She paused as she reached the upper floor. His door, made of planked oak that he’d repaired and refinished himself, was the last one on the left. Her heart squeezed. She took a breath. Found the handle. And went inside.
The room would be dark if not for moonlight beaming through three arched windows on the southern wall. The planks beneath her feet creaked a bit as she padded nearer the center, where she knew she’d find his bed—the green-draped bed she’d witnessed last year being hauled from his long cart, along with a massive carpet, several tables, and two tall leather chairs. Both chairs now sat facing the hearth on the east wall. It was summer, so no fire. No lantern. No light except the moon.
She could hear her own heart, her own breath, clamoring with frantic speed.
Pushing away from the door, she moved a few paces deeper into the room. That was when she heard the clink. A glass being placed on a table.
“E-English?” she queried softly.
Leather creaked, so she knew he was in one of the chairs. But he didn’t rise.
“Are ye …” She swallowed. “Are ye alone?”
A deep, cynical chuckle floated past the empty bed. “I was.” A sip and then another clink. “Until a Scottish hoyden decided she fancied another taste.”
Her heart twisted. “That’s not what I—”
“Why are you here?” he snapped. “Eager to be bedded, are you?”
“No, that’s not—”
He stood beside the chair, a dark, ominous presence. “Perhaps you desire a good tupping before you sell yourself for a pedigree.”
“I dinnae intend to—”
“A title offers no assurances, you know. Titled men take mistresses with some regularity. Titled women have their playthings, as well.” He tipped back his glass before setting it on the table. “Perhaps you’d care to keep me, hmm? A bit of sport when the man you marry fails to satisfy.” With long, slow strides, he stalked toward her. He gripped the hem of his shirt and yanked it loose. Then, stripping it off over his head, he tossed the wadded fabric across the room.
When his face passed through a shaft of moonlight, the wounded fury there cracked her heart in two. “English. Listen to me.”
He didn’t want to listen. He wanted to rage. “Perhaps you simply like the idea of bleeding your prey before you devour him.”
“No. God, no, I would never—”
“But I am no easy prey, for I’ve survived the hunt before.” He drew very near. Inches away. Then, he lowered his head until she smelled whisky and pine and her beloved Englishman. “This stag has horns, love.”
“I ken ye’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Aye. Ye are.” She wanted to touch him, but she feared his reaction, so she laced her fingers together at her waist. “English, please. Just listen.”
His head snapped up. “Do not call me that. My name is John Huxley.”
“Very well. John.”
Something about that seemed to disturb him, but he merely stood there, his face so starkly shadowed, she could only see the faint gleam of his eyes. They were not gold in this light. They were ice. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“Ye misunderstood me this mornin’. When ye offered … when ye said … what ye said.”
“That I wanted you to be my wife.” The statement was so flat, she winced.
“Aye.”
A corner of his mouth twisted into a snarl. “Say it.”
“When ye asked me to marry ye.”
“And you reacted as if I’d thrust a knife in your belly.”
“Ye didnae understand, and I couldnae explain.”
“That, as they say here in the glen, is pure shite.” He tilted his head. “I understood perfectly. You didn’t seek to marry a title in order to save your brother.”
She blinked. Frowned. “I told ye that wasnae the reason.”
“You told me outrageous tales of devotion to a phantom.”
“Aye. That was the truth.”
“No. The truth has nothing to do with devotion and everything to do with greed.”
“Ye’re anglin’ in dangerous waters, English. Best pull yer rod before it gets bitten off.”
He wasn’t listening. Didn’t seem aware of her growing anger. Too blinded by his own, she reckoned.
“Admit it, Annie. You sought to marry a lord because, like most women, you wished to elevate your station. What better way to ensure your bairns never have to haul whisky or muck out stables? That you needn’t—”
“Speakin’ of pure shite.”
“—settle for a man offering only callused hands and a decent kitchen.”
“Ye bluidy arrogant English arse!”
His scowl deepened into a menacing snarl. “Think you’ll enjoy having some ancient prune rutting on top of you? Provided he can manage such a feat, of course. Age does unfortunate things to a man’s caber.”
“I dinnae want to marry another man, ye daft, insultin’, arrogant—”
His sneer disappeared as his voice deepened to a wounded rumble. “Then why in God’s name didn’t you answer!”
“I would have if ye’d granted me a bluidy minute to think!”
“That’s where we differ.” His eyes flashed. His nose flared. “Whenever I’m near you, all thinking stops. Perhaps that’s the problem.”
“There is no bluidy problem, ye great, arrogant, insultin’ English boil on the arse of a worthless donkey!”
He stared at her for long seconds. Slowly, his lips curled again, and his tongue darted out to wet them. His breathing now matched the racing rhythm of hers. His eyes weren’t flat any longer, nor cold. They gleamed with a strange fever. “Arrogant, am I?”
“Aye,” she panted.
“What else?”
“All the things I mentioned. And impatient, besides.”
“Is that so?”
“An impatient arse who doesnae listen when a lass tries to tell him—”
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“—that she’ll happily be his wife if he’ll give her—”
“Because an impatient, arrogant man has no reason to swallow his hunger.”
“—a bluidy minute to say how much she—”
Suddenly, she was bent in half with her belly over his shoulder. He lifted and hauled her four paces to the bed, then tossed her like a bag of tatties onto the mattress. She bounced and oophed.
“Marry me,” he rasped.
She braced herself on her elbows and eyed his naked chest. “I’ve already said aye.” She arched her back. Licked her lips. “Or perhaps ye’re eager to convince me.”
“By God, you drive me mad, Annie Tulloch.” He was unfastening his fall. Staring down at her like some English conqueror and unbuttoning his damned trousers.