Authors: Erica Ridley
She couldn’t recall having consumed a single bite of last night’s meal. The inevitable row once Mama realized she’d been tricked into attending a house party had soured Ellie’s appetite completely. This morning there was no ignoring the biting pangs twisting her insides into painful knots. Ringing for service would only awaken Mama, however, and there was no sense starting the day with another terrible row.
Ellie dressed as silently and quickly as she could, but caught herself gnawing on everything within grasp—the nub of a pencil, the handle to a comb, even the knuckle of her own finger. If she didn’t find the Breckenridge kitchens soon, she’d be down on her knees chewing holes in the carpets.
The drowsy hall boy at the end of the corridor pointed the way to the kitchen before snuggling back into a large wingback chair. A stroke of luck. Ellie would just as soon pillage the pantry unaccompanied.
She had just finished off a leg of meat and was halfway through sucking the marrow from the bone when the distant creaking of a door snapped her back into the present.
Ellie jerked the tooth-marked bone from her mouth and stared at her red-tinged fingers in horror. Had she just eaten raw meat in a blind stupor? What the devil was wrong with her?
She dropped the bone into a waste bucket and slid the now-empty platter onto another. Desperate to rinse the bloody evidence from her hands and face before the kitchen staff came upon her, she hurried to the water pitcher—only to find it empty.
“Blast.”
Ellie scrambled to a rag bin and rubbed her mouth and fingers with a cloth that smelled strongly of brandy. No matter. She would far rather stink of wine at six o’clock in the morning than have her face smeared with the juice of . . . whatever she’d just consumed. Good Lord. She snatched a mint leaf from a nearby jar to cleanse both her breath and mind of the memory.
She tossed the rag back into the bin and swallowed the mint just as a small tornado of fur shot through the kitchen door and launched itself directly at her. Any remaining trace of foodstuff would have disappeared under the ministrations of an excited, lapping puppy.
Ellie’s pent-up breath dissolved in a burst of nervous laughter. Had she known her only witness would be a little tea-colored puppy, she wouldn’t have been so hasty in getting rid of the bone. In fact . . . why deprive the adorable creature? With the licking, wriggling puppy balanced in the crook of her arm, she picked her way back to the scrap bucket in search of the dropped bone.
Her success in this mission was rewarded with instant abandonment as the puppy snatched the bone from her grasp and shot into the shadows to noisily consume its prize. Ellie shook her head and smiled at the wagging tail just visible in the darkness. How marvelous it would be to have a pet! If only she and Mama didn’t spend so much time running from nothing to nowhere, perhaps Ellie would’ve been able to have a dog or a kitten or anything at all to call her own.
She was so entranced by the puppy’s overzealous tail-wagging and bone-chewing that she scarcely registered the kitchen door’s opening once more, until a familiar masculine voice spoke wryly from the corner.
“I see you’ve met my dog.”
She whirled around to find Mr. Macane lounging against the closed door, one hand hooked at his waist and the other lazily massaging his shoulder. Perhaps he hadn’t slept well. As she’d also been unable to settle into sleep, she’d spent hours at the window, gazing up at the moon.
“Good morning,” was all she said aloud, however. Being alone with a notorious scoundrel was scandalous enough without adding the topic of how he spent his nights to the mix. “I see you’re both early risers.”
Amusement flickered across Mr. Macane’s handsome features. “I don’t think she sleeps at all.”
“It’s a girl?” She grinned at the puppy’s wagging tail with renewed delight. “What’s her name?”
He gazed at the shadows as if debating whether to divulge a dark secret. After a long moment, he gave a one-shoulder shrug and replied, “I call her
Moch-éirigh
.”
“Mac Eric?” Ellie repeated doubtfully. “What a horrible name for a puppy.”
Mr. Macane blinked at her, then laughed. “Not Mac Eric.
Moch-éirigh
. It’s . . . Scottish.”
“What does it mean?”
A hint of a smile still played about the edges of his lips. “It means ‘early riser.’ ”
“Oh, it does not.” Ellie shook her finger at him in mock chastisement. “It probably means, ‘I love calling attention to myself.’ ”
“You too?” he answered innocently. “Why then, we have something in common.”
She laughed. “Unlikely. People who’ve never met you know all about your exploits, whereas those who’ve met me dozens of times recall neither my name nor my face.”
Mr. Macane’s raised brows indicated his skepticism. “I find that hard to conceive.”
“Believe as you will.” Annoyed with herself for having voiced such a private hurt, Ellie feigned an irreverent smile as if she’d been bamming him all along. “In any case, Mac Eric is certainly adorable.”
“
Moch-éirigh,
wench,” Mr. Macane growled good-naturedly. “And if you must know, it’s
you
I find captivating.”
“Did you just compare me to your dog?” Ellie gave her head an exaggerated shake. “And to think the gossips pegged you as an accomplished rake.”
His sea-green eyes focused so intently on her face that Ellie didn’t even register any movement in the room until she realized there was now a mere hairsbreadth between them.
“Do not belittle your own worth or underestimate the power of your beauty.” His voice was low, his gaze seductively honest. “While it’s true many so-called ladies are both interchangeable and forgettable, you are not one of them. The others may remember me, but they do not want me. They seek the
idea
of me. A moment, a night, a dance . . . something to talk about over tea. You are a mystery.”
Ellie gazed up at him, captivated as much by his intoxicating proximity as by his words. There was little ambient light in the small kitchen, but somehow she could see him clearly. Pale skin, high cheekbones, dark eyelashes framing light-green eyes. Even more striking were the bare neck at six o’clock in the morning and the contrasting chestnut mane caught in a leather band at the nape.
The most disconcerting of all, however, was how he smelled—or, rather, how he didn’t smell. Ellie had always been uncomfortably aware of the odor of others—dust, sweat, too much perfume. Mr. Macane’s scent was almost too light to be detected, pleasing to the senses but impossible to place, even for Ellie’s nose. She felt herself leaning into him, face upturned and mouth parted, trying to inhale his very essence.
His gaze dropped to her lips, as if he thought her angling for a kiss. Perhaps she was. He was so strong, so charming, so larger-than-life. And if his words could be believed, he was just as tempted as she was.
He dipped his head until their mouths were but a few inches apart.
“A few years from now,” he murmured quietly, “some other buck will be cutting a new swath, and my name will be forgotten. What makes me who I am is what
I
think about who I am. You must prize your own values above those that are forced upon you by Society.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “And when a bedazzled swain foolishly compares your beauty to that of his dog, just say thank you.”
“Thank you, foolish swain.” She returned his smile without retreating to a safer distance.
One of his hands lifted, coming ever so close to her face, but hesitating before going so far as to touch. Ellie’s body tingled, her every muscle tense with expectation and want. His fingers trembled. Longing to know how his ungloved hand would feel pressed against her cheek, she tilted her head just a fraction—but that’s all it took.
His hand cradled her face; his thumb gently caressed her cheek. The heat of his gaze never left hers. He lifted his other hand to the back of her neck to tangle in the mass of curls she hadn’t bothered to tame. He splayed his fingers against her nape as if meaning to pull her to him, but there was no need, because she was already falling forward, eager for his kiss.
His lower lip brushed hers, sending shivers of delight down her spine. She gripped his upper arms for balance, and because she’d been dying to feel the hard muscle beneath his jacket from the first moment she saw him. Impossibly, he felt even bigger than he looked, as if he could lift an entire carriage if he had a mind to. At the moment, Ellie seemed to be the only thing on his mind.
Lips parted, he rubbed his mouth softly against hers, once, twice. The third time, he traced the path with the tip of his tongue, as if yearning to know the taste of her skin, of her mouth. He pressed his body against hers, and this time when their lips touched, she felt—teeth.
On her
ankle
.
Loud barking filled the small kitchen as the puppy used claws and teeth to drive them apart, attempting to scale them both, as an adventurer would climb a mountain.
Startled, Ellie took a step out of harm’s way just as the puppy all but launched herself into her master’s arms—where Ellie herself had been, just seconds ago. For a precious, incredible moment.
“My apologies,” he managed to get out between dodging effusive puppy kisses. “It would seem
Moch-éirigh
is a bit jealous. You know how Scottish women can be.”
Ellie shook her head. “What would I know about Scottish women?”
“ ‘Elspeth’ is as Scottish as
Moch-éirigh
.” Twisting, he wrangled the puppy out of his hair. “An Elspeth by any other name—”
“Call me Ellie,” she interrupted before he could mangle Shakespeare further. “Only my mother calls me Elspeth.”
“As you wish, Ellie. You may call me Cain. Not even my mother calls me Mártainn.” He winked, as if waiting for her to catch on to a private joke. When she realized he’d used the puppy’s antics to distract her into them first-naming each other, she burst out laughing.
“You’re shameless.”
“And more.”
The kitchen door burst open and a half dozen scullery maids rushed in. Their wide eyes went from the puppy, to Mr. Macane, to Ellie . . . and there they stayed. Probably they’d like an explanation for what an unchaperoned young miss was doing alone with one of the dashing male guests. Undoubtedly they hoped for an indication of why this clandestine rendezvous was in the kitchen. With a dog.
Since she hadn’t an explanation for any of it, Ellie simply smiled at the staff, dipped a half curtsey at Cain, and escaped without acknowledging the questioning stares.
When she reached her bedchamber, Ellie crawled back atop the mattress with her stomach full and her mind relentlessly reliving the feel of Cain’s mouth rubbing against hers and the sensation of his tongue tasting her lips. She dozed and awoke feeling strangely flushed.
The sound of her mother moving about the adjoining room indicated Ellie had overslept—and was likely in danger of missing the picnic.
She scrambled out of bed and rang for a maid. Last night, the thought of a picnic had seemed deathly boring, but now she couldn’t wait. She was eager to see how Cain would comport himself in the light of day. Would he be the consummate rake, flirting shamelessly with the other ladies as if no stolen moments had passed between them? Or would things be . . .
different
somehow? Ellie wasn’t so silly as to believe a single kiss would convert him from hedonist to lovesick suitor, but she couldn’t stifle the sudden wish that her wardrobe wasn’t so plain and her jewels nonexistent. A moment’s dalliance with Ellie Ramsay was all well and good when otherwise unengaged in the kitchens, but even in her finest gown, she would look a proper dowd when she stood amongst all the other young ladies.
Ellie groaned. Miss Breckenridge would certainly be present and in her rights to demand news of progress regarding her claim. Ellie had been so busy casting sheep’s eyes at Mr. Macane, she’d completely forgotten she was meant to be investigating his potential undeadness. There had probably been any number of reflective surfaces in the kitchen, and if she’d had her mind on her pocketbook rather than the taste of his lips, she could’ve proven the myth false in a trice.
In the meantime, however, Ellie meant to make the most of the weekend. Mama might be content to spend every moment sequestered in her bedchamber, but a ton house party was a rare opportunity for actual fun, and Ellie was damned if she’d let it pass by unenjoyed.
As soon as she put her hair to rights, Ellie headed straight for the hall ... only to be waylaid by a voice from her mother’s shadowy bedchamber.
“Elspeth, where are you going at this ungodly hour?” Mama emerged from her chamber, somehow able to pull off an aura of regal hauteur despite being enshrouded in a flowing caftan.
“It’s half two, Mama.” Ellie gestured at the crack of light streaming from the bottom of the still-closed curtains. “There’s to be a picnic and perhaps riding.”
“But you can’t go out there!” Her mother’s strong hand once again grasped Ellie by the wrist. “You could get ... sun fatigue.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. I won’t forget my parasol.” Ellie tugged her wrist free and strode toward the door, then paused as she recollected an earlier concern. “Speaking of remembering things ... All the furor over birthdays made me realize I can’t precisely recall my own age. I know this sounds ridiculous, but ... How old am I, again?” She laughed lightly to cover her embarrassment.
Mama wandered away, as if just now noticing the small landscapes dotting the walls. “You’ll be two-and-twenty,” she answered distractedly. “The same as your friend. Don’t ask such silly questions.”
Frowning, Ellie watched her mother straighten the already straight frames, then turned and left the chamber before another argument erupted. But as she walked to join the others, Ellie couldn’t shake the suspicion that her eternally self-controlled mother had been unaccountably fidgety. It was unsettling to think Mama might have been hiding something, but Ellie couldn’t possibly imagine what there could be to lie about. Except for the niggling suspicion that Ellie had already turned two-and-twenty.
Last
year.