Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

N ic wasn't pleased. He was irritated and annoyed, mostly with himself. He'd sworn he wouldn't respond to the note sent to him by Olivia Monteith yesterday evening, that he would find something far more important to do, or go for a ride, or browse his father's collection of books in the library. Why should he meet her? They might be neighbors, but it wasn't as if he had an obligation to her.

But try as he might, he hadn't been able to put her from his mind. The questions kept coming, crowding his thoughts, agitating him so much he couldn't concentrate on anything else.

What did she mean by "urgent"? How could a meeting by the stream possibly be urgent? And why had she chosen him as the ultimate prize in her mad quest for a husband? Surely there were plenty of other men out there, men who would be far more eager to succumb to her charms?

Meeting with her would be a big mistake.

And yet, now, here he was, striding furiously through the woods toward the stream that marked the boundary between his land and the village, his glower dark enough to frighten the birds down from the trees.

His foul mood wasn't helped by the fact that he had run into his mother in the walled garden that morning. Not literally, of course, but they had both turned a corner at the same time and found themselves facetoface.

His first thought, after the shock of seeing her, was that she looked old and tired. Although they lived on the same estate, she in the gatehouse and he in the castle itself, they did not see or speak to each other. His mother had not spoken to him directly since 1828. She preferred to communicate through the servants and the occasional terse note.

And suddenly there they were, inches apart. But if he'd expected that morning to be the start of a new era of understanding, he soon realized his mistake. Her dark eyes widened, her mouth tightened, and she spun around and began to walk away with an angry rustle of her black skirts. Black, of course black. She'd been in mourning ever since his father died. He'd been told by Abbot that she still had a place set at her table for him, in case his spirit might decide to join her for dinner.

The idea made him queasy. Imagine sharing a table with his father's ghost. No, thank you. But it seemed a waste for her to be so obsessed with a dead man, when her son was still living. Was it any wonder Nic spent more time away from the castle than in it ?

He strode on through the woods, feeling upset and irritable, and knowing the last thing he wanted to do was listen to Miss Monteith's fantastical imaginings of married bless. Nic slipped his fob watch from his pocket and flipped open the cover. Two o'clock, exactly. He could only hope she wouldn't turn up.

It was the last coherent thought Nic had as he stepped from the leafy trees and onto the grassy bank of the stream.

Olivia Monteith had kept their assignation, but she wasn't standing, waiting, demurely on the bank. She was balanced preciously on the stepping stones out in the middle of the deep, fast flowing steam. The very same stones she'd been standing on all those years ago.

Nic heard himself shout. Even as his memory reminded him that this was what had happened last time, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"For God's sake, get down from there!"

She looked up.

She was wearing a pale lemon dress, the hem lifted so that he could see her slippers as she balanced on the slippery stones, and her fine stockings molded to her trim ankles and calves. Her hair was pinned up simply, making a halo of gold for her beautiful face. Olivia Monteith was no longer a child, she was a woman, and she took his breath away.

"I'm not going to fall this time," she called to him.

Nic found he could breathe again .

"I'm going to jump."

He shouted, but it was too late. She sprang neatly from the stones and landed with a splash. A moment later she'd gone under the swift, rushing water. Cursing, he waded into the freezing stream, not even pausing to take off his boots.

She came up, spluttering and splashing wildly in her attempts to stay afloat. She started to sink again, weighed down by her clothing, just as he reached her.

"Of all the ridiculous, dangerous stunts . . ." he said, or tried to between mouthfuls of water. He wrapped an arm about her and began hauling her toward the bank. He expected her to struggle, but she didn't, and he wondered whether that was because she trusted him to rescue her or because she was half drowned.

He soon discovered it was the latter.

When they reached the bank she could barely help herself at all, and he ended up pushing and pulling her shivering body onto dry land. By the time he'd got himself out of the water, she'd crawled several feet away and was lying on her stomach in the grass, her tangled hair covering her face, and her sodden lemon dress clinging to her body. Nic turned her over, smoothing her hair away so that he could see her face properly.

Olivia's lashes were very dark against her white cheeks. They fluttered and her eyes opened, purest sapphire blue, and she gave him a feeble smile. "I knew you hadn't changed," she rasped. A second later her eyes widened, her face took on a green cast, and she looked about wildly, trying to sit up.

Nic turned her onto her side as she retched, bringing up the water she'd swallowed. When she was done, he wrung out his handkerchief and, lifting her into his arms, proceeded to wipe her face. "You bloody fool, woman," he growled as he worked. "Are you trying to kill yourself? Or do you want me to be blamed for your death as well as—as—?"

He stuttered to a stop just in time, but she didn't seem to hear him.

Nic dug into his pocket, and his fingers closed on the silver flask that was his father's. It went everywhere with him, and he was thankful he'd thought to refill it only that morning. He tilted Olivia's head back, pouring brandy down her throat.

"No . . ." she gasped, pushing his hand away.

"Yes. More."

She gave him a mutinous look and then took another sip. The color had come back into her cheeks, and her eyes had lost their glassy stare. As he recapped the flask, she gave a sigh and snuggled against his chest. He could feel her soft bosom, and when he looked down, he realized that her pale dress was clinging to her like a second skin. He could see the full curved shape of her breasts, and more interestingly, the jut of her cold nipples.

A bolt of lust speared through him .

He might have conquered it. He hadn't forgotten that he used to be a gentleman. And then the minx lifted her long, dark lashes and gazed into his eyes with a look that a man of his experience couldn't mistake. With a groan, Nic bent his head and kissed her.

Her lips were cold and tasted of brandy, but she was enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic. He tried to slow her down, turning his attention to her cheeks, her eyelids, the curve of her jaw. She acquiesced for a brief moment, and then she took control. Olivia reached up, clamping her frozen palms on either side of his face, and held him still.

"This is what I want," she whispered, and with that she leaned forward and began to kiss his lips again.

So this was what she wanted? She was obviously a direct kind of woman. A hot and hard kind of woman. Well, he thought, he'd give it to her hot and hard.

He tilted her over his arm to get better access to her mouth, and dived in. He felt her stiffen, briefly, and then give a little whimper. Her tongue slid along his, her arms clung about his neck. If he hadn't known better, he would never have believed it was the cool and beautiful Miss Monteith he held in his arms, but some wild, passionate Gypsy wench eager to dispose of her virginity . . .

What the devil am I doing?

Shocked to the core, Nic pushed her away and stumbled to his feet. He staggered a few steps, turning his back, knowing he was fully erect and not wanting her to see the tent in his trousers. She had almost drowned and now he was about to ravish her. Even for Wicked Nic that was pretty dastardly. Nic took several deep, calming breaths before he finally dared to turn back to look at her.

She was sitting up, still bedraggled, but she'd twisted her waterdarkened hair into a knot at her nape and she was watching him with that direct, disconcerting look, as if waiting to see what he would do next.

"I apologize," he said quietly.

"I don't want you to apologize. I enjoyed it."

"I apologize anyway."

"Nic, I wanted you to kiss me. Surely you knew that? I wanted you to save me." Her face lit up. "And you did."

"What if I hadn't been here?" he retorted, the anger returning to his voice. "You could have drowned."

"But you were here. I've been trying to think of a way to break through the distance that has grown up between us, to bring back that easiness we used to feel in each other's company."

"So you decided to relive the past?" he growled.

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Her blue eyes were full of laughter, as if she found the situation amusing .

He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to strangle her. If he touched her again . . . well, who knew what might happen. He was Wicked Nic, after all.

As if she'd read his mind she said bluntly, "You want me, don't you? You want me as a—a man wants a woman." That little stumble told him everything about her innocence when it came to the subject, and he might have smiled if he wasn't so tense.

"Of course I bloody want you!" he roared. "But I can't have you!"

Olivia Monteith stood up, her wet dress outlining her body in a manner that made him want to weep with desire. "Yes, Nic, you can. Marry me."

It was finally more than he could bear. Another moment and he'd throw himself upon her, and he couldn't risk that. With a muttered curse he strode away from her as fast as he could, back through the woods to his own land, and to safety.

He didn't expect her to follow him, and she didn't. He'd answered her question, and he cursed himself again for being too weak to resist her. So weak that he had to rush off and leave her, bedraggled and cold, and alone by the stream. A stream she would no doubt cross again to get home, rather than go the long way by the path and the bridge.

What if she fell in and this time there was no one there to rescue her ?

Nic hesitated, slowed, then stopped. He wanted to keep walking, get home, and change out of his wet clothes, but he knew he couldn't do it. He was either a hero or a fool, but he couldn't do it. With a groan, he turned back.