Susan Johnson (5 page)

“Have Mrs. Reid find her some clothing,” Johnnie answered at last, clearly not entirely focused on the present. Even his pace was slightly too fast for Elizabeth and the steward. “Do you need anything?” His query to Elizabeth reflected his remoteness as well, the nature of his words no more than a formality.

“No … nothing, except perhaps something to read. The wait could be dull.” She didn’t expect an answer with his detachment so obvious, but at least the steward would be aware of her request.

Something in her words must have caught his attention, for he seemed to notice her for the first time since their journey began up the stairways and through the corridors of Goldiehouse, although he didn’t slow his gait. “You needn’t be locked up, Lady Graham. If you give me your parole, you’ll have your freedom of the castle and grounds.” It was a normal procedure with hostages; the Borderers were ever gallant to their political guests. But she would be housed in the tower room against the possibility of an attack from Godfrey.

“In that case, naturally, you have my word.” Approaching the third level of stairs, Elizabeth took a fortifying breath.

His breathing unhurried, fitness a requirement for border-raiding, John Carre smiled at her, disarming and
conciliatory. “I hope you’ll find your sojourn at Goldiehouse pleasant. Dankeil Willie will see to your wishes. Ask him for anything. A maid should be waiting for you in your chambers. The cooks are capable of most delicacies; simply put in your requests. Have I forgotten anything, Willie?”

“The wines, Johnnie.” Kinship of various degrees related everyone under the Laird of Ravensby, and he was addressed with familiarity.

Johnnie smiled back at Willie, who was following them at a comfortable trot, his wiry body perhaps the result of the castle’s miles of stairways. Regardless that England was at war with France, the Scottish Parliament had chosen to remove the restrictions on trade in French wines.
³
“We have French wines, while the English have to smuggle them in,” Johnnie explained to Elizabeth as they reached the top of the stairs, “so feel free to ask for your favorites. Our supply of hock is excellent, too, since the English and Dutch secured the Rhine last fall. Willie prides himself on his palate, so let him guide you if you’re uncertain.”

Willie’s beaming expression offered his expertise with sincere warmth, and Elizabeth allowed herself to be tempted. “I put myself completely in your hands, Willie.”

“Very good, my Lady.” Clearly he was pleased.

When they reached the tower room a few moments later, Elizabeth found a large chamber providing all the luxurious comforts as well as a magnificent view. Windows overlooked three vistas; the ceiling was exquisitely plastered, the walls colorfully painted by Italian artists lured to Ravensby by a former Laird; the floor, piled with layers of Turkey carpets to keep away the cold from the stone beneath, fairly invited bare feet; and the furniture, quaintly carved in a curious amalgam of classical and medieval motifs, brought to mind the time of the abbeys.

“Have the fairies had a hand in this?” Elizabeth softly inquired, momentarily awestruck at the rich drama of the room. And when she turned to express her delight to Johnnie, she found his eyes regarding her with unmistakable attention.

Instantly shuttered, his expression reverted to that
of congenial host, and he said with dry good humor, “If I had the fairies on my side, you could have stayed in Harbottle, and I’d have had the wee people bring Robbie out of the dungeons. I think my mother is to blame for this room. She painted up here.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said in a small exhalation, not certain how inquisitive she could be about his mother and his family, or how much she wished to know about a man who studied her with such a predatory gaze. Or how much she dared learn about a man she found increasingly attractive.

Johnnie found he wished to respond to her obvious uncertainty by kissing her perplexity away, by soothing her bewilderment in a mutually pleasurable way. Married to a man four times her age, either she had taken lovers or was badly in need of one—which thought almost broke the hard grip he was maintaining on his willpower. No—he almost said it aloud. Maybe later, he thought in an attempt to distract the fierce need he was feeling.… 
After Robbie’s free
.

“Good night, Lady Graham,” he said, turning away abruptly. And without explanation, he walked away.

Embarrassed, Willie uncomfortably ran his hand through his spiky hair, making the short red tufts even more disheveled, and then began talking into the sudden silence, as though his rush of words might mitigate the lingering aftereffects of his Laird’s obvious carnal interest. “Let me introduce you to Helen, your lady’s maid, and then you can tell me what you wish to eat. Helen will bring you a robe and warm water; I’ll find you some reading matter too. Helen, come here and meet Lady Graham.…”

Johnnie entered his private dining room a short time later, his riding clothes discarded for informal dinner attire. His hair, still damp from a swift washing, was tied back, his green velvet coat left open, the beauty of his white brocade waistcoat stylish foil to his rugged masculinity. The loose steinkirk knot at his throat was casually held in place with a small diamond pin. And the fine wools of his trews and stockings were patterned in plum and moss green. He looked the young warrior prince at home: rough-hewn, powerful, the renegade Border Lord volatile in velvet and diamonds, his size infinitely more striking with lace at his throat and wrists.

“Darling, I missed you.…” Janet cooed, her lounging pose artfully composed to accent the extreme décolletage of her silver tissue dressing gown. The merest suggestion of lace-trimmed corset peeked out from the deep vee of her gown, the rising swell of her breasts deliberate invitation.

“
Do
make yourself at home,” Johnnie sardonically murmured, his temper held tautly in check at this command
performance for dinner. As he moved across the carpeted floor, he surveyed the table for two set cozily by the fire, the lack of servants, his best hock on a silver salver at Janet’s elbow, and his moody resentment at her uninvited presence in his household increased measurably.

Dropping into a chair close to his wine, he reached for a bottle and a glass. Gazing across the small distance to the tapestry settee where Countess Lindsay reposed, he curtly said, “Don’t
ever
give me directions.” His pale blue eyes were chill as Greenland’s ice cap. “I prefer making my own plans for dinner.”

“Now don’t be surly, sweetheart,” the lovely Countess retorted, her sapphire eyes cloudless despite Johnnie’s sharp, glowering look. Familiar with cajoling men, more familiar with Johnnie’s indulgence, she said, “I had your kitchen staff make
all
your favorite dishes. Your special reserve aqua vitae is waiting near the fire, and I gave strict orders not to be disturbed.…” She gracefully shifted her shoulder on the settee arm so her dressing gown fell open another fraction, further exposing her voluptuous breasts, pressing lushly above the crimson silk corset. And she smiled, an intimate, familiar smile.

“I’m not your middle-aged husband, Janet,” Johnnie said with one arched brow and a shuttered glance. “I see a lot of plump young breasts.” And pouring himself a drink, he raised the spiral-stemmed hock glass to his mouth and emptied it.

“I can see I’m going to have to exert myself tonight,” the dark-haired beauty purred, undeterred by his temper, skilled at coaxing men. “To bring you out of your sullen mood.”

“My sullen mood,” the Laird of Ravensby brusquely retorted, reaching for the decanter again, “is the result of your damnable presumption.” Although, had he been totally honest with himself, Janet’s presumption was of long custom in his household. And had he been more punctilious at dissecting his feelings, he would have recognized that Janet Lindsay’s possessive display before Elizabeth Graham figured prominently in his ill temper.

“I’ll make amends, darling,” the sleek and radiant Countess gently soothed, “for claiming your company at dinner. I’ll wait on you, humor you, be
ever
so attentive.” She smiled prettily, as a young girl would asking for a favor. “Perhaps”—she winked at him flirtatiously—“I could be your personal maidservant tonight. Would you like that? I could serve you your dinner and feed you a morsel at a time.…” Warming to the potential of the role, she murmured in a suggestive tone, “I could wash your fingers after dinner and see that you’re comfortable and relaxed. I could be abjectly submissive and obedient,” she dulcetly went on, “like a young girl. When you want your aqua vitae, I’d pour it for you and bring it to you in your chair near the fire and sit at your feet.…” Her eyes held his for a moment before her gaze drifted downward to gauge his interest in submissive women. “You could reprimand me if my service failed to please you,” she softly offered, a small smile noting Johnnie’s unmistakable arousal, “and take out all your churlishness on me. You could be autocratic …” Her voice was seductive, her dark eyes sultry. “And difficult … and demanding.…”

Johnnie gazed at her over the rim of his newly filled glass. “Keep it up, darling,” he murmured, a hint of amusement in his eyes, “and you won’t
need
me for your orgasm.” A sudden grin lifted the corners of his mouth, the liquor warming his stomach and mood. The Countess’s costly gown and stylish beauty were the antithesis of any serving maid in memory.

“But I
do
need you, Johnnie,” she whispered, ignoring his mockery, her mind taking license with the role, the prospect of Johnnie Carre forcing her to submit to his authority sending a spiraling heat downward, like molten pleasure. “Let me be your servant girl … I really want to … 
please
, Johnnie. You’ll find me excessively … obedient.”

He could see her nipples harden beneath the fine silk of her gown and felt an answering heat strike his senses. But his faint ironic smile and lazy drawl took issue with her breathy declaration. “I doubt you understand the word ‘obedient,’ puss.…”

“Try me, Johnnie.” And she drew the gold-embroidered silver tissue of her skirt aside to offer him a tantalizing view of her crimson silk stockings, her pale thighs, her dark, silken curls. “I’ll do anything.…” she breathed.

Perhaps a monk could have resisted. Perhaps not. But Johnnie Carre had no religious bent at all and a vigorous, well-exercised sexual appetite. His erection swelled. She was splendidly female, and her offer of sexual carte blanche had a predictable effect on him. But it didn’t completely obliterate his grievance against her proprietary airs. He disliked possessive women; he disliked any sense of constraint from the females in his life, and this distinction took precedence even over lust. “One small warning,” he said, his voice absolute.

“Anything.” The throbbing between the Countess’s legs quickened her unconditional response.

His look was guarded for a moment as he set his glass aside. “This isn’t part of the game.”

Janet took a small breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes with a degree of composure. “I understand.”

“If you ever dictate to me in my own home again, I’ll humiliate you, regardless of the company.” Although his voice was infinitely soft, the undisguised menace in it struck her like a stinging slap.

“Yes, my Lord,” she whispered, intimidated for the first time in her life, reality and game-playing coalescing, sending a thrilling heat trembling through her.

“You understand then.” A small remnant of annoyance prompted him to press his authority, and something more perhaps—an exasperated obsession, a restless, headstrong desire to plunder Elizabeth Graham’s provocative innocence. She was like forbidden fruit, and he found himself craving a taste of her.

“Unequivocally, Your Grace,” his neighbor’s wife submissively replied, a blush shading her luxurious breasts, her slender neck, infusing her porcelain complexion with a rosy glow. Her dark lashes half lowered over her eyes. “I humbly defer to your wishes.”

“You needn’t feel
obliged
to play games, darling,”
Johnnie said with a lazy insolence, recognizing the actress in her demure pose. “I’ll fuck you anyway.”

The Countess hesitated a moment, not because of his ungallant phrasing, but rather to debate the possibility of immediate gratification against the promise of lascivious delay. Her decision made, the lacy fringe of her lashes lifted, and her gaze met her lover’s eyes with smoldering anticipation. “But I want to play,” she said.

“And if I don’t?” But his voice was teasing now, and his pale blue eyes, taking in her magnificent courtesan’s body, had lost their coolness.

“I’ll change your mind.…” Pure unadulterated sorcery as old as Eve whispered through her words … and an uninhibited assurance based on their past history together.

“You’re a randy tart, sweetheart,” he said lightly. “You should have married someone younger.”

“
You
suggesting faithfulness to my husband?” Her query was offered with a wide-eyed feigned innocence.

Johnnie sighed, reminded of the stark reality of aristocratic marriages and his own lenient view of morals. “Forgive my momentary lapse into naïveté,” he murmured.