Amanda Scott (37 page)

She swallowed the retort that sprang to her tongue, kept silent long enough to be certain of her temper, then said carefully, “I am not a child. Neither am I the fool you named me earlier. My wound is slight, and although having it seen to was a painful affair, I am quite capable of deciding for myself if I require rest, so, if there is nothing further, I have things I must do.” She began to turn away, not wanting him to see how much her shoulder really hurt her, but he stopped her with no more than a touch of his hand.

“Maggie,” he said gently, “I am sorry I shouted at you. It is not my nature to shout, but I was badly frightened.”

She was singularly aware of his hand on her arm, and the gentle, nearly sensual note in his voice. Her pain forgotten, she looked into his face again, searching it for an indication of his feelings. She saw an intensity, a look that told her he was hoping she would believe him, but believing that he had experienced real fear was like trying to believe the same of Kate MacCain.

“Why were you frightened?” She had meant to sound brusque, but to her own ears she sounded merely curious.

“I was dismayed to learn you were even nearby, and feared the worst when Kate said you were hurt. When James told me the wound was not serious, I ought to have been relieved, I know, but instead I just wanted to shake you. Why did you disobey me? And before you snap more nonsense about my not having the right to govern you, recall that your own father told you to stay behind.”

Maggie bit her lower lip and looked up at him from under her lashes. “I fear, sir, that I do not always obey my father either. Papa often gives orders out of impulse, and when I believe what I’m doing is right, I ignore them.”

“I would never have guessed that,” he said dryly. “Will you answer my question now?”

“I went because I wanted to see Fergus taken, and because I knew Kate would go whether I did or not. We never expected to run into his men, and before you say we
ought
to have expected it, recall that you and Papa were also taken unaware. And, sir, though you insist that our being there made no difference, had Kate not fired that first warning shot, you really might all have been killed. You do know that. You must.”

“I do,” he said. “If I denied it earlier, it was out of pique and plain aggravation with myself for not having assumed Campbell would behave like the scoundrel he was. I suppose I thought of him as a pawn of the Crown and nothing more, a considerable mistake to make, both for me and for your father.”

In Maggie’s experience, men did not generally admit when they were wrong, and she had not expected Rothwell to do so. It took the wind out of her sails, and she did not know what to say to him. She looked away, and the silence lengthened until he said, “You will get cold, standing out here. We had better go in. I hope there is not a great deal for you to do.”

“Only to tell the servants Papa and the others will not be here for dinner,” she said, “and to see how Ian is doing.”

“I will come with you then,” he said.

They walked in together, and though he did not touch her, Maggie was conscious again of his intensity. The sensation was almost tactile, and she knew he felt strong satisfaction at what had just passed between them. She knew it as if he had expressed himself in words to her, but she did not understand why or how she knew. Nor did she understand his feelings, or her own.

Dinner was a cheerful meal, for James’s bread poultice had eased Maggie’s pain, Ian was much improved, and Kate was in an excellent humor. Kate seemed to have forgotten she had ever disliked James, and they talked together throughout the meal as if they were old, even intimate friends. She was pleased with Rothwell, too, if only because he had dispatched Fergus Campbell.

Maggie was aware of Rothwell’s steady, thoughtful gaze upon her from time to time. Not knowing what to make of it, and certain he would resist any request to look elsewhere, she tried to ignore the looks and succeeded only in becoming more aware of them. It was as if he touched her, though he sat across the table from her and could not have done so had he wanted to.

When dinner was over at last, Kate and James withdrew to seats nearer the fire, still talking easily with each other. Maggie envied them their casual camaraderie, and wished she could talk like that with someone. There had been times when she had talked so with Kate, but they had scarcely talked at all since her return from London.

Rothwell got up from the table when she did and when she sat down with some needlework, he moved to stir the fire, standing for a time, silently, staring into the flames. She was tired, her arm ached, and it was not long before her eyelids began to droop. When she pricked her finger, she set her work firmly aside and said she was going up to bed.

Kate smiled and nodded, and James said goodnight; but Rothwell, watching her with a lazy, speculative look in his eyes, said nothing, and she wondered what he was thinking. Turning away, she went upstairs slowly, knowing he was still watching.

She went first to Ian’s room, and found the boy being tucked in by one of the maids, having eaten his dinner. He grinned at her. “They tellt me the laird got Fergus Campbell,” he said cheerfully. “He’s dead then, and a good riddance.”

“He is, but it was Rothwell who killed him,” she said.

“Aye, that’s what I said,” Ian said, nodding.

“But he is not—” She broke off, startled, when she realized that Rothwell had taken her father’s place in the boy’s mind. She remembered his telling her father to invoke his name if MacDrumin encountered any awkwardness over the arms his men had carried. They would have been fools to go after Campbell unarmed, and her father was not a fool, but she had wondered at seeing how well-armed they all were, and realized suddenly that MacDrumin must have been certain Rothwell would support them.

MacDrumin, she thought, had been mighty sure of Rothwell all along, and she wondered what the wily clan chief had been thinking. She went to her bedchamber and began to light candles from the fire so she could prepare for bed. Maria entered a few moments after she did.

“I did not send for you,” Maggie said, smiling at her.

“No, your ladyship. My lord told me you had come up.”

“Well, I’m glad he sent you,” Maggie told her, “for I welcome your help. I had not realized how much one uses one’s left arm, but I seem to want it for all manner of things. It is aching again now, and my right arm is exhausted.”

Maria went efficiently to work, moving around the room with no more noise than a rustle of skirts and the rattle of items she picked up and put down. Maggie’s flannel nightshift was whisked over her head and drawn carefully over her bandaged arm, and then, slipping gray mules onto Maggie’s feet, Maria looked up and said, “If the pain is so great as to disturb your sleep, ma’am, I do carry a small bit of laudanum with me.”

“That is kind of you, Maria, but I think not, and I must say you don’t seem the sort to take laudanum. You are not at all vaporish.”

Maria got up and turned to fetch Maggie’s hairbrush, saying, “I am quite fit, your ladyship, but occasionally, for pain, you know, I do take just a few grains dissolved in water.”

Maggie grimaced. “If I have to take it, I prefer it in one of Papa’s toddies, or a cup of strong tea, to mask the taste.”

Shocked, Maria primmed her lips and said, “Tea is too expensive to be wasted in such a fashion.” Draping Maggie’s shawl over her shoulders, she unpinned her kertch, let her hair tumble free to her waist, and began to brush out the tangles.

There was not a sound to announce him, but Maggie knew without looking that Rothwell had come into the room. She waited for Maria to acknowledge him, but the brush strokes continued without pause. Maria had not heard him, nor could she see the doorway in the small glass on the table. Neither could Maggie, but she knew he was there, and the fact that he had entered her bedchamber as only a husband would was enough to stop the breath in her throat while she waited for him to speak.

Rothwell stood silent in the doorway, watching, wishing Maria would move to her left so his view of Maggie’s beautiful hair would be unimpeded. A golden cloud of soft waves, it glowed in the light from the few candles in the room and the small fire on the hearth, and he found himself thinking of the way Lydia’s bedchamber—or indeed, any room she was in—was always filled with light. His sister was a wasteful chit, but at the moment he would have liked very much to see the light of a hundred candles reflected on Maggie’s soft, shimmering hair.

He had been drawn to this room by a force stronger than common sense, and when he had found the door ajar, he had pushed it open on what he told himself was no more than an impulse, but he knew now that he had intended to come here tonight from the moment she had taunted him with being no proper husband and wanting no proper marriage. She was wrong.

For a moment he thought neither woman had seen him, but then Maggie’s rigid posture told him she knew he was there. Either that, or her arm was still hurting her. Just thinking of how near she had come to being killed sent tremors of fear through his body, but when she turned her head in response to a harder than usual tug of the brush, and he saw the line of her throat and her delicate profile, desire swept the other feelings away. He wanted her. She was his wife, and he wanted to feel her soft skin beneath his fingertips, to touch her breasts, her hair, her lips. His breathing quickened, and his body stirred with hunger for her. He wanted to hold her, protect her, seduce her.

His voice sounded gruff, unnatural, when he said suddenly, “Stir up the fire, Maria. It’s damnably cold in this room.” The words spilled out without thought, and he realized they were ridiculous. It was anything but cold in the room.

Maria started at the sound of his voice, but when Maggie did not, he knew he had been right. She had known he was there.

The tirewoman made a small curtsy and went to do as he had commanded, and still Maggie did not turn. He wanted to see her expression, but he waited until Maria had put another log on the fire and coaxed more flames from it. Then he said, “Leave us.”

She went without a word, and not until the door had shut behind her, firmly this time, did Maggie speak. Turning on her stool to look at him, she said, “She had not finished, and I cannot do it myself tonight. You should not have sent her away.”

“What else do you have to do?” he asked matter-of-factly, moving to stand behind her, but taking care not to cast a shadow where the firelight danced on her hair.

“I plait it,” she said, “and tuck it into a cap.”

“I can plait it.”

She turned then, smiling. “Can you indeed? I’d not have thought it, but now I remember what you were like in London. You have changed here.”

He was surprised that she seemed so much at ease with him in her bedchamber. He had expected a show of temper. “Did you believe I would continue to play the fop on such a stage, my dear? ’Twould be singularly inappropriate here.”

“Fergus Campbell thought you one.”

“That was his mistake.”

She nodded, watching him, and her lips parted invitingly.

His voice sounded harsh to his own ears when he said, “Does your arm give you much pain?”

“No.” She licked her lips.

“You must be exhausted.”

“No.”

Encouraged by these obvious lies, he said, “Stand up, little wife. I would have a closer look at you.”

“You said you would fix my hair.”

“I like it as it is. Sweetheart, I have been a fool.”

She stood then, and he drew her closer to the fire, where the air was warm. Her hair smelled of wood smoke and herbs. He liked the scent. Her lips were still parted, and he wanted to kiss her again, but he knew she had little experience of men, and that he should go slowly. That she seemed willing at all was more than he deserved.

Gently, he drew the shawl from her shoulders, revealing the white flannel night shift beneath it. The shift and the gray mules on her feet were plain, and he tried to imagine her in clinging silk with lacy trimming. Then he touched her arm, and the worn flannel sleeve was so soft that he stroked it, feeling her tremble beneath his fingertips. Her eyes were wide, but there was no fear in them, only wary anticipation. Holding her gaze, he moved his hand tenderly back up her right arm to her shoulder, then down the slope of her breast, barely touching her, enjoying the softness of the flannel and the arousing expectation of touching what lay beneath.

Softly, she said, “If you do what you intend, sir, an annulment will be difficult to procure.”

“I don’t want an annulment,” he murmured.

M
AGGIE MOISTENED HER LIPS
again, feeling the warmth of his hands on her arms and the heat of the fire beside them. She knew he wanted her, and wondered if that was all it was, if he would change his mind again once he had his way with her. She knew many men were like that. Girls were warned about them from childhood. Never let a man have his way, for he will not want to wed a lass whose virtue is so easily taken.

But this man was already her husband. He had the right to command submission, and though he had not done so, his very presence in her bedchamber had been a declaration of his intent. She wondered if he would leave if she told him to go. Looking into his eyes, seeing raw desire there, she doubted if he would. Oddly, instead of stirring fear, the thought stirred a response in her own body like an awakening flame. His touch ignited feelings she had never experienced before with any man, and she knew she did not want him to go. When his hand moved from her shoulder to the slope of her breast, a tremor shook her from tip to toe, but she made no move to stop him, nor did she want to. She wanted to know what he would do next.

She understood coupling. She knew how children came to be made. But she knew next to nothing about seduction, and clearly Rothwell knew what he was doing. That thought made her wonder how many other women he had done such things to, and it was with a strangely detached air that she let his hands wander at will, even when one moved to unfasten her shift and slip it off her good shoulder, taking care not to hurt the other. The shift slid down, catching on her hardened nipple, revealing the softness of her breast, and her breathing quickened. Her senses wakened to his slightest movement, and fatigue and pain became dim memories.