Courting an Angel Page 8

“The Marquess of Inverary asked me to give you this,” the majordomo announced, handing her a bunch of sweet alyssum. The man turned to his mistress and whispered, “I think he stole them from your garden.”

  Lady Keely bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. With a flick of her hand and a nod, she dismissed the majordomo.

  “Look at the common flowers he sends me,” Rob complained, as if that were reason enough to banish him to the Dowager House.

  Lady Keely smiled knowingly and then informed her, “In the language of flowers, sweet alyssum signify ‘worth beyond beauty.’”

  The marquess’s sentiment surprised Rob. He didn’t seem like a man concerned with a woman’s worth. She gazed at the flowers in her hands and steeled herself against him. His sweet thoughtfulness was a ploy to get her to ride north where she would live unhappily ever after. Not only did she need to discourage Gordon Campbell but also to guard her heart against the arrogant Highlander. Danger to her peace of mind lurked in his gray-eyed gaze and his devastating smile.

  Rob sighed. Too bad Gordon Campbell hadn’t been born English . . . Too bad she’d been cursed with Old Clootie’s flower . . . Too bad her aunt’s probing question was beginning to give her a headache.

  Did she want to remain in England because she loved Henry? Or did she love Henry because she wanted to remain in England?

  Chapter 4

  Drinking Old Man’s milk . . . Riding her horse astride . . . Wearing a last resort strapped to her leg.

  His MacArthur bride was a Highlander all right. Gordon knew that as surely as he knew he was standing in the English Earl of Basildon’s study and looking out the window at the River Thames.

  Gordon lifted his gaze from the mist-shrouded river to the blazing sun dying in the western sky and wondered what motivated his bride’s behavior. Did the not-so-timid angel he’d married want to be an English lady because she truly loved the English marquess? Or was it something else that incited her to speak so disparagingly of her homeland? Sooner or later, he’d learn the answer to that. Time favored him. His bride had nowhere to run. Except into his arms.

  Abruptly, Gordon turned away from the window. The bottom edge of his plaid whirled slightly with the sudden movement. He sat in the chair in front of the hearth and stretched his long legs out.

  What would his reluctant bride do when she saw him dressed in the northern mode? That thought brought a hint of a smile to his lips. He could hardly wait for their next encounter, which would happen very soon now since he’d instructed the earl’s majordomo to direct Rob to the study where he’d be waiting. And just what was taking her so long to answer his summons? Was she perhaps preening in front of a pier glass to verify she appeared attractive enough to interest him?

  Thoroughly relaxed by the warmth of the fire, Gordon yawned and stretched. He might as well steal a ten-minute catnap. Gordon closed his eyes and drifted off into a light slumber, but he’d only dozed five minutes when the sound of voices penetrated his mind.

  “That’s him,” a voice said.

  “Holy stones, he’s wearing a skirt.”

  “’Tis his kilt,” came the explanation.

  Gordon awakened, but kept his eyes closed in feigned sleep. The voices belonged to young girls, and he thought to learn new information regarding his bride. After all, children were notoriously honest. At times, brutally so.

  “His knees are naked.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  Unable to resist the urge, Gordon opened his eyes a crack. From beneath his dark lashes, he spied two girls standing in front of him.

  “He’s got dimples on them,” the younger of the two remarked, leaning closer to inspect his knees. “Do you think Uncle Iain also wears a skirt?”

  “I suppose so,” the older girl replied. “’Tis their manner of dress in the Highlands.”

  “Does Daddy have knees too?” a third child asked from where she stood beside his chair.

  Like a multitude of cherubs, the angelic sound of giggling girls echoed within the study. Unable to feign sleep another moment, Gordon opened his eyes and sat up straight. He glanced around and saw that five ebony-haired, violet-eyed angels surrounded him.

  “I’m Blythe,” said the oldest who appeared to be about ten years.

  “And I’m Bliss,” the eight-year-old added.

  “Summer and Autumn stand on your right,” Blythe said. “On your left is Aurora.”

  “Summer and Autumn are twins,” Bliss told him.

  “The man can see they’re twins,” Blythe informed her sister.

  Six-year-old Aurora leaned close, and wearing a childishly flirtatious smile, asked, “What do you call a Highlander who eats ants?”

  “Uncle!” shouted Summer and Autumn.

  Gordon burst out laughing. “And I suppose yer the earl’s daughters?”

  All five of them bobbed their heads in unison. “Do you love Cousin Rob?” Blythe asked baldly. Before he could reply. Bliss said, “Uncle Henry loves her too.”

  “Uncle Henry tried to kiss Rob,” Aurora told him, “but she wouldn’t let him.”

  “Hush, sister.” This came from Blythe.

  “If Henry marries Rob, she’ll be our aunt,” Bliss said.

  Aurora giggled. “How can a cousin be an aunt?”

  Enchanted, Gordon looked from one little girl to the next. With their barrage of questions and comments, he couldn’t edge a single word into their conversation. How did the earl survive the chatter of five such adorable angels?

  “If Rob marries Henry, I’ll marry you,” Aurora promised, making her two older sisters laugh.

  “Thank ye, poppet,” Gordon said with a smile. “Tell me, why would ye marry a man ye dinna know?”

  “Because, silly, your eyes are the color of mist,” the six-year-old answered.

  “Mist?” he echoed, puzzled.

  “We love mist,” the three oldest girls chorused.

  Gordon grinned. “I always believed wee lasses loved blue skies, gentle breezes, warm sunshine, and sweet flowers.”

  “Heavy mist lets us see beyond the horizon,” Blythe told him.

  “’Tis a game?” Gordon asked.

  The ten-year-old cast him an ambiguous smile and answered, “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Tell me, poppets,” Gordon said. “Whilst I’m courtin’ yer cousin, will ye be givin’ us any private time to be alone?”

  “How much is it worth to you?” Bliss asked.

  “I dinna ken why yer parents named ye Bliss,” Gordon said dryly, taken aback by the eight-year-old’s precociousness.

  “’Tis short for Blister,” Blythe told him.

  Bliss cast her older sister an unamused look and then rounded on him. With her hands on her hips in a challenging stance, she asked again, “Well, my lord. How much are you willing to pay for private time?”

  Gordon cocked a dark eyebrow at her. “Name yer price, lass.”

  “Two gold pieces a day for each of us.”

  “One gold piece.”

  “My lord, you have yourself a deal,” Bliss said with the sweetest of smiles. “And ’tis payable at the end of each day. No gold coins, no privacy the next day. We never extend credit, so don’t bother to ask.”

  Gordon stared at the eight-year-old for a long moment and then nodded. He gave a silent prayer of thanks that Bliss wasn’t his intended and felt almost sorry for whomever fate doomed to wed her.

  “What will ye do with the gold ye earn?” he asked, glancing around at the five of them.

  “Invest it with Daddy,” the girls chorused.

  Gordon threw back his head and shouted with laughter. The women of his acquaintance would squander their coins on trinkets and gewgaws, but the English queen’s Midas had managed to sire females interested in business ventures. How delightful.

  “What time is supper served?” Gordon asked.

  “Six o’clock,” Blythe answered.

  “I’ll give each of ye an extra shillin’ if ye go tell Rob I’ve been waitin’ fo
r her in the study.”

  “’Tis passing strange,” Bliss remarked. “Rob sent us here to tell you that she won’t be down for supper. She’ll see you in the morning.”

  “The hell she will.” Gordon rose from his chair and marched across the study. Pausing at the door as if just remembering something, he turned around and asked, “Which chamber is Rob’s?”

  Bliss smiled as winsomely as she could. “That information will cost you extra, my lord.”

  “How much?”

  “An extra gold piece.” When he nodded at her, Bliss added, “For each of us.”

  “’Tis a pleasure doin’ business with ye, my lady,” Gordon said dryly, agreeing to her terms.

  “The pleasure is ours, my lord,” Bliss replied. “Rob’s chamber is upstairs, second door on the left.”

  Gordon hesitated for only an instant when he reached the second door on the left upstairs. A boyishly wicked smile flirted with his lips, and without bothering to knock, he opened the door and stepped inside his bride’s bedchamber. In spite of the room’s dim light, he spied her immediately, and his smile grew into a delighted grin.

  Rob was leaning against the windowsill directly opposite the door and staring outside at the early winter’s twilight. Her silken bed robe accentuated every alluring curve she possessed, especially her gently rounded derriere.

  God’s balls, but his bride had herself a nice arse, Gordon thought as he stood two feet inside the chamber. His appreciative gaze perused the enchanting sight of her silk-clad buttocks thrust high into the air.

  “Well, Blythe?” Rob asked without turning around. “What did the marquess say when you told him I’d see him in the mornin’?”

  “He said, ‘the hell she will.’”

  Rob whirled around at the sound of his voice, shocked that he dared to enter her bedroom uninvited. She clutched the silken bed robe rightly against her bosom, which only served to enhance the pleasing roundness of her breasts.

  “What d’ye do here?” Rob demanded in an angry whisper.

  “Avoidin’ me willna be easy, angel,” Gordon told her. “I’ve come to escort ye to supper.”

  “Leave this chamber before someone sees ye.”

  “What do I care aboot that?”

  “I care,” Rob said. “’Tis improper for a gentleman to visit a lady’s bedchamber.”

  Gordon gifted her with a lopsided grin, folded his arms across his chest, and silently refused to budge. “Is it also improper for a husband to visit his wife’s chamber?”

  “Ye swore to Uncle Richard —”

  “And ye also promised several thin’s yerself,” he reminded her. “Ye are na makin’ this easy, lass.”

  “I never promised to make thin’s easy,” Rob shot back. She dropped her gaze and groaned in dismay as his choice of clothing registered in her mind.

  The Marquess of Inverary had donned traditional Highland garb, the black and the green Campbell plaid. The great kilt’s folds fastened around his waist with a black leather belt; the long length of material hanging from the belt had been gathered and secured at his shoulder with an enormous gold broach encrusted with emeralds. Beneath the kilt he wore a white silk shirt.

  “Yer wearin’ a —”

  “Skirt?” Gordon supplied, sauntering toward her with arrogant grace, “’Tis what yer wee cousins said.”

  Instinctively, Rob clutched her bed robe tighter and wished she hadn’t undressed down to her chemise. Her flimsy silk robe seemed no protection at all against his masculine presence and made her feel vulnerable.

  “Yer wearin’ that to embarrass me,” she said in an accusing voice. “Or was yer purpose a not-so-subtle reminder of our shared heritage?”

  “Dinna get yer back up, kitten. Yer married to me, not my clothes.”

  “Dinna condescend to me,” Rob warned him, standing her ground in spite of his disturbing nearness. “Or this kitten’s fur will surely be flyin’.”

  “I’m tryin’ real hard to be agreeable, lass,” Gordon said, holding his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Yer company for the evenin’ is what I desire. I’ve come to escort ye to supper and willna be leavin’ this chamber without ye.”

  “Verra well,” she acquiesced. “Wait outside while I dress.”

  “I dinna relish seein’ ye in rags again,” Gordon said, already crossing the chamber to her dressing room. “I’ll choose yer gown.”

  Though his outrageous arrogance irritated her, Rob remained silent and seized the opportunity to inspect her star ruby. The stone appeared as placid as ever. Didn’t the marquess present a danger to her? The damned ruby wasn’t doing what it should. Could Aunt Keely have been mistaken?

  “Are ye checkin’ yer titties again?”

  Rob snapped her head up. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but her emerald eyes glinted with barely suppressed anger.

  “Wear this,” the marquess ordered, offering her a green silk gown.

  “So I’ll match the green in yer plaid?”

  “No, angel. The emerald accentuates yer beautiful eyes.”

  His words flustered her, and the fight left her as quickly as it had come. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” Rob said, lowering her gaze.

  “I’ll wait.”

  Rob lifted her gaze to his. “Then step outside while I change.”

  Gordon raised his brows at her and teased, “What’s a little bared flesh between husband and wife? Besides, if I stepped into the corridor, ye’d lock me out and hide in here for the evenin’.”

  “Ye dinna trust me?” Rob asked.

  “Yer behavior hardly inspires that feelin’ in me,” Gordon answered. “I promise I willna peek at ye.”

  “Yer behavior doesna inspire that much trust in me,” she countered.

  “Touché, angel.” Still, he made no move to leave.

  Rob whirled away, and mumbling to herself about his Highland pigheadedness, marched across the chamber to her privacy screen. She’d spoken truthfully to the marquess; she didn’t trust him not to peek. Rob slipped the bed robe off and let it drop to the floor where she stood, then slipped into the emerald gown and pulled it up. She fastened the two top buttons first and then the two just above her waist. At that point the battle with her gown began in earnest. Though the top and the bottom buttons were deceptively easy to fasten, the ones running down the middle of her back were unreachable.

  Rob contorted this way and that but only managed to become flushed and damp from her exertions. Oh, why was a grown woman incapable of dressing herself?

  “Great Bruce’s ghost,” she grumbled, frustrated with her uncooperative gown.

  “Did ye say somethin’?” the marquess called.

  With a high blush coloring her cheeks, Rob stepped from behind the screen. “I said, would ye —?”

  A wolfish gleam of understanding lit his eyes. Gordon sauntered across the chamber toward her and said, “Turn around then.”

  Rob suffered the worst embarrassment of their renewed acquaintance. Asking for his assistance with such an intimate task humiliated her. Without a word, she showed him her back.

  Exhibiting the practiced skill of a man who has fastened hundreds of women’s gowns, Gordon completed his task within seconds. He leaned close and pressed his lips against her ear, whispering, “’Tis done, angel.”

  A delicious shiver slid down the length of her spine. Steeling herself against his disturbing nearness, Rob turned around and said to his chest, “Thank ye for yer assistance, my lord.”

  “I assure ye ’twas my pleasure.”

  Only when he offered her his arm did Rob lift her gaze to his. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Gordon raised his brows, and reluctantly Rob accepted his arm. Together, they left the bedchamber and walked down the corridor to the stairs.

  Supper was a huge success.

  Almost.

  Rob breathed a sigh of relief when she managed to sit on Gordon’s left side at the high table, which meant Old Clootie’s mark upon h
er left hand would be easier to hide from his piercing gaze. Beyond Gordon sat Uncle Richard, Aunt Keely, Summer, Autumn, and Blythe. Aurora and Bliss were seated on Rob’s left.

  Earl Richard and Gordon spoke almost nonstop about business, politics, and their respective monarchs throughout the meal. Being neglected didn’t bother Rob. The marquess’s inattention gave her the opportunity to study him without being observed.

  When he reached for his goblet of wine, Rob noticed his hands. With their long fingers, his hands looked strong enough to handle a claymore with deadly ease and expertise. Yet his touch on the delicate goblet stem appeared gentle, as feathery light as his hand upon her had been when he’d fastened the buttons on her gown.

  Rob slid her gaze upward slowly. His posture was arrogantly erect yet relaxed, his profile pleasingly chiseled, his chestnut brown hair a mite too long on his neck.

  Great Bruce’s ghost! The man even possessed attractive ears.

  Rob quickly glanced away when she sensed him beginning to turn in her direction. Had he felt her interested gaze upon him? His hand reached for hers in her lap, and he leaned close to whisper in her ear.

  “Would ye care to walk aboot the garden before ye retire for the night?” Gordon asked.

  “Aye,” Rob answered, raising her gaze to his. She loved the night’s dark beauty because it shrouded all manner of flaws. She felt safe enough; her five young cousins would surely accompany them.

  Rob looked down the length of the high table toward Blythe and asked, “Would ye care to join us?”

  Blythe, Summer, and Autumn smiled at her but shook their heads. That surprised Rob. Usually, she was unable to enjoy a moment’s privacy without one of them clinging to her side.

  Rob mentally shrugged their refusal off and turned to the left, intending to invite Bliss to walk in the garden with them. She caught the eight-year-old giving the marquess an exaggerated wink. Puzzled, Rob glanced over at the marquess who seemed oblivious to the eight-year-old’s behavior.

  Turning back to her cousin, Rob began, “Would ye care —?”

  Bliss yawned loudly and stretched. “I’m sooo tired,” she said.

  Rob dropped her gaze to Aurora, but then heard Bliss say, “Poor Aurora, her exhaustion may force us to carry her all the way to bed.”