Rules of Attraction (11 page)

Or was he running to escape his own desire to wrap his hands around her throat and murder her?

She dropped the curtain.

Heaven knew Hannah understood running. From him, from them. She had been eighteen the first time she ran from him and his plans. She had been a serious girl who scorned those schoolmates who believed in romance, who whispered about men and what they did in the dark. Everything Dougald had done on that train took her by surprise. Especially those kisses, not the dry pressing of lip to cheek, but that open, wet hotness… Dougald had been, and was, a magnificent kisser.

That didn't explain her own actions tonight. She didn't regret standing up to him. Nothing could ease her bone-deep uneasiness at seeing the changes in him, nor her anger that he dared threaten her, but she could only be so wary before her independent spirit reasserted itself.

But to challenge him in such a way… she didn't even understand it herself….

Whatever had possessed her to kiss him?

9

W
hatever had possessed her to kiss him?

Dougald knew he shouldn't be riding tonight, but he couldn't retire to his bed. Not when, at last, his wife slept under his roof. The girl he had married was gone, swept away by years and experiences quite outside his own. In her place was the woman he had met tonight— unruffled, reserved, dignified. Composed until he pushed her too far. Then she retaliated with kisses.

Damned fine kisses.

His gaze swept the dim road before him and the tumbled hills around, and he felt, as always, a swell of pride. This was
his
estate.
His
lands.
His
title. The kind of honors that had for generations evaded his family, despite their best attempts. And now, because of a series of accidents—
accidents,
for he was not responsible for them, regardless of what the servants hinted— fate had handed all distinctions to him. And all Dougald could think about was Hannah, upstairs in the bedchamber not far from his.

He'd placed her there on purpose. He'd wanted her close so he could threaten her with himself, keep her off guard, give her her share of sleepless nights. Now, ironically,
he
couldn't sleep.

Leaning into the saddle, he urged the stallion into a gallop. Trying to flee temptation, he supposed. Trying to avoid remembering her body, naked beneath his, and wondering what changes the years had wrought. Trying to escape the hovering notion that she should come to his bed… tonight.

She owed him an heir to inherit the estate, and she would give it to him— but not yet. He hadn't lived through the cold, lonely years, heard the whispers of "murderer," seen women flinch when he walked close, heard his business associates stammer excuses as to why they couldn't invite him to their homes, without developing a plan to deal with his errant wife. All that talk of alternatives had been just that— talk.

Divorce. She dared speak of divorce. There would be no divorce. No murder, either. No, that would be too easy.

But a reconciliation? Perhaps some would call it that. Certainly, he intended to keep her. Eventually, he would use her as his father had said a woman should be used. Without love, without passion, to procreate. And Hannah, earnest, emotional, enthusiastic Hannah, the girl who had dreamed of being part of a family— that Hannah would be miserable.

As miserable as he had been this last nine years.

He couldn't wait.

He had been so angry when, after they'd been wed for six months, she had run from him. Run from
him,
as if he were some kind of monster. He knew men who were worse husbands than he had ever been. Men who ignored their wives, who shouted at them, who beat them. And he, he who had been good to the girl— he was left to the laughter of his business comrades. Then… then he'd been accused of her murder.

The bitterness of it. That stupid maid of hers, claiming they had fought before Hannah disappeared.

Of course they had, but what of it? He would never have killed her. Never hurt her, never touched her in anger, no matter how much she tried his patience.

And she had. Always, she had, calling him a liar, demanding that he follow through on his promises. As if he would ever allow his wife to work. He had roared at her when he thought of the gossip that would cause.

Now he knew there were worse things than gossip.

The road wound toward Presham Crossing and beyond that the sea, and he followed it as he always did on those nights when memories and frustration drove him from his bed.

He never thought he would live under a cloud for so long. He had thought the slip of a girl he had married would be easily found, and he had feared only she would be hurt or, in her innocence, be taken advantage of. Instead she had vanished. Vanished except for a single letter.

He had worried. He had searched. He had hired detectives and raged at Charles. Nothing had yielded a single sign of her until… until that check had arrived. By then he had grown so used to having his servants and his colleagues cower from him he no longer cared. He was a loner, cold, disciplined… a man like his father.

More than anyone, he had realized the need to bait his trap carefully. He had feared to rush Hannah, to tip his hand, for if the girl without a pence or a friend could escape him, what could the woman do? She had her connections. He knew about them all. He knew that Queen Victoria favored the Distinguished Academy of Governesses with her approval. He knew everything about all of her friends, everything about her financial situation, the name of her dressmaker, and her shoe size. Because he wanted revenge.

Not because he cared for her. He
didn't
still care for her. Not like a husband. Not as if they were lovers. No, time and distance had accomplished their purpose. He grasped that when he'd received her money. He had stared at the check and realized this was it. The moment he'd plotted for for so many years. The moment that she delivered herself into his hands. And he'd been calm. No fury lit his fuse. No passion rioted through his veins. He had been calm. Absolutely calm. Calm.

Except at night. Except in his dreams. Except when his thoughts drove him from the bed to ride as he was riding now.

Damn the woman. Didn't she realize this was his chance to exact revenge? His chance, not hers. She had no right to kiss him, to torment him with the fragrance of her curvaceous body, the glint of her subdued, golden hair, the demands of her satiny lips. He was the one who had the right to torment.

But had he succeeded?

He held her in the palm of his hand, he knew it. She couldn't leave. No matter what he did or said, she wouldn't leave. Not until she'd discovered the truth about herself, about where she'd come from and who her people were. She'd been searching for that knowledge her whole life, and he had the power to give it to her.

But he wouldn't. Not yet. Not until he had what he wanted from her.

Which was revenge.

Surely she owed him that.

Sensing Dougald's abstraction, the stallion reached out with the bit. Dougald reined him in, controlling him with his knees and his gloved hands. The people on the estate expected the lord of Raeburn to ride like a damned centaur, and he hadn't disappointed them. In fact, he suspected he had exceeded their expectations, thank God. They'd already had enough shocks, with the last lord taking a tumble down the stairs and the one before that found at the bottom of a sea cliff.

Poor buggers. Couldn't hold their liquor, either one of them.

Anyway, a mere horse could not challenge Dougald's authority; for nine long years no one had challenged his authority. Grimly, Dougald lifted his gaze toward the black-velvet sky. Everyone knew him to be his wife's murderer, so they would never tell him
nay
for fear he would exact a dreadful retribution on them.

Only Hannah didn't cower from him. If she realized how carefully he planned her retrieval, how thoroughly he plotted his revenge, how the years had chilled his rage, she would cower.

Instead she kissed him.

His groin tightened at the memory. After all the hell she had put him through, and she dared to kiss him.

Dougald wanted to bellow. But that was no longer his way. Instead, he gave the stallion his head, and they galloped along the curving road toward the sea. The air cleared his head, the exercise brought his blood surging in his veins, but the demons that had driven him for so many years traveled with him. Always they were with him.

When he crested the hill above the Atlantic, he brought the horse back to a walk and rode the path that wound among the rocks on the beach and then back up into the meadows and windblown trees.

In his youth, the demons had held sway. He learned to fight in those years. He drank, he whored, he almost died.

But it wasn't him who died, it was his father.

Dougald had never again allowed his demons to be free.

Yet tonight Hannah, with her full breasts and upright figure and provocative poise, threatened to cut them loose. Damn her, it wasn't supposed to be this way.

His grandmother had picked her out, told him she would do well as his wife, and he had accepted that. Hannah had been but a girl, then. What difference had it made to him, when at the same time he was trying to learn his father's business and save it from the rivals who would have wrested it from him?

By the time Hannah was old enough to wed, he was used to the idea. He saw nothing wrong with the arrangement and, in fact, liked that he would have a wife who elicited no response from him except indifference. He thought, fool that he was, that Hannah would see the advantages to their union and accept it meekly.

Instead, she had challenged him.

My God, could he ever forget the first time she'd fled from him? Even better was what came after…

"You've never been kissed," Dougald told her. He didn't wonder, he knew. He could tell by Hannah's amazement, by the way her large brown eyes glanced about the train car as if she could find answers there.

"I don't think that matters." She wet her lips. "I should sit up now."

Carefully, lovingly, as he smoothed his hands down her arms. She was such an innocent, politely suggesting that she be allowed to sit up when she should have been squalling like a banshee. She didn't understand that by running away she had brought herself to his attention and challenged his possessiveness. By the time she realized it, it would be far too late for her. "But I want to kiss you. I want to be the first." He slid his lips across both her eyes to close them. "You will let me do that, at least."

She shook her head
no.

His lips crested her cheekbone and pressed one corner of her mouth, feathering light touches on and about her lips, teasing her, enticing her. She had skin like velvet, softer than any he'd ever touched, and he relished the sensation. Slanting his face, he pressed his lips to hers. He kept it tender, gentle, and she rewarded him when she relaxed with a sigh.

Sweet thing. Gentle. Soft. Yielding. She was perfect for him. He touched the crease of her mouth with his tongue. That surprised her. She jumped, and he touched her with his lips closed once more in reassurance. Forging ahead, he ran his tongue over her upper lip. Her eyes grew wide as if she didn't know what to think, and she put her hands on his shoulders and gave a push. Her fingers lingered, touching his bare skin, then she hastily dropped her hands away and turned her face to the side. "You should replace your shirt," she said severely.

"I will." Catching her chin, he turned her face back toward his. "When we're done." He laved her lip again.

And she showed her defiant character by lifted her mouth to his and biting his lip.

He jerked back and dabbed at the damage. "Witch!"

She rose onto her elbow and scanned his face anxiously. "Are you hurt?"

"Yes." He leaned so close they were lip to lip. "You'll have to kiss it better."

Her gaze dropped, her dimples quivered, and she laughed.

He captured her mouth again and tumbled her back, and this time she let him kiss her without inhibition. Dougald moved slowly, touching her teeth, touching her tongue with tiny flicks of his, letting her taste him… If he could keep her distracted, move her from one sensual threshold to another, he could stay ahead of her morals and her doubts. His kiss so captivated her she was oblivious as he unlaced her shirt.

This was so easy, like taking comfits from a baby. And so difficult, for all he could think of was his own body's sudden drive to be inside her. Damn the woman, didn't she know what she was doing to him with her charming ineptitude?

No. No, of course she didn't.

She noticed what his restless hands had accomplished. She tried to push at him again. Again she broke contact in a flurry, acting as if the touch of his bare skin burned her.

He hoped they burned together.

Gazing into her velvet brown eyes, he did his best to mesmerize her with a gentle voice. "I like you to touch me. Your touch is a pleasure. You stroke me and I purr… touch me as I touch you." He opened her shirt wide, revealing her to the air and sunshine— and saw, for the first time, her perfect breasts.

She tried to scoot away, but he couldn't allow that. Not now. Throwing a leg over her, he kept her in place while he looked… and looked. Dear God, what breasts. They rose from her chest in sweet cream mounds, pale, delectable… his. Lightly he touched her, just the tip of her nipple with the tip of his finger.

In fierce and desperate earnest, she put her hands up to shove him away. "Someone will see in!"

"No." He let her hold him back. "Look out. We're crossing Chat Moss. There's no one."

It was true. They were passing over the vast peat bog that had caused the rail designers such trouble, and as far as he could see were shrubs and herbs and the occasional tree that reveled in the damp.