Once Upon a Highland Summer (28 page)

“God, Caroline. This time I’ll give you the chance to say no, to refuse me. Go—run—back to the castle and lock your door,” he muttered against her ear, kissing the shell of it.

“No,” she said.

“I can’t ask you to stay . . .” His hand dipped into the low bodice of her gown to cup her breast, the soft weight filling his palm, the nipple peaking at his touch.

“I’m leaving,” she murmured, kissing his cheek, his chin, his mouth.

“This is the last time,” he said against her lips.

“The very last time,” she agreed, her voice husky.

He couldn’t think anymore, didn’t want to consider what the morning would bring, or what it would be like at Glenlorne without her. She nipped at his earlobe and he groaned.

He pressed his back against a tree, spread his legs, drew her between them, and she arched her hips against him, rubbing, soft little gasps of need escaping from her. There was no need to tell her what he wanted. She already knew. She reached down and grasped his cock and he groaned.

His hands fumbled at the buttons on the back of her gown, lust making him clumsy. Her gentle exploration of his body was driving him wild, making it difficult to concentrate. He abandoned the buttons and slid his fingers down the warm slopes of her breast to scoop them out of the low bodice. Her nipples peaked instantly under his thumbs, and she gasped and threw her head back, thrusting herself into his hands, wordlessly demanding more.

He grasped her hand, took her the few steps to where his discarded plaid lay, and fell back, drawing her down on top of him. Long locks of hair fell over him, tickling his face and his chest. He could feel the heat of her as she straddled his hips, and he fumbled to raise her skirts, sliding his hand up over the silken thighs, dipping between her legs until he brushed the curls at her center. He inserted a finger into her, felt her tremble and sigh. She was wet, ready for him, and he stroked the soft petals of her flesh, making her wetter still. He caught her cry, kissing her hard, using his tongue in his mouth as he used his fingers below, driving her release higher.

“Now,” he commanded, grasping her hips, positioning her. She plunged down onto him, and shivered in renewed climax almost at once. He thrust into her, hard and fast, overcome with need, holding her buttocks in his palms, feeling the flex of the warm globes of feminine flesh as she moved with him, strove for pleasure in time with him. In the dappled darkness, he could see her exposed breasts above him, the nipples round and dark, saw her lip caught in white teeth.

“Again, love,” he murmured, holding back his own release, It was like trying to hold back a team of runaway horses. He was on the edge, buried deep in the tight paradise of her body. She gave a soft cry, swiveling her hips, trying to drive him deeper still. He stopped thinking about anything but how good she felt, how right. He gritted his teeth and thrust into her until she cried out, and he pressed into her as far as he could go, and let the molten waves of release claim him.

He clasped her to his chest. Still inside her, caressing the smooth planes of her back, listening to her breath singing through her body. He kissed her neck, and she raised her head to kiss his lips again. He stroked her back, memorized the curves of her figure, the softness of her thighs and buttocks, the smell of her skin.

“When will you go?” he asked.

“A few days. Once arrangements are made,” she said, and rose, slipping off his body. He felt the chill night air rush in. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned away, rising to straighten her gown shyly. He leaned on his elbow.

“Come and sleep for a while,” he said, holding out his hand. “My plaid will cover us both.”

She stayed where she was. “I know. But it’s almost dawn. Someone might see, and we have to get up in a few hours for the hunt.”

He’d forgotten that. “Of course,” he said, rising. “I’ll walk back with you, at least as far as the bottom of the hill.” He pulled his shirt over his head, and shook out his plaid, folded it, wrapped it around his hips, and fastened his belt. She walked ahead of him along the narrow path, ferns and flowers brushing against her skirt.

They reached the spot where the woods ended and the lawn began, and she stopped, turning to him in the shadows. He touched her face.

“I wish—” he began, but she lowered her head, pulled back.

“You are betrothed to Sophie.”

“Yes. It would it be dishonorable to break the betrothal, it would—” He groaned. “I’ve never done the honorable thing in my life, so why does it matter so much now?”

She smiled in the half light. “Because you are the Laird of Glenlorne. Your clan needs a leader, Alec,” she said softly. “This is what matters.”

“I’ve hardly been honorable toward you.”

“I don’t blame you for any of this. Nor do I regret it.”

“You are a remarkable woman, Caroline. Where will you go when you leave?”

She shook her head, remained mute.

“At least let me help you find a place,” he offered.

“No, Alec. I don’t want that.”

“Why?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Because you’ll know where to find me. It’s better if we part without any attachments.” She turned and began to walk toward the castle. He caught her arm, drew her back.

“You’ll know where to find me, though. You’ll come back to me if you need help, won’t you?” He wanted her again, wanted to drag her down, lay her in the ferns, and let them find her in his arms, but he could not.

He had responsibilities. How he hated the word.

He turned away, frustrated, angry, and headed back into the woods.

“Aren’t you coming back to the castle?” she called after him.

He stopped. “I think I’ll take another swim,” he said. He came back and kissed her forehead. “Good night, Caroline,” he said softly.

She met his eyes. “Good night, Alec.”

He knew she stood and watched him walk away, but he didn’t look back.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
N
INE

T
he hunting party waited for the mist to clear before setting off into the hills to hunt. Leith glanced at the straggling trail of folk behind him and pushed his tam back to look at his companion. “What exactly are we looking for, Jock?”

Jock scanned the heather, the woods by the loch, and the slopes that led up toward the old tower. “Anything the Sassenachs can shoot at.”

Leith puffed his cheeks and blew air out. “Grouse season doesn’t start for nigh on a fortnight.”

Jock spit into the heather. “Aye, I ken it. The Sassenachs ken it as well. Let’s hope the grouse don’t ken it.”

“There are hares about. Will they do?”

Jock sighed. “So long as they don’t shoot the sheep, it’s fine with me.”

He ducked as a shot rang out, and Leith dove into the heather. A bird on the wing flapped away, squawking its displeasure, but unharmed. “That’s a bonxie!” Leith pointed. “Ye can’t eat those!” He picked up his tam and gaped at the bullet hole.

The gull wheeled and came to dive at its would-be murderer. Several ladies in the party screeched, sounding like gulls themselves, and the men ducked and tried to reload at the same time. Only the laird and his sisters waved their arms to drive the bird off. Leith brushed dirt off his trews and Jock elbowed him.

“Come on, lad. Start looking for something they can shoot. Point it out and run like hell the other way.”

L
ottie watched as Sophie pulled her elegant cashmere shawl more tightly over the heavy coat that was buttoned to her chin. Her nose was red with chill. In Lottie’s opinion, the weather was quite pleasant, though a silver mist lay over the hillsides.

“Perhaps Lord Somerson, Charlotte, and Countess Devorguilla were sensible to stay behind. I do hope the weather stays fair,” Sophie said anxiously. “Is this considered fair?”

“I don’t know, but you’re quite right—in England, we’d stay indoors with Mama, and be bored,” Lottie replied.

“How are we supposed to even see anything, let alone shoot it in all this fog?” Sophie complained. “The wet grass will quite ruin my boots.”

“You should have worn sturdier ones,” Lottie said. “I wore my riding boots—see?”

Sophie sniffed. “But these match my gown. They’re hand-dyed to match perfectly. What will I wear if they’re ruined?” She shifted the dainty bow quiver on her shoulder. Even the quiver matched her boots, and the fletching of the arrows matched the feathers in her jaunty little cap.

“D’you suppose one of the gentlemen would lend me a gun and teach me how to shoot?” Lottie asked.

Sophie looked horrified. “Good heaven, Lottie, you can’t mean it! A gun?”

Lottie raised her chin. “I do mean it. My father forbids it, which makes me all the keener to try.”

“My father says archery is the only suitable type of shooting for a lady.”

“But have you ever shot at anything other than a target? A grouse or a pheasant, perhaps?” Lottie asked, eyeing the decorative little bow.

“Of course not! Whatever for? We have groundskeepers and huntsmen to do that.”

“For the adventure of it.”

Sophie looked more horrified by the idea of adventure than she’d been at the thought of shooting something. “Adventure? Why, you bold creature—what on earth has gotten into you, Lottie?” She nodded to where William was walking ahead of them with Caroline. “Just what would your fiancé say to
that
?”

Lottie sniffed. “William doesn’t care for adventure, or for excitement of any kind. He doesn’t even like to dance. Nor does he engage in manly sports like boxing or curricle racing.”

Sophie’s eyes popped. “Curricles!”

“I had an admirer once who let me take the reins of his—it was quite thrilling. I lost my bonnet.”

“I hope it wasn’t an expensive one,” Sophie said. “Thank heaven your William is the sensible sort. You’ll be entirely safe from harm with him.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Lottie murmured. “Oh, I wish I was as brave as Caroline. I would love to have an adventure, even a teeny one, before I spend the rest of my days being entirely safe.”

Sophie laughed acidly. “Don’t be silly. Charlotte says she’s quite ruined.”

Lottie watched her aunt, chatting with William as they walked. “She doesn’t look ruined. She looks . . . oh, I don’t know. Happier, prettier—
alive
.”

Sophie tossed her chin. “No decent gentleman of title and fortune will even look at her now, at least not as a wife.”

Lottie’s eyes widened as she considered what that meant. “Poor Caro!”

Sophie’s smirk was tight and malicious. “So you see now what wishing for adventures will get you?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Lottie murmured, staring at her aunt. Caroline threw back her head and laughed at something William said, her russet hair glowing against the mist, her cheeks flushed becomingly. Lottie frowned. She had never known her fiancé to be the least bit amusing.

Sophie caught her arm. “Of course I am—I am never wrong.” She waved for a servant who carried folding chairs monogrammed with the Bray crest. “Let’s sit here for a while and rest,” she said, though they’d hardly been out a half hour. Lottie slipped into the seat beside her friend and watched Caroline and the rest of the party disappear through the mist.

“I
must say, Caroline, you’re looking well this morning,” William said as they walked behind the ghillies. “Very well, in fact.”

Caroline looked at him. “Don’t tell me Somerson told you I was at death’s door as well.”

“No, of course not. I’m family—almost. They told me you had retired to Somerson Park to consider your matrimonial choices.” He was staring at her with the kind of interest she had once longed for. He should be looking at Lottie that way, not her, but Lottie was sitting on the hillside with Sophie, with Brodie lounging by their feet like a big dog.

“I have,” she said, turning her attention to watch Alec walking with Megan.

“Oh,” he murmured, and looked almost downcast.

“I mean I have decided not to marry at all,” Caroline clarified.

“Oh!” William brightened. He licked his lips, and drew a step closer to her side.

“Lottie will make a beautiful bride.”

“Who?” William said like a distracted owl. Caroline raised one eyebrow and sent him a quelling look. “Oh—Lottie! Yes, of course. Lottie . . .” He said her name as if he were trying to remember if he knew a lady by that name.

“I am quite looking forward to the
wedding
,” Caroline said, emphasizing the word. “My dear niece and my childhood
friend
.”

He winced and bit his lip, his eyes round and sad as a puppy’s. “Fr-friend?” he asked.

“Friend,” she said firmly.

“Oh.” This time his voice dropped an octave, heading for the depths of disappointment. “Caroline, if you’re not going to marry, what will you do? Will you take a—” He turned pink to the tips of his ears. “A protector?”

Caroline blinked at him for a moment. Was he honestly suggesting that if she wasn’t good enough to marry, she might consider becoming the mistress of her niece’s husband? She threw back her head and laughed. “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.” She cast a glance at Lottie. “Oh, look—Lord Mandeville is showing Lottie how to shoot.”

William’s face went from scarlet to snow white in an instant, and he hurried up the slope to his fiancée.

“I
have decided that you are quite right, Alec. Brodie is not the man for me.” Megan put her arm through Alec’s as they strode through the heather.

“Oh? And what’s made you decide that?” he asked. He glanced over his shoulder to the place Caroline walked with William Mears, noted the high color in her cheeks, and felt a flush of desire. He swallowed a groan and concentrated on his sister instead.

“He’s rather silly, isn’t he? He doesn’t read books. He doesn’t even know clan history, and to think his grandsire used to be our grandfather’s
seannachie
! Grandfather would not rest easy in his grave to think the old stories were about to be lost.”