He paused, but could read nothing in the politely interested face she showed him. He went on, “As per our bargain, when you make that decision, the choice of where and when we wed will, naturally, be yours.” Holding her gaze, he asked, “Given the lengthy time in which, as matters currently stand, you will not have the protection of my name, and that every day of that time will carry the risk of discovery, of exposure in ways that your family might not be able to manage and suppress, are you sure you don't wish to reconsider the timing of your decision?”

She frowned.

Before she could speak, he went on, “For instance, if you came to a decision today, or even tomorrow, then we could significantly reduce the risk to your reputation by marrying here, in town, before we start our journey north.”

Her eyes had widened; she looked faintly shocked. “No. Oh, no.” Lips and chin firming, she vehemently shook her head. “Absolutely not.” Over the length of the table, her green-gold eyes flashed; lowering her teacup, she narrowed them at him. “
Should
I decide to become your countess, our wedding will occur once this matter is settled, once you've handed the goblet to those bankers and reclaimed full command of all that is yours, castle and estate. The ceremony will, indeed, be held here in London. It will be a huge, lavish, ton affair, and, I promise you”—she flashed him a sharply edged smile—“it will be lauded as the wedding of the year.”

He kept his gaze steady, refused to react when she arched both brows at him, inviting his comment. She knew—of course she did—that what she'd just described ranked among his worst nightmares . . . and that he had no choice but to agree.

She wasn't bluffing, and he got the distinct impression that in breaking the news as she had, she was paying him back . . . perhaps for wrapping her in that blanket.

And, of course, she wasn't going to let him walk away from the exchange without acknowledging defeat; her eyes locked on his, she was waiting . . .

Stiffly, he inclined his head. “As you wish. Just remember I made the suggestion.”

She merely smiled and resumed sipping her tea.

He studied her, once again assessing her, as he did most people in his life, working out how they thought, how to control them. At one level or another, he managed most of those around him; learning the ways was ingrained. With her, he'd expected to be dealing with a flighty flibbertigibbet, temperamental and spoiled, someone easy to get to know, to predict, easy to manipulate. Instead, he was looking at a woman unlike any he'd previously met, and he'd yet to gain so much as an inkling of how to manage her. He had no idea what was in her mind, what was driving her, what she sought in her dealings with him. What she ultimately wanted from him.

And she'd already laid her hands on his straightforward bargain and twisted it into something convoluted, something he no longer controlled. More than anything else, he didn't approve of that.

If she'd been any other woman, he might have decided she was too difficult, too potentially resistant to settling under his reins, and walked away.

He couldn't walk away from her.

His gaze slid from her face, down over the creamy flesh exposed by the lack of her neckpiece. “What happened to the rest of your gown?”

She glanced down at the mounds now on display above the gown's scooped neckline. “My fichu? It was terribly crushed—I gave it to Brenda to wash and iron.”

Her breasts had to be the same as they'd been last night, but without the lacy covering they were a lot more . . . evident. He could also now see the fine chain of gold links and amethyst beads that circled her slender neck, a pink stone pendant depending from it. The tip of the pendant dangled in the shadowed valley between her breasts, drawing his eye . . .

Mentally, he shook himself, then gave in to the urge to shift to a more comfortable position in his chair.

Munching the last morsel of her toast, Angelica reached for her teacup, congratulating herself for having listened to the instinct that had prompted her to rescript their bargain. The more she learned of Dominic Guisachan, the more certain she grew that bringing him to his knees in the appropriate way wasn't going to be any simple matter. His resistance was a palpable thing, etched in every implacable line of his handsome face. While her determination to make him fall in love with her had only strengthened, trying to do so
after
she'd agreed to be his wife would never work. Yet as long as she continued to withhold her agreement, he would, as he'd just demonstrated, work to gain it.