Courting an Angel (8 page)

Rob looked over the usual morning fare of bread, ham, hard-cooked eggs, and apple cider. A sudden, unexpected wave of homesickness washed over her, and she suffered an acute craving for a Highland breakfast. Barley bannocks, oatmeal porridge, and Old Man’s milk would certainly fortify her for the inevitable confrontation with the Marquess of Inverary.

“Do ye ever miss the mountains of Wales?” Rob asked, her gaze rising to meet her aunt’s.

“Every day of my life,” Lady Keely admitted. “’Tis the reason we summer there each year instead of accompanying Queen Elizabeth on her annual progress.”

“I’d give my eyetooth for a mug of Moireach’s Old Man’s milk,” Rob said, her voice wistful.

“Who’s Moireach?” the countess asked. “And what is Old Man’s milk?”

“Moireach is the undisputed queen of Dunridge Castle’s kitchen,” Rob answered. “Old Man’s milk consists of egg and milk beaten together, sweetened with sugar, and zested with whiskey.”

“I’ll tell Jennings to give Cook instructions,” the countess said.

Rob shook her head, saying, “Thank ye. Aunt Keely, but ’twouldna be the same.” Shrugging her mantle of homesickness off, she asked, “Is Belle aboot yet?”

“Isabelle is still abed,” Lady Keely answered. “Your brother and she danced until dawn.”

That bit of information lifted Rob’s mood considerably. “Wouldna it be grand if Dubh married Belle? Then my verra best friend would be my sister-by-marriage. No, that wouldna do because I’m stayin’ in England and would never see her again.”

“Give the Marquess of Inverary a chance,” the countess advised.

“I know ye possess magical talents,” Rob said, reaching out to touch her aunt’s hand. “Can ye tell me who my husband will be?”

“You already have a husband,” Lady Keely answered, giving her an ambiguous smile.

“I mean, will I spend my life with Henry or Gordon?”

“You will live with the man destined to be your mate.”

“Which one is that?” Rob cried in frustration. “Dinna ye know?”

“Being druid means knowing.” Before her niece could plead with her to share that special knowledge, the countess added, “I’ve brought you a gift.”

Lady Keely reached into her pocket and withdrew a necklace. Each of its wirelike, golden cages contained a different gemstone. One of the cages, larger than the others, held a star ruby, that rare stone with a six-pointed star inside.

“’Tis a necklace fit for royalty,” Rob gasped.

The countess smiled, pleased with her niece’s response. She held the necklace up and instructed her, “A necklace is a large circle, the symbol of eternity, and a magical guardian that wards negativity off. This particular piece is my own version of lucky beggar beads which, legend says, will grant your wishes. The purple amethyst calms fears and raises hopes, the rose quartz opens the heart to attract love and happiness in relationships, the lucky green aventurine soothes troubled emotions, the brandy carnelian bolsters courage, and the white agate brings pure truth to your lips.”

Slipping the necklace over Rob’s head. Lady Keely added, “This star ruby, resting against your breast, offers potent protection because a guardian spirit dwells within it. If danger approaches its owner, the ruby will grow darker than pigeon’s blood.”

“Yer concern for me makes the necklace priceless,” Rob said, touching the ruby. “I thank ye and will cherish it always.”

Rob stared into space for a long moment as if mulling an idea over in her mind. Out of habit, she traced a finger across the devil’s flower on the back of her left hand. Finally, she asked, “Ye did say that whatever I wished would be granted?”

Lady Keely nodded.

Rob closed her eyes, touched the ruby, and whispered, “By the power of the spirit dwellin’ within this stone, I wish that Henry and I —”

“No,” Lady Keely cried, touching her niece’s hand, breaking the spell.

Startled, Rob opened her eyes and stared in surprise at her aunt.

“Interfering with another’s destiny is forbidden,” Lady Keely explained. “We cannot alter what is to be, merely accept it. Do you understand?”

Rob shook her head. She had absolutely no idea what her aunt was talking about.

“You may wish for love and happiness,” the countess told her, “but the goddess will decide which man is meant for you.”

“I ken what yer sayin’.” Rob closed her eyes again and touched the ruby. “By the power dwellin’ within this special stone, I wish for true love and happiness with whomever the goddess deems suitable for me.”

“Well said.” Lady Keely rose from her perch on the edge of the bed and crossed the chamber to the door, saying, “’Tis nearly ten o’clock. I wouldn’t keep the marquess waiting overly long, as patience doesn’t appear to be one of his virtues.”

Alone again, Rob fingered the beggar bead necklace. If danger approached, the ruby would darken redder than pigeon’s blood. She intended to keep a watchful eye on it whenever Gordon Campbell crossed her path.

Unbidden, the marquess’s image arose in her mind’s eye, and the hint of a smile touched her lips. Campbell was an exceedingly attractive rogue, to be sure. His ruggedly handsome features and his sensuously chiseled lips conspired to make her heartbeat quicken. Those piercing gray eyes of his disturbed her, though. Their intensity seemed to see past all of her pretense to the frightened insecurity that dwelled in the depths of her soul.

And then Rob remembered Henry Talbot. Try as she did, conjuring the pleasing image of the Marquess of Ludlow proved impossible. Guilt and shame coiled around her heart. Why couldn’t she picture his smiling face? She loved him, didn’t she?

Rob banished those disturbing questions from her thoughts and rose from the bed. She dressed as plainly as possible in a black woolen skirt, a white linen blouse, and her oldest pair of scuffed leather boots in a poor attempt to discourage the Marquess of Inverary. The severe clothing only served to enhance the youthful beauty of her face. Around her neck hung the gold and gemstone necklace, its star ruby resting above the blouse’s scooped neckline. After plaiting her ebony hair into one thick braid, she slung a black woolen cloak over her arm and grabbed her black riding gloves.

At exactly eleven o’clock, Rob left her bedchamber and strolled leisurely down the corridor. Though her strategy in handling the marquess satisfied her, she dared not keep him waiting above an hour. Nearing the bottom of the stairs, Rob spied her uncle’s majordomo opening the door to admit a guest.

Dressed completely in black like Old Clootie himself, Gordon Campbell strode into the foyer. Why, he hadn’t been waiting for her at all.

“Yer late,” Rob called.

With a smile of greeting slashed across his face, the marquess looked at her, and Rob felt a melting sensation in the pit other stomach. His smile could light the whole mansion.

“I believe I’m right on time,” Gordon said, sauntering across the foyer.

“Ye said ten o’clock,” Rob reminded him, her voice mildly accusing. “Yer an hour late.”

“I meant, ten o’clock plus the hour ye intended to keep me waitin’.”

The truth in his words surprised Rob. She tilted her head back to stare up at him. How could he have known what she’d intended?

“I’ve been ready and waitin’ for an hour,” Rob lied, trying to put him on the defensive. “I saw yer approach from my window.”

“In that case, I do apologize for my tardiness,” Gordon replied, lifting her hand to his lips. He grinned and added, “Didna yer mother ever teach ye to play coy? A lady should never admit to waitin’ anxiously for her man.”

With embarrassment flushing her cheeks, Rob opened her mouth to tell him exactly how unanxious she was to see him. Unfortunately, Gordon had more practice at verbal sparring, and so his tongue and his wit were faster.

“Close yer mouth,” he teased with laughter lurking in his voice. “Unless yer invitin’ my tongue inside?”

It was the wrong thing to say to an unsophisticated virgin. Gordon realized that as soon as the words slipped from his lips.

“Go to hell with Old Clootie,” Rob snapped, turning away, intending to retrace her steps upstairs.

Gently but firmly, Gordon grasped her upper arm and prevented her flight. “I’m verra sorry,” he apologized.

That he spoke sincerely was apparent to Rob. She stared at his chest but refused to budge one way or the other. Without another word, Gordon lifted the cloak from her arm and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I’ll do it myself,” Rob said, pushing his hands away when he started to fasten it.

Gordon watched her for a moment and then reached out to cup her chin gently in one of his hands. He waited patiently until she raised her disarming, emerald gaze to his. “Give me a chance, angel,” he said. “Please?”

That one word please was Rob’s undoing. She relaxed, and her expression softened. A smile kissed her lips when she said, “I suppose I owe ye that much for killin’ the monster beneath my bed.”

“Rescuin’ a beautiful damsel in distress is its own reward,” Gordon replied with an answering, thoroughly devastating, smile.

Rob felt herself blush heatedly at his compliment. When he offered her his hand, she hesitated for the briefest moment and then accepted it.

“One chance, my lord, doesna mean victory is yers,” she warned, though her smile lingered upon her lips.

“A verra puir choice of words, my lady,” Gordon chided as he escorted her outside to the courtyard. “Victory implies battle, and I have gentler pursuits in mind.”

Rob inclined her head. “I stand corrected, my lord.”

“I applaud ye for that,” Gordon said. “Admittin’ yer wrong is a rare ability that I’ve always admired.”

“Which ye dinna possess yerself?”

“I’m afraid not,” Gordon said. His honest admission made Rob laugh, a sweet melodious sound that reminded him of the angelic eight-year-old he’d married ten years earlier.

“I’m ridin’ astride instead of sidesaddle?” Rob exclaimed, spying the horse he’d had saddled for her. “Why, I havena properly felt a mount between my legs in more than a year.”

God’s balls, Gordon thought as his privates swelled with need. Didn’t the lass realize how arousing her words sounded? Could an eighteen-year-old actually be that naive, or had jades like Lavinia colored his outlook on women? More important, how the hell was he to face the world with his groin bulging like a boulder?

Hearing his muffled groan, Rob rounded on him and noted his choked expression. “Is aught wrong?” she asked, touching his forearm. “Ye dinna look well. Are ye ill?”

“I’m fine.” His brusqueness masked his embarrassed discomfort.

Gordon grasped her waist and lifted her onto the saddle. One of his hands accidentally brushed against the side of her left leg and detected a foreign object there. It seemed the lass had a bulge of her own.

Without permission, Gordon lifted the bottom edge of her skirt and saw the infamous sgian dubh, the Highlander’s weapon of last resort. Attached to the garter strapped on her leg was a small, black leather sheath decorated with a thistle and an acorn motif. The blade it carried appeared to be about four inches long.

“’Tis my last resort,” Rob said without anger or embarrassment.

“I’m wearin’ one of my own inside the top of my boot,” Gordon replied.

He looked up and caught her gaze. The intense, smoldering expression in his piercing gray eyes made her feel as if a thousand airy butterflies had suddenly taken flight inside the pit of her stomach.

“Yer lips say English lady,” Gordon teased, “but yer habits scream Highlander.”

“Old habits die hard,” Rob told him. “Nevertheless, I will get my annulment.”

“Dinna bet the family fortune on it,” Gordon replied, mounting his own horse.

“What does that mean?”

He flashed her a winning smile. “I mean, I’ve got the next three months to change that adorable mind of yers.”

Early winter wore its most placid expression. The morning appeared as if Easter, instead of the Yule, lay around the bend in the road of time. The sky was a heavenly blanket of blue, and radiant sunshine melted the coating of powdery snow that had fallen two days earlier. The springlike warmth of the day, like one of the fabled siren’s of yore, lulled the world of men into a false sense of security; bleak winter seemed as far away as the New World across the seas.

Turning their horses northeast, Gordon and Rob rode at a leisurely pace down the Strand. Londontown, their destination, lay to the east.

“Does my presence in England trouble ye?” Gordon asked. “Ye look like ye didna sleep a wink last night.”

“I slept like the dead,” Rob lied, flicking him a sidelong glance. Letting the marquess know that his presence made her edgy was a satisfaction she wasn’t about to give him.

“That good, huh? Why do ye have dark smudges of fatigue beneath yer eyes?”

“Decoration.”

“I see . . . Ye know, there’s many a fine shop in London,” Gordon remarked. “Perhaps I’ll buy ye that doll after all.”

Rob snapped her head around to fix a frigid look upon him. “Yer ten years too late.”

“Better late than never,” he said, his voice coaxing, his smile as sunny as the day.