The Devil Wears Plaid (23 page)

E
MMA SPUN AROUND, CLAPPING
a hand over her mouth.

Jamie stood in front of the marble hearth, dressed all in black and framed by the firelight.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her heart leaping with joy. “How did you get in?”

“If a Sinclair knows how to sneak out of a castle,” he said solemnly, “he also knows how to sneak in.”

“The tunnel in the dungeons,” she breathed.

“Aye.” He touched a finger to his lips. “’Tis a secret passed down through generations of Sinclairs just in case one of us might want to sneak into the castle in the dead of night to steal a rare volume of Descartes, slit some throats… or ravish some bonny Hepburn lass.”

His words sent a delightful little shiver of anticipation coursing through her. She lifted her chin, giving him an imperious look. “You almost tarried too long. I’m to be wed on the morrow, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. To a shriveled-up auld goat.” He crossed to her side, reaching out to twine one of her unbound curls around his finger as if he could no longer resist the temptation to touch her. “All the more reason you might want one night with a real mon in your bed.”

“Are you volunteering your services?”

“I am. But I’m afraid I’m just a penniless Highland lad. I can’t give you gems or furs or gold.”

“Then what can you give me?”

“This,” he whispered, lowering his lips to hers for a long, lingering kiss. “And this.” He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her close, letting her feel every extraordinary inch of his hunger for her against the softness of her belly.

Emma twined her arms around his neck, melting into his kiss, melting into his arms.

He might claim he wasn’t willing to follow the same path his parents had trod, yet he was risking everything, including his very life, by coming to her. And even though it could spoil all their schemes and cost them both dearly, she didn’t have the heart—or the will—to send him away.

Without breaking the tender bond their mouths had forged, Jamie swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, still taking care to guard her shoulder. As he laid her beneath him, her curls spilled over the satin coverlet in a river of copper.

She had never felt more beautiful or more like a bride as she did in that moment. She understood how Jamie’s mother must have felt when she had first encountered his father in that secluded wood; understood what had driven them to run away, leaving behind everything they held dear so they could embrace a love so strong and enduring it had created the man who was gazing down at her in the firelight, his eyes shadowed by a desire so desperate he was willing to risk his life—if not his heart—to slake it.

She sifted her fingers through the thick sable of his hair and tugged his delectable mouth back down to hers, inviting him to satisfy that desire, inviting him to satisfy her.

He wasted no time in accepting her invitation. Her nightdress seemed to dissolve beneath the clever machinations of his fingers, shimmering away into thin air and leaving her naked beneath him. He took pity on her own clumsy efforts to make his garments go away and deftly disrobed between tantalizing caresses and deep, drugging kisses. Soon their bodies were straining as eagerly as their mouths toward the moment when they could be united as one.

But just when Emma thought that moment had come, he went sliding down, down, down in the firelight. His big hands gently parted her thighs, exposing the very heart of her to his hungry gaze. Overcome by a sudden wave of shyness, she tried to wiggle out
of his grasp. But he refused to allow it, using his superior strength to gently but firmly hold her fast.

Then he bowed his head and touched the very tip of his tongue to her just as he had touched it to her nipple that night in the ruins of the abbey.

If that had been bliss, then this was indescribable, a pleasure beyond any she had ever dreamed or imagined. Her hands fisted in the bedclothes, desperately seeking any purchase in a world tilting madly on its axis. Soon she was writhing beneath the tender lash of his tongue, his name an endless litany on her lips.

He knew she was going to come before she did. He reached up and gently covered her mouth with his hand, muffling her cry of ecstasy before it could wake the entire castle. Then his mouth was on hers again, forcing an intoxicating taste of her own pleasure on her as he drove himself up and into her with a tender savagery that left her gasping for breath.

He seemed determined to prove that no other strapping younger lover could vie for her heart with the same expertise or stamina. It was as if he intended to offer her a lifetime of lovemaking in one night, as if his body had been created for one purpose and one purpose only—to pleasure her.

He covered her, he stole behind her like a thief in the night and after a very long time he lay beneath her while she straddled him, his powerful hips rocking in a rhythm more irresistible and hypnotic than
the tide rolling into the shore. Just when that tide was on the verge of pulling her under, into a sea of unspeakable bliss, he rolled again, taking her with him.

Emma could only cling helplessly to his shoulders as he took her with long, deep strokes, making her his again and again until she knew that no matter how far or how long she traveled in this world, she would always belong to him. By that time she was so sensitive to his touch that all it took was the merest brush of his fingertips to jolt her into another spasm of ecstasy.

His powerful body began to shudder. Emma expected him to withdraw, leaving her bereft, but he only surged deeper, clenching his teeth against a ragged groan. As he spilled his seed at the very mouth of her womb, she arched off the bed in a paroxysm of rapture, her secret muscles clenching and unclenching as if determined to milk every last drop of pleasure from Jamie’s magnificent body.

As those last lingering tremors of bliss ravished her sated flesh, she collapsed into the feather mattress, beset by a languor so dark and deep she didn’t know if she would ever find the strength to stir again.

“Oh, Jamie,” she whispered without opening his eyes. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

“Shhh,” he murmured, brushing his lips over hers with a possessive tenderness that made her want to weep. “Sleep, angel. Dream.”

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

Realizing that she must have dozed off, she struggled to her elbows, shaking her hair out of her eyes. There was no sign that Jamie had even been there. If not for the musky scent that clung to the bedclothes and the pleasurable tenderness between her thighs, she might have wondered if she
had
dreamed the whole thing.

Flopping back to the mattress, she blew an errant curl out of her eyes and glared up at the medallioned ceiling. Apparently, Jamie Sinclair hadn’t yet realized his days as a thief and a raider were done. He could no longer slip into a woman’s bedchamber to ravish her body—and steal her heart—without paying a very dear price indeed.

She turned her face to the window and the night beyond, gazing northward until the moon sank behind the mountain and her wedding eve turned into her wedding day.

E
MMA WAS SITTING AT
the dressing table in her bedchamber the next morning, studying the serene reflection of the woman in the oval mirror, when a knock sounded on the door. She had already dismissed a bevy of chattering maidservants from the room, needing a few minutes to compose herself before the wedding.

“Come in,” she called out, assuming it was a footman sent to tell her that her father was downstairs in the drawing room waiting to escort her to the abbey.

But when the door eased open, it was her mother who appeared in the mirror’s reflection. With her pale apricot hair, fair, freckled cheeks, and gentle blue eyes, Mariah Marlowe had once been as pretty as a pastel watercolor. But time and strain had faded her to a mere sketch of herself. In the past three years, as Emma’s father had turned increasingly to the bottle for comfort and less often to her, it seemed that even those lines were beginning to blur.

Her smile, however, had lost none of its charm. “You make a lovely bride,” she said, gliding over to kiss Emma on the cheek before settling herself on the end of the bed.

“Thank you, Mama.” Emma pivoted around on the brocaded stool to face her. “And how is Papa this morning?”

Despite the casually phrased question, they both knew what she was asking.

“Your father is fine. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that he had a rather difficult time after you were abducted. But he hasn’t touched a single drop of liquor since word came that we might have lost you forever.”

“Why? Did the earl run out of spirits?”

Emma half-expected her mother to leap to her
father’s defense, but she simply occupied her hands with smoothing her skirts. “I didn’t come here this morning to discuss your father, Emmaline. I came to discuss you.”

Emma sighed and rested her chin on her hand, bracing herself for the usual lecture about the responsibilities of being the eldest and the importance of devotion to duty, followed by the familiar assurance that they all appreciated the sacrifice she was making on their behalf.

“It occurred to me while you were gone that you may have wondered why I was so eager for you to accept the earl’s proposal in the first place.”

“Not really. I always knew why.” Emma struggled to keep the note of bitterness from her voice. “So Papa wouldn’t end up in the workhouse and the other girls might have a chance to find decent husbands of their own.”

“That’s what I might have led you to believe but in truth, I never wanted you to marry the earl for our benefit, but for your own.”

Emma straightened on the stool, frowning in confusion. “Just how could marrying a man old enough to be my great-grandfather work to my benefit?”

“I convinced myself that his wealth and power would somehow shield you from the slings and arrows of life.” Her mother shrugged. “Besides, I knew the man was ancient. How long could he possibly live?”

A startled laugh escaped Emma. She would have never expected her mother to echo the exact words that had gone through her own racing mind as she had stood before the altar with the earl the first time.

“Of course you would have to endure the unpleasant duty of presenting the man with an heir,” her mother admitted with a grimace, “but once the earl was gone, you wouldn’t have to answer to anyone. You could be mistress of your own fate.”

“Did it never occur to you that I might want to wed for other reasons?” Emma closed her eyes briefly, unable to look at the bed where her mother was sitting without remembering the shattering pleasure she and Jamie had shared there only a few hours before. “For love perhaps?”

Her mother looked her in the eye, her gaze as uncompromising as Emma had ever seen it. “I didn’t want you to make the same mistake I did. I married for love, you see, but ended up with neither money nor love, only regrets.” She rose from the bed and wandered restlessly to the window, where she stood with her back to Emma, gazing out over the mighty shadow of the mountain. “Your father and I have spent the past week not knowing if we would be attending your wedding or your burial. It gave us ample time for discussion. We’re both in agreement that we won’t force you to marry the earl against your wishes. Your father is downstairs at this very
moment, fully prepared to go to the earl and tell him that we’re calling off the engagement.”

“But what about the settlement?” Emma whispered, stunned nearly speechless by her mother’s words. “We both know Papa has already spent a large chunk of it to settle his gambling debts.”

Her mother turned to face her, her hands clasped in front of her. “We’re prepared to return the unused portion to the earl immediately and find a way to pay back every penny of the rest. Even if it means selling the property that has been in my family for two hundred years. If necessary, your sisters have even volunteered to go into some sort of service with one of the more wealthy families in the parish—as paid companions, perhaps, or even governesses.”

Emma knew it wouldn’t do to show up at her own wedding with a reddened nose, but she couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in her eyes. “They would do that? For me?”

Her mother nodded, then came rushing back to kneel by her side. She smoothed Emma’s hair with a trembling hand, her eyes beseeching. “It’s not too late, sweetheart. You don’t have to go through with this.”

Emma threw her arms around her mother and buried her face in the sweet-smelling crook of her neck. “Yes, Mama,” she whispered, smiling through her tears. “I do.”

*   *   *

G
OLDEN RAYS OF SUNLIGHT
streamed through the tall, arched windows of the abbey, bringing with them the hope of better days to come. The uncomfortable wooden pews were packed near to bursting with the earl’s neighbors and villagers from the nearest hamlet, all hastily gathered together to celebrate the safe return of their laird’s bride and his impending nuptials.

Many of them were curiosity seekers, eager to see how his young bride had fared after surviving such a dreadful ordeal. There had been much speculation—some of it quite lurid—about the various indignities she might have suffered at the hands of such a ruthless band of rogues. Some even whispered that the earl must be even more noble and selfless than they’d suspected if he was still willing to wed the lass after she’d spent even a night in the company of a strapping young brigand like Jamie Sinclair.

As his bride took her place before the altar, the whispers swelled to a steady murmur. Those in the back of the abbey craned their necks to get a better look at her.

She bore little resemblance to the terrified creature who had been carried away from that altar on the back of Jamie Sinclair’s horse. She held her
shoulders straight and her head high, betraying no hint of embarrassment or shame at what she might have endured at the hands of Sinclair and his men. Her skin was no longer as pale as alabaster but flushed with a healthy glow. A few shimmering copper tendrils had been allowed to escape from her elegant chignon to frame her freckled cheeks and gently brush her graceful nape. There was a ripe fullness to her lips and an alluring gleam in her eye that made more than one wife in the abbey pinch her husband to stop him from gawking.