He came around the bed, and she backed up again, right into the bedpost. He stood before her, and put his finger under her chin.
“You ran away,” he said.
She turned her head. His nearness made her mouth water to kiss him, her hands itch to touch him. “I chose to leave.”
He lowered his eyes to stare at her mouth, and for a moment she thought hewouldkiss her, but he stepped back, began to pace the room. “I am going to marry Sophie Ellison,” he said fiercely, and she stared at him. “Do you understand?”
She curled her fingers into the folds of her skirt and nodded. He stopped and looked at her, his eyes glowing with fury. “Do you happen to have sixty thousand pounds?” he asked.
Her jaw dropped. “Sixty thousand pounds?” she parroted. She had a respectable dowry, but did not come to nearly that much. She assumed Somerson could simply refuse to pay it if she did not marry, or married where he did not wish. “No,” she said simply.
He began to pace the room. “Have you been to the village? Glenlorne needs money. Every single cottage needs repair. Hell, they should have been torn down years ago, new ones built. Some of them are older than that damned tower!” He pointed out the window and they both looked in the direction of their trysting place. She felt blood fill her cheeks. Was this an apology?
“Look, I’m not the kind of man the Earl of Somerson would evenconsiderfor his sister. Despite—what occurred between us—he’d never see me a fit husband for you. D’you see that?”
She didn’t. If he knew the kind of man Somerson wanted her to wed ... and if the Earl of Bray found Alec worthy enough to marry his only daughter, then ... Still she nodded. He didn’t want her, was seeking an excuse. Her cheeks burned. She would not force him to do the gentlemanly thing, especially since it was so plain that he didn’t wish to marry her.
He was staring at her again, his eyes roaming over her. She felt heat rise under her prim gown. It was hard to breathe, hard to think.
“This is impossible,” he muttered.
“Are you dismissing me?”
“No!” he said, then considered. “Yes. Perhaps it would be for the best.” She felt her stomach cleave to her spine. “You should go home, back where you belong.”
“I—” she began, but there was a knock at the door. He froze, looked panicked. If he were caught here in her bedroom, alone, their fate would be as good as sealed; she knew that. How fortunate he wasn’t caught in her arms, both of them stark naked, the night before. He must be very relieved indeed. She pointed to the screen in the corner, and watched as he dove behind it.
She opened the door to Muira. “Is the laird here?” she asked, her bright bird’s eyes poking into every visible corner.
“Of course not!” Caroline said, feeling her skin heat. “Why would you think he would be?”
Muira smiled a knowing smile, but waved her hand. “Och, just an old woman’s Midsummer madness. Two more guests have just arrived at the door—more Sassen— er, English folk—gentlemen this time, insisting they’ve come to rescue Lady Sophie. Now I thought perhaps it was my poor command of the language, and ye might be able to help, since I canna find Alec. The young lady is in the blue room, unpacking, or at least watching her maids do it for her. She’s got a dozen trunks, one full of carpets and hangings and new bed curtains, as if ours aren’t good enough.”
“Did these English gentlemen give you their names?” Caroline asked, crossing to tidy her hair in the mirror. Alec stood behind the screen to her left, but she avoiding looking there while Muira was watching. She could feel the heat of his eyes on her.
“I believe one said his name is Mamble. The other is a viscount called Speed.”
Caroline dropped the comb, her fingers suddenly numb. “Mandeville and Speed? One with red hair, the other wide as a barrel?”
Muira grinned. “Aye—the very ones! Do you know them?”
Caroline felt her chest cave in. She hurried toward the door. “Unfortunately, yes, and they aren’t here for Sophie.” She slipped around Muira and hurried down the hall. How on earth had her suitors found her here in Scotland? Somerson had long arms, it seemed, and a sharp sense of smell. No doubt he’d set them on her trail, armed with warrants, letters, and marriage licenses. She’d be wedded and bedded and gone before anyone at Glenlorne was the wiser. She paused at the top of the staircase. She could hear them in the hall below, talking loudly about disemboweling cutlasses, pistols, and rapiers. Apparently, they were armed to the teeth.
She shut her eyes. She had to send them away.
And if they wouldn’t go?
She glanced at the display of ancient weapons that now adorned the wall. She could hardly walk into the room carrying a pike, and she doubted she could even lift one of the claymores. A pair of dirks flanked a battered shield—long thin knives, their hilts once jeweled, if the empty holes were any indication, but the stones long gone now. She took one down, and weighed it in her hand. Could she really— She considered the alternative, and tucked the dirk into her sleeve. She took a deep breath and went to greet her suitors.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
The first thing she saw was their dress swords, laying naked on the table next to their booted feet, as if they were ready to fight—if they ever finished the tankards of whisky. She clutched the dirk a little tighter and took a breath.
“Good morning, my lords,” she said when they did not notice her entrance into the room. She stayed a safe distance back as they leaped to their feet, reaching for their weapons.
They didn’t rush toward her. They gaped at her from a distance as if they were seeing a ghost.
“LadyCaroline!” Viscount Speed cried. Mandeville’s heavy jowls flapped as he strove to speak and failed. He wheezed, turned red, and fumbled for his handkerchief. He held the lace-edged square to his nose, staring at her over the top of it, his eyes bulging with horror, not passion or even triumph.
