Even knowing what she did, knowing he’d just more or less said he had no use for love, her heart skipped a little when he said “lass” in that low, intimate brogue of his. Marjorie climbed to her feet, resisting the urge to smooth her skirt. A lady did not show uncertainty, because a lady always knew the correct thing to do. And of course if he tried to kiss her again, the correct thing would be to slap him. Except that she wasn’t certain she wanted to slap him—and she couldn’t explain why, even to herself.
He stopped a foot in front of her, his gaze roving her face as if searching for… something. Truth? Trustworthiness? Interest? Desire? When he reached out to cup her cheek in his hand, she stopped breathing. He was a foot taller than she was, far stronger, and as long as he kept hold of those two keys he had complete control over her physically. It almost seemed to his credit that he hadn’t tried to do more than bellow at her—but this, the way he looked at her now, could be far more dangerous.
His mouth, warm and surprisingly sensuous for such a heathen, touched hers. It made her want to melt into him, to feel his strong, hard arms around her. This was so, so wrong, but it didn’t feel that way. And she could tell herself that perhaps, just perhaps, if he liked her enough he would realize the true best option was to let her go.
He put a hand on her shoulder, deepening the kiss as he trailed one finger along the conservative neckline of her gown. She should be scandalized; a proper lady would never allow such an intimate touch from a man, whether he’d declared that he meant to marry her or not. None of her instructors had ever been in this circumstance. Of that she was certain.
Still kissing her, still touching her in a way that made shivers chase each other down her spine, he hooked his fingers into the front of her dress—and slid out the folded note she’d stuffed there. At the same moment he took a long step backward.
“Give that back!” she demanded.Blast it all.He’d outmaneuvered her, and she’d fallen for it like some moonstruck nodcock. Marjorie stomped after him, only to be brought up short by the blasted chain.
And there he stood, just out of her reach, his unreadable gaze on her as he unfolded the missive. Then he looked down, his jaw visibly clenching. “Ye have an admirer, do ye?” he asked gruffly. “He’s eight years old, and ye’d try to turn him against his own family?”
“I would do no such thing,” she protested, even though she’d actually considered it. “And he would be very hurt to hear you say that.”
Graeme narrowed his eyes. “I dunnae need ye to tell me how to raise my brother. And since he says he wants to show ye how to fish in the river, I’m thinking ye told him to help ye escape.”
Thank goodness she hadn’t put any of that in writing. And really, all she’d suggested even aloud was that he ask if she could be unchained so she could reach the door and the writing table. “Nonsense!”
“Then why did ye hide it from me?”
“Because you’re an annoying, arrogant man and I didn’t feel like explaining myself to you.” She scowled. “But I promised not to get him into trouble, so look beneath the blank papers in the drawer.” She jabbed a finger at the small writing desk.
Even well out of her reach he backed toward the desk, as if he didn’t trust her enough to take his eyes off her. She, on the other hand, wanted a quiet moment or two to further contemplate that kiss. If it had been meant only as a distraction, Graeme Maxton was a consummate liar, because she hadn’t felt anything but curiosity and desire. Or perhaps that was just her—in which case she needed to stop it immediately.
“His note came first,” she said by way of explanation, as Maxton pulled the pages from the drawer. “And you might consider that I didn’t have to tell you anything about them.”
He glanced down at the notes, then pocketed all three of them. “I’ll give ye ten minutes to change oot of the dress and toss it by the door.” With that he headed out.
“I… I can’t reach the night rail,” she said, wishing it didn’t sound like an excuse to have him stay.
With another sharp look at her he altered course for the wardrobe and pulled the night rail off its shelf. Then he bunched it in his hands and lifted it to his face, and breathed in.
Good heavens.Shivers started along her arms all over again. “That is not appropriate, sir,” she managed, her cheeks heating.
“Lemons,” he said, lifting his head again.
“I put sliced lemons in my bath when I can,” she stated. “I like the smell of it in my hair.”
“So do I.” He walked forward and handed her the garment, their fingers brushing as he did so. “I’ll have another bath drawn fer ye in the morning. I dunnae promise ye lemons.”
Marjorie lifted her chin. “I didn’t ask for any.”
“I know.”
Chapter Seven
Graeme walked outside to a light snow flurry and the gloom of predawn. His heavy coat kept the cold at bay, but it did nothing for the darkness. The lass would be awake in an hour or two and expecting breakfast and a bath, though, so he needed to see to his errands while he could and before the next disaster came calling.
As Johnny saddled Clootie for him, he leaned against the wall of the stable and pulled her letter from his pocket again. It wasn’t addressed to him, and she’d certainly meant it to draw Connell into a friendship. Whatever her motives, though, something about it fascinated him.
It might have been the neat, lovely printing—no doubt simplified for Connell’s benefit. “Dear Connell,” he read to himself, for the fourth or fifth time, “Thank you so much for your letter. Of course I accept your apology; I have an older brother, too, and as a young girl I followed him everywhere—and frequently got into trouble because of him.”
The brother she referred to was of course the Duke of Lattimer, the reason for all this bloody mess. Lucifer’s balls, she was clever, pointing out to Connell that the lad and the duke had common ground. Enough to launch a hundred questions about why the Maxwell had declared Lattimer an enemy, at the least. Thank Lucifer he’d intercepted the letter before the duckling could get hold of it.
“I would love to see your baby rabbits. Are they as soft and warm as I imagine?” she went on, of course admiring Connell’s fondness for young animals. “And you must tell me about your foxes! Do they get along with the rabbits? As I cannot visit them at the moment, perhaps you could draw me a sketch of them. Also, when you write me back, please tell me the name of the river I can see from my window. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite as lovely. Your friend, Ree Forrester.”
So she was after clues about where she was, however prettily she asked for them. He could hear her voice as he read, the smooth words and cultured accent. Aye, she knew how to use words, flinging them about sharp as a blade, even when he had an eye and an ear out for trouble from her. And mayhap some of what she said made sense, but it all came down to trust—and he didn’t trust her.
