But those lasses were Highlanders, accustomed to Highlands ways and content with their Highlands lives. Not a one of them had been the sister of a duke, a lass who’d already dined with more lords and ladies than he’d likely ever meet in his entire life. No, he wasn’t lowborn by any means, but as she’d said, being a viscount and the master of Garaidh nan Leòmhann didn’t give him much of a pedigree by English aristocratic standards.
“So ye’ll cooperate, then,” he said aloud, mostly because he’d begun to worry that she would be able to hear his cock creaking against his trouser seams in the silence. It was certainly bellowing loudly enough in his head, telling him to ignore the nonsense of kidnappings and marriage and politics and bend her over the worktable.
“Today, I’ll cooperate,” she agreed. “If you give me the key to that bedchamber. I won’t wake in the morning to find myself locked in again.” She held out her delicate, long-fingered hand, palm up.
“And tomorrow?” he asked. “I’ll nae have ye running oot the door fer soldiers to come arrest my brothers.”
“I already told you that I would send any soldiers I might find afteryou. I give you my word about that. But I’m certainly not going to otherwise promise to behave myself to your satisfaction.”
Warmth coursed beneath his skin, and he couldn’t have helped grinning even if he’d wanted to. “I’d prefer if ye didnae behave yerself, Ree, so I dunnae mean to ask ye to do so.”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she retorted. “I meant I will not obey your ridiculous commands.”
Graeme took a long step closer to her. “I’d rather ye did mean it the other way, but I’ll make do fer now.” Taking the old iron key from his coat pocket, he placed it onto her palm and then closed his fingers around her hand. “Ye’re still mine, ye ken,” he murmured.
Her sky-blue gaze locked with his. “I beg your pardon?”
“My prisoner,” he clarified though that hadn’t been at all what he meant.
The last woman in the world he should be lusting after, the last woman in the world who would have any reason to look at him with anything but fear and contempt. Disaster waited directly ahead of him, and as little as he could afford more trouble, he had no intention of moving aside. It wasn’t love, he reminded himself, because he was fairly certain love was loftier than the carnal thoughts running through his head. No hearts, no broken hearts, and none of the damned, selfish tragedy that came with that.
“Laird Maxton,” Cowen’s voice came from behind him, and he immediately released Marjorie’s hand and stepped back.
“What is it?” he asked, his gaze still on her.
“Father Michael’s here,” the butler returned. “He spied Sir Hamish and yer uncle and he’s already blessed himself twice and invited himself to luncheon.”
The pastor had a better sense of smell than a deerhound, when it came to opportunity. Clenching his jaw, Graeme nodded. “Set a place fer him.”
“Aye. I apologize fer nae tripping him at the front door, but I dunnae attend church as often as I should, anyway.”
“It’s fine, Cowen. Go see to it.”
This complicated things even further. Having Hamish Paulk remaining in the area should have been trouble enough. But Father Michael appeared at the door almost daily with the fair on the way, and once he met the lads’ tutor he would expect to see her… tutoring. Locking Marjorie up again after this visit would now be impossible. She’d bloody well outmaneuvered him for now, but he still had a special marriage license heading this way. If everything else fell apart, he could still fall back on that.
Graeme needed her cooperation not just through luncheon, but for the remainder of her stay. In addition to that, Father Michael was a notorious gossip. Once he knew about Marjorie Giswell, everyone would know. The Giswell woman at the inn would know—and once she realized who’d done the kidnapping, she would be off to Lattimer to inform the duke.
The sins piling up on his doorstep looked to be higher than the winter snow. Even so, he had every intention of keeping his greatest temptation as close to him as he could manage, whether she had any strategic value, or not.
***
Her eyes beginning to droop closed, Hortensia Giswell poured herself a last cup of tea and sent the driver and footman upstairs to the room they’d been sharing. As loath as she was to admit defeat, she had to face the fact that Lady Marjorie had been missing for over four days now. What had begun as a hopeful, possibly heroic attempt to find her was now on the verge of becoming a self-serving, irresponsible attempt to save her own employment and reputation. And if something happened now, she wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Tomorrow. First thing in the morning she would hire a horse for Wolstanton and send the coach driver six hours north to Lattimer Castle. By midnight the duke would be here, and he and his men would hopefully find more cooperation than she had. Of course Gabriel Forrester was English, as well, but he nevertheless wielded a great deal of power, and he could offer a great deal more money, or threats if that proved necessary, for his sister’s safe return.
The inn door opened, but the hopeful accelerated heartbeat that had been accompanying that sound for the first two days had given up the effort. An older man in a plain brown coat and the red, green, and black plaid of clan Maxwell on his kilt strolled inside to take a look about the nearly empty common room. Apparently seeing no one he knew, the old fellow turned around and left again.
She wasn’t surprised to see him go. From the complaints of the other patrons, the beer and spirits at the Cracked Hearth got weaker as the night progressed. Even Robert the blacksmith had kissed her hand, declared that he would rather drink cow piss than more of the inn’s swill, and departed some thirty minutes ago.
Stifling a tired groan, she stood and sent Ranald the innkeeper a nod, then slowly climbed the stairs to the private rooms on the first floor. Because of her searches she was coming to know the territory for several miles around the inn fairly well, not that it had done her any good. Today, at least, she would have called the land that spanned the river Douchary and its surroundings lovely, if it hadn’t been so empty of Lady Marjorie. By the time she left here, she imagined she would detest every bit of the Highlands as the location of her latest, greatest, and last failure, but for the moment she could still admire parts of it.
Once inside the small, plain room she shut the door and then sat on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes and stockings. As she straightened, the bed creaked behind her. For a startled, fleeting second she thought Sir Robert had decided to try to tempt her into sin. Then, before she could do more than gasp, a cloth went around her mouth and pulled tight as something smelly and heavy dropped over her head.
No!She swung backward with an elbow and struck something solid, eliciting a pained grunt.Ha!
Despicable scoundrels, attacking virtuous women! Was this what had happened to Lady Marjorie? Oh, the horror! Hortensia rolled sideways on the bed, kicking as she went.
“Ouch,” a low male voice muttered. “Ye didnae say she was a fighter.”
