Chapter Nine
Evelyn selected her ensemble for the evening with care. After all, it was not every day that one prepared for battle—a covert, overtly civil skirmish, but a battle nonetheless. The Highlander had wandered into her chamber—while she was bathing, no less—through an innocent mistake. Of that, Evelyn was certain. But she’d wager her last pence that the tongues had already begun to whisper of the tale. She’d have to summon every ounce of dignity she possessed and extinguish the sparks before they could flare into scandal.
Dignity would serve her well. From her clothing to her conversation, her conduct would be beyond reproach. It wasn’t as if a spot of gossip would send her running for the comfortable familiarity of London. She was made of sterner stuff than that. Heaven knew, she’d withstood far more scandalous happenings.
Fastening the buttons on her high-necked, ivory silk blouse, she sighed. Pity the circumstances of his entry into her bathing chamber had not been different. She might have at least taken the time to savor the way he’d looked at her, the heat in his expression that made it clear she appealed to him on the most primitive of levels.
In her fantasies, she’d have invited him to strip off his road-dusted clothing and join her in the steamy water. In that rich, oh-so-enjoyable world, she’d have learned the feel of his broad shoulders, the texture of his skin, the sound of his voice when passion overtook him.
Instead, she’d tried to rush him out of the chamber, desperate to avoid anyone taking notice of his intrusion—only to have a clear-eyed young maid come upon the scene.
In truth, the matter was of little consequence. It wasn’t as if she would have pursued her sensual fantasies in the Scot’s arms. If she’d indulged in the passionate adventures her imagination conjured, her energy would be so depleted she’d scarcely have the strength to serve as Sally’s bridesmaid.
Still, what could it hurt to indulge her wicked dreams, even those she knew would never, ever come true?
Or could they?
She swept the thought aside. She’d come to the Highlands to be with Sally as she spoke her vows. Not to be caught up in an all-too-brief rendezvous with a dashing Scot.
Was it her imagination, or did her pulse speed ever so slightly at the notion? Were her cheeks warm at the very thought of him?
Pity the tables hadn’t been turned. A delicious image flashed into her thoughts—the Highlander preparing for his bath, a towel slung around his lean hips, his broad chest dusted with hair even darker than the sable locks on his head. Wouldn’t that have been a sight to behold?
Dash it all, she had to steel herself against her scandalous thoughts. She’d face him again soon enough. Catriona had invited—or was summoned the more accurate word?—her guests to an informal pre-supper gathering in the parlor. Brandy and conversation, as she’d put it.
She’d definitely have to keep her head about her tonight. No getting foxed for her. Not with Mr. MacMasters within touching distance. The man was a temptation. She could not indulge in flirtation, no matter how mild. After all, once a man has seen you nearly naked, in a tub, no less, any pretense of playing the coy flirt had been shredded.
Lifting a brush to her long, tousled hair, she smiled to herself. She was not usually so fanciful. She’d certainly left her good sense behind when she’d packed her bags and departed London. She, of all people, knew better than to play with fire. A man like Mr. MacMasters would kindle not only a flame, but a full blaze.
After smoothing her long waves with the stout boar bristles, she swept up her hair, pinning it into a loose chignon. Selecting a cameo brooch from her traveling case, she pinned it at her throat. All in all, she appeared prim and so very proper. Despite her scandalous thoughts, she might even be confused for a lady who still had a good name to protect.
Bracing herself for the evening ahead, Evelyn made her way to the appointed gathering place. Dignity at all costs. She repeated the words like a litany. Even if she had to grit her teeth and do little more than smile and nod, she would maintain her respectable facade…at least until Sally took her vows.
Entering the cavernous chamber, she glanced about the room Catriona had modestly referred to as a parlor. The room was nearly large enough to be a ballroom. Throughout, touches of gold drew the eye. Velvet curtains in a deep golden hue draped massive windows. A gentle breeze rustled the fabric, wafting the soft scents of the garden to her nostrils. She took in the ambiance. Despite its size, the decor stirred a feeling of connection and warmth. Comfortable chairs upholstered in a subtle yellow hue and settees done in a delicate flowered print had been arranged on a plush, richly detailed Oriental carpet, mere steps from a stone hearth. The massive fireplace would produce considerable heat in the cool months. Even the elaborately carved desk situated near the farthest corner of the room would be adequately warmed by the blaze.
Over the intricately carved mantle, two immense Scottish swords—claymores, she believed they were called—had been crossed and mounted on the stone. Clearly these swords held significance to the Houghton family. Could they have been wielded in battle by some long-ago ancestor?
She was seldom the first to arrive at any function, formal or informal—if anything, she was known to arrive fashionably late more times than not—but she was alone in the room. How odd. Yet, how fortunate. By her estimate, she had more than a quarter hour until her presence was required. Perhaps she’d seek out a calm place to settle her thoughts before the members of the wedding party descended upon the parlor for a bit of forced merriment.
Once again, the appealing aroma of flowers in bloom drifted through the open window. The scent perked her senses, stirring an unexpected urge to drink in a few minutes of fresh air and peace. Did she dare return to the scene of the crime—to Catriona’s beloved, slightly ruffled garden?
Blast it, why not? It wasn’t as if Catriona would even know she’d entered her domain. And it wasn’t as if she’d take another tumble on her plants. At least, she certainly hoped not. That might well inflict a death blow to what remained of her dignity.
Of course, a proper woman would hesitate to venture into the garden without benefit of a chaperone. She’d cast away the burdens of respectability for such a long while, the constraints of propriety seemed altogether foreign. And rather absurd. She sighed. Oh, well, perhaps she’d find a companion to accompany her.
Failing that, she could allow herself this small indiscretion. She smiled to herself. After all, who would ever know?
Leaving the parlor, she quickly made her way through the corridor to the solarium. Grace huddled there on a dark blue settee, pencil in hand, sketching in the leather-bound journal she carried with her nearly everywhere. Lifting her doe-brown eyes to Evelyn, she acknowledged her with a smile.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me in the garden,” Evelyn suggested. “I’m craving fresh air.”
Grace glanced down at her drawing pad. “I’ve developed a bit of a megrim. I’d prefer to rest, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
“If Lady Houghton comes looking for you, I’ll be happy to send her the other way,” Grace said with a wink.
“Would you?” Evelyn sensed she’d found a kindred spirit in the sweet-faced American.
“Of course,” she said, then put the pencil to the page once again.
Opening the door, Evelyn proceeded into the garden. A sense of peace descended upon her. Perhaps she’d find a way to create such an oasis of her own when she returned to London. Her parents’ country house might well offer the perfect spot.
Wandering through the maze of greenery, she drank in the variety of fragrances.
A small sound—the crunch of a branch beneath a boot—seized her attention. She sensed the Scot’s presence before she saw him. Or so it seemed. Pivoting on her heel, her eyes were drawn to the man.
He stood by the patch of earth where she’d taken her clumsy fall, seeming to study what was left of the crushed plants. Without looking up, he pointed to the outline she’d left on the small plot.
“Ye do know how to make an impression, Lady Evelyn.”
Somehow, that wasn’t what she’d expected him to say less than an hour after he’d traipsed into her bathing chamber. She pursed her lips rather deliberately. “I suppose that is an attempt at wit?”
“Simply an observation.” Crouching down, he lifted a small, smashed plant between his fingers. “I dinnae understand Lady Houghton’s reaction. Cabbage roses are far from a rarity in the Highlands.”
“Nevertheless, the incident was unfortunate.”
“Dinnae blame yerself. I nearly lost my footing on these slick stones.”
“I must admit, I’ve never seen anyone become so upset over sprouted seeds.”
“These plants are hardy enough to survive their unfortunate encounter.”
The humor in his eyes could melt the reserve of the most hard-hearted female. Evelyn smiled, even as her knees went ever so slightly weak.
She was edgy as a schoolgirl sneaking off for her first kiss. What was it about this man that set her pulse pounding with no more than a sly grin?
Any hope of a witty response evaporated. Swallowing against the sudden cotton in her throat, she smoothed her hands against her skirt, as if to smooth out an imaginary wrinkle. So much for her dreams of a passionate interlude. Somehow, the act of flirtation seemed much easier while she was in the company of women, unwitting chaperones whose very presence afforded a shield from her own desires.
Standing here with MacMasters—alone, and close enough that she might’ve traced his full mouth with the tip of her finger—her boldness darted away like a finch who’d spotted a tomcat on the prowl.
“I do hope so.” When the words finally came, they landed on her ears with a dull thud.
“How have ye fared, lass? Ye took quite a spill.” Concern infused his voice. He straightened to his full height. “Were ye hurt?”
How interesting that he was the one who chose to inquire if she’d been hurt. No one else who’d come in contact with her ignominious tumble had thought to ask that question. Not even Sally.
She lifted her gaze to his. “I came away from the experience in far better shape than that dratted patch of garden.”
“Ye’ll get no argument from me on that. But truly, how are ye?” For a moment, he studied her. “Are ye well?”
“My right hand is a bit sore, most likely from trying to catch myself and break the fall. But the most substantial injury was to my pride.”
A single lock of dark hair spilled over his forehead. Evelyn longed to brush it back into place, if only for an excuse to touch him. Would the feel of his skin prove as appealing as the subtle heat that radiated from this man?
He reached for her hand. “I should take a look.”
There could be no harm in allowing him to check her for possible injury. It was merely prudent, or so she told herself. After all, he was a man who’d been educated in medical matters. Trained in Her Majesty’s Army, or so he’d said.
His long, slightly callused fingers curved around hers. Awareness like an electric current shot through her. No harm, indeed.
If he also sensed that penetrating awareness, he didn’t betray it. His expression intent, he studied her outstretched hand, examining her palm and each finger in turn. Flexing each digit. Testing its motion. Slowly. Deliberately. Taking care to cause her no pain.
“I see no indication of a fracture.” He drew a fingertip over the back of her hand, then turned back to her palm. “There is the beginning of a bruise here, near the base of yer thumb. Not surprising, given the way ye fell on yer…”
“I believe the word is arse,” she said, biting back a chuckle.
A corner of his mouth hitched, ever so slightly. “The way ye fell on yer bustle.”
“Of course.” This time, she allowed a little laugh to escape. “There’s only one problem with that assessment.”
“Problem? What might that be?”
“You see, Mr. MacMasters, I was not wearing a bustle.”
“Is that so?” His voice had gone deliberately bland, as had his expression.
“I am quite certain of that fact, as I do not own one of those bothersome contraptions, though I regret not donning one today. A bit of cushioning might have eased the fall, if only a bit.” She fashioned a thin smile. “I must admit that I am puzzled as to why you might think I wore padding in that particular area. Generally speaking, I am not considered to be generously endowed—scrawny is the word I’ve most often heard, particularly in my Aunt Gertrude’s assessment.”
“No offense to yer Aunt Gertrude, but is the woman blind?” His attention roamed lower, skimming down her back, lingering over the curve of her bottom despite her thoroughly proper wool skirt.
Her skin heating, she pulled in a low breath, as if that might steady her pulse. “Have you seen enough, Mr. MacMasters?”
“Enough? I cannae say that I have, but it will do for now. Truth be told, I paid no notice to whether or not ye were wearing one of those blasted things. My attention was drawn to your face, to those blue eyes of yers.” Lifting his gaze to meet her own, he adopted a somber expression. “Believe me when I tell ye this, Lady Evelyn—ye’ve no need of enhancement.”
Something in the raw timbre of his voice made her knees go still weaker. At this rate, a few more glances, and she’d be wobbling like a sapling in a stiff breeze.
A slow, deep breath, and she could once again form a coherent thought. “You are a bold one, aren’t you?”
“Not bold. Honest. A woman like ye has a natural beauty.”
He lifted his hand to her face. Would he cup her cheek against his large, roughened palm? Would he dare to kiss her?
Instead, he drew his fingertip over her cheekbone. His mouth curved, the subtlest of smiles as he brushed the pad of his finger below her ear.
“Even when ye’ve missed a spot of dirt on yer cheek.”
His touch was so very gentle. So very restrained. Pity the eruption of sensation rippling through her body, permeating from the skin to her core, could not be described as such. A sudden hunger filled her, surprisingly fierce.
This close, she could see the tiny beads of dampness on the rich, brown hair that barely brushed his collar, the lingering remnants of his recent bath. Crisp notes of shaving soap mingled with his own essence. The clean aroma washed over her. Greedily, she drank it in, filling her senses.
Something in his expression she couldn’t quite define—something hot and dark and all too wicked for her own good—drew her in. Would his kiss be as tantalizing as that sensuous look in his eyes?
Such a shame this temptation was far too risky to indulge.
She had to rein in her desire to taste his kiss, to drink in his heat. Heavens, they were standing in the garden—in full view of the other guests, no less. For all she knew, someone could be watching them right that very moment.
The very thought triggered a little thrill deep in her belly. Had she gone entirely wanton? She could not afford a fresh scandal.
Especially not a scandalous accusation of which she might actually be guilty.
She’d flirted outrageously with the man upon his arrival. And that was before he’d seen her nearly bared to his eyes. Had he decided to call her bluff and find out for himself if she were worthy of the scurrilous rumors that had followed her from London?
What a shame she’d have to disappoint him. She’d no intention of stirring the hive of gossips. It was one thing to fantasize about a romantic liaison with a Scottish rake. Even her efforts to purposefully shock Catriona had done no lasting harm. But it would be another matter entirely, if her behavior cast a pall on Sally’s nuptials.
She took a step backward, then another. Two arms’ lengths separated them now. She’d strive to keep a respectable distance from the Highlander.
His eyes flashed knowingly, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Is something wrong, Lady Evelyn?”
“No, not at all.” Was it her imagination, or was it getting warmer? Odd, with the setting of the sun against the horizon, she’d expected more of a chill in the air. But that definitely was not the case. She had to shift their conversation to something that would afford a tactful exit. “I expect the wedding will be a grand affair.”
“Do ye, now?”
“In London, their nuptials have been eagerly anticipated. It’s the event of the Season.”
“How many guests are expected?”
“I could not say with any certainty. On the day Sally and her intended are to speak their vows, I expect that the place will be filled to overflowing.”
His brow furrowing, he appeared to mull the prospect. Was it possible he abhorred crowded spaces as much as she did?
Careful to maintain her footing, she took another small, hopefully inconspicuous, step in retreat. It certainly wouldn’t do to take a plunge into the dirt and obliterate more of Catriona’s plants.
“I must be heading to the parlor. Lady Houghton and the others will be waiting,” she said. “A bit of light conversation…and a spot of brandy…will be just the thing.”
“Ye’re feeling yer nerves, are ye?”
She gave a little shrug. “I must confess to feeling a bit on edge. After the day I’ve had, it seems a miracle I still possess a single nerve that has not frayed beyond hope.”
“There is a solution for that.” A teasing spark lit his eyes.
“Really, now, Mr. MacMasters.” She regarded him with a deliberately sharp expression. “You are incorrigible. But you already know that, don’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.” He reached into his jacket, retrieving a silver flask from a vest pocket. “Did ye believe I referred to something else?”
“Quite frankly, yes…given your appraisal of my…uh-hem…feminine attributes.”
His eyes gleamed, sly and knowing. “I am nothing if not an honest man. Ye are a beautiful woman.”
Heat scorched her throat, rising to her face. Escape. Much as she craved the look of masculine appreciation in his male gaze, she was playing a risky game with this man.
One she felt certain she would lose.
“When I departed Inverness, I was not expecting to see you again,” she said, abruptly steering their discussion away from the temptation of his gravel-edged words. “I was surprised to find you here this afternoon.”
“A pleasant surprise, I assume.”
She glanced down at her cuffs, fiddling with the lace trim. “I don’t recall any mention of your plans to journey to Houghton Manor. I presume you were aware of our destination, given you summoned a driver to take us there.”
“Aye, I did summon Fergus. Again, guilty as charged. Lady Houghton’s driver…Edson, as I recall…in between his fits of retching, went on and on about how he had to get his employer’s wife back to the manor or there’d be hell to pay. Arranging for Fergus to take over the man’s duties seemed the charitable thing to do.”
“Quite so.” She plucked at a loose thread. “Somehow, I hadn’t taken you for the charitable type.”
“Perhaps we need to become better acquainted.”
She met his eyes. “You must admit this is quite a coincidence.”
“Indeed.” The good-natured humor had evaporated from his low voice.
A sudden twinge of wariness unnerved her. She dismissed it, but it stubbornly clung to her thoughts. Could it be that he’d followed her to Houghton Manor? At the hatmaker’s shop, could he have inquired about her destination in an attempt to pursue her?
Did he come to Houghton Manor…after me?
Why might he have done such a thing?
Was MacMasters somehow allied with the woman in black?
Goodness, she was letting her imagination run away with her. The very notion was utterly preposterous. Perhaps weariness had gotten the better of her logical mind. With a small sigh, she attempted to banish the absurd questions, but the residue of suspicion refused to budge.
“Have you considered that fate has a wicked sense of humor?” His question caught her by surprise.
She met his eyes. “A sense of humor? Well, that would certainly explain my undignified encounter with Lady Houghton’s infernal plants.”
“The universe has its ways, lass. There are things a man like me could never hope to understand.” Was her imagination continuing to run wild, or had his eyes taken on a rich mahogany hue, dark as midnight?
“Of course, I must agree,” she said.
He closed the small distance between them. Very gently, he cupped her chin in his hand. “Ye intrigue me. More than ye can imagine.”
His eyes flashed in clear warning. She should break free. She should turn away or shake out of his lightly possessive hold.
But she didn’t.
“Would ye think me a rogue if I kissed ye?”
“A rogue?” She drank in the faint scent of bergamot on his skin. “I think I rather like the sound of that.”
A rake’s smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Well, then, that settles it. I should not disappoint.”
He dipped his head.
And he kissed her.