The Laird Who Loved Me (14 page)

He gathered her hard against him, his strong hands molding her to him.

She moaned, opening her mouth to him, her entire body aflame. God, how she loved his hands on her, the warmth of his touch even through her clothing. He slid a hand to her breast and traced his thumb over her nipple, which was hard through the thin silk of her gown and chemise. Caitlyn gripped his coat and yanked him closer, desperate to close the small distance between them, wanting to—

“
No
.” His hands closed around her wrists and he yanked her hands from his coat and stood glaring down at her, his breathing as harsh as hers.

She struggled to think, to pull her gaze from his mouth, now pressed into a firm, straight line. “No,
what
?” How could he want to stop something that felt so good?

With a muffled curse, he turned and strode to the desk, where he grabbed his glass of port and took an angry swallow.

She rubbed her arms, chilled. “MacLean, I—”

He slammed the glass onto the desk, port sloshing onto its surface as he sent her a furious look. “What happened in London was a mistake I won’t repeat, no matter how you try and tempt me. Had you not been such a flirt—”

She stiffened.
“Flirt?”

“Why else do you think Falkland and Dervishton are so hot on your trail? Of course, such flirtations rarely last. You’re not mature enough to hold the interest of a
real
man.”

Caitlyn gripped her elbows tightly, fighting an answering flare of anger. “I enjoyed our flirtation in London. But if that makes me a flirt, then it makes
you
one, too, my lord. Because for every sin I committed, you did the same.”

“I never attempted to trick you into a fraudulent offer of marriage.”

“No, but you challenged me to do it, which makes you just as responsible!”

“Like hell I did!”

She plopped her hands on her hips. “Did you or did you not say you’d never ask me to marry you in a million years?”

He frowned. “I didn’t—”

“Oh!”
Caitlyn couldn’t believe her ears. “Your exact words were, ‘Hurst, there’s no way in hell I’d ever ask you to marry me,
and there’s nothing you could do to make me
.’”

“I—” He froze in place, his brows contracting, realization plain on his face.

She nodded, smugly pleased. “At the Manderleys’ soiree, on the terrace.”

“That wasn’t meant as a challenge.”

“And how would you have viewed it, if someone had said that same thing to you?”

He glowered and opened his mouth to respond, but she held up a hand. “
Honestly
—what would you have done?”

He made an impatient gesture. “Whatever I did, it would have been discreet, not have been performed in the full glare of public censure—which is what made your actions untenable.”

“Discreet? Like the time you kissed me in the antechamber at Devonshire House, and the prince walked in?”

He looked thunderous. “That was an error of judgment, but one instance doesn’t—”

“And the time at the Treveshams’ dinner party, when you pulled me into an empty sitting room and
the butler came in to collect something, and we had to hide under the settee until he left and Lady Trevesham walked—”

“Enough!”
He clamped his mouth firmly shut, the wind furiously beating against the windows, the panes clattering in their frames. “You can’t count those. You teased me mercilessly and—”

“
I
teased
you
? You, you, you—” She fisted her hands and advanced on him until they were toe-to-toe. “I wish my original plan had worked! I wish you had been forced to offer for me, just so I could have had the pleasure of
refusing
you!”

His jaw tightened and rain slashed across the terrace doors.

“Oh, keep your blasted rain and wind; it doesn’t scare me one bit! You’d be
lucky
if I married you, and you know it!”

His mouth turned white, his eyes a brilliant, hard green, his wounded pride emblazoned across his furious face. He towered over her, angry and threatening. “They don’t make enough port to get me inebriated enough to ask you to marry me, regardless of whether you were ‘ruined’ or not.”

“That’s— Why, you— Oh!” She stomped her foot. “MacLean, if I wished to, I could
make
you want to marry me!”

“Like hell.” A cold smile that was no smile turned up one corner of his mouth, and he bent down until his eyes were level with hers. “But I
know
I could make
you come to my bed willingly—without the sanctity and disaster of a marriage.”

“Not in a million years! There’s no way in . . . in . . . in
hell
!” The word curdled on her tongue, but she said it anyway.

MacLean’s brows flew up and he burst into a deep, rich laugh that surprised them both.

Outside, the wind abated a bit, and Caitlyn let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m glad you find this funny, for I don’t.”

He grinned now, dark and wicked. “Hurst, sometimes you are so very much a vicar’s daughter.” His smile turned wolfish. “What do you say to a little wager? If I win, you come to my bed.”

She fought an instant picture of herself in his bed, his large hands moving over her bared skin. Instantly her stomach tightened and her nipples tingled as if his hands were even now cupping her breasts.

If she closed her eyes, she could see him—warm-skinned and deliciously masculine. For the briefest moment, she wondered if losing would be so bad . . . Then she met his gaze and there was no mistaking the superior air that he regarded her with.

He doesn’t think I have a chance! Why, that fiend!
“And when
I
win,” she snapped indignantly, “then you will go down on bended knee before the entire party here and ask for my hand in marriage. In front of
everyone,
MacLean.”

MacLean shrugged. “Fine. It doesn’t matter what you wager, for I’ll be damned if I let you win anything.”

“As if you could stop me.”
I can picture him on his knee before me, asking for my hand while the duchess glowers in the background.
It was too delicious! “But I should give you fair warning: I may decide to say yes to your offer of marriage just to irk you. Then where will you be?”

“Then you will have one very angry husband.”

She grinned. “If you’re angry, then you’ll have a very
happy
wife.”

His hands curled into fists and she thought for an excited moment that he would reach out and grab her again, but instead he said in an icy voice, “We’ve set the stakes. Name the conditions.”

Conditions? Good God—how did one set conditions for such a wager? A wager of his freedom against her virtue. She swallowed, the enormity of what they were doing settling about her like a cold mist. Blast it, what was it about him that always made her forget her vow to remain calm and unflustered?

Whatever it was, she was going to put an end to it once and for all. She had to construct the conditions in a way that benefited her, and not this great lummox who could outride her, outrace her, and outdo her in every physical way. But what? She glanced around the room, seeking inspiration and not finding it . . . until her gaze fell on the open book on the desk she’d seen on entering the library. With startling clarity, an idea instantly formed.

She whirled around MacLean and reached for the book. “I know exactly what we’ll do.”

“What’s that?” His voice was softer now, edged with suspicion.

She flipped through the pages eagerly. “We will set this wager to follow the tale of Olwen and Culhwch.”

“Who?”

She almost chuckled. He didn’t know the legend and she did, which could be an excellent advantage. She flipped through the pages quickly, excited at the idea of having this proud and arrogant man at her feet. “My father loves this tale and used to read it to us when we were children.”

“How fortunate for you,” MacLean said in a dry tone.

Caitlyn ignored him. “Olwen and Culhwch are of Arthurian legend. Culhwch, King Arthur’s cousin, was cursed by an evil stepmother to fall in love with only one woman—Olwen. The trouble was, Olwen’s father was a very large, very angry giant. In order to win Olwen’s hand, Culhwch was sent to perform a series of deeds to prove himself.” She tapped her finger on the text. “We’ll use this old myth as the basis of our wager.”

“That’s preposterous.”

She lifted her brows and said coolly, “You said I could set the conditions, did you not?”

He glowered. “I suppose I did.”

“Culhwch’s tasks were fairly basic: find the sweetest honey of the season; fetch a razor, scissors, and
comb, and mirror from between the ears of a wild boar; and such.”

“Fetching a mirror from between the ears of a wild boar is
basic
?” He took the book and frowned down at it. “This is a ridiculous idea.”

“No, it’s not. The quest for honey can be just that, for it needs no translation. The items from the boar’s head could be …” She bit her lip, then brightened. “I know! It could be the bow from Lady Kinloss’s dog.”

MacLean shook his head, although he gave a faint smile. “Lady Kinloss’s dog is indeed a bore.”

Caitlyn fought an urge to grin in return. “That’s a very poor pun.”

“Most of them are.” MacLean paged through the book. “So how do you propose to do this, Hurst?”

“We must each complete three tasks based on the myth.”

“Sounds fair. Who sets them?”

“We set them for each other. Furthermore, I don’t want the other guests involved, and I don’t think you do, either.”

“Definitely not.”

She nodded toward the book. “Do you see any tasks that look intriguing to you?”

Looking skeptical, he nonetheless turned a few pages. “Perhaps.”

“Then do you agree to follow the tasks set in the myth, so we can settle this issue between us once and for all?”

Alexander closed the book and tapped it against the palm of one hand as he considered her. He had to admit she was making it tempting, for it would add sweetness to not only best her, but to do it at her own game.

Still, it wouldn’t do to accept too quickly, so he shrugged. “I don’t know, Hurst. When I suggested that you set the conditions, I assumed you’d fix upon something more common, like the turn of a card or a race of some sort.”

Her chin lifted and she walked right up to him, her dark brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “What’s wrong, MacLean? Afraid of a little competition?”

Alexander’s body reacted immediately to her nearness. “It’s an inordinate amount of trouble, but”—he allowed his gaze to travel across her in a suggestive manner, lingering on her breasts and hips—“I can think of nothing I’d enjoy more than to see you lose, and watching you struggle through your tasks will only make it the sweeter.”

“We’ll see who loses.” She gave him one of those damned mysterious, feminine smiles that made his body flame to life, then she turned away, her fingers trailing along the small side table, absently brushing over a silver-filigreed candy dish.

Alexander watched, wondering how that feather touch would feel on his cock, which was even now straining to get to her.
Damn it, but she ignites me.

She turned her head, and for an instant her pure profile was in stark relief against the darkened terrace
door windows. “It’ll be good for you to engage in a competition against someone who isn’t afraid of your temper.”

“People aren’t afraid of me.”

“Oh?” She looked back over her shoulder at him in a flirtatious move as old as Eve. “You believe that? You crash and thunder your way over everyone, then pretend that no one cares about your curse.” She gestured toward the gardens where he knew limbs would be strewn across the hedges. “How could someone not be?”

“You’re not.”

She sent him an impatient look. “Because I grew up listening to tales about you and your clan. I knew of the curse from the time I was old enough to climb on my granny’s knee.”

“Ah yes. Old Woman Nora is your grandmother. Hugh mentioned that when I saw him last.” Alexander knew Old Woman Nora well, and he had no love for the village healer. She was a capable witch, he’d give her that, and he’d trust her with his life if he ever needed a healer. But he also knew that she was a busybody and gossip who spent far too much time analyzing his business.

Caitlyn turned to face him, one other hand resting on her hip as she regarded him with a taunting smile. “Well, MacLean? Are we decided? The myth sets our tasks. Three each, decided by the other. And no inclusion of the other guests allowed.”

The sight of her, so elegant and so damnably tempting, raised his blood, and he was astonished at his impulse to just give her this and anything else she wanted.
Damn it, what’s wrong with me? I’m no lapdog to be led about by a chit who looks too young to be out of the schoolroom!

He set the book on the desk. “I’m not a man to play such silly games; we’ll find another, more usual avenue.”

She looked at him pityingly. “Perhaps you’re right. You’re far too mature to engage in anything truly enjoyable and fun. I suppose a man your age must be cautious of his dignity at all times.”

A man your age?
She thought he was too
old
? Too old to partake in such a silly game; too old to perform her tasks.
Too old for her
. He didn’t move a muscle, but his blood roared in protest and the storm outside echoed it.

The most irritating part was that she was merely throwing his own words back at him, when he’d told her she wasn’t mature enough to be of interest to a real man. She’d deftly turned the tables.

Alexander slammed his hands onto the desk.

She jumped, her color high, her lips parted.

He leaned forward. “I accept.”

For a long second, she just looked at him, then a pleased expression entered her eyes. She walked to the desk, so gracefully that it was painful to watch, placed her hands on the opposite side, and leaned
forward until she was within tantalizing reach. “Then we’re agreed, MacLean. Shall we say the best out of three?”

They were face-to-face over the smooth oak surface, their poses militant. His first impulse was to reach across the desk, grasp her by the waist, and pull her to his side. There, he’d plunder her sweetness, brand her with his kiss, and
show
her what he was capable of, regardless of his age.