The Taming of the Wolf (10 page)

That went well. Dash berated himself as he watched Caitrin stomp off toward the steps alone. He shouldn’t have pushed her. After all, he was the one escorting her to her room. He should have kept his bloody mouth shut.

But so many questions were nagging him after that uncomfortable dinner that he was apparently incapable of holding them in any longer.

“Caitie,” he called after her, though she refused to turn back to look at him.

He had to
claim
a Scottish lass with a temper, didn’t he? He couldn’t have sought out a mild-mannered English girl who would follow his every dictate and make his life easy. He had nothing except his own impulsiveness to blame for his predicament.

Dash wasn’t even sure if it was a predicament. Every time his eyes settled on Caitrin, he felt a tug at his chest. Was it because he’d claimed her, or was there something more to it? Something predetermined? He didn’t feel like he was here because of some accident, some momentary loss of control. He felt as if he’d always known her. Yet he didn’t know her at all. He didn’t even know until this evening that she lived in Edinburgh, for God’s sake.

Dash heaved a sigh and turned back toward the private dining room. He might not know her at all, but Alec MacQuarrie most assuredly did. He could get answers from one source or another.

He found the man throwing back a whisky. MacQuarrie lowered his glass and leaned forward in his seat. “Well, that was faster than I expected.”

“Oh?” Dash closed the door behind him. “What did you expect?”

MacQuarrie shrugged, and then he poured himself another drink. “She doesn’t see you in her future either, you know?”

Dash ground his teeth together. How the devil did the scoundrel know that? “She has no better idea of what’ll happen in the future than you or I. You speak as though she’s a soothsayer.”

The Scot snorted. “You might be surprised.”

Dash frowned at MacQuarrie, who obviously wasn’t the sort who could handle his liquor.

The Scot raised his glass in a mock toast. “I’d wish you good luck with your pursuit, but I’d rather not.”

Well, that was honest. Dash pointed to one of the empty chairs. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself.”

Dash slid into the seat and regarded the man across from him. Alec MacQuarrie looked positively tortured. Was this an eerie prelude of his own future? The idea sent a chill down his spine. “You know something she’s keeping from me.”

MacQuarrie leveled him with an icy stare. “If you’re asking me to divulge her secrets, you can save your breath. I’d sooner die.”

Well, that was an option and not one Dash was particularly opposed to. “Hurting her is not part of my agenda.”

“And what is your agenda?”

Dash sighed. It was changing by the moment. “I plan to meet with Mr. Macleod and ask him for Caitrin’s hand.” And learn how to be a good little wolf, not that MacQuarrie needed to know that last bit.

The Scot scoffed as he raised his glass to his lips. “Angus Macleod gave me his blessing. You can see the good it did me. Cait’ll make her own decision. So you might as well cut your losses. She won’t change her mind.”

Of course, Dash couldn’t give up. His life was doomed unless he could convince her to marry him. “Macleod gave you his permission, but she refused you?” Stubborn chit. He’d thought for sure if he could get her father’s approval, she would have no choice but to accept his suit.

MacQuarrie nodded. “She has her father wrapped around her pretty little finger. He lets her make her own decisions.”

Damn! This was getting worse by the moment. She’d told him time and again they didn’t have a future. What could he do to get Caitrin to change her mind? Or what could he do to get Mr. Macleod to put his foot down and make her listen to reason? The answer leapt to his mind, and he winced.

He hadn’t wanted to take her innocence. It seemed like such a cowardly act and was completely ignoble without his ring on her finger. But the rest of his future lay in the balance. Given the right situation, he
could
seduce her. She couldn’t continue to refuse him after that. Then he’d make it up to her for the rest of his days.

It wasn’t much of a plan. But he didn’t have a lot to work with. And looking at the pained expression on Alec MacQuarrie’s face made him even more wary about ending up like the Scot. But MacQuarrie could find another woman of some sort. That wasn’t a possibility for Dash.

“You look very serious all of a sudden.” MacQuarrie broke into his thoughts.

“It’s just been a long day of travel.” In truth, he’d had several long days of travel, racing across England to catch up to his Scottish angel. “I think I’ll retire early.”

MacQuarrie lifted his glass again. “Sleep well, Brimsworth. I may just follow you to Scotland, and you’ll need your wits about you.”

Dash didn’t even bother to keep the growl from his voice. “Get in my way, MacQuarrie, and you will regret it.”

***

“Lamont says the axle is cracked on the coach, Miss,” Jeannie said as soon as Cait stepped over the threshold.

Her heart sank. A cracked axle. That didn’t sound good at all. Cait sighed. “Help me get out of this dress, Jeannie.”

“But the coach, Miss—”

She shook her head. “The problem will be there tomorrow. I’ll think about it then.”

Jeannie made quick work of the dress and helped Cait into her nightrail. “Perhaps Mr. MacQuarrie could be of assistance,” her maid suggested.

“Perhaps,” Cait replied to appease the woman. But she wouldn’t ask Alec MacQuarrie to help her cross Queen Street. He made it seem as if this situation they were in was her fault. He was the one… He was the one who was destined to fall in love with someone else. At least he had a future. She had no idea what was in store for
her
.

“I told Lamont—”

“Go on,” Cait told her. “I’ll be fine.”

“But the earl—”

“Do no’ concern yerself with Brimsworth. I doona intend ta.”

Jeannie didn’t need much persuasion, and she was out the door just a moment later. Cait blew out the lamp, slid into bed, and watched the shadows from the moonlight dance against the wall.

Slumber was elusive, despite Cait’s exhaustion. As usual, she was assaulted by the futures of the patrons who stayed at the inn. But none were particularly worrisome. They didn’t overwhelm her senses or make her desire an escape outside herself. Some were even joyous, like the woman who would receive an offer of marriage the next morning. Or the tavern-owner’s wife, who would soon be a grandmother.

She didn’t even try to contain her smile. Although the futures were joyous, she still had trouble escaping them enough to sleep. Finally, she sat up in bed and wished halfheartedly that she’d not sent Jeannie away, so that she could send the woman for a brandy.

Occasionally, spirits provided ample room for escape from her own mind. Cait sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed. If she had something to read, that would help. Perhaps Jeannie found her book before they left Westfield Hall.

Cait relit the lamp by the bed, then bent and rifled through her trunk. She pushed aside her clothes and personal items, hoping to find her copy of
Patronage
amongst her things, but to no avail. But then her hand closed around a small leather-bound book. She tugged it free and fell back on her bed.

Havers!
The book she’d snatched from the Duke of Blackmoor’s study. She hadn’t meant to steal the thing. Hopefully His Grace wasn’t missing it. She’d have to send it back first thing in the morning.

But in the meantime, perhaps it was just boring enough to put her to sleep. Cait sank beneath the counterpane, opened the book, and was surprised to see in a scrawling gentleman’s hand the words “Havens for Harlots and Heretics.” Then in smaller print it read, “Brimsworth.”

She’d picked up Dashiel’s book? The memory of their first meeting flashed in her mind. She’d stumbled into Blackmoor’s study and had wanted nothing more than to sneak back out. But she’d gone to find a book and felt it necessary to leave with one. So, she’d taken the first one she spotted. Why hadn’t he said anything?

She’d not given the matter another thought until she cracked open the handwritten journal. She turned the page and read the words on the next page.

Though Miss W. has a whistle through her nose when she’s close to bliss, she’s quite easy to move to that end. A gentleman caller must learn to ignore it, or he’s likely to be reminded of a hunt where hounds are used and think he must begin again when the whistle blows. If one can overlook the noise, she’s quite well worth the annoyance. For if one provokes her to whistle, she’d do just about anything a gentleman desires.

Cait slapped the book closed. She held it tightly within her hands, which trembled more than a bit. Why in the world would Dashiel have written such a thing? She tossed it onto the bedside table and shook her hand, as she often did when she was offended by the dirt that stuck to her skin when she helped Sorcha pot her plants.

What a horrible thing for him to write! She couldn’t help but hope the woman didn’t know of his ramblings. If she did, would she care? She was obviously free with her favors.

Still, how could Dashiel do such a thing? Intimacy was supposed to be something sacred, something shared with love and dignity. She huffed. There wasn’t much dignity—and she was sure there was no love—in the comments he’d made.

She glanced at the book and couldn’t help but wonder if the rest of the pages followed suit. Of course, it would be horrible of her to take a peek. She reached tentative fingers toward the book, then snatched them back and pulled the counterpane about her shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut tightly.

She opened one eye. Then sat up quickly and picked up the book. Glancing furtively about the room, she opened to a page in the middle and began to read.

In a small house on Shelton Street live three sisters. I highly doubt that they’re truly sisters, but they live very respectable lives as such by day. But pay them a visit by night, and you will be quite surprised. If there were ever sisters who loved one another as much as these three, I would dearly wish to meet them. For these take great joy in making a ménage of themselves. Initially, I thought I wouldn’t even be invited to join in. In truth, just watching the brunette part the thighs of the redhead and dip her face—

Cait slammed the book closed again, and then she tossed it across the room where it hit the wall with a thud. She should have thrown the piece of rubbish into the fire.

A soft knock sounded on her door. Cait’s heart leapt into her throat. She scrambled across the room and picked up the book, then dashed back to the bed. She tucked it beneath the counterpane.

Then she ran a hand down her unbound hair and cracked open the door.

Dash had debated with himself for a while over the appropriate course of action to take. But no matter how long he contemplated the situation, it seemed the only way he might be able to win Caitrin’s hand would be to seduce her. Though it was very ungentlemanly and he would prefer to actually
win
her, a simple seduction would have to do. He knew she was still awake because he could hear her bustling about her room after her maid had once again sneaked out the door.

He’d originally assumed she was dreaming, since her heartbeat had the speed of a horse at a gallop. Strange. Most people he’d known in his life had a steady heartbeat. If they were angry or passionate, it sped up, and if they were tired, it slowed down. Hers was erratic. Steady when they were on the road or when he touched her, but wild every time they stopped in a new place. It was exhausting trying to interpret all the signals her body gave him.

Then he’d heard her footfalls. What in the world was she doing?

He armed himself with a bottle of whisky and two tumblers, then set out to meet his fate. When he knocked softly on her door, he heard her shuffle about the room for a moment. Then she cracked the door an inch and peered out.

“What is it that ye want, Lord Brimsworth?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him and looking like a humorless governess.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said, unsure how to proceed after her cold reception.

“I’ve no need of gifts,” she said stiffly, blowing her hair from her eyes with a quick breath.

He leaned on the doorjamb, preventing her from closing the door. She would have to shove him from it before she could do so. Unfortunately, she looked perfectly capable at the moment. “You’re still angry with me?”

“Oh, ye haven’t the slightest idea how I feel about ye,” she snapped, the edge of her tone cutting into him like a knife.

“Let me in so you can tell me.”

“No.”

“Please,” he said softly.

“Ye drop yer voice down ta a husky whisper and assume I’ll melt at yer feet like all yer other women,” she said, her icy eyes meeting his and not wavering.

“I have no other women,” he said, standing taller in the doorway. He could say that with the utmost truth. “Nor will I.”

She snorted. “For some reason, I doona believe ye.”

“Let me in, Caitie.”

She didn’t even blink an eye at his order.

“Caitrin,” he started.

“Don’t
Caitrin
me,” she laughed, the sound completely without humor. “I ken what kind of man ye are. And I’ve no desire ta be with ye. No’ now or ever. So, good night, Lord Brimsworth.”

She moved to close the door, but she was no match for his superior strength. He pushed past her into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

“What is it, Cait?”

“Well,
now
it’s that ye’re in my room without an invitation.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and once again blew a lock of flaxen hair from her face.

“And what made you angry at me
before
I invited myself into your room, Caitie?” He set the tumblers and the decanter of whisky on the table and waited for her answer.

“I doona ken what ye’re speakin’ of,” she replied, her tone haughty and annoying.

“Yes, you do,” he said as he poured two tumblers of the strong drink and handed one to her. Perhaps she’d soften some if she was intoxicated. She actually took it from him and downed it in one big, fast swallow.

He stood helpless to aid her as she sucked in a breath and her eyes began to water. “What was that?” She coughed.

He cringed. “I’m so sorry,” he said as he took her shoulders in his hands to look into her eyes. “It’s whisky. I should have warned you.”

“Aye, that would’ve been nice,” she gasped, finally finding her breath.

“I’m sorry, Caitie,” he said again.

“Ye seem ta be quite adept at sayin’ that,” she hissed at him. Then she took the tumbler from his hand and tossed back his drink as well. This time, the strong liquor didn’t hit her quite as hard.

“Why did you do that?” he asked as he stared into the empty tumbler she pressed back into his hand.

“Because I felt like it.” She shrugged. “Isna that why ye do the things ye do, Lord Brimsworth? Just because ye
feel like it
?” She made the last sound like the vilest of curse words.

“If I did everything I felt like doing, Miss Macleod,” he shot back at her, mocking her tone, “I’d be kissing you right now instead of trying to figure out what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”

“Ye would be afraid if ye saw what goes on inside my head, Dash,” she said as she crossed the room and poured yet another glass of whisky. This one was much more full than the first two, and she carried the tumbler to bed with her, sipping as she walked.

“Why would I be afraid?” he asked as he walked toward her. Cait’s feet were bare, and her nightrail rode high enough that he could see a good bit of her ankle. He nearly lost his breath. Of all the women he’d been with, he’d never had one make him feel completely inept, like an untried lad, until Caitrin.

“Because it isna always pretty.” She stared into her glass, which was nearly empty, as though she wondered where the contents had gone.

“Why were you angry with me, Caitie?” he asked as he sat down on the edge of her bed and reached to cup the side of her face.

While she said, “Doona do that,” she pressed her face into his hand, absently stroking herself against him like a kitten. Any moment, he expected her to purr. But then her claws came back out. “Ye could never be true ta just one woman.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I could be true to you. If you’d but let me.”

“If I whistle like Miss Whomever, will ye still be true ta me? Or will I become fodder for yer little book?”

“What?” Dash shook his head.

She was obviously inebriated. Her eyes were glassy, and her speech was slurred. She sank back against the pillow. “Yer book, Dash. I read it. ‘Havens for Harlots,’ or whatever ye called it.”

Dear God! His heart sank as he realized what she was talking about. He wanted to knock himself over the head. All of his carnal sins on display. “It’s not what you think, Cait. How much of it did you read?”

“Two pages. It was all I could stand.” She yawned, her mouth open wide.

“Bloody hell,” Dash groaned. How would he ever face her in the light of day? “Where is it?” He’d toss the thing in the grate just to make sure she never read another bloody word.

“Would ye like ta ken the whereabouts of it?” she teased him, a lazy smile crossing her features as her eyes closed.

“Don’t go to sleep, Caitie.” He shook her shoulder. “Where’s my book?”

“Go away, Dash,” she said as she rolled away from him.

He wanted to scream. He’d made a royal mess of things. He’d planned to make her lose her wits, then her innocence. But the only thing lost was the evidence of his past debauched lifestyle. Lost to him. Not to her. She still had it somewhere. He set out to search her room. Only a goddamn fool would leave without it.

Dash glanced around the room. It wasn’t lying out anywhere. He opened the drawer on the bedside table, but it was empty. He dropped to his knees and lifted the edge of the counterpane and peered under the bed. Nothing but dust. He stood up again, knowing he was missing something obvious.

Her trunk! It had to be there. It appeared as though someone had been rummaging around through it. He crossed the room in an instant and dug his hands into her things. Soft kid slippers, wool and muslin dresses, a blue-and-green plaid, fine silk chemises. The latter made him groan aloud. He knew what she looked like in only a chemise. But no journal. What the devil had she done with—

The door creaked open, and Caitrin’s maid stood in the threshold. Dash should have heard her coming. Blast it! But there were so many different sounds at the inn that he couldn’t have known the soft footfalls he’d heard moments ago would stop at Cait’s door.

Jeannie’s face contorted in surprise and then rage when her eyes landed on him. “My lord!” she gasped. “What are ye doin’ in Miss Macleod’s room?”

Dash rose from his spot and realized a moment too late that he still clutched one of her chemises in his hands. He tossed it quickly back into the trunk. “I left something in here earlier. I was just looking for it.”

The maid snorted. “Well, I doubt that it’s mixed up with Miss Macleod’s unmentionables. Leave at once, or I’ll go fetch Mr. MacQuarrie.”

Mr. MacQuarrie could go straight to the devil. But Dash wasn’t ready for all the world to know about his journal, so he nodded curtly and started for the door.

Behind him, Caitrin sighed softly, and he glanced back over his shoulder to see her. Even in sleep, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. And now she knew him for the reprobate he was. For the reprobate he had been, Dash amended. Since Caitrin Macleod had entered his life, he hadn’t desired another woman in any way. And he never would.

How could he make her forget about his journal and agree to marry him?

“My lord!” Jeannie hissed, tapping her foot on the wooden planks of the floor.

Brought back to the present, he brushed past the maid without a word or another look back. His plan to seduce and ruin Caitrin had been utterly foiled. He needed to get properly foxed.