Enraptured (3 page)

Violet took a calming breath and then another. That was a little better. At least she had, in the end, come to her senses and pulled away from him. She recalled the look of astonishment on his face as she jumped back into the carriage, and she felt a certain grim satisfaction. No doubt he was unused to being rejected by any woman. He was far too handsome for that.

She closed her eyes, picturing the glint of his hair in the low light—too long and untidy to be fashionable. What color were his eyes? It had been too dark to tell. But she had seen that firm chin well enough . . . the square jaw . . . the broad shoulders. Unconsciously she let out a sigh.

He was massive, his hands huge. Yet the fingers that had curled around her nape had held her gently. His lips had been unbearably soft, his mouth seeking, not demanding. Pleasure curled in her abdomen all over again at the memory. Long ago she had been kissed by the man she had almost been foolish enough to marry, but it had felt nothing like that.

How delicious Coll had tasted. If she had let herself throw her arms around him, she knew his muscles would have been thick and hard beneath her touch. She imagined sinking her fingers into his arms. His shoulders. His back. She thought of his deep, rumbling voice, softened by a Scottish burr. It had rolled through her like warm honey.

The voice had fit the man—outsize and solid, reassuring. She wondered who he was. His clothes had not been those of a gentleman. They had been rougher, plainer, like a worker's garments. Yet something about his speech had set him apart from the other men.

It was not just that his accent was less thick; something in his words, in his turn of phrase, spoke of . . . gentility? No, that was not quite right; he had clearly called himself one of them. Education, perhaps? Violet smiled to herself. No, there was nothing of the narrow, hunched academic in that man's broad shoulders.

The carriage turned, and she pulled herself from her wayward thoughts, lifting the curtain to look out. They were approaching a pair of tall, ornate gates, opened wide. She straightened and peered in front of her as the vehicle rumbled down a long drive. Trees grew close to the road on either side, but finally they emerged onto a wide lawn. An enormous mansion loomed before her. Violet craned her
neck to look up at the ornate towers atop the castle—there was no other word for it, with its crenellations and turrets. The post chaise pulled to a stop in front of a set of massive double doors.

For a moment, Violet feared her courage might fail her. But she squared her shoulders, wrapped her cloak around her, and stepped down from the carriage. There was more wind up here than there had been in the valley below, and it sliced through her, tugging at her cloak and hat as she mounted the steps to the front doors. The house was utterly dark; no lights shone in the myriad of windows, not even a glow through the drapes or around the edges.

Violet raised the ornate knocker and banged it firmly against its plate. After a long moment with no response, she gave it several more sharp raps. At last one of the heavy doors opened, revealing a young man holding a lamp in one hand.

“I am Lady Violet Thornhill,” she said briskly. She had learned long ago that one could not show any sign of hesitation or lack of confidence if one hoped to be taken seriously. “I am here to see Lord Mardoun.”

The young man gaped at her. A woman's voice sounded faintly somewhere in the house behind the man, and with a look of relief he turned away. “Mrs. Ferguson! Some lass is here tae sae the earl.”

“What nonsense is this?” He stepped back as an older woman appeared at the door. Mrs. Ferguson was a square, substantial woman wrapped in a heavy flannel dressing gown. Her hair, liberally sprinkled with iron gray, hung braided in one thick plait over her shoulder. She regarded Violet suspiciously. “What do you think you're doing, pounding on people's doors at all hours of the night?”

“It is barely eight o'clock.” Violet returned an equally steely gaze. “I am here to see Lord Mardoun.”

“Well, you have nae chance of that. Go on with you now.” Mrs. Ferguson made as if to close the door, but Violet hastily slipped inside.

“I am here at the express invitation of Lord Mardoun.” That was stretching it, but the man
had
invited Lionel, and Lionel would have brought Violet with him if he had been able to come.

Mrs. Ferguson crossed her arms, blocking Violet's entry farther into the foyer. “That's a puzzle, then, since his lordship is not here.”

“Not here!” Violet's stomach sank. “What do you mean? Will he be gone long?”

“Aye. He's in Italy on his honeymoon. As you would know if you were a friend of Lord Mardoun's.” With a triumphant expression, Mrs. Ferguson began to close the door.

“No, wait.” Violet dug in her reticule and pulled out her silver, chased card case, extracting one of her calling cards. “I did not say I was a friend of Lord Mardoun. But he is acquainted with me. I am Lady Violet Thornhill.”

The mention of her title had the intended effect. Mrs. Ferguson paused, took the card, and perused it, frowning. Violet dug in her reticule again and found the earl's letter.

“This is Lord Mardoun's invitation to my mentor, Mr. Lionel Overton, to visit and examine the ancient ruins on his estate. You can see it is written in his hand. Here, read it.”

Mrs. Ferguson drew herself up and said frostily, “It is not my place to read his lordship's letters.”

“Then surely it is not your place to turn away Lord Mardoun's guests, either.” Violet was pleased to see uncertainty
flicker across Mrs. Ferguson's face. She pressed her advantage. “If his lordship is not in residence, who is in charge of Duncally?”

“I am the housekeeper here.”

“Does that leave you responsible for deciding whether or not you will refuse Lord Mardoun's hospitality? He delegated such authority to you?” Violet felt a twinge of remorse at adopting her father's aristocratic, contemptuous tone. But she could not fail after she had come so far.

The housekeeper turned to the footman, still hovering in the background. “Jamie, fetch Munro.”

The young man beat a hasty retreat. Mrs. Ferguson regarded Violet stonily. Violet, affecting an air of unconcern, sat down on the hall bench. Minutes dragged by. There was no sound but that of a large clock striking the hour. Finally, she heard a door closing somewhere in the back recesses of the house, and heavy footsteps came toward them.

Violet turned toward the sound and saw a tall blond man stride into the room. Her stomach sank.

He came to an abrupt halt, his brows drawing together thunderously. “You!”

C
oll stared at the woman
by the front door. He had thought the night could not get any worse, but clearly it had.

He had set out this evening just to have a wee dram at the tavern, but before he reached the village, a lad came running to tell him what that idiot Will Ross was up to. Coll had had to clean up the messy situation first—and that strange, infuriating woman had berated him for rescuing her! Then he had acted completely unlike himself, grabbing her and kissing her even though it was abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with him.

It wasn't like him. Lord knows she was a tempting, shapely morsel of a woman, and Coll enjoyed the touch of a woman's lips as well as any man. But he did not grab a woman and kiss her without even a by-your-leave, especially not a lady he'd never before met—and if he had been in the habit of doing so, his sister would long ago have had his head for it.

But somehow, standing there looking at the bad-tempered, sweet-featured Englishwoman, he was unable to resist. He'd meant only a teasing peck, a joking challenge. Then he tasted her—sweet and tart mingled in a velvety, alluring softness. And he had had to know her mouth—to inveigle and entice and explore. She responded, initial surprise giving way to her own tentative exploration, and that sent desire humming through him.

Until she pulled away and took off like the hounds of hell were after her. Clearly one of them was insane, but Coll was not sure which. Maybe both.

When he had finally trudged back to the tavern, it was impossible to have a drink in peace, what with everyone wanting to know what Will Ross had done, and Cuddy Hamilton pointing out that it would never have happened if only Coll had stayed with the lads, and Dot's father hinting that Coll had not come to visit in an age. Coll was usually patient, but he didn't have it in him to deal with them all tonight. So finally, when Kenneth MacLeod started whining about the sorry state of his finances (which everyone knew would not be so dire if only he didn't spend every evening drinking at the tavern), Coll gave up and left.

He returned to his cottage inside the gates of Duncally, knowing he would doubtless sink into a solitary brood about that woman—and strangely looking forward to it. But even that dubious pleasure was denied him when he found Jamie lurking on his doorstep, summoning him to solve yet another problem.

The problem, of course, turned out to be the dainty beauty now perched on the stone bench across from him. Her back was perfectly straight, hands crossed in her lap,
a cloak folded neatly on the seat beside her, and a black bonnet atop it. Everything about her was trim and plain, from the top of her thick, chocolate-colored hair, braided and wrapped into a serviceable bun, to the toes of her black, leather half boots. Paradoxically, the severity of hairstyle and dress only made the alluring femininity of her face and figure more obvious. Her dark doe eyes were the sort that could melt a man right down to his soul—if they had not been fixed on him in a furious glare.

“You.” Coll was pleased that his voice held only irritation and none of the irrational fizzing pleasure that blossomed in his chest. “I should have known.”

She rose to face him. It did not surprise him that she offered no greeting or explanation or acknowledgment of his prior help, but immediately assumed a battle face. “I cannot imagine why you would have.”

“Because wherever you go, there's trouble.”

“No doubt you fancy yourself witty, but I have had quite enough Scottish humor for the day.”

“Aye, I can see that. Why don't you tell me what the problem is?”

“Precisely who are you?” She lifted her chin.

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“I am Lady Violet Thornhill, but I can't see why this is any of your concern. First you are out patrolling the roads and now you are taking care of the earl's business? Are you in charge of everything that takes place in this village?”

“No, but I
am
in charge of Mardoun's business.” He felt a little lick of pleasure at seeing that he had managed to shake her, at least a little. “My name is Coll Munro; I manage Duncally. And one might think you would be grateful
that I was ‘patrolling the roads.' Oh, but I forget—you dinna need my help, did you?”

A flush rose in her cheeks at his words. “It's no surprise you throw that up to me. Of course you have my thanks for coming to my aid—though I believe you already took that.”

Coll could not hold back a slow, knowing smile. “Indeed, you repaid me most . . . satisfactorily. Still, 'tis pleasing to hear you say it. Now, it seems, I can assist you again. What is the problem?”

Mrs. Ferguson jumped in before Lady Violet could respond. “The problem is that she came here without a word of warning, expecting us to put her up for the night.”

“I did not just drop in, looking for a place to sleep.”

“She
claims
she's a lady.” Mrs. Ferguson's voice was laced with suspicion. “She
says
she's a friend of his lordship. But why would she come visiting while he is gone?”

“I said that I am an acquaintance of Lord Mardoun,” Violet countered. “And I did not come here for a ‘visit.' I am here to study the ruins Lord Mardoun discovered. I am an antiquarian.”

“An antiquarian!” Coll blurted. “But you are a woman.”

Violet's dark eyes iced over. “Despite that grievous liability, I have studied antiquities and ancient sites under the tutelage of one of the foremost authorities of our age, Dr. Lionel Overton. Lord Mardoun invited Dr. Overton to study the ruins on his estate.”

“Aye, Mardoun mentioned it.” Coll glanced around. “Where is Dr. Overton? He wasn't in the post chaise.”

“No. He—Uncle Lionel—” Violet suppressed the quiver in her voice. “Dr. Overton passed on a month ago.”

“My condolences. But . . . well . . . why are you here?”

“Exactly what I said.” Mrs. Ferguson gave a triumphant nod of her head. “What's she doing gallivanting about the countryside by herself?”

“I am hardly ‘gallivanting.' I am here in Dr. Overton's stead. I told you: I intend to study the ruins. Here.” She stepped forward, proffering the folded paper in her hand. “Lord Mardoun's letter to Dr. Overton. You will see that I'm telling the truth. The earl invited Uncle Lionel to dig at the site he'd discovered.” Her voice lifted a little with excitement. “Lord Mardoun thinks it could be ancient, given that no one in recent times seems to have known of its existence.”