The Pride of Lions (34 page)

Suddenly Alex’s body ached and his head drummed with a vengeance. So far he had not had an opportunity to enjoy more than a cursory wash or an hour’s catnap since his arrival at Achnacarry, and the strain was finally catching up to him. A steaming hot bath. A tall glass of brandy. A soft mattress and twenty-four hours sleep … Heaven.

He sighed as he closed the door behind him, but he only progressed a few steps into the room before he drew up short again.

She was lying on the bed, curled there in a pool of tousled lace petticoats. Her hair was spread in gleaming red profusion around her shoulders, accentuating the satiny smoothness of her throat and arms. She had removed her corset, leaving only a slippery wisp of silk clinging to her breasts in a way that was far more enticing than naked flesh would have been. Her shoes
and stockings were tossed in a casual heap at the foot of the bed and her petticoats allowed to ride deliberately high above the shapely calves.

Seeing where his gaze was temporarily stalled, Lauren shifted her knee so that the petticoat was displaced further, baring more of the smooth, warm flesh.

With an effort Alex moved forward again, glancing at the night table where a partially full bottle of whisky stood.

Lauren smiled and drained the last few drops from the glass she was holding. “Shall I pour ye a wee dram? Ye look as though ye need it.”

Like a cat, she curled her legs beneath her and rose up on her knees. She poured the whisky without waiting for his answer and held it out to him, poised in the candlelight like some heathen nymph. He took the glass from her fingers, conscious of the way the silk molded to her breasts—breasts that were large enough to produce an involuntary dryness in his mouth.

“I suppose … I should ask what you are doing here, in my room, in my bed.”

She pursed her lips and her eyes feasted openly on the aggressive breadth of hard, muscular chest and shoulder. “Why, I wouldna want tae be accused o’ refusin’ yer invitation. A fine welcome home tha’ would be.”

“Invitation?”

“Mair than the one, I warrant.” She sidled closer to the edge of the bed. “Though it’s hard tae keep count when it’s yer eyes doin’ the talkin’.”

“If I gave you the wrong impression this evening, I’m sorry. You are a beautiful woman, Lauren, and I apologize for looking. But that’s all I was doing: looking.”

“Mmm.” She raised her hands to the silver and topaz brooch that held the length of tartan pinned over his shoulder. She unfastened it and let both the clasp and the wool fall to the floor.

“I am a married man,” he reminded her quietly.

“Aye, married. But why are ye here, then? In a separate
room, a separate bed? An odd way f’ae a new husban’ an’ wife tae behave, is it no’?”

Alex glanced down. Her hands had not been idle. The pearly buttons of his waistcoat had been unbound, the jabot loosened and flung to the floor. Her fingertips slid up the fine linen of his shirt and began searching for the fasteners.

“We could just talk, o’ course,” she suggested with a sigh. “If tha’s what ye’d truly rather do.”

“What I would truly rather do—” His tongue ran across his lips and his gaze fell to the voluptuous display of firm white flesh. The silk of her chemise seemed to be caught on the jutting, wine-red nipples, and he knew the smallest brush of his fingertips would free them. “What I truly want is to get some sleep. I haven’t had much in the past few days.”

Lauren purred sympathetically and pressed even closer, using his distraction to peel away the heavy velvet of his coat and waistcoat. She had worked his shirt open to a point below his ribs, and she ran her hands over his bare flesh, her fingers combing through the thick black hairs, her lips parted as if the sensation was too much to bear.

The sultry amber eyes lifted slowly to his, and Alex felt himself being drawn into the smoldering pools of green and gold and hazel. It would, he reasoned, be one way to prove that Catherine Ashbrooke meant nothing to him. A way to prove it was only the tension and excitement of returning home that had stirred his blood, not the thought of sinking himself into all that soft white flesh, of hearing her cry out his name, of seeing her passion shimmer to life in the depths of the dark violet eyes.

Lauren leaned forward and closed her mouth around the dusky island of his nipple, tracing warm, wet circles over the sensitive flesh. Alex grasped her by the shoulders, his fingers tightening reflexively as his body fought the undeniable rush of erotic pleasure.

“I don’t think you want to be doing this,” he advised, his voice rough and low.

“I ken exactly what I want, Alasdair. What you want too.” She groaned deep in her throat and dragged his mouth down to meet hers. Her body pressed urgently against him, breasts, belly, and thighs all joining in the conspiracy to undermine him. There was no hesitation, no modest apprehension as her tongue darted between his lips, taking possession of his mouth with a wanton assertiveness that brought Alex’s senses crashing back down around him.

He broke free and thrust her away to arm’s length. The glazed tiger eyes looked mildly startled as she stared up at him, her mouth slack and wet.

“What’s wrong?” she asked on a gasp. “Why have ye stopped?”

“It isn’t difficult to stop something that hasn’t started.”

Her hands, quick and deft as hummingbird wings, darted beneath the pleated folds of his kilt. “Has it no’?”

“Lauren—” He grasped her wrists and eased her hands gently away. “I am extremely tired. I am also slightly drunk, or I would have turned you over my knee and sent you packing ten minutes ago.”

“But ye didna,” she said with a sly smile. “An’ ye canna tell me ye have a warmer bed tae lie in this night. Ye look tae me like a man in need, Alasdair.
I
need too. I need a real man, one who can take me away from this place. Ye dinna belong here, Alasdair, an’ neither dae I. Ye’ll never be happy, no’ wi’ this ruin o’ a castle, no’ wi’ yer simperin’, yellow-haired
Sassenach
wife.”

“I think I’ve heard about enough—”

“D’ye know what they dae f’ae a night’s pleasure here, Alasdair? They sit around the fire each an’ every night an’ talk of auld times, o’ kings long forgotten an’ glories long deid. They live in the past, all o’ them. They spoke tonight o’ bluid an’ courage like as if the glens were full o’ both—but they’re no’! The kirk is full o’ raggedy crofters an’ bandy-legged shepherds who’ve never seen a
broadsword, much less raised one in battle. Run wi’ me, Alasdair, afore it’s too late. Take me away from here!” Her eyes sparkled and her hands wrested free of his grip to stroke brazenly between his thighs. “Ye’ll no’ regret it, I promise ye.”

Alex did not answer. Instead, he walked away from the bed and crossed to the low dressing table. He snatched up a couple of fresh cigars and closed them in his fist as he walked back to the bed.

“You found your way here without any difficulty. I assume you can find your way out again?”

Lauren sat frozen on the rumpled sheets, her eyes narrowing as she watched him pick up the whisky bottle and stalk toward the door. The shock stained her cheeks red and brought her hands up to sit angrily on her waist.

“Where de ye think ye’re goin’? Tae yer sweet an’ lovin’ wife? Ye think ye’ll get what ye need there?”

Alex paused at the door and glared back over his shoulder. “What I need is a long, hot bath, and what I want is for you to be gone when I get back. If you’re not, I can promise you, I won’t be quite so polite ejecting you.”

Lauren’s hands curled into fists. “Bastard! There’s no man alive ever turned me out o’ his bed!”

“Then I’m glad I could provide you with a new experience.” His sarcasm was rewarded by the smashing of glass as she threw her empty whisky tumbler across the room. It crashed against the wall beside his head and a tiny fragment sliced through his wrist, leaving a thin thread of blood in its wake.

“And a good night to you too,” he murmured, pulling the door closed behind him.

The faint sound of breaking glass drew Catherine’s attention away from the window, where, seated on the cold stone bench, she had been staring vacantly out at the night vista, not really seeing the loch or the mountains or the swollen, glistening beauty of the Highland moon.

Sighing, she began to pull her hair out of its stiff coils, dropping the steel pins beside her, uncaring as to whether they landed on the seat or the floor. When her hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders, she stood and reached around for the laces that held her bodice bound rigidly in place, but her movements were so sorely restricted that after a few feeble tugs she had to rest her arms and wait for the blood to flow into her fingers again.

On the third attempt—one away from tearfully executing her threat to launch herself through the window—she succeeded in slipping the last knot and unwrapping the layer of shiny green silk. Another minor struggle with more laces and the relief was palpable as the pressure of the whalebone corset and stomacher was released from around her ribs. She groaned aloud as she flung the wretched garment aside, and she spent several blissful moments massaging her flesh and relishing the ability to breathe deeply again.

Leaving a trail of cast-off petticoats, wire panniers, chemise, stockings, and slippers, she groped through the rack of borrowed garments in the armoire until she found a clean nightdress. The giddy effects of the wine had abated and her temples throbbed. She sought out the china basin to splash some cool water on her face and found both the bowl and pitcher empty.

“Oh, Deirdre …” Her shoulders slumped wearily and her lips formed around a silent oath.

She took the pitcher and padded barefoot to the door. The circular landing outside her room was dark and the door directly opposite was closed, emitting only a thin blade of light along the lower edge. Seeing a shadow cut back and forth across the light, she tiptoed noiselessly to the fireroom, not wanting to give Alexander Cameron any excuse to come to her rescue again. She was mildly surprised he had not returned to the party downstairs, surprised he had not returned to the fawning attentions of Lauren Cameron. There had been no mistaking the seductive invitation in the large amber eyes, no
mistaking his interest, either, each time he drew a breath and pondered the enticing depths of the virago’s cleavage.

“What do I care?” she asked herself irritably. “They deserve each other.”

She pushed the door to the fireroom carefully open and shut it behind her again, pausing to assure herself she had not been detected. She turned and was several steps into the steaming hot room before she realized her precautions had been in vain. Alexander Cameron was there, relaxing in the brass bathtub, his eyes closed and his head tilted back on the rim as he savored the clouds of steam rising around him. In one hand he nursed an almost empty glass of whisky, in the other, a fresh cigar. The huge cast-iron pots that were kept filled and suspended over the fire were sitting empty on the hearth.

Catherine dared not move, dared not breathe. The door had made no sound on its rope hinges, and her bare feet had not disturbed so much as a dust mote. But even as she hesitated, poised to fly back to safety, the ebony crescents of his lashes rose slowly, warily, the dark eyes rooting her to where she stood.

Fully expecting to see Lauren Cameron standing there armed with her bruised vanity and a more substantial reserve of weaponry, Alex was taken aback to see Catherine, scantily clad and clutching a porcelain pitcher to her bosom as if it were her heart sprung from her chest. He lowered his cigar and checked the flow of resentment that surged through his bloodstream. Two beautiful women in a highly provocative state of dishevelment presenting themselves before him in less than a ten-minute span—if he did not know better, he would swear it was a conspiracy.

“If you have come in here with the intentions of interrupting my bath, I give you fair warning of violence. I have waited the whole blessed day long for these few minutes of privacy and will relinquish them for nothing less calamitous than an earthquake or flood.” He shifted slightly,
sending more billows of steam into the air as he stuck his cigar back into his mouth and closed his eyes again. “On the other hand, if you would care to join me …”

“I
beg
your pardon?”

The whiteness of his teeth flashed in a grin as he lifted his glass. “In a drink, of course. There should be another glass around”—he waved the tumbler absently—“somewhere.”

“No,” she said on an exasperated sigh. “I do not wish to join you in a drink.”

“Mmm. You’re absolutely right. You have had quite enough already.”

Catherine gripped the pitcher closer, the temptation to throw it almost too much to resist. “I supposed you had gone back to the party.”

“The idea of a hot bath and cool sheets appealed to me more.”

“Cool sheets? I should have thought you would have taken up the offer of warmer ones, what with all the attention being lavished on you tonight.”

The dark eyes opened a sliver.

Catherine moved closer to the fire, blithely unaware that the brightness behind her rendered the cambric of her nightdress all but invisible.

Cameron groaned inwardly and closed his eyes again. “Do I detect another confrontation in the air, madam? If so, be so kind as to fetch the bottle down from the mantel.”

“I would sooner say what I have to say to you while you are still relatively sober, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, but if you want me to
hear
anything you have to say, I suggest you move away from the fire. The view from here is extremely distracting.”

Catherine glanced down. Then stepped quickly into the shadows by the hearth.

“Thank you. Now … what is it you wish to discuss so earnestly? Not my sleeping habits, I warrant.”

Catherine set the pitcher aside and clasped her hands
together. “I do not wish to
discuss
anything. I
insist
on knowing exactly when you plan to honor your word and send me home again.”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You insist, do you?”