Chapter Four

His sudden smile lightened his serious expression, making her only too aware of his attraction. Apparently happy to waste his time riding around her land, which he knew better than she did, he led the way along the right-hand path around the hill and downward into a twisting glen.

She heard the rushing water for several minutes before they finally rounded a hill and came upon the waterfall. It spilled from the hill above in a narrow, glistening sheet over the rocks to the burn in front of them, which in turn flowed a hundred yards or so down to the river.

“Oh, how enchanting,” she exclaimed.

“We used to play here as children, see who could run through it without falling into the burn. And if the wind blew in the right direction, we could play in that little cave behind the water.”

“Show me,” she urged, dismounting before he could offer help.

There was nowhere to tie the horses, but the animals seemed happy to drink from the burn and crop the surrounding greenery. Etta followed her guide closer to the waterfall. Without warning, he bolted forward, tearing off his hat, and leapt through the cascade and over the burn. From the other side, he stood grinning at her while water ran off his hair. He shook himself like a dog.

“Refreshing,” he called to her.

She looked from him to the waterfall. The secret, obviously, was to do it quickly, so that you only got wet without being soaked through. And it was a sunny day.

“Don’t,” he said hastily. “I’ll come back.”

But she was already running at the waterfall, and leapt. The water battered her head and shoulders and then she landed on the other side. Too late, she knew she would stumble on the uneven rocks, but almost before her feet touched them she was snatched up and swung around onto safer ground.

Gasping and laughing at the same time, she clutched his arms to steady herself.

“What a hoyden,” he grinned. “Are you hurt?”

“No, just wet!” She gave her head a shake and smiled up at him. Something twisted within her, snatching at her breath all over again. It is him. The man who kissed me… And he was going to do it again. The smile dying on his parted lips, he bent his head, and her heart turned over.

Hard muscle bunched beneath her fingers. Through her damp clothing and his, she felt only heat.

Dear God, what am I doing? This isn’t some foolish game played by London rules.

Exactly what it was, she had no idea, but there were too many mysteries surrounding this man. Besides which, he churned up feelings in her she didn’t understand.

“Drat,” she said, whisking herself out of his arms. “My cloak—and our luncheon—is with the horses on the other side. One of us will have to cross again.”

He made no effort to recapture her. Deliberately, she looked across the burn at the horses, not at him, but she was sure his intense eyes devoured her face.

“Nonsense,” he said lightly, as if he’d noticed nothing strange in her manner. He emitted a piercing whistle and his white stallion immediately lifted its head and began to walk into the burn. The mare stopped eating to watch. Then, with a restless swish of her tail, she followed the stallion across the burn.

“Well,” Etta observed. “That is a useful skill. Are you hungry? Shall we eat?”

It seemed they were both content to pretend the moment by the waterfall had never happened. And indeed, nothing untoward had actually occurred. They slipped quickly back into their previous bantering conversation.

They sat in the sun on Robert’s cloak, eating the cold food Mrs. Ross had collected and gazing out over the hills and the river. He told her a few funny stories from his youth, when he and other local children had dared each other to various dangerous exploits involving the waterfall. And she described the quieter, flatter landscape of her home in East Anglia.

“I’m sorry you can’t buy Ardbeag,” she said at last. “You would have been kind to it.”

“You can’t know that,” he replied humorously. “I’ve consistently abused and poached it.”

“Perhaps, but you wouldn’t evict the farmers and fill the land with sheep.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.” He reached for the last crust of bread and snagged a cut piece of cheese to go with it. “Neither would the Roxburghs.”

“You think I should sell to them instead? It was they who suggested you.”

“I think they’d buy to keep the land in local hands.”

She nodded, wondering why the prospect didn’t make her happy.

Having finished his bread and cheese, Robert lay back on the cloak, his hands linked under his head, and let the sun warm his face. “Or,” he said, “you could keep it.”

“It makes no sense to keep it. The income from the estate is too low.”

“Your late husband did not leave you well provided for?”

Etta blinked at such bluntness. But she had no reason not to answer. “I have a house in London and a very respectable jointure.”

“Then there is nothing to stop you dividing your time between Ardbeag and London.”

“Apart from the horrendous journey.”

“You’d get used to that.”

“Perhaps.” Restlessly, she shifted position, gazing out across the land that was hers. Beyond the wood, she could see Lochgarron, Robert’s land. The beauty took her breath away—but so did the sheer isolation. “I could not thrive here,” she said abruptly. “I am a vain, shallow creature and I need company like a flower needs sunshine. I would…wither.”

His gaze burned her averted cheek. “You don’t appear withered to me. You are blooming.”

She smiled. “With my bedraggled hair and my damp habit.”

“It makes no difference.” He sat up again, which brought him just a little too close to her. “You are afraid.”

She could have denied it. In London, she would have. Here, with him, there seemed no point. “Perhaps.”

“Of being alone?”

She didn’t deny that either.

“The pool of men to flirt with is too small,” he suggested softly. “As is the possibility of taking even one lover without creating the sort of scandal you have always avoided.”

Etta smiled and lifted her chin, although she kept her gaze on the land. “I have found widowhood to be the best of states. An unmarried girl is so hemmed in and protected from impropriety that she cannot sneeze without a chaperone to disapprove and smother her in handkerchiefs. A married lady is so dependent on her husband’s whims that she is helpless. But a widow….” She turned her head to meet his gaze. “A widow has financial and personal independence. She is finally free. To make her own friends, her own amusements, her own pleasure. Provided she plays by the rules of discretion, of course.”

“And there is no such thing as discretion here?”

“Of course, there isn’t. And I will not give up my freedom for a new prison.”

“Prison?” he repeated, startled. He flung out his arm, indicating the wide, green vista before them. “There are no walls here. And the rules of discretion are merely…different. For example, we rode out here alone together. No groom, no Ross. No one would know if I made love to you by the waterfall.”

Annoyingly, she felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “But they could already be thinking it.”

“Only if you told everyone where you were going. People might gossip, but no one dogs your footsteps.”

“So,” she said, being deliberately outrageous, “you think my prime reason for keeping Ardbeag should be to facilitate my taking of lovers?”

“Well, you still have the problem of limited choice,” he said, not remotely thrown. “But then, if your choice in London is limited to men like George Beddow—”

“George Beddow was never my lover and never will be!” she exclaimed. “What do you imagine I do? Line up all the men at a ball and take my pick for the night?”

“Something like that,” he said steadily. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I doubt it’s so calculated or so distastefully done, but I don’t believe you follow your heart either, for your heart is not engaged, is it? That is the point.”

She stared at him. “Forgive me. I must have missed whatever makes this any of your concern.”

Her haughtiness, clearly, was lost on him, for he smiled. “Don’t you know? I want to be your lover.”

Heat washed over her like a wave. She didn’t know if it was part of the fury building inside her or something else entirely. She curled her lip. “That is not how the game is played.”

“I am not playing a game.”

“Then you are of no interest to me,” she snapped.

He pounced. “You mean I would be, if only I played by your rules?”

“Absolutely not!” she lashed out, wanting to hurt. “I have had my fill of your family with your lies and deceit!”

He frowned. “George hurt you? I wish I’d hit him harder.”

Rob Ogilvy had hit him? Intrigued, where she should have been disgusted, she almost asked for details, but fortunately, sense returned and she said haughtily, “I was not speaking of George.”

His dark eyebrows shot up. “I, then? How have I deceived you?”

“You cannot deny you kept your identity secret when you danced with me at the Roxburghs’.”

“It was a masquerade,” he said mildly. “I thought that was the whole point.”

“But you came to berate me for leading George astray, didn’t you? You even disguised your voice.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “At first.”

For some reason, his honesty only made her angrier. “And then you thought, if she’ll take George, she’ll take anyone, including me!”

At last she’d succeeding in startling him. His eyes widened and his lips fell apart—in shock, no doubt, that she’d found him out.

She laughed. “As Mrs. Ross explained, my reputation arrived before me. Courtesy, no doubt, of George, who is wrong in just about everything! My choice is far smaller than you think. You couldn’t win me that night, Mr. Ogilvy, and you can’t win me now.”

She made to rise, meaning to mount the mare and ride home alone, but he caught her forearm and tugged. She fell back upon the cloak and he loomed over her, scowling, his eyes suddenly both serious and turbulent.

“I think I can.”

Before she could sneer, his mouth came down on hers in the wildest kiss she’d ever known. Hard and passionate, it took her entirely by surprise, and it seemed she had no control over her own lips or tongue, which he plundered mercilessly. She would have been afraid except for the sudden, leaping joy of her body, which arched into his from pure instinct. He groaned, deepening the kiss impossibly while he lowered his whole body onto hers, fitting his erection just at the juncture of her thighs.

She let out a tiny, inarticulate cry of excitement and he began to move, caressing her with his whole body. The beat of his heart battered against her. Desire, more powerful than any she’d ever known, pounded through her. Never in her life had she felt so helpless or so wonderful at the same time, especially when his hand closed over her breast in a sweet, arousing caress.

“I can win you,” he whispered against her lips. “Not for one night, or two, or ten. I want forever.”

She closed her eyes tightly as he raised his head at last. “You’re insane,” she said shakily. “You barely know me. And I have no interest in forever.”

“We could start with this afternoon,” he murmured, kissing her ear. “And then see how you feel.”

In spite of everything, a spurt of laughter shook her. “An excellent seduction technique, but it misses the mark with me.”

He trailed his fingertips across her cheek and lips. “Really? I could have sworn I was close. Why are you afraid of forever?”

“I told you. I like being a widow.”

He regarded her, his head tilted. She thought he would argue the point, but instead, he took her by surprise all over again. “Why did George feel so…entitled to you? Aside from the fact that he’s a fool.”

“We flirted once. I considered him.” She curled her lip in a self-deprecating smile. “Quite seriously, in fact. I thought he was young and charming and just a little different. And then I found…”

“What?” he urged when she trailed off.

She brought her averted gaze back to his. “That he was engaged to be married.”

His perceptive eyes searched hers. “You don’t seduce married men? Aren’t they the safest for a lady who doesn’t want forever?”

“I don’t seduce other women’s husbands,” she retorted, pushing against him to sit up.

He eased himself off her and helped her, though his eyes were disturbingly astute. “That’s what happened to you, isn’t it?”

She shook out her sleeves and reached for her somewhat crushed hat, which had either fallen off or been shoved aside. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. I think your husband kept a mistress and it hurt you.”

She lifted her chin, refusing to relive that pain. “Only my pride. My husband showed me every kindness, civility and respect.” She wanted to glare at him, to dare him to speak further on so intimate a subject, but she was afraid he would see the old hurt seeping from her eyes like tears.

“My God,” he whispered. “If you were mine, I would show you so much more than that. Every day. If you were mine, I could never look at another woman. Why would I?”

She gasped in a last effort to thrust the memory away, and suddenly his arms were around her again, dragging her against his chest, the hapless hat scrunched between them.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “You loved him. Women bear so much and men are so unthinkingly cruel, while believing they are all that is honorable.”

“It broke my heart,” she whispered, admitting it for the first time. “I was nothing to him but the woman fit to bear his children. And even there, I failed.”

“He failed. He failed you.”

For an instant, she clutched his arms, soaking up his comfort and the warmth of his rough cheek against hers. Then she pulled back, dashing her sleeve across her eyes like a child. “It was a long time ago. I never think about it. There must be something about this place that churns up the emotions.”

It wasn’t a bad attempt.

As though playing along, he grinned at her. “Not a chance. It must be me.”

She suspected that was alarmingly closer to the truth, though she would never admit it.

“When I came out of mourning,” she said, for he might as well hear the rest, “and I did mourn him, quite genuinely, I began to realize I was still young and free to live. So I did, and I do. I go where I please with whomever I please and I have fun and romance and laughter in my life. I am happy.”

“Yes, you are,” he agreed. “And you came here.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but had no intention of finding out. She rose quite suddenly, afraid of this new intimacy, and spun away to face the waterfall. Which is when she saw the man standing at the top of the hill, just at the water’s edge. He seemed to be looking straight at her.

“Rob!” she exclaimed, seizing the Rosses’ name for him in her panic as she reached blindly for his arm. “Who is that?”

But the figure vanished before the words left her lips and she found herself pointing at no one.

“Someone was there,” she said urgently. “Watching us.” So much for the discretion he’d claimed. “How disheartening to be caught in a moment of actual innocence.”

“It might not be your morals or social gossip he’s interested in,” Rob said, with a trace of grimness. Hastily, he began to gather up the remains of luncheon and the cloak on the ground.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he could be one of the strangers who broke into your house. Strangers were seen in the area, but no one saw where they went. I was afraid they were still here.”

“Is that why you led me here by such a circuitous route?”

He cast her a quick smile as he seized the mare’s reins. “You noticed. Yes, I was looking out for any sign of them.”

“We should chase him!”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asked, holding down his locked hands to boost her into the saddle.

With quite a different kind of excitement than that she’d discovered in his arms, she sprang from his hands to the saddle and gathered the reins. It took him only a moment to mount the white stallion.

“Stay close to me!” he hurled over his shoulder and kicked the horse to an almost instant gallop.

Even with the alarming purpose of the chase, it was an exhilarating ride around the hill, across both open country and woodland. Sheep scattered around them as they rode down the hillside, and a dog barked at them, but of the man she’d seen—or any other man, in fact—they saw no sign.

“How utterly frustrating!” Etta exclaimed as they finally turned their horses’ heads back toward Ardbeag House.

“Agreed.”

“Despite my seeing him, we’re no farther forward, are we?”

“We might be,” he said cautiously. “Since there was no sign of them coming down, I have an idea where they might be hiding.”

“Where?” she demanded.

“I’m not daft enough to say,” he retorted, “or you’ll be sneaking up there to confront them alone.”

“Won’t you come with me?” she wheedled.

“On this occasion, no,” he said firmly. “I suspect I’d be leading you into a trap. No, we’ll retreat as though defeated, and then when they’re least expecting it, I’ll go back with a few useful men.”

“Then I shall come with you.”

He raised one eyebrow. “And shatter our discretion?”

In spite of herself, she blushed. “I’m not sure discretion is a consideration when hunting thieves.”

He only smiled and guided his horse across the burn.

“Mrs. Ross believes they were looking for Prince Charlie’s gold,” she said.

“I suspect they’re sixty years too late for that.”

“Then you believe it was discovered?”

He shrugged. “Yes, if it ever existed. Enough people have torn the place apart looking for it. If it was there, someone must have found it, whether that was a government soldier slipping off with it, some fugitive ancestor of Mrs. Ross, or your grandfather-in-law. Or any of the people who rebuilt and redecorated the house for the Derwents.”

“Then why do people still believe in it? Enough to break into the house and then lurk in the vicinity, presumably with the intention of looking again?”

“People who have little or nothing like to believe in something. Luck, usually. But don’t worry. We’ll catch them before they get the chance to look again. You’ll be quite safe.”

“They won’t be if they come back,” Etta said darkly. “I have a dedicated poker with a purpose!”