Chapter Seven
Mayra’s breath stalled.
Nae wink or mocking smile accompanied Coburn’s extraordinary statement.
What a scrumptious, novel solution, even if he did but jest.
Quite the most perfect, insane, absurd and oh, so tempting idea she’d heard in a great, great while.
Ever, truth be told.
But entirely impossible. Impractical. Unfeasible. Dangerous.
Even had he been serious, the risk was simply too great.
To have Dunrangour, everything the Findlays owned, forfeited to the Crown and face imprisonment or worse?
Nae. Imprudent at best and catastrophic at worst.
She kent full well why Da and Mama had agreed to the union between her and Rutherford. They’d told her plainly, because they wanted her to ken just how callous and treacherous her future father-in-law was so she’d never trust the scunner.
She squeezed Coburn’s broad, strong fingertips between hers. “I ken you’re teasing, Coburn. I’m sure you’ve nae more desire than I to bring a monarch’s wrath upon your family or mine by defying a king’s edict.”
“Wrath? Surely nothing so verra severe.” His fingers continued to work their seductive magic.
For certain wantonness flowed in her veins if she responded like this to the mere touch of his hand upon hers.
“You think not, Coburn?”
Her gaze riveted on their interlaced fingers, she debated whether to tell him all.
Why not?
And she could also discover whether he counted the Rutherfords as friends. May a goose nip her bum if he did, for he’d not like what she had to say.
“Are you acquainted with the Rutherfords of Lockelieth Keep?”
“Aye. I ken of them. Artair Rutherford died recently.” Head canted, Coburn regarded her, his mien suddenly more reserved.
Mayra’s jaw sagged, her spine going rigid.
“He did? His son, Logan, is my betrothed. How could we not have heard?”
Coburn shrugged and resumed his sensual onslaught on her hand.
“It takes some families longer than others to talk about great loss, and you’ve admitted, you’re rather secluded at Dunrangour. The news didna reach you yet. That’s all.”
She well understood lingering grief. Mama yet mourned Da, and often her eyes misted with sorrow. But Da had been a wonderful, loving father and husband, while Artair Rutherford…
Blast Mayra’s stays, but a slow, heady fire tunneled through her veins.
She swallowed and with some effort focused on the topic at hand. “Still, I would’ve thought Rutherford would have sent us word of something of such importance. Just another instance of his flagrant disregard, I suppose.”
Would Logan be less inclined to grant her request now or more that he was Lockelieth’s laird? The emotional storm raging inside her exceeded the unrelenting tempest thrashing the Highlands.
“What makes you think breaking the betrothal will raise King George’s ire?”
At Coburn’s soft question, she veered her attention from the tumultuous outdoors.
She sighed and peaked her brows high on her forehead for resigned instant. “The king must approve the termination, or if he winna, then Rutherford must be the one to cry off. I canna.”
“Because…?” Coburn would have the whole torrid tale, it seemed.
Mayra finally withdrew her hand when Searc began lighting additional lamps and candles about the dim room. She’d been too bold already, and to continue to permit Coburn to fondle her hand atop the table was pure foolishness, nae matter how splendid it might feel.
“It’s nae a pretty tale, Coburn. At least not the portion I’ve been told. But I have nae cause to doubt my parents.”
The gentle upward melding of his lips spread tenderness across the carved planes of his dear face. Encouragement shone in his kind gaze. He was the type of man she could love, the type who tempted her to pelt responsibility and reason to next December. And beyond.
“Tell me, Mayra. I want to ken everything about ye.”
After a moment, she gave a small nod. “I dinna wish to speak ill of the dead. But Artair Rutherford was a covetous cur as well as an intimate confident of King William.”
Coburn frowned, twin lines crinkling his forehead from temple to temple, and drawing his taut mouth into a stern line.
“Why do you believe that?”
“Rutherford whispered falsehoods in William’s ear about my Da’s loyalty to the Crown. He went so far as to produce witnesses, attesting they’d heard Da’s treasonous murmurings. All fabricated, paid for lies, of course. But Da’s great uncle had conspired decades before, and he swung from the gallows for his treachery.”
All a rouser needed to stir fear was a thread of truth, nae matter how farfetched and false the nefarious accusation.
Tense lines framing his mouth, Coburn rested his forearms on the table.
Maybe she shouldn’t have revealed this ugliness. Perchance it was too soon. Or, perhaps, too offputting.
“Please, go on,” he prompted, just the merest bit of something—pain or regret?—deepening his voice.
“Mama said hatred and greed motivated Artair Rutherford to falsely accuse Da. To prove his loyalty to William, my father was forced to agree to betroth me to Logan Rutherford. If he refused Da faced imprisonment and confiscation of Dunrangour Tower.” Ire rang in her whispered words. “That would’ve left Mama and me destitute.”
Unnaturally still, even guarded, Coburn regarded her keenly. Not accusing, exactly, but definitely assessing.
“But why go to such efforts? Only a man with a vendetta or one unhinged takes those measures, and I dinna believe Rutherford was off his heid.”
Mayra smoothed an eyebrow then touched two fingers to her chin, searching her memory for the details.
“At one time, Artair Rutherford had been betrothed to Da’s sister, and the same valuable property dowered to me had also been a part of Aunt Astrid’s settlement. I dinna believe it was mere chance my settlement included the same acres. Artair verra specifically demanded that provision both times.”
Listening intently, Coburn’s eyes narrowed until only the irises showed. “Is the property especially valuable?”
Mayra hitched one shoulder and rubbed her hands over her arms when another gust seeped through the inn’s siding. “I dinna really ken. Supposedly, years ago, someone found evidence of copper and silver ore. Da always said he planned to explore the possibility of mining the crags before he was forced to settle the land on me. He couldn’t touch it afterward.”
“Why didna Artair and Astrid marry?” Coburn tapped his long fingers atop the table, his expression bland.
So, why did Mayra have the impression he fumed inwardly?
Mayhap she’d made a huge mistake tell him everything.
Well, if this put him off, then he wasn’t the mon she’d believed. He might as well ken the rest, and then she’d ken if she’d misjudged him after all.
She’d hoped—believed—he might not care about the unsavory rumors and whispers shadowing the Findlays for generations.
Such disenchantment engulfed Mayra, she feared she might be ill, and she took a hasty gulp of tea to wash the bitterness from her mouth.
“A mere month before their wedding, Astrid eloped with a gypsy traveler. The notes she sent Artair and our family said she loved him and carried his bairn. She died giving birth, and the wee bairn died too.”
Mayra had learned the sordid tale when Da lay dying.
He’d begged her to forgive him for promising her to Logan Rutherford.
Of course, she forgave him. He’d only tried to protect her and Mama. And later, his three sons.
“So you believe revenge motivated Rutherford to falsely accuse your father and force him to agree to troth you to Logan?” Something like pained disbelief frayed the edges of Coburn’s lowered voice.
She slanted her head and shied her brows upward in affirmation.
“Aye. I do. Revenge and greed. Artair Rutherford maintained Aunt Astrid’s settlement was his since their betrothal was never terminated before she died. There was nae legal basis for his claim, and according to my parents, he was infuriated when denied the property.”
“It seems there’s a great deal about Artair Rutherford I never ken.”
Jaw taut, Coburn skimmed his fingers over his strong chin and veered his troubled gaze outside, now enclosed in night’s garments as nature continued to wreak her havoc.
Several lengthy, silent moments passed, as he remained absorbed in whatever thoughts consumed him, and Mayra wrestled with her decision to share all. Had it been a disastrous mistake?
Swallowing the despondency rising high in her throat, and emboldened by her decision to pioneer her own destiny, she cleared her throat. Her voice a mere husky shred, she murmured, “I confess, I’m grateful for yonder foul weather if it means I might enjoy your company longer.”
Coburn’s mouth swept upward, tenderness softening his handsome features.
“And I yours. Please, join me before the fire, and tell me of this plan of yours to escape Rutherford.”
Logan withdrew his watch and examined the face in the dancing firelight. Nearly half past one. The MacPhersons and the other guests had long since retired, and even the storm waned as if spent from hours of assaulting the earth in a furious tantrum.
Delicate moonbeams stretched outward from the crisp moon, all the more brilliant in the storm-scrubbed sky.
He yawned behind one hand, flicking the cover shut with the other.
Melancholy, blacker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat, pulled his mouth downward. His father had been a covetous, manipulating blackguard. Honor, it seemed, was a rare commodity, and Logan’s own behavior wasn’t above reproach either.
As much as he wanted to believe everything Mayra had told him was a vast, fabricated lie, his gut, in the depths of his soul, he kent she spoke the truth. It explained so much, yet he couldn’t bring himself to hate and revile Da.
He grazed a hand across his bristly face and released a long, irregular breath.
“What am I to do about you, Mayra Findlay?”
If only there were a way to make things right.
The how of it escaped him, nevertheless.
He couldn’t see an alternative to the path he and Mayra had been set upon so many years ago.
Logan ran his thumbnail across the watch’s silver case embossed with the family crest. The reverse side boasted the Rutherford motto: Nec sorte, ne facto—Neither by chance nor destiny.
His focus strayed to Mayra again, asleep on the other chair, her feet tucked beneath her and one slim hand cradling her cheek. Her full, creamy breasts surged upward, threatening to spill from her gown’s bodice.
Neither by chance nor destiny.
Choice then?
Their betrothal at an age neither was old enough to understand or object to. Their encounter that first day. Today’s storm, forcing Mayra to stay in town. Their obvious, immediate attraction to each other.
Far more by chance or destiny rather than a deliberate choice explained each of those circumstances.
And absolutely countered all that was rational.
Sitting there, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, her slightly parted mouth, and the occasional flicker of her lashes fanning her cheeks, a peace unlike anything he’d experienced encompassed him.
The law proclaimed her already his, and now more than ever, he was determined she would be. Her little cockeyed, elfin smile, the playful way she tilted her head when she listened, the way her eyes glowed with enthusiasm when she had something she wanted to say.
Each characteristic, delightful and endearing, and each wrapped him snugger, more securely, and inescapably in the web he’d spun.
Her plan was simple and straightforward: create a scandal and force him to put her aside.
Except after spending the day with her, growing more enchanted by the moment with the beautiful, witty lass, that was the last thing he meant to do. More determined now than ever to make her Lady Rutherford, he weighed his options.
He had but one.
He must tell her the truth.
Tomorrow.
Logan stood and after banking the fire, gathered their belongings. He secured everything within her arisaid and tied the corners together into makeshift pack. He’d retained a room for her when she went to use the necessary. It was across from his at the third floor passage’s far end, where he could make sure she was safe.
Though few guests lodged at the inn tonight, he’d not take a chance.
After sliding his arm into the loop he’d created in the plaid, he scooped Mayra into his arms.
Although she opened her eyes for an instant, giving him a sleepy—damn my eyes—almost a seductive smile, after looping her slender arms around his neck, she shut her lids and resumed her contented slumber.
As he carried her up the flights, welcoming her weight and the chance to hold her close, every now and again, she murmured in her sleep. Winded by the time he trudged up the last riser, he adjusted her and managed to push the latch to her door without dumping her onto the floor.
Though only just as she tilted dangerously and her head came within an inch of smacking the doorframe.
Casanova, he was not, and neither had he experience toting lovely women to bedchambers. He kicked the door closed and Mayra clung tighter, evidently believing the trek upstairs part of her dream.
“I’ve never been kissed,” she sighed against his neck, her words sleep thickened and garbled.
Her silky lips rasped against his flesh, and he flexed his jaw against the current of electric desire pounding along his veins.
He dropped Mayra’s plaid on the chamber’s single chair below the window, and in the moon’s muddled half-light managed to bump his way to the bed. He tried to lay her down, but she clung to him, and in the throes of her dream, kissed his neck, then his jaw, and finally, her lips found his.
So incredibly sweet.
God help him, he shouldn’t.
His pathetic honor, what remnant remained, screeched in offense.
Logan sank onto the bed, still snuggling her and succumbed to temptation, feathering tiny kisses across her smooth brow, her silky lashes, the, oh so sensitive tendon behind her ear.
“Coburn, kiss me. Really kiss me.”
She moaned, that throaty, feminine purr-like rumble which sent lust pounding to every pore.
He untwined her arms, and his chest heaving from self-restraint, he shook his head, though even if she’d been awake, she couldn’t have seen much more than the shadowy movement.
“Lass, God kens I’m not perfect, but I dinna ravish sleeping maids.”
“I’m not asleep.”
She giggled and turned onto her side. “I awoke when you practically dumped me onto the floor.” Slanting a glance to the window, she hid a delicate yawn behind her hand. “The storm has come to an end?”
The tempest outside.
The one raging within him showed nae sign of abating. “Aye and the moon has come out in all her glittering finery to celebrate.”
He lit the single taper atop the humble nightstand, needing a moment to perform the mundane task to bring his stampeding ardor under control.
Reaching up, she traced a trembling finger along his jaw.
“I do want to kiss you, Coburn. Verra much, in fact. Is that wrong? Does that make me wicked?” She stilled her finger’s timid exploration, and curled it into her fist before slowing withdrawing her hand and dropping her gaze to the flickering candle.
“I suppose it does, doesn’t it? I’m promised to another.”
Tell her the truth.
Logan caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. He brushed his lips across the knuckles.
“Nae, it dinna make you wicked, lass. It makes you young and healthy with a woman’s desires.”
Her luminous gaze gravitated to his. Nae guile or coyness shone in her beautiful blue eyes as she slanted her head in her quaint pixy way, her eyes probing to the depths of his soul.
“And do you desire me, Coburn?”
Did he draw air to breathe?
Did he need food and water to live?
Did the moon, even now, light the heavens with silvery brilliance, almost equal to Mayra’s tumbled tresses, spilling over her shoulders and back, cascading down her arms.
“Aye, lass. I desire ye.” And his heart? What was happening to that organ? Something he’d never anticipated. “The scorching blood in my veins sings with want for ye.”
Even as he spoke, he stretched out beside her and gathered her in his embrace. Inhaling her intoxicating floral scent, he nuzzled her neck and brushed his hands over her curvaceous hips and gently sloping thighs.
Foolishness. Insanity. Absolute, glorious stupidity.
Mayra cupped his face with her soft palm and touched her lips to his chin. “Is that what I feel for you? This strange, unnamed yearning? Is that why, even though we scarcely kent each other, I cannot rid my thoughts of you, and why my stomach and heart flutter in the most peculiar manner when I’m with you?”
How had she vocalized exactly what he experienced too, as inconceivable as that might be?
Some might call it lust, and surely carnal desire bubbled within, but he’d known physical hunger before, and this was something impossibly more.
He kissed her forehead, such tenderness throttling up his throat, he swallowed against the emotion.
“I think, perhaps, we’ve had something rare and unexplainable occur, lass.”
Tell her!
Mayra arched her neck, giving him access to the pearly column. “And what is that?”
Her question ended on husky sigh when he skimmed his fingertips across her puckered nipple.
“I would make ye mine for all time Mayra, lass. I’ve fallen in love with ye. My verra soul craves yer presence. You make me feel whole.”
The full brilliance of her smile blossomed across her face.
“Aye, and I ye, Coburn. I dinna understand how ’tis possible in so short a time, but I winna deny it.” Her joy faded almost as quickly, and her pretty mouth turned down. “But, I cannae be with ye, in that way. Not when I legally belong to another.”
He took a steadying breath, prepared to tell all.
“Mayra—”
Her pleading look and the fingertips she touched to his lips muzzled him.
“I want to, believe me, I do with all my heart. It just that my entire life it’s been drilled into me that I’m Rutherford’s, and though I owe him nothing—loathe the man, truth to tell—I cannae betray him in that way.”
Her husky voice caught on a dry sob, and turning her head away, she pressed the fingertips of the other hand to her lips.
Happiness, bittersweet and pungent, wrapped around him.
God how he loved her for her faithfulness, yet part of him wanted her to hurl common sense and restraint aside and give herself to him despite the rashness or certain repercussions.
He kissed the fingers touching his mouth before gathering her near.
“Ah, my love. My precious love. All will be well. Somehow, I vow, I shall make it so. Now sleep. I’ll watch over you and leave before first light so nae tongues wag.”
Then for God’s sake tell her the damned truth!
Logan couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not now.
Mayra loathed Rutherford.
Nae.
She loathed him.