Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (21 page)

“I’m half-sprung.” He chuckled and after a mocking salute with his nearly empty glass, finished the Scotch.

Turquoise eyes swirled to the forefront of his mind as he crossed the Axminster carpet patterned in rich shades of brown and beige.

“Better plan on drinking the whole damned bottle.”

Julia Cambrill’s sultry, doe-like eyes suddenly plowed into his brain, much like a runaway carriage tumbling off a cliff. And about as welcome. The familiar humiliation thoughts of Julia usually brought failed to rear its ugly head. She couldn’t compare to Isobel in either appearance or in his affections.

Without a jot of regret, Yancy shoved her image aside.

He picked up the two letters atop and squinted to read the words, deuced difficult to do when foxed. The first was from Bronwedon’s steward. A quick perusal revealed the man had at last acquired a villa in Spain Yancy had visited and become enamored of while on his grand tour years before.

The second bore Cecily’s spiraling strokes. He held the paper between his thumb and forefinger as if pinching a long-dead rodent’s tail. He eyed the letter with distaste. Cecily correspondences seldom bore good news.

Damned curiosity.

He cracked the seal and scanned the short missive. “Bleeding hell.”

Evidently, Matilda and the vicar’s pimply-faced son had been dallying. Caught coupling in the conservatory by none other than Lady Clutterbuck—one of the
haut ton’s
most notorious gossips—a frantic Cecily begged Yancy to bestow a substantial dowry on Matilda to entice the cur to marry the chit.

Ramsbury, you’ve always shown Matilda the greatest kindness and respect, much like that of an adored older brother.

Please, if you can find it in your heart to bestow a generous dowry on her, so that she might marry and escape the scandal to some small degree, I shall be forever grateful, as I know would Matilda.

Yancy snorted.

Doing it up a bit brown, aren’t you, Cecily, especially with that adored older brother balderdash
?

She’d been shoving her niece beneath his nose for years, hoping Yancy would marry the chit. He had long suspected the girl wasn’t Cecily’s niece at all, but rather her illegitimate daughter. They bore too great a resemblance to one another.

Nonetheless, he would do as Cecily asked in a heartbeat if it meant he wouldn’t have Matilda underfoot. She undressed him with her eyes whenever he chanced to be in the same room as she.

Most discomfiting since he hadn’t regarded her as anything more than a bothersome child. She’d probably seduced the poor sot— had his trousers circling his ankles and his cock in her palm before he knew what she was about.

Now, if he could only rid himself of Cecily’s troublesome presence. If he married, he could banish his stepmother to the dower house or send her on an extended holiday to the continent.

Yawning, he tossed the letter onto the bed, and after stretching, sauntered back to the fireplace’s warmth. Yancy poured the last of the Scotch—scarcely more than a swallow. He took one, quick swig, downing the amber liquid.

He glared at the empty bottle.

Won’t do at all.

A swift glance at the mantel clock had him donning his trousers. Likely everyone was abed at half past midnight. However, venturing below stairs, his long shanks bared for all to see, was beyond the pale, even for him.

After tucking his feet into a pair of slippers, he nabbed a candleholder and marched to the door. Sethwick’s study boasted a sizable assortment of first-rate spirits.

Stepping into the corridor, he plowed full on into Isobel.

Chapter 27

For the second time in scarcely more than week, Isobel planted her face in Yancy’s wide chest. Only this time, soft hairs tickled her nose and warm flesh met her cheek. Both sensations caused her knees to weaken, silly things. Or perchance, that he smelled positively delicious could be blamed.

To steady her, he circled her waist with an arm, holding her snugly against him, thigh to chest.

The urge to cuddle closer tempted stronger than the reek of spirits permeating him. Zounds, how much had he consumed?

“Careful, we don’t want to take a tumble holding candles.” His words, though pronounced perfectly, seemed too clipped and precise.

She studied his face.

A shock of unruly hair lay across his high forehead, and a silly smile molded his mouth. His forest eyes glowed with that same dangerous look that had gleamed in them at the cottage. He gave a lazy wink before his gaze sank to Isobel’s lips, and his nostrils flared. He pulled her closer. “I love your hair down.”

He’s foxed.

She tried stepping away, but Yancy didn’t relinquish his tenacious hold. She checked both ways along the hallway. Lord, all she needed was for someone to come upon them in their nightclothes while embracing.

Well, she wasn’t embracing Yancy, but he most definitely held her, and quite intimately too. His maleness pressed insistently against her belly. Only a numbskull could mistake the hard bulge for anything other than arousal.

His large hand skimmed her bottom, giving it a tiny squeeze. A squeeze that caused several naughty ideas to spring to mind.
Blasted books.

“My lord, cease this instant.” Trying to wriggle away, Isobel kept her tone quiet. “Let me go.”

“But you feel good.” Yancy sniffed her head then nuzzled her neck.

Most assuredly, ape drunk.

“You smell”—he licked her ear—“and taste so sweet.”

Isobel stifled a gasp and clutched his shoulder with her free hand. She must put an end to this, and swiftly, before she found herself in the same compromising situation as in the woodland cottage.

She painted a stern expression on her face. “Lord Ramsbury, how much have you had to drink?”

He lifted his head and frowned at her. “Only one bottle of Scotch.”

“One bottle? The entire thing?” She shook her head as she examined him, clamping her teeth to keep from smiling. “Yer oot yer face.”

“
Oot yer face
?” He squinted, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What does that mean?”

She steered Yancy toward his chamber. “It means you’re very drunk.”

“I like it when you speak Scots.” He grinned again and wiggled his eyebrows. “Say something else. How do I tell you, you’re beautiful? I can say it in French,
tu es belle,
and Spanish,
eres hermosa
, and Latin,
pulchra es.
But I don’t know how in Scots or Gaelic, except whisky—
uisge
.”

Yancy proved a silly drunkard, and Isobel smiled, despite herself.

“Come now, my lord.” She tugged him another foot. “All these years you’ve spent time in Ewan’s company, and you haven’t picked up any Scots?”

“But I never wanted to tell Sethwick he was beautiful.”

Yancy appeared so perplexed, a giggle escaped her.

He caressed her bum again.

“I said, stop that.” She slapped at his hand.

“Tell me how to say you are beautiful, and I love you.” His voice dropped to a gravelly timbre, and he nibbled the sensitive flesh along the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Another jagged crack rent Isobel’s heart, even as pricks of arousal sprang to life. Such sincerity rang in his words, yet nothing could come from it.

Foolish man.

Foolish me.

Yancy’s choices had brought him to this place, and though a part of her yearned to throw love in the face of good sense, another was piqued at his thoughtless selfishness.

“We shouldn’t be having this conversation, my lord.” Pushing into his side, she turned him to the door standing wide open. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

He gave her a devilish smile. “Only if you join me.”

“That is not going to happen.” Though, Lord help her, she wanted it to.

He trailed a finger across her jaw. “You would enjoy bedding me, I promise.”

I have no doubt of that.

Arm about his waist, Isobel guided him into his chamber. She set her half-burned candle on the drum table beside the door, and then urged him to the side of the bed nearest the entrance.

He stumbled and tottered for a moment. Eyes shut, he chuckled.

She snatched the candle from his hand. “My lord, may I suggest you not go doddering about drunk as a wheelbarrow while toting a candle? I am fairly certain my family wouldn’t be pleased if Craiglocky went up in flames.”

“Happened once already, didn’t it?” Apparently, trying to focus, Yancy peered at her, his nose mere inches from hers. The flecks of gold in his eyes stood out brightly against his oversized pupils.

Firming her arm at his back, Isobel urged him onward.

He cupped her bottom once more. “But someone took a second chance and rebuilt. ‘Cause they thought it worthwhile, to make the effort. When something’s important, a person doesn’t give up. They keep at it. Until they succeed. It becomes a quest. A mission.”

His odd ramblings had her eyeing him curiously.

He regarded her innocently, the barest hint of a smile arcing his mouth. “Didn’t the first castle burn?”

“Yes, in the twelfth century. The old castle ruins are on the other side of Loch Arkaig.” She had imagined his subtle double entendre.

Gripping his waist, Isobel placed his candleholder on the night stand. Pushing his shoulders until he sat upon the bed, she scanned the room.

For a decade, he’d used this chamber when he came to visit. It held touches of his presence: boots lined up neatly beside the wardrobe; a short stack of rather ominous-looking volumes and several rolled documents topped the writing desk. His riding crop, sword, and a silver-topped cane stood, wedged beside the drum table, upon which a pair of gloves had been tossed.

Isobel had been an awkward, pudgy girl of nine the first time she’d laid eyes on Yancy. Even then, one look from him had sent her schoolgirl heart a-pattering.

Never mind that.

She bent to untie his sash, and her hair swung about their heads, creating a curtain.

His warm breath, heavy with spirit, whispered across her face.

After gathering her hair and tossing the strands behind her, she edged the material off his shoulders. Her fingers skimmed his flesh as she shoved the satin down his arms.

He tensed and inhaled, a sharp, swift gulp of air.

Drat.

How naïve can you be, Isobel
?

She hadn’t undressed a man before. How was she to know how sculpted his muscled torso would be, or how the curly hairs on his chest disappeared into the waistband of his trousers, or how his muscles would ripple from her touch even as their breathing quickened?

Or how my knees and insides would turn all quivery
?

Biting her lower lip, she dared peek at him.

His eyes hooded, he regarded her, the sharp lines of his face strangely tense.

Isobel tugged at his banyan, and he lifted a hip allowing it to slide free. He was magnificent and only sheer stubbornness kept her from gawking and feathering her fingers across his chest and shoulders. She swallowed a gulp and flung his robe to the end of the bed.

He could sleep in his trousers.

Forcing a calm façade, she lifted the covers. A piece of paper floated to the floor. “Here, get in.”

Yancy dutifully lay on his back and angled his long legs beneath the bedclothes.

She drew the sheets and counterpane to his chest then smoothed them.

One hand behind his head, the other draped across his waist, his penetrating gaze didn’t waver from her face.

She brushed the strand of hair off his forehead. “There you are. Now go to sleep. You will have a devil of a headache in the morning.”

“Can I have a kiss goodnight?” Yancy’s focus dipped to her mouth, and he exhaled a ragged breath.

Isobel pursed her lips. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

Not that she didn’t trust him to give her a single kiss. No, she would be the one to lose the tenuous grip she had on her control.

“Come now, a little peck, so I might dream of you? What harm could there be in one kiss?” His eyelids drooped, and he slurred his words.

Liquor or exhaustion? Probably both.

He really did have a lovely mouth.

“If you won’t marry me, Isobel, at least gift me with your sweet lips.”

His softly uttered words enveloped her heart. She made a pretense of straightening the counterpane across his chest. Another opportunity to see him thus or kiss him again wouldn’t present itself.

“One chaste kiss is all I ask,” Yancy mumbled, half-asleep. His eyes shut, a nascent smile curved his mouth, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically.

“Fine, so you will hush and go to sleep.” Bending, she braced her hands on his shoulders and touched her lips to his in a tender kiss.

A soft snore escaped him.

Asleep
?
He fell asleep
?

Isobel straightened, unsure whether to be piqued or amused. Giving in to the urge, she kissed him again, committing the moment, his taste, his smell, his beloved features, to memory. Her breath caught in sorrow, a painful lump where her heart should be. She forced herself to turn from Yancy and collect the candle. Something crinkled under her foot.

Bother.

She’d forgotten the paper that fell to the floor when she tucked him in. Retrieving the crumpled page, her gaze sank to the elaborate script. One word stood out from the others.

Matilda.

Isobel shouldn’t read the letter. She wasn’t given to snooping, yet her blasted eyes refused to leave the foolscap. She read the missive in its entirety, not once, but twice.

Yancy wasn’t now, nor—at least from what she gleaned from the letter—had he ever been involved with Matilda Darby. The girl was to wed another. He was free to marry, had been all this time.

Isobel hurried to the entrance and, after a swift perusal of the hallway, closed the door. Before she could change her mind, she peeled off her robe and slipped into bed.