The Laird Who Loved Me

  Dervishton was now standing by Lady Kinloss, though he gazed at Caitlyn with a hungry look in his eyes. His expression was so obvious that Lady Kinloss couldn’t help but glance between him and Caitlyn, obviously dying to know more.

  Scowling, Alexander turned his attention back to Caitlyn, who now sat with her hands fisted on her knees. He had to stifle a grin. While Caitlyn might know her Arthurian history, he knew the people at the house party and had used that knowledge to his benefit. She hadn’t known how fanatical the duke was about his snuffbox and, since he could barely see his own hand when it was directly in front of his face, how he kept his treasure all the closer. The old man was a formidable guard for the small gold trinket.

  Georgiana sniffed. “Miss Hurst would do well to watch herself. There are times when Roxburge can be quite out of line.”

  Alexander gave a short laugh. “I would hardly call Roxburge dangerous.”

  “Oh, but he can be,” Georgiana murmured, watching her husband squint at Caitlyn. “He is a lecherous old man.”

  “He can barely see,” Alexander scoffed.

  “Which is why none of the maids are safe, be they old or young, pretty or homely.”

  Suddenly the old duke’s expression seemed a bit more leering and less pitiful.

  As Alexander watched, the duke leaned forward and— “Damn it, he is looking down her gown!”

  Georgiana nodded. “He is fascinated with breasts.”

  “He can barely see!”

  “Which is why he has to lean so very, very close.” Georgiana gave a witchy smile. “I’ve warned him time and again that if he doesn’t have a care, he’ll fall in.”

  Alexander took a step forward, but Georgiana grasped his arm, all humor gone from her face. “What are you going to do? He does it to every woman. Besides”—Georgiana sent a hard glance at Caitlyn— “as out of line as Roxburge can be, I daresay our little princess can handle herself.”

  Indeed, Caitlyn had just said something to Roxburge that had the old man turning red and blustering noisily. From the way Caitlyn’s arms were crossed over her chest, she was evidently far from pleased.

  “See?” Georgiana said smoothly. “I knew the girl could handle the old baggage. Considering her position in life, I daresay she’s had to deal with worse.”

  Alexander frowned. He’d never considered that before, but Georgiana was right—Caitlyn wasn’t as well protected as a young lady whose father commanded a title and a fortune, which was why he’d had such access to her in London. He hated to think that a more unscrupulous man had such an opportunity.

  Although, according to her, he’d been unscrupulous enough. He scowled, not liking the thought. He’d never taken advantage of any woman and it was irritating that Caitlyn seemed to think he’d done just that. She’d welcomed his advances, had encouraged their improprieties just as much as he had.

  But—had she simply been more of an innocent than he’d thought? Perhaps, as he was older and more knowledgeable, more of the responsibility for their relationship should have rested with him?

  An odd weight sat upon his chest. Damn it, that was not how their flirtation had gone. Georgiana’s comments were clouding his memory.

  He watched as Caitlyn put some distance between herself and her host. The duke looked positively sulky as she curtsied and left, obviously in high dudgeon.

  Before Alexander could make his excuses to Georgiana, Dervishton swiftly attached himself to Caitlyn’s side.

  Georgiana chuckled. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire. The poor girl isn’t left alone for even a moment. I predict this will cause some problems with your plan for revenge.”

  It damn well could have, as Caitlyn herself had pointed out. But now he and Caitlyn were playing a much more enjoyable game. The thought made him grin once again.

  Dervishton took Caitlyn’s arm and strolled with her to a large portrait of Roxburge that hung on the wall down from the fireplace.

  Watching, Alexander was struck anew by her grace. Every movement was an unconscious glide of sensuality. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he couldn’t help but watch her, and neither could any other men in the room.

  Georgiana curled her lip. “She is making quite a production of herself, isn’t she?”

  Alexander shrugged. “She’s just walking across the room.”

  “Shall we join Treymont and his wife?” Georgiana said coolly. “They recently returned from an auction of antiquities, where they acquired an Egyptian sarcophagus.”

  “Certainly.” Treymont and his wife were just a few feet from Dervishton and Caitlyn. Perhaps Alexander could overhear their conversation and make sure she wasn’t enlisting the young lord’s help.

  Georgiana slipped her hand through Alexander’s arm and they walked toward the fireplace, where the marquis and his wife sat talking before a crackling fire. Alexander found out that Treymont and his wife possessed a surprisingly vast knowledge of antiquities, and not until a good five minutes had passed did Alexander realize Caitlyn and Dervishton were no longer nearby.

  He looked around the room. By the pianoforte, Falkland and the Earl of Caithness were arguing over the merits of a certain hunter while Lady Elizabeth and Miss Ogilvie looked on, laughing at the exaggerations the gentlemen were shamelessly employing. Dervishton was pouring himself a drink from a sideboard, looking put-upon, while apparently the duke had already retired. He rarely lasted more than an hour after they had port.

  A movement caught Alexander’s eye, and he finally saw Caitlyn, partially hidden beside two large palm plants beside the double doors. He could tell from her gestures that she was speaking with someone.

  How odd. Alexander shifted to one side and saw a starched black skirt peeking from the other side of the plant. He shifted back another step and caught sight of reddish curls and a freckled face and recognized Caitlyn’s assigned maid.

  The woman was whispering excitedly through the plant while Caitlyn listened intently, nodding. Soon the maid slipped away. Caitlyn glanced around, and Alexander barely managed to turn back to the marquis in time. Apparently satisfied no one had noticed, Caitlyn slipped from the room.

  Alexander made his excuses from the group, ignoring Georgiana’s frown. He would wager his best riding boots that whatever drew Caitlyn from the room had to do with her task.

  He was almost to the door when Lady Elizabeth appeared before him. “MacLean, just the man to settle a wager between Falkland and myself. You know something of the displays at the British Museum, do you not?”

  “I’ve been on their board of directors for two years now, but—”

  “Precisely! I explained to Lord Falkland here that I’ve read numerous articles on the antiquities now being brought from Egypt—”

  “As have I!” Falkland snapped.

  “Yes, but apparently not the correct articles,” Lady Elizabeth said with all the confidence of a duke’s daughter. “MacLean, explain to Falkland that the Egyptian collection is—”

  “I’d love to stay and help, but I’m afraid I must—”

  “Come, MacLean!” Falkland blustered. “It will only take a moment. I cannot believe Lady Elizabeth believes such drivel!”

  It was a full five minutes before Alexander managed to escape their rambunctious disagreement, and by the time he reached the hall, Caitlyn had disappeared from view. He stared up the stairs, wondering if she’d gone to her room. Unfortunately there wasn’t a single footman in sight to ask, so Alexander reluctantly returned to the assembled party. One way or another, he’d find out what she was doing. Of that, he had no doubt.

  Chapter 9

  If ye canna compromise, then ye canna win. Oft in life, one depends upon t’other.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  Caitlyn met Muiren in the hallway, where she stood with Mrs. Pruitt. The housekeeper was clad in her usual black, a white mobcap upon her stern white curls.

  Muiren said in an excited voice, “Mrs. Pru
itt discovered the duke asleep in the library! It looks as if he went there fer a glass o’ port afore retiring to bed.”

  The housekeeper smiled slyly. “His grace fell asleep his snuffbox on ’is knee.”

  A wave of relief swept through Caitlyn. “Mrs. Pruitt, that’s the best news I’ve had all week!”

  “I wouldna help ye so much, except Lord MacLean needs some adversity in his life,” Mrs. Pruitt said firmly. “It’ll be good fer him, it will. Handsome men all need takin’ down a peg now an’ again.”

  Caitlyn blinked, surprised at the vehemence in the housekeeper’s voice.

  Mrs. Pruitt lifted her chin and said stoutly, “I’ve put up wit’ enou’ grief at the hands o’ scoundrels just like him.”

  Muiren said in a low voice, “Mrs. Pruitt says all men from the upper classes are reprobates an’ scoundrels.”

  “All men?” Caitlyn asked, wondering what incidents had caused Mrs. Pruitt’s bitterness.

  “Aye.” Mrs. Pruitt turned and marched toward the library. Before she reached the doors, she paused. “Jus’ one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ye’ll return the snuffbox to his lor’ship quickly? I dinna want any trouble for the staff.”

  “I’m just going to show it to Lord MacLean, then immediately return it to the duke. He won’t even know it’s gone.”

  “Very well, then.” Mrs. Pruitt peeked around the open doors, then gestured for Caitlyn to join her.

  Caitlyn carefully tiptoed to the door. She could just make out the duke’s bald pate over the back of a large, ornate chair by the fireplace.

  “Ye canno’ see it from here,” Mrs. Pruitt whispered, “but his hand is restin’ on his knee and he’s holdin’ his snuffbox.”

  Caitlyn almost hopped with victory. “That’s perfect!”

  “No’ so much as ye might think,” Mrs. Pruitt warned. “He’s almost deaf, but he doesn’t sleep very sound, sometimes wakin’ up an’ yellin’ at the charwoman to be quiet when she’s no’ even in the room.”

  She gestured Caitlyn inside. “Go ahead,” the housekeeper whispered. “Muiren and I’ll keep watch in th’ hallway.”

  Caitlyn nodded and slipped inside the library, her slippered feet making no sound on the thick rugs. Lord Roxburge was snoozing deeply, his head dropped forward on his chest. He was dressed in proper dinner clothes from a past era: knee breeches, a long coat, and a waistcoat, his black shoes pointed pigeon-toed. One liver-spotted, heavily veined hand rested on his knee, and the edge of his gold snuffbox glittered between his fingers.

  There it was! And soooo close. All she’d have to do was move his hand …

  Holding her breath, she slipped one finger into his ruffled sleeve and lifted. His hand raised slowly … so slowly . . . his fingers tightened instinctively over the snuffbox and he lifted it with him.

  Blast it! She carefully lowered his hand back to his knee. The clock ticked loudly into the silence as the seconds passed. Finally, to her vast relief, his grip slowly loosened once again.

  Perhaps, instead of lifting his whole hand, she could just lift one of his fingers and slip the box out.

  She glanced at his face, and satisfied that he was still sleeping, she carefully attempted to lift one of his fingers.

  He stopped snoring. Caitlyn froze in place as a frown settled over his face and he muttered something. Her heart pounded and she held completely still. Finally, he subsided, snoring even louder.

  She let her breath out, her heart beating wildly as she carefully released his wrist and stepped away. She looked around, assessing bric-a-brac that decorated the marble-topped tables, and found what she was looking for: a small box of ivory that was almost the size of the snuffbox.

  She carried it quietly to Roxburge’s side and compared it for a moment. Close enough.

  She readied herself, flexing her hands as she prepared to perform a magician’s trick. She’d once seen a street performer who’d whipped a tablecloth from under an entire table setting of plates, glasses, silverware, and even a candelabra. Her goal was to remove the snuffbox and replace it so quickly that the duke wouldn’t notice the difference.

  She reached for his arm and was just about to lift it when a movement by the doorway caught her eye, and her heart began thudding in an odd way.

  Caitlyn turned her head and saw MacLean standing inside the doorway, Mrs. Pruitt’s apologetic figuring hovering just outside.

  Damn the blackguard! He stood with his feet planted apart like a sea captain’s, his arms crossed over his powerful chest, his sensual mouth curved in a smile.

  She scowled. This caper was difficult enough without a critical audience.

  As if he could read her thoughts, he uncrossed his arms and made an elaborate bow, gesturing for her to continue.

  There was both challenge and condescension in his gestures.

  Caitlyn sent him a black look and turned back to Roxburge. She wiggled her fingers to loosen them up and imagined exactly what she’d do. If she lifted just two fingers and slipped the ivory box into his palm, it might dislodge the snuffbox …

  Her heart beating unsteadily, she gingerly lifted his fingers. Ever so carefully, she pushed the ivory box into his hand, pushing the snuffbox out the other side. He stirred, his snoring interrupted as his fingers fumbled with the ivory box a moment before closing over it. His restless movements dislodged the snuffbox from his broad knee, and it silently tumbled to the thick rug.

  Caitlyn snatched it up, her arm brushing his leg. Roxburge muttered in his sleep, his hand closing tightly over the ivory box.

  For a long second she remained frozen in place, waiting for the comforting sound of his snore. Finally, after an eternity, the old man’s lips parted and a roiling snore filled the room.

  Caitlyn sighed in relief and turned to show the box to MacLean … but he was no longer by the doorway. Frowning, she looked around and saw him standing beside the large desk that fronted the windows overlooking the garden. He was leaning against the desk, negligently tossing and catching a paperweight, his gaze twinkling with dark amusement.

  A warning trill shot through Caitlyn. What was he up to?

  He slowly lifted the paperweight over the desk and held it there.

  Oh, no! If he dropped it . . .

  She opened her mouth to whisper “No!”—then—THUNK!—the paperweight fell onto the wood desk.

  Roxburge bolted upright, his eyes fixed on Caitlyn. “Damned charwoman!” he yelled.

  Caitlyn froze. What am I going to do now?

  Roxburge’s eyes flickered once.

  Please, go back to sleep.

  He slowly settled back in his chair.

  Please, please, go back to sleep.

  The third time, his lids slid closed and a snore slipped from his lips.

  Caitlyn pressed a hand to her thudding heart. That’d been a close one. She glared at MacLean, who was looking at her with a mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration.

  Holding up the snuffbox in victory, she turned to go—but couldn’t. Frowning, she looked back and saw the lace trim of her gown was caught under Roxburge’s shoe. Worse, it seemed to be hooked under his heel. Bending down, she saw no way to slide it free without lifting his foot or tearing her costly flounce.

  She frowned and stood—only to discover that MacLean now stood beside her, so close that her breasts brushed his thigh as she stood. So close that if her skirt weren’t caught, she could easily rise up on her toes, wrap her arms about him, and pull him into a kiss.

  The thought made her heart pound, and the very air seemed charged with heat. When she shivered, he smiled. God, she loved his mouth. It was firm yet sensual, warm and questing and—

  He whispered in her ear, “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  Desire swirled through her so hard, her knees began to shake.

  He bent down again, his lips by her ear. “Shall I release your gown from Roxburge’s shoe?”


  His warm breath sent chills through her. What was it about him that affected her like no other man? It was as if some inner fire heated the very air about him, seeping into her and melting her control.

  She managed to find her voice. “I-I can handle this without any help, thank you.”

  “Afraid I won’t credit your possession of the treasure since you didn’t get away?”

  She nodded.

  His smile was wicked. “You’d be right.”

  She looked down at her caught gown and tried to focus on her predicament, but all she could think about was the way MacLean’s hip was pressed against hers and the wonderful feeling of being touched.

  Stop that! Think of a way to get free.

  No ideas came. In an effort not to look into MacLean’s eyes, she looked everywhere else and was captured by the powerful muscles under his coat, the way his forearms strained against his sleeves as if fighting the confining fabric.

  She shivered and hazarded a glance up at him and couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as his gaze slowly traveled over her face, lingering on her lips and chin, then moved lower to her throat, and the neckline of her gown.

  She burned both hot and cold, and her breath fought to be free of her throat. He had the most beautiful mouth—firm and yet unrelentingly sensual.

  That mouth curved now into a self-satisfied smile. “What’s wrong, Hurst?”

  His low voice curled around her thudding heart and tightened, and he leaned closer so that his thigh brushed her hip.

  She caught her breath, trying desperately to hold on to any calm. Finally, she whispered, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just trying to think of a way out of this mess.”

  “Hmmm. Perhaps you can’t and should just admit defeat.”

  “You’d like that,” she sniffed. “But I won’t quit!”

  “No?” His fingers grazed the bare skin at the neckline of her gown.

  She jerked as if burned, and he smiled wickedly. “Afraid, Hurst?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Oh, yes.” He slowly traced the line of her gown from the crest of her breast to her shoulder, then back.