Nicola Cornick - One Night with the Laird

Outside in Candlemaker Row the wind was sharp. A pearl-white sky was unfurling over the city of Edinburgh. Mairi drew the shawl more closely about her. By the time she reached the Royal Mile the carriage was waiting, one of Frazer’s handsome sons standing ready to open the door for her. She climbed in and set off for her house in Charlotte Square, for a bath and for clean clothes. She ached so much. Her body ached from the pleasure, but her heart ached more.

She closed her eyes. Despite the extraordinary intimacy of the night, she felt lonelier than she had ever felt in her life.

CHAPTER TWO

July 1815

“YOU LOOK BLUE-DEVILLED.” Robert, Marquis of Methven, threw down his cards and viewed his companion with amusement in his narrowed blue eyes. “Money troubles, is it?”

“Why do you say that?” Jack Rutherford placed his own hand slowly on the table and reached for his cup of coffee. It was rich, warm and exceptionally good and it did nothing to soothe his spirits. What he really wanted was brandy but these days he never drank it. He had had an unhappy relationship with alcohol in his youth and he had no intention of ever letting his drinking get out of control again.

“You’ve been playing as cagily as a spinster aunt betting a shilling at whist,” Methven said cheerfully. “Your mind is elsewhere. And it cannot be a woman who’s spoiling your game since you never let them get to you—”

Jack shifted edgily. Some coffee spilled. He looked up to see his cousin laughing at him.

“Damn you, Rob,” he said, without heat.

“Never seen you like this before,” Methven said. “I suppose it had to happen sometime. Who is she?”

Jack paused. The club was three-quarters empty and wreathed in silence, which was good since he did not fancy rehearsing his romantic disasters to an audience. It was a situation he seldom if ever found himself in. Usually he was fighting women off rather than pining for their company.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, after a moment.

Methven raised a quizzical brow. “No name?”

“We didn’t talk much.”

His cousin sighed with weary acceptance. Robert knew him well. “Description?” he said.

“She was tall,” Jack said. “She was slender and she had long hair. I don’t know,” he repeated. “It was too dark to see.”

Methven almost choked on his brandy. “Devil take it, Jack. Where did this...uh...encounter occur?”

“At a masked ball,” Jack said. “At least that was where it started. It finished...” He shrugged. “Elsewhere. Somewhere in the Old Town.”

Methven was laughing now. Jack supposed it was funny in a way; he had a reputation for leaving women before the sheets were cold, and here he was, craving a woman who had used him and discarded him with a ruthlessness that stole the breath. It had not happened to him before. He did not like it. He was always the one to walk away first.

Yet that was not why he wanted to find her. He felt unsettled, distracted. Three months. It was ridiculous. He should have forgotten her two months and twenty-nine days ago. Yet her memory lingered. Only the previous day he had let a business deal slip through his fingers because he was not paying attention and someone else had undercut him with a better offer. Women had never come between him and his work before, and the fact that this one had done so frustrated him and made him angry.

“What do you know about her?” Methven was asking.

Nothing much that he wanted to discuss, Jack thought. He knew she was lovely and lissome, with skin that smelled of jasmine and was as soft as silk. He knew her hair curled deliciously. He had traced the contours of her face and knew it was fine-boned with a straight nose and a haughty little chin. He knew she had high, rounded breasts, small but perfect, and that her stomach curved in a way that made him ache to have her again and that the skin of her inner thighs was the softest of all.

He knew he was getting an erection merely through thinking about her and that if he did not find her soon he would run mad. He was sure his determination to track her down was no more than a physical compulsion, driven by lust, and that it would burn itself out once it was satisfied. But until he could find her he remained very unsatisfied indeed.

“She was a lady,” he said, remembering the cut glass accent and the note of command. Not a virgin, for surely a virgin would not have been so utterly without inhibition. And yet for all her apparent experience, he had sensed her vulnerability. And she had been sad. He remembered the way she had cried out in her sleep and the tears on her cheek, and felt a sharp, unwelcome pang of protectiveness.

“Forget her,” Methven was saying. “You know what Edinburgh society is like. She is probably a bored wife or a predatory widow. You will only be one of many. It sounds as though you both got what you wanted.” He raised a shoulder in a half shrug. “Don’t spoil the memory, Jack.”

It was good, if unpalatable, advice. Jack did not flatter himself that his mystery seductress had bedded no one but him. The anonymous black carriage and the luxurious love nest both argued against it. He was probably only the latest in a long line of conquests. He had experienced a night of unbridled passion with absolutely no commitment given, wanted or required, the sort of night many a man would kill for. He should be grateful. And he should walk away. Most certainly he should not make a fool of himself a third time by returning to the house in Candlemaker Row in a vain attempt to find her or to persuade the steward, tight as a clam, to reveal even one tiny detail that might help him in his search.

Methven pushed the coffeepot toward him. “She must have been good,” he said. “Or bad in the best possible way.”

Jack did not reply. His mouth tightened. Oh yes, she had been good, very good indeed. He had never known a woman like her, never been so lost in carnal pleasure, never felt this ache of longing.

“Have you tried bedding a harlot for the sake of a cure?” Methven asked. “Replace one whore with another—”

Jack was already half on his feet, his hand going to his sword, before he realized what he was doing. He saw his cousin raise his brows in laconic amusement, realized that he had been set up and wondered what on earth was showing in his eyes.

“I apologize,” Methven said swiftly. “I did not realize it was like that.”

“It isn’t,” Jack growled. He subsided into his seat with a sigh and splashed some more coffee into his cup. “I don’t know...” He stopped. He did not know why he had reacted so badly when his cousin had, in all likelihood, been correct and the woman had probably been a high-class harlot. Except that somehow he knew she was not. And for some reason it mattered.

“She wasn’t a whore,” he said stubbornly.

“Have you been back to the place you met?” Methven said. His blue eyes were steady and watchful now, measuring Jack’s reaction. Jack kept his expression studiously blank.

“I have,” he said. The masked ball had been held at Lady Durness’s town house in Charlotte Square. The house was closed now for the summer and the butler had been less than helpful on the subject of her ladyship’s guest list. The anonymous black carriage had had no family crest. The house in Candlemaker Row, so opulent, had given no clues.

He had to accept that she did not want to be found, and as he was not a man who forced his attentions on unwilling women, that was the end of the affair. He was left with nothing but frustration, anger at having been used and a sense of thwarted lust.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. He summoned up a smile. “Was there something in particular you wanted, Rob? Your note mentioned a favor.”