Page 27 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

Chapter Nine

“Indeed you have not, sir, but you most assuredly have scared me out of my wits.”

He didn’t appear to be listening. “Amazing,” he said. “Even from here, your face is as white as your dress. Did the cat frighten you?”

“No, you did…I mean you do…that is, you are a bit frightening.” Oh, do be quiet, Annabella. Your foot is wedged as far into your mouth as it will go.

She lifted a trembling hand to her forehead and wondered how she had come to leave the house to escape one man’s attentions, only to deliver herself into a worse set of circumstances.

This man disturbed her in a far different way than Huntly did.

The duke’s grandson had a way of looking at her that was…

well, scorching was the only word that came to mind.

The soft, muted silence of the night was unbroken.

Even the water normally lapping at the edge of the loch seemed strangely silent.

All about them the mist swirled, like thick ribbons of steam from a bubbling cauldron.

Time seemed suspended, as if by magic they had managed to step into a part of the world that lay separate, timeless, and without beginning or end.

Her awareness of this left her trembling with uncertainty.

She was ashamed of her cowardice, her trembling, quavering voice, the fear she knew he could see in her face.

Any woman of spunk and spirit would have handled the situation with more fortitude, or at least an authoritative manner, and sent the rogue packing with a piece of her mind.

All she seemed capable of doing was to stand there, quaking like chicken jelly in her white satin slippers.

With an ease so confident she wanted to shove him into the loch, Ross picked up the ivory fan and handed it to her. “I suppose I should be happy you didn’t hit me as you did that poor fool inside. Do you always have this much excitement about when you carry this fan?”

She couldn’t help smiling as she reached out to take the fan. His hand closed around hers. This adventure of hers was fast becoming a misadventure—one with a logical conclusion. She felt panic beat at her throat as he made no move to release her hand.

His hand was much warmer than hers, and it was drier. She tried to ignore what was happening and gently extract her hand, but she couldn’t move.

Ross was beyond noticing. The moment their hands made contact, he had been stilled by a sharp kick of feeling that left him stunned.

There was such perfection in her lovely features that he could think of little else.

He knew he couldn’t stand here all night, holding her hand and gawking like a schoolboy, but he was powerless to do more.

Immediately he released her hand and took a step back.

She looked at him, feeling giddy with excitement. Be on your toes, Bella. Be wary. Watch him, she told herself. I am watching him. Unfortunately, I’m not a wary person. “Did my mother send you out to look for me?” she asked.

“No.”

“My father?”

“No,” Ross said, inwardly laughing at her naiveté. The Duke of Grenville wasn’t fool enough to send a man like him out to look for his daughter. No man was that big a fool.

“Then who?” she asked. “Who sent you?”

He stroked the curve of her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She took a step back. “What makes you think someone sent me to find you?” he asked.

Slowly realizing what he was about, she considered herself too smart to answer that. I recognize a well-laid trap when I see one. She said nothing.

He chuckled. “Actually, the earl sent me out here with a message for you.”

“He couldn’t have. He doesn’t even know I’m here. That’s why I came—to get away from…”

“Him,” he supplied. “How come you’re so clever?”

“Don’t be so cocky. We all make mistakes.”

“Some of us more than others.” His voice was soft now.

When she gathered her skirts in her hand, ready to go, he said, “I may be forced to take your hand again. If you try to leave.”

She looked back toward Dunford Castle. “I must go back now. They’re expecting me. If I don’t return soon, someone will come looking. I can’t be found out here like this.”

“I want to talk to you,” he said. “In private.”

She drew a deep breath. “Please. I can’t. You don’t understand.”

She was right about that. At this point he was incapable of understanding anything. He was fascinated, pure and simple.

Every breathy little word she uttered, every one of her adorable antics, each delectable inch of her—she was perfection.

What else could he say? She attracted him.

She intrigued him. Hell! Just watching her entertained him.

One thing he hadn’t expected, though—she surprised him.

He would have pegged her for one to take off like a scalded cat, or swoon, or giggle like a fool, or do any of a hundred silly things women were prone to do when a man cornered them.

Yet she had done none of these things. He didn’t think she would even leave if he didn’t dismiss her.

He wondered what kind of upbringing she had.

“Talk,” he said, “or hold hands. It matters little to me.”

“You mustn’t touch me,” she said.

“I’m touching you now,” he said, his hand coming out to stroke her cheek again. “Would you rather talk or hold hands?” he asked again.

He looked serious enough to do what he said, so she sighed and dropped her hands to her sides. Then she glanced back toward Dunford. “Truly, I can stay only a moment.”

“I understand.”

He waited a spell, giving her time to warm up to the idea of talking to him, but he could tell she was only becoming more agitated.

He was amused to see the way she was leaving no stone unturned when it came to studying him.

She looked down at his legs, then at his feet, and finally at his face.

Now, she saw immediately that he had been watching her study him.

“Want me to wrap it up?” he asked. In the dim light he couldn’t see the color that shot to her face, but he sure as hell could feel the heat.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“You were eyeing me like you were considering making a purchase, so I wondered if you wanted me to wrap it up? Or do they use another phrase for it in England?”

“Another phrase for what?” she asked, feeling gooseflesh popping out all over. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”

“Perhaps you did.” He studied her. “You’re either as innocent as they come or slicker than owl’s grease.”

Her face went blank. “I beg your pardon?” She seemed to be saying that a lot around him. “What did you say?”

“I said, you’re either as innocent…”

“No, no, not that. The other,” she said, impatiently waving her hand.

“What? Slicker than owl’s grease?”

She felt dazed, as if someone had knocked the wind out of her. Slicker than owl’s grease? Her stomach rolled in revolt at the thought. Owl’s grease? She put her hand to her head. Owl’s grease? I’m going to be sick.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course. I’m fine. Really. Why wouldn’t I be? We English ladies are quite accustomed to being called such revolting things as…as…oiled birds,” she said.

He laughed at her strange way of putting things. He didn’t say anything, but his look brought color to her cheeks with scorching intensity. He didn’t touch her.

He didn’t have to. His gaze caressed her as no hands could. Her mouth felt dry, her throat swollen. She parted her lips slightly, to draw in more air.

He took a step toward her, holding his hand out to weave his fingers into one of the long, glossy curls that lay across her breast. His gaze never wavered. He curled his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face into the full light of the moon. Now, his hands were at her waist.

How many hands does he have?

With the slightest tug he drew her toward him, and something about it made her close her eyes.

She felt the delicious pressure of his lips upon hers.

The suddenness of the kiss prompted an unintentional response within her and she shivered.

It was the oddest sensation—embarrassing because it shouldn’t be happening, frustrating because she knew she wanted more.

He pulled back, ever so slightly, and said, “My God, you’re sweet enough to eat.”

“Then you’d better hurry,” she said without thinking. “Because I’m melting awfully fast.”

He chuckled and touched his lips to hers once more.

Then, holding one hand at the back of her head, he kissed her with more intensity, more feeling.

It was a gentle kiss that teased and intrigued, one that drew her curiosity to the forefront.

His hands went around her, pressing her against him, fitting her body to his.

Everywhere he touched her she burned. She opened her mouth again to draw in a deep breath.

He covered her mouth with his, his tongue gently probing and exploring. He nuzzled her throat, whispering, “I could get used to this.”

His face was cool against the heated skin of her throat.

His mouth made a slow ascent, learning her face, kissing her cheek, her nose, her eyelids.

His lips were warm and steady as they brushed her forehead.

His hand was higher now, caressing the back of her neck, then her bare shoulder.

Something about the feel of his flesh against hers set her trembling and her heart beat painfully.

She felt as overplumped as brandy-soaked raisins, swelling and ripe, oozing with the sweetness of warm honey.

For one glorious moment Annabella kissed him back, before reality began to creep into her drugged mind.

She planted one small hand on his chest and shoved.