The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 8

  The desire to act on the look in her eyes was tantalising, the knowledge that she desired him making his skin burn and his cock throb, but she was a virgin and you did not take an innocent to bed without putting a ring on her finger.

  “Well, Miss Wycliffe, if you’re in need of someone to school ye, go look elsewhere,” he said, the words almost choking him as the smaller and louder brain he fought howled with misery.

  “I’m sure there’s a willing laddie or two in the village to satisfy your needs and your curiosity, but if ye are thinkin’ ye can trap me into marriage, ye’ll be sadly mistaken. All ye’ll get is a tarnished reputation if anyone finds out about this. I’ll not save ye nor your blushes by putting a ring on ye finger so, don’t depend on it.”

  He waited, almost trembling with the desire to take every word back and lay her down on the tartan she was wrapped in.

  “It’s true,” she said, her firm voice shaking him to his core as he believed she was admitting to wanting him.

  Any tenuous hold he’d had on his disobedient body fled in an instant. A mocking look entered her eyes as she continued, clearly well aware of his assumption, though not, thank God, of his discomfort.

  “Women are kept in ignorance, though I doubt that is exclusive to the English. I am not ignorant, however, thanks to the rather lewd employer who deemed it necessary to tell me the facts—and all their variations—and further illustrate the picture by describing how he’d use me himself, given half the chance.”

  Her words lit a fuse.

  “The bastard!” Ross thundered, unaware that he was on his feet, his hand moving to a sword which was not there. “Who insulted ye so? I’ll kill him.”

  She was staring at him in fascination, her mouth a little open.

  A taut silence stretched between them.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she said after a moment, her voice as soft as her eyes on him. “He dismissed me from his service. He said it was because I was such a poor governess—which I was,” she admitted with a smile that did something to him he refused to dwell on. “But I think it was more because I spent a week’s wages on getting a lock fitted to my bedroom door and was careful to never forget to use it. That and the fact I’d never have held my tongue about it, anyway.”

  “It matters,” Ross said, his fists clenched as he imagined her lying alone and unprotected in her bed at night, fearful that the lock might not hold against some loathsome man who would use her because he could, and because there was no one to stop him. His heart squeezed in his chest, the desire to protect her one he could not deny.

  Her smile was placid, pitying almost, so much so that he wanted to shake her.

  “He’s an important man,” she said, as if explaining to a particularly dim child. “A powerful one, and whilst I’m touched that you would defend someone who is nothing more than a minor irritation with such fervour, I would not have you fight a battle you cannot win.”

  He grunted and strode away from her, moving to stare outside at the darkness and seeing only his own furious face reflected back at him. A familiar sensation of impotent rage burned in his chest. Powerful men were so often the cause of misery. He’d seen it first hand, time and time again. Powerful men had sent hundreds to their deaths with little more than a blink at the losses incurred and there was damn all you could do about it. It was just as easy to imagine such a man could take a woman with violence. Like his mother had been taken.

  He felt sick.

  Captain Ross Moncreiffe was not such a man.

  He was not a titled noble with endless wealth at his fingertips. What power he had though, he tried to use to protect those who fell within his land. Torkeldy was little more than fly dirt if you looked at in on a map, but he’d bought what remained of the castle and he protected those he could.

  There had been pride in it, naturally, in coming back to the place where he’d existed in the mire and playing at lord of the manner. He’d mocked himself for it, but it was a victory of sorts to see those who’d abused him forced to doff their caps to the mighty Captain Moncreiffe, Laird of Tor Castle, he who owned all the land around for miles on all sides.

  Mrs Murray had been the first he’d sought out when he’d returned here, for all her small kindnesses when he was a boy. Digby had preceded her, strangely enough, before he’d even returned to Scotland. He was a pain in the arse, but he’d been in despair when Ross had found him and added him to those who would fall under his protection. There were others, too, but he didn’t want to attract attention to those families, for his own sake and theirs and such things he kept quiet. Without knowing it, Miss Wycliffe had just added herself to the list.

  Damn her.

  “Captain Moncreiffe.”

  Ross turned shaken from his memories and his anger by her sweet voice. It was beguiling, that voice, making him want things he had no right to.

  “I feel I should reassure you,” she said, making him feel like the brute he was for speaking to her so roughly before. “I have no illusions about your desire to marry me, or… do anything else with me,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. “I am quite aware that I’m not the kind of woman who inspires grand passions, so please don’t think I’m labouring under some romantic illusion about what is on offer here.”

  Ross gaped at her, stunned. The little fool thought he didn’t want her. He closed his mouth with a snap, aware that was a good thing and something she needed to go on believing at all costs.

  If she had the slightest idea of the torment she caused him, he would be in deep trouble.

  “I only wish to do right by my uncle and by you. We are neighbours, and I think we could be friends, if you would allow it. Perhaps you would permit me to call upon you, with my chaperone, of course. Or you could come to us, if you prefer? Just once a week. I shan’t ask for more, as I know you would dislike it, but I would like to think we could talk together. Perhaps you might enjoy the company, once you get to know me. I’m not so awful, truly.”

  She laughed a little and Ross hated it, hated the uncertain sound, hated that she was asking him for his friendship when she ought to have every man with a brain in their head beating down her door, wanting to be near her. Every man but him, at least.

  God, but she was lovely. Her hair fell in gentle waves about her shoulders, shining like silk in the candlelight. He wondered if it would feel like silk too, if he touched it. Her eyes were hazel, he knew that, though it was from memory. They were too shadowed now to see their colour, though he could see the intelligence there, the bravery. He allowed himself a glance at her mouth, full and soft and so ripe for kissing it seemed a crime that no man had ever done so. Except he wanted her mouth for himself, and that was a dangerous thought.

  She was too fine for him, too unsullied. He’d break her spirit with his coarse manners, his wretched temper and his dark soul. Ross could see her uncle in her, that relentless optimism and blind refusal to accept that the world was a bleak and heartless place and that all you could do was endure.

  He envied her that lightness of spirit, so much that he wanted to bask in the brightness of it, to gather her into his arms and take it for himself, to steal it from her and hold it to his heart. Yet he knew that in doing so he would extinguish it. Not all at once, but little by little, and he would hate himself for that.

  “As ye wish,” he said, knowing he sounded like a belligerent oaf who didn’t know good fortune when it fell in his lap. “Now finish that drink and I’ll escort ye back to your room.”

  Ross watched her out of the corner of his eye. Despite her best effort she struggled to drink the whisky down and he hid a smile as she grimaced and winced. Once she was done, she held out the empty glass for him like an obedient little girl at bedtime with a glass of milk. He took it and put it on the mantle beside his own glass, long since empty, and escorted her back to her room.

  Chapter 8

  “Wherein ghosts are exorcized, reprimanded, and threatened with unemployment.”

  Freddi
e followed Captain Moncreiffe, feeling like a fool. She had no idea if he believed her story about Mrs Murray’s invitation. Not that it had been a story. Yet, Freddie couldn’t help but believe he suspected her of subterfuge, and why not? She couldn’t believe she’d set fire to his shirt. If there was anything in the world she could have done that would have been more mortifying, she couldn’t bring it to mind.

  “Here ye are, then,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. “And don’t go fretting about ghosts and ghoulies. There’s none here, believe me. If ever a soul was worth haunting, it’s mine, and I’ve never seen nor heard one.”

  “B-But the villagers say the castle is cursed,” she said, infuriated by her anxious stutter.

  Good grief, he must think her the worst kind of ninny.

  “Ach, superstitious nonsense,” he said, shaking his head. “The old laird fell headfirst off the west tower because he was so bladdered he thought walking the turrets in the dark a fine idea. His son was killed in a duel the following week because he was an arse. It’s nae curse, unless ye define wilful stupidity as such, which I suppose is fair enough.”

  She smiled at that, wishing there was anything about her a man like him might find appealing. Freddie had never met anyone like him. All the men she’d met before she’d lost her position in society had seemed polished and tidy and polite.

  Captain Moncreiffe was none of those things.

  He was rough and fierce and crude, rude even, and never in her life before had she wanted to be noticed so much. As a governess she’d been used to being overlooked, that was part and parcel of the job. Like the children she was supposed to shepherd, she was meant to be seen—barely—and not heard.

  On the only occasion a man had noticed her, the repugnant Lord Cheam, she’d heartily wished he hadn’t.

  The captain’s reaction to that story had stunned her. Never in her life had someone leapt to her defence so readily and with such passion. Not that she was foolish enough to read anything into it. He would defend Mrs Murray so too, or any woman in need of protection. It was clearly in his nature.

  As her uncle had said, he was a good man, a gentleman. Oh, not if the ton’s criteria were being vaunted for the title, but in the true meaning of an honourable, dependable man, one who would protect the weak and do his best for those who relied upon him.

  Captain Moncreiffe was that.

  “Are ye all right, Miss Wycliffe?” he asked, and she sensed with regret his restlessness, his desire to be out of her company.

  “Yes, forgive me,” she said, wishing she hadn’t been such a blessed nuisance. “I was wool gathering. Oh, and I must return your blanket to you.” She began to pull the heavy tartan from her shoulders but he stopped her.

  “Na,” he said, sounding a little breathless. “Keep it till morning. It makes a fine snug bed and ye’ll sleep like a babe.”

  Freddie swallowed hard, realising he must have used it so and surreptitiously lifted a fold to her nose, inhaling and searching for his scent. That was something she’d noticed tonight. There was a decadent scent that clung to him, quite unlike anything she’d expected. That first day, he’d smelled like leather and fresh air and horses, with just a hint of sweetness, but tonight… tonight he smelled like vanilla, so delicious it made her mouth water.

  “It’s clean,” he said, huffing a little, misinterpreting the way she was smelling the fine wool.

  He looked so indignant that she felt awful at having offended him and hurried to explain.

  “I never thought otherwise, I just wondered….” She trailed off, realising this admission would not help her cause to reassure him that she expected only friendship between them.

  “Wondered what?” he asked, giving her a curious look.

  Freddie bit her lip, wishing she’d kept her stupid mouth shut.

  “Wondered what?” he said again, with a little more force.

  “It’s just that you smell so nice,” she blurted out, feeling more the fool with every second that passed in his company. “Like… like vanilla. I just wondered if the blanket smelled the same as… as it’s yours,” she finished, wishing she’d heeded Maggie’s advice and never set foot outside the blasted cottage at all.

  Her gaze fell to his throat and the Adam’s apple that seemed to bob convulsively there for a moment.

  “Good night, Miss Wycliffe,” he said, an odd, rough note to his voice as he turned on his heel and got away from her as fast as he could.

  Freddie sighed and went back to bed, wrapped in his blanket, chasing the lingering scent of vanilla through her dreams.

  ***

  “Did ye sleep well, dearie?” Mrs Murray said, sliding a plate of bannocks in front of her and a large jar of jam.

  Freddie hesitated, torn on what she ought to say. Admitting her actions of last night to another living soul made her feel hot and cold all at once, yet… she felt the need to tell someone.

  “I set fire to his shirt,” she said in a rush, realising—on viewing Mrs Murray’s blank look of surprise—that she ought to have explained how that came to happen first. “There was a noise,” she said. “In the night. Did you hear it?”

  Mrs Murray turned away from her, busying herself with pouring out the tea. “A noise, ye say? Nae, lass. I heard nothing, but then I sleep sound. There’s not much disturbs me. Now, ye take sugar, yes?” she said, not waiting for an answer but dropping a lump into the cup and stirring. “Ye said ye… set fire to the captain’s shirt?” Mrs Murray said, giving her a doubtful look as she sat down at the kitchen table.

  Freddie nodded. “It was awful, Mrs Murray. He had to take it off and….” Freddie made a gesture meant to encompass the entire naked form of Captain Moncreiffe.

  “Aye,” Mrs Murray said faintly, wide-eyed with interest. “Well, that was nae hardship, eh, lass? He’s a fine figure of a man, don’t ye think?”

  Freddie nodded. There seemed little point in denying the obvious.

  “Was he angry?” Mrs Murray asked, sounding a trifle discomposed herself.

  “At first,” Freddie said. “Yes, he was, but then he realised I was frightened and… and he was kind. He gave me a drink and reassured me about the ghosts, and escorted me back to my room.”

  Mrs Murray frowned over her teacup. “That’s all?” she demanded, looking appalled.

  “Yes,” Freddie replied, wondering what else there could be. Surely setting a man’s clothes on fire and conducting a conversation about ghosts with him while he was naked was adventure enough for one night?

  “He, er… he didnae…?”

  Freddie watched, a little alarmed as Mrs Murray pursed her lips, jerking her head and waggling her eyebrows all at once.

  “Didn’t what?” she asked, perplexed.

  Mrs Murray cleared her throat and leaned over the table, dropping her voice to a whisper. “He didnae try an’ kiss ye?”

  Freddie blushed, though she suspected it was less from the impropriety of the question and more to do with the fact she had to admit he hadn’t. Though she had longed for him to do so, fool that she was.

  She doubted the idea had even occurred to him. He had said she was bonnie the first time he’d seen her, but he’d been the worse for drink then so she could hardly rely on that ringing endorsement.

  “No. He did not,” she said, trying not to sigh. “He was a perfect gentleman.”

  Mrs Murray looked perplexed at that and muttered something incomprehensible under her breath before adding, “The man’s a damned fool.”

  Freddie laughed, shaking her head.

  “Are you playing matchmaker, Mrs Murray?” she asked, touched and flattered that the woman should even consider her for the role. “I pray you do not. I am determined Captain Moncreiffe and I will be friends, and I have no wish for him to be made uncomfortable. I’m afraid you might think me bonnie, but I’ve never heard such a compliment from a man in all my life. I’ve no illusions on that score, I assure you. Women like me do not turn men’s heads. Certainly not a man like Ca
ptain Moncreiffe,” she added with a heavy sigh.

  Mrs Murray stared at her, looking so confounded Freddie wondered if she’d said something odd. Still, the old woman got to her feet and began bustling about, piling things onto a tray.

  “Well, eat up. I’m sure he’ll be wanting to escort ye home.”

  “Oh, no!” Freddie exclaimed, shaking her head. “I’ve caused the man enough trouble for one day. I can walk back myself.”

  Mrs Murray opened her mouth to say something and closed it again and nodded. “As ye like, miss,” Mrs Murray replied, her voice soothing, before hefting the tray she’d prepared and hurrying from the kitchen.

  ***

  “Nothing!” Mrs Murray exclaimed to Digby, quite out of patience with her employer, with whom she was sorely disappointed. What kind of man had a bonnie lass like Miss Wycliffe in his company half the night and didn’t even ask for a kiss? He’d even been naked again and… nothing!

  The man was a fool.

  “Nothing at all?” Digby said, dejected. “You mean to say I have to face his wrath this morning and it was all for naught?”

  “Na,” Mrs Murray said, pleased to have gleaned that much. “She’s sweet on him.”

  “She said so?” Digby asked, looking more than a little sceptical.

  “Nae in so many words, but she admitted he was a fine-looking man and… ach, I can tell. She’s sweet on him right enough, take my word for it.”

  Digby shook his head. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  “Hold yer weesht,” she scolded him, tutting. “He’s a good man an’ ye know it. Do ye want a mistress for this godforsaken pile of stones, or don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. Here, give me that,” Digby said, taking the tray from her. “If he doesn’t marry, his temper’s not going to get any sweeter, is it, and they’ll be no reason to make this heap of stone any more habitable. When I think of some of the fine houses I’ve worked in….”

  He gave a heavy sigh.

  “Never mind that,” Mrs Murray said, before he could lose himself in wistful reminiscences. “What are we to do now?”