Susan Johnson (31 page)

“I’m not hotheaded,” Callum judiciously noted. “Nor eighteen, nor foolish. And the Murrays will survive this administration, as they’ve survived all those in the past.”

“Without convictions.”

“With prudence and a care for the future of our family,” Callum fastidiously returned.

“You mean no guts,” Robbie baited.

“Enough of politics,” Roxane commanded, not about to allow the clash of swords in her drawing room, nor so unequal a match.

“Tell us of your brother’s new heir,” Lady Balfour interposed, following Roxane’s lead. “I hear the Laird of Ravensby is thoroughly besotted by his wife and child to the exclusion of all else.”

With one last scathing look at Callum, Robbie obediently directed his attention to Lady Balfour. “He was fortunate to fall in love with a woman of passion
and feeling.” His insolent gaze flickered briefly to Roxane.

“And yet his wife’s English.”

“But deeply loyal to her husband.” Another disparaging glance at Roxane.

“Who no doubt deserves her loyalty,” she snapped.

His eyes burned flame-hot, but his voice was mannered. “Elizabeths a reasonable woman.”

“A prerequisite in a wife, my lord?” a matron with a marriageable daughter coyly inquired.

“It would be highly beneficial,” he murmured, the double entendre blatant.

“Is it only women who must fit some standard of conduct? Why not men, too?” Roxane caustically observed. “There should be prerequisites for a husband as well, Lady Tennant.”

Lady Tennant’s courage failed her for a moment under Roxane’s unflinching regard. She was a country lady of simple ways, and had always understood that a woman’s place was to lure the most exalted husband possible. And then submit. “I’m … sure, that is—possibly—” she stammered, not wishing to disagree with the countess but uncertain how to answer, when everyone knew husbands were under no obligation to meet any standards save that of appearing for their wedding.

“Lady Tennant isn’t familiar with our city ways,” Lady Balfour politely interjected. “Although I wonder, my dear Roxane, if only a rare few ladies can afford the luxury of requiring male standards.”

“Then it’s high time for such a change,” Roxane submitted, her mouth set. “Independence isn’t only a male preserve—or a political cause.”

“Or a matter of melodramatic histrionics,” Robbie sharply countered. “We all have certain responsibilities.”

“Really, my lord,” Roxane said with dulcet mockery. “But then how would I know about responsibilities, with only five children to raise?”

And so the conversation over tea continued, waspish, strained, uncomfortably personal, until, thoroughly out of patience, Roxane said, “If you’ll excuse me, my children are about to begin their French lessons and I promised to listen to their exercises. Please, continue with tea.”

Robbie immediately rose. “You can show me to my room,” he said, offering her his hand.

She wished to slap it away, but knew she couldn’t. Always unpredictable, Robbie was capable of most anything in his current reckless temper. “In lieu of bloodshed?”

“Something like that,” he murmured, glancing down at his hand, palm out before her.

Callum surged to his feet, his face flushed with anger. “If he wants a confrontation, Roxane, I’m in the mood to oblige him.”

“Don’t even consider it, Callum.” She cast him a grateful smile. “I’ll take care of this myself.” Ignoring Robbie’s hand, she came to her feet.

“Are you sure?” Thoroughly enraged, Callum moved to block their departure.

“She’s sure,” Robbie growled.

Roxane’s heated gaze swung toward him for a moment, but she said, “Really, Callum, I’m fine. He often acts like a child. Don’t take notice.”

No one watching the confrontation would have
mistaken Robbie for a child, his powerful maleness striking, his fame as one of the finest swordsmen in Scotland universally recognized, the charged, edgy set of his shoulders blatant invitation to disaster. “Well see everyone at dinner, won’t we, darling,” he silkily murmured, taking her hand in a harsh grip, his glance sweeping over her guests wholly innocent.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Roxane said, thinking he’d missed his calling for the stage. But her fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm as he escorted her from the room, and, once they were outside in the corridor, she jerked her hand from his and slapped him so hard her fingers left marks on his face. “How dare you embarrass me like that! How dare you attempt to draw Callum into a fight!”

“Spare me your impassioned piety,” he retorted, suppressed violence in his tone, his cheek stinging from her blow. “I want to know about the child you’re carrying.”

The color drained from her face and, thinking she might faint, he reached for her.

But she slapped his hands away in a vicious flurry. “It’s none of your business.”

“I’m making it my business. So we can scream about it here within earshot of your guests, or we can go somewhere private and scream about it.”

He meant it, she knew; heedless and hotheaded, he’d never cared about public opinion. Brushing past him, she stalked down the corridor, not looking to see if he was following her, half running in her agitation, her thoughts racing. How did he know? Who’d told him? How could the rumor have reached Edinburgh so soon?
How
was she going to deal with him?”

Breathless when she reached her rooms at the top of the staircase, unaware her children had seen Robbie arrive, she didn’t notice them seated on the third-floor stairway, watching through the banister. Waving her maid out of the room as she entered, she turned at the windows and waited for Robbie’s assault.

Quietly shutting the door, he surveyed the room, took note of her defensive posture. “I’m not going to attack you. Relax.”

“Pardon me if I find that difficult to believe after your reckless provocation before my guests.”

“I just wanted to make sure I talked to you.”

“And you accomplished your desire with a noticeable lack of finesse.”

“Callum’s an ass,” he brusquely muttered.

“In contrast to you, he’s a veritable angel.”

“Is that why you like him?” His voice was scornful. “For his angelic qualities?”

“Did you ride so far to query me on my friends?”

At the reminder of why he’d ridden so far, his expression turned forbidding. “Whose child are you carrying?”

“I don’t have to tell you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You forget I’m not one of your minions or one of your bedazzled ladyloves.” Her voice was as determined as his. “And whether I’m pregnant or not is my concern alone, not yours. Don’t you already have Mrs. Barrett on your hands? She should be more than enough to keep you busy.”

“Don’t start,” he growled. “Coutts said she sent you a note. So that argument is over.”

“Not for me,” she tartly replied.

“You don’t really want a doormat like Callum, do you?” If rivals were the topic of conversation, the man downstairs currently playing host was certainly more germane than Mrs. Barrett.

“He’s preferable to someone like you, who has no concept of faithfulness. I also received a gloating note from the Duncan sisters.” Her withering glance raked his tall form. “You’ve all become good friends of late, it seems.”

He shut his eyes briefly and swore under his breath. But when he spoke, his voice stung with annoyance. “I’m getting fucking tired of explaining my actions to you. We aren’t married or engaged. In fact, you let me know with unequivocal clarity that you never wished to see me again. And while we’re on this perpetual subject of fidelity, tell me, is Callum merely a platonic acquaintance?”

She had the grace to look disconcerted.

“So don’t crucify me,” he said, “unless you’re chastely pure. And if it matters, although I’m not obliged to explain to you, it was only the Duncan sisters.”

Her surprise showed.

“I’m telling you because it seems to matter. And notice, I’m not asking for an accounting from you.”

“They’re the most persistent, I suppose.” She couldn’t curb the caustic comment.

“Persistent is too mild a term for them. They’re both—”

“Don’t explain.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he said. “Jesus, Roxie, I’m sick of this argument. Could we please abandon this subject? I’m so tired of it. I’m tired, period. I don’t
think I’ve actually slept in weeks—except on the ride down here, and a lurching coach doesn’t exactly lull you to sleep.” He walked over to the bed and sprawled on it without asking her leave. When he turned to look at her, his weariness was apparent.

“I hope this child is mine. I pray this child is mine,” he confessed. “And if you’ll let me try to set things right between us, I’d very much like you to be my wife. Don’t answer right away,” he quickly added, curtailing her response. “Let me finish. Even if the child isn’t mine, I’d like you to marry me and I’d raise the child as ours. I had plenty of time to think about this on the ride from Edinburgh, and I’m sure of my feelings.” He smiled. “Or I’m sure of my feelings now that I’ve seen you again.” His brows arched. “Now that I’ve seen that ass Callum. Don’t marry him. He’ll make you miserable.”

“And you won’t?”

“I’ll really try not to. And consider how your children feel. They can’t like him much—be honest.” His smile was beguiling. “He’s so damned righteous.”

“Maybe I like that stolid righteousness.”

He groaned and shook his head. “Sweetheart, he’d drive you crazy in a month. And don’t tell me you’ve been with him a month, because I know you haven’t.”

Her brows rose in query.

“Coutts had men watching you for me,” he explained. “I was drunk for a week after Callum spent that first night with you in Edinburgh.” He brushed a hand over his eyes as though exorcising the thought. “Could we please come to some agreement? I can’t live without you—and you can’t live without me, if you ignore all those logical considerations of yours.”

“How exactly am I supposed to do that?”

“Come lie down beside me and well talk about it.”

She didn’t move. “What if this child isn’t yours?”

It took him longer to answer than she would have wished. “I don’t care,” he finally replied. “I hope it’s mine, but if it isn’t”—his gaze went blank for a moment—“we’ll manage.”

“A little more feeling, if you please.”

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and opened his arms wide. “I don’t care if it’s
Argyll’s
child,” he quietly said. “I think you’ll have to agree, that’s conciliatory in the extreme.” His smile, tempting and intemperate, cajoled. “Come here now….”

“I’m not fifteen. I’m not going to fall into your arms. We’re not going to kiss and make up because you drove down here to harass my guests.”

“And you.”

“Most of all for that. You can’t take over my life, not today, not ever. I won’t allow it.”

He let his arms drop. “Do we need lawyers here to negotiate a settlement? After all the legal maneuvering in Edinburgh the last few years, I’m about out of negotiating impulses.”

“Lawyers can’t speak for you.”

“We’re back on familiar ground,” he said on a small sigh, rising from the bed and walking to the window. “I’m supposed to apologize and repent and you’ll decide whether my atonement is sufficient.” He looked outside for a moment before turning back to her. “Do you ever figure in any way in these events? Callum, the baby, maybe even Argyll?”

“Don’t you dare accuse me of Argyll” But she had the grace to blush. “In terms of the rest, of course I’m involved.”

“Thank you at least for that.”

“You shouldn’t have come down. We’re managing very well without you.”

“I’m not managing well without you. And be honest, Roxie, you’re not actually happy with Callum, are you?”

She should lie and send him on his way. How simple it would be if she could.

When the silence lengthened, he said, “I’ve always liked your honesty best, darling. Along with a thousand other qualities that make me love you. Can we at least start with the premise that we love each other in this negotiation?”

“Loving you is easy. All the rest is hard.”

He stood very still and let her words wash over him, heal and comfort him, make all the misery of his days past melt away. Then, cautioning himself to move slowly, he said, “Why not take the difficulties point by point and solve them?”

She smiled ruefully. “You’re dealing with this very maturely.”

“Are you saying I usually don’t?” But his voice was teasing.

“Perhaps we both have tempers.”

“I want to marry you today, and to hell with the problems. We’ll solve them, with the children’s help,” he added, grinning. “They seem extremely sensible.”

“Because they love you?”

“Of course.”

She laughed.

“That’s better.” He crossed the room in three long strides and swept her into his arms before she could protest. “I like you laughing. Although I like you any way at all,” he said, moving toward the bed.

“Don’t, Robbie,” she warned, slanting a glance at the bed.

He hesitated fractionally and then, turning, walked to a chair and sat down, placing her on his lap.

“I don’t know if this is much better.” She could feel his arousal instantly spring to life.

“Call it a compromise.” A new huskiness infused his voice.

“I’m serious,” she said, leaning back enough to direct a stern glance at him. “Making love isn’t the solution to all our problems.”

He didn’t think it wise to disagree. “May I kiss you at least?”

“No.”

She
was
serious, he realized, so he put aside his levity. “Tell me about the baby. How have you been feeling?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, because she’d recognized the stricture in his voice and she didn’t want to fight anymore or again … or at all. The epiphany struck her with such intensity, she felt the sudden jolt of realization. “I’m fine now that you’re here.”

“I know. I find that I care whether the sun rises, now that it’s going to rise over your carrottop curls,” he murmured with a smile.

She giggled, liking the sensation of happiness. “Titian-colored, I’ll have you know.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Titian-colored carrots.”