Patricia Rice (21 page)

He laughed, a warm and satisfying chuckle. She hadn’t offended him, she realized with relief.

“I wish I could be the one to teach you all that
you’re capable of,” he said with an unmistakable leer over the top of
his coffee cup.

She smacked his arm and inched away, but she felt
the heat of his voice deep inside her. If she must live alone, she was
better off not learning what he could teach her.

“But you’re right,” he added. “I wouldn’t be here to
tell you what to do. You either need to learn on your own, or hire
someone to handle the place.”

He returned to staring at the empty stable yard.
“From my perspective, a marriage between us would work,” he said. “I’ve
commissioned my own ship, and if all goes well, it should have the
capability of crossing the ocean in less than six weeks’ time. I could
be over here every three months in good weather, if I concentrated on
shipping and forgot the railroad.”

His words warmed places inside her that Bea had
thought frozen solid. A husband. It would take a while for her mind to
grasp the thought as a real possibility—a man who would teach her to be a
woman, then go about his own business so she might conduct hers. “As
terrifying as it sounds, the idea has merits,” she agreed cautiously.

He slanted her a teasing look. “Shall I kiss you
again to make certain last night wasn’t a fluke? I’m always willing to
experiment.”

Bea’s mouth grew dry as the heat in his eyes warmed
her. Perhaps Mac’s skin was more weather-darkened than most, and he
didn’t possess the grace of men like the Carstairses, but his strength
was far more appealing than elegance.

“Could we try kissing... carefully?” She couldn’t
believe she’d said that, but just watching the chiseled curve of his
lips simmered her blood.

“Kind of a trial run?” he asked, setting his mug
aside. “I can try, but be prepared if I go too far. I’m not too good at
rational thought once my blood boils.”

He’d put her own thoughts into words. He really,
truly wanted to kiss her. Bea stared up at him, wondering how to entice
him to do so. He wasn’t wearing a neckcloth, and she was intensely aware
of his powerful throat. He seemed to be waiting for some sign from her.

Cautiously, she lifted her hand to his bristly cheek. He hadn’t shaved yet, and her fingers explored his whiskers.

That seemed to be all the signal he required. Wordlessly he leaned over, and Bea closed her eyes as his mouth brushed hers.

In disappointment, she knew this wasn’t what she
remembered. This tingled, but didn’t burn. She wanted more. Placing her
hands on either side of his face, she sought what she remembered. He
didn’t object, and let her press her lips into his until the fire
kindled and slowly caught and the space between them became too much to
bear.

He grabbed her then, wrapping his arm around her
waist and hauling her against his chest as if she were as weightless as
wheat chaff. With the warmth of his chest crushing against her, she was
entirely too aware that she wore only the briefest of undergarments.

She clung to his linen-covered shoulders, and he
pressed his kiss deeper. Once more she experienced the overwhelming
sensation of being swept out of herself and into something more dark and
dangerous than any whirlwind. The strangest urges tugged at her
insides.

He seemed to sense her need and he flattened her one
petticoat until they snuggled closer. She felt shocking heat in places
she didn’t dare name. Then his tongue led hers on a merry dance that
taught her more than she ought to know, and, gasping, she gathered the
strength to push away.

Dizzy, Bea kept her balance by leaning back against
the fence, one hand still pressed to Mac’s chest. He was hot and
breathing hard. He growled a protest but released her when she continued
pushing away, although his hand wandered to her face and hair,
exploring intimately as only a husband should do.

“I think we have a positive answer to that
experiment,” he muttered, pulling a loose comb from her hastily arranged
hair. “I’m not in any condition to consider logical arguments on the
subject of marriage right now.” Succeeding in unraveling her hair so
that it blew in the morning breeze, Mac crushed the back of her skirt
against the fence and propped a hand on either side of her so she
couldn’t escape. “Tell me not to kiss you again, or we’ll be in that
marriage bed before you realize it.”

With his hard body pressed down the length of her,
Bea had some understanding of what he meant, and she shivered at the
erotic pull. She concentrated on the way his skin stretched taut over
his jaw as he waited for a word from her. She wanted to retreat, to run
before her life ran away with her. Instead, she admired the way one
golden brown curl insisted on falling across his tanned forehead. She
lightly stroked his jaw to be certain he was real.

“I think we had better take some time to think about
this,” she said slowly. “I... don’t know a lot about this sort of
behavior. It isn’t quite... sensible, is it?”

“Not in the least sensible,” he agreed, his gaze dropping to where her bosom lifted and fell.

Bea felt the tips of her breasts harden, and she stopped breathing again.

As if he knew that, Mac returned his gaze to her
face. “All right, we’ll think about this some more. You’d better stay a
good arm’s length out of my reach, because I’m not likely to think
clearly if you’re any closer.”

“All right, I can do that.”
I think
, she told herself as he allowed her freedom to escape. She didn’t want to move. “I’d better go in. I’m not properly clothed.”

His mouth quirked upward at one corner. “I noticed,
and don’t think I didn’t appreciate it. Tuck your hair up, or they’ll
assume the worst and we won’t have any choices left.”

Heat flushed her cheeks as she tucked her hair up in
the combs he held out to her. She must look a proper hoyden with her
hair tangled about her shoulders, and her gown clinging to her skin, and
no support whatsoever to hide her shape.

She’d never striven for a fashionable eighteen-inch
waist. She wasn’t that much of a fool. But she felt as if she’d just
stepped from her bath and wore no more than a robe.

And Mac didn’t seem to mind in the least. She stole one last look at his hungry expression and started hastily for the drive.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “If you’re caught looking like that, your aunt will know you’ve been thoroughly kissed.”

“She’s still in bed,” she whispered, trying to ignore the erratic beat of her heart.

“Good, then invite me in to breakfast, because I’m
not ready to let you out of my sight.” He grabbed his coat from the
fence rail and pulled it on as he caught up with her.

He was already telling her what to do, and she hadn’t even agreed to marry him.

“Good morning, miss, sir.” A maid bobbed a curtsy as
they entered the front doors. “And congratulations.” She scurried out
of sight with a delighted smile.

Mac tightened his mouth as she scampered away, then
dared a quick glance at his companion. Bea looked a little stunned, but
then, she’d looked a little stunned ever since he’d kissed her. A man
could get used to a sight like that.

If he’d read the maid’s greeting correctly, Bea
might not have time to think about marriage. “Could we have been seen
from the house windows?” he murmured, guiding her toward the stairs.

She shook her head vigorously. “No, I’m quite certain. She must have meant something else.”

Instinct warned she was indulging in wishful
thinking, but he didn’t pop her illusions immediately. Instinct could be
wrong. “Go put on one of those high-necked black things, then. Wear a
veil. And smear yourself with camphor oil or something.”

She looked at him as if he were crazed, caught his
meaning from his expression, and hastened out of his reach and up the
stairs. Being a man, and a horny one at that, Mac watched her all the
way up. Her hips swayed like a daffodil in the breeze, and he knew he
was daft enough to do anything she told him.

He was in
way
over his head, but he was a man who liked a challenge, and he had no regrets.

Rubbing his bristly cheek, he decided he’d better
meet trouble looking his best. Even the simplest of women took half an
hour or more to dress. He had time.

Returning to the house later, shaved and wearing his
good morning coat, Mac swept off his hat and handed it to James as he
entered through the front doors. The footman led him to the empty dining
parlor, where silver chafing pans steamed, and mouthwatering aromas
chased away any remaining headache.

He took the seat James offered, shook open the
neatly pressed newspaper laid beside his plate, and accepted a cup of
coffee as if he’d been breakfasting here all his life. Not until he’d
sipped his coffee and the footman had returned with a plateful of eggs
and bacon did Mac comprehend the enormity of his position.

He was sitting at the head of the table.

He was sitting where his father always sat at home,
reading the paper as his father always did, expecting the servants to
wait on him as they waited on his father, and all as if the role were
second nature to him.

He stared over his cup at the long length of
sparkling white table linen before him. A lump of enormous silver
spilling over with spring flowers prevented a clear view of the far end
of the table. Two additional places were set on either side of him. The
delicate pink china and glittering silverware shouted loudly of feminine
expectations.

He’d been trapped, fairly and squarely.

Breathlessly, Bea hurried in, still tucking pins
into her upswept hair, her heavy skirts rustling as they brushed the
chairs. She smiled uncertainly at Mac, and blinked when she noted his
position. Before she could say a word, a suddenly stern and respectful
James bowed and pulled out a chair for her, even as Mac stood up to do
it.

“Best wishes, my lady,” James said proudly. Then
looking at Mac, who had returned to his seat, he nodded his approval.
“And congratulations to you, sir,” he said formally, with the respect of
a good butler—or the obsequious politeness of a leech.

The noose tightened. They’d
both
been trapped. Before Bea had been given a chance to review the pros and
cons, to make any kind of informed decision, the knot had been tied
around their throats.

Mac regarded Bea cautiously over his coffee cup. She
looked startled and a little frightened, but before either of them
could recover their tongues, a loud voice echoed down the hall.

“We’ll settle the date shortly. Send into town to
see if they have any good card stock for the invitations. The supply in
the desk is quite old and yellowed. And tell Mrs. Digby we’ll need her
yeast rolls for the breakfast. No one can make them as she does.”

As the voice boomed closer, Mac and Bea exchanged
helpless glances. Aunt Constance certainly seemed prepared for a festive
event.

Reading the resignation on Bea’s face, Mac calmly
turned over a thousand excuses why—for her sake—he ought to pack his
bags and run, but he simply didn’t want to do it.

He understood perfectly well what he’d done. One did
not place one’s tongue in a proper lady’s mouth without paying the
consequences, even if that proper lady had asked for it. He’d known this
had been Lady Taubee’s intention from the first, and he hadn’t avoided
the temptation.

He hated giving the old witch exactly what she
wanted at Bea’s expense, but he really couldn’t find any serious
objection to sharing a bed with the lovely woman who was turning pink
beside him. If marriage was the only way he could have her, well, so be
it. He’d marry her.

He just wouldn’t hang around long enough for them to get in each other’s way.

He greeted Lady Taubee with a sardonic lift of his
eyebrows as she swept into the room. He bit into his toast as she smiled
broadly at both of them.

“I’m so happy for you!” she exclaimed. “I could just cry. This is too wonderful for words.”

She then proved herself wrong by indulging in a
stream of words, beginning with Bea’s dear, sainted father and working
her way through the wedding preparations.

As the tidal wave of arrangements spilled over their
heads, Bea lost her color and sipped her tea silently. Mac wanted to
feel sorry for her, but his own roiling emotions hampered him.

Married. He was about to be married. To a woman who didn’t want to be married.

Impulse had ruled him again, and this time he’d
caught this lovely, generous woman in the downfall. He regretted any
pain he’d caused her, but a part of him was screaming in jubilation. The
wrong part, obviously.

He could tell that behind her pale mask, Bea was
thinking hard. He didn’t think she could find any way out of this trap,
but he thought she might have some clue as to how it had been sprung.

Bea’s lips tightened as her cousin bent over the
table to serve her aunt’s tea, and Mac watched with interest as her
thoughts betrayed her. He, too, turned to watch her smiling cousin. He’d
known he couldn’t trust the fribble. They’d been spied upon.

“James, I’d have a word with you after we’re done,” Bea said coldly, overriding her aunt’s excited chatter.

James beamed expectantly. “I know. It’s all too
wonderful. A wedding!” He flitted away, leaving the diners at the table
to stare at each other in silence.

“Well, Mr. MacTavish, we can’t pretend you’re still a
Warwick under the circumstances, can we?” Lady Taubee all but cheered.
“All will be perfectly well, I’m certain. Coventry can’t complain of you
when you’ve made such a splendid connection. You’ll see, it shall all
turn out for the best.”

Bea muttered something under her breath, and Mac
seriously contemplated pounding his coffee cup over the old bat’s head,
but he didn’t think the fragile china would have much effect. “I can’t
think Coventry will be any happier no matter what connection I make. I
still must see the children to Virginia.”