The Taming of a Highlander Page 15

  “We’ll be free, you see. Even though we’re married, you and I may go about our lives, pursuing our pursuits and enjoying our interests separately.”

  Her blithe, ridiculous assertions grated his temper raw. They shouldn’t. He’d never wanted to marry her in the first place. “And what are yer interests, lass?”

  Rich brown eyes glowed and sparkled in the firelight. “So many things. Theatre. Music. All manner of artistic performance, really. At the moment, I’m writing a play. Or a novel. It might be both.” She leaned closer, clutching his wrist as if to hold his attention.

  She needn’t have bothered. He couldn’t look away.

  “Perhaps you could advise me, Broderick. There is a pivotal scene with Highland cattle, and I’m certain you—”

  His temper snapped. “I havenae time for nonsense. Or have ye forgotten the wee matter of Lockhart?”

  Her sparkle dimmed. Her hand withdrew. “Of course, I … I wouldn’t wish to distract you.”

  “Focus on yer wifely duties.”

  “Yes. About that. You mentioned instructions.”

  “Aye.” Damn it, he wanted her smile again. He wanted it lighting up her eyes and warming his insides. The need clawed at him. He hated his craving. Hated it. “Ye must do as I tell ye. So ye’ll be safe.”

  Her eyes flared wide, darting frantically along his shoulders and to his hands. Berry-bright color swept from her forehead to her throat and pinkened the swells of her bosoms. “D-do you anticipate I shall be … damaged?”

  What an odd way to phrase it. “If we dinnae take precautions, aye.”

  Her throat rippled. Her breathing quickened. She kept staring at his hands.

  He set his fork beside his plate, losing his patience. “If ye’d prefer to return to yer brother’s care, lass, we can move ye back—”

  “No!” Her shoulders straightened. “I must remain here. With you.”

  “Because of Munro.”

  “M-Munro? Yes! Yes, entirely because of Munro.”

  “Ye shouldnae fear him.” He noticed her cup was empty and filled it. Reaching for the pitcher put him closer to her scent. What was it? Sweet, floral, luscious. It made him think all sorts of thoughts he shouldn’t. “If he so much as looks in yer direction again, he’ll regret it.”

  She blew out a sigh. “Have you made any progress in your search for Lockhart?”

  “Not enough,” he murmured. Then, he grew distracted by her skin, which was smooth and lightly blushing, warmed by candlelight. For some reason, the glow of her loosened his tongue. He shared what he and his brothers had discovered about Lockhart’s presence in Inverness, how they’d lost track of him and his sister.

  “I’m sorry he’s proven so elusive.” Her fingers played with the curls at her temple. “When I saw you that night … with Lockhart … it frightened me rather badly.”

  His breath froze. His ribs tightened. She meant to discuss this now?

  “I’d never seen anything so …” Her eyes lifted to meet his. They were not frightened. They were remorseful. “I didn’t know, Broderick. No one told me. All I knew was that I’d lost my way and stumbled upon you in the dark, k-killing another man.”

  He’d reassure her if he could speak. But he couldn’t.

  “What he did—I cannot … Heavens, how you must hate him.” Her hand reached for his, and he didn’t have the strength to pull away. “I will not be the weapon wielded against you. I refuse to add a single drop of suffering to what you’ve already endured.” Her smile trembled at the corners. “I know I sometimes seem a fribble. Perhaps I am. But I shall protect you, as well. With all my strength.”

  His heart felt as though it had been kicked with a hard boot. Lust warred with something deeper, painfully sharp. He forced himself to remain still. Mustn’t take hold of her. Mustn’t lay her upon the table and raise her skirts. Mustn’t kiss her until his hunger was satisfied.

  Mrs. Grant entered and began tidying the table. Kate’s hand squeezed his then withdrew into her lap.

  For the remainder of the meal, Broderick couldn’t take another bite. But his ears drank the sound of her voice describing her favorite scenes from her fanciful story about a Scot named Sir Wallace. His lungs breathed the aroma of sweet, rich skin. His gaze devoured every flicker of her lashes, every dash of her tongue across her lips.

  By meal’s end, he wondered if she’d been sent by the devil as punishment for his sins. Because even Skene’s men could not devise a greater torment than craving the wife he couldn’t have with a fire he hadn’t known was possible.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Kate had assumed he’d want to bed her straight away, but before Mrs. Grant served the dessert course, Broderick muttered something about reviewing the distillery’s accounts and fled the dining room as though his trousers were ablaze.

  She hadn’t known what to think. He’d specified he wanted her to fulfill her wifely duty, hadn’t he? He’d even specified why she must follow his instructions—a warning that produced a flare of panic low in her belly.

  Well, perhaps it wasn’t panic. She’d begun to wonder.

  Throughout dinner, he’d listened so intently, she’d occasionally lost her train of thought. How many times had she repeated her insight about Lady Macbeth’s love for her husband being both her redemption and her downfall? Twice, at least.

  Heavens, how he flustered her with that dark, flashing gaze and deep, graveled voice. How he fascinated her with the deft motions of those massive hands. In the candlelight, his scars and patch had been stark reminders of his pain, a contrast to the strength exuded in every inch of his powerful frame.

  Now, she paced from her bedchamber window to the opposite wall, pausing now and then to listen for his approach. She’d waited an hour so far. Where was he?

  Glancing down at her finest, sheerest shift and the lace-trimmed dressing gown she’d layered over it, she ran her fingers through her loosened hair and wrapped a curl around her finger. Again. And again.

  Would he prefer her naked? She nibbled her lower lip. Should she disrobe and wait for him in his bedchamber? No, she’d already gone over this dozens of times. In the past several years as she’d searched for a husband, her sisters had shared vital information about marital congress. From all she’d gathered, it was best to follow a man’s lead at the start. Later, she could adjust their sails, as it were.

  She nodded to herself. She’d done all she could do—letting her hair fall long and loose, even if the curls wanted to spring outward from her head like sheep’s wool. She’d removed her stays and all but two sheer layers of clothing. She wore no slippers, though her toes were frightfully cold. She’d cleaned her teeth and washed her face. She’d even dabbed a drop of French perfume on each earlobe. It had been a gift from Francis for her last birthday, the same scent as her favorite soap.

  Blast. She was ready. So, where was Broderick?

  Just then, out in the corridor, she heard it—a grunt, followed by a whispered curse. Then, she heard a muffled creak as the door to Broderick’s bedchamber opened and closed.

  Her heart stuttered. Pounded.

  Steady, now, she admonished herself. You are a wife. Just follow his instructions, and that will be that. She swallowed. Rushed to the bedside table, where she’d placed her tea. Gulped—cold. The cup rattled as she set it back in its saucer, which clinked against something glass. It was the brown vial Mrs. MacBean had given her that morning.

  Surely it wouldn’t be necessary. She nibbled her lip and rubbed her damp palms against her thighs. Surely he wouldn’t need such a remedy to perform his husbandly duty.

  She tucked the vial into the small lace pocket of her dressing gown. “Just in case,” she whispered.

  Before she could lose her nerve, she ducked into the corridor, found his door, and slipped inside. It was darker than she’d anticipated. A low fire in the hearth was the only light. “Broderick?” she queried softly, searching the room.

  A q
uiet thud sounded from the darkest corner. “Un-bluidy-believable,” he whispered before releasing what sounded like a despairing chuckle.

  She squinted. “It is you, yes? I can’t see anything without …” She lost her breath, her train of thought, and possibly her senses when, out of the dark, her husband stood and moved into the faint light of the window.

  Dear heaven and a choir of angels. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  Her back met the door. She’d never seen anything like him. The muscles were like great slabs of stone, smooth and swollen and hard. So very hard. His torso was a V, tapering to a narrow waist and centered with a dark mat of hair. She noted the scars—some long and slashing across his ribs, some short and wide in his upper arm. Two were long gouges on his shoulder. He had so many scars, they quickly faded from notice until all she could see was his magnificence. It was near blinding.

  “… are ye doin’ in here?”

  She forced herself to blink. “Hmm?”

  He was reaching for a shirt. His face was in deep shadow, but she saw a splash of white on the foot of the bed seconds before he plucked it up.

  “Oh, please,” she begged. “Don’t.”

  He stilled. For a moment, she thought he might obey her plea. But then, he drew the white linen over his head in swift, efficient motions.

  Her very soul mourned the loss.

  “Answer me, lass.”

  She couldn’t. She was in mourning. “Why would you do that? So unnecessary.”

  “Kate.”

  “You’re wearing too many garments.”

  “Bluidy hell.”

  “And there is too little light. Deuced frustrating.”

  “Why are ye here?”

  “To perform my wifely duty, as we discussed.”

  Silence. He shifted to retrieve something from the shadows.

  When she saw it was a bottle of whisky, she frowned. When he tipped it up and drank it like water, she glowered. “Are you in your cups?”

  He wiped his mouth with a thick wrist. “Not nearly enough.” Sighing, he moved through the firelight to set the uncorked bottle on the bedside table. “Look, lass. I think ye mistook my meanin’ when I spoke of wifely duties.”

  “No. I comprehended you perfectly.”

  “Obviously not. I was suggestin’ ye take over runnin’ the household.”

  She drew closer, leaning a hip against the foot of the bed and crossing her arms over her bosom. “Rubbish.”

  He retreated back into the shadows of the corner near the window. She noted he wore only one boot. It thudded a moment later.

  “Furnish the library,” he continued. “Change the cleanin’ schedules to suit yer liking. Hire a new kitchen maid who willnae panic at the sight of me. Put wee flowers in the entrance hall and wee pillows on the parlor sofa. That’s all I intended for ye to—”

  “Do not spin tales, Broderick. If you are having trouble with your stoat, then simply say so, and we shall solve the problem together.”

  She could barely see his face, but his deep silence and the air of incredulous thunder emanating from his dark corner suggested he didn’t care for her challenge.

  “I mean no insult, but plain speaking will serve us best.” She sniffed and softened her tone. “A bodily malfunction of this sort must be trying.”

  “There is nae malfunction.”

  “Come, now,” she chided, rounding the bed as he backed toward the window. “All this talk of how I am likely to be harmed by your great, towering manliness is rather silly, don’t you think?”

  “Lass, stop.”

  “And how I must follow your ‘instructions’ so as to avoid injury—”

  “That wasnae why—bluidy hell, dinnae come any closer.”

  She paid him no mind, certain now of her conclusions. “Clearly, an overcompensation. But you did not marry some ordinary milksop miss. I am a Huxley. Adversity is our fuel. Challenge us, and we only burn brighter.”

  He’d obviously suffered injuries to more than his face and chest. Had his ability to father children also been affected? A peculiar pang struck her heart. No matter. Whatever his capabilities, consummating their marriage remained crucial. She felt the necessity of it beating like a drum in her bones and skin. Pounding, throbbing, and aching.

  She inched toward him, reaching into the dark. “Broderick, you mustn’t let your manly pride prevent us from making this a proper marriage.”

  His groan was deep and agonized.

  “Darling man,” she cooed, scarcely able to make out his eye patch in the faint light. Her fingertips brushed something before he pulled away. His arm? “Let us try, hmm? I shall do whatever is necessary to … er, excite your stoat. Would you prefer me naked?”

  “Christ on the cross.”

  “The air is a bit chilly, but I shouldn’t mind too much. Perhaps I could caress you. Oh, and kissing! I understand it can be most stimulating when tongues are involved.”

  He reeled back, knocking into something and creating a loud clatter.

  “Hmm. A lantern would not go amiss. I should very much like to see you.”

  “Ye must leave,” he snarled.

  “I will not.”

  “Aye, ye will.”

  A split second before he reached for her, she realized his intention—he meant to force her from the room. She evaded his hand by ducking, sliding, and spinning past him toward his bedside table. It was a dance maneuver she’d practiced with her dear friend Clarissa many times.

  “Kate,” he growled. “I’m orderin’ ye to return to yer bedchamber.”

  “Oh?” she inquired, withdrawing the brown vial from her pocket and surreptitiously pouring its contents into his whisky bottle. “Are you making this demand as my husband?”

  “Aye. Yer husband.”

  She spun to face him. He’d remained near the window, she noticed, almost as if he feared being close to her. “To qualify as my husband, you must do your husbandly duty, I daresay.”

  “’Tis a shite idea.”

  “No. It is necessary.”

  “I mean to take hold of ye, Kate. Then I’ll be carryin’ ye out of here and puttin’ ye where ye belong.”

  “You’ll have to touch me first.”

  He groaned. Cursed. “Aye. I ken.” Then, he moved.

  Alarm surged. Blast! He was faster than he looked. With a squeak, she scrambled up onto the high bed. Her gown snagged on her toes, and the delicate hem tore. But she clambered across the width of the mattress like she was traversing deep snow. Even Broderick’s arms weren’t long enough to reach her. She stood on the far side of the bed, dizzy at the height.

  “Woman!” His growl was furiously deep. He slammed a palm onto the mattress. It shook the frame. “By God, ye’re beggin’ for trouble.”

  “Calm yourself, Broderick.” She panted, brushing her curls away from her face. “This needn’t be a battle.”

  “Ye’ve made it one.”

  “Sit down.” She used a tone she’d heard her mother and every one of her sisters use with their husbands—Annie had used it on John, too. “Let us discuss this rationally. Have a drink. It will make you feel better.”

  “I dinnae want a drink.”

  “Have one anyway.”

  His chest heaved for several seconds. His hand braced on the bedpost, squeezing until the thing creaked.

  She feared for the wood.

  Slowly, his grip eased, and he lifted the bottle, drinking long and deep.

  “There, now,” she soothed. “Better?”

  “No.”

  “Have you a lantern?”

  “Aye.”

  “Light it for me, won’t you?”

  The empty bottle scraped as he slid it onto the table. Silence lengthened while he decided whether to grant her wish. Finally, he moved to the hearth, bent and lit a lantern then set it on the mantel. “There,” he rasped. “Now, will ye leave?”

  Something in his face—for, sh
e could see him more clearly now—made her heart twist. A kind of … feverish desperation. Slowly, she stepped across the bed, hiking her skirts up to her knees and struggling to keep her balance. “Broderick,” she murmured as she reached the edge. “Might we try kissing?”

  His hands were braced on his hips, his head lowered to stare at his feet. He grunted. Shook his head. Released a deep chuckle. “The devil’s own torment. That’s what ye are.”

  “I could be more.” She swallowed, examining the massive lines of his shoulders and chest. “I could bring you comfort. Wouldn’t you like that, after all the pain you’ve endured?”

  Silence.

  “It will be easy,” she coaxed. “I shall stand here. All you must do is kiss me. You won’t even have to bend down.”

  He shuddered and refused to look at her.

  For the first time, she wondered if it was possible he didn’t want her, might not ever want her. It had happened before.

  God help her. What if she couldn’t tempt him to do his husbandly duty? Her stomach went queasy. Her palms went damp.

  “One kiss, lass.” His voice—gravel and caverns. Rough and deep.

  Her breath whooshed. Her skin tingled.

  His head came up, and that dark, beautiful eye flashed wildfire. He started toward her.

  Oh, dear. Mrs. MacBean’s formulation worked quickly, it seemed.

  With her standing on the mattress, their mouths could align easily. He stopped a whisper away. His breath smelled of golden whisky. His skin smelled of mint or pine. This close, she saw every scar: the slashes through his brows, the fainter creases along his cheekbones, the deep gouge that marred the corner of his mouth.

  Her hands floated upward as though carried by an updraft. They cupped his jaw. The rough texture of his whiskers fascinated her fingertips. She stroked him over and over. His scars and his skin. Bones that had broken and mended. Lips that were fuller than she’d realized. Firm and soft.

  Powerful hands seized her waist. For a moment, she thought he might lift her and toss her away from him. Strength and tension shook him. Shook her.