Too Wicked to Marry (9 page)

Even from a great distance, the man's stalking stride was unmistakable. There was the dark shine of a raven's wing as sunlight touched his windblown hair. The breath went out of her body at the sight of him, and she saw bright, brilliant, exploding stars. The joy was so sharp it hurt, and very nearly drove her to her knees. Good God, he was there! It was Martin! He'd come for her! The words sang in her head and burst from Harriet's wounded soul. Delight made her dizzy and giddy, and for an instant she knew she could fly. She could at least run.

Harriet was halfway down the hill, arms outstretched with yearning, before the true horror of the moment washed over her in an ice-cold tidal wave. What sort of fantasy world had she let herself get lost in, to feel such undeserved pleasure at a mere distant glimpse of that wide-shouldered, long-legged form? Martin Kestrel was the last person in the world she wanted to see! It would kill her to see him, to speak to him, knowing she could never—

She could still run. And hide.

Harriet turned around and scampered back to the shelter of the ruins on the hilltop as fast as her heavy skirts would let her.

"Abigail! Wait!"

Martin's shout scattered the sheep. The herdsman called out angrily as Martin sprinted forward through the pasture. The dogs barked and one nipped once at his heels as he ran, but Martin was intent only on reaching his goal now that he'd laid eyes on his elusive prize. He reached the massive ring of stones and broken walls seconds after Abigail ducked into them, saw a flash of scarlet skirt and sable hair amid the weathered stones, and called out again.

"Abigail!"

Harriet flinched away from the name she'd never wanted to hear again. She'd never expected to hear that deep, imperious voice. It sent a thrill through her, surging warmth mixed with cold terror. She did not like being afraid. It did not suit her at all. Nor did she appreciate that the very sight of an unarmed man had sent her into a panic. She was a MacLeod, for God's sake! What would her family think of her cowardly reaction? The teasing would never end if any of them saw her like this. All right, she looked a fright, felt like the worst sort of fool, and was completely and thoroughly confused, but when you were afraid you faced down your fear—and that was that.

Harriet stopped in the center of the ruins, clasped her shaking hands behind her back, and turned to face her foe.

"Martin."

He halted a few feet from her, standing near the base of the broken tower. "You've led me a fine chase, my love," he said as he studied her. "Have you made up your mind yet whether you're happy to see me?"

Not an hour before, her mother had asked her if she loved this man. She had answered that she didn't know. Facing him didn't help her confusion any; seeing him only made her misery worse. Yet seeing him was—

He smiled at her and tears stung behind her eyes. Her heart hammered so hard she could barely hear herself speak. "I—I—"

Her voice shook as hard as the rest of her. Such a show of weakness would not do at all! Panic was no more an option than giving in to the impulse to throw her arms around the man, now that he stood there so brash and confident before her.

She took a deep breath and tried again. "I do indeed find myself of several minds," she admitted. "However did you find me?"

"Whyever did you run?" he countered.

"I did not run. I walked with great dignity all the way to the train station."

"You could have at least left me a note."

"I should have left my resignation, Lord Martin. I apologize for that lapse, my lord."

He shook a finger at her. "Your disappearance gave me quite a fright, my love. I even called in the constables."

"Oh, dear." Somehow it had not occurred to her that her absence would cause him any distress. She'd been too distressed by his declaration to think. She'd reacted like an animal in pain, and blindly fled to a safe den. It was so unlike her not to think things through. "I should have stayed until things were settled." she told him. "Running away is no method of settling a dilemma at all. How foolish of me."

"Well, Abigail," he said, crossing his arms. His smile softened the words. "At least we're in agreement on the foolishness of your behavior. You need to make it up to me," he added, crossing the space between them in a few steps and taking her into a swift, hard embrace.

His mouth covered hers a moment later, even as she opened it to speak. The kiss was rough and demanding, overpowering with pent-up desire. The moment he touched her, everything ceased for Harriet but primal, singeing heat that burned thought away.

The next thing she was aware of was the shiver of delight going through her as her fingers stroked the hard muscles and soft chest hair revealed by Martin's open shirt. Touching him was so, so—

Then they were on the ground, him flat on his back and her on top of him. She told herself she'd tripped him on purpose, a defensive move to break his hold on her, but she wasn't at all sure why she'd done it, or if she'd done it, and she was still wrapped tightly in Martin's embrace. His lips no longer covered hers, but that lessened her awareness of him not one whit. He was so very… hard and large and male. His skin was so warm, and his scent pervasively intoxicating.

"This is not a bit like wrestling with my brothers," she heard herself say, breathless and full of surprised wonder.

They were so close, his chuckle vibrated through both of them. "I should certainly hope not, my love."

There he was, using that word again. As though he had every right to. As if she had a right to be loved by him. She was going to have to correct his mistake, and soon. This was hardly a position in which to begin the conversation.

"Marry me," he said before she could begin. "Marry me today, my darling Abigail."

There he went with that damned name again! The name that damned her. She was up and off him in an instant. He climbed almost as quickly to his feet as she backed swiftly away.

"Good lord, girl, what's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong? Tell me." Martin held a hand out to her, but she shook her head and dodged away rather than let him touch her. Martin watched the look of haunted revulsion only deepen as she looked at him. His heart sank, and his hopes very nearly went with it. "Is it me?" he asked, voice rough with pain. "Have I ruined myself for you with my philandering? Am I truly too wicked to many?"

Harriet gasped and barely managed to bite back her instant defense of him. Martin Kestrel had just handed her a weapon she could use to drive him away. The days he'd spent looking for her had clearly put some cracks in his self-assurance. If she had any sense of self-preservation, she would boldly assert that she indeed found his sexual escapades repulsive. Only she didn't have any sense where the man was concerned; she'd had to leave him to realize how much he was a part of her very soul. She was about to hurt him, she had to, but she would not hurt him with a lie. She only prayed that she would not have to wound him with too much truth to make him go away. Martin Kestrel was a tenacious man.

"Wicked? No," she said. "You aren't the one who is wicked. You I haven't been completely truthful with you."

"Really?" he said, and smiled as he said it. "I'm shocked. Tell me what awful lie you're trying to put between us."

It annoyed her that he tried not to take the moment seriously. She lifted her head sharply and looked him in the eye. "My parents were not wed when I was born."

Though she felt no shame about it, it was the truth. As much a truth as the fact that Christopher and Lucy were adopted and Anna was a ward. They were all equally loved and respected in her parents' decidedly irregular household. However, being illegitimate was not looked upon with such leniency out in the wider world. Martin should be shocked and repulsed that a person of such ignoble birth had lived in his house, taught his daughter, dared to lift her head and speak her mind to a man infinitely above her in birth and breeding.

Instead he shrugged. "So you started out life as a bastard."

"Yes."

"How interesting." He rubbed his jaw with his thumb as glanced back down the hill, toward the manor house hidden by its surrounding trees. "That explains it."

"You are supposed to be repudiating and reviling me, Martin." When he didn't respond to this, Harriet let her curiosity get the better of her. "Explains what?"

"Your striking resemblance to both Sir Ian and his lady—?"

"Hannah," she supplied. "You noticed?" Blast! Sometimes the man was far too observant.

"You have his eyes and her coloring and lovely shape. It occurred to me as I made my way among the sheep that Sir Ian's reaction to me was wholly paternal, rather the way I fancy I would respond if some stranger came looking for Patricia. And it appears to me, my love, that your parents are quite thoroughly married."

"Well, yes,
now
, but they weren't when I was born."

"So you have been duly and legally legitimized."

"Yes, but—"

"So there is no scandal. I sympathize with your concern that I might not understand, but fear of facing me with the truth was no cause to runoff."

"It was cause enough for me," she asserted. "I am not at all the person you think I am."

"A hint of scandal and mystery always adds to a woman's appeal, my love. Trust me on that." His smile and the glint in his gray eyes took on a sensual edge that sent shivers of excitement through her.

But Harriet dared not let her own weakness lull her into a false belief that they could be together. This was not the time to allow herself to be attracted to the man's rakish charm, or tempted by the carnal pleasure his attitude promised. Yet attraction was something that simply
happened
, something intangible but very real that sang and simmered between them, and always had. She had four years of practice in controlling the longing to touch and be touched, but ever since he'd first kissed her in his London garden she'd become less and less sure of her ability to control her emotions. The passion of a few minutes ago had only strengthened the craving and weakened her will. She had to end this quickly, to sever the connection and cauterize the wounds.

She'd seen an avalanche from a safe distance once. It had come roaring down the mountain, an unstoppable storm of white sweeping all before it, destroying everything in its path. Passion could be like that. The smallest thing could trigger a maelstrom—a turn of the head, an unguarded look, an unintentional touch, a whispered word. Once unleashed passion had its way, what was left broken and devastated after its passing meant nothing to the storm.

But she could not easily make him go away; she couldn't end their association with anything less than the complete truth. She was about to unleash all the devastating passion in Martin Kestrel's fiery nature. Not for love, but for hate—and she was the one who was going to have to try to survive the tempest.

"Speaking of mystery, my love," he said, before she could bring herself to speak. "If you've been legitimized, why do you use the name Perry? Was it your mother's maiden name?"

"Gale," she told him. "My mother was a Gale."

Black, arched brows lowered over his puzzled gray eyes. "But Lady Phoebe is—"

"My great-aunt." She should not admit to anything he did not need to know, but her need for honesty with this man overrode any possible breach of security. "You traced me through her?"

He nodded. "Abigail, I don't—"

"My name is not Abigail," she cut him off, adamant and angry at hearing the hated name from his lips. Angry at herself, and at him for forcing her to this confession. "My name is Harriet MacLeod. And I'm not a bloody governess. I'm a spy!"