The Lady and the Laird Page 11

  "Mediums, you mean? Do you think you're one of those?"

  "I don't know."

  "Has anything like this ever happened to you before?"

  Her eyes widened at the thought. "Of course not."

  "There's no of course about it. You act as though this is all perfectly normal, which it most certainly is not."

  "That's the only way I can keep from being afraid," Katlin said. She averted her gaze, staring at the wall rather than see his reaction.

  Had she done so, she would have been startled. Angus looked at her in surprise followed swiftly by resolution. Never mind that she had rejected his proposal of marriage, she was his whether she wanted to admit it or not. And Wyndhams took very good care of their possessions.

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly.

  She turned, startled by his sudden compliance. "You'll help?"

  "As you said, he's my ancestor. If he really is trapped here in some fashion, I should do what I can to release him."

  Katlin wasn't sure what to do next; she had expected to have to argue further with him. Quickly, before he could change his mind, she said, "Call to him."

  "Do what?"

  "Call to him, by name. When I did that, he came."

  Angus hesitated. He felt ridiculous, but she was gazing at him so intently, her eyes so filled with entreaty, that he felt he had no choice.

  He cleared his throat and said, "Francis... Francis Wyndham, if you can hear me, reveal yourself."

  "Tell him who you are," Katlin prompted.

  Feeling more the fool with each passing moment, Angus complied. "This is your descendant, Angus Wyndham. Come forward."

  Nothing, not a sound, not a ripple in the air.

  "This is getting us nowhere," Angus said.

  Katlin shook her head in bewilderment. "I don't understand. He must want to talk with you. Why won't he answer?"

  The most obvious explanation, Angus thought, was that he didn't exist, but he was loath to point it out. Instead, he said gently, "I've been no stranger to Innishffarin, you know. When your grandfather was alive, I was here several times a year. If Francis Wyndham had wanted to speak to me, he had ample opportunity to do it."

  "But how could he not want to? You're his kin, the heir to the lands he used to rule. Of all the people he could possibly communicate with, you'd think it would be—"

  She broke off as a sudden thought occurred to her. "Is it possible that he's embarrassed to face you because he lost Innishffarin?"

  Angus laughed. Insane this might be, but there was a certain entertainment to it. "Embarrassed, Francis Wyndham? Are you sure you've been talking to him? He wasn't exactly a shrinking violet in his time."

  "Maybe not," she said stubbornly, "but this is different. Losing Innishffarin was the great failure of his life, and you're still paying the price for it. I can see why he might make himself scarce when you're about."

  "You didn't think so a few minutes ago. You were sure I was the key to making him appear. Now you've changed your mind."

  Color spread over her cheeks. "You still don't believe me."

  "I've my doubts," Angus acknowledged mildly, "any sane man would."

  "That makes no sense," Katlin said. Her temper, only recently discovered, flared. "If there is no ghost," she demanded, "why did I ask you to come here?"

  Angus's smile was supremely masculine. Left to himself, he would never have brought it up, for he was, after all, a gentleman, or at least the wild Scottish version of one. But since she had seen fit to raise the matter herself...

  "Because, sweetling, you wanted to see me."

  The soft rosy hue of her cheeks darkened perceptibly. "I did not! That's absurd. I never—"

  Angus's smile broadened. She really did look adorable, and he was damnably tired of living up to his better nature. All those generations of Wyndham warriors had left their mark on him.

  His hands closed around her slender waist. Before she could utter another word, he drew her to him. He presumed she meant to protest, perhaps even to fight, but he would not let her do either. Already a part of him felt he had made a mistake when he let her walk away in the gray morning light. Had he kept her with him then, a great deal would already be settled.

  It was a wise man who understood his errors and avoided repeating them.

  "Hush," he murmured as his hand cupped the back of her head. His other hand was at the base of her spine, the fingers splayed to hold her intimately against him. She was more fully dressed this time but he could still feel every exquisite inch of her, the ripe fullness of her breasts, her slim waist, the curving chalice of her hips, and her thighs, which hid between them the hot, moist center of her femininity. He exhaled sharply as he fought to control the rush of passion that threatened to undo him.

  Determined that he would not rush, he dropped light, playful kisses on her mouth, savoring the sweet taste of her. Dimly, he heard her gasp but the softly female sound only drove him further.

  There was a certain repressed violence in his actions that, for all her lack of inexperience, communicated itself clearly to Katlin. Another woman might have been frightened by such rampant male need. She was aroused, a discovery that shocked her more than anything he could do.

  Without pausing to think, she let her mouth close until her teeth raked the sensitive surface of his tongue, not so hard as to be painful but firmly enough to remind him that he did not hold the upper hand as entirely as he thought.

  "Witch," he muttered deep in his throat and pressed her against the nearest wall. His big hands, the palms callused from long years at sea and on horse, cupped her buttocks for a moment before sliding down to grasp her skirt. Cool air touched her legs as he pulled the fabric up until it was bunched around her waist. Beneath her gown and petticoat, she wore white muslin drawers held by a string tie at the waist. They were the frailest of protection. Against her belly, she could feel the hard urgency of his arousal. Her head fell back, the honey-blond fall of her hair curling over his hands.

  She had chosen the dress precisely because it was somewhat too large for her and therefore more comfortable for working in. No stays were necessary, nor were there any now to impede his touch. In addition, the neckline, though not immodest, did gap slightly. Just enough for Angus to reach within it, palming her breasts, and draw them upward beyond the fabric.

  His tongue circled the rosy aureoles until they glistened wetly. Gently, with the utmost care, his teeth teased the aching crests. At the same time, his fingers found the small bow in the string and undid it with a single jerk. Katlin cried out as she felt his touch sliding between her thighs, nestling in the most private and secret part of her.

  Angus covered her mouth with his to hide the sounds she made as he stroked and caressed the velvety, moist flesh. She was hot with wanting him, exquisitely ready. It would be only a moment's work to free his bulging manhood and lift her the necessary distance to bring them together.

  The image of her impaled on him, moving to his will, satisfying his deepest need, was almost too much to bear. She was all silken fire and willing femininity. He had proposed marriage to her. His intentions were honorable. He could take her, satisfy this terrible raging hunger, and afterward—

  It was the thought of afterward that stopped him. Or more correctly the all but incoherent stirrings of doubt, for he was no longer, strictly speaking, capable of thought. He had never in his life taken advantage of a woman. On the contrary, every woman he had ever possessed had come to him willingly. And every one of them had known exactly what she was doing. None had been virgins, and those who could correctly be called ladies had been of the very sophisticated and knowing sort. Not brave young women struggling mightily to cope with circumstances they had never been raised to encounter, much less deal with.

  Damn this unsettling thing called a conscience. Just when he least wanted it, it reared its ugly head. If he took her now... She would never forgive him. It was that starkly simple. He would have taken what should be a
moment of tender beauty and made it something far harsher and abrupt.

  Well, yes, but it wasn't as though the ceiling would cave in. Life would go on. He could make it up to her later. At least this way there would be no more ridiculous talk about not wanting to marry him.

  Or would there?

  She had surprised everyone—including most likely herself—by insisting on keeping Innishffarin. She had thrown aside the strictures of a lifetime to work beside her servants and to make their well-being her principle concern. And she talked to ghosts, or one ghost, at least. Let him not forget that. She was not, as he had so blandly assumed, a bit of London fluff. God help him, she wasn't anything at all like that.

  She would never forgive him.

  He knew it even as he knew that at that precise moment, her need matched his own. She was hot, wet, willing, but only because he had taken gross advantage of her innocence—and, admittedly, of the attraction between them. When calmer heads prevailed, as they must inevitably, she would see things differently.

  With a heartfelt groan, he wrenched his head aside from its preoccupation with her breasts and roughly pushed her skirts down. His chest rose and fell like a bellows as he took a quick step away from her. With a jerk, he pulled the neckline of her gown into place.

  "Angus...?" she murmured, dazed and more than a little bewildered. What in the name of God had happened to her—or almost happened? How could she have become so lost to all sense as to actually want to—

  "Forgive me, Katlin," he said huskily, "you tempt a man's judgement. When next we meet, I suggest we not be alone."

  Without another word, he turned and strode down the corridor, leaving her alone with her astonishment—and her regret.

  She was still deeply shaken when she returned to the hall a short time later. Angus was safely gone, she had ascertained that much, and there was no one to notice her high color or the dark pools of emotion in her eyes.

  She had to find some occupation—something safe, simple and exhausting—to so thoroughly distract herself that she would not think of him or of a moment they had spent together. But even as she was crossing the hall in frantic search of same, her eyes fell on the small table that rested not far from the entrance. Someone, Sarah perhaps, had put a pretty bowl of early flowers on it. The simple, homey sight touched her, but it was the single white envelope lying nearby that held her attention.

  With trembling fingers, she raised it and read the name scrawled in black ink on the outer flap. Baron Devereux, Hampshire House, London.

  Quickly, she slit the envelope open and extracted a single sheet of creamy white paper embossed with the Devereux family seal. In as few words as possible, Charles informed her that he had agreed to attend a house party to be held shortly at an estate not far removed from her present circumstance, belonging to his dear friends the Palmerston St. Johns, whom he believed she had met at the Malmsburys' winter cotillion, and would be pleased to call on her as she had suggested. He further outlined what he thought might be a suitable date and time, and indicated in passing that he would be bringing several friends along who would also be at the house party and had expressed an interest in seeing Innishffarin.

  Katlin frowned as she read this. It had not occurred to her that she would be required to entertain a large group, but she should have thought of that. Charles rarely went anywhere alone. If he lacked organized diversion, he rapidly grew bored and was even susceptible to an unfortunate melancholy, which she must, of course, do everything possible to spare him.

  That wasn't spelled out in the letter but the suggestion was there nonetheless. He was coming at her invitation and, she thought guiltily, at no little trouble to himself. As she recalled, he didn't really care for the Palmerston St. Johns. He did like the Hawley St. Johns, but they were an entirely different family, much given to boisterous young men who drank a great deal and thought gambling the highest pursuit to which any gentleman could aspire.

  But never mind, he was coming and that was what counted. She checked the date in the letter again and was instantly alarmed. There were only five days left to get everything ready.

  Firmly thrusting aside thoughts of Angus, she put the letter in her pocket and hurried upstairs. First she had to make a list of everything that needed to be done. Then she had to check on Maggie Fergus and the girls, and on John. And then... and then... Her thoughts flew. So much to accomplish and so little time.

  The only possible blessing was that she would have no chance to dwell on the insufferable, arrogant and all too threatening Laird Wyndham. He was a distraction she could not possibly afford.

  Everything rested on Charles's reaction to Innishffarin. He had to see it at its best. He absolutely had to.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Whom did you say?" Angus asked. It was two days after the failed ghost hunt at Innishffarin. He had chosen to spend the time pursuing his duties and had not heard from Katlin in the interim.

  He really hadn't expected to, for the chit was stubborn, no getting around that. But her aloofness still rankled. She had even gone so far as to send his servants home, accompanied by a polite little note that said her own were much improved and able to take up their tasks once again, his help was appreciated and so on. It could have been written by any proper matron to a neighbor who was not in any way intimate.

  He smiled grimly at the thought. He was a patient man, he could wait. The fortnight he had decided early on to allot her was not yet up. By the time it was, he was quite confident she would see things differently.

  "A Baron Devereux, sir," Padraic replied in response to his query. "I gather he's a friend of Miss Sinclair's from London. He's going to be at a house party not far from here and wrote to say he'd come by."

  Angus straightened away from the low stone wall against which he'd been lounging. His eyes, blue as the cloudless sky, narrowed. "Oh, he did, did he?"

  Padraic nodded. He smiled slightly as though enjoying the sight of the newborn lambs frisking in the meadow beyond the wall. In fact, he was enjoying his laird's response to this news, every bit as satisfactory as he and the others had theorized it would be.

  "How do you know about this?" Angus demanded. Baron be damned. Some London fop, no doubt. Where did he get the brass to think he could come visiting a young, unmarried woman lacking proper chaperonage?

  That no such consideration had ever crossed his mind in regard to himself did not trouble Angus in the least. He was, after all, Laird of Wyndham, which, succinctly put, meant he could do anything he damn well pleased.

  "Seamus McMahon was speaking of it when I saw him at the pub yesterday evening," Padraic said evenly. "Seems there's a great to-do at the castle trying to get everything ready."

  "You mean she's making a fuss?" Angus asked, incredulous at the mere notion.

  The groom shrugged philosophically. "'Tis only natural, sir. A gentleman up from London and all."

  Ice blue eyes glinted dangerously as the Laird of Wyndham scowled. "What's that got to do with it?"

  Padraic, longtime retainer though he was, knew better than to provoke his master further. Hastily, he said, "Nothing at all, I'm sure, sir. If you'll be pardoning me, the gray mare needs shoeing."

  Left alone by the stone wall, Angus dug the toe of his boot in the soft dirt as he considered this turn of events. A London fop at Innishffarin? Somebody she'd known before? A grim smile curved his hard mouth. They'd see about that.

  ***

  Three days later, Katlin stood before the dressing table in her bedroom and studied herself carefully. All things considered, she thought she looked as good as could be expected. She had lost some weight since coming to Innishffarin. The unaccustomed labor was no doubt the cause. But she had managed to repair the worst damage to her hands, her hair was freshly curled around her face, and the gown she wore was most becoming.

  Granted, it wasn't white or even pastel, the colors most suitable for a young, unmarried woman. But she had been unable to resist the bright violet underskirt fra
med in blue and embroidered with small, persimmon-hearted pansies.

  Pansies were the flower of thought and, not incidentally, provokers of love. She could do worse than wear them as her emblem when she met Charles.

  The Palmerston St. Johns had been very thoughtful to invite her. Their estate lay an hour by carriage south of Innishffarin. She was bidden to luncheon with a pleasant afternoon of amusements to follow.

  Although it really hadn't been all that long since her departure from London—less than a month all told, though she had difficulty believing that, so much had happened—she was still nervous about stepping out into society. The hour-long drive gave her a chance to compose herself. By the time Seamus alighted from the driver's seat to help her out, she felt sufficiently at ease to smile at him cheerfully.

  "Thank you, Seamus. I'm sorry to have to ask you to wait but perhaps you can find something to do in the neighborhood."

  "No apologies necessary, miss," he assured her, thinking that few mistresses would have thought to give them. "If it's all right with you, there's a wee village nearby where I happen to have a few cousins. I thought I'd stop by there."

  "By all means," Katlin said. "I won't need you until later." As he mounted behind the horses, she turned toward the house.

  The St. Johns's Scottish residence had its origins in a thirteenth-century round tower later replaced by a fortified keep, which in turn gave way to a pleasant, Jacobean era manor, not unlike Wyndham in its dimensions and appearance. The family's origins were English. The Scottish property had come to them through marriage, and with it a deep affection for the land framed in rolling hills, stark white cliffs and the ever-present sea.

  Lady Palmerston St. John was waiting on the broad front steps to welcome Katlin. She was a lady of middle years, past the first bloom of her beauty but somehow all the better for it. With six children, all growing robustly to adulthood, and a devoted husband, she was the picture of contentment.

  "My dear," she said as she took both of Katlin's hands in hers, "how good of you to come. And how exciting this news we've had of you. We had no idea you were in these parts, much less at Innishffarin. How is it there?"