Jack slowed Fiona into a gentle glide. She laughed again, her eyes sparkling at him. Suddenly, Jack wanted to be away from the crowd; he wanted her all to himself.
He guided Fiona toward the open terrace door, bringing their dancing to a graceful halt as a breeze stirred the sheer curtains flanking the French doors.
Fiona fanned herself energetically. “That was so enjoyable! We must dance more often.”
Jack had a sudden image of dancing with her before the fire in the master bedchamber, dancing slower and slower, their bodies pressed against each other, their lips within reach…His body raged with the need to feel her, if just for a moment.
Her gaze met his, and the fire in her eyes rose to match his. Jack’s body responded immediately. He gripped her hand and leaned toward her, toward her lush mouth, her lush—
“Jack.” Her breathless voice reminded him that they were in full view of the room.
Damn it, what did a man have to do to kiss his own wife? He took Fiona’s hand. “Come. We need fresh air,” he said, moving through the French doors to the flagstone terrace.
Jack led Fiona down the wide steps and out into the garden. His shoes sounded on the stone path, the trees above whispered, and somewhere nearby a fountain gurgled. The scents of jasmine and orchids filled the air.
It was madness, this desire for yet another taste of her. He’d thought that once she was his, he’d tire of her. Instead, his desire seemed to grow with each encounter. He wanted to taste her and explore her, discover every inch of her silky skin, taste the lines of her thighs and hips, smell the lilac of her hair, and lose himself in her heat.
“Jack, where are we going?”
He turned at a low hedgerow, the light from the house no longer illuminating the path. He heard the murmurs of other couples but saw no one on the narrow pathway.
“Jack—”
He pulled her into a private alcove made by two narrow benches. The area was shielded from anyone coming down the pathway by an effusion of shrubberies.
“What are you doing?” Fiona asked, her voice slightly breathless.
He peeled her glove from her hand and tucked it into his pocket. “I am stealing a kiss.” He traced his lips to the tip of her finger, brushing the inside of her thumb.
Her breathing was ragged, the pale moon’s glow reflected in her eyes.
“This is silly,” she said in that breathless tone that told him she was as affected as he. “You don’t have to steal a kiss from me. I am quite willing to give you one.”
“Just one?”
Her lips curved into an amused half-smile. “Did you want more?”
Something quivered through him. He didn’t know what he liked better, the innocently wanton fullness of her lips or the pure line of her cheek and chin. He wanted to trace them all with his lips, taste the freshness of her, the wildness of her passion.
He ran his hands down her back to the curve of her buttocks as their lips met. He swept his tongue along the line of her bottom lip, raking her teeth.
She moaned, her arms coming up to clasp around his neck, her body pressed hard against his. For a mad moment, he did not think. Did not care. He just tasted, took, drank from her.
And she did the same to him, pressing closer, her hips unconsciously rocking against him, her moans deep in her throat.
He paused, his heart thundering in his chest, his body rigid with desire. “We should leave, my love. While the stone bench behind your knees offers some interesting possibilities, we have a perfectly good bed awaiting us at home.”
She shivered against him, her arms tight about his neck, her voice husky and as mysterious as the moon overhead. “Jack, I don’t wish to wait.”
“That bench is not only hard, but it would scrape your tender skin. I won’t allow that to happen.”
She reluctantly dropped her arms from him and eyed the bench with distaste. “Someone should put cushions on it.”
“I agree. Unfortunately, they do not have our understanding of how things should be in a garden.”
One of the benefits of being married, he realized, was that one could take one’s leisure. He used to think that the urgency of a clandestine relationship was all the piquancy he needed. Now he saw that much of the excitement had been in the clandestine nature and not the relationship itself, which was why they’d swiftly palled.
Anyone who thought being married to one woman would be boring did not know a woman with Fiona’s rich passion. The more he drank of her, the thirstier he became.
Jack bent and pressed a kiss to Fiona’s brow. “Fix your hair, and we will say farewell to our host.”
She smoothed her gown. “Oh, blast. There’s a tear in my flounce. I shall have to stop and pin it, or I might trip.”
He nuzzled her cheek. “Just be swift. I cannot wait too long.”
Jack escorted Fiona inside. “I shall be right here when you return.” He kissed her hand, then released her.
“Thank you. I shall hurry.” She had a gratifying last glimpse of him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes glimmering with unfulfilled passion as he watched her go.
Fiona hurried to the chambers where two maids helped with such emergencies as torn flounces and unpinned hair. One of them quickly set Fiona’s hem to rights, and she was soon headed back to the ballroom.
A soft voice came from behind her. “If it isn’t the lovely little bride. I’ve been looking for you.”
Fiona turned around.
Standing in the hallway behind her was Lucinda Featherington.
Chapter Thirteen
They say the MacLean curse will be broken when every member of a generation performs a deed of great good. Can ye imagine that? All seven of ye and yer brothers, out lookin’ fer dragons to fight and maidens to save? What a bonny adventure life would be then!
OLDWOMANNORA OFLOCHLOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
Fiona felt the urge to wrap her fingers around Lucinda’s neck and squeeze.
She lofted her chin in the air and said as calmly as she could manage, “Lady Featherington. How do you do?”
“Ah, Fiona MacLean,” the woman purred the name.
Fiona’s jaw tightened. “Actually, it’s Lady Kincaid.”
She wished the woman were not so breathtakingly beautiful, with her thickly lashed eyes and outrageous figure. This was exactly the type of woman one could imagine with Jack. They must have turned heads every time they were together, the woman so blond and Jack with his auburn hair and dark blue eyes.
“Welllll…” The woman walked slowly around Fiona, looking her up and down. “So you are the lucky woman who managed to snare Black Jack Kincaid. I can’t imagine Jack getting married.” The woman’s gaze narrowed. “And here I thought he would only go to the altar kicking and screaming. Or perhaps…unconscious?”
Blast it, why had Jack told this wretch how they’d wed? She imagined Lucinda’s shocked expression. Or worse, perhaps she’d laughed. Laughed at Fiona’s desperateness. Laughed that Jack had been caught.
“Really,Lady Kincaid—” The woman made a mockery of the words, her smile as false as she was. “But somehow, you don’tlook like a Lady Kincaid.” As her eyes dropped over Fiona’s form, Fiona suddenly felt…fat. Fat and dumpy and just plain unattractive.
Which was patently untrue. She might be a bit plumper than she should have been, but that did not make her fat. Furthermore, Jack seemed to like her well enough.
His reaction to her in the garden just ten minutes ago was proof of that. Though she wasn’t fool enough to think he wouldn’t have the same reaction with another woman, it was reassuring to remember the heat of his hands, the quickness of his breath as he caressed her.
“Poor Jack! He was quite humiliated by the whole ordeal.” Lucinda leaned against a marble-topped table that held a flower vase. “Jack is pained that he has to spend so much time with you.”
“Oh?” Fiona said sweetly. “He certainly seems enthusiastic in
his…enjoyment…when we are private.”
“You don’t know how close Jack and I are,” Lucinda hissed. “If you had not pulled this trick on him, he would have marriedme by now.”
Fiona lifted a polite brow. “What a shock that would have been forLord Featherington.”
Lucinda curled her lip. “I cannot believe a little mouse like you thought to capture a man like Jack Kincaid. He needs far more than you have to offer. He needs a real woman, someone who understands his wants and needs. Someone like me.”
Fiona’s nails bit into her palms and a faint rumble of thunder arose from outside. The broad doors rattled against a sudden onslaught of wind.
“It must be difficult for you to know you won your husband only through force and deception,” Lucinda said in a falsely solicitous voice. “That you literally dragged the poor man to the altar. I don’t know how I would hold my head up if it were me.”
Fiona pasted a fake smile on her face. “How amusing to hear you speak of deception. At leastJack has a wife he can trust. That’s more than your husband can claim.” She turned to leave, her entire body rigid with anger.
Lucinda stepped in front of her, blocking her way.
“Move,” Fiona bit out.
“I am not through speaking to you,” Lucinda said, her eyes flashing angrily.
“You will movenow ,” Fiona said.
“Nobody tells me what to do.” Contempt roiled through Lucinda’s voice. “Especially a country bumpkin like you.”
Lightning crackled outside as fury bubbled through Fiona’s veins. She picked up the flower vase and removed the flowers. Lucinda shrieked as the water hit her full in the face.
Lucinda gasped, her hair hanging in clumps about her head, kohl streaking down her face. “You—you—I can’t believe you—”
Fiona leaned forward. “Do not attempt to spread your poison to me or mine. I am a MacLean, and the MacLeans protect what is theirs. The next time I ask you to move out of my way, I suggest you do so.”
The door to the hallway opened, and two gentlemen appeared, talking animatedly about the merits of snuff over cigars.
They stopped dead in their tracks upon seeing Lucinda standing sopping in a puddle in the middle of the hall. Their startled gazes fell on Fiona. Smiling stiffly, she replaced the vase on the marble table and calmly began arranging the flowers.
“Good God! Lady Featherington! What happened?” The taller man hurried forward.
He had left the door open, and now several other people were peering out at them as well.
Fiona dipped a curtsey to Lucinda. “Good evening, Lady Featherington. If you wish to find the repairing chamber, it is down the hall to your left.”
“Oh! You—you—” Lucinda’s voice cracked.
Other people crowded into the hallway. A number of men looked upset, even angered, but every woman within sight had a smile on her face.
Fiona lifted her skirts and stepped over the puddle. “Excuse me. Jack is waiting.”
Lucinda sent Fiona a look of such venom that the gentleman hovering nearby took a hasty step back. “You will regret this.”
“Try your best,” Fiona said coldly. “I shall be ready and waiting.”
She found Jack by the refreshment table. He made his excuses to the gentleman he’d been speaking with, and then escorted her to the main hall. A crowd at the other end obscured Lucinda from view.
“I wonder what that’s about?” Jack asked as they gathered their cloaks.
“I believe a cat had a mishap with a vase of water.”
They stepped outside to find the wind gusting, lightning flashing overhead, and the telltale scent of lilacs.
Jack looked up at the sky, his expression suspicious. “Fiona?”
“Gregor must be about,” she said smoothly.
“I’ve never smelled lilac during one of his storms.”
“Really? How odd.” She was glad to see the carriage rumbling up.
Jack didn’t look convinced, but soon they were on their way home, rain beginning to spatter before they reached the end of the street.
Jack looked up at the carriage roof. “Are you certain everything is well?”
“Positive. I’ve never felt more invigorated in all my life.”
He frowned. “Invigorated? That’s an odd choice of words.”
She smiled. “I am glad we’re going home.” She slid across the seat until her thigh pressed against his.
Though his expression was difficult to see in the flickering light, Fiona could feel the change in the air. Emboldened, she placed her hand on his knee, trailing her fingers up his thigh, then down.
Jack’s hand abruptly caught hers, and he pulled it toward him, pressing it between his legs. Her eyes widened at the bulge beneath her fingers. “Oh, my! I can see you’re glad we’re going home, too.”
Jack’s eyes darkened, and he swept her into a passionate embrace that lasted until the coach reached Kincaid House. Fiona was hard-pressed to get her gown set to rights before the footman opened the door.
Once they alighted, Jack hurried her inside and up the stairs, his hands moving over her beneath the cover of her cloak in a way that left her breathless and panting.
Hours later, Fiona was snuggled against him as he slept, his broad chest rising and falling, his skin still warm from their exertions.
She sighed contentedly. Let Lucinda Featherington smirk. Let Alan Campbell insinuate all he wished. She would not allow anyone to come between her and Jack. They might not have love, but they had trust and an undeniable passion that made their lovemaking astonishing and memorable.
Fiona closed her eyes, Jack’s warmth and closeness lulling her to sleep. For now, that had to be enough.
Chapter Fourteen
The White Witch thought to tame the arrogant MacLeans with her curse, and at first she was right. They nearly destroyed themselves. But she did not count on the MacLean gift fer stubbornness. They never quit, do the MacLeans. Not in love, and never in war.
OLDWOMANNORA OFLOCHLOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
Late the next morning, Fiona carried her sewing basket into the sitting room. After a leisurely breakfast, Jack had announced that he was going out, and she’d felt some trepidation. She had no doubt that her confrontation with Lucinda Featherington would be on everyone’s lips that day.
She moved a chair near the window to take advantage of the light, then pulled out a small piece of lace and began to work.
Time passed, and when she looked up, the sun was high overhead. Fiona glanced at the clock over the mantel. Heavens, it was growing late. Gregor and Dougal had sent word that they’d like to ride in the park with her, and it would be nice to spend some time with her brothers. Now that Callum was gone, she wished she’d spent more time with him.
At the thought of Callum, she smiled wistfully. He would have loved London. He’d always wanted to visit.
A wave of sadness washed over her, but she resolutely focused on the little muslin and lace bonnet she was working on, regarding it with a critical eye.
“It’s beautiful.”
She started, turning to find Jack leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in riding clothes, his coat smooth over his broad shoulders, his buff breeches tucked into Hessians that had been polished until they gleamed.
Fiona searched his expression to see if he had heard about her run-in with Lucinda, but his face revealed nothing. “I didn’t hear the front door,” she said.
He pushed himself from the doorframe and walked into the room. “That’s because I came in through the back, from the stables.”
“Ah.” She put the bonnet back into her sewing basket, feeling a little self-conscious.
He pulled a chair up across from hers, then sat, one leg over the chair arm. “Fiona, I must ask you a question.”
She became very busy untangling a knot of thread she found in her basket. “Oh?”
“Yes.
I heard a most interesting bit of gossip.”
Blast it.She kept her head over the tangled threads.
“Fiona, did you forget to tell me something last night?”
“Forget? No, I don’t think so.” She dipped her head and began digging through her sewing basket. She needed…blue. Yes, blue thread.Now. “Oh, dear! I have completely run out of blue thread.” She jumped to her feet. “I shall send the maid to the market to fetch some.”
“Fiona.”
She caught Jack’s firm gaze, sighed, and sat down again. “I suppose I shall just work on the initials on the hem. I have a good bit of yellow thread—”