Never Tempt a Scot Page 8

  Portia wanted to smash every breakable object in their drawing room. It wasn’t fair. Brodie was supposed to be her husband. Yes, tying him down did seem a bit silly now, as well as that whole drugging nonsense, but she’d been so desperate to have him. She’d thought giving him a bit more of the laudanum would have calmed him enough so that she could show him just how good a wife she would make.

  “Portia,” her great-aunt snapped, and Portia stopped her restless pacing by the window.

  “Yes, Aunt Cornelia?” she replied frostily.

  Her great-aunt narrowed her eyes, not at all cowed by Portia’s icy tone. “I know you told your father you are with child, but I have it confirmed this morning with your lady’s maid that you most certainly are not.”

  “What?” Jackson looked to Portia, his face pale. “You . . .You lied to me?”

  The way her father was looking at her now, it was like she was a stranger. It created an empty cavern within her chest. Was this shame she was feeling? “I . . .”

  “The truth, girl,” Cornelia barked.

  “He never touched me, Papa. But I so wanted him for a husband, and . . .”

  “Portia, I kidnapped and injured an innocent man based on the strength of your word. I thought I was protecting your virtue. He could have me arrested. I could face time in prison for this. How could you be so . . .”

  “Foolish?” Cornelia supplied.

  Portia was torn between tears and rage. “But . . . I love him, Papa, like you loved Mama. All the stories you told us of her . . . I wanted what you had.”

  Her father shook his head. “Then I have taught you all the wrong lessons. Clearly, you don’t know the first thing about love. Love isn’t about getting what you desire on a whim. It’s about sharing your life with another person. A person you trust, someone who trusts you in kind. It’s about sacrifice and loyalty and friendship and . . .” Jackson dragged a hand over his face and let out a weary sigh Portia had never heard before. It was a sound that broke part of her armor of self-indulgence and self-centeredness.

  “Papa, I’m very sorry I lied to you.” She threw herself next to him on the settee, and her eyes filled with tears. She reached for his hands, but Jackson pulled away and stood, putting distance between them.

  “Cornelia, I think Portia should partake of the ocean air in Brighton. Would you be willing to escort her there? I will have the arrangements made in a few hours.”

  “I would be glad to, but what will you do?” Cornelia asked.

  “Find and rescue my daughter, even if it means facing down a very large and rightfully angry Scotsman.”

  7

  Brodie was in a black mood that afternoon as they journeyed toward the next coaching inn. He’d gone from loathing her, to desiring revenge against her, to simply desiring her, all in the span of a single night and day. He didn’t know if it was because Rafe’s blasted wager had made her a forbidden temptation or if her pleas of innocence straddled the line between believable and intolerable. The link between anger and arousal was a strange but real one, and he needed to be careful that he did not act in poor judgment because of it.

  Yet all he wanted now was to take Lydia to bed and give in to his mad desires. But he’d kept his restraint, not only because of the wager, but because it was right. Yet here she was resisting his suggestions, and she even dared to demand fair treatment as a proper mistress.

  The nerve. Given what she and her father had done to him, she didn’t deserve fairness, yet he would give it to her, and that made him feel fairly disagreeable. Neither Rafe nor either of their valets had volunteered to accompany him inside after they saw Brodie’s thunderous expression. So now Brodie and his captive were trapped inside the coach alone. After half an hour, he noted she wasn’t reading her book.

  “Miss Hunt,” he said. She’d been frozen on the same page all this time, her gaze distant. He was curious to know what she was thinking about and what manipulations she was planning next.

  She finally looked his way, and those soft blue eyes held him, calmed him in a way he hadn’t expected. “Yes?”

  “You’ve not been reading.”

  “Yes, I have.” She held up Park’s Travels in Africa.

  “You havena turned a page in quite a while.”

  A faint shade of rose tinged her cheeks. “I was just thinking . . .”

  “About what?”

  “Mr. Park was Scottish. Did you know that?” she asked suddenly.

  “Was he?” Brodie leaned forward a little. He hadn’t had a chance to read the book yet. He had only purchased it recently. He loved to read, and it had always haunted him that he hadn’t been able to rescue the books from their library back in Castle Kincade when his father began selling everything they owned to keep the castle. When he had seen Park’s book in the bookshop, he’d desperately wanted to read it. Yet part of him had felt rather unsatisfied knowing he would never have adventures like Park. He would never see the world or live a remarkable life. The book seemed to haunt him with the promise of a life he couldn’t live.

  “Well, he was Scottish.” Lydia turned a few pages, as if reviewing them. “He writes dispassionately about all that he sees, yet beneath that there is an undeniable curiosity about Africa, its lands and its people. He offers a beautiful glimpse into Africa’s complexity and humanity. He even details hundreds of languages and the customs of many tribes who live there.”

  Lydia was almost smiling as she spoke. For a minute, Brodie forgot about the gulf that lay between them. He forgot that he did not trust her or she him and that they were linked by scandal.

  “Would you ever go to Africa?” he asked her.

  “I believe I would, actually.” Her sudden, unguarded smile made his pulse quicken. “I would sail from Portsmouth to Gambia and venture into the wilds there. It would be dangerous, especially for a woman, but if I could find an exploration party who would let me come, I would join it.”

  “Really?” Brodie pictured Lydia wearing breeches, her hair pulled into a tail at the nape of her neck as she sailed into the Congo in a shallow boat while watching a red-gold horizon. It was a breathtaking vision.

  “Would you?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he said. “If I was able.”

  “Are you not able?” Lydia tilted her head as she closed the book and set it on her lap.

  “I wasn’t, not for a long time. Until recently, my family faced difficult days. We struggled to keep our home. It’s only now that we are more able to do the things we longed to do for years.”

  “Your brother married Joanna Lennox, didn’t he?” She was being polite by asking, even though she knew the answer. “I’ve heard it was a bit scandalous. There was talk of Gretna Green and a mad chase by Joanna’s older brother and his friends, the League of Rogues.”

  “Aye, Brock did marry Joanna. Do you know her?”

  “Yes, we’re friends. But I admit I’ve not seen her in some months.”

  “I don’t think she would be friends with the likes of you.” Brodie leaned back and stroked his chin. He wanted to push her, to test her limits.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Joanna is a sweet, kind woman. She doesna make friends with scheming vipers such as you.”

  “Oh, stop it! Just stop being such a bully,” Lydia hissed.

  “In this coach, only one of us has been kidnapped.” He reconsidered his words when she cocked an eyebrow. “That is, only one of us has been bound and . . .” The eyebrow arched higher. “Well, only one of us has been drugged with laudanum.”

  “And only one of us has been held at knifepoint,” Lydia countered.

  “You seem to be mistaking revenge for being wronged,” Brodie shot back as he leaned forward to talk to her. “Never forget, lass, that you started all this.” The air tensed between them in that instant, and Lydia reacted instinctively to his aggressive invasion of her space.

  Lydia struck, not with an open palm, but a balled fist to his jaw. The blow stung, to be sure, bu
t his hard face had met with harder blows over many years of boxing and brawls. He touched his face, puzzled. At the ball, she’d given him a delicate, even childish slap. Now he was facing a woman who was upset, truly lashing out.

  “Ouch.” She clutched her hand against her chest. “I think I broke my hand on your hard head!”

  “Serves you right,” he muttered, expecting her to continue to bemoan an exaggerated injury. But her face continued to be lined with pain. A sinking feeling in his chest quickly deflated his temper.

  “All right, let me see, lass.” He waved a hand at her.

  “I’m fine.”

  He could see clearly how much she was hurting now. He joined her on the other seat and reached for her hand. She flinched as he pulled her arm toward him, examining her wrist and hand.

  “Does this hurt?” He rotated her wrist, and she bit her lip and nodded.

  “And this?” He flexed her delicate pale fingers, trying not to let his mind run away with images of her slender hands touching his body.

  “That doesn’t hurt too much,” she whispered. “It’s more my wrist, I think.”

  Brodie moved his fingers back to her wrist, gently massaging, but she would need to rest it for it to fully heal.

  “You’ve likely sprained it, lass. It is an easy mistake. When you mean to punch a man, never let your wrist bend.” He raised up her good arm and balled her fingers into a fist. “Swing slow, at my jaw,” he commanded. She stared at him in disbelief. He sighed. “Do it.”

  She slowly swung her uninjured hand at him. He caught her fist in his palm and used his other hand to show her where her wrist was bent incorrectly—just a little force caused it to bend even farther.

  “See? That’s how you hurt yourself. Keep it straight.”

  “Oh, I see.” Lydia straightened her wrist and pushed forward. Though he still held her fist, it was easy to see how much more stable this position was, locking right up to her elbow. “Why are you teaching me to hit you?”

  Brodie chuckled, his anger fading. “I suppose because it is adorable to see you attempt to be feisty, lass.” He sobered. “Though if you truly want to hurt a man who means you harm, lift your skirts high and kick him in the bollocks.”

  “His . . . Oh, good heavens, I could never—”

  Brodie cupped her chin. “If a man means to harm you, you must not hesitate to defend yourself. Men talk about fighting fair, but men who win fights keep their mouths shut and do what they have to. Remember that.”

  Lydia bit her lip, and Brodie wanted more than anything to sweep her onto his lap and nibble that lip himself. Brodie took in her dainty nose, the heavy fall of lashes that swept down over her cheeks each time she blinked, and the soft natural rose in her cheeks that blended with her creamy skin.

  It brought back a dim memory that seemed more like a dream to him. It was of his mother in the kitchens, dipping fresh strawberries into clotted cream. She would hand each of her children a strawberry, and he, his brothers, and Rosalind would enjoy the treat with her. It was one of the few happy memories he had of his mother before she died.

  Brodie wondered if Lydia’s mouth would remind him of strawberries and cream. He reached up to touch her again, and her breath came swifter, her face flushed as he leaned in.

  “If you dinna want me to kiss you, you’d best hit me now like I showed you, lass,” he warned and gave her but a handful of heartbeats to decide.

  No blow came. Instead, her lashes closed, her lips parted, and in one quick motion, Brodie cornered her against the coach wall and swept her into his arms. His body jolted with heat the second he claimed her mouth. Her lips were warm and trembling beneath his.

  This was no bold kiss like the one she’d given him when he’d been tied down. This was the very opposite. She shivered, and her hands fluttered against his body before they settled on top of his chest. Her fingertips dug into the cloth of his bottle-green silk waistcoat. He flicked his tongue against her lips, and she startled, opening to him further. Her sweet taste did indeed remind him of cream and strawberries.

  Brodie coaxed her to be bold, and he showed her with his mouth what he wanted most.

  “Give in to me, sweetness,” he whispered seductively. “Let me master you, my wild beauty.” He had never wanted so much to control a woman’s passion like he wanted to control Lydia’s. Perhaps it was due to his frustration over the brief time she had been his master, or maybe it was simply that seeing her play a wanton innocent now was bringing out a primal part of him that wanted to own every part of her and teach her all the sensual delights he knew.

  He groaned in agonized pleasure and cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss. Her startled little sounds drew his baser instincts to the surface. He grasped her uninjured wrist and pinned it to the padded wall of the coach beside her head, holding her prisoner while he claimed his revenge in kisses.

  She was panting, her fast breaths creating a rise and fall of her breasts, and he moved his mouth down to those tempting mounds. Her skin was smooth, and the creamy mounds were as flushed as her face. He wondered if her nipples were the same soft, sweet pink as her lips or a duskier color. He pressed hot kisses to her breasts, wishing her gown wasn’t so tight, so that he might free her breasts completely.

  She moaned as he flicked his tongue in the sensitive space between her breasts, and he laughed softly against her skin.

  “Ach, there’s so much a man can do with breasts like these,” he murmured, and she only breathed harder.

  “What things?” she asked, her words breathy as she wriggled against him.

  “Oh, grand, wicked things. Things a lass like you once claimed to ken.” He repeated the flick of his tongue, this time along the edge of her bodice, mere inches from her nipples.

  “Mr. Kincade . . . Please, I can’t . . .”

  He glanced up at her face. A light layer of sweat dewed her skin, and he couldn’t resist giving her what he knew she needed.

  “Let me touch you, lass. I can ease the ache.”

  “Yes, please, I need you to touch me,” she insisted breathlessly.

  Brodie released her wrist and slid one hand up her leg, beneath her skirts, gently questing through the frothy lace of her underpinnings until he discovered her mound. She nearly shrieked with apparent surprise, but he silenced her with a long, hot kiss.

  “Easy, lass, let me continue.” He stroked his fingertips down her mound and to the bud of arousal that he wanted to see but couldn’t, given the tight confines of the coach. He would have to content himself with working the pad of his thumb over it, pressing and brushing until Lydia screamed with pleasure against his mouth.

  Brodie drank down her cry of startled pleasure, relishing his victory. She was going to be well and truly his soon enough, and she would never be satisfied with any other man again. Then, once she was hopelessly ruined and desperately in love with him, he would cast her off and send her home to her bastard of a father.

  Lydia’s struggles ceased, and she settled more deeply into his hold. He removed his hands from beneath her skirts and pulled her even closer to him.

  “I . . .” She paused and tried again. “I’ve never felt . . . Was that . . . ?”

  “Passion,” he answered. “You’ve truly never felt it before?” That stunned him. The woman had professed her knowledge of passion. Had it all been bravado and lies? Was she truly an innocent? Completely untouched by a man? He supposed he would have his answer soon enough.

  “Do men feel the same?” Her wide, guileless gaze should have been familiar. He dimly, drunkenly recalled she’d given him a wide-eyed, guileless look before, but this one seemed truer somehow than what his memory recalled.

  “Of course we do. ’Tis what makes tupping so pleasurable.”

  “Tupping?”

  He couldn’t resist laughing. “Yes, lass, tupping, coupling, making love, fu—”

  “Oh please, no more.” She covered his mouth with one of her hands.

  He caught her wrist and
placed a kiss to her open palm before he drew her hand away from his mouth.

  “You really mustn’t say such things, Mr. Kincade.”

  “Brodie,” he corrected. “If you’re going to be my mistress, Brodie will do.”

  “Yes . . . Your mistress,” she said, looking away from him, her expression suddenly distracted. She then turned back to him and squared her shoulders. “Well, if that is to be my fate, shall we settle upon some rules?”

  “Rules?” He cocked his head. “We have no need of rules.”

  “I must insist.” Lydia crossed her arms, no doubt an attempt to look in control, but all it did was render the lass more adorable. He kept having to remind himself that he should despise her for what she had done to him.

  “Very well, name your rules. I’ll decide if I agree.”

  “You must act respectable toward me in public. Do not mistreat me in the presence of others. I know you will not treat me as a wife, but a little respect is all I ask.”

  He blinked in surprise. He’d never intended to mistreat her. “I agree to that. What else?”

  “If you must continue to hold me against my will, allow me to have food, suitable clothes, and decent accommodations.”

  “Ach, so you thought my plans were to leave you naked, starving, and sleeping in the stables? I may not think highly of you, lass, but I certainly never thought of treating you that low.” He couldn’t help his sharp reply, but she was insulting him by assuming he’d subject her to such wretched treatment. His only intent from the beginning was to ruin her reputation, not her life.

  Lydia blushed but continued. “And please do not hurt me, if you understand my meaning.”

  He was no longer in the mood to tease her. Brodie held her gaze evenly. “I willna force you, lass.” He kept his tone gentle as he addressed the deepest fear she seemed to have about him. “But be warned, I canna help it if you decide you want me. There are only so many times I will be able to resist you.”

  “You think I would try to seduce you?”

  He chuckled. “I think in time you will be begging me to bed you, lass. You willna be able to help wanting me.”