An Invitation to Pleasure Page 2

  As she clutched the calloused hand of the ferry man to climb ashore, she saw him striding towards her. A tall, broad man he was, who exuded strength and vitality with every step. Long, muscled legs clad in tight trews covered the distance between them so quickly that his hair, worn long and loose to his shoulders, flew out behind him. Auburn hair, it glinted fire in the weak sunlight. A rough growth of stubble gleamed the same colour on his chin. Tanned skin he had, and a mouth curled into the hint of a welcoming smile.

  Susanna’s stomach did a little flip-flop. It was the eyes. Though the lines at the corners seemed less pronounced, and the hard edge of pain was no longer there, they were his eyes, a strange colour that must be hazel but looked amber. Was it really him? The man she had known had been tense to the point of breaking, as if he were held together by wires, his face hollowed out by suffering. She had forgotten, but it came back to her vividly now, the way he had looked out at the world, as if from a long distance away.

  This could not be him, this wild-looking, vital Highlander. Nerves, a faltering of her hard-won confidence, surprise, admiration and a sharp twinge of attraction wrestled for dominance. She was still trying to form her thoughts when her hands were clasped in his, a rough cheek pressed to hers, and the scent of wool, leather and man enveloped her.

  ‘Lady Mountjoy,’ Fergus said.

  ‘Captain Lamont?’

  ‘Aye, but it is actually Laird Kilmun now.’ She looked dumbfounded. Fergus wanted to laugh, but he was fair dumbfounded himself, for she seemed quite transformed. The female he remembered had been coltish, unsure of herself. He recalled downcast eyes and clasped hands, a mouth prim with the effort not to cry. The woman before him had a distinct air of confidence about her. He remembered her as a pretty wee thing conventionally turned out. Now she stood on the jetty, looking nothing like. Memorable rather than beautiful, she was all high cheekbones and wide-open grey eyes. Those he did remember.

  The wind had whipped several wispy tendrils of hair out from under her bonnet. Her skin was very pale, her lips very red, her hair blue-black, the starkly contrasting colours giving her a touch of the exotic. A most unexpected stirring of his blood made him remember something else from that first meeting of theirs. He had kissed her. Or he had only just stopped himself from kissing her. It was the way she’d stood up to him, challenging his tirade, that had roused him. For a demure wee thing, she’d packed quite a punch. Now she was no longer a demure wee thing, but quite clearly and very delectably grown into her skin, it would be amusing to see if he could stoke her fire. It had been a long while, too long a while, since he’d had either the inclination or the opportunity for a bit of verbal sparring, but damn, there was something about this woman that made him want to forget all about taking life seriously and do just that.

  Fergus smiled. ‘Has the cat got your tongue, Lady Mountjoy? No, I can’t call you that, it sticks in my craw. Since our acquaintance is of such long standing, perhaps you would allow me to call you Susanna, and you may call me Fergus?’

  She simply stared, as if he had asked her to call him the devil, and damn, if it didn’t make the devil in him react. ‘I wonder now, though you would not kiss a mere captain all those years ago, have you a kiss for the laird?’

  She looked as if she was torn between slapping him and doing as he was bid. Then, to his astonishment, she laughed. It was a wonderful sound, like the gurgling of a stream. ‘You are quite outrageous, Captain—Laird! And in one sense, wholly unchanged, for you must still be taking enormous liberties. In every other sense, however, I barely recognised you.’

  Fergus laughed. ‘You’ve no objection then, to a Highlander over a soldier?’

  ‘Laird Kilmun, you may assume the guise of a Russian peasant for all I care. It is no business of mine.’

  Her voice remained cool, but he could see the smile lurking in her eyes. Such a serious business duty was, it had not occurred to Fergus that the doing of it would be enjoyable. But then, the woman he’d pictured in the role by his side was a poor wee soul filled with gratitude. A destitute, put-upon widow, he had imagined. But this widow, who was patently not in mourning, did not at all look as if she was in need of saving. He had thought it would be as simple as putting his proposition to her and awaiting her eager and delighted acceptance. His conscience would finally be quieted and his tenants reassured by the sight of the woman who would bear the future laird. Faced with a witty and exotic creature biting back her laughter, Fergus felt a distinct twinge of doubt.

  He cursed himself for having made his plans public—though who would blame him, with so much pressure from so many sides to settle down and secure the future for his lands. He was sick to the back teeth of being introduced to Highland misses, all of them eligible, and, to his eyes, wholly interchangeable. Which had led him to conclude that that side of him was dead. Until now.

  Fergus put his arms around his visitor’s shoulder and steered her towards the path which led to the castle, thanking his stars that her lack of the Gaelic would keep her in temporary ignorance of his presumption. ‘You’ve had a long journey, and there are a good few people who are eager to welcome you to the Highlands,’ he said. ‘Let me take you home.’

  ‘Home’ was a castle. Built of grey stone, it sat square to the loch, though its facade was hidden from the village by a carriageway bordered with oak trees. A round tower with a high conical roof like a witch’s hat sat at each corner of the edifice, and although it had no moat, there looked as if there ought to be one to serve the drawbridge which led up to the studded front door. Gothic and baroque, pretty and flamboyant with its buttressed roof and tower windows formed to look like arrow slits, Castle Kilmun looked as if it had been lifted straight out of a children’s storybook. The backdrop of snow-capped mountains, the picturesque village and the loch in the foreground added to the fairytale image. Susanna was enchanted.

  From the gatekeeper’s lodge to the mighty front door, the carriageway was lined with people. Old women in black, younger women in full skirts that stopped well short of the ankle, men in the kilt, which Susanna had never seen before save in paintings. Other men wore trews. ‘The shawl the women wear is called an arisaidh,’ the man who insisted she call him Fergus said, ‘and you can tell which of them are married, for they wear the kertch or kerchief tied over their hair.’

  Susanna listened to his commentary of names and roles without taking much in save that he had an impressive memory for every face. Bemused by the dropping of curtsies, the dropping of eyes which she could feel raised to stare the moment she passed by, she was very conscious of her clothes, her accent, which marked her out as not one of them. It was all so foreign and so unexpected and quite exhilarating. She smiled in bewildered acknowledgement of the murmurs of ‘mistress’ and ‘my lady’, and allowed herself to be beguiled, telling herself it was the people, the scenery, the castle, and nothing at all to do with the man at her side.

  In the great hall, where a positive armoury of broadswords and daggers and foils and pistols were displayed on the walls in intricate designs, there were more curtsies and bows and nudging and whispering from a cluster of servants and ancient retainers, whose scrutiny was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable. Who on earth did they think she was?

  In the huge stone fireplace, a fire consumed what looked like half a tree. Food was taken, Susanna’s health was drunk, and then speeches were made, all in the soft, lilting Gaelic which she could not understand and which Fergus made no attempt to translate. The sense of unreality took hold. Her head began to buzz. She needed to sit down in a quiet room, take off her hat, and gather her thoughts. The whisky burned her throat and made her cough. The heat was overpowering. The flagstone floor seemed to tilt up at her. She slumped back in her seat, and found herself suddenly scooped up into her host’s arms.

  It felt rather nice to be picked up so effortlessly, to be held against such a broad chest, to be forced to surrender to him, just for a few seconds, so Susanna felt obliged to struggle. ‘Put me d
own.’

  Fergus ignored her. ‘You will excuse us,’ he said to the gathered household. ‘My lady is overcome by the warmth of your welcome.’

  Laughter greeted this remark. ‘My lady?’ Susanna hissed, grabbing hold of a fistful of his auburn hair and yanking hard. It had no effect. Fergus’s arms tightened around her as he carried her, ignoring her protests, up the wide sweep of stairs, along a long hallway to a dark panelled door, which he managed to open without letting her fall, and finally he set her down.

  Chapter Three

  The room was at the rear of the castle, with a view out over parkland where deer were foraging in the frosty grass. Dusk was falling outside. The fireplace was of carved stone, but the smouldering flames indicated a chimney in need of sweeping. It would have been a pleasant room, with its faded damask hangings and its worn rugs, cosy and comfortable like the pair of chairs angled towards the fire, were it not for the fact that it was dominated by a large four-poster bed.

  Fergus was leaning against the door. Tall, broad, a bit dishevelled, a bit out of breath, a lot of man. He was looking at her in a way that was far from gentlemanly. His eyes had a wicked glint. And his mouth…

  Susanna turned her back on the man and the bed, confused by how sharply she could recall that might-have-been kiss. She had blocked it so completely from her mind that she thought it forgotten. She remembered the way his body felt against hers, recalled precisely the fluttering anticipation as his lips brushed hers. She tugged at the knotted strings of her bonnet. The relief, when she pulled the dratted thing from her head, was enormous. She ran her fingers through her tangled curls with a sigh.

  ‘Have you the headache? I’m not surprised, all that bowing and scraping, I’ve a headache with it myself.’

  She had expected him to bid her goodnight and leave, yet here he was, standing behind her. His strong fingers on her temples were gentle and soothing. His being here was most improper. Perhaps things were different in Scotland. Susanna closed her eyes as the pain surrendered to his touch until it veered from soothing to something more unsettling. Different customs or no, this could not possibly be right. In fact, now her thumping headache was gone, none of it seemed right at all.

  She pushed his hands away and turned to confront him. ‘What is going on? Why did all those people make such a fuss over me? What were all those toasts about? And what are you doing here, in my bedchamber? I am five-and-twenty and perfectly capable of undressing myself.’ Almost before she had finished speaking she started blushing. ‘I beg your pardon, I did not mean to imply that you would—that I would—what I mean is, Fergus, you should not be here.’

  Fergus ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Aye well, actually, Susanna, it’s expected that I stay here, under the circumstances.’

  He should not have attempted the smile. He’d meant to try for endearing, but Susanna, Fergus was fast realising, was not a woman who could be manipulated, even if it was for her own good. She stared at him in astonishment. ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  He sat down, and indicated the chair opposite, but Susanna remained rooted to the spot, crossing her arms across her chest. ‘Then talk.’

  ‘Will you at least take off your coat?’

  ‘Provided you understand that is all I’m removing. And before I do even that much, let me inform you that I don’t care what kind of customs of droit signeur prevail in these parts, I will have nothing to do with them.’

  He couldn’t help it—he laughed. ‘Faith, woman. This is the nineteenth century, not the dark ages. Though if the notion of me as a brawny Highland laird in plaid carrying you off to my lair pleases you, I’ll do my best to oblige.’

  ‘I would not have you go to such trouble on my behalf,’ Susanna replied primly.

  She did not laugh, but the sparkle in her eyes gave her away. That biddable wee lass he had imagined would not have been half as much fun as this woman. Though fun, Fergus reminded himself, as Susanna cast her pelisse aside and sat down facing him, was not the point at all. Fergus drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, struggling for a subtle opening. Looking up, he met a pair of wide-open grey eyes, and decided that bluntness would serve him best. ‘They think we are betrothed,’ he said baldly.

  ‘Betrothed!’

  ‘There’s no need to screech.’

  ‘I did not screech. And if I did, it was your own fault. “I would consider it an honour if you would join me over Christmas,” your letter said. “I am sure that you will enjoy the way we celebrate the new year here in the Highlands,” you wrote. At no point did you mention marriage. My God, I’ve only just escaped the hell of one union. Do you think I’m so stupid as to repeat my mistakes?’

  Which at least answered the question of whether or not she had been happy, Fergus thought. He grabbed her before she reached the door. This was not going well. ‘Susanna, listen to me. You cannot know how deeply sorry I have been these past three years, knowing how unhappy I made you. I would have written, called on you, but what would be the point when the damage was done? Hearing from me, your nemesis, would only have caused you more pain.’

  Susanna frowned, shaking her head in confusion. ‘Nemesis? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You were right. I had no thought at all for you—all I cared about was getting at Mountjoy. I didn’t think of the damage I was doing to you, the hurt I was inflicting on you. It didn’t occur to me, you see, that you might have feelings for the man.’

  His remorse startled her, but his misplaced pity was insulting. ‘Fergus, my marriage to Jason was a mistake, but it was mine to make, and…’

  It has been the making of me, is what she intended to say, but he interrupted her. ‘Let us not talk of the past. It is done, I cannot undo it, much as I would wish, but I can make it up to you, Susanna.’

  Now he was smiling again, but there was something not quite right about that smile. It made her edgy. His determination to take responsibility for her was really quite annoying, especially since one of the reasons she had come here was to show him how very able she now was to take care of herself. She tried to free herself, but his grip on her tightened. She was not in the least bit frightened, but she was perturbed by the fervent light in his eyes. ‘Fergus, you have nothing to make up for.’

  But Fergus seemed bent on a speech which sounded bizarrely well-rehearsed. ‘I’m no Adonis, but I’m sound in body and in mind, too. Now. The title I hold is an old one, and the lands extensive, though they have been sadly neglected. As for Castle Kilmun, the roof is watertight, and it was Robert Adam himself who designed the main rooms, though they lack a woman’s touch, for my cousin never married. In fact, the lack of a woman—the lack of a Lady Kilmun, more precisely—is something I’m under great pressure to address, wish to address, I mean. I never thought to inherit these lands, but I intend to do my best by them and the people, so I need a wife and bairns. My conscience is in your debt. And what’s more, you’re in need of a home. Our marriage solves all of that. It’s the perfect solution. Absolutely perfect.’

  Fergus beamed. Susanna’s jaw dropped. If he had not been so patently sincere, if there had been one scrap in her make-up of the pathetic relic that he seemed to imagine her, she would have been furious. Instead she was…she was…she didn’t quite know what she was. Bewildered, confused, amused, flattered? Endeared, maybe. But tempted? Not one whit of it! ‘Fergus, it is very kind of you, but I have absolutely no wish to be married under any circumstances.’

  ‘Kind!’ Fergus felt as if the floor had shifted under his feet.

  ‘And generous, too,’ Susanna said graciously. ‘I am sure when the right woman comes along…’

  ‘But you are the right woman.’ She could not mean to refuse him. All his plans depended upon her agreeing. ‘You have to marry me,’ Fergus said, not caring how desperate he sounded.

  ‘I do not have to do anything of the sort.’

  Her very determined tone completely threw him. ‘It is admirable,’ Fer
gus said, clutching at straws, ‘your being set upon standing on your own two feet. It’s admirable. But foolish. And—and quite unnecessary when I am offering you an alternative. I ruined your life, Susanna, there is no need to pretend I did not. You must let me make amends.’ He raked his hands through his hair. Could she not see that he needed to rescue her? By heavens, did she not realise that if she wouldn’t have him he would have to marry one of those other milk and water lasses! He had been planning this for months, ever since seeing that death notice. She could not possibly be refusing him. Perhaps if he put it in different terms?

  Fergus struggled to conjure a conciliatory smile. ‘Susanna, let us face facts. You need a home. I have a home to offer. You are without resources. I have plenty, and I’m more than willing to share them, for I owe you. This place needs a woman. I need a wife.’ She could not possibly refuse such a practical offer.

  It seemed she could. ‘But I have no wish for a husband, Fergus.’

  He could have roared with vexation. Did she not know what was good for her? More to the point, what was good for him. He owed it to his conscience to marry her. He was set on it. If he could just persuade her to stay, she would see that. Fergus yanked his temper back onto its leash, and changed tack. ‘I can see I’ve been presumptive.’