Chapter Eighteen
Some six hours later, Gerard leaned against a thick wooden column in an inconspicuous area of the ornate ballroom at Spencer Castle, scanning the dance floor with a hawk’s focus. He was determined to keep Evelyn under watch throughout the evening, his attention subtle and undetected, but focused on identifying any sign of a threat.
All in all, this had the makings of a miserable night. God knew he detested these formal functions, excuses for the high-and-mighty to come together and prance about in their finery. Playing bodyguard to Evelyn in this dimly-lit cavern of a room, he’d worn a kilt in the MacMasters’ plaid of red, black, and green, a well-tailored black wool jacket, and a waistcoat in a shade Harrison referred to as sage. Even now, when the evening had scarcely begun, the black tie around his neck seemed a merciless torture. Discreetly, he tugged at the knot, loosening the length of silk until it hung at a slight, haphazard angle.
The journey from Houghton Manor to the castle had been miserable. Some three hours earlier, a trio of carriages had departed the manor house. Rumbling over the countryside in a coach with Fergus Royce at the reins, Gerard bit back a multitude of curses and questioned if his bollocks would survive the ride. Was there a rut the man had not managed to hit? Fergus’s vaunted skills of evasion must have been reserved for pursuers. He certainly didn’t give a damn about keeping his male passengers’ jewels intact.
Seated across from him with the American lass at her side, Evelyn had peered absently from the window. Her mouth pulled into a seam, the expression on her face had been distant, as if a multitude of thoughts consumed her.
She’d erected a barrier between them, a wall he suspected might be as impermeable as the ramparts of a mighty fortress. When she’d come upon him in her chamber, suspicion had filled her wide blue eyes. In that moment, he’d lost her trust.
What a stroke of rotten luck.
Bah! He dismissed the thought. Luck had had nothing to do with it. He’d been a damned fool to let down his guard. The odds that the women would return at the very moment he was searching her chamber for whatever the hell it was that Graham had given her had been slim, but he’d been careless. He never should’ve taken a chance on Fergus standing watch outside the door. Knowing the old hound the way he did, he should’ve known the man—seventy if he was a day—would strike up a conversation with the first matron who crossed his path. In this case, that matron was the Houghton housekeeper, a plump, sweet-faced widow he’d judged to be some ten years Fergus’s junior. The first night Fergus had stayed as a guest of Laird Houghton, Mrs. Lewis had taken it upon herself to insist on seeing for herself that his modest chamber was in acceptable condition. She’d also managed to bring out the fact that her dear husband had departed this world some five years earlier. The old devil certainly did have a way with the ladies, despite the questionable state of his teeth and the craggy lines that marked his thin, pale face.
By hellfire, he could cast the blame on Fergus, but one fact remained—it was his fault he’d been caught red-handed in the lass’s chamber. Thank God she hadn’t walked in as he’d examined the contents of her traveling case. He was a courageous man, but he shuddered at the thought of Evelyn strolling into the room just as he’d sifted through her unmentionables. God above, what a scene that would’ve been.
The excuse he’d spat out under pressure was plausible enough. At least, it should’ve been. However, Evelyn didn’t believe it, not even for the time it had taken him to utter the words. If he’d had more time, he might’ve woven in details to make his rationale more plausible. Not that it would’ve mattered, even with an iron-clad reason for searching her chamber.
She was clever, too sharp to attribute everything that had happened since she entered that blasted store to mere chance. Did she believe him to be a clever thief? Or could she possibly believe he was in league with the criminal she’d spotted?
Had the fragile trust he’d set out to build been shattered?
Damnation, the very thought of it wedged a brawler’s fist in his gut.
Now, beneath the chandeliers in the cavernous ballroom, Evelyn appeared out of her element. Mingling with a few of Lady Spencer’s cronies at the edge of the dance floor, she held her back too straight and her chin a bit too high. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line. Despite the nervousness she could not entirely hide, she was a beauty.
Her flowing gown of deep blue silk matched the hue of her almond-shaped eyes. Unadorned save for a black velvet choker at her throat, the sapphire silk skimmed her perfectly rounded breasts, the curve of her hips, and the contour of her waist. Short, puffed sleeves revealed slender arms and white gloves. The frilly little headdress she’d purchased in the city perched atop her coiffure. Gaslight danced over the golden strands, blending shades of honey and the palest of browns. A wave of unfamiliar longing washed over him. His fingers flexed and closed. God above, what he would have given at that moment to touch her curls, to explore their texture as he tasted the flavor of her mouth.
He spotted Harrison across the room. His serious-minded brother surveilled the room with a discreet gaze, his attention drawn time and again to Grace, the American who’d suffered a near miss at the Witch’s Hearth.
By hellfire, it wasn’t like Harrison to allow himself to become preoccupied with a woman, much less while he was on a mission. What had come over the man? Not that it mattered. Gerard had full faith in his brother. In a crisis, Harrison’s focus would be on the task they faced.
A newcomer entered the ballroom. After greeting the statuesque matron who hosted the ball, the tall, lean man moved toward Evelyn, keeping her in his sights. Clearly, he’d recognized her.
The new arrival’s light brown hair was worn cropped close to his head, accenting angular features. Gerard couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but he detected the man’s hawk-like focus as he neared Evelyn. Did he pose a threat?
If there was a problem, Gerard had come prepared to solve it. He carried two holstered pistols beneath his jacket, and the sgian dubh at his right calf, partially concealed by his thick hose, was in easy reach.
Shifting into a more relaxed stance, he maintained his surveillance. The newcomer was near her now…close enough to put Gerard’s nerves on full alert. Lady Spencer’s rail-thin daughter—Lady Eudora, if he recalled correctly—smiled warmly in greeting. Judging from their actions, the man was known to her.
Seeing the potential for a threat had passed, Gerard relaxed, letting out a low breath, though tension kept a grip on his innards.
The newcomer went up to Evelyn. As she met the stranger’s eyes, the serious set of her mouth eased. When the man spoke, she graced him with a smile, genuine and soft, but no trace of familiarity marked her expression. So, the man was a stranger to her—but one whose acquaintance she was pleased to make.
Was it his imagination, or was she actually batting her lashes at the man?
An odd pang roiled his gut. Devil take it, he’d never experienced the slightest twinge of jealousy over a woman. He and his wife had been so young when they’d fallen in love. There’d been no rivals there. Theirs had been a trusting, innocent love. And after Abby…well, there’d been others. Many others. Beautiful young widows who’d shared his pleasure and his bed. Comely lasses who’d welcomed him with open arms when they weren’t reciting lines from some play or other. All women of carnal experience. All women who’d sought no promises, nor words of love. He’d sated his desires just as they’d satisfied their own hungers, but he’d never needed to contemplate what would happen beyond the dawn. After the sunrise, he’d never found a reason to stay with the woman who’d slept in his arms the night before. He was gone from their beds as soon as he could pull on his trousers and brush a parting kiss on their lips.
None of those women had laid any claim to him. They wanted nothing more than the pleasure he was all too willing to offer.
He’d given Evelyn pleasure. She’d welcomed his touch and his kiss. She’d been eager for him…eager for more…eager to feel him reach the pinnacle of his release. And when she’d rested against his chest, he’d sensed she’d wanted more.
She wanted to know him. All of him. He’d seen it in her eyes. Given time, she’d ferret out his secrets. She’d want to know what was in his heart. She’d want him to open his soul to her.
Damned shame that part of himself was well beyond the reach of any woman. After Abby’s death, he’d walled that part of himself away. The pain of losing her had penetrated to the bone. Never again would he expose his underbelly, the vulnerabilities that only a woman could uncover in a man.
Never again would he let himself feel…that much.
Never again would he risk such agony.
If only he could keep his focus on his mission. He needed to find what Graham had entrusted to her. He needed to protect her.
But he didn’t need to give a damn if she bestowed her smile on another man.
She could never be his. He’d charted his course in life—a life that was far from suited for an English lass who’d expect her man to be at home, with her and their babes, not traipsing around Britain ensuring Scotland’s rarest artifacts did not make it into the hands of unscrupulous bastards.
Still, he slanted another glance her way. She appeared to be listening intently to whatever the newcomer was saying. Was he regaling her with his astute grasp of British politics? With his immaculately groomed hair and perfectly tied cravat, he seemed the type who’d appeal to a sophisticated woman like Evelyn.
Unlike him. His hand went to his tie, wrenching it looser still. God above, he could scarcely abide the blighted scrap of fabric, let alone secure it in a precise knot.
What was it about Evelyn that was different from the others—what magic did she possess that made her fill his thoughts day and night, unlike the lovely lasses with whom he’d sought to ease the pain in his heart? How had this slender Englishwoman, with a scattering of cinnamon freckles over her nose and a rosy mouth that had been made for his kiss, managed to upend his world in little more than forty-eight hours?
The strains of a waltz filled the room. With a hand positioned in the most gentleman-like of touches on her arm, the man who’d so deftly held her interest escorted her onto the dance floor. As the music surrounded them, they began a graceful dance.
“Having fun yet?”
Harrison’s tone of wry amusement rankled him. His brother had always possessed the ability to read his emotions as easily as one might make out the words on a banner headline.
“This is a waste of time.” Gerard glanced toward the dance floor again, just as Evelyn and her partner glided gracefully toward him. He fought a scowl.
“We cannot leave her unprotected.” Ever the logical one, Harrison turned his attention to the dancers. “I presume you know who that is…dancing with Lady Evelyn.”
“Not a bluidy clue.”
“You need to spend more time in London.”
“London?” Gerard kept his focus on Evelyn. “Why in hellfire would I want to be there?”
“If you ventured there when you weren’t chasing some thief or other, you would know that man you look ready to throttle is one of the most celebrated artists in Britain.”
“An artist.” Gerard let out a low laugh. “The bastard’s probably comparing her to Aphrodite as we speak, looking for his next muse.”
“His name is Terrence Westbrook. The man’s medium is the camera. He is a portrait artist. That should ease your mind.” Harrison slanted him a sly smile. “He’ll have no reason to have her disrobe.”
“Whether or not the woman keeps her clothes on is not my concern.”
Harrison’s brows hiked. “If you say so.” His gaze wandered to the American woman as she breezed past, skillfully led by a bloke Gerard knew as the younger son of a baron. “Miss Winterborne appears to be having a pleasant evening.”
How very civilized his brother sounded. Damned shame his eyes flashed with an emotion that did not fit within the parameters of his mission. Not quite jealousy. Rather, a look of thinly restrained lust.
“She is a bonny lass. Ye should take the next dance…if only for the sake of our mission. Ye dinnae want to be conspicuous, standing about surveilling the premises.”
Harrison nodded his agreement. “You make an excellent point. We must ask the ladies to dance.”
“One of us needs to have his eye on the crowd.” Gerard’s attention swept over the ballroom. Evelyn and the celebrated artist had moved to the opposite side of the floor. She was not a petite lass, but he could make out little more than the headpiece on her upswept blonde curls over the heads and shoulders of the dancers.
“Very well,” Harrison said. “It is a matter of duty, after all.”
“Of course.” Gerard gave a solemn nod, even as he bit back a hearty laugh.
The sounds of the orchestra dimmed as the waltz came to a close. As the dancers moved about, Harrison quickly closed in on Grace Winterborne. As the violinists played the opening notes of another waltz, the man who’d been her partner scowled and marched away as Harrison took the lead.
To his right, Evelyn extricated herself from the throng. Behind her, Westbrook paired with another lass, a pretty redhead whose coy smile did not disguise her eagerness to share the dance with the artist.
He shot her a look as she approached him. After her demeanor in the coach, he’d expected her to give him the cut-direct for the rest of the night. To his surprise, she was smiling, a faint tilt of those delicious coral-pink lips. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were attempting to puzzle him out.
“I must admit, I’m surprised to see you standing here,” she said. “I’d have thought you would’ve managed to squire a bonny lass or two about the floor.”
He shrugged. “I came into this earth with a talent or two. Dancing is not one of them.”
“What does talent have to do with it?” She quirked a delicate brow. “Heaven knows I’ve had my toes stepped on enough times to know talent…or a lack of it…does not keep a man from the waltz.”
“I’ve no taste for it, lass.” He pulled in a low breath, drinking in her scent, notes of lavender and woman. Lovely and natural. Like Evelyn.
“Nonsense. You simply have not found the right partner.” She flashed a grin. “Shall we give it a whirl?”
Good God, did she have any idea how tempting she was when her eyes danced with that blend of seduction and mischief that was so uniquely hers?
He wanted her in his arms. If giving in to her request was the only way to achieve that tonight, so be it.
“Who am I to refuse a lady?”
With that, he guided her to the dance floor. Sweeping her in his arms, he led her in perfect time to the strains of Tchaikovsky.
“I was not expecting…this,” she said softly. “You’re quite familiar with the waltz, aren’t you?”
“I wouldnae describe myself as such.”
“Why, you haven’t trod on me once. I was expecting my toes to be crushed,” she said lightly. “It certainly would not have been the first time. You’re actually rather good.”
For some blasted reason, her words warmed him. “As I said, it’s not talent. If ye could hear the one-two-three, one-two-three litany in my head, ye’d know the truth of my words.”
“Well, Mr. MacMasters, that does not matter in the least. How many of the people surrounding us have one-two-three running through their head?” She edged closer, her perfectly rounded bosom nearly touching his chest. “So, how is that you know how to dance? Was that another subject your mother insisted on for her children?”
“Aye. Ma insisted on a well-rounded education for her brood. She also required each of us to acquire a passable knowledge of Latin and French. To her way of thinking, it was the civilized thing to do.”
“Latin? And French? I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I know enough French to navigate the streets of Paris without embarrassing myself.”
Of course, he also knew enough of the language to interrogate French thieves who dared abscond with Highland treasures and flee back to the Continent. But she didn’t need to know that.
“I presume you had a tutor.”
“Tutors,” he corrected. “Ye’ve no idea how many fine academic men had their hair go gray while trying to teach the MacMasters—at least, that would be true for Connor, and Liam, and myself. We’ve been hell-raisers since birth.”
…
A hell-raiser since birth. That description certainly did not surprise Evelyn in the least. Everything about Gerard MacMasters was ever so slightly untamed, on the edge of being wild, despite the education and refinement his mother had insisted upon for her rebellious son.
He smelled of bergamot and sandalwood, and she drank him in.
He’d been passionate and gentle when he’d pleasured her. Yet, there was a primal element to his nature, a raw hunger in his eyes. Would he be untamed in his bed? Would he be a fierce lover, claiming a woman all night long, making her hunger for his touch and his kiss? Again…and again, until she was breathless with primitive satisfaction?
What was it about this man who made her feel as though her most wanton fantasies might become a reality?
She banished the questions to her mental dungeon. She knew better than to consider such outlandish notions. Didn’t she? In the carriage, she’d made a valiant effort to ignore the effect he had on her senses. She’d focused her thoughts on all the exceedingly rational reasons she had to be wary of the Highlander. After finding him in her chamber, offering a flimsy, all-too-convenient excuse, she had good cause to distrust his motivations.
But oh, he’d gone and done it. Without even realizing what he’d done, he’d employed a potent weapon to weaken her resolve.
He’d worn a kilt.
She understood now, beyond any doubt, why so many of her female acquaintances who’d ventured to Scotland had gushed about the devastatingly handsome men in kilts.
Still, she’d stayed strong. She hadn’t even allowed herself to think about the way he looked tonight.
Until she’d spotted him by the ballroom floor, watching her. Had that been a spark of jealousy in his eyes?
He’d stood casually by the thick wooden post, the striking plaid draping lean hips. Beneath the kilt, his legs were strong and muscular. The carved ebony hilt of a dagger jutted from the top of the thick wool hose that garbed his legs to the knees. His white shirt was crisp and the color of snow, while his finely tailored wool jacket, dark as ebony, was perfectly fitted to his broad shoulders.
Upon their first encounter, she’d mentally dubbed him an Adonis. But now, that description seemed a bit off.
If Adonis had come to life and stepped down to earth, he could not have held a candle to this rugged Highlander.
She had been determined to keep her distance. She’d tried. Truly she had.
Pity that when he’d met her eyes—well, even she wasn’t strong enough to resist that slightly crooked smile.
Ah, I am a secret romantic, am I not?
No, she corrected herself. A secret romantic fool.
She pulled in a breath. The inhalation carried more of his essence, more of that clean, brisk aroma. Her senses stirred.
Nothing good can come of this.
Silencing the inner nag, she settled her thoughts. She would allow herself this one indulgence. A dance with him…perhaps two, or three…or twelve. What was the harm in that? It wasn’t as if they were planning to shock everyone in attendance with a display of passion in full view of the illustrious-because-she’d-married-a-lord Lady Spencer’s guests.
Even as her thoughts rioted, he guided her about the dance floor. Could he possibly guess at the tumultuous battle taking place in her head?
“Tell me more about your family,” she said finally, choosing a subject that would not stir her awareness of him.
“The hell-raisers?”
Drat. She hadn’t counted on that too-appealing-for-her-own-good warmth in his eyes.
“All of them,” she managed, even as a fresh wave of sensual awareness washed over her. This man swept away any rational, sensible intention to protect her heart, like sand on a beach during a summer storm.
“Connor and Liam—well, they’re the ones who are most like me. We’re the ones who’ll go charging into a ruckus and ask questions later.”
“Your mother had three hell-raisers to see to adulthood?”
“Ma blames the three of us for at least half of the silver hairs on her head. Connor has settled down now, married to a bonny lass. It willnae be long before their babe enters the world.”
“Another hell-raiser, perhaps?”
“Aye, if it takes after his…or her…da. Connor is stout-hearted as they come. But when I think back on it, ’tis a miracle we survived our boyhoods.” His expression softened. “Ma is delighted. Out of eight sons and daughters, she hasnae had one grandchild to rock in her arms, as she puts it. Of course, Connor had to be the first to add to the clan. If he wasnae Ma’s favorite son before, he has laid claim to that title.”
“And Harrison…where does he fit within your siblings?”
“Harrison, Simon, and my sisters have always been more studious by nature—assuming ye can get Maggie to stop prattling on about the latest gossip or some god-awful novel she’s read. And Serena…well, she is a brilliant lass. Ye willnae encounter a finer scholar.”
The pride in his voice as he spoke of his kin intensified the warmth in her heart. This was a man whose family meant a great deal to him, a man who spoke of his sisters with considerable pride. Would her own brother speak as well of her?
Somehow, she doubted it. After her fiancé had jilted her, her brother had regarded her as somehow tainted. He’d washed his hands of the ugly situation and urged her to put it behind her—to move on and guard what precious little was left of her reputation. After all, he’d explained, a blemish on her name was a blight on the family name as well.
She turned her attention back to Gerard’s family. All in all, a far more pleasant topic.
“Scholar?” she asked. “What is her area of expertise?”
He pondered the question for a moment. “Ancient texts. She is an expert at ancient languages and symbols.”
“She reads hieroglyphs?”
“Since she was a girl. Egyptian and Sumerian.”
How very amazing. “Is she in Egypt?”
He shook his head. “Not at present. But soon she will be venturing there on an expedition.”
“How fascinating.” Generally, when uttered, the words were a bit hollow, but when she spoke them this time, she meant every syllable. “You’d mentioned eight children. Perhaps my calculation is off, but I believe you missed one.”
“That would be Andrew. He was my oldest brother. Wise beyond his years, much like Harrison.” His eyes dimmed, if only a bit. “His death was a blow we never saw coming.”
Pain marked his expression. Emotion welled in her throat. She swallowed hard against it.
“I’m sorry, Gerard,” she said, the only words she could muster.
“It’s been years, but the memory is like a punch to the gullet.” He leaned down, his mouth close enough to kiss her. “He was too damned young to die.”
“Did he succumb…to an illness?”
“Nay.” Gerard’s mouth hardened. “To a treacherous woman.”
She hadn’t expected that. She pulled in a breath, but the tactic was a mistake. She only managed to drink in more of the man who held her, and her pulse tripped a bit faster.
“How very sad,” she managed.
He gave his head a small shake, as if to dislodge the torturous memory. “I should not have said that. What’s done is done. He was a trusting soul. Too much so.”
“Unlike you?” The question popped out of her mouth before she could rein it in.
“Trust does not come easily to me. I suspect ye could say the same.”
“Quite so. That was not always the case. But I’ve learned…a bitter lesson.”
He drew her closer. “We are not so very different, are we, Evelyn?”
Something hard and angular and unyielding pressed against her breast. Something he wore beneath his jacket.
The sensation dashed icy water in her face. Her eyes went wide, and she wiggled back, still within the circle of his arms but away from direct contact with his lean body. Far enough to clear her head. Far enough to focus her thoughts beyond the dawning alarm that threatened to overwhelm her.
She steadied her voice. “I am not a distrustful person. Not by nature, at least. But I am no longer naive. Nor do I believe in fortunate coincidences, especially when a man conveniently turns up wherever I happen to be, including in my chamber on not one, but two, unexpected occasions. And most especially, when that man is carrying a gun while waltzing to Chopin.”