Crispin straightened, wondering if he was losing his mind. He had arrived back at Warrick Park on his horse only a few minutes before the duke’s crested carriage had come rolling up the drive. He had cursed his ill timing until he saw both his cousin and Miss Darby disembark from the carriage and head for the Doric temple at the edge of the lake. He had waited until he was sure their moonlight tryst was going to encompass more than just a few chaste kisses before setting off on his own quest. So how had the two of them managed to sneak up the stairs and into the bedchamber without his knowledge?
He pressed his ear to the door again. “Ah, me sweet Cookie,” purred that throaty masculine voice, “once yer me bride, we’ll play hide-the-sausage-in-the-puddin’ every night o’ the week.”
Crispin straightened more abruptly this time, torn between fascination and horror. Those were hardly the words he’d imagined his stoic cousin using to court the lovely Miss Darby.
His bewilderment was interrupted by a muffled yet rhythmic banging, as if an iron headboard was repeatedly striking the wall. That was when he realized the noises weren’t coming from the main bedchamber of the suite but from the connecting dressing room just down the corridor. The dressing room currently occupied by his cousin’s hulking valet.
Crispin swore beneath his breath. Those passionate moans and savage grunts might very well mask the sounds of him searching his cousin’s bedchamber, but what if they didn’t? He certainly couldn’t afford to get caught red-handed by the gold-toothed barbarian. Being dragged away from his “pudding” prematurely might put the beefy giant in a very foul temper indeed.
Knowing he had only one course of action left to him, Crispin turned and slipped back into the shadows.
Crispin eased open the door of Miss Darby’s suite. There was something both alluring and wicked about sneaking into a lady’s bedchamber in the dead of night, even if that lady was not abed. Moonlight bathed the deserted room in a pearly glow. A scent that was mysterious and floral and unmistakably feminine perfumed the air.
He stood with hands on hips, surveying the room for a long moment. In truth, he didn’t even know what he was looking for. The best he could hope for was some sort of evidence he could use as a weapon to prove his cousin was not the man his uncle believed him to be. Or the man the guests at Lord Newton’s soiree had been fawning over with such disgusting adulation.
Spurred on by that thought, he strode over to the armoire and began rifling briskly through its drawers. He moved on to the dressing table next, but his search yielded nothing of interest or import, unless one could count a handful of hairpins, a half-empty bottle of lilac water and a pair of tortoiseshell combs.
His frustration mounting, he swung around to glare at the bed itself. He couldn’t say what instinct drove him there. He only knew that as a boy he had once hidden treasures he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of under his pillow—a piece of shiny quartz he’d found in the garden, a robin’s tail feather, a book of naughty etchings he’d pilfered from his uncle’s library.
He slid his hand beneath the pillows and bolsters piled against the headboard. Nothing. He was withdrawing it when he heard a telltale crackle coming from one of the large feather pillows. He slipped his hand inside its satin cover, his fingers quickly locating a folded piece of paper.
As he unfolded it, a primitive thrill of excitement shot through him.
It was a well-weathered broadsheet—the sort the authorities nailed up on trees and posts when they were searching for someone who had committed a terrible crime. Someone like the nameless highwayman sketched on the page.
A nameless highwayman with a steely gaze and a telltale dimple in his rugged jaw.
A more casual observer might not have recognized the outlaw in the sketch, but Crispin had seen that steely gaze before, had faced it over the length of blade he had believed would end his life.
He returned the pillow to its place, smoothing out its satin cover. If Miss Darby slept with the broadsheet beneath her pillow, she must believe it to be very dear indeed. But it would be even dearer to the Scottish authorities. A bitter smile touched his lips. And dearer yet to him.
“What are you doing here?”
Shoving the broadsheet into his waistcoat, Crispin whirled around to find Miss Darby’s maidservant standing in the dressing-room doorway.
Chapter 21
Although Crispin would have thought it impossible, the young maidservant looked even more enchanting than she had on the staircase.
Her short, buttery curls were tousled and her dusky blue eyes heavy lidded from sleep. Moonlight sifted through the folds of her nightdress, rendering them translucent and hinting at the svelte curves beneath.
For a moment, Crispin could only stare, struck mute once again by her radiant beauty. He still couldn’t shake the sensation that they’d stood gazing at each other in just such a way at some other time, in some other place.
She folded her arms over her chest, giving him a sleepy scowl. “I asked you what you were doing here.”
“I came to see you,” he said, blurting out the first words that popped into his head.
“Me?”
He nodded, regaining both the use of his tongue and his ability to improvise. “When I saw your mistress at the soiree tonight, I realized you’d be here all alone.”
Her face brightened. “You were at the soiree? Oh, tell me all about it, won’t you? I was positively sick with disappointment because I didn’t get to go. Was there dancing? And French champagne? And little iced cakes shaped like hearts?”
Crispin was puzzled by her reaction. It would have been odd for even the most devoted of maidservants to accompany her mistress to such an event.
He drew nearer to her, unable to resist the temptation. “Had I known you fancied French champagne and iced cakes, I would have smuggled some out of the party for you.” He held out a hand to her. “I’m afraid all I have to offer you is a dance.”
She warily eyed his extended hand. “How are we to dance when there’s no music?”
He cocked his head to the side. “There’s always music. Can’t you hear it? Why, I hear it every time I look into your eyes.”
“Perhaps your ears are still ringing from when we bumped heads on the stairs.”
Crispin grinned and withdrew his hand, curiously relieved that she wasn’t to be so easily charmed by his flattery. But her next words sobered him abruptly.
“I know why you really came here tonight.”
“You do?”
“You came here to seduce me. You thought, ‘Oh, the pretty little maid is all alone. Think I’ll sneak into her room while her mistress is gone and give her a tumble.’” She arched one silky eyebrow, challenging him to call her a liar. “Am I wrong?”
He slanted her a glance from beneath his lashes, struggling to look abashed. “I’m afraid not. I’m an incorrigible scoundrel and you’ve no choice but to send me on my way with a scathing rebuke and a hearty slap.”
“What about a kiss?”
He jerked up his head, believing he’d heard her wrong. “A…a…a what?”
“A kiss. I’ve no intention of letting you seduce me, but I might be persuaded to send you on your way with a scathing rebuke and a kiss.”
He drew closer to her, his nostrils flaring at her sleepy, feminine scent. “And how might I best persuade you?”
“Well, first I’d have to deliver the rebuke.”
He waved a hand at her. “Be my guest.”
She rested her hands on her slender hips, glaring daggers at him. “How dare you sneak into my room at such an indecent hour? Just because you’re a handsome, wealthy gentleman with women throwing themselves at your feet, that doesn’t give you the right to force your attentions on a helpless servant. I may be only a maid, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a lady as well and don’t deserve to be treated as one!”
“Very impressive,” Crispin murmured, still beset by the eerie sense of having played this scene before. “I’ve never rece
ived such a brutal set-down. My ears will be stinging for days!”
“As well they should,” she agreed with a feline little smirk.
The wariness returned to her gaze as he reached to cup her cheek in his hand, stroking its downy softness with his thumb. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to make amends by proving I can treat you like a lady. By convincing you that I would be satisfied with nothing more than a chaste kiss from your lips.”
Crispin was lying through his teeth. He knew such a kiss would only whet his appetite for more. He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers—the broadsheet forgotten, his cousin forgotten, everything forgotten but that tender rose of a mouth blooming so sweetly beneath his.
That chaste kiss soon turned into a lingering caress. By the time Crispin lifted his head, they were both breathing hard.
She backed away from him, an enchanting blush coloring her cheeks. “You’d best go now. If my mistress returns, I can promise you she won’t be very happy to find you here. I wouldn’t want her to…send me packing.”
“Nor would I,” he confessed, pressing a palm to his chest. “I believe it would break my heart.”
She grabbed his elbow and steered him firmly toward the door. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re doing it again!”
“What?”
“Trying to seduce me! Those flowery words may charm the weak-willed women of your acquaintance, but I should warn you that they have no effect on me.”
“Are you so sure about that?” he asked, daring a devilish grin.
Her answer was to throw open the door and shove him backward into the corridor. “Don’t bother coming back…” She cast a guilty glance over her shoulder, then whispered, “…unless you know my mistress is out of the house.”
She flashed him a brief, dazzling smile before closing the door in his face. Crispin rested his brow against it, chuckling when he realized he had failed once again to acquire the maddening creature’s name.
“What have you done, Crispin?”
His heart lurched as he wheeled around to find his mother standing at the end of the hall like some ghostly white lady from one of his nightmares.
She glided toward him, the hem of her dressing gown rippling behind her. Holding out her hand, she said, “I know why you came here. Did you find what you were looking for?”
The sweet face of Miss Darby’s maidservant rose up in his vision. He gazed at his mother’s outstretched hand, remembering only too clearly what had happened the last time he had trusted his fate to her hands.
“Nothing. I found nothing.”
His mother’s hand whipped across his face, delivering a vicious slap. “You’re my son,” she hissed. “Do you think I don’t know when you’re lying?”
Something in his eyes made her take a nervous step backward. Her hand darted upward to flutter around her throat like a pale dove. “Forgive me, son. You know I need to keep a better rein on my temper.” She blinked a sheen of tears from her dark blue eyes. “It’s just when I think about all I’ve endured to protect you and ensure your future…all I’ve sacrificed…”
Crispin slowly drew the broadsheet from his waistcoat and handed it to her.
She unfolded it and scanned it quickly, her hands beginning to tremble with excitement. When she lifted her head, her eyes were glowing with pride. “Oh, my darling boy, you’ve done well this time, haven’t you? Archibald won’t be able to ignore this—or you. He’ll have to admit to the world that he’s made a terrible mistake and that you are his only true heir. Everything we’ve ever wanted will finally be within our grasp.”
“Everything we’ve wanted, Mother? Or everything you’ve wanted?”
Before she could answer, Crispin sketched her a curt bow and went striding back into the shadows.
Chapter 22
Pamela rested the back of her head against Connor’s shoulder, watching the first lavender rays of dawn streak the eastern sky. Connor was sitting with her nestled between his splayed legs, his back propped against one of the temple’s columns. A damp chill had come creeping across the grass with the morning mist, but it was impossible for her to feel cold with both Connor’s coat and his arms wrapped so tightly around her.
She knew they needed to slip back into the house before some over-industrious servant spotted them. But she didn’t want the night to end. If she ever had to sleep again, she wanted it to be in Connor’s arms.
It took her several drowsy, delicious moments of watching the wispy clouds melt from lavender to peach to realize Connor was whistling ever so softly in her ear.
A smile touched her lips. “I remember that tune. It’s the one you were whistling on the journey to Castle MacFarlane—‘The Maiden and the Highwayman.’ I insisted it must be a tragedy since the Scots were such a dour lot, but you said the highwayman seduced the maiden into his bed only to discover she was a lusty wench who couldn’t get enough of him.”
“Sounds just like someone else I know,” he murmured, slipping his hands beneath his coat to fill them with the plump softness of her breasts. Over her husky hum of pleasure, he said, “If you must know, I left off the last verse. The one where he shoots her through the heart because he believes she’s been unfaithful and then turns himself in and begs to be sent to the gallows after he learns the lad he saw her kissing was her brother.”
“I knew it!” Pamela wiggled around in his arms to give him an accusing glare. “Has there ever been a Scottish ballad that didn’t end in tragedy?”
He gently raked a tousled strand of hair from her cheek, the tender glow in his eyes making her heart clutch. “Perhaps you and I can write one together.”
“You’re just lucky I didn’t shoot you when I saw you ogling your sister.”
The glow faded from Connor’s eyes. “At least you didn’t have to worry about her ogling me back.”
Pamela sighed. “You can’t blame her for not recognizing you. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re no longer a gangly lad of fifteen. And I seriously doubt she expected to find her long lost brother impersonating a marquess at a soiree in London.” She touched a hand to his beard-shadowed jaw. “You saw her last night, Connor. You did the right thing by sending her away. Thanks to you, she’s grown into a lovely young woman who’s wed to a man who plainly adores her.”
Connor snorted. “An Englishman. Apparently sleeping with the enemy has its benefits. The two of them were only visiting London. They’re currently living in our ancestral holding of Castle Kincaid, raising a flock of sheep and two wee bairns nearly as bonny as their parents. Most of the clansmen who once rode with me have now turned their hands to honest labor in the service of my sister.” He shook his head ruefully. “I spent nearly a decade trying to wrest those lands back from the English and she conquered them without firing a single shot.”
Pamela’s mouth fell open. “How do you know all that?”
She watched in fascination as the pearly glow of dawn revealed a telltale flush creeping up Connor’s throat. “I said she hadn’t seen me since the night the redcoats came. I didn’t say I hadn’t seen her.”
“Why, Connor Kincaid, you’ve been spying on her, haven’t you?”
“Only once,” he reluctantly confessed. “Two years ago, after I heard she’d married an Englishman, I traveled to Castle Kincaid to kill him.”
“You know,” she said cautiously, “most people are perfectly content to bring gifts to the newly wed.”
He flashed her a sulky look. “I stood outside in the dark and watched them through the dining-room window. I wanted to hate the bastard. But how do you hate a man who looks at your sister as if she was the most priceless treasure in all the world? All I could do was climb back up on my horse and ride away.”
“Did you ever think about knocking on the door? That’s another skill highly prized by civilized folk.”
“What was I supposed to say?—‘Hello, kitten, I’m your big brother. I’ve a price on my head and bloodstains on my hands and if you give me sanctuary, I’ll b
ring the redcoats right back to your door to destroy everyone and everything you love—just like before.’”
“So you let her go,” Pamela said softly, “again.” She brightened. “But it’s not too late! You could go to her now! Before she and her husband return to the Highlands.”
“And what would I tell her? That I’ve conveniently borrowed another man’s life? That I’m just as likely to end up dangling at the end of a noose, if only for a different crime?”
For the first time, Pamela felt the dawn chill creep past the warm, cozy circle of his arms and into her heart. “As long as the duke believes you’re his son, that will never happen. You’ll still have everything I promised you—riches, respect—”
“And all the willing women I care to woo?” he finished lightly.
She inclined her head, stiffening in his arms. “That was part of our bargain. And I intend to honor it.”
He brushed the silky curtain of her hair aside, leaving her with no way to hide her taut jaw and the heat she could feel rising to her cheeks. “And what if I only care to woo one woman?”
“Then that’s what you should do.” Pamela swallowed, his words cutting her heart to the quick. Somehow the idea of Connor courting a wife was much more painful than imagining him with a procession of mistresses. “Once I’m gone, the duke will expect you to find a more suitable bride. From the way the women were eyeing you tonight, I’m sure you’ll find no lack of prospects.”
“And just who would you deem a suitable bride for a no-count highwayman masquerading as the son of a duke? Because I’m thinking an actress’s daughter born on the wrong side of the blankets who can lie to a man’s face without batting one of her pretty eyelashes might be just what he deserves.”
Pamela jerked her head up, gazing at him in disbelief.
“When he lapses into brooding, as Scots are wont to do, she could give him a sound lashing with her saucy tongue. And when he loses his temper and begins to roar and stomp about like a wounded bear, she could lose her temper and roar right back at him.” He stroked his thumb down her cheek, his crooked smile achingly tender. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can’t think of any more suitable bride for such a man than a hot-tempered, conniving little baggage with more courage than common sense and a touch of larceny in her soul.”