Sleepless in Scotland (11 page)

Triona hesitated, then nodded. “My aunt has done nothing this morning but talk about the wedding and how nice it will be.”

He grimaced.

“My thoughts exactly,” she agreed.

Hugh had to appreciate her sensible approach. Most women would have insisted upon the laces and trims; it was a good sign that she didn’t seem to care for them. “Good, then. We will leave them a letter and be off on Friday.” He hesitated. “What about your parents?”

“They are visiting my uncle in the Lake District. Aunt Lavinia sent word to them this morning, but it will take the messenger at least three days to locate them and another three or four for them to arrive in London.”

“Then we shall marry without them.”

“That is a good thing. My parents will be upset at this situation, and it would be better to leave them a note explaining that it has already been resolved.” She slanted him a look of uncertainty.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I would like to invite them to visit, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Gilmerton Manor will be your home, too.”

Emotions flickered over her face, wariness foremost.

“I am an honorable man, Triona. You should know that.”

Her gaze narrowed, her expression cool. “Your behavior toward me in the carriage was not that of an honorable man.”

He wished he could say that he’d forgotten that kiss, but he remembered it all too clearly. She’d been soft and sweet, her lips ripe and succulent, and—for a moment—willing. Hugh’s body burned with a sudden desire to repeat that moment.
Calm down, you fool. There will be plenty of time for that later.
He’d make sure of it.

Triona crossed her arms, unwittingly pressing her full breasts toward the demure neckline of her gown. “That kiss wasn’t the action of an honorable man. You wanted to punish my sister, to frighten her.”

He had, until his lips had touched Triona’s and ignited that amazing heat. Then all he’d wanted was more.

A
lot
more.

He had to control that heat. Strong passions always burned themselves out, though, and he was certain that, once it was slaked in the marriage bed, he’d no longer have to fight this physical yearning for her. That was one advantage of marriage: enough contact would kill every vestige of attraction.

She wet her lips, a gesture that made him harden even more. “MacLean, this marriage of ours…”

“Yes?”

She lifted her chin. “It will be a marriage in name only.”

Like hell!
Hugh’s gaze traveled from the dark gold sweep of her hair, to the lush line of her lashes, to her plump rosebud mouth, to the full breasts pressed upward by her crossed arms; then he lingered appreciatively on the generous curve of her hips. Her legs were hidden from sight by her skirts, but he could imagine…

“No,” he replied firmly. “This will be a real marriage in every way, or it won’t be a marriage at all. It would be foolish to take away the one thing that might make this marriage bearable.”

“And what is that?” Her voice was low and breathless, and excited him.

“The physical pleasure, my sweet.” He closed the distance between them, cupping her face with one hand, her skin warm beneath his palm. He ran his thumb over her moist lips, making her shiver, and he could almost taste the longing that simmered between them.

She tightly closed her eyes, and when she opened them her gaze was cooler and resolute. “I don’t know that physical pleasure is all that important, if we’re to separate afterward.”

He remembered her innocence at their kiss, his body smoldering anew. “Ah, but it is. It is a very great factor.” To prove his point, he slipped a finger under her chin and lifted her lips to his.

He meant only to show her how pleasant and sensual a kiss could be. But as his lips touched hers, and she hesitated a brief second before leaning forward and offering her sweetness to him yet again, something happened. The same thing that had happened in the carriage.

Hugh forgot where he was, what he was trying to accomplish, and why. All he knew was the feel of her warm lips beneath his, the pressure of her round breasts against his chest, the warmth of her as he wrapped his arms about her and pulled her against him.

But this time, the banked flames stirred to an even hotter, more dangerous level. Soon he would
have
this woman. In every way possible, she would belong to him.

The primitive reaction flooded him in a flash of passion so bright, so powerful, that he didn’t even think of resisting it.

He ran his hands over her, exploring her curves, luxuriating in her fullness as he possessed her mouth, tasting her passion. She pressed against him, her skin seeming to burn through her thin gown, her movements insistent yet awkward. She didn’t even know what she yearned for, but she wanted it badly.

Her wanton innocence set him aflame as never before, and only the sound of footsteps out in the hall made him realize the awkwardness of discovery. It took every bit of his resolve to lift his mouth from hers, and step away to keep himself from reaching for her yet again.

Her spectacles were askew, her lips swollen and parted, her eyes unfocused. “That was—” Her voice broke, and she had to take a deep breath and start again. “I concede your point, MacLean.”

He almost laughed at her matter-of-fact statement. What a conundrum this woman was! Even while reeling from passion, she managed to state her position in a clear, sensible fashion. He rather liked that. “Please call me Hugh. We are to be married, after all.”

She nodded jerkily. “Yes. Hugh, then. And I am Triona.”

“I prefer Caitriona.” He adjusted her spectacles so they were back to rights. “But I’ll settle for Cait.” He brushed a strand of her silky honey-colored hair from her cheek, marveling at the softness.

Her gaze met his and his hand froze, his fingertips grazing her cheekbone. She had the most fascinating eyes, hazel green with flecks of gold and brown.

She colored and pulled away. “I’m accustomed to Triona.”

He dropped his hand and shrugged. “As you wish. I should leave now.”

Triona glanced at the closed door. She wasn’t sure how Caitlyn had kept their aunt and uncle away, but she was very thankful. “Yes, you should.”

“I have a number of items to tie up before I leave town. Can you be packed and ready to leave by nine Friday morning?”

Triona nodded, her mind racing. “This is a bit embarrassing, but I have very few clothes with me, for I didn’t expect to be in town long.”

“We can order whatever you need once we reach Gilmerton. There are several talented seamstresses in town.”

Triona sighed. “I wish I had Caitlyn’s way with a needle.”

“She can sew clothing?”

“Better than most modistes. I can sew, but I don’t have her eye for it.”

He glinted a smile at her that made her tingle all the way to her toes. “I have no doubt that you have other, more interesting talents.”

Before she could ask him exactly what he meant, he said, “I must be off. I suggest you keep our plan private, unless you wish to defend it for three days solid.”

“I won’t mention it to anyone except Caitlyn. She can keep a secret.”

“Good.” He glanced into the mirror over the fireplace and adjusted his mussed cravat, then turned back to her. “I’ll be quite busy, but if you need me, simply send a note to MacLean House and I will attend you as soon as I can.”

“I doubt I will need to, but thank you.” She hesitated, then added, “Hugh, I—” What? She hoped their marriage wouldn’t turn out as horribly as she feared it might? That she wished she knew for certain that their decision was the right one? That at the end of their few months together, she hoped they’d both walk away unchanged and unscathed, with no regrets? That even as she burned to taste more of the passion he offered so easily, she also feared that same passion?

All of these questions and more trembled on her tongue and yet when she managed to speak, all she said was, “Until Friday, then.”

He brushed his fingers over her cheek, the touch surprising her. “Until Friday.” He gave her one last, hard, searching look, then placed a gentle kiss on her upturned lips.

Triona closed her eyes, leaning into him. The last few days had been so frantic that she savored his warm touch and the obliteration of all thought. Yet even as her emotions found respite, her body flared to life, thrumming with awareness. She wanted to step closer, to twine her arms about his neck, to press against him and hold him there until—

He lifted his head and moved away. “Good-bye for now, Caitriona.”

She had to swallow a stab of disappointment in an effort to appear unconcerned. “Good-bye, Hugh.”

He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t let your relatives drive you mad.”

“I shall do my best to remain sane,” she managed in a credibly calm voice. “I’m sure it will be a battle, but I will persevere.”

He chuckled. “I have no doubt. If there’s one thing I know about you already, it’s that you’re every bit as hardheaded as I am. Good-bye, my dear.” And with that he left, closing the door behind him.

Chapter 8

“I’ve never found it helpful to treat fate with a gentle hand. Every time I’ve stroked, hopin’ fer a favor, she’s slapped me hand and laughed at me. If ye want something, take fate by the throat and shake it out o’ her!”

O
LD
W
OMAN
N
ORA TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ON A COLD WINTER’S NIGHT

T
he next three days went by with agonizing slowness. Uncle Bedford was furious to discover that MacLean had spoken with Triona and not him. He’d stormed out of the house and had not returned until late, saying in a terse voice that “the damned scoundrel is nowhere to be found!”

It didn’t help that rumors were swelling at a rapid rate, with the town’s more brazen gossips calling in an effort to elicit information. Aware of his wife’s inability to hold her counsel, Uncle Bedford had sternly forbade all of them to receive visitors or go out in public until the situation had been resolved. When the cream of society came knocking, Aunt Lavinia, often in tears, had to listen from the sitting room as Dobbins announced that she wasn’t available.

Triona was glad for the mandate, for she was certain Aunt Lavinia wouldn’t have been able to handle the waves of gossipmongers. However, her uncle was not spared the innuendos of his friends and acquaintances. Late one night, returning to the sitting room to retrieve a book, Triona overheard her uncle telling her aunt about some of the ruder comments. She’d been appalled to discover that she was being blamed for the entire incident while MacLean was held in some sympathy.

Furious, she’d retired to her room where she’d spent a satisfying thirty minutes pounding the stuffing from her pillow and cursing the whole of London society.

Uncle Bedford’s disposition grew even more sour when, after he’d spent hours attempting to locate Lord Hugh, a note arrived on the second morning from that gentleman himself, announcing rather offhandedly that he was dealing with the situation and would contact Lord Galloway “in the none-too-distant future.” Uncle Bedford had crumpled the note into a wad, tossed it into the fire, and stormed out.

Left with no visitors or amusements to distract her, Aunt Lavinia was more determined than ever to plan a grand wedding. She strewed laces and ribbons and even drawings of elaborate wedding gowns all about the house. Triona pretended not to notice, though it sorely tried her patience. Worse, Aunt Lavinia would darkly hint that she and Uncle Bedford were concerned whether MacLean even meant to “come up to the mark” and “do his duty.” It was enough to drive Triona mad.

Had it not been for Caitlyn’s sympathetic presence, Triona was certain she would have sent a note to MacLean and asked him to whisk her away well before Friday, the consequences be damned.

Of course, Caitlyn was not without her own opinion; she thought it dastardly that MacLean did not come to visit every day to reassure them all was well. To her surprise, Triona found that she couldn’t share her sister’s outrage. MacLean had said he’d take care of things, and she believed him. Though he’d agreed to follow the dictates of society, he would do it his way and no one else’s.

She couldn’t help but appreciate that, though it did give her pause. This time, they were of one accord. What would happen when they weren’t? His calm disregard for the opinions of others was a good thing until he disregarded hers.

As the hours dragged past, Triona had more time to lament her situation. The idea of marriage was not horrible. Her parents had an ideal relationship: they were rarely apart, were respectful of one another, understood each other, and had the same values and morals. But it was that very knowledge of how true love should work that brought her spirits low. In agreeing to marry MacLean, she’d given up the opportunity to have a marriage like that. Ever.

She rubbed her temples where they ached. Perhaps things wouldn’t be as horrible as she feared. Perhaps they could find some sort of middle ground or common interest. At least MacLean possessed the basic requirements of a decent husband. He certainly was handsome enough, and then some. He seemed well educated and was well-spoken. He carried himself with distinction and was obviously intelligent. She couldn’t doubt his excellent breeding, either.

He also had the ability to turn her bones to butter with a simple kiss.

Still…was that a
good
trait or
bad
or was it just the way he treated all women? If so, did that make her soon-to-be husband a libertine? He’d told her he wasn’t in love with anyone, that he didn’t think himself capable of such an emotion, but she hadn’t thought to ask him if he had a mistress. She wasn’t the sort of woman to put up with being made to feel less. The thought weighed heavily on her.

Friday finally came, dawning as gray and overcast as Triona’s spirits. She dressed with special care and wished she could don her best gown, but feared it would draw Aunt Lavinia’s attention. She contented herself with wearing her favorite morning gown of pale blue muslin, banded beneath the breast and around each sleeve with dark blue and green ribbons. The color made Triona’s hazel eyes appear greener, while the full skirts provided warmth against the chilly day.