Julia London - [Scandalous 02] (18 page)

H
er father’s study was filled with stacks of papers and books and estate ledgers even older than Charlotte, and perhaps older than the Kincades, by the look of them. Lizzie had to think hard about where the document might be. She strained to see by the light of a single candle.

Jack followed her about, leaning over her shoulder, his hand brushing hers, his shoulder pressed against hers, making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. As Lizzie searched through stacks of papers, he began to complain of the cold. “It is ridiculous to be looking for something when one cannot feel the tips of one’s fingers,” he groused. “And by the light of a single candle! You will ruin your eyes, lass. We need light and warmth.”

Handfasting notwithstanding, Jack had a tendency to be imperious. “I’ve told you, we canna afford either,” she reminded him. “There’s no’ enough peat to warm the entire house, and candles are a precious commodity in the winter while the bees are dormant.”

“You can spare one block of peat,” he insisted.

“We can
no’
.”

“Where is it, where is the peat? I’ll no’ have you freezing unto death.”

“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Lizzie exclaimed impatiently. “We canna spare the peat!”

“
Mi Diah,
” Jack muttered under his breath, and then something else about stubborn women she didn’t quite catch. He put down the candle with a
thwap
and strode from the study, leaving the door wide open. Lizzie blinked after him, wondering if she’d just witnessed a vainglorious man in a snit.

A quarter of an hour later, Jack returned with a block of peat on his shoulder.

Lizzie clenched the papers she was holding and pointed them at the block of peat. “You donna mean to light it!”

“I do indeed.” He kicked over a footstool that stood before the cold hearth, pushed aside the fire screen with one hand, and tossed the peat inside. From his pocket he withdrew a match and a flint, and Lizzie watched in angry astonishment as he lit the block of peat. It flared, filling the small study with light, and began to burn. He stood up and turned around to face her victoriously.

“You have no…no
authority
to use that peat!” she cried.

“Aye, I think I do,” he said confidently. “I am handfasted to you, lass. That makes me king of a sort in this little castle, and I will no’ tolerate your freezing for no other reason than that you are stubborn and fearful of squandering a block of peat when it grows in abundance all over this glen!”

“You are entirely too arrogant! It hardly matters what you will tolerate, for this is
my
home, and that…that bloody handfasting is a farce. It gives you no rights here!”

“Does it no’, indeed?”

“It does no’!”

Jack smiled wickedly and withdrew two tapers from the pocket of his greatcoat. He held them up just out of
her reach, wiggling them playfully. “Then you best tell Mrs. Kincade so, for she gave them over the moment I asked.”

Two beeswax tapers! Lizzie used them sparingly, and only when Charlotte complained of the smell the cruder tallow candles emitted. She lunged for the candles, but Jack held them high above his head, just out of her reach. She gasped with outrage and tried to slap his arm down and Jack…

Jack
…

The color of his eyes changed before her very sight, turning a dark, smoky gray that snaked through her body like a trail of smoke. “Ask me,” he said huskily.

He confused her—Lizzie wasn’t certain what he meant.

“Ask me,” he said again. “Beg me. If you want it, Lizzie, you must say it.”

Say it. Say it.
“I want it,” she said softly.

“Want what?” he pressed her.

Lizzie looked at his mouth, words failing her. The moment was powerfully magnetic; Jack let the candles drop carelessly from his fingers and grabbed her up in both arms at the same moment his lips found hers. He did not ask her permission, just kissed her passionately as he tightened his embrace, crushing her to him as if he were afraid she would fly away if he let go.

Lizzie didn’t recognize herself—the thing between them that had been building since their first night in the turret, the thing that had vexed her, disturbed her, but had also given her a sense of security on a narrow ledge today, erupted. The tormenting touch of his lips on hers jolted her to the core and rattled every bone, lit every patch of her skin that he touched. Her body seemed to blend into his before her mind could register what was
happening. She clung to the warmth of his lips, to the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of his arms.

A moan rumbled deep in Jack’s chest; he crushed her to him, nipping at her lips, sucking them, licking them, his tongue swirling around hers. Lizzie forgot the cold, the candles, she forgot everything but Jack. She was emboldened by the clash of his hunger, her emotions and her desire.

Lizzie’s heart was pumping furiously, her breath snatched from her lungs. She eagerly explored his mouth with hers, his body with her hands, dragging through his hair, stroking his face, cupping his chin.

He groaned again and suddenly lifted her off her feet, setting her on her father’s desk and dipping down to the hollow of her throat, the only bit of skin he could see outside all the wool she wore. “I can feel your heart beating here,” he said roughly.

“It’s beating too fast,” she whispered fearfully, for it felt as if it would fly out of her chest.

“No, no,” he said, and took her hand, pressed it against his chest so that she could feel his heartbeat. “Your heart leads all else,” he said. “It is life, it is instinct, and it is the essence of a woman, aye? What you are feeling is quite normal. But when your heart moves, it causes mine to move. When it beats so quickly, it warms your skin, and I…” He drew a breath, brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “I must touch it. You lick your lips, and I canna resist kissing them.”

Lizzie’s lips parted; Jack kissed her tenderly.

“You close your eyes,” he said softly, “and I must wake the woman in you. You feel the desire for it between your legs, and I must satify it. I am a man, and that is what a man must do for a woman.”

Let a man be a man….
Mungo Beattie’s words came
floating back to her, and as a bit of peat flared bright and hard, Lizzie dropped her head back.

Jack ravished her neck, his mouth exploring, his hands caressing. His lips seared her skin; his tongue scorched her earlobe, and his warm breath on her neck sent a white-hot shiver of anticipation shimmering down her spine. His hand swept the swell of her hips, pushed her body into his. The hard ridge of his erection excited her and she inhaled a ragged, ravenous breath.

“
Mi Diah,
Lizzie,” Jack said, cupping her face with his hands, pressing his forehead to hers. “
Mi Diah.
Do you know the power you possess? Do you know that with a look, a sigh, you can reduce a man to such need?”

He kissed her again, slid his hands to her shoulders, then her rib cage, sliding them down to her hips. One hand slid down her leg, to her ankle, his hand beneath the hem of her gown and her cloak.

His hand on her leg.
Her skin shivered where he caressed her.
She should stop him, stop him before it was too late, before she did the very thing she would surely regret all her days, the thing that would lead her to complete ruin.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“But you can no’ stop yourself, aye? The power you hold over me excites you and makes you mad with desire. You can no’ stop because you take pity on my need to bring your release; and by your kiss, you show me mercy.”

Oh, he was a rogue, a rogue with the poetry to seduce her! But he was correct that her response to him was instinctive, flowering inside her, freed by Jack’s masterful lips, by his words and the way he said her name, the way his hands glided over her body as if she were fragile.

She encircled his neck with her arms, pressed her lips to his cheek, to his ear, his jaw, teasing him with the tip
of her tongue. She kissed him as if she’d kissed a million times before, when in fact he was the first man she’d ever truly kissed.

As his hand moved up her leg to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, she felt almost frenzied. She wanted to breathe, to laugh, to cry out and demand he stop all at once. He stroked her thigh, kissed her face and neck, but when his fingers brushed the apex of her legs, Lizzie gasped at the sensation.

“You must allow me this,” he said breathlessly and stroked her again, the sensation of it running through her like a river. “
Leannan,
have mercy. Allow me this,” he whispered, and sank his fingers into her folds and began to stroke her.

It was astounding and searing. She fought for breath, clinging to his shoulders. Jack was transporting her away from Thorntree, away from the hardship of her life, from Carson, from debt, from everything but him. She could feel the pleasure building in her, the damp warmth. He anchored her with one arm around her waist as his strokes grew fevered. His dark eyes were intent on hers as he watched her succumb to his touch.

“Jack,”
she said, her voice rough and hoarse and strange to her own ears.

He whispered something, words she couldn’t grasp as he moved his hand boldly and intimately between her legs until her body shattered with physical pleasure. Over and over again she felt the waves of it spilling over her, and as she tried to find her bearings, she was certain she heard him say,
“For you…”

When at last she could breathe, Jack slowly removed his hand from beneath her skirt. He was as breathless as she. He pulled her hands from his neck and kissed them both.

Blood was pumping through her veins again, and Lizzie’s senses slowly swam to the surface. She was captivated, entranced by what had just happened to her, but she was also mortified by her behavior. How could she have allowed it to happen? “Jack—”

“No,” he said, and pressed his palm against her cheek. “Donna say a word, lass. Donna deny what you are feeling.”

She did not deny that she was feeling elation. Adoration. And shock at her headlong fall from virtue without so much as a whimper of protest. Lizzie did not speak, for if she did, she feared she would ask for more, far more than Jack could or should give her.

She looked away and pressed the rumpled decree that she still held in her hand against Jack’s chest.

He covered her hand with his. Lizzie slid her hand out from beneath it, leaving the decree pinned against his chest, and looked at him from the corner of her eye.

Jack offered his free hand to her and helped her off her father’s desk.

“I’ll have a look,” he said, indicating the decree, watching her closely. But that was all he said.
I’ll have a look.
There were no declarations of esteem, no smiles. “I’ll work here, if you donna mind.”

She was more than happy to let him do so—she had the urge to flee, to think. But as she walked out of her father’s study, there was one thing Lizzie was entirely certain of—Jack might regret what had just happened, but he had seen the heavens shimmer a little too.

She walked away without looking back, her arms folded tightly across her, her curls, having come out of the ribbon, bouncing around her shoulders. An exquisite warmth still tingled through her and the feel of his hands on her body still lingered.

So did the very real fear that she was in serious trouble because of it, that she’d made a horrible, irrevocable mistake.

If she’d looked back, she might have seen Jack sink heavily onto a chair, grasp his head in his hands, and stare dumbly at the decree, for his heart was still divining, still seeking her, and that had sent him into a vortex of discomfiture.

I
n the sitting room, Jack fought the urge to slip back through the door into Lizzie’s bedroom and finish what he’d started. Heaven knew his body was desperate for him to do so. But as he stood at the door, one hand on the knob, he knew he could not take her virtue, the only thing she had left to her.

He couldn’t do that to himself for that matter. He’d have a difficult time leaving her if he did, and he would eventually leave. He could not remain here. Lizzie could not come with him, not with a sister who needed her, and London was impossible for Charlotte. It would never work.

Jack removed his hand from the doorknob and moved away.

He crept out the next morning, stepping over a sleeping Dougal. He had his horse saddled before dawn and spent the better part of an hour waiting for the day’s light to show itself.

He was feeling uncommonly restive, his emotions and actions increasingly unmanageable. He’d told himself after the first kiss in her bedroom that he was a bloody fool. But after last night…

After last night he felt his head and his heart engaged in some internal war. He couldn’t sleep for it, and had
decided, somewhere in those predawn hours, that he should find something to occupy his hands and his thoughts other than Lizzie.

He’d toyed with the idea of riding on, leaving the handfasting behind. But he obviously didn’t like the idea of encountering bounty hunters, who, if Dougal’s brother Donald could be believed, were nearing Glenalmond. But, more important, Jack didn’t like the idea of leaving Lizzie with Carson’s scheme. He didn’t trust that man, and believed Carson had an evil streak. He was afraid what might happen to Lizzie if he didn’t discover Carson’s scheme first.

Jack knew the answer was in the hills north of Thorntree. He just had to find it. When the sun at last began to pinken the day, Jack set off to find the piece of slate for which he’d paid handsomely, and he intended to spend the better part of the day on the roof. Let Lizzie walk about the house with her hair down around her shoulders and her blue eyes glittering with the happy occupation of housework.

Jack found the slate easily enough; it was still beside the road where it had fallen. He also found the forest path, and leaving his horse behind, he walked up again.

Three quarters of an hour later, Jack returned to where he’d tethered the mare, lashed the slate on the horse’s rump, and set off in the direction of Thorntree. He’d found nothing when he’d gone farther up the hill. Where the men had disappeared to yesterday was an even bigger mystery today.

Fortunately, his ploy of sending Dougal along to ask about tar last evening had worked very well—Dougal and Kincade met him in the barn with a block of peat and a kettle. The ash from the peat would make the tar.

Dougal was quite agitated. “Ye’re no’ to go off without me, milord,” he said sternly.

“Aye. I apologize, Dougal,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Dougal frowned. He clearly expected an argument, and when he didn’t have one from Jack, he gestured to the contents of the kettle and said cheerfully, “Far sight from yer normal occupation, aye, milord?”

“Mmm,” Jack said.

Dougal scratched his belly. “I fancy ye donna see the inside of a barn often, aye?”

“Rarely.”

“But have ye seen inside the king’s barns?” Mr. Kincade asked, peering up at him. “What’s it got, bits of ermine and mink for the horses to lay on?”

Dougal laughed, but Kincade’s expression never changed.

“No ermine or mink,” Jack said. “I’ve seen only one royal stable, mind you, and it didn’t seem very different from most, other than it was rather large.”

“Oh?” Dougal said, his eyes lighting with the hope of another tale. “The king rides, does he?”

Jack told them a little tale about hunting with the king. There was nothing remarkable about the story; it was really rather lackluster. But Dougal and Kincade were so enthralled with the image of the king hunting, particularly having heard from Jack that the prince was not an avid hunter, that Jack embellished the tale a wee bit for their benefit. In his version, the king brought down a stag instead of riding back to Balmoral empty-handed.

When the tar was of the thickness and texture Kincade deemed appropriate, Jack climbed up the ladder. It was quite strenuous, he discovered quickly. His shoulders
and back burned with the repetition of the work, but Jack ignored it. This was something he could do, and would keep him away from Lizzie. With Dougal’s assistance, he moved methodically across the roof, patching holes.

After working a solid two hours, Jack sent Dougal in search of Kincade and more tar. He sat on the roof for a bit, admiring the view of the glen from his perch.

He’d forgotten how beautiful Scotland was. There was really no place quite like it. He felt drawn to the hills and the people in a way he’d never been drawn to London. Even his distaste for Lambourne Castle was a result of the memories there, not for the land itself. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun until a voice lifted him from his rumination.

His breath caught at the sight of Lizzie walking up from the hothouse, her hair around her shoulders. She was singing softly to herself, an old Highland tune he recognized from his youth. She wore a plain blue muslin gown, the arisaidh wrapped loosely around her arms, apparently unaware that the tails of it were dragging the ground behind her. On her arm she carried a basket filled with what looked like foxglove.

She suddenly paused and looked up, directly at him.

Jack raised his hand in greeting.

Lizzie shielded her eyes from the sun and took several steps forward.
“Jack?”

“Good morning!” he called.

She hurried toward the house, disappearing from his view.

A moment later her curly auburn head popped up at the top of the ladder. “What are you doing up here?” she exclaimed.

“Patching your roof, which it desperately needs. You should no’ be on the ladder, lass. You could very well fall
and break your neck. Go down, now,” he said, gesturing for her to go down.

But Lizzie wasn’t listening to him. She glanced around, noticed the freshly patched spots on the roof. “Did Dougal do this?” she asked, her voice full of confusion.

“Dougal?”
he responded indignantly.

“Newton, then?”

“I beg your pardon, but I am perfectly capable of patching a roof!”

“Are you?” she asked, peering at him curiously. “I would no’ have thought it.”

Jack sighed, exasperated. “Tea and crumpets again?”

“Well…now that you mention it,” she said with a winsome smile. “But you need no’ patch our roof, Jack.”

“
Leannan,
you are in dire need a new roof altogether. Frankly, all of Thorntree is in need of repair.”

“Aye, I am aware,” she said with a sigh. She glanced around the roof, then turned to him with a smile so sunny that he felt a little weak for it. “How shall I ever thank you?”

He could think of a way or two, but said,
“Ach,”
and flicked his wrist.

“It is
quite
something, all this work, for a man who is unaccustomed to…well, to working,” she said gingerly.

“Might you say it in a way that does no’ make me seem such a wastrel?”

“Thank you,” she said, still beaming. “And before the spring rains! Charlotte will be so pleased no’ to worry over leaks.”

“Ho, there, milord!” Dougal called from below. “More tar!”

“I’ll be down straightaway, Mr. Dougal!” Lizzie called down, then looked at Jack. “I am learning,” she said with
a smile as she started down, “that you are no’ as underfoot as I’d feared.”

He wished she wouldn’t smile. At least not
that
particular smile, the one punctuated by pretty dimples on her face, for it warmed him like a good wine. In all honesty, he was mortally afraid of what he might do for the favor of that smile. “Your flattery is obvious and will earn you naugh’,” he said with a smile. “Mind that you have a care going down.”

She waved her fingers at him, and just before her head dipped below the eaves, Jack waved his fingers at her, already wishing she’d come back.

He didn’t see Lizzie again that afternoon, not until he’d finished the last hole and stood up, straddling the roof’s ridge, to stretch his aching back. The sound of an approaching horseman reached him and Jack looked up the road toward Castle Beal. The rider was moving far too fast on the pitted road. He assumed it was Carson or one of his henchmen, come to ensure his stranglehold on Thorntree and renew his threats to Jack of hanging and ruin. But as the rider neared, Jack could see it was not Carson.

Bounty hunter, he thought.

A feminine cry of delight just below startled him. Lizzie ran out onto the drive and up to the iron gate, clinging to the bars, craning to see around the posts.

The rider came to a hard stop outside the gates, and the man threw himself off the horse and strode toward her. He was a tall, well-built man. He had golden brown hair, and clothes that suggested he had some means.

As he neared the gate, Lizzie flung it open, and while Jack stood on the roof feeling like an arse, Lizzie ran to that man, threw her arms around him, and hugged him tightly. They exchanged words that Jack could not make
out, the man kissed Lizzie’s forehead, and then, with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, they hurried to the house, disappearing from his view again.

A strange weight suddenly descended on him and Jack sat heavily on the roof, drew his knees up, and planted his arms on them, staring out into blue sky. It was ridiculous that he should feel so cross of a sudden, but he did, monstrously so.

Lizzie’s knight had arrived.