The Husband Hunt (24 page)

"Yes." He nodded slowly. "I remember him."

"And how is he here, I'm wondering?"

Lamont watched the exchange between his childhood playmate and the hard-faced Englishman with another surprising pang of envy. The love they shared was obvious, even though Lamont had not yet experienced such an emotion. Perhaps he did not want to. Take this viscount, for instance. Here, Lamont suspected, was a proud man who had been completely undone by a waif like Catriona Grant. Although, to look at her now, the waif had grown into quite a beautiful woman, capable of rendering powerful men helpless.

"Catriona," he called her quietly, only to feel the pressure of Knight's hand on his chest, followed by another curt warning.

"Do not go near her," he said. The muscle that ticked in Knight's jaw was the only sign of the raw emotion underneath.

She stood slowly, the coat engulfing her small frame, the dog at her side. "Oh," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It's you. I should have known."

Lamont laughed in delight.

"I thought I told you to stay in the damned carriage," Knight said in irritation.

"She
almost
obeyed you," Lamont said, still chuckling at her honest greeting. "That's more than anyone else has ever been able to make her do."

"You be quiet, Lamont," she said indignantly, "or I'll be sharing a few of your flaws, too."

"Do you think anyone would care?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

"How did you find my dog?" she asked.

Lamont stared at her. "We met Thomas on his way home. The dog wanted to come with me."

She walked up behind Knight, slipping her hand into his. "I hope you aren't here to cause me trouble, Lamont."

Knight said nothing, his mouth flattened into a grim line. Lamont glanced down at her, studying her face for several moments before he spoke.

"No, Cat," he said, sighing. "I've no wish to cause you pain."

She seemed relieved, studying him closely. "You look different, Lamont."

"Aye," he said. "So do you."

"You weren't nearly as tall the last time I saw you, jumping out at me from the trees."

He grinned again. "And you weren't as short, either, pretending that I hadn't terrified the wits out of you."

"Excuse me, my lord," Holmes said from his box, where he had retreated when it became obvious that his presence was not needed. "But if you want to start across the Channel at first light, we'd best be on our way."

Knight squeezed Cat's hand before turning her toward the carriage. What had he feared? That her uncle's last-minute attempt to influence her would succeed? Or that her reunion with Lamont would spark a dormant flame?

"Get back into the carriage, Catriona," he said sternly, releasing her hand.

"Come with us, Catriona," Lamont said, taking a step toward her.

Knight pushed him aside. "Go back to your birds, little boy."

"Are you threatening me with physical force?" Lamont asked.

Knight pushed him again. "It would appear that I am."

Lamont stumbled back against a boulder. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, mist began to arise from the ground, swirling around the tall, dominant form of the Englishman who stood in front of Catriona.

"Stop it, Lamont," she said over Knight's shoulder. "He's perfectly capable of killing you."

Knight strode forward and grabbed Lamont by the front of his cloak. The mist between them was thickening by the moment. "She's right."

His pride stung, Lamont resorted to every supernatural trick he had been taught to thwart his opponent. He attempted to ignite a ring of fire around Knight, but the flames refused to catch in the soil. He sent bolts of power into the earth to destabilize the Englishman's arrogant stance, but Knight did not even stumble at the underground rumbling, his feet planted firmly apart.

Furious, Lamont summoned rainclouds to swarm overhead, but the heavens would not comply. Only the mist obeyed, an apprentice's trick, and even that was dissipating around the English lord so that he loomed unconquered like an ancient warrior in the tendrils of fog.

Was the force of Knight's love for Catriona so strong that it could defy magic? Lamont wondered in amazement. Never before had he encountered a human with such power of will. Not to mention physical prowess. Knight's well-honed body was a threat in itself.

"Are you finished with your tricks?" Knight asked coldly, arms folded across his chest.

Lamont sighed.

"Let him go," Catriona whispered. "Please, Knight. He isn't worth the trouble."

"I thought I told you to get back into the carriage," he said, annoyed.

She glanced up, clearly so accustomed to his gruff-ness by now that she did not take offense. "I will, but can we take the dog?"

"On our elopement?" he said, disbelieving.

She smiled up at him. "Since we're going to the castle anyway, he might as well come with us. For the company."

"I thought I was sufficient company," he said dryly.

Lamont gave another sigh of relief as Knight released him.

Knight took firm hold of her arm. "Make your farewells to your uncle," he said impatiently. "I trust there shall be no other delays along the way. And yes, you may bring the dog."

The carriage disappeared down the road at a reckless pace, leaving Lamont and Murdo standing alone on the moonlit heath, the mist dispersing as mysteriously as it had appeared. "Now, that was an interesting meeting," Lamont said with a wistful smile.

Murdo scowled up at him. "I wanted you to save my niece. Anyone can see that she is marrying the wrong man. Even his sister is opposed to their union."

"Why?" Lamont asked, turning toward the stones where his horse waited.

"Why?" Murdo's voice rose in irritation. "Because he is an arrogant beast and a rakehell, that is why."

Lamont shrugged elegantly. "Well, he certainly is not a beast to her, and rakehells can change."

"Bah.
You
just do not understand."

"I understand perfectly," Lamont said, glancing back down at the still road. "True love touches me, Murdo. It always has, and yet there are some things I have been taught to value more."

"But you have the power to stop them, why did you not try harder?"

Lamont shook his head. "The man is willing to die for her. I am not. Besides, I did try. Give them your blessing. You summoned me too late to save her."

A
's the moon disappeared behind a
bank of clouds, the carriage cautiously descended the cliffside road to the sea toward the snug harbor of Minehead. There, Wendell's yacht lay at anchor. Darkness engulfed the sleepy seaside, broken only by the light that glowed in the parish church to guide those lost on the moor and ships sailing into the Bristol Channel.

It was dawn when they finally settled in the luxurious rosewood-paneled yacht that Wendell raced every year in Cornwall and used to summer off the coast. They set off under light sail in the experienced hands of a captain, a cook, and three able-bodied seamen. Holmes looked relieved to see them on their way, remarking to himself that he had never seen such a queer wind in all his days, and wasn't it a blessing that it had stopped?

"Lamont was always very devious." Catriona had turned from Knight to admire the tiger's-head brass moldings on the cabin wall. The flickering candlelight imparted an intimate glow to the confined space.

He came up behind her and drew her back into his arms. "He wasn't devious enough to marry you, was he?"

She half turned, relaxing in his arms. "You aren't angry, or ashamed that my family is so—so—"

She couldn't find the word.

"Unconventional?" he suggested. "Peculiar?"

"Among other things."

He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes dark with desire. "But they can't be all bad."

"No?"

"No," he said firmly. "They produced you."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, his hands lifting to untie her pelisse. "I don't care," he said. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the comfortable damask sofa that was bolted to the floor. "I don't care if your great-grandfather was Bluebeard or if you were conceived in Newgate gaol. You are mine from this moment forward, and your family really doesn't matter to me at all."

She sighed and abandoned herself to his kisses, thinking that what he said was true. Certainly, she would have loved Knight if
his
great-grandfather were Bluebeard. She stared up at the darkly intent face of her beloved seductor and swallowed a groan. Oh, who was she deceiving? She would have loved this man if
he
were Bluebeard himself.

Then, slowly, her thoughts began to drift away, her senses lulled by Knight's talent for lovemaking and the splash of waves against the hull as the yacht began the three-day voyage up the Channel toward the coast of Wales and the Irish Sea. Within a matter of moments, they were both naked and exploring each other's body, learning the secret ways of sensual torture as if the world did not exist. Several hours later, they still had not moved from the sofa; they were earnestly discussing whether they would have eggs and bacon for breakfast or scones with clotted cream and decided on both.

And in the back of her mind, instead of his comments about her family reassuring her, she felt a tiny prickle of anxiety. He hadn't met James yet. Would the two men make friends? She hoped that introducing them to each other was not an invitation to trouble.

They were married five days later, not at Gretna Green, as they had planned, but in a quiet hamlet away from the bustle of the Border. It was Knight who had insisted on the change. He did not particularly want to take his vows in a place where bounders—Olivia's voice echoed in his mind—wed love-struck heiresses for their money or where outraged papas chased their pregnant daughters to the altar. No, he wanted to make her his wife in a place untainted by greed or desperation.

Fair skies had accompanied them as they sailed through the Solway Firth into Scotland, and that same mild weather followed them into the Border farmlands, where they rode on hired horses and passed their first night as man and wife in a coaching inn off the Dumfries road. Fergan trailed after, keeping his master and mistress in view.

In the middle of the night, they toasted their marriage with the bottle of smuggled French brandy that the owner of the crowded Georgian stone inn had sent up to their room. Royalty, the man told them proudly, had once lodged in their very chamber.

"Too bad he only remembered to give us one glass," Knight remarked as he sat opposite Cat in the ponderous Jacobean boxwood bed. "Still, I suppose he must know quality when he sees it, or we'd be drinking broth and boiled milk."

"From a skull," Catriona said wryly. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed with a sheet modestly draped over her. He was unabashedly nude in all his muscular glory. "Everyone knows how barbaric we are in the north."

He put the glass on the bedside table and pulled her against him. "I rather like the idea of a barbaric bride," he said, his hands curling around her buttocks to raise her onto his lap. "Would you like to do battle with me?"

"Again?"

"Yes, again," he murmured, easing her down onto the bed, "and again and again. However"—he paused to kiss her, drawing her lower lip between his sharp white teeth—"I should warn you that I can be something of a barbarian myself."

"Oh, aye." Her eyes gleamed in amusement. "You're very good with your spear, for one thing."

He grinned. "Am I?"

"The other barbarians are ablaze with envy."

"I can just imagine," he said. "Wed to you, naked in bed, well, what barbarian could ask for more?"

She wriggled beneath him. "The mattress could be a wee bit more comfortable, for a start."

"A true barbarian would not notice."

"You'll notice if you're covered with flea bites in the morning."

"My heathen hide is too tough to penetrate."

"I thought that was your head." She sat up as he suddenly slid down under the coverlet, his unshaven jaw abrading her belly. "Knight, where—what are you doing?"

"Living up to my reputation," he said in a muffled voice. "And, by the way, the fleas aren't the only things that like to bite in the night."

"You aren't—" Humiliation, underlaid with indescribable pleasure, rendered her helpless. She twisted to escape until he caught her wrists to hold her still as his tongue seared her like a brand. She thought that she might never speak to him again, if she survived to speak at all. But he was her husband, and the things he made her feel, the needs he awakened, brought out a primal instinct that she could only blindly obey.

She was swollen and sore in the places he loved with his mouth. He'd already shown her several nights of shameless passion that had left her weak and trembling, and now, as she was beginning to gain a sense of a woman's power, learning that she could bring this strong man to his knees, she didn't think anything of a sexual nature could shock her again. She was wrong.

He groaned as he tasted her, his big hands forcing her legs wider apart to allow him better access. She was arching off the bed, not to escape him but in reaction to the flickers of white-hot sensations that built in her lower body. And every so often, the rogue would glance up to gauge her reaction or to smile, leaving her suspended in aching pleasure, forcing her to beg him to continue the sweet torture. Then his tongue would stab at her again, teasing the bud of her sex, until she climaxed. Her body was still shivering with aftershocks of pleasure as he slid up beside her. She curled into his chest, breathing the spicy scent of his skin, her arms wrapped around his waist.

"Oh," she whispered, her voice husky.

He closed his eyes in contentment. Several moments passed.

"There is one thing I probably should warn you about, Knight."

His brow lifted. "You have another uncle in Scotland."

"Of course not. I just thought I ought to forewarn you—James is a little odd."

He tugged the ends of her hair that twined around his belly. "And you and your uncle are not?"

"Well, James has a bit of a temper."

"Ah."

"And he shouts."

"Goodness."

"And throws things."

"Oh, dear."

"And he shoots at things."

He drew back slightly to look down at her. "Things? As in deer and grouse?"

"Hmm." She evaded his gaze, hiding her lace in the hollow of his neck. "More as in chandeliers and bedposts. And sometimes, well, sometimes he shoots at people."

"At people." He put his forefinger under her chin. "People he doesn't like or just any poor soul in particular?"

"I am not positive," she whispered, "that in his inebriated state James makes the distinction."

"What are you trying to say, Catriona? That your brother might try to kill me?"

"No," she said slowly. "I think it's me that he might be killing."

He sat up, disentangling his hands from her hair. He hadn't known where the conversation was heading, but now he was concerned. "And why would that be?"

She pulled the sheet up to her chin, her eyes luminous in the grainy darkness. "I didn't exactly tell him I was leaving, you see."

He should have appeared more upset, but he had figured this out himself. "So you're saying that you ran away."

"Well, I did leave a note."

"I was under the impression that it was his idea that you find a wealthy husband to enrich the family coffers."

"And so it was," she said earnestly, the words rushing out, "but I couldn't stay and marry the widowed laird with bad teeth and five obnoxious children, now, could I?"

"Your brother had already made a match for you?" he said in astonishment, wishing now that he had made Simmons pursue the matter.

"He was in the process," she admitted miserably. "But I knew I could do better for myself, and I certainly have."

He raised his brow. "I wasn't aware that the condition of my teeth or my childless state rendered me such a catch."

"Among other things."

He shook his head. "Good God, Catriona. I don't quite know what to make of this. If I were your brother, I might do a little shouting myself."

"I couldn't begin our married life with another secret between us. I had to tell you."

He grunted.

"And I couldn't have you walking into that castle expecting a royal welcome. My brother isn't known for his hospitality under the best of circumstances. I can only hope that he finds Gaela soon so he has someone of his own to love."

He glanced around the room, at his clothes thrown over the back of a chair, hers discarded in the corner where he had undressed her, only a foot from the door. They had barely made it up the stairs, stopping to kiss and coax Fergan away from the tavern cat. Gray-violet light had begun to break through the shuttered window and lend an otherworldly under-cast to the shadows. From outside drifted a cacophony of muted sounds, the whicker of horses, the creak of wheels, springs, and harnesses, the light patter of rain on the windowsill.

A bunch of heather and broom, twined with trailing ivy, had been placed on the center of the table. "Flowers for the bride," he said to himself. "Well, it's a nice gesture, and I'm sure the innkeeper expects a generous tip for them, and the brandy."

He felt her hand on his back and turned his head to look at her, his muscles tightening in pleasurable anticipation of her touch. So he hoped to awaken every morning for the rest of his life, with her beside him to start the day. He decided that he would like being married more than he'd ever guessed.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

It was impossible even to pretend that he was upset with her when all he could think about was her enticing body and the intimacies they had shared. "I was wondering how I will react to a brother-in-law who is liable to shoot us on sight."

She laughed softly and tugged him down on top of her, whispering, "He usually misses."

"Now, that's a consolation." He caught his breath as their naked bodies touched, the hard contours of his fitted against her softer curves and hollows. "Do you think we should wave a little white flag when we walk into the castle?" he teased. "Or will writing a letter to alert him of our arrival suffice?"

"He'd raise the drawbridge if he knew a stranger was coming." She sighed as he drew her back against him. "It
is
nice being married to you, Englishman."

It was more than nice, he thought, as two hours later, they dressed between slow, passionate kisses and reluctantly surrendered the pleasures of their marriage bed. Knight kept her close to his side in the crowded taproom, aware of the interested looks his pretty wife drew from the early-morning travelers, the merchants and farmers who had business in the north.

In fact, he was so distracted by her himself that he failed to listen attentively to the innkeeper when he tried to settle the bill. "Excuse me," he said. "How much do I owe?"

"Nothin', my lord. Tis all been paid for in advance."

Knight smiled, glancing down at his wife. "That would be Wendell, although how he knew we would end up in this precise place is a mystery." He glanced back at the amicable innkeeper. "The Duke of Meacham is a generous devil. However, allow me to add a generous tip for the extra service we received."

The innkeeper looked a little puzzled. "His grace might indeed be generous, my lord, but I do not think it was he who settled the account. The name my wife has here is…" He squinted to read the ledger book. "Ah, there it is. Lamont Montgomery. Aye, that's the one. And he added a handsome tip."

"Oh, dear," Catriona said quietly, raising her gaze to her husband's face.

Knight lifted his brow and led her outside without a word. Standing in the bustling courtyard, amid the shouts of coachmen and young boys selling hot sausage pies, he said, at last, "I do not know what to think of this."

"Well," she said meekly, stealing another look at his unsmiling face, "it would seem at least that my uncle has forgiven us."

He rolled his eyes at that, then nodded curtly to the boy who was waiting to bring them their horses for the journey through the steep hillside passes. Perhaps it did seem ridiculous, to resent Lamont's "congratulations" when Knight had so clearly come out the winner in the contest for Catriona's hand. But some part of his masculine pride still resented another man footing the bill for their honeymoon.

"I suppose," he said as they took the lesser-traveled Annan road in the gray morning mist, "that if you have accepted my family's flaws, I should have to accept yours."