Chapter 5

Madeline was getting married.

To the red-haired Scottish giant who had trampled her train and spilled champagne on her. To a man whose kisses made her toes curl in her fashionable boots even though he wanted a marriage in name only.

But most importantly of all—to Mother, at least—to a man who was a duke.

Madeline might as well have announced she was engaged to the Prince of Wales for all the joy her mother emitted when she heard the news. She had squealed as if she'd seen a mouse.

"Two weddings?" Mother fanned herself now, beaming. "I'm to plan two weddings! Oh, my heart. I can scarcely believe my good fortune."

Damn and blast. That wasn't what Madeline wanted.

"I don't think you'll need to plan mine," Madeline hastened to tell her, frowning. "I believe we'll be married quietly. And quickly."

Because that was what she wanted. The very notion of Mother forcing her to go to Paris to be fitted for a gown or making her listen to endless sermons about the types of flowers that ought to be used to decorate the church made Madeline want to hide. To run. To disappear.

She shuddered. Poor Lucy could bear the brunt of Mother's machinations. The Earl of Rexingham had decreed the wedding would be in two months' time, and he'd given Mother carte blanche. It was a dangerous mistake on the earl's part. But he would discover that soon enough on his own.

"Quickly?" Mother's face fell, her lip curling as if she'd scented something spoiled. "What do you mean quickly? Did something untoward occur between the two of you?"

The question wasn't unexpected. After all, Madeline and Lachlan had been alone together on more than one occasion.

"Of course nothing untoward occurred," she reassured her mother, heat sliding through her as she recalled those sinful kisses at the castle ruins.

Well, there had been that.

And then the kisses in the gardens also.

For such a massive man, Lachlan Macfie possessed a surprising amount of gentleness. And prowess. The man knew how to kiss. What else did he know? Part of her yearned to learn, even as she knew he had no intention of showing her. Why did the notion, which should have been freeing, suddenly seem so frustrating to her?

"Then I fail to see the reason for haste," Mother was saying, her tone one of vast displeasure. "Your wedding can follow Lucy's, my dear."

"No, it can't," she blurted, for now that she'd made her decision, she didn't want to wait. "His Grace has made it clear that he wishes for the wedding to be sooner rather than later."

Calling Lachlan His Grace felt odd. And not just because she'd been thinking of him as Mr. Macfie since the house party's beginning. But because she felt as if she knew him intimately now. His tongue had been in her mouth. Formality felt wrong.

"The duke can be patient. Goodness, one would think that he would want a bit of time to grow accustomed to his change of circumstance before rushing into marriage." Mother clucked her tongue, frowning peevishly, her disapproval evident.

This evening, when Madeline and Lachlan had announced their plans to marry, they had also informed all the guests in attendance that Lachlan was the new Duke of Kenross. Madeline had warned him privately that it would be necessary to make his title known. Otherwise, Mother and Father would never accept the proposal. Just as she had predicted, her mother had been overjoyed at the prospect of her daughter wedding a duke.

But being Mother, she couldn't simply accept that Madeline would become a duchess and that she had Lucy's wedding to the earl to plan. No, she had to insist upon a second wedding of the century, as she called it, to rival the first she was already eagerly orchestrating for Lucy.

"We aren't rushing into marriage," Madeline denied, even though the opposite was true. "Besides, you and Father impressed upon me how very important it was that I find a husband before Lucy's marriage to Rexingham. I've done what you asked. One would think you'd be pleased."

"I am pleased." Mother patted her arm absently, her countenance suggesting that her mind was whirling with a myriad of subjects that didn't pertain to Madeline. "A duke and an earl for my daughters—it's a feather in my cap. But these things must be done properly, my dear."

By properly, her mother meant spending a small fortune on silk, flowers, diamonds, and whatever else she deemed necessary for the wedding of the century.

Things Madeline didn't want or need.

"No," she said firmly.

Her mother blinked as if the word were foreign to her. Indeed, it likely was. No one denied Mrs. William Chartrand whatever whim she wished for in the moment.

"What do you mean, dearest?"

"I mean that I don't want a wedding like the one you're planning for Lucy," she elaborated. "I want a wedding that is small and private. I don't want to wait over two months for it to be done. I want it to happen as quickly as possible."

In short, she wanted the business of the ceremony itself to be over. She wanted to be free of her mother and father's reign. She wanted the independence Lachlan had dangled so temptingly before her. The freedom she'd been too stubborn to see when she had refused him. It had taken her father's august ultimatum, coupled with Lucy's sage advice, to make Madeline realize marrying Lachlan would grant her the future she wanted for herself.

Well, aside from the moldering castle in Scotland.

She could do without ever having to see castle ruins again after her scare here in Yorkshire. Her throat still went tight with remembered terror at the memory of the stones closing in on her and Lachlan.

Her mother's lips tightened into a severe line. "I don't like the sound of this, Madeline. You've always been the dutiful daughter. Lucy has been my wayward child, and now it is you who seeks to defy me, on the eve of everything I've ever wanted finally being within my grasp."

And there was the truth of it, laid out without artifice.

Mother was only concerned with what she wanted. Not with what her daughters hoped for. Their desires for their own futures were entirely immaterial in comparison to the gloating rights Mother hoped to obtain over her fellow socialites in New York City.

"I'm still a dutiful daughter," she told her mother, trying to tamp down the sadness that rose inside her whenever she thought of how little Mother truly knew her. "I'm merely a daughter who doesn't wish for all the pomp and circumstance you want in my wedding. Should I not have a say in the matter?"

"Well, of course you should, dearest. However, your father will demand a ceremony befitting your place in society."

How like Mother to blame this on Father. He had his own sins to answer for, and he was every bit as concerned with his standing, wealth, and power. However, Madeline had no doubt that it wasn't Father who demanded a massive display for his daughters' weddings. That was all her mother's doing.

"I'm marrying the duke as soon as I'm able," she insisted, refusing to budge from her position. "We'll have the banns read and marry in three weeks."

"Three weeks?" Mother fanned herself wildly, looking as if she was going to swoon. "That's not nearly enough time."

"It's going to have to be," Madeline said. "It's what the duke wants."

"It is?"

She saw her mother softening, relenting. Putting Lachlan's wishes first, and merely because he was the Duke of Kenross. Try as she might not to allow that to hurt her, Madeline's heart gave a pang.

"Yes, it is," she confirmed, and not without a hint of bitterness seeping into her voice. "I'm afraid we have no choice but to honor His Grace's wishes."

A peculiar mixture of relief and trepidation swept over Madeline, her shoulders sagging. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding herself stiffly until this moment, her mother's reluctant capitulation chasing her fear that she would find herself wrapped up in a spectacle of a wedding.

It was settled.

She was going to marry Lachlan Macfie and become the next Duchess of Kenross.

What had she done?

Lachlan studied the lovely,determined woman who was soon going to be his wife, wondering what the devil he'd been thinking to propose to someone so beautiful.

So tempting.

So dangerous.

Someone who had stolen into his bedchamber and awaited him when he returned from port and cigars with the gentlemen of the house party. And there had been a great deal of port consumed in honor of his impending nuptials. So much that he was feeling a wee bit soused. And that was why he was certain he'd misunderstood when she'd announced that she had told her mother they'd be marrying in three weeks' time.

"Ye told yer mother what, lass?" he asked, trying not to take note of how near she stood to his bed.

Nor the way her pink silk evening gown clung to her curves in all the right ways.

"That we're marrying as soon as possible." She bit her lip, looking hesitant then and infinitely kissable. "I hope you don't mind. It was the only conceivable way to extricate ourselves from her wedding plans."

He shouldn't be thinking about kissing Madeline Chartrand, he reminded himself sharply. Shouldn't be looking at her soft, lush lips. But his mind was somehow indistinct at the moment, thanks to all that damned port.

"Yer mother had wedding plans?" His brows rose. "Already?"

They'd only just announced their engagement that evening. He was still growing accustomed to the notion he would be marrying someone—anyone—and most particularly someone who wasn't Rose. The entire process had somehow seemed far easier when it had been a notion in his mind.

"My mother has likely been planning my wedding ever since I was a debutante," Madeline said, her tone one of resignation. "I'm afraid she can be quite impossible when she wishes."

"Impossible would be one word for it, lass," he said, rubbing his jaw.

He had spoken with Mrs. Chartrand directly after his discussion in the garden earlier with Madeline. He had also sent a telegram to her father, officially asking permission to wed his daughter. The man's response had been sparse but favorable. Lachlan hadn't been able to shake the suspicion that both Mr. and Mrs. Chartrand cared a great deal more about who their daughter would be marrying than whether he would prove a good husband or make her happy.

As it happened, Lachlan wasn't so certain he was capable of the latter. But he would try. Madeline deserved that much.

"She is overzealous," Madeline agreed, sighing heavily. "So, you see, it really is necessary for us to have the banns called and marry with all haste. If we tarry, she'll only start demanding I accompany her and Lucy to Paris for a gown fitting."

"Ye dinnae want tae go tae Paris for a gown?"

It occurred to him then that most ladies of his acquaintance would adore the chance. And in short order, it also occurred to him that he scarcely knew anything about the woman who would become his bride, aside from how good she felt in his arms and how delectable her lips were.

"Of course not." Madeline was frowning at him, as if he had suggested she ought to saddle a horse and ride to the moon. "It would be torturous being there with Mother. I doubt poor Lucy will ever recover from the horrors of it. It's almost certain that Mother will choose every detail for her. She'll likely walk down the aisle looking like she was in a battle with a rose garden and lost."

Poor Lucy Chartrand, indeed. Lachlan was beginning to hope his future bride wasn't anything like her termagant mother.

"We cannae have that," he agreed. "But let's discuss something of even greater import than the timing of our wedding, shall we, lass? Such as what are ye doing stealing about Sherborne Manor and hiding in my bedroom? Surely ye ken ye ought no' tae be here."

"I needed to speak with you," she said simply. "It seemed the most expedient fashion of having a moment alone, particularly since you joined the gentlemen following dinner and I was left to my mother's haranguing."

He winced. "But it's wrong, lass. If anyone were tae discover ye here…"

"We'd have to marry," she finished, smiling at him in a way that made his cock twitch to attention. "And since we're already doing that, it shouldn't matter. We're nearly husband and wife already."

Lachlan shook his head, feeling dizzy, and not from the port. "Ye only agreed tae marry me this afternoon. And yer father just sent a telegram with his blessing before dinner."

He should have chosen a nice, shy, biddable lass. One like Lady Edith Smythe. Not this American hellion.

"There's nothing untoward about my being here," she said, moving toward him. "It's hardly as if you would be overwhelmed by lust in my presence. You want a chaste marriage. We'll be friends."

Ah, blast. She was still coming closer, cutting away the safe distance between them that had rendered it impossible for him to touch her. The scent of rose and lily of the valley hit him. And the lust she had just breezily assumed he didn't possess was roaring and raging through his blood.

He held up a hand. "Stop there, where ye are. Dinnae come any closer, lass."

"Why?" She stopped, miraculously obeying him, her brows drawn together.

"Because if ye come any closer, I'll be tempted tae do something I shouldnae."

Like touch her. Take her in his arms. Kiss her again.

More than that.

Och, what had he been thinking, choosing this woman as his future bride? Aye, he needed her dowry, but how was he to resist her and keep his vow to himself? And it was an important vow, damn it.

He had no wish to ever make himself vulnerable again. Not after what he'd endured with Rose. He owed it to himself to make certain that he would never be so weakened by a woman. Lachlan moved himself subtly, positioning his body—and his rampaging cock—behind a wingback chair.

"Tempted to do what?" Madeline wanted to know.

Of course she did. The lass was far too curious and bold.

"Tae kiss ye again," he ground out grimly. "And that willnae do."

"Why not? I liked your kisses."

Lust shot through him. He gripped the back of the chair to keep from reaching for her. "Ye shouldnae say such things tae a man, lassie."

He'd liked her kisses as well. Liked her lush mouth, her tongue gliding against his in sinuous rhythm.

Her unusual gaze studied him, dropping to the chair and then traveling back to meet his. "Are you hiding behind the chair?"

"I'm no' hiding," he grumbled.

But he was using the piece of furniture as a shield. This way, he couldn't walk toward her, and she also couldn't see the effect she was having on him, which was unfortunately obvious, given that Lachlan was a large man—everywhere.

"You don't trust yourself not to kiss me," she guessed wisely. "Is that it?"

"Of course I trust myself." He trusted the head on his shoulders anyway. He'd been able to keep himself out of scrapes for years by burying himself in business and making sure he was so busy that there'd been neither time nor inclination for anything romantic in nature.

But clearly, he hadn't thought his plan through when he had settled upon wedding the lovely woman who had invaded his bedchamber without a second thought. Was she a witch, to have cast a spell over his poor cock? Aye, mayhap. Lachlan narrowed his eyes at her, considering.

"Then why are you gripping the chair as if it might protect you from me?"

Madeline Chartrand was grinning at him, and by the rood, she wore amusement the way some women wore a fine silk. When she smiled, she looked nothing short of lusciously fuckable, and that was a problem.

A massive problem.

He cleared his throat, chasing the desire clogging it. "Because I'm trying tae keep yer reputation in mind, lass. Ye cannae go clanging about a man's bedchamber like this."

"I don't recall making much noise." She was moving again.

Coming nearer. Skirting the chair, and damn his eyes for settling on the way her bodice clung lovingly to her breasts. Because now he couldn't breathe.

"Lachlan?" She laid a hand on his sleeve, searing him through his tweed coat.

He was reasonably certain he might snap the chair in two like a twig.

"Ye cannae be here," he said sternly, clinging to his sense of honor.

To the moral code that had never failed him once. Not in all the years since he'd left Scotland and Rose behind.

"Are you angry with me?"

"I'm angry with myself," he admitted.

Because he couldn't seem to keep from wanting her. And that was a very bad, impossible thing, his wanting her. Desire inevitably led to tender feelings, and tender feelings led to pain, and he'd had enough pain to last a lifetime.

"Because you want to kiss me?" she guessed, her lips tipping upward in seductive invitation.

That was all it required. Her sly question. Her smile. Her hand on his sleeve. Something inside Lachlan snapped. Perhaps it was his tenuous hold on his restraint. Perhaps it was the last remaining thread of his sanity. Whatever it was, it had broken him.

He watched himself moving as if in a dream. His hands released their hold on the chair and reached for her, settling on her waist. One swift motion, and he pulled her against him, her body molding to his and setting him aflame. She was so soft. Everywhere. He'd forgotten how good it felt to hold a woman.

Madeline had reminded him. Worse, she had awakened him to the sheer joy of it. Of her. And that was more dangerous than any other realization, because this woman was going to be within reach. She was going to be his bloody wife.

Madeline wound her arms around his neck, and she pressed her breasts into his chest, a bountiful offering he couldn't refuse. Even with the layer of her corset and gown separating them, her softness felt so good, so right crushed into his hardness. Her curves were lush and full and womanly. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her invading his lungs, his nose, his head.

His wits were instantly scrambled. All the reasons that he should retreat from the room without touching her vanished from his mind. There was only the driving need to feel her against him. To kiss her breathless and senseless.

He lowered his lips to hers and claimed them, gathering her into him, reveling in her curves, in the soft sound she made in her throat, part sigh, part needy moan. As if she'd been waiting for this moment, for his kiss. Her tongue was there, eager and hot, demanding entry to his mouth.

He surrendered, giving her what she wanted with a groan of his own. She tasted like sweet wine and dessert, and he wanted to feast on her mouth. Wanted to peel her out of her gown and worship her everywhere. Wanted to forget why he should maintain a proper distance between them. Why decorum wasn't just wise but necessary.

Vital, even.

But nothing seemed more vital than her mouth sweetly coaxing a response from him, those full lips chasing his, demanding more of him than he was willing to give. He hadn't expected to admire her. To want her as he did. To be so consumed with desire that he lost control of the vow he'd made to himself when Rose had nearly decimated him and he'd left Scotland with the tattered remnants of his heart.

Madeline's kisses were decadent. Her lips were velvety and sleek and hot. But knowing. She was bringing him steadily to his knees.

This wasn't good.

He had to stop this madness.

Lachlan lifted his head with great reluctance. "Lass, we cannae carry on like this. It isnae fair to ye."

"It's only kissing. I haven't asked you to bed me."

The word bed on her berry-red lips. Lord above. All the saints and angels. He could scarcely think past the lust rushing through his blood.

"Ye do speak plainly," he managed, trying to cling to his determination to play the gentleman and keep his vow to himself. "Is that an American custom?"

"Perhaps it is. I've never thought about it." Madeline's gaze dipped to his mouth. "Why should we bother to speak any other way?"

Och, when she phrased it thus, how was he to argue? She made it sound so reasonable.

"I thought ye were a snob when I first met ye, but now I can see that I was wrong. Yer plain speech is refreshing, I'll grant ye that much. I like no' having to think in riddles and rhymes."

She laughed. "Is that a compliment or an insult? I confess, I can't quite be certain."

His ears went hot. Lachlan wasn't accustomed to flirting. Or impressing a woman. He'd spent years avoiding romantic entanglements. Burying himself in work and suppressing all his base needs.

"A compliment, lass," he managed hoarsely.

"I was merely unimpressed by what you did to my poor train." Holding his gaze, she reached for his face, lightly trailing her fingertips along his jaw in a caress that lit him up inside like electric lights. "What do you think of me now?"

"I think…" He paused, considering his words with great care as she nearly unmanned him by tracing the perimeter of his bottom lip with her forefinger. "I think ye're dangerous, lassie."

"Dangerous?" She settled her finger in the dip above his mouth. "In what way?"

"Dangerous to my determination."

He swallowed hard. Her finger had paused at his philtrum, lingering there. He wanted to feel that finger investigating every part of him, from his mouth to his cock. Especially his cock. But then, she might use her whole hand for the purpose, along with her mouth…

"And what are you so determined to do, Lachlan?" she asked, her voice husky, her finger still laid there in that place he had never particularly concerned himself with until now.

Because now, it felt as if it were the most erotic place on his cursed body. It felt as if he might come just from her stroking him there.

"Assume my duties," he answered with great difficulty, his lips grazing the fleshy pad of her finger as he spoke. "Uphold the vow I've made tae myself. Restore the castle. Help the people dependent upon me. Marry ye."

"What is the vow you made to yourself?"

"I dinnae wish tae speak of it now," he protested.

"Tell me, if you please. I'm to be your wife. I should know these things."

"Ye neednae."

"I do need."

Her other hand was at his nape, toying with the strands of hair that he'd always worn too long to be fashionable. And God, but he loved the play of her fingers gently sifting and teasing his neck. Light grazes, scarcely anything at all, and yet she was driving him beyond the point of reason with these small suggestions of touch. Of the promise that awaited him if he only forfeited.

"Fine, then," he forced out. "My vow of celibacy, if ye must ken."

"Celibacy," she repeated, cocking her head.

Looking dazed.

Sounding confused.

And still touching him. Still making him mad with wanting her.

"Aye. It is when a man decides tae keep his doodle in his trousers where it belongs."

"Doodle?"

This wasn't going well.

"What do ye call a man's rod in America?" he asked stiffly, wishing his would wilt and cease pressing madly against his trousers. "A long fellow? A shaft of delight?"

Speaking about his, even in vagaries, was having a most undesired effect. If he didn't take care, he'd draw her into his arms, lay her down on the bed, and proceed to show her what he meant rather than explain with words.

She chuckled. "You certainly do have a vast vocabulary for describing a single appendage."

"It's arguably the most important one on a man, lass."

Madeline bit her lip. "I know what celibacy is, of course. What I was wondering is why you might have made such a vow, particularly since you're now taking a wife."

There was one reason in particular, but he didn't wish to speak of that. Or think about it. It felt disastrously wrong with the beautiful, vibrant woman he was going to marry invading his space. Looking up at him with inquisitive dark gray eyes, her mouth swollen from his kisses.

"Ye neednae concern yerself with the reason," he said.

"Do you have a venereal disease?" She wanted to know.

Lachlan nearly swallowed his tongue.

"Och, lass! Of course I dinnae have one. I've been living the life of a damned monk for years."

"Is there something…wrong with your…doodle?" she asked next, peering down at his trousers.

Where one could reasonably assume she'd have a view of the fine form his prick was currently in.

"Madeline," he said in strangled protest.

"If we're to be married, I ought to know," she said reasonably. "As your wife, I'll need to understand the reasoning behind your vow, even if the subject is a rather delicate one."

This woman. She was going to be the death of him. He'd either expire from rampaging lust or from embarrassment before they were even wed. He was sure of it.

"See here, lass," he growled. "There isnae anything delicate about my cock."

To give proof, he took her hand in his and pressed it to where his demanding prick was currently pressing rigidly against the tweed. Her eyes went wide, her lips parting. And the second she stroked him, he had to set his molars on edge to keep from spending in his trousers like a stripling.

Providing evidence of his hale and hearty constitution had clearly been a mistake. A prideful, colossally stupid mistake. Because now her hand was on him. Investigating. And dear saints, he thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

"Oh my," she said. "You're right. Not delicate at all."

She stroked him again, traveling from root to tip, and he didn't know if he'd somehow stumbled into the practiced hands of a seductress, if she was allowing her instinct to guide her, or if his body was simply like a primed pump, ready to surrender at the slightest touch.

"Ye shouldnae be touching me thus," he managed to say, feeling light-headed.

Because he wanted her to touch him this way. He wanted her to open the fall of his trousers and take him in hand. He wanted those berry lips to close around the tip, and he wanted her to suck him down her throat.

No, no, no.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Do you not like it?" She paused in her ministrations but didn't remove her hand, frowning. "In the books I've read, when a lady touches a man's cock, he feels great pleasure."

Lachlan couldn't manage a word. Nothing but a half growl, feral and low.

And then he forced himself to say something intelligible. A response. Honest but painful.

"I like it, lass. I like it too much."

"I like it too," she said.

Sweet saints. Heavens and all the angels.

Her fingers were working on the buttons fastening his trousers. And he was helpless to stop her. Because he thought he might die if she didn't touch his bare cock.

The breath fled him. His cock sprang free of his smalls. Massive and rude, just like the rest of him.

But she wrapped her hand around him, her touch tentative and soft, and then she stroked again. He was already leaking, and if she touched him for much longer, he was going to spend in her hand. At the moment, he wasn't sure he cared. Indeed, he wasn't sure of anything, including his own name.

"I like the way you feel," she said softly. "Your skin is so hot and smooth."

Fuck. He tried to think. Failed.

"I cannae… Lass, ye shouldnae…"

"Does it bring you pleasure?" She wetted her lips, looking roused herself.

The sight of Madeline stroking his bare cock, the both of them fully clothed, was the most erotic thing he'd ever beheld.

"Aye," he bit out.

"Tell me what to do."

What he should tell her to do was stop. He should tuck himself back into his trousers and recall the vow he'd made to himself. He ought to remember what it meant to be a gentleman.

But he was under this woman's spell now. And he wanted—he needed—more.

"Stroke me," he said. "Grip me harder."

His hand closed over hers, and he showed her what he liked, what he needed.

"Does that feel good?" she asked, her voice throaty.

The sorceress. The beautiful, cunning, delectable woman. She'd bewitched him. There was no other answer for what was happening. For what he was allowing to happen.

"Aye," he managed again as they both worked his cock in unison.

"Sometimes in the books I've read, the woman takes the man into her mouth."

Oh dear God. He thought about her lips and tongue on him. Thought about sliding into the velvety, sleek heat of her mouth. Thought about watching his thick cock disappear into those heavenly depths. And he couldn't hold back. He couldn't do anything but surrender.

"Fuck." His orgasm was fast and furious, rushing through him.

Pleasure burst inside him, like a dam had broken. It was strong and potent, stealing his breath, making his knees shake, sending black stars to dance across his vision. And still, she didn't stop, her firm grip on his cock making him lose control utterly.

Lachlan didn't even have the time to find a handkerchief to catch his spend. He spurted creamy white lashings all over her pink silk gown.