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“The definition of an heiress,” Lucy said, “is someone who will inherit money, not someone who currently possesses it. An heiress could be penniless.”
“A nice justification,” Methven conceded, “but still no excuse.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you might claim to have helped him because you believe in love.”
A chill settled in Lucy’s blood. “I have no time for love,” she said.
His eyes searched her face. “Then we have something in common.” A bitter smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “I loved what Miss Brodrie would have brought me, though.” He sighed, straightened. “Did you know that your cousin Wilfred Cardross and I are involved in a legal battle?” His tone was conversational, but the look in his eyes was very acute and suddenly Lucy had the feeling that the answer to this mattered far more than anything that had gone before.
“Yes,” she said truthfully, and saw the scorn and dislike sweep back into his eyes.
“So you did it to help your cousin too,” Methven said. “You wanted to help him cheat me of my patrimony.” He turned away from her. The line of his shoulders and back, his entire stance, was rigid with repressed fury, yet Lucy sensed something else in him: a frustration, a powerful protective spirit that was somehow thwarted as though there was something he longed for yet could not gain. She felt it so instinctively that she reached out a hand to touch him, then realized what she was doing and let her hand fall.
“You mistake me,” she said, and her voice was a little husky. “I did nothing to help my cousin Wilfred. I would not give him the time of day, let alone my assistance. If what I have done in any way was to his benefit, then I am sorry.”
Methven turned sharply and caught her by the shoulders, his touch burning her through the evening gown. “Is that true?” he demanded. There was a blaze of heat in his eyes that made her shiver. He felt it and released her, his hands falling away.
“You were dancing with him earlier,” he said, and his tone was cool now, as though that flash of heat had never been.
“Not for pleasure,” Lucy said. “I cannot bear him. Ever since we were children—” She stopped. Childhood reminiscences were probably out of place here.
Methven’s gaze searched her face as probing as a physical touch. “So you really do not know,” he said. His voice was flat. “You have done Cardross the greatest service imaginable in breaking my betrothal and you did not know.”
Apprehension slid down Lucy’s spine. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.
Methven did not answer immediately. Instead he walked over to the table and poured two glasses of wine from the decanter. He passed her a glass; their fingers brushed, distracting Lucy momentarily. She realized that he was gesturing her to sit. She took a battered-looking velvet armchair. Methven sat opposite, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, his glass cradled in his hands.
“Wilfred Cardross and I are involved in a dispute over clan lands,” he said. “It goes back centuries to the time of King James the Fourth.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You know that the Methvens and the Cardrosses have always been enemies?”
“And the MacMorlans,” Lucy said. “We talked about this eight years ago, you and I.”
A smile slid briefly into Robert Methven’s eyes like sunlight on water. “So we did,” he said softly.
Lucy suddenly felt very hot. She broke the contact between them looking down, smoothing her skirts.
“Cardross holds to the old enmities,” Robert Methven said. “He and I—” He shrugged. “Suffice it to say, he has been waiting for an opportunity to claim back the lands he believes to be his. When my grandfather died I was in Canada and so was slow to return and claim my inheritance. That gave him the chance he needed.”
“I don’t quite see how I am involved in this—” Lucy started to say, but Methven cut in, his incisive tone reminding her that his patience with her was wafer thin.
“You will,” he said. “Under the terms of the original treaty, the Methvens were given lands carved out from the earldom of Cardross. Those lands constitute half my estate.”
There was a hollow feeling in Lucy’s stomach now. “I can see why Wilfred might not like that,” she said.
Methven’s smile held no warmth. “Indeed. The agreement was originally reached because the Methven clan had bested Cardross men in battle. King James the Fourth imposed the ruling on both sides back in the fifteenth century, but it still stands today.”
The fire roared and cracked as a sudden gust of wind curled down the chimney.
“The only proviso,” Methven said softly, holding Lucy’s eyes, “was that if any future marquis took more than twelve months to claim his inheritance, he would have to fulfill certain criteria or forfeit his lands. I took thirteen months.”
“Why did it take you so long to return?” Lucy asked. “Why were you, the Methven heir, in Canada at all?”
She saw something flicker in his eyes, something of pain and dark, long-held secrets.
“That does not concern you,” he said, and the words were like a door slamming shut in her face. “I was late claiming my lands and title and so Cardross had his chance to invoke the old treaty. Under its terms I am required to wed within a year and produce an heir within two.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Now you will see what you have done in disposing of my bride.”
Lucy did. She had destroyed everything he had worked to safeguard. She had put the safety of his lands and his clan at risk. For a moment the disastrous consequences of her meddling made her feel quite faint.
“I did not know.... Surely you can find another bride...” she stammered, then fell silent beneath the searing contempt in his gaze.
“That is the delightful twist,” Methven said politely. “King James, in his desire to force sworn enemies to bed down together, made it a requirement that I wed a descendent of the earls of Cardross.”
“Oh.” Lucy frantically tried to remember Wilfred’s family tree. He had no sisters—and would no doubt have forbidden them to marry Robert Methven if he had. Dulcibella had been a distant cousin. So was she, of course, but on the female side. There was no one else she could recall. Wilfred was almost devoid of relatives. Which was bad news for Lord Methven.
“I am sorry,” she said. She knew the words were inadequate. She had felt guilty enough before, but now that the full extent of the damage was revealed she felt quite wretched.
“You may imagine,” Methven said cuttingly, “how your regret moves me.” He got up abruptly and placed his untouched glass of claret on the table.
“There is no need to be so sarcastic,” Lucy protested. She could feel the guilty color stinging her cheeks. “I truly am sorry. I did not know—”
“Ignorance is no excuse,” Methven said roughly. “It is not as though your letters on behalf of your brother are unprecedented.”
Apprehension breathed gooseflesh along Lucy’s skin. Wrapped up in the tale of the Methven inheritance, stifled by guilt, she had forgotten for a moment that Lord Prestonpans had dropped her well and truly in trouble with his ill-considered ramblings earlier.
“You do not deny it,” Methven said after a moment. “So it must be true. You wrote the erotic letters that scandalized society last year.”
He strode across to the fireplace and laid one arm along the mantel. Every action spoke of latent power and authority. Lucy felt completely intimidated and was equally determined not to show the fact. She stood up, because being seated when he was standing made her feel at an acute disadvantage.
Her palms were damp. She rubbed them on her skirts. “I did not realize how Lachlan’s friends would use those letters,” she said. “I had no notion.”
“Ignorance is an excuse you have already tried this evening,” Methven said pleasantly. “It wears thin. Your gullibility has been fairly extensive, hasn’t it, Lady Lucy? How did you expect people would use erotic letters?”
Lucy’s face was burning. “I agree that my naïveté has been extensive,” she said, between shut teeth.
Methven stepped away from the fireplace and came toward her. He took her gently by the upper arms, turning her so the candlelight fell on her face. He did not let her go; his hands were warm on her bare skin above the edge of her gloves, and his gaze on her face made her feel mercilessly exposed.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked.
“My lord!” Lucy was genuinely shocked. She could feel even hotter color stinging her cheeks now.
“It’s a fair question,” Methven said, “under the circumstances.” He looked unmoved by her outrage, amused even. “The erotic letters hint at an experience far greater than that of the average debutante. Not—” he appraised her thoughtfully “—that you are average, precisely. Far from it.”
“My experience or lack thereof is no business of yours, my lord,” Lucy said. “That is a scandalous question. No gentleman would ask it.”
Methven inclined his head ironically. “Then I am no gentleman. And I would still like to know the answer. Could one write like that without knowing what it truly felt like to make love? I think not.”
“There was no personal experience in my writing,” Lucy said. She was feeling strange; her head felt too heavy and too light at the same time, as though she had been drinking champagne. She was suddenly aware that Methven’s hands had slid down her arms to hold her lightly by the elbows. She wanted to tell him to let her go because it felt disturbing, far more so than a simple touch should. And then he stroked the tender skin in the hollow of one elbow with his thumb, such a sweet caress that it made her catch her breath and made the blood flow heavy like honey in her veins.
“You must have an extremely vivid imagination,” Methven said softly.
“I have no imagination at all,” Lucy said, trying to concentrate. “Writing is purely an academic exercise for me.”
She saw her words had surprised him. His hands stilled on her. There was curiosity and speculation in his eyes.
“Pure is not really the right word to describe your writing,” he said. His gaze narrowed on her face. “Are you telling the truth? Such provocative words did not affect you in any way?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lucy said impatiently. She gave a little dismissive shrug. “Lachlan wanted love letters, so I researched what a love letter should be and wrote some. I do understand that some people find them stimulating to the senses, but I—” She stopped. She was not going to tell him that she had locked any and all desires away long ago in order to spare herself pain.
“You?” Methven prompted.
“I don’t find them remotely arousing,” Lucy said truthfully.
Methven nodded slowly. She did not understand the expression in his eyes. “How interesting,” he said. “So the letters were not drawn from personal experience at all.”
“Certainly not,” Lucy said. “They were drawn from my grandfather’s library.”
That made him smile and in that moment she saw her chance. His attitude seemed to have softened toward her a little. She would have to take a risk.
“Are you going to give me away?” she asked. She thought it was better to be direct than to prevaricate. Or beg. Begging was out of the question. She was not that feeble even if she was desperate.
For once he did not answer her immediately. His face was pensive. After a moment he said, “Perhaps you should have considered the consequences of your actions, Lady Lucy.”
He was right, of course. She should have done so. She wondered now if rather than being naive she had been deliberately reckless. In her deepest heart she had known the trouble that would be caused if the truth about the letters came out, and yet she had written them. She had no explanation as to why she would do such a thing. Except that the letters had been a small rebellion, exciting, dangerous. She had challenged all the stifling rules that bound her, and it had been exhilarating.
Besides, she had thought herself safe. She had thought no one would ever unmask her.
“You are right,” she admitted grudgingly. “It was stupid of me.”
“It was foolhardy and dangerous.” He sounded unyielding and unsympathetic. “You have interfered in several people’s lives and done a great deal of damage.”
Lucy felt like a chastened schoolgirl. “I realize that it was wrong,” she offered. She tried her special smile again, the one without guile, the one that generally made men melt like butter. “I have apologized.”
It did not work. Methven smiled too. Grimly. “You are trying to manipulate me,” he said. “I am not so susceptible, Lady Lucy, I assure you. I think...” He paused. “I think the people you deceived should be told.”
“No!” The stark, black panic was on Lucy now, threatening to swallow her whole. Perhaps begging was not out of the question after all. She struggled to stay calm.
“You could not prove I wrote them,” she said defiantly.
His smile deepened. “I could have a damned good go at trying, and it would please me to do so.”
Just the hint of impropriety would be sufficient. Lucy knew that.
“Please—” She heard the entreaty in her own voice, and this time there was no guile at all. “I know I deserve—”
“To be punished?”
His words, hot and dark, tugged something deep inside her. It was a sensation Lucy had never felt before and it was so swift and so fierce that she gasped. A shocking bloom of warmth and pleasure spread low through her body. Her eyes jerked up to his face, to meet the turbulent heat in his eyes. He gave a low exclamation and the next moment she was in his arms and he was kissing her.
Lucy had not been kissed since that night at Forres Castle. It was not the sort of thing that she invited gentlemen to do. She had never even thought about what it might feel like to kiss someone again, not even out of intellectual curiosity.
This kiss was not like the one she had shared with Robert Methven years before. It felt fierce, heated and complicated, with no concessions to her inexperience. She felt his tongue tease her lips apart and she opened to him and he took her mouth completely. His tongue swept across hers, tasting her as though she were honey, and a powerful heat washed through her, scalding her, shocking her. Immediately she was lost and out of her depth. There was too much here, too much of dark pleasure, too much carnal promise, overwhelming, impossible to understand. It had happened far too fast and now the shock and the fear caught her equally quickly. She was shocked that after what had happened to Alice she could even feel like this, feel such passion, such desire. Then, a heartbeat later, guilt caught her too, and the familiar terror, and she froze in his arms.
He felt it and drew back from her. She heard him mutter a curse. She wanted to run away, frightened at emotions she could not begin to comprehend, but he held her close, her cheek against his shoulder, his lips on her hair, and gradually the fear faded. Within the circle of his arms she felt safe and protected; she felt sixteen again holding his promise against her heart. It was so unexpected a sensation that she relaxed, her breath leaving her in a sigh and her body softening. Only then did he speak.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His tone was rougher than she had heard from him before, but it did not frighten her. She knew his anger was not for her. He released her. She could not look at him, gripped as she was by a sudden shyness that paralyzed her. So he put his hand under her chin and made her meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I went too far, too fast.” There was regret and gentleness in his eyes and Lucy felt the floor shift beneath her feet and felt her stomach slide.
He released her. Confusion swept through Lucy then because she was remembering that no matter how she had felt before, this was now, and she had betrayed him and he did not like her for it. Yet despite that, something had happened between them, something dangerous, something she did not understand.
“I think,” she said—and her voice was a thread of sound—“that you should go.”
He looked at her for a long, long moment and his eyes were dark, his expression opaque, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Then he nodded abruptly.
He bowed and went out. Lucy heard the library door close.
She sank down onto one of the spindly cherrywood chairs, then got up again straightaway and went over to the sideboard, where she poured herself another glass of Lord Brodrie’s best claret. She needed a drink. The burn of the liquid against her throat steadied her. She drained the glass and filled it again.
The fire felt too hot. She moved away to a window seat, pressing her fingers against the cold diamond panes. It was as though her body was too heated, sensitive and on edge, wanting something.
“Lucy?”
She had not heard the library door open, but she saw that Mairi was standing on the edge of the Turkish rug, watching her. The candlelight glittered on the silver thread in her gown. Mairi’s gaze went to the glass in Lucy’s hand. Her eyebrows shot up.
“I saw Lord Methven leaving,” she said.
“We were discussing literature,” Lucy said. She drank some more claret and felt it slip through her veins, soothing her.
“Of course you were, Lucy,” Mairi said dryly. “I always find literary discussions so exciting they leave me looking as dazed as you do now.”
“It’s the drink,” Lucy said.
“And the kissing,” Mairi said. “You should see yourself.”
Lucy looked up at her reflection in the big mirror that hung above the fireplace. Her eyes looked a hazy dark blue. Her lips were stung red and slightly swollen. She pressed her fingers to them and felt an echo of sensation through her body. Her hair had come undone from its remaining pins. She had no notion how that had happened. She had no notion how any of it had happened. She was not sure what disturbed her more: the kiss or those sweet moments after in Methven’s arms when she had felt protected and safe.
Now you know how Alice felt.
Immediately Lucy felt the cold fear take her. It was impossible. She had never felt physical desire, not when she had read the erotic tales, not even when she had written her own sensual poetry. Yet one minute in Lord Methven’s arms had awakened emotions in her that she had never known, feelings that terrified her because she knew where they could lead.
She did not want to feel any of them.
Lucy shrank in on herself, the cold lapping around her again. Alice had given herself up to love and passion, given her heart, given her whole self, body and soul. It had ended in shame and misery and pain, and Lucy would never, ever make the same mistake as her twin had done.
“It mustn’t happen again,” she said aloud.
There was a mixture of amusement and cynicism in Mairi’s eyes.
“How naive you are,” she said gently, taking Lucy’s arm and steering her toward the door. “Once it has happened once, of course it will happen again. The only real question is when.”
CHAPTER FIVE
