Chapter Four

Of all the nerve. Jade could recall a time, when paid for doing a certain job, men actually went and did the bloody job! A fare from the train station in the village to the adorably named The Cottage should've meant delivering her to the bloody front door of the bloody building, shouldn't it? Not way back there at the gate.

But despite her protests, the hired cabbie had just grinned good-naturedly, said something about another lord being expected in the village as he unloaded her trunk, then tipped his hat and driven away. All while she'd been standing there as the thunder rolled closer, getting more and more irritated as her demands were ignored.

Jade wasn't used to being ignored, and it rankled.

But, she also wasn't used to pouting, so she'd heaved a sigh—and then heaved her bag atop her trunk—and bent to lift one end of said trunk. It wasn't that heavy, and she'd had years of exercise to strengthen her muscles.

Still, she continued her grumbling as she locked her elbows and began to drag the thing up the gravel drive, hoping some enterprising servant would see her and come running to help.

But as she approached The Cottage, she realized the adorable name wasn't as modest as she'd hoped. Her Aunt Mary had married a Scottish lord, and Uncle Argus wasn't poor. Jade had, frankly, expected The Cottage to be a Lowland estate with a quaint name, conjuring images of bucolic oinking and rosy-cheeked milkmaids and—and—chickens and whatnot.

Jade could admit she knew little of country life.

But, upon delivery by that possibly deaf driver, Jade realized the name of her destination wasn't modest; the damned place really was a cottage.

Sighing, she dropped the trunk and straightened, stretching her back as she took in the view. The place was certainly quaint-with-a-capital-Q, with the thatching and the cheerful late-summer blooms in the window boxes and the white-washed walls and huge chimney. Was the place modernized inside, or had Uncle Argus invited her on some sort of medieval outing?

The thought of sponge baths—when hot running water awaited her back in London—made Jade frown, but she knew she wouldn't be here long enough for it to really matter. That's why her trunk was so light; she'd packed only for a few days, knowing her trusted managers at the office could direct business well enough in her absence. Here, she intended to march inside, give Uncle Argus a firm piece of her mind—ai-ya! Marriage by proxy was medieval!—and be on tomorrow's train south to London again.

Of course, she'd been planning on having a servant's help with getting back to the train station. And getting the trunk into The Cottage, for that matter. She might've left the thing, except for those heavy, dark clouds…

Taking a deep breath, Jade locked her hands in the small of her back and did a deep backbend. The air here was…well, surprisingly perfect. The Cottage sat on a small rise overlooking the Solway Firth, and from here Jade could see a little path leading down the cliffs to what must be the beach. Today the surf was loud, thanks to those fast-moving rain clouds, and she was glad to have shelter so close by. But the salt air had always put her at ease, and the sound of the waves was as comforting as a hug.

Perhaps Uncle Argus had guessed that, when he'd instructed her to meet him here by the eighteenth. His letter—which she had ripped in half in anger, then shoved into her bag solely to wave under the man's nose—had said he planned to offer her explanation. But the only explanation Jade wanted to hear was how he was planning on undoing this mess.

Marriage by proxy? She'd never heard of anything so ridiculous!

The salty sea air no longer seemed quite so comforting, and the first heavy splat of raindrops matched her mood as, grumbling, she bent to lift her trunk once more.

Uncle Argus knew she didn't want to marry! It was the entire bloody point of her taking on a silent partner until she could access the remainder of the inheritance he was ostentatiously overseeing, and buy out the mystery man. It had galled to offer partnership for sale, certainly, but was better than the alternative her guardian had suggested:

Marriage.

Yes, marriage to another man would keep her family's money out of slimy Lord Buthert's hands, assuming the spoiled lordling intended to force her into marriage as he'd been hinting. But when Argus had originally suggested the idea, Jade had tried to—as calmly as possible—explain that would still land her with the problem of the inconvenient husband.

As she'd explained to The Scot the other night in his hotel room, she didn't want to be married to anyone, if it meant giving up control. Unfortunately, that thought reminded her of how deftly she'd allowed the man control over her, and how she'd damn near swallowed her tongue a few days later when she'd seen him at the club.

Cheeks heating, and still grumbling, she arrived at the porch of The Cottage, adorably protected by an adorable portico. And she just couldn't seem to make herself care about the gouge she'd just put into the adorable gravel driveway on the way here.

Huffing with irritation, and wishing she had an umbrella, she stomped up to the front door and knocked loudly.

A full bloody minute went by before she heard sound on the other side of the portal. Ai-ya, were the servants as quaint as the rest of this place?

But the man who eventually yanked open the door was no servant.

"It's about fooking time you got here, auld man—"

It might've been funny, the way his mouth snapped audibly shut when he saw who was standing—chilled, damp, bedraggled—under the portico. Might have been, were Jade not staring up at him with that same sense of doom.

Blond curls. Laughing blue eyes—wide first in surprise, now softening in pleasure. Wide, expressive lips curling into a smile of genuine delight as he looked her up and down. He wore a kilt today, in muted greens and blues, befitting the wild Scottish coast behind her, and his sleeves were rolled to display shockingly bare forearms.

The Scot.

Her opponent on the strip.

Her husband.

…Assuming this marriage was legal.

Of course, she'd been prepared, had she not? Oh, not for seeing him here in Scotland—she'd expected to be meeting Uncle Argus for an argument--but her uncle's letter had named him, and she'd recognized him as the man she'd crossed swords with.

And the man she'd crossed swords with was also the courtesan she'd hired.

Cameron MacKay, darling of Society, lazy slugabed charmer who mooched from both sides of his family…was really The Scot, famed giver-of-pleasure, who taught her about desire and urged her to take her own virginity.

When he'd removed his mask at the fencing club a few days ago, and she'd realized who she'd been dueling, Jade had almost vomited.

In horror, obviously.

She'd made a hasty retreat to a private dressing room, where she could change into the costume of a maid she wore to come and go through the club's back entrance, and asked the concierge for the name of her opponent.

Cameron MacKay... The Scot…

And now possibly her husband?

Oh, hell.

The man's easy smile had turned downright sensual, and he rested his bare forearm against the edge of the door he held open, strong fingers wrapped around the wood. The last time she'd seen his hand bare of those garish red leather gloves, it had been pumping lewdly at his own cock in the mirror, moments before he'd come in thick white strands of—

Stop thinking about it.

Too late. She pressed her thighs together and tried to frown up at him, ignoring the way she suddenly wanted to run her palm along his bare skin.

"Well, Treasure," he all but purred, "I have to admit ye werenae who I was expecting to see."

Treasure. The reminder he still didn't know who she was had her frown deepening. "Will you invite me in, sir? You might not have noticed, but it is emphatically raining."

He made a show of peering out around the portico. "This? Nay, 'tis merely a bracing sea mist." On cue, thunder rolled, but he didn't blink before continuing, "A loud bracing sea mist."

She huffed. "Let me in, MacKay."

He grinned and stepped out of the door, allowing her to bustle past him as he bent to easily hoist her trunk and bag. He stomped inside and kicked the door closed as she stood in the foyer and removed her gloves as she looked around.

The Cottage wasn't medieval, but it was old-fashioned. From here she could see the dining room and the single parlor. There was a long hall toward the back of the house, leading to what she had to assume was bed chambers, seeing as how there was no upper level.

The noise her trunk made when it hit the ground startled her, and she swung about to see him grinning at her. His good humor in the face of this nonsense just made her more irritated.

"Dare I be flattered ye've learned my identity and tracked me down?" he asked, and he didn't bother disguising the hopeful note in his voice.

She hated that her body reacted to it. Focus! The way her stomach went all squiggly and her core pulsed was entirely inconvenient. She couldn't afford to be aroused by this man!

Why not? You were definitely aroused by him once, and no harm was done.

Ai-ya, that was before she was supposedly married to him!

"Don't be flattered, MacKay," she barked, irritated at herself and him. "I'm here to see your father."

Still eying her, he murmured, "Lucky bastard. Well…" He sighed, affected a dejected stance, and brushed past her on his way to the parlor. "Come in. I just poured myself some tea, and was debating between whisky—for the chill—or more sugar, because ye can never go wrong with more sugar. Can I pour ye either?"

The parlor was…adorable. The Cottage really was living up to its name, with the bucolic adorableness visible in each line. There were heavy rafters, a small fire in the hearth, and two sofas and a pair of chairs arranged cozily, surrounded by bookshelves and cabinets.

Between the two chairs, a small tea set stood, along with a pile of what looked like shortbread on a plate.

She cleared her throat. "Just tea, please." Although the extra sugar did sound delightful.

He was crouched in front of a low cabinet, and when he rose, he carried an extra tea cup and saucer. "Ah, I thought she stored them here," he said as he waggled the place setting at her and moved toward the teapot.

"She?" Jade asked weakly, pleased to already be drying from the warmth of the fire.

"The housekeeper. She lives in the village, but ensures The Cottage is up to standards before I arrive. She even left oyster stew on the stove, and I'll admit, it and the fresh bread smell divine."

Jade cautiously sniffed the air, and yes, there was something delicious somewhere nearby. He turned, the cup and saucer cradled in his overlarge hands, and caught her smelling his house.

Guiltily, she reached for the tea and took a too-large gulp to calm her nerves.

It didn't work.

"Please, sit, warm up." He gestured her toward one of the chairs. "Shortbread?" he asked as he flopped, effortlessly graceful, into the other and reached for his own cup. "Something stronger?"

The way he waggled his brows led Jade to guess he was suggesting something naughty, but she kept her back straight as she sat. "No, thank you." The tea actually was quite good. "The housekeeper isn't here now?"

"Nay," he said cheerfully. "We're all alone. I even managed to boil the water myself." He lifted his cup in salute.

A mocking reply died on her tongue as she realized what he'd said. "Alone?" she repeated hoarsely, shakily lowering the saucer. "Where's Uncle Argus?"

"Ah."

That was all he said: ah. He said "ah," sort of disappointedly, and crossed one long leg over the other as he twisted to place his cup on the table beside him.

Ah.

Jade absolutely refused to allow her gaze to drop below his knees, where his bare calves beckoned.

Her gaze insisted on disobeying.

Finally, he took a deep breath, which stretched the cotton of his shirt under his waistcoat. "I'm having a terrible, truly disappointing thought. Might I assume ye are Jade? My…bride?"

"Truly disappointing?" she repeated wryly, careful to place her own cup on the table before her hands betrayed her nervousness. She twisted them together in her lap. "That is disheartening."

"Disappointing, Treasure, because it means ye're strictly off-limits." He winked.

Oh, damn.

That wink…did he want her to be on-limits?

Ai-ya! Don't flatter yourself! He's a flirt, a charmer!

That he was.

She cleared her throat. "I am Miss Jade Thacker. My Aunt Mary is married to your father. That makes us cousins."

He was lounging in the leather chair, one leg thrown languidly across the other, his hands steepled in front of him as he studied her. It was an utterly inappropriate introduction, especially to one's relative. Or husband.

But it's not like this is the first time you've met the man, right?

Right.

Finally, he smiled. A sudden, blazing smile with no little amount of wickedness. "Oh, we most certainly are no' cousins, Miss Thacker," he murmured, the way his gaze raked her leaving no mystery to his thoughts. "I've been having all sorts of no'-at-all-cousinly thoughts about ye, Treasure."

Oh.

Oh, my.

Judging from the way his chin dipped, he knew exactly the effect his words had on her.

The thought he might've said such a thing just to fluster her, just to get the upper hand, made Jade's irritation spike again. The man was known throughout London—and especially in Uncle Argus's letters—to be a wastrel, good only for seducing women!

That's all he was doing now; flirting with her to get what he wanted.

What did he want?

And let's be honest here; you're ready to give it to him, yes?

No!

No, definitely no.

Maybe we should hear what it is before we "definitely no" anything.

Still no. She wasn't going to be manipulated by a set of gorgeous dimples and a muscled set of forearms and thick legs which reminded her of—

Focus!

"I'm not your Treasure," she snapped, reflexively. "Don't call me that."

"No," he murmured, his gaze hooded as he studied her. "According to my father, ye're my wife." Without giving her time to react to that, he pushed himself to his feet, startling her. "Would ye like a tour?"

***

Cam was off-balance, and he'd long ago learned the best thing to do in such circumstances was to off-balance as many of those around him as possible.

Hence his outrageous flirting.

Which was, admittedly, not too difficult to manage.

God Almighty, but his Treasure was beautiful! With her unusual eyes spitting gray sparks, and two spots of color high on her cheeks, she looked the same way she'd looked that night in his hotel room, draped across that chair…

If ye continue down Memory Lane, laddie, ye'll have to go find a heavy sporran to prevent tenting yer kilt.

Slowly, she stood, maintaining a dignified air of cold grandeur. He wasn't fooled.

"No, Mr. MacKay, I would not like a tour. Because I am not staying. It isn't at all proper, to stay here with you, and no one else."

Just to see how she'd respond to his teasing, he pointed out, "It's perfectly proper, since we're married."

"We are not married," she hissed. "You cannot possibly believe we are?"

Ah, anger. Well, too bad, because she was just a delight to tease, and Cam knew he'd continue trying to make her lose control.

Instead of answering her question, he shrugged, as if the situation didn't bother him.

She sniffed. "I will return to the village, and await your father at the hotel."

"What hotel?" He grinned. "I believe there's a set of rooms over the pub, but they're often in use by one of the local whores."

He'd used the crudest term, trying to shock her, but to his surprise, her gaze went all…curious? She studied his features in what looked like speculation, and immediately he wondered what she thought of the activities which went on over the pub. Which had gone on in Cam's hotel room.

She'd liked it.

He swallowed, reminding his inconvenient cockstand of the need for a sporran.

"Besides," he croaked, then swallowed and tried again. "Besides, there's nae cart to carry yer luggage and ye."

"I'll walk." Her attitude had mellowed somewhat.

"In the rain?"

Almost in unison, the pair of them cocked their ears to the sound of the rain pounding against the seaward-facing windows. The thatch muffled the sounds from above, of course, but the drumming was still suddenly loud.

"Your bracing sea mist, was it?" she asked drily, then sighed. "Well, I've been wet before."

"That's what she said."

The quip escaped his lips before he could stop it, and to his surprise, her eyes widened in understanding and her lips twitched before she turned away. Turned away to escape him, or turned away to hide her response to his ribald humor?

God help him, he liked Miss Jade Thacker, and her futile attempts at remaining in control, more and more.

Impulsively, he reached for her hand. She stiffened, but didn't pull away.

"Stay, Jade," he entreated quietly. "At least for dinner. When the rain stops, I'll carry yer trunks myself."

He could see her waffling. "Mr. MacKay, I don't think—"

"Then dinnae think," he interrupted her. "And please, call me Cam."

She blinked. "What?"

"Cam. My name." He tugged her slightly closer. "Well, it's Cameron, of course, but nae one calls me that except for my mother's husband, and then only when he's sneering at me. Och, and my father, when he's trying to sound stuffy," he added, remembering the damn letter which got him here in the first place.

"It's not proper," she breathed, her head tipped back to study him.

"Of course it is." He tried a smile. "Seeing as how we're married."

Those two spots of color returned to her cheeks, but she seemed more confused than angry. "We're—we're not married."

He shrugged. "Cousins?"

She swallowed, and swayed closer. "We're not cousins," she whispered.

Lowered lids, flared nostrils. Her tongue darted across her lower lip, her fingers tightened around his.

He knew the signs of arousal. Knew she was as affected by this nearness as he was.

"Lovers, then," he murmured, remembering the way she tasted.

She jerked back. Jerked hard enough she might have stumbled in her haste to get away from—from him? Or from his words? Luckily, he had a hold on her hand, and reached out with his free one to steady her.

Before she had a chance to insist they weren't lovers—which they weren't—and never could be lovers, he hurried to distract her.

"I'm remembering, that night ye came to me, Treasure." He kept his voice nonchalant, even as his thumb unconsciously caressed her upper arm. "Ye said ye wanted to lose yer virginity on yer terms, because yer guardian was likely to marry ye off to a spoiled lord or a lazy layabout who wouldnae challenge ye. Can I assume ye meant me?"

"You are not a spoiled lordling."

It took a moment to process the insult, and then Cam began to chuckle. "So I was the lazy layabout ye meant?"

With a sigh, she pulled her hand from his, but didn't step away. "I meant you, Cam. Your father's letters have been…full of complaints."

Still chuckling, he squeezed her upper arm before dropping his hold. "I can imagine exactly what he's said. No ambition, no responsibility." It was a fa?ade he'd been careful to maintain over the years, out of sheer stubbornness.

Her head was cocked to one side, studying him. She really did look like a prim and proper miss today, didn't she? That blouse so high up her neck she looked as if she might choke, the double row of buttons on her jacket hiding her tempting breasts. No one who saw Miss Jade Thacker would guess she was the beguiling midnight Treasure who'd invaded his dreams for the last week.

"Yes," she finally said. "Something like that. Why does it not bother you, to hear his opinion?"

Cam shrugged and stepped aside, turning so as to invite her to follow him toward the dining room. "Because I've heard it for years, from him and from my mother's family."

In fact, he'd done his best to cultivate it, because that was so much easier than arguing. It wasn't worth the headache, to show them how wrong they were.

"But it's not true," she mused quietly, stepping out of the parlor. "You have a successful business—"

His laughter stopped him in his tracks, so suddenly she bumped into him. He whirled about to steady her, still laughing, and she stepped back in surprise.

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

Still chuckling, he shook his head. "A successful business? Ye mean being The Scot?" Remember, she thinks ye a true courtesan. Knows nothing of yer vow. "I dinnae pay taxes on that income, Treasure."

He winked lewdly, but to his surprise, she frowned.

"Why not?" she asked. "You are selling a valuable commodity, and clearly it is enough to keep you in high style—parties and fencing clubs and your father says you have a fine townhouse, although I cannot imagine why he'd think that would sway me, when I'm quite comfortable on my own."

How'd she know about his membership at the London Fencing Club? "A ‘valuable commodity'? Is that what ye call it?"

"Certainly." She nodded briskly, and he could see how she would be a formidable businesswoman. "Women sell such commodities all the time."

"Aye," he drawled, "but whores dinnae pay taxes either."

"I meant brides."

Her quiet reply rattled him, reminding him of why she'd sought him out in the first place. She hadn't wanted to sell her virginity—either to her guardian's lazy bastard son or to a spoiled lordling—so she'd claimed it herself. Is that what she was thinking of when she spoke of "selling commodities"?

He was more flustered than he admitted, because he found himself saying, "I dinnae keep the money."

Her gaze sharpened and she cocked her head in that curious style of hers which made him feel…well, really looked at.

"You didn't keep the money I gave you?"

Bloody hell, he hadn't meant to admit that. Rallying, he swept a hand toward the simple dining room. "Have dinner with me, Jade. Surely the rain will stop soon."

Thank fook she didn't pursue her earlier questions, but instead glanced toward the seaward windows, through which absolutely nothing was visible, thanks to the aforementioned rain.

"I'm beginning to doubt that," she murmured.

He shrugged, surprisingly desperate to get her to stick around. "Then stay the night. There's only the one furnished bedroom, because I never entertain when I'm here."

Her thoughts were hidden as she studied him. "This is your home?"

"The Cottage is mine, aye, but I dinnae live here. I assumed Da chose it as a meeting place because it was easier than coming down to London." He hurried to assure her, "Ye can have the bedroom, I'll sleep on the sofa in the parlor."

Her gray eyes tracked across his face, as if looking for the truth. "And where is your father? The letter I received—the letter explaining I am married to you, now—told me to meet him here, today."

"Aye," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "His letter to me said the same. But when I arrived last night…" He held out both hands, palms up. "Nae word. I strolled down to the village today to learn Mrs. Higgins—the housekeeper—had notice from Da that The Cottage would have two visitors starting today. Hence the oyster stew. Which still smells delicious."

He could tell from the way her lips twitched that she wasn't completely unaffected by his hint toward the dinner table.

"Two visitors?"

He hummed. "I assumed he meant himself and me."

"Yet, he's not here." She made a show of peering about. "He might be hiding."

Smiling, he jerked a thumb toward the back of The Cottage. "Well, I havenae checked the storerooms."

"Under the bed?" she asked solemnly.

"It's possible the rain delayed him." The storm was wicked.

Her chin dipped. "Or he's set us up."

Aye, it was a suspicion which had beset Cam as soon as he'd opened the door and seen her beautiful—if angry—face.

Da, ye sorry son of a bitch, what in the name of Creation are ye thinking?

The answer came back loud and clear:

Cam was supposedly married to this tempting creature before him, and now Da had arranged for the pair of them to be stuck—together, alone—in a house with only one bed, at least overnight.

No consummation?

His father was a crafty arsehole, certainly.

But this crafty?

Cam had no idea what Miss Jade Thacker was thinking…but when she smiled, his mind—which had been whirling with possibilities—ground to a halt.

God Almighty, but her smile was perfect. She was always so in control, so to see her smile like this—part mischievous, part shy—was downright charming. And he was a man who specialized in charming.

That smile reached down into his gut and pulled.

No consummation.

"Cam," she said in a throaty voice, "did you say there are oysters for dinner?"