Chapter 3 #2
She was resigned then... The word made him want to put his fist through the table.
It was the sort of word women used when men made decisions for them and called it duty.
He hated that she saw this as her duty and her father had ordered her to marry that man.
“I was not aware English ladies were taught resignation as a virtue,” he said.
“They are taught many things,” Horatia replied, and there was a weariness in her eyes that did not belong to someone so young.
“Obedience. Gratitude. Silence when it is inconvenient to speak.” She sighed.
“But this wedding is not my place to object. So I suppose resignation is as good a word as any to describe my feelings on the matter.”
Lachlan leaned back, studying her over the rim of his spoon. “And do ye excel at any of those attributes?”
Her gaze lifted, steady and unflinching. “I excel at everything, my lord.”
It was said so simply—without dramatics, without appeal for sympathy—that it made something inside him shift, as if he had been bracing for a blow he had not expected.
The footman cleared a plate. The clink of dishes sounded too loud in the stillness that followed.
Lachlan forced himself to breathe. “Tell me,” he said, quieter now, “how long have ye known him?”
Horatia’s lashes lowered. “All my life.”
“Truly?” He raised a brown
She met his gaze boldly and then she said, “Of course. I have no reason to lie.”
“Aye,” Lachlan murmured. “I suppose you doona”
Her lips pressed together, and for an instant he saw anger flash through the practiced composure. “You do not sound as if you like him.”
Lachlan shrugged. “He is a bit crass.”
She looked down at her bowl, as if the broth had suddenly become fascinating. “I suppose that is an apt description. He can be difficult and demanding. It was how he was raised.” She sighed. “But that is not all he is. He can also be kind and generous. No one is just one thing.”
Lachlan did not like how this conversation was turning. She was making excuses for him. “He’s an arse.”
Horatia’s head lifted sharply, a startled expression on her face. “Yes, he is.” She laughed. “Some might describe you as such, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps?” he agreed. “At times.” But that earl had an evil streak that Lachlan witnessed far too often. He might be an arse at times, but it didn’t compare to the earl.
The second course arrived: roasted fowl, potatoes browned in dripping, greens seasoned with vinegar. The smell made him hungry and he ate greedily. Horatia took a modest portion. She ate with careful grace, yet the moment she tasted the meat, a soft sound escaped her, half pleasure, half relief.
“You have been hungry,” he observed. Her moans stirred something else inside of him.
“I am,” she said, and then, as if she disliked the weakness of the admission, she added briskly, “I did not realize how truly ravenous I was until I sat down.”
“Then eat yer fill,” Lachlan said.
Horatia’s gaze met his. “Thank you.”
He watched her for a beat too long. The candlelight warmed the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat.
Her mouth—fuller now than it had been earlier, the softness of it making his thoughts stray in directions he had no business indulging.
He wanted her and he planned to have her. He would seduce her.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Ye shouldna’ trust me,” he said bluntly.
Horatia blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Ye heard.” He held her gaze. “A man who meets ye on a lonely road and brings ye tae his castle is not the sort of man a lady should trust without question.”
Her lips parted, then closed again. “You saved me.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “And I did it because I couldna’ leave ye there. But do not mistake decency for sainthood.”
Horatia’s eyes narrowed. “You are very determined to paint yourself in an unfavorable light.”
Lachlan’s mouth curved, though there was no humor in it. “I’m determined ye do not walk through this world believing men are safer than they are.”
She studied him, as if she could see the battle behind his calm. “You are not what you pretend to be.”
“And what do ye think I pretend to be?”
“A charming Scottish gentleman with a wicked tongue and impeccable timing,” she said dryly. Then her expression softened. “But there is something else beneath it. Something… wicked.”
Lachlan’s fingers tightened around his glass. “Aye,” he said quietly. “There is.”
Horatia’s breath caught. There was a long silence, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire and the distant mutter of wind against the windows. Then she said, almost inaudibly, “What do you want from me, my lord?”
The question struck him like a blade—clean and sudden. He should have lied. But he wanted her and he needed her to know it. He could only warn her so much, and he had done what he should. Now he would take what he wanted.
Instead, he heard himself say, “I want ye.”
Horatia’s eyes searched his, wary and hopeful all at once.
“You cannot have me?” she replied.
He tilted his lips upward into a sinful smile and then stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. “Finish your dinner,” he said, rougher than he meant. “We can discuss this in depth later.”
Horatia watched him, startled. “Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer her question. Lachlan moved toward the door, then stopped, turning back.
“After ye’ve eaten,” he said, “Mrs. MacRae will show ye to the library if ye wish. Or ye can retire. But—” He hesitated, hating himself for the next words and unable to stop them. “Do not wander the corridors alone.”
Horatia’s brow arched. “Are you warning me of your household?”
“No,” he replied. “But I doona want anything tae happen tae ye. Just remain in yer chambers lass.”
Her expression tightened. “Very well,” she agreed, but she didn’t sound happy about it.
He turned on his heel and left the room. If he stayed any longer he would do something he might come to regret. He intended to seduce her. He would seduce her. But he couldn’t rush into it. She deserved a slow tantalizing seduction and he would ensure she enjoyed every moment of his attentions.