Chapter Eight #3
That brought Lucy’s gaze up to his with a jerk.
He was watching her, the amusement still in his blue eyes, and behind that there was a warmth that caused the blood to beat harder in her veins.
She cleared her throat and tried to focus her thoughts.
She was going about things quite the wrong way if she intended to refuse him.
“I cannot marry you,” she said. It came out rather more baldly than she had intended, but she felt relieved that the truth was out. “You will have to find another lady to wed.”
She saw his gaze sharpen on her. There was still amusement there, but there was something harder now too, ruthless, determined.
“You are refusing me,” he said. A slow smile curled his lips.
“I confess I did not believe you would.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs.
He did not take his gaze from her face. “I had assumed,” he said, “that as you were all but naked, allowing me quite shocking intimacies with your body, you would see the necessity of a speedy engagement.”
Lucy concentrated hard on blocking out the words naked, shocking intimacies, and body, especially in conjunction with one another. She was not entirely successful. A tickle of heat curled low in her belly, lighting her blood with fire. She blinked rapidly.
She needed to concentrate, not on her physical response to him, which was wayward and unhelpful, but on her rational argument.
“I do not wish to marry,” she said, “and it is wrong of you to try to blackmail me into it.”
She had to focus on the one absolute, the only thing that was important, because when she looked into his eyes she tended to forget every last ounce of reason.
“I am aware that blackmail is wrong,” Methven said calmly. “However, if we are speaking of wrongdoing, it was wrong of you to write the letters that lost me my bride. This is recompense, a bride for a bride.”
He straightened and sat back in the chair, politely awaiting her response.
Lucy was struggling. “I acknowledge that I was in part responsible for Lachlan’s elopement with Miss Brodrie,” she said, “but I cannot wed you to make good the loss. You will have to find another wife.” She drew a breath as she came to the most important point of her refusal.
“It would be most ungallant of you to make public the manner in which I was compromised tonight. No gentleman would deliberately ruin a lady’s reputation for personal gain.
So—” She forced herself to look him straight in the eye.
“I can only beg you to accept my refusal of your offer and we shall say no more about it.”
There was silence, thick and heavy. Outside, the dusk was falling and twilight was gathering over the sea.
The lengthening shadows in the room made it even more difficult than normal to read Robert Methven’s expression.
Lucy felt edgy and ill at ease, but she forced herself to stay still in her chair and await his response.
He got to his feet abruptly and paced across toward the wide bay window before turning to look at her again, as though she were a puzzle he was trying to unlock.
The last of the evening light fell across his face, and now she could read his thoughts in his eyes.
He was amused by her staunch refusal to succumb to his blackmail.
She could see it in the gleam of humor there.
He admired her strength. At the same time he was cursing her stubbornness.
She could sense frustration in him, as well.
“If I fail to fulfill the terms of the fifteenth-century treaty,” he said slowly, “your cousin Wilfred Cardross takes half my estate. You know that.” His eyes came back to hers, and Lucy’s heart jolted at what she saw there.
“Make no mistake,” he said, “keeping my ancestral clan lands safe is more important to me than anything, Lady Lucy. What I have, I hold.”
A long, slow shiver tickled down Lucy’s spine. In the back of her mind echoed Lady Kenton’s words:
A hero fresh from the battlefield...
Robert Methven would fight for what he wanted and would fight to keep safe what was his. She had never before seen such single-minded determination in a man. She turned away from the blaze of resolve in his eyes. It felt as though it scorched her.
“You are my only chance,” he said simply. “There is no one else I can wed.”
Lucy’s heart lurched with shock. She had not been expecting that. Her eyes flew to his face. “There must be!” she said. “There has to be! Surely—” she threw out a hand “—if I am eligible, then so must Mairi or Christina be—” Something in his expression stopped her.
“For various reasons they are ineligible.” His voice was still soft. “There is only you, Lucy.”
It was the first time he had called her by her name.
The intimacy of it made her shiver. So did the thought that no one else could help him, because it meant that he would be all the more implacable in claiming her.
She rubbed her bare arms to warm herself then reached for the shawl that lay over the side of the sofa.
The cool May evening still required a fire, and there had been no time to light one.
Methven came across to her and leaned down to place his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her there.
He studied her face, his blue eyes intent.
He did not touch her, but she felt very aware of him, intimidated by his physical presence, almost overwhelmed by the sheer powerful masculinity that emanated from him.
It made her heart pound and her entire body stir.
“I cannot let you go, Lucy,” he said. “Surely you must see that? But I would far rather persuade you to my cause than force you to the altar by telling everyone of your disgrace.”
Lucy stood up. She felt as though she had to in order to regain some sort of control. It was a mistake, though, as it brought her closer to him rather than putting distance between them. At such close quarters he was even more disturbingly masculine and physical.
“Please, Lucy,” he said. “Help me.”
There was such passion and demand in his eyes. Lucy thought of Wilfred seizing Methven land and turning off the men with no work, the women and children to poverty and starvation. She screwed her eyes up tightly to ward off the images in her mind, but she could not escape them.
“I can’t...” she said helplessly. “Truly. I wish I could, but—” Her voice cracked with despair.
Robert was so close. He took another step forward until his body touched hers.
Lucy was trembling now, rooted to the spot.
She raised her eyes to his face. How stern it was, with shadows darkening the cleft of his chin and the grooves in his lean cheeks and with the hint of evening stubble darkening his hard jaw.
She felt a sudden violent urge to raise a hand and run her fingers over the line of his cheek and chin, relishing that roughness against her skin.
Her awareness of him hit her again with all the force of a tidal wave.
She felt as though she might dissolve under the weight of it.
Suddenly her mouth was dry and her pulse pounded in her throat.
“Help me,” he said again. His breath feathered across her cheek. His lips were an inch from hers now.
A curious shiver rippled through Lucy. She opened her mouth to tell him she could not, but no words came. He raised a hand and brushed the hair away from her cheek. His lips touched the corner of her mouth. Her knees were trembling now, her toes curling in her slippers.
His lips grazed hers. She thought she would melt if he did not kiss her properly and very likely explode if he did. Then he took her mouth with his and it was her last thought for a very long time.