Kathleen Harrington (8 page)

“Certainly not!”

But the thought of what he was suggesting fascinated her. She’d never entertained such a notion. Never even heard of such scandalous behavior. Yet, somehow she knew that, in spite of his grin and his mirthful tone, she need only give a nod and he’d be happy to . . .

Great God in heaven, what was she thinking?

Francine turned, fumbled for the latch, and tried to jerk the door open. It wouldn’t budge.

By the simple expedient of planting one large palm against the solid oak panel high above her head, Kinrath effortlessly held the door closed.

“Now that you’re here, Lady Walsingham,” he coaxed softly, “stay for a while. For all we know, that fellow may still be out there.”

“What fellow?” she parried, lowering her lids to avoid his discerning gaze.

“I assume he’s the hapless bloke you argued with last evening before departing the dance floor in a huff,” he replied with a knowing grin. “Did you have a lovers’ spat and then refuse to forgive him this morning? I’m sure he’d go down on both knees, should you require it.”

“Would you?” she asked curiously. “Get down on your knees?”

His reply came as soft and transparent as a bride’s nightdress. “That depends on how you intended to show your forgiveness.”

In spite of herself, Francine burst out laughing. “You incorrigible man! Are all Scots so entirely without morals?”

Lachlan watched the changing emotions that played across Lady Walsingham’s vivacious features. She’d been wide-eyed and incredulous at his suggestion that they bathe together. He was certain the idea had caught her by complete surprise. But something in the sparkling depths of her nut-brown eyes hinted at a playfulness that responded to his teasing.

The sound of her unreserved laughter rising toward the ceiling seemed to pull his heart upward right along with it, like a signal rocket shot from the bow of a ship. There was a spontaneity about her happiness that called to the empty, jaded place inside him. The vibrant countess was nothing like his expectations of the proud, cold English aristocracy.

“How can you accuse an entire race of being immoral?” he taunted. “I’ve a notion you’d never met a Highlander until yesterday.”

She merely lifted her brows. “I noticed you weren’t at Mass this morning,” she said, making the statement an accusation.

Lachlan wisely kept one hand planted firmly on the oaken panel above her head. With the other, he reached out and lightly traced the satiny curve of her cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “Did you look for me, Lady Francine?” he asked huskily. “How sweet of you to care.”

She batted his hand away and moved to the center of the room, out of arm’s reach. Lacing her fingers in front of her, she tilted her head to one side and gazed at him, as though taken aback by his presumptuousness.

“As a Christian lady, sir, how could I not care about the state of your heathen soul?”

Though her words were disdainful, her sloe eyes twinkled with a gleeful naughtiness. She wanted to annoy him, just enough to provoke him into responding like an unmannerly barbarian. She didn’t realize it, but he was far from being annoyed. At that very moment, there was nothing more he’d like to do than toss her on the sheets of his unmade bed and have his heathen way with her.

“And did you say a prayer for me?” he asked, leaving the door to step toward her. “For this is one pagan who’d gladly throw away his idolatrous statues to worship your beautiful body instead.”

At his provocative words, her demeanor changed in an instant.

“Fie,” she admonished in a suffocated tone, “a silver-tongued buccaneer, who doesn’t hesitate to blaspheme.”

Too late, the lady had realized the strategic error of moving farther away from her only avenue of escape. She glanced around the room, no doubt looking for some means to defend herself. For a brief second, she stared at Lachlan’s sword and dirk, then back at his bare chest. She blinked in near panic.

Lachlan took a step back, and then another, widening the space between them, as he recognized his own blunder. Hell. The very last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. When it came to seducing a gorgeous female, he wasn’t usually this goddamn clumsy.

“There’s no need to be alarmed, milady,” he said in his most reassuring tone. “You may leave whenever you wish. Would you like me to check the passageway to see if it’s empty now?”

“Hmph,” she replied with stubborn a tilt of her chin. “What makes you think I’m afraid of you, Scotsman? You wouldn’t dare touch me without my permission. Why they’d boil you in oil if you did.”

He couldn’t help smiling at her show of bravado. “You have me terrified at the very thought. I shall endeavor to always seek your permission first, my lady. I can’t promise I’ll succeed.” Unable to stop himself, he took another step toward her. “Would you really have them boil me in oil?”

“Never doubt it,” she warned with an indignant sniff, but her eyes betrayed her growing agitation. She gathered a flounce of her skirt in one hand and took a determined half-step forward. “And you are quite mistaken. There is no need for you to look in the hallway. I’m not hiding from anyone, let alone a disappointed swain.”

An obvious lie, of course.

Once again, Lachlan was struck by her artless attempt at deception. In spite of the fact that she was a peeress of the Tudor court, and a widow at that, an aura of guileless innocence shone from her eyes. While she embodied all the womanly graces of a titled English aristocrat, she lacked the brittle sophistication he’d come to expect.

He folded his arms across his chest. “If you’re not avoiding a scorned lover, why are you hiding in my chamber?” he asked in an attempt to forestall her retreat.

The countess looked down at the lace edging on her velvet bodice, her luxuriant lashes hiding her magnificent eyes. “I came on Princess Margaret’s behalf, to make certain you have everything you need for our departure this morning.”

She lied so unconvincingly, he nearly broke into laughter.

“You may tell her highness that I appreciate her thoughtfulness in sending one of her own ladies-in-waiting to wait upon me. I’d never have expected such singular attention.”

She frowned, clearly unhappy with his intimation that he, a dastardly pirate, warranted any special treatment from a member of the royal family. Or from her, either. Yet, that’s exactly what she’d suggested as her reason for entering his bedchamber uninvited.

While Lachlan waited for the vivacious female to realize she’d been caught in her own trap, he made use of the opportunity to admire her loveliness.

She was the very picture of femininity, all soft curves and creamy complexion. Her blue morning gown, with its low neckline and tight-fitting bodice, revealed her lush figure. A locket hanging on a silver chain drew his gaze to the shadow of her cleavage, which beckoned enticingly. A round headdress trimmed with semi-precious gems permitted a glimpse of golden-brown hair, parted in the middle and pulled back beneath its folds of fine wool.

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his and offered a wide, beguiling smile. An adorable dimple appeared in one cheek.

By God, there was no doubt about it.

Lady Francine Walsingham could charm the gold sovereigns right out of a tax collector’s fist.

“Well, you
are
the official representative of King James,” she declared, as though that explained everything, and then immediately changed the subject. “By the by, I hope you enjoyed the dancing last evening.”

“I did,” Lachlan replied, more than willing to follow her lead. “But ’twas unfortunate you left early with the other widows after your disagreement with the marquess.”

“Why unfortunate, pray tell?”

He shrugged in feigned nonchalance. “I’d hoped to dance with you more than once. And ’tis always a shame for a bonny lass to sleep alone.”

Her lips curled upward in an impish smile. Her eyes twinkled impudently. “Your concern for me was totally misplaced, Laird Kinrath,” she replied with a lighthearted laugh. “Just because I quarreled with Lychester doesn’t mean I slept alone.”

This time, as she started to move around him toward the door, she met Lachlan’s eyes with a frank, open gaze. A feeling deep in his gut told him, for once, she was probably telling the truth.

Perhaps it was the impertinent gaiety.

Perhaps the cloud of lavender drifting by.

Or perhaps ’twas that pair of dark sparkling eyes which seemed to mock and entice at one and the same time.

Whatever it was, unfamiliar talons of jealousy ripped asunder Lachlan’s facade of detachment. The thought of her in another man’s bed awoke the primal beast slumbering inside. Carnal desire surged through his veins and flooded his heart. He wanted to claim sole possession of this captivating female whom he’d met only the day before.

As she sailed past with her pert little nose in the air, Lachlan reached out and caught her in his arms. He slid his hand beneath the soft folds of her headdress, threaded his fingers through her long silken curls, and imprisoned her head in his cupped palm.

“Sleep with me tonight, Lady Walsingham,” he said hoarsely, “and I’ll make you forget any other man you’ve ever known.”

Their faces only inches apart, she stared up at him in stunned silence. Her dark, curving lashes framed eyes wide with wonder. Her mouth parted slightly. She ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, then swallowed nervously.

The temptation of her nearness, the feel of her curvaceous body ensnared in his arms was more than any sane man could resist. And at the moment, Lachlan was feeling far from rational.

He drew her closer, till the soft mounds of her breasts were pressed against his naked chest, bent his head, and covered her mouth with his own.

Francine didn’t struggle in the powerful Highlander’s embrace. She was too mesmerized by the feel of his warm lips.

Unlike others before him, Kinrath didn’t smash his mouth against hers, clumsily demanding that she return an unwanted kiss. Rather, he gently took her lower lip between his and tugged softly, then nibbled seductively on her upper lip, silently coaxing her to respond of her own accord.

When he adjusted the tilt of his head without ending the alluring feel of his mouth molding to hers, she placed her hands against his shoulders, intending to push him away, but not before she’d savored the feel of his bare male skin beneath her trembling fingers.

Sinew and bone had the rock-hard strength of an impregnable fortress. The sudden realization that she couldn’t shove him away should her life depend upon it brought a tingle of breathless excitement.

Kinrath slowly, lingeringly broke the kiss and met her gaze.

Resting the back of her head against the palm of his hand, Francine studied his face, marveling at his classic perfection. His features were sharp and strong and achingly handsome. The reddish brown of his thick lashes and brows deepened the brilliant green of his eyes. Intelligent eyes that seemed to read her befuddled thoughts.

The discerning eyes of a sorcerer.

Could he tell that she’d never experienced anything like this before? Could he sense how inexperienced she really was?

“I . . . you . . .” she whispered on an exhalation of air, searching for words to express her mystification.

“That’s right,
a ghaolaich
,” he said softly. “You and I. We would be magic together.”

At the beguiling lilt of those unfamiliar words, spoken with such sinful familiarity, Francine fought the startling sensations that seeped through her. Time slowed to a halt. The yearning to lie across that rumpled bed wrapped in his heathen arms made it hard to breathe.

“Magic?” she asked, her voice thick and raspy. “Are you, then, an enchanter, just as I suspected from the beginning? Are you attempting to place me under your spell with your strange, unintelligible words?”

His slow smile was filled with tenderness. “’Tis I, milady, who am under your spell.”

Francine drew a shaky breath, inhaling the tantalizing scent of the forest. Fresh and clean from the bath, Kinrath smelled of pine boughs and juniper berries. His wet hair, deepened to mahogany, was caught with a leather thong at the back of his neck, where it fell in one long braid. The ruby on his earlobe glittered in the firelight, as exotic and alien as a bejeweled fan from the faraway court of Cathay.

He lowered his head to kiss her again, and this time Francine tentatively returned the kiss. She slid her hands from his broad shoulders to the base of his neck, where she could feel his pulse beating strong beneath the pads of her thumbs.

Her lips still on his, Francine gave a sigh of pleasure deep in her throat. Her lids drifted downward, as she concentrated on the feel of his mouth gently caressing hers.

She was beginning to enjoy this new and intriguing experience, though she was well aware it must end soon, before he made the wrong assumption. She’d always been very careful not to encourage a would-be suitor. Since the death of her husband, she’d never willingly allowed any gentleman to kiss her, for she had no intention of ever lying beside a man. And God above knew a second marriage was out of the question.

Still, she couldn’t deny that kissing the tall Scotsman felt very, very pleasant indeed.

Unexpectedly, Kinrath’s tongue brushed against the seam of her closed lips, and she opened her eyes in confusion. When she started to ask what he intended, he boldly thrust his tongue inside her mouth.

Shocked, Francine drew back. “What are you doing?” she demanded, still caught within the circle of his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with a perplexed frown.

When she tried to shove him away, he immediately released her and stepped back.

Francine shook her finger in warning. “I’m leaving this room and don’t you dare try to stop me.”

He held up one hand, as though suing for peace. “There’s no need to get upset. You are quite free to go. But at least, let me check the corridor first. We don’t want anyone seeing you leave my apartment. They might get the wrong idea.”

Without waiting for her reply, Kinrath turned, strode to the door, and opened it to look into the passageway.