Page 30 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

He pulled back and looked at her. Her eyes were swimming with compassion, a look that made him want to shield her eyes, cover them with his hand. Her tenderness was almost his undoing. But she wasn’t done yet.

“I don’t think it would be an easy thing for you to be prisoner. I don’t doubt that you railed against it every day until your body simply gave out.”

“Don’t ascribe to me actions of a hero, Mary. I did what I had to do in order to survive.” There, as close to the truth as he would come.

“You remind me of my husband’s apprentice,” she said surprisingly.

He turned, closing the window while keeping his back to her. It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. “Why?”

“Charles would always look at one of Gordon’s chalices, something he’d worked on for months, and then place his own work beside it.

He never noticed his own ability to fashion flowers and fruits so beautifully they looked real.

He only saw that Gordon was so much better than he at carving rampant lions and doing delicate scrollwork.

A man should not measure himself against other people’s strengths without knowing his own. ”

He turned and faced her again, unwittingly amused. He didn’t measure himself against others, but against himself. What he thought was right counted for more than a stranger’s beliefs. That’s why he’d had so much difficulty accepting what he’d done. He’d violated his own ethics.

“What do you think my strengths might be, Mary?”

“Your endurance,” she said unhesitatingly. “Your ability to survive what would have killed a lesser man. Your capacity to simply be patient and wait for the propitious moment to escape. I’ve no doubt that you were planning it all along.”

He nodded slowly, wondering how she knew. Walking back to the table, he touched a few of the pieces on the board.

“Are you certain you want to play?” he asked, deciding that the subject should be changed, and quickly, before he told her what had happened in India. He wanted absolution. Did Mary’s compassion extend that far? He realized that he didn’t want to put her to another test.

“Especially with the stakes you’ve laid out?” she asked, smiling slightly as she walked toward him. “I would be wiser to say no. But I don’t think I’m especially wise when it comes to you, Hamish. So yes, let’s play.”

She sat and arranged her pieces, an intent look in her eyes. Competition enlivened her, it seemed.

“Tell me about this apprentice of Gordon’s,” he said, sitting. “What happened to him after Gordon died?”

“He’s still with me,” she said, not looking up from the board.

“Ever since Gordon died, he’s become more and more interested in my activities.

He fusses if I’m not back to the shop before dark, and looks fierce when I’m called to the bedside of a sick patient.

It’s a treat being here and not having to answer to Charles. ”

“How did you manage to escape him long enough to leave Inverness?”

“You’re Alisdair MacRae’s brother,” she said, glancing at him with a smile. “Such an important customer could not be slighted.”

“He sounds very possessive,” Hamish said carefully, wondering why the thought annoyed him.

“He is,” she agreed. “I’ve felt for many months now that I should talk to Charles, that we should make other living arrangements. Sometimes, he acts as if he inherited me along with Gordon’s customers. It’s very taxing.”

“Have you given him any reason to think that there’s more to your relationship than apprentice and widow?”

She looked up from the board. “Charles? Of course not. Gordon thought of him as his son. I’ve come to look on him almost as a stepson.”

“But he was much younger than Gordon, as you are. Perhaps he thinks of you differently.”

She shook her head, concentrating on the board, as if the game held momentous attraction for her.

She was a voluptuous woman with a lovely face and unforgettable figure. He could well imagine the dreams Charles had had, with her sleeping in the same house. Hamish could almost pity the man; he’d felt Mary’s allure from the first moment they’d met.

After a moment, he spoke again. “I imagine that he won’t be happy about your decision to remain with me.”

“No,” she said, looking at him once again. “But perhaps it’s just as well. If he doesn’t wish to buy me out, I’ll simply close the shop and move to a smaller house with my maid, Betty.”

That idea did not sit well with him, which was doubly strange since her future was none of his business.

It took him fifteen minutes to beat her at shatranj.

He would have done it in less time had she not taken great deliberation with every move.

In fact, he almost convinced himself to let her win again.

Almost. However, he was feeling decadent and devilish.

Satan in his tower. She was an angel who had been delivered to him for his delectation.

In this place she called Castle Gloom, it was almost as if they were fighting the eternal struggle of good versus evil.

He wondered who would win that eventual battle even as he won the game. He moved a piece on the board and watched as she realized what he’d done.

“I can’t move,” she said, but still didn’t look at him, as if she didn’t want to admit defeat.

“No,” he said calmly. “You can’t.”

“That didn’t take any time at all,” she said, staring at the board.

“I could have done it faster, but I decided it wouldn’t be chivalrous of me.”

She propped her chin on her hands and looked at him directly. The smile on her face wasn’t the least bit innocent, but it did have a tinge of self-mockery to it.

“You’re a very arrogant man, Hamish MacRae,” she said.

“Do you think so?”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “It’s a pity that I’m not a better player. I might have at least lengthened the time between the beginning of the game and its end.”

“You’ll get better. All you need is practice. You already understand the rudiments, and beyond that you have the intellect, and if I may be so bold, the ability to smile at your opponent while trying to trounce him fiercely.”

“Is that a requirement?”

“No, but it’s certainly distracting.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, mimicking his earlier question.

“Yes, I do,” he said, wondering why he was so charmed by the competitive spirit she showed.

“I’ve lost, then.”

“Yes, you have.”

He leaned back in the chair and let his left hand fall to his lap, the better to cover his tumescence. However, he’d been hard for the last ten minutes, and it was foolish to pretend himself unaffected.

“Come here, Mary,” he said softly. He pushed his chair back, extending his right arm to her. She took his hand, stood, and circled the table. Finally, she stood in front of him, as he deliberately widened his legs, pulling her even closer until her skirt covered his trousers.

Once again, he cursed his useless left hand. When he’d awakened that morning, he thought he’d felt some sensa tion, like a tingling, in his fingers, but he’d not yet gained any movement. Nor could he lift his arm.

He fumbled with the ties at her waist. A measure of his true arrogance, perhaps, that he didn’t intend to ask for her help. Finally, he pulled her skirt from her, and pushed it to the floor. She stepped away from the garment delicately, balancing against his shoulder with one slender hand.

“I’ve been undressed in front of you more than I have been dressed, Hamish,” she said. But her voice held no embarrassment or shame, for which he was profoundly grateful.

His hand flattened against her shift-covered body, feeling the curve of her buttocks and the slight flare of her hips.

She was so essentially female. Pretty wasn’t a good enough word for Mary.

Beautiful was more apt, but if he labeled her that, the comparison between them would be so drastic that he’d be able to think of nothing else.

So to equalize them, he lessened her beauty and mediated his own ugliness.

Once, however, he’d been known as a handsome man. Once, he’d winked at more than a few young girls, and they’d giggled in delight. Once, he’d been sought after for the fact that he was a MacRae, and for his own attractiveness.

How foolish to be concerned about his appearance, when he should be more concerned about his immortal soul.

But the topic of souls was for moonless nights and lonely days, and nightmares that made him awake gasping, frozen with fear.

Not for moments like these, poised on the edge of seduction, sensual, heady, and silent with too many pained breaths.

He reached up and unfastened her bodice, easing it off her shoulders while she stood unprotesting in front of him.

He’d never known a woman as acquiescent as she was.

She was stubborn, and firm, and didactic in her insistence on treating him, but when it came to their mutual lust, she let him take the lead.

No more. Not after tonight. He wanted her to be his equal in this.

They were not unevenly matched in life. She was a wealthy widow.

His fortune had done nothing but multiply during his time in India until he was rich as well.

Unlike his older brother Alisdair, Hamish bore no title.

Neither did Mary. They were both unmarried.

But there were other things that separated them. Mary had a quest in life, a goal. He had none. For months, all he’d cared about was survival, never thinking beyond that fact. Now the years stretched out in front of him, empty and without purpose.

He missed the sea, his ship, and the men who’d sailed with him.

Mary had a past filled with love and affection. That was evident from the fond way she talked about her husband. All he had was his family, and he’d tried to distance himself from them.

Her life was richer, not beset with the doubts and the condemnation that accompanied him every hour. Her conscience was clean, unlike his.

Yet she was his equal in willingness and curiosity. Here, at least, they were the same.