They’d already prepared a second bedchamber for another unwilling guest, nailing shut the windows with the nails they’d pried out of Marjorie’s, and attaching the chain to a much sturdier part of the bed—though how petite, proper Marjorie had managed to break that slat, he still had no idea. The woman was a marvel, a bolt of lightning hidden beneath a smooth, soft, delicate-looking exterior.
Finally he pulled the sack from his newest captive’s head, to be rewarded by a pair of narrowed green eyes attempting to stare him down. A heartbeat later they widened, and she mumbled something around the rag he’d tied over her mouth.
“Ye recognize me, then,” he said. “Good. I’m going to cut the ropes and pull off the gag, and ye’re going to behave yerself and keep yer voice doon or they’ll all go back on again. Nod if ye mean to go along with that.”
A few more indecipherable words—ones he imagined weren’t all that ladylike—followed that, and then she nodded. These proper women were a damned handful. Leaning in, he unknotted the rag and pulled it free.
“Where is Lady Marjorie?” she demanded.
“Ye’ll see her shortly. I give ye my word.”
“You also gave me your word that you would help me find her and see that no harm came to her.”
“So I have, and so I shall,” he returned, cutting through the last of the ropes that bound the blanket around her. “There’s water on the table, there, and all yer things from the inn are in yer trunk.” Graeme gestured at the heavy, leather-bound behemoth Cowen and Ross had carried upstairs.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, sir,” she said as he turned for the door, “but I believe it to be a dangerous one.”
He nodded. “Aye. That it is.”
And it would continue to be dangerous as long as he refused to return Marjorie Forrester to the glamorous life she’d lived before they met. But the idea of sending her back to where he’d have no reason or excuse ever to see her again troubled him even more than the realization that he would very likely be going to prison for keeping her.
Chapter Ten
Marjorie awoke to the sound of a soft knock on her door. For a moment she waited to hear the click of the key in the lock, before she remembered that she had the key. Sitting up, she reached beneath her pillow for the cold iron.
Pulling the coverlet around her shoulders and slipping into her walking shoes, she yawned and crossed the room to the door. “Who is it?” she asked, leaning against the hard oak.
“It’s me, lass,” Graeme’s low voice returned.
“What time is it?” The sky beyond the curtains remained black, as it would until nearly nine o’clock in the morning here, but it felt early. Very early.
“It’s half five. Open the door before I wake the rest of the hoose.”
“Come back at a more decent hour. A lady doesn’t receive callers before sunrise.” It was about time she was the one deciding when her door should open, and for whom. And the fact that she could practically hear his teeth clenching made even this small victory all the sweeter.
“I brought ye a gift,” he said after a moment.
“You may show it to me at breakfast.”
“It’s likely to spoil before then,” Graeme returned.
Spoil?Had he brought her an iced cream? Or a rare, night-blooming flower? Neither would be appropriate, considering that she was not his guest and he was not some potential beau, but the idea of him finding something she might enjoy and then not even waiting for dawn to bring it to her… Her pulse shivered a little. “Very well,” she said, trying to sound reluctant.
She turned the key and pulled open the door. And her heart skittered again. In the hallway’s dim lamplight a scruff of dark whiskers shadowed the lower half of his face, softening the hard, precise line of his jaw. His hair hung long and damp around his face, disarming and enticing all at the same time. As her wandering gaze lowered past an old, dark shirt and coat, she paused again.
He wore a kilt. A few of his men did, as she’d seen from the window before he’d chained her away from it, but this was the first time he’d worn one in her presence. The red, green, and black plaid suited him somehow, fit the wilder, more dangerous, more rugged part of him that he generally hid behind a grin and a lifted eyebrow.
“Do ye want to know what’s underneath it?” he murmured, and caught her mouth in a kiss that scratched her lips and shivered all the way down her spine.
She twined her fingers into his lapels, pulling herself close against him. Oh, it was so, so wrong, and she’d never experienced anything nearly as exhilarating. Was this her gift? She couldn’t—shouldn’t—accept, but for heaven’s sake she wanted to. What did it matter? She was ruined anyway. Everyone would whisper behind her back that she’d shared a bed with him, so she might as well do it.
Before she wanted him to, he broke the kiss. “Ye’re a damned tempting lass, yer highness,” he whispered, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “Come let me show ye yer gift.” Shifting, he took one of her hands in his, twining his fingers with hers.
The intimacy of that simple gesture thrilled her. Had she truly lived a life so proper and so isolated from the… warmth of others that a mere handholding could stir her blood? The idea shocked her, and yet the evidence lay in her fingertips. This was the same man who’d tried to force her into marrying him, true. But this morning he was asking—and that made a great deal of difference.
He led her to one of the doors at the front end of the house, then faced her again. “Before ye try to club me, I had a reason. I’ll explain it to ye after ye stop cursing me.”
Marjorie lifted both eyebrows, watching as he pulled another key from his pocket and unlocked the door. “A lady doesn’t curse,” she said automatically.
