Highland Rogue, London Miss Read online

  “By treating her with courtesy and respect,” Esme returned. “That is how a gentleman shows his regard for his wife.”

  “Or his mother, or his sovereign,” he replied. “A man should show a little something more passionate toward his wife, don’t you think? Or maybe you don’t, in which case I shall pity your husband, if you ever get one.”

  His words stung, because she secretly did want to marry, and have children, too. But she wasn’t about to let him discover any chink in her armor. “If you must demonstrate your spousal affection in company, a simple kiss on the cheek will suffice.”

  “Very well,” he conceded with a shrug—and to Esme’s vast relief. “A little peck on the cheek it will be.”

  Then he turned to look out the window and said not another word.

  Quinn was glad Esme stayed silent for the rest of that stage of their journey. He didn’t want to endure another quarrel with her, or be bombarded by her caustic observations. It was enough that she’d made it clear that pretending to be his wife was something she considered abhorrent. As for that kiss… Although she’d reacted as if he’d ravished her right there on the seat, she’d responded with shocking passion, at least at first.

  He would not imagine making love with Esme McCallan right here on the seat, her body against his as he thrust, hot and hard, driving them both to ecstasy.

  God help him, what was wrong with him? Was he fatigued? Feverish?

  Really that lonely?

  Fortunately, they had only a few more miles to go before the coach entered the yard of an inn in Stamford through its high, arched gate. It was a bustling, busy, half-timbered place, with guests, servants, grooms, stable boys and maids going about their work. Vines covered the stone wall surrounding the yard and straggled around the edges. Large stone troughs stood filled and ready, and smoke billowed from the chimneys of the public rooms and kitchen. Although it was not yet evening, the glow of the windows foretold bright lamps, warmth and candles within.

  Glad it was no longer raining, Quinn dutifully helped Esme disembark from the coach, as their roles demanded. Meanwhile, the innkeeper, a thin, sallow fellow in plain homespun jacket, neatly tied cravat, white shirt and dark trousers, rushed toward them. A beefier servant in a yoked smock appeared from the stable and started to take their baggage from the boot.

  “Good day, good day!” the innkeeper cried, making a swift survey of their clothes and the coach. Quinn didn’t doubt the middle-aged man could gauge the value of their garments and equipage almost to the penny. “Staying the night, sir?”

  “Yes,” Quinn replied with his most charming smile. “My wife and I require two rooms.”

  The innkeeper frowned and rubbed his nearly bald pate. “Two, eh? I’m sorry to say, sir, we’re nearly full up. I have only one room left that’ll be good enough for you and your wife.”

  That was a problem.

  “I’m sure one will be sufficient,” Esme replied sweetly, slipping her arm through Quinn’s.

  It took a mighty effort not to stare at her, for he’d never in his life guessed Esme McCallan could sound so docile and demure. As for the sensation of her arm in his and the possibility of sharing a room…

  Gad, how long had it been since he’d made love to a woman? Too long, clearly. What else could explain the way his body seemed to leap to life the instant the scornful, prudish miss, who never looked at him except to frown, touched him? She could barely tolerate him, while he’d been more excited by that one kiss, and now this touch, than by a practised courtesan’s most seductive efforts.

  Determined to act as if he wasn’t aroused and their relationship was perfectly ordinary, he patted her gloved hand. “Yes, one will be quite all right. Please show us to the room and have our baggage brought up. And we’ll require a supper, of course.” He’d already decided on one point of procedure for this part of their journey and saw no need to change it. “We’ll dine in our room.”

  Esme’s grip tightened. He ignored that, and her, as they followed the innkeeper across the yard, through the door and into the crowded taproom. Not surprisingly, several of those inside turned to watch the new arrivals and more than one of the men regarded Esme with open admiration.

  He could guess what they were thinking—that she was lovely and desirable. That they’d gladly bed her, if they could only have the chance.

  A rush of primal possessiveness filled him and he glared at them all as if they were thieves attempting to steal his most valuable possession.

  Not that Esme needed that sort of assistance. She could cut a man down to size with a look, or a few sharp words. Indeed, he’d pay good money to witness that…except she couldn’t see them. That fancy bonnet she was wearing was like blinkers on a horse, shielding her from their attention, and him from seeing her face.

  “Here you go, madam, sir,” the innkeeper said after they’d gone up the stairs and he opened the door to a small, but comfortably appointed room. Although there was a commode and a washstand with plenty of fresh linen, most of the space was taken up by a large curtained bed that looked at least two hundred years old. “When would you like supper?”

  “Eight o’clock,” Quinn replied as Esme walked over to the small, mullioned window and looked out at the yard. “We’ll breakfast at six.”

  “Right you are, my lord. Boots outside the door for cleaning, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a nod, the innkeeper went out and closed the door, leaving Quintus MacLachlann alone in a room with a large, probably very comfortable bed.

  And a beautiful woman who hated him.

  Out of the corner of her eye Esme watched MacLachlann stroll toward the curtained bed covered with a brown woollen blanket. He pushed down on it as if checking its softness…or stability.

  Good heavens, surely he didn’t think…! “You will, of course, be sleeping on the floor tonight,” she said as she turned to face him.

  MacLachlann flopped on the bed like a landed fish and cushioned his head with his hands while crossing his long legs. He still had his boots on, too—the typical behavior of a selfish, inconsiderate man who thought only of his own comfort and not of the person who would have to clean the covering.

  “Have you forgotten we’re supposed to be married?” he asked, as if she was stupid.

  Her hands balled into fists as she turned back to glare at the massive oak tree at the edge of the yard. How she’d dearly love to wipe that smug, arrogant grin from his face! “Supposed to be, but most definitely are not. You’re the last man on earth I’d ever want to—”

  A vision popped into her head, of Quintus MacLachlann in that same pose and place, naked and smiling with a come-hither look in his eye.

  “Ever want to what?” he prompted, his voice low and husky and rather close, too.

  She stiffened. Had he gotten off the bed?

  Wherever he was, she didn’t want to let him know she was curious about him in any way, so she didn’t even move her head to glance in the small framed mirror over the washstand to try to locate him.

  “Ever want to marry,” she continued. “If you’re the best I can hope for, I’ll gladly be a spinster. You’re far too insolent, rude, crude and barbaric, as exemplified by your behavior in the coach.”

  “I assume you’re referring to the kiss.”

  Of course she was. How could he possibly think that kiss was appropriate, or that she would enjoy such an unwelcome familiarity?

  Except that she had. Far, far too much. Even now she couldn’t stop thinking about it and wondering if she’d feel that same surge of longing and excitement if he did it again. “I’m also referring to your impudent manner of speaking. And slouching.”

  “Saints preserve me!” he cried with a mockery that was impertinence personified. “I had no idea that even my posture was damning me in your fine eyes!”

  Determined not to be cowed or intimidated by him, she turned into the room, to find him only about two feet away, looking like the epitome of a Hand
some Gentleman—except that he was no gentleman, as she well knew.

  Nor was she a trollop or loose woman. She was Jamie McCallan’s sister and a virtuous woman, and she expected to be treated with respect. “Your language is most inappropriate, as was that kiss.”

  “Inappropriate, but enjoyable.”

  “For you perhaps, but not for me.”

  His eyes seemed to glitter with feline satisfaction and his smile would have done credit to a satyr. “Liar.”

  “You are insufferable!” she declared, turning her back to him and wrapping her arms around herself.

  “You liked it when I kissed you.”

  She glared at the window. “Leave me alone.”

  “I liked it, too.”

  She mustn’t listen. Anything he said couldn’t be taken at face value, and any feelings a man like MacLachlann aroused must be suspect. Despite his new apparel and clean-shaven appearance that had suddenly and vividly reminded her that he was the son of an earl, he was still a disgrace and a scoundrel who had probably seduced scores of women. That was what she must remember, not the yearning she felt when his lips slid softly over hers. “Go away!”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I assure you, I do!”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Grateful for the interruption, Esme darted past MacLachlann and opened the door, to find the beefy servant waiting with her trunk full of new clothes on his back.

  “Please put that at the foot of the bed,” she directed.

  Another servant, twice the weight and age of the first, followed with MacLachlann’s much smaller valise. “Put that beside my wife’s baggage,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a few coins. He gave them to the men, who tugged their forelocks, then departed.

  Ignoring MacLachlann, Esme pulled off her bonnet, set it on the dressing table and started to tug the pins from her hair. She would feel better when her hair was down; she always did.

  She realized he was watching her. “Must you stare at me?”

  His lips lifted in another of his insolent grins. “Make you anxious, do I?”

  “It’s rude.”

  “If you’re going to criticize me for staring,” he said, “you shouldn’t look at a man the way you were looking at me this morning.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were looking at me as if you were imagining what I looked like naked.”

  “I was not!” she exclaimed—and she hadn’t been. When he first entered the drawing room, she’d been thinking that he looked even more handsome in his new clothes and freshly shaven. It would surely increase his considerable vanity if she admitted that, though, so instead she told a partial truth. “I was worried about this journey and what we have to accomplish.”

  “You don’t find me handsome?”

  What a conceited question! He didn’t deserve an honest answer. “No.”

  Instead of looking suitably quashed, his lips curved up in the most devilish, triumphant smile she’d ever seen as he moved toward her. “One of my particular skills is being able to tell when somebody’s not being completely honest and forthcoming, and you, Miss McCallan, are not.”

  She backed away. “I was not picturing you completely nude this morning.”

  She had later, but not that morning.

  “Not completely nude?”

  “Yes! No, that is…” She hit the windowsill and could go no farther. “You stay away from me! Don’t you dare kiss me!”

  With a look that combined astonished innocence with devilish satisfaction, he spread his arms. “Miss McCallan, I assure you I have absolutely no intention of kissing you again—unless you’d like me to, of course. Then I place no limits on my actions.”

  “You…you…you!” She jabbed her finger at him as if that would ward him away. “Stay back or I’ll call for help!”

  He didn’t move, and his smile turned into a leer. “You could call for help, but we’re supposed to be husband and wife, remember? That gives me the right to do whatever I like with you.”

  At his arrogant, yet ignorant, answer, a thrill of triumph surged through her. “No, it does not. Among other things, the Habeas Corpus Act of 1679 renders it illegal for a husband to imprison his wife in order to force conjugal relations.”

  That sobered him, and his leer became a scowl. “I suppose if any woman alive can be counted on to know such a thing, it’s you. Fortunately for us both, I wasn’t going to kiss you.”

  “Now who’s lying?” she charged, even though she had no idea if that was really his intention, or not. “Not that it would be a compliment if you were,” she added primly. “You would probably kiss almost any woman over fifteen and under seventy, and for the most minor of reasons.”

  “While you’ll probably never be kissed again!” he retorted as he turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him like the arrogant, spoiled wastrel he was.

  Even if he kissed like a tender, compassionate lover.

  Chapter Four

  “I’ve brought your supper, madam,” a man called out from behind the closed door of the bedroom of the inn sometime later.

  MacLachlann hadn’t returned and Esme wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he intended to remain below for the entire night.

  “Come,” she replied, setting the law book on the table beside her chair near the window. After MacLachlann’s childish exit, she’d decided to brush up on the differences between Scottish and English law so she would be prepared. She certainly wasn’t going to waste any time pondering MacLachlann’s mental state, or any abilities—sexual or otherwise—he might possess.

  Then MacLachlann himself strolled into the room. He was carrying a large tray holding covered dishes, as if he were a waiter.

  This was hardly the behavior of a nobleman, and one possible explanation instantly came to mind—except that he didn’t appear to be drunk. Indeed, his gait was remarkably steady, as if the tray and its burden weighed next to nothing.

  Not sure what to say or do, she picked up her book and got out of the way so he could put the tray on the table.

  “You’re going to ruin your eyes reading in the dark,” he said evenly, and as if they hadn’t quarrelled earlier.

  If he was going to ignore what had happened, so could she. “It was still light enough to read. And I note an earl would hardly carry a tray.”

  “He does if he’s hungry. I also told them that I wanted to make up for a silly quarrel with my wife.”

  That would explain the slammed door, if others had heard it, and they probably had.

  He gestured for her to sit. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

  Although she didn’t consider their quarrel silly, they needed to work together, so she would behave as if there was a truce between them. She put her book on top of her trunk and took her place at the table before removing the napkin covering a small basket of freshly baked bread. It smelled heavenly.

  Meanwhile, MacLachlann slid into his chair with his usual lithe, masculine grace. He always moved like that, as if he were part cat. “I don’t suppose that’s a novel,” he said, nodding at her book while buttering his bread.

  “It’s about mortgages and promissory notes,” she replied, lifting the covering over the plate before her to reveal a dark, rich beef stew, with carrots and potatoes in thick gravy. It smelled nearly as good as the bread.

  “Heaven spare me! And you didn’t fall asleep?”

  “I enjoy research.”

  “I dare say there are some people who enjoy having a tooth pulled, too,” MacLachlann reflected as he lifted a spoonful of stew.

  Despite the necessity of getting along with him, both his tone and his words rankled. “Just as I suppose there are some people who enjoy drinking to excess.”

  “I was never one of them.”

  “Really?” she pointedly replied as he continued to eat with relish.

  “I don’t deny I used to get drunk, and often. I deny that I ever enjoyed it.”<
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  “Then why did you do it?”

  He raised his eyes and regarded her with a disarming frankness. “To forget.”

  What? she wanted to ask. What did he want to forget? His family? Some past misdeed? A woman?

  But if she asked and he answered with that apparent honesty, she might find herself caring about him.

  He looked down at his food. “I was a fool, wallowing in self-pity and blaming all my misfortunes on others—the gamesters who won what money I had, my supposed friends who deserted me when I had nothing left. My father, who never liked me. The rest of my family, with whom I had nothing in common. I believe I even blamed my mother for dying when I was a child. It was easier to do that than admit that I’d made terrible mistakes. Then one night I found myself on Tower Bridge, alone, drunk, penniless, thinking I would do the world a favor if I jumped and never surfaced.”

  He raised his eyes to look at her again. “That’s when your brother found me. He’d heard I was in London from one of my false friends he was representing, and sought me out. He took me to an inn, bought me dinner, told me he wanted my help, and that he would pay me for it. I’ve never gotten drunk since.”

  As MacLachlann made this unexpected confession, Esme discovered she could no longer meet his steadfast gaze. She’d always thought he felt no shame and no remorse for his wasted youth. How wrong she’d been! She’d never heard such sincere regret.

  Yet all the answer she dared make to his confession was a subdued “Oh.”

  If she said more, what might she confess? That she’d never seen such excellent accounts? That she thought he was astonishingly handsome? That when she heard him laugh, she wanted to laugh, too? That she’d been overwhelmed with desire when he kissed her in the coach?

  “Finished?” he asked, his voice as casual as if they’d been discussing the price of tea.

  As hers ought to be, despite the rapid beating of her heart. “Yes,” she said, pushing the plate away.

  MacLachlann rose and went to the bell pull by the small hearth to summon a servant, then returned. “I don’t expect you to understand why I drank,” he said quietly, regarding her with a furrowed brow. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever done anything wrong in your life.”