Sweet as the Devil (40 page)

“And you’ve given me love beyond measure,” she said on a light breath, her heart in her eyes. “My dear, my dearest.”

Bending with lithe grace, he slipped one arm under her legs, lifted her in his arms, and strode from the room. “I might be able to amplify that uncalibrated love if I put my mind to it,” he said, smiling. It was still new, confiding in someone, and he elected to be playful instead. “What do you think?”

“I think I made an excellent choice that night at Ernst’s when I agreed to come with you to Scotland.”

He laughed. “You
agreed
?”

“Well, in a way. The point is,” she brightly added, “I took a real fancy to you when I saw you at Bella’s. I’m so very glad I did.”

“I couldn’t agree more, darling.” And dismissing all the Herculean trials in between—the killings and near killings, the close calls and rivers of blood—he was in accord with his wife.

He’d spent a dozen years at war and years more before that learning the art of war.

And now it was finally over.

As he mounted the stairs in his manor house at Blackwood Glen, his sweet, adored wife in his arms, he understood that at last he was truly home. The evil and self-seeking ambition of the world was distant from his glen. He’d earned this—his retreat from the world, with senses on permanent alert, with slaughter and carnage, with feats of courage few men faced. And now released at last from the hazards and ambiguities of his past, he looked to his future with delight. He would take joy in his wife, beget children, till his fields, and sleep easy at night.

Love had given him all that and he rejoiced.

T
HE DUKE AND Duchess of Groveland were entertaining at their hunting box in the West Riding of Yorkshire. The original party had been small, although more guests had arrived yesterday and tomorrow the local squires and farmers would come out for the day’s hunt. As was often the case with country house parties, those invited arrived with unexpected companions. Charlie Bonner, for instance, had come with his wife, who neither rode to hounds nor liked the country.
“Sorry Fitz,” Charlie had murmured with a grin for his host. “I couldn’t shake off Bella.”
And surprisingly, Lord Dalgliesh had brought
his
wife. They barely spoke. But her young son had wanted to see a hunt someone said, and Lord Dalgliesh doted on the boy.

Not that all aristocratic marriages were as ill-conceived and regrettable, although love matches
were
a rarity in the haute monde. Long-held custom in the fashionable world had always viewed matrimony as a business transaction and marriage settlements as a means of enhancing family wealth, prestige, or bloodlines. Should anyone be looking for love, that was available elsewhere.

Naturally, there were exceptions to prevailing custom. Three of those exceptions were currently having coffee and brandy in a sitting room off the terrace. The Duke of Groveland and his friends, Lords Lennox and Blackwood, were having an early morning eye-opener while waiting for their beloved wives to come down for breakfast.

“To family.” With a smile, the duke raised his cup. “May our tribes increase.”

“A pleasant endeavor,” Oz Lennox murmured. “I’ll drink to that.”

Jamie Blackwood lifted his cup. “We’re fortunate, all of us.”

“Indeed. To kind Fate,” Oz said softly and drained his drink.

A small silence fell, each man fully conscious that life was uncertain, a gamble at best. They all understood how impossibly long the odds had been against meeting the women they loved in the great vastness of the world. How bereft their lives would have been had they not.

Into this contemplative moment a striding figure intruded, sweeping past the long span of French doors. The woman was tall with magnificent flame-red hair, the spectacular lynx coat she wore equally resplendent.

Fitz smiled as she disappeared from sight. “Rumor has it she’s a witch.”

“In more ways than one,” Oz drawled, pushing himself upright in his chair in sudden interest. “What?” He shot his friends a grin. “I love my wife, but I’m not dead. Did you see those flashy spurs? I’ll bet she’s a wildcat in bed.”

“And you should know,” Fitz waggishly noted.

Oz cast a sardonic glance at his friend. “Please—as if either of you were puritans before you married. Hell, Fitz, you had Willery’s bountiful daughter sizing you up under Rosalind’s eye last night at dinner. I thought she might lean over just a little more and let her plump, quivering breasts spill over on your plate. And Bella practically ate Jamie alive while we were having drinks in the drawing room.” He shot a look at James Blackwood, who’d spent years standing stud to not only Bella but a great many other ladies. “Did you have to make amends to Sofie afterward? She didn’t look happy.”

“Bella’s always been difficult,” Jamie coolly replied. “Sofie understands.”

“I beg to differ,” Oz drolly said. “I know Sofie. She doesn’t understand at all.”

“Let’s just say I was able to atone for Bella’s sins. Satisfied? And the enticing Zelda happens to be my cousin so mind your manners.”

Oz grinned. “You’re kidding. Zelda? What a perfect name for a bodacious lady witch.”

“Her name’s Griselda, so relax,” Jamie muttered. “And the gossip about witches arose because she’s recently returned from the jungles of Brazil with some native artifacts that she chooses to wear. She’s no more a witch than you or I.”

“Isn’t she the one who raised all her younger siblings when her mother died?” Fitz asked.

Jamie nodded. “All five of them.”

“So witch and earth mother,” Oz waggishly noted. “Every male fantasy.”

Jamie gave his friend a warning glance. “Fucking behave.”

“Or?” Oz’s grin was brilliant.

“Or I’ll tell Isolde you’re lusting after my cousin,” Jamie silkily returned.

“And I’ll tell her I’m not.”

“Screw you,” Jamie grumbled.

“I’m afraid I’m no longer available,” Oz sweetly replied. “My wife doesn’t approve.”

The stunning apparition suddenly hovered back into view, arresting the raillery. Coming to a stop at one of the doors, the flame-haired woman opened it and stood for a moment on the threshold, her tall form limned in golden sunshine.

The extravagant lynx coat fell to her feet, her flamboyant hair was untamed and wind-tossed, her long, slender legs were buckskin clad, and her booted and spurred feet firmly planted. While a faint smile graced her lovely mouth, mild query arched her dark brows. “Am I intruding?”

“No, not at all. Do come in, Zelda,” Jamie quickly offered, rising from his chair along with the other men. “You’re up early.”

“It’s not that early. Hello, everyone.” Shutting the door, she stripped off her gloves. “Father and I’ve been out riding since dawn, although I seem to have lost him somewhere between here and the stables.”

“No doubt he stopped to talk to someone.” Sir Gavin was everyone’s friend. “You know Fitz,” Jamie observed. “And this is Lord Lennox. Oz, my cousin Zelda MacKenzie.”

“A pleasure,” Oz said, moving forward and putting out his hand. “You must tell my wife where you found your coat. It’s magnificent.”

“Thank you.”
He has a very lucky wife
, Zelda thought, shaking his hand,
and he must care for her or he wouldn’t have mentioned her in his first breath
. “A wonderful tailor in Edinburgh made this for me. I can give you his name if you like.”

“I would.” Oz’s smile was boyishly warm. “You weren’t here last night.”

“We came in very late.”

“Would you like a drink?” Fitz interjected, because Oz charmed without even trying, and Jamie had warned him off. “We’re drinking our breakfast.”

“Fitz has smuggled brandy so it tastes much better,” Oz said, shifting slightly to include his friends in the conversation. “I recommend it.”

“Perfect. Just what I need. And may I compliment you on your jumps, Lord Groveland,” she added, turning to her host. “They’re wicked. I’m looking forward to the chase.”

“I can’t take credit for the hedges. They were planted long ago. But I’ve added an obstacle or two over the years to make the run more interesting. Please, have a chair. I’ll get your drink.”

Zelda was shoving her gloves into her coat pocket and Fitz had turned to the drinks tray when the door to the hallway suddenly opened and a large, dark-haired man walked in. “Morning, gentlemen.” The Earl of Dalgliesh advanced into the room. “It’s a perfect day for hunting—frost, crisp, cold. You couldn’t have ordered any better weath”—his cool blue gaze suddenly fell on Zelda and a warmth entered his eyes. “Good morning, ma’am.” A connoisseur of beautiful women, he automatically surveyed her as he strode toward her—taking in her glorious face and form, the exotic garb—particularly the tight buckskins that left nothing to the imagination. He’d never seen a woman dress like that in public. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, bowing slightly as he reached her, looking down at her with a beguiling smile. “Dalgliesh at your service.”

“Alec, allow me to introduce my cousin.” Jamie moved closer to Zelda, Dalgliesh’s interest apparent and his reputation such that female relatives required protection. “Alec Munro, may I present Griselda MacKenzie, Sir Gavin’s daughter.”

“A pleasure, sir.” Zelda smiled and put out her hand.

Grasping her fingers lightly, Alec brought them to his mouth and brushed her knuckles with his lips. For a lingering moment, he held her fingers in his warm, cupped palm before releasing her hand. “I haven’t seen you before.” His voice was velvet soft, lazy with provocation.

But his gaze wasn’t lazy; it was predatory, like an animal on the scent. “My father and I are down from Scotland,” Zelda replied, half breathless under the unmistakable lust in his eyes, the warmth of his hand still tingling on her skin; her heart was suddenly pounding.

Their eyes held for a moment—pale blue and amethyst—and a flurry of ripe, unguarded expectation shimmered in the air. Hotspur and graphic.

Alec recovered first because he wasn’t given to blind impetuosity. “You’ve been out riding, I see,” he smoothly said.

“Yes, I was just telling Lord Groveland what lovely acres he has.” Zelda, too, had regained her composure. “Have you hunted here before?”

“He has several times,” Fitz said, stepping in to diffuse what was clearly a volatile encounter. “Alec has a hunting box in the neighborhood. Come, both of you, please have a seat. I’ll see to the brandies and coffee.”

“There
you are, Alec!” a female voice vexatiously exclaimed, the high, sharp cry shattering the faint hush of carnal ambivalence. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere!”

Five pairs of eyes swivelled toward the open doorway. A fashionably gowned, diminutive blonde woman dressed in crimson cashmere stood dwarfed by the lofty door frame, her frown marked. “Christopher was wondering when you were coming back?”

“I’ll be up in ten minutes.”

“Would you like coffee, Violetta?” Fitz politely inquired. He couldn’t very well not ask. Although her husband offered her no welcome.

“No thank you. I have to go back and calm dear Christopher.” Lady Dalgliesh’s smile held a hint of melancholy. “He’s such a high-strung little boy. You won’t make him wait long, will you, Alec?”

“No.” Soft and dismissive.

“You shouldn’t have run off like that,” she scolded, either not noticing her husband’s dismissal or not caring. “Chris was upset to find you gone when he woke. But I’ll do my best to console him until you return.”

The earl’s jaw clenched. “Mrs. Creighton is more than capable of consoling him.”

“Really, Alec,” Lady Dalgliesh said with a sniff of disapproval. “I don’t know why you insist on that woman. She’s so common.”

“Chris likes her. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” the earl said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

The small woman hesitated fractionally, then with a little toss of her blonde curls, she crisply said, “Very well, don’t be late,” and flounced off.

Dalgliesh exhaled quietly before turning to the others. “Please forgive the drama. Violetta always enjoys making a scene. A double brandy for me, Fitz. No coffee.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Fitz calmly said. “Please, everyone, sit. One double brandy coming up. How about you, Zelda?”

“A single, please, with coffee.” She took the chair Jamie offered her.

Once everyone was seated and their drinks were in hand, the talk turned to hunting, the discussion focused initially on Fitz’s hunting pack. Ten generations of Moncktons had succeeded in breeding the fastest pack of hounds in England with the nose, voice, and stamina to handle the coverts and bogs natural to the area. Yorkshire was the most sporting part of Her Majesty’s dominions, the county where fox hunting first had been established.