“Oh, my,” was all she could say as teasing heat and pleasure stole all her capacity for speech as he began his tireless climb toward bliss once again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The last time Mena had peered through the black mesh of this veil, she had been traversing the Bealach na Bà Pass toward Ravencroft. It had felt much like it did now, more a funereal veil than anything glamorous or stylish. Something behind which to hide her shame, her face, and her very self. Though she’d taken off the hat, a veil of secrecy had remained for her entire tenure at Ravencroft Keep. For the slightest, happiest time, even Mena had forgotten who she truly was.
The Lady Philomena St. Vincent, Viscountess Benchley.
Purported madwoman, and a ward of Belle Glen Asylum. Fugitive from the crown, her noble husband, and certain insanity. A woman she’d come to despise over the course of her enchanted autumn in Wester Ross. A weak-willed, soft-spoken ninny. A victim of violence. A perpetrator of silence. Ephemeral, unwanted, and thoroughly unhappy.
Mena Lockhart, on the other hand, had become more natural to her in the first five days than the viscountess had been in five years. As the spinster governess, she’d faced down multiple fears. She’d laughed, danced, scolded, healed, and imparted of her hard-won wisdom.
She’d even stood her ground in a quarrel with the Demon Highlander, and not only emerged the victor of their skirmish, but won his wounded heart.
Though, in doing so, she’d lost her own.
Her reflection in the train window showed no traces of the softness and contentment she’d cautiously begun to allow herself to feel whilst hiding in the Highlands. Her full lips drew into a line of prim restraint, her eyes became pinched and dull, her skin wan and pale rather than porcelain tinged with pink.
She’d retreated to a tiny, unoccupied box in a sparsely populated railcar to gather her thoughts. To brood, was more like it.
How in God’s name had she ever allowed herself to board a train back to London? Was she truly mad? Why had she not portended some rank and incurable illness, forcing everyone to leave her behind?
Partly, she admitted to herself, because she’d been pleasured into witless oblivion more times than a human being could possibly be expected to endure and still hold a thought in her head. The hour had struck half past two in the morning before Liam and she had stumbled into her room, and even then they hadn’t slept for some time. He’d thrown the drapes open wide and peeled her dress from her body with curious and infinite languor. He’d taken special care with her stockings, fingering the ribbons and garters and caressing them down her long, sturdy legs.
His rough fingers were infinitely gentle as he discovered every inch of her skin with patient and arousing caresses in the moonlight. They’d talked of amusing things while he undressed her. And insignificant things while she washed the runes and mist from his bare skin.
Then they said nothing at all when he pulled her above him and split her legs over his lean, sinuous hips. They’d communicated only in gasps and sighs as she’d ridden him with sensual rolls of her body. He’d palmed her breasts in his warm hands and said wicked things in his people’s native tongue while she pleasured herself upon his sleek and magnificent body. Then, when he could stand it no more, he’d dug his strong fingers into the flesh of her hips and driven upward until he’d bowed with such shocking pleasure, Mena had thought his back would break.
In the darkness, he’d held her close against his slowing heartbeat, and spoke of serious things, of his brothers and the fear her capture had caused him. Of his intentions to bring Hamish to London and have him face the military tribunal that was doubtless waiting for him. He’d told her stories of Collin Talmage, the Duke of Trenwyth. As Liam had been gaining glory on the battlefield, Trenwyth had been a secret agent, spilling blood in the dark. After Hamish’s presumed death, it turned out Trenwyth had made Liam aware of several war crimes he’d previously been ignorant of. His status as the Demon Highlander had shielded his brother from facing justice.
But justice awaited Hamish now, and it promised to be swift and merciless.
“How strange,” Mena had commented, while stroking her hands through the soft and sparse hair on Liam’s chest, enjoying the feel of his masculine skin. “That a duke like Trenwyth would be in such service to the crown. If I remember correctly, he’s something like seventeenth in line, practically a royal.”
“Trenwyth is no royal dandy. He’s one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met, with a self-destructive streak twice as long as my own.”
“Oh, my.” Mena yawned.
“He was born a second or third son, though, and didn’t take on the mantle of duke until he’d already been in Her Majesty’s service for quite some time. I imagine Trenwyth spends little time in the field now, though, as he lost his hand on a cover mission to Afghanistan.”
“Poor soul,” Mena murmured. “Did Hamish have anything to do with it?”
“I imagine Thorne and I are about to find out.”
Though Liam was the Marquess of Ravencroft, Laird of the clan Mackenzie, and a retired lieutenant colonel, Gavin St. James, the Earl of Thorne, acted as local magistrate, and so they were both to transport Hamish as their prisoner in the morning.
Exhausted beyond physical comprehension, Mena must have fallen asleep before the part where Liam had mentioned he intended for his children, and thereby, Mena, to accompany him on the journey.
It wasn’t until an ecstatic Rhianna had accosted her in her bed, where she’d awoken alone with pillars of late-morning sun slanting in through her open windows, that she’d found out the panic-inducing news.
The dear girl exuberantly informed her that her father had accepted their grandmother’s request for them to join her in London for a few small soirees before she would whisk them off to spend Christmas in Paris and celebrate the New Year in Florence.
Mena’s reaction had been the antithesis of Rhianna’s exaltation. Nausea had risen above a haze of denial choking off her throat. The suffocating steel band of dread, of which she’d thought herself rid, had clamped back around her rib cage.
She’d barely had time to don her robe before Jani arrived with a bevy of maids to pack her things and help her dress.
Mena had penned a frantic plea for help to Farah Blackwell, Lady Northwalk, and thrust it into Jani’s hands, begging him to have it delivered to the telegraph office in Strathcarron. She’d paid him a full week’s wages, and he’d scampered off to comply.
She’d gone in search of Liam, but he and Gavin had taken Hamish to the station early to secure a locked car and spare the children the traumatic verity of his tragic return and, even worse, his eventual fate.
They’d lost him already, it wouldn’t do to see the creature he’d become.
Before she’d quite gathered her wits, Mena had quickly cleaned and dressed, the children were gathered, and they bundled into a carriage that raced down the Bealach na Bà at a dizzying and at times stomach-dropping pace.
Liam had met them at the train station, and Mena’s fraying composure faltered at the knee-weakening sight of him. His welcoming smile never reached his haunted eyes. Though his hand had covertly found hers as they’d made their way to the private car, and he pressed his palm against hers with a meaningful deference. Whether he gave reassurance or sought it, Mena couldn’t be certain. Either way, it only served to fuel her dread.