Nicola Cornick – The Lady and the Laird (страница 12)

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.