Claimed by the Laird Page 8

  “You don’t approve of his plans?” Lucas half turned to look at her.

  “It’s an expensive indulgence,” Christina said.

  To her surprise, Lucas smiled. “You don’t approve of extravagance, Lady Christina? Do you think self-indulgence is a sin?”

  He spoke quietly, with some emphasis on the word sin. The word sent a riot of sensual images galloping through Christina’s mind, awakening all the lustful thoughts she had successfully repressed. She could feel her body turning hot again. She fought the sensation, thinking instead of Scottish winters and ice dripping down her neck, an image sufficiently uncomfortable to banish the most persistent of wanton dreams.

  “There are a lot of demands on the ducal purse here at Kilmory.” She could hear the stiffness in her tone. “Many families on the estate and in the village are desperately poor. Under the circumstances, fulfilling my father’s fantasies is not a priority to me.”

  “But surely there can be a time and place to indulge a fantasy?” Lucas’s soft words sent a shiver over her skin. In a second the image of pure, cold snow was overlaid with another, a great deal more heated, of bare, tangled limbs and smooth sheets and breathless lust.

  Pushing aside the wayward thought, she ignored Lucas’s comment and went up to the table. “You will see here that there is already a spring on the site,” she said briskly. “The water needs to be channeled into a cascade, which forms a pool.” She pointed to the plan and noticed that her hand was shaking a little. “The pool is already built, but the cascade is not.”

  “I can’t imagine Mr. Hemmings having the strength to construct this,” Lucas said. He had leaned in for a closer look, and a lock of black hair fell across his brow. As he raised a hand to push it back his sleeve brushed Christina’s breast. She caught her breath. She could not help it. It was a tiny noise, but Lucas heard it. He straightened slowly. Suddenly there was no sound in the office but the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears and the sound of Lucas’s breathing. She was acutely conscious of his nearness, the lean hardness of his body a mere hand’s breadth from hers, his dark gaze narrowing on her face as a spark of something hot came into his eyes. In a flash she remembered the touch of his palm against her breast and the skillful stroke of his thumb over her nipple. She felt heat curl and twist in her stomach.

  How long they stared at each other she had no idea. With a huge effort of will she broke the contact and looked down at the pencil drawings. They seemed to dance before her eyes, making no sense at all.

  “A man from the village was employed to do the construction work.” Her voice sounded husky. She cleared her throat, pressed on as though nothing had happened. “Unfortunately he was...arrested a few months ago and no work has been done on the grotto since. But now the weather has improved, perhaps you could begin again.”

  “What was his crime?” Lucas asked.

  “Whisky smuggling.” Christina met his eyes very straight. His gaze was dark, unreadable. “He was arrested by the excise officers,” she said. “It was most inconvenient.”

  That wicked smile came into Lucas’s eyes, making her feel even more as though she was trapped and could not breathe. “It must be an occupational hazard,” he murmured. “Do you never fear the same fate yourself?”

  He took a step toward her. Christina took one backward and felt the corner of the table press painfully into her hip.

  “No,” she said. “They will never catch me at the whisky still, and that is the only way I could be arrested. They cannot even find the whisky still, for that matter.” She took a breath. “Mr. Ross, I do hope you are not still thinking about your experience the night you came to Kilmory. We agreed you should forget it—for the sake of your health, if nothing else.”

  Lucas was silent for a moment, his expression dark. “Those men were dangerous,” he said.

  “Which is precisely why you should forget it ever happened,” Christina said. Her heart was suddenly banging hard against her ribs.

  “Have they ever killed anyone?” Lucas asked.

  “No,” Christina said shortly. “When it comes to it, they are all kilt and no balls beneath.” It was mostly true; the gang got restive sometimes, but she found it easy enough to talk sense into them under normal circumstances.

  She saw Lucas’s eyes light with amusement. “A descriptive phrase,” he said, “but it didn’t feel like that to me.” His hand went to his side and Christina remembered the kicks to the ribs. She pulled a face. “I am sorry about that,” she said. “Sometimes they do get a little carried away.”

  “Whereas you detest violence,” Lucas said slowly, “which makes it all the more surprising that you should be mixed up in something like the smuggling.”

  Christina felt a pang of shock. He was too perceptive. It was disconcerting. “I don’t know how you could possibly know that—” she began, before stopping and biting her lip. She barely knew this man, but it felt as though he could see right through her to all the secrets she kept hidden, all her deepest thoughts and feelings.

  “I felt it,” Lucas said. He had drawn closer to her. She had never felt more aware of anyone in her entire life. “That first night,” he said. He did not take his gaze from her face. “When they were hurting me, you hated it. I sensed that in you, that absolute revulsion you had for violence.”

  Christina half turned away from him. She could not look at him. Her feelings felt too exposed. “I do hate it,” she admitted. “I hate the way men turn to brutality sometimes to achieve what they want. I hate bloodlust and cruelty.” She gave a little shiver. This felt dangerously personal and she had sworn to keep this man at arm’s length. “Mr. Ross—as I said, it is best to forget it.”

  “All of it?” Lucas said. His tone brought her gaze back up to his and she felt another twist of heat and awareness flare inside her. She knew he was not talking about the smugglers now but of their encounter later by the churchyard.

  “Yes,” she said, ignoring the hot pulse of response deep inside her. “Try.”

  She waited a moment and saw a rueful smile touch Lucas’s lips.

  “I suppose my memory can be adaptable,” he said.

  “Good,” Christina said. “Then adapt it. Excuse me, Mr. Ross,” she added. “I am meeting with Mr. Bevan shortly.”

  Lucas nodded. “Of course. Thank you for sparing me the time, Lady Christina. I will start work on the grotto at once.”

  “Should you require anything else, I am sure that Mr. Bevan will be able to help you,” Christina said. “As Mr. Hemmings is unable to supervise your work at present, I shall ask Mr. Bevan to—”

  “Keep an eye on me?” Lucas cocked a brow. “In case I abscond with the shells and the statuary?”

  “Be available to help you,” Christina corrected. Her voice was so starchy it positively crackled. She could see that he found her stiffness amusing, but she did not dare be any other way with him. She was afraid she was already transparent to him, her attraction to him all too obvious.

  “I had not imagined that you would supervise my work yourself,” Lucas said drily.

  “It is Mr. Bevan’s job to oversee all aspects of the work of the estate,” Christina said, “and besides, I would not expect—” She stopped abruptly.

  “You would not expect to show any interest in a humble gardener,” Lucas finished. “Quite so.”

  Christina was stung by the unfairness of that when her father did not give a damn and it was her efforts that kept the estate together. “I hope I take an equal interest in the work and welfare of everyone at Kilmory,” she said coldly.

  “I am sure that you do,” Lucas said. His tone was only a shade short of disrespect.

  Christina’s control snapped. “Really, Mr. Ross, you are insolent! You are fortunate to have a job at Kilmory at all. I did not want you here, and it was only through my father’s interference that you were able to stay—” She broke off, horrified at having been provoked into the indiscretion of criticizing the duke in front of Lucas Ross.

&
nbsp; “I am aware that you did not want me here,” Lucas said. He shifted slightly. “And I wonder why—apart from the awkwardness of my knowing that you are a whisky smuggler—you want to be rid of me.”

  His gaze captured hers again, and the hot flicker in his eyes seemed to steal her breath. It was impossible to admit that there was a part of her—a very large part—that had wanted him gone for her own peace of mind. Damn the whisky smuggling; she wanted rid of him because of the way he was looking at her now and the way that made her feel. She could not be attracted to a servant over a half dozen years her junior. It was outrageous. It was wrong. She did not want it.

  She took a breath to steady her erratic pulse. “I am not in the habit of giving my servants grounds to blackmail me, Mr. Ross,” she said coldly. “And since that was precisely what you tried to do to gain a job, is it any wonder I don’t trust you?”

  Lucas smiled, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. “When you put it like that,” he said, “I can see your point.”

  “Thank you,” Christina said shortly.

  “But you can trust me.” Lucas had turned aside. She could not see his face. “I work for Kilmory now.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it,” Christina said drily. “If you try to blackmail me again I will sack you. And damn the consequences.”

  This time he did look at her. There was admiration in his eyes and something else that for a second looked oddly like regret. The silence rippled between them. “If I make the same mistake twice,” Lucas said softly, “I will deserve it.”

  A clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside reminded Christina that they could be interrupted at any moment. It was time she ended this before it went any further.

  “Good day, Mr. Ross,” she said. She spun on her heel to leave and in doing so her shawl caught on a loose nail sticking out from the wall. There was an unpleasant ripping sound.

  “Wait a moment.” Lucas had moved quickly to her side, reaching to free the delicate material before she could damage it further. “You’re trapped.”

  For a second she felt so overwhelmed by his physical proximity that she almost tore the shawl from the nail simply to escape. With the greatest effort of will she squashed the feeling down and stood still whilst Lucas’s dexterous fingers worked to slide the delicate material free. There was something disturbing about watching his hands, strong and brown; she felt another wave of heat engulf her and fixed her gaze on his chest instead.

  It seemed to take forever to unhook the shawl. Christina’s heart beat a fierce tattoo in her chest. The atmosphere in the tight confines of the room had thickened further and felt as oppressive as a thundery day. She did not dare look up into Lucas’s intent dark eyes.

  “Thank you,” she said, and it came out as a whisper.

  He stood back. “My pleasure, ma’am.” His voice was very smooth. It seemed to vibrate deep inside her.

  Christina pulled the shawl tight about her even though it was a warm day, and she almost ran through the doorway into the courtyard. Once in the fresh air she turned her face up to the sun and took several long, deep steadying breaths. She felt as though she had run a mile. She was shaking. And yet nothing had happened.

  * * *

  LUCAS STOOD IN the doorway of the drawing office and watched Christina walk away. She moved with an innate dignity and elegance, unhurried, as though those long, turbulent moments between them had never occurred. Yet he knew how much it had shaken her. He had seen the pulse drum its frantic beat in the hollow of her throat. He had seen her hands tremble. He had felt the same irresistible pull of attraction that she had.

  It was disconcerting to be so drawn to a woman whilst simultaneously suspecting her of involvement in his brother’s murder. The most disconcerting thing about it was that his intuition told him she was innocent. Since he was a man who operated on evidence, not emotion, this was more irritating than reassuring. He had no reason to exonerate her and every reason to mistrust her. Her professed hatred of violence fascinated him. She had saved his life but he wondered if she had failed to save Peter’s and that was why she was now revolted by brutality. He did not know, but he was going to find out.

  He waited until she was out of sight, then turned back into the drawing office, closing the door behind him, searching quickly and neatly through the drawers and cupboards. He found endless drawings and designs that paid tribute to the duke’s extravagant plans and wild flights of imagination, but nothing that related either to Peter or to the whisky smuggling. He had not expected it, but he was starting to feel frustrated by his lack of progress. In the past week he had caught not a whisper about Peter’s murder. Later that evening he planned to search for the sea cave where the smugglers had held him on the first night. It was dangerous, but he would be a great deal more careful this time.

  Lachlan and Angus MacMorlan were handing their horses over to one of the grooms as Lucas closed the door of the drawing office behind him and started to walk across the yard. It was the first time Lucas had seen Lachlan, who rumor had it was usually so addled with drink that he seldom got out of bed before the afternoon. Lachlan possessed the good looks that were such a distinct feature of the MacMorlan family, but his eyes were bloodshot and his gait unsteady. Angus was a big, fleshy man with an air of superiority and a long nose that seemed perfectly engineered to look down. Neither man thanked the groom nor acknowledged Lucas’s presence with a single word or look. The groom caught Lucas’s glance and rolled his eyes meaningfully. Lucas grinned.

  It was as the two men were disappearing through the archway that Lachlan turned and looked back. For a moment it seemed to Lucas as though Lachlan’s gaze shed its blurred drunkenness and focused on him, clear and hard, and then Lachlan turned away and stumbled off toward the house as though the moment had never been.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ALLEGRA HEARD THE music as she came down the path toward the bay. It was the high, thin sound of the fiddle, snatched on the breeze and tossed away out to sea. She hurried, the sand and pebbles slipping beneath the thin soles of her shoes. As she half ran, half stumbled down onto the beach the music stopped abruptly and strong arms seized her, pulling her behind a tumble of rocks.

  They wasted no time on words. She was in his arms and he was kissing her like a man half starved. He tugged the ribbons of her bonnet and threw it aside. The wind had already whipped her hair into tangled strands and he gave a groan as he plunged one hand into the shining gold. She kissed him back eagerly, trembling helplessly, feeling as though her heart was bursting with relief and love and pleasure. When he held her she could forget all the barriers they faced. Nothing mattered other than that they were together again.

  “You came for me,” she whispered when he released her for a moment.

  “Did you doubt me?” He sounded amused, but his brown eyes were dark with passion. He kissed her again and her knees weakened. She clutched at his jacket and they sank down onto the sand. It was warm in the sun, and sheltered between the rocks, but when he slid the gown from her shoulders she still shivered at the nip of the sea air. The rock felt hot against her bare back, and the sunlight beat against her closed lids. She kept her eyes shut because although he had seen her naked before, she was still very shy. She liked the wickedness of it, the chill of the breeze and the warmth of the sun and his mouth now at her breast, but she was not ready to admit it yet. It was too new to her, each new intimacy as shocking as it was delicious.

  She opened her eyes a sliver and looked down at his head at her breast. His hair, a rich chestnut in the sunlight, brushed the sensitive skin there, and she shivered in deep pleasure. His lips and his fingers worked magic on her. Her body was heating, melting. There was such a sweet ache in her belly. It made her moan. He licked her nipple, tasting her, and her entire body jerked in uninhibited response. Her eyes flew open. It was one of the things she loved about him, that he looked so cool, that he seemed so controlled, and yet beneath it he was all fire and he could make her burn, too. She was
lost in the sensation, dizzy with it, disbelieving and enchanted.

  “Take me.”

  She was naturally autocratic, and now the wickedness pushed her past her inhibitions. She was pulling up her skirts as she spoke, parting her thighs, loving the cold press of the air on her skin. She wore no drawers, and she heard the harsh catch of his breath as he saw her.

  “Allegra...” He sounded shaken. It was gratifying. He had always been the one in control when they made love. It made it all the more exciting now to shock him, thrill him.

  He was fumbling with the fastening of his trousers now, kneeling between her thighs. Impatience gripped her, and fierce hunger. She felt the tip of his cock at her opening and then he was inside her and she gasped, arching back against the stone as he drove into her with such desperate need, almost out of control. She matched his desperation stroke for stroke, driven on by the ever-tightening spiral of excitement and desire. Blinding pleasure caught her hard and fast, and she cried aloud, the sound mingling with the relentless crash of the waves on the beach and the wild calls of the birds wheeling overhead.

  Afterward he drew her into the curve of his shoulder. He was breathing hard, one arm shaded across his eyes.

  She waited for him to say something sweet, something loving.

  “You have to tell your mother,” he said. He sat up, gripped her wrists. “Allegra, you have to tell your mother we are married.”

  She tried to pull away from him, feeling obscurely hurt and upset. She knew that he was right; she might be carrying his child. She had no idea how she would explain that. Yet her mind spun away from the thought of telling her family the truth. They would be angry with her, and for one terrible moment she was not sure if her love for Richard was strong enough to withstand that.

  She freed herself, straightened her gown, drew her knees up and hugged them like a little girl, hunched, protective.