Delight and Desire Page 2

  She had stopped. She must sense that he was there, beside her.

  He tried not to breathe, tried to ignore the alien scent from her gown.

  The briefest touch on his fingers. Not silk, but warm living skin. She had caressed his hand.

  ‘Tomorrow. Dusk,’ she whispered.

  And then she was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Isobel paused, watercolour brush in hand.

  It would soon be dusk. Would he keep his promise?

  Her heart began to pound. It was madness! She should not have come! He was a gentleman. He would never accept Isobel as a lady. Not after what had passed between them on the top of that tower.

  It was absurd to be waiting here, indulging her foolish dreams yet again. Yesterday she had worn that indecent chemise gown, dampening her muslin skirts in daring self-indulgence. She had even unpinned her hair and kicked off her shoes. She had thought herself totally alone, enacting her fantasy, her last moment of freedom before she had to give herself to duty and a loveless marriage. But then he had appeared, like a fairy-tale prince, taking her proffered hand and…

  That kiss had been no fantasy. It had been delight, and desire. It had been glorious. And utter wickedness.

  She should leave here before he came, before it was too late. She must not meet him again. A woman of almost twenty could not afford to dally in the unattainable dreams of childhood. She told herself sternly that she should be concentrating on the vital business of finding a rich husband. Otherwise, the Anstruthers would finally triumph in their ancient feud with her family. In previous centuries, many had died, on both sides of the Ritchie-Anstruther feud. Nowadays there was no more blood-letting; the weapons of choice were wealth and power. She, Isobel Lang Ritchie, was her family’s last hope—she would have just this one London season—and if she failed, her family would soon be bankrupt.

  With a shake of her head, she began to pack up her painting things. But then she paused again. Slowly, Isobel. Enjoy the moment. This could be the last time you will be free to sit here on a spring evening, in the silence of the early dusk, feeling the pull of these crumbling, tight-lipped stones. They know your secrets, but they will not tell. You are safe here. He will not come.

  Twisting tendrils of mist were beginning to climb the walls. With a sigh, Isobel rose to her feet and let her gaze roam the triangular courtyard. Very ghostly now, in the failing light. She could sense the same age-old magic that had gripped her yesterday. Her heart began to beat a little faster.

  And then she saw it! A watery outline, barely visible in the shadows of the gatehouse, like the ghost of some Caerlaverock defender, long dead, come to find her and bid her farewell.

  He had come. He had kept his promise.

  Tall and spare, he walked calmly out of the shadows until he was standing only feet from Isobel’s frozen body. She could neither speak nor flee. She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Regimentals, dark hair, a strong, lived-in face. Age impossible to determine, for war matured a man. Thirty, perhaps?

  She felt a rustle of petticoats at her back. ‘Miss Isobel…’ Isobel hushed her old nurse with an impatient gesture. Her soldier was an honourable man. Had he not proved it just yesterday?

  He bowed a little stiffly and spoke politely, as if to a chance-met stranger. ‘Forgive me, ma’am. I have intruded. I fear I— Perhaps you will permit me to introduce myself? Major Robert Anstruther. At your service.’

  Anstruther? Terror sliced through her gut and froze every muscle in her body. No, please, no! She was ruined! She had behaved like a wanton with a man who was worse than a stranger—he was a mortal enemy. The Anstruthers were devils—every last one of them—and all bent on completing the destruction of the Ritchies. Isobel had learned that from the cradle. And now she herself had handed him the weapon to strike her down.

  She had thought Caerlaverock her protector. But the castle had played a cruel trick on her, drawing her into the arms of an enemy for her very first kiss. This place was not enchanted; it was cursed. And so was she.

  Behind her, Annie was sucking in a horrified breath. Isobel spun round to silence the woman before she could pronounce the fateful name of Ritchie. He must not learn her true name. That was her only chance of escape. She must look him in the face, and lie.

  She took a deep breath and turned back to him. She forced herself to ignore the fear pounding through her veins, and to smile serenely up at this Anstruther monster. ‘I am Isobel Lang, from Dumfries, sir.’ She curtsied politely.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lang.’ He bowed again and came forward, walking with a very slight limp. So he had been wounded in battle, serving his country. Could that redeem even an Anstruther? No, he was still a monster. She must not allow herself to admire this man, or to think well of him in any way. He had the power to ruin her.

  She must not let him see that she was afraid. She must do nothing to arouse his suspicions. Good manners, and innocuous conversation. That was the only route to safety.

  ‘Thank you, Major. I must tell you that we were on the point of leaving, so you do not intrude.’

  A startled expression crossed his face. Then he frowned. Had he expected her to remain with him, to continue what they had begun in the magic of yesterday’s twilight? The very thought of that was bringing the heat to her cheeks. She must get away from this dangerous man!

  His frown disappeared. She fancied he gave a tiny shrug. ‘You paint, ma’am?’ He gestured towards Isobel’s stool and sketch pad. ‘May I look?’

  Isobel hesitated for only a second. He was simply being polite. Best to offer her work for a frank assessment, followed by a swift farewell. ‘I am afraid I have never yet succeeded in capturing the special quality of this place.’ She offered her pad. ‘As you will no doubt see.’

  He did her the courtesy of studying her work with care. ‘I am not sure that anyone ever could,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Though I do think you have caught Murdoch’s Tower extremely well. Solid and somehow ephemeral—magical—at the same time.’ He smiled down at her then, in a dangerously beguiling way. The fear that was knotting her gut began to subside, overcome by the heat of invading memories. It was almost as if they were embracing through her painting. Touching each other all over again. Why did he have to mention Murdoch’s Tower? The place where they had— Now even her skin was beginning to burn.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied quickly, trying to damp down her warring senses. Desperate not to betray herself further, she found herself stammering, ‘You…er…you know Caerlaverock well?’

  He nodded. ‘I came here often when I was living at home. You will think me a strange kind of soldier, I fear, but I always used to come here at dawn or dusk. To enjoy the twilight solitude.’

  ‘Then we had best leave you at once, sir.’ She started to turn away.

  He put out a hand. It stopped inches from her arm and yet she felt the crackle of awareness, as if they had touched, and held. ‘Ah, no, ma’am. Pray do not leave on my account.’

  There was a peculiar smile in his eyes as he looked at her, a mixture of understanding and…and intimacy. He was trying to help her through this encounter. But he wanted her to know that he remembered everything. And that she should remember, too. Her body remembered all too well. There was now a molten, glowing core, deep in her belly, urging her to reach for him, to—

  This was madness! She must be possessed to let down her guard with a sworn enemy! At that terrifying realisation, the glow in her belly turned instantly back to ice.

  She closed her eyes for a second while she struggled with her fears. From somewhere deep within, she found new strength. She would flatter him, and then outwit him.

  He was politely ignoring her strained silence. ‘You have just as much right to enjoy this place as I do, ma’am. More, if you are going to paint it. I have no such talent to offer. All I can do is gaze around, and try to fix it in my memory.’ He glanced down at her sketch pad. ‘I wonder— But no. That
would be an imposition.’

  She could end it. Now. Without hesitation, she tore out the page. ‘It is a paltry attempt, sir, but if it may help you to remember a favourite place when you are serving far from home, I will give it willingly.’

  He accepted it as though it were a masterpiece, and priceless. For a moment, he stood staring down at it. Then he stowed it carefully inside his uniform jacket. ‘Thank you, Miss Lang. You are very generous.’

  ‘Miss Isobel! I can hear the carriage. We should leave.’

  Oh, heavens! She had forgotten that the carriage could betray her. What if he recognised it? He must not see it. She had to divert his attention, somehow. Without pausing to think, she said quickly, ‘Would you be so good as to give me your escort, sir? I should welcome one last look across the moat before I go. Annie will take my painting things out to the carriage and return for me in just a moment.’

  Isobel’s fierce look silenced Annie’s protest. With amazing speed, the maid gathered up all their belongings and hurried out of the courtyard.

  Isobel let him usher her across the courtyard to the walkway between the two huge towers that faced towards the Solway Firth, and England. With the mist rising, the castle was again an island of other-worldly tranquillity, cut off from the day-to-day tumult of feuds, and poverty, and marriages without love. Her fears receded, lulled by the enveloping twilight. They were alone together again, but the enchantment they had shared could not come again. Fairy-tale fantasies were for children. They never came true.

  For several minutes, she forced herself to make light conversation about nothing very much. Prompted by polite questions, she spoke of her painting and of her delight in plants and gardens. Safe enough. And so much safer than allowing herself to dwell on how his lips had tasted hers and taught her to respond to him, with a knowledge and desire she had not known she possessed.

  Annie’s distant footsteps on the gravel cut through her beckoning fantasy. She must end this, and save herself. ‘Sir, may I ask a favour of you?’ Without giving him time to reply, she whispered urgently, ‘May I ask you not to escort me to my carriage? My coachman, you see, is a dreadful mischief-maker. If you were to escort me out, he would certainly inform my papa of this…er…encounter.’ She swallowed again, trying not to remember how that first encounter had been. Just yesterday.

  There was so much understanding in the look he bestowed on her then, that she flushed scarlet with embarrassment. And returning fear. If he once discovered she was a Ritchie, he would lose every shred of sympathy for her plight.

  ‘Miss Isobel. The carriage is waiting.’

  ‘Thank you, Annie. I will come at once.’ She curtsied demurely, holding her breath. Her heart was pounding. Would he do as she asked?

  He smiled politely and bowed, without moving to close the space between them. ‘Forgive me if I do not escort you out, ma’am. I fear—’ He gestured towards his injured leg and shrugged his shoulders, as if in apology.

  ‘I should not dream of asking you to do so, sir. I will wish you good day now.’ She bowed her head and turned away before he could reply. Then she slipped her arm through her maid’s, and hurried her towards the exit.

  Today’s encounter with one of her family’s sworn enemies must not be spoken of, not to anyone. And yesterday’s encounter? That must remain a deep, deep secret, buried where even Isobel herself could not find it.

  Chapter Three

  Yet another tedious ball!

  Robert sighed heavily, but turned back to the glass to finish fastening his dress uniform. He was not at all sure why he had accepted Mrs Rougely’s invitation, for she did not move in the highest levels of society. He supposed he was bored. Over these past weeks in London, he had discovered that the huge wealth of the Anstruther estates attracted every purse-pinched parent with a daughter to dispose of. He had met dozens of them. The pretty ones were empty-headed and vain; the more thoughtful ones were plain and humourless. Not one had a fraction of Isobel Lang’s extraordinary qualities. Isobel Lang was passionate about life. One day, she would make some lucky man a passionate wife.

  Not for the first time, he wished that he had not heeded her wishes. He had not watched her leave, nor followed her home. Admittedly he had enquired after gentry families called Lang, but the only Langs in the area were tradesmen. So Isobel Lang was not a lady. And he was duty-bound to forget her.

  He had tried, but the delicious image of Isobel Lang refused to leave him. He remembered her standing on the top of Murdoch’s tower, her image fuzzy in the sunset with the red-gold light around her, and later, in the twilight, gleaming softly like a muted star. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her kiss on his lips. That innocent kiss had touched him to the core. She had made his blood fizz and boil like shaken champagne. In his memory, she was radiantly beautiful, and so very desirable. She had all the qualities to make a man a splendid wife.

  All except birth.

  His beautiful nymph was forbidden to him. Let her remain a magical, unattainable dream.

  Considering the early hour, the room was remarkably full, though no one was yet dancing. He paused in the doorway to take the measure of the place, and of the company.

  And then he saw her.

  Isobel Lang was standing in the midst of a group of young men. Robert fancied he had met one or two of them before, but he was too focused on gazing at Isobel to recall their names. She had been beautiful at Caerlaverock, but in the latest London fashions, she was transformed. She looked utterly radiant in a simple ball gown of daffodil-yellow over a white slip. Tiny jonquils were nestling in her red-gold curls. She wore no jewels at all, but she had no need of them. He found himself longing to stroke her lustrous, pearly skin.

  He strolled over to the group surrounding her. The young men parted politely, though reluctantly, to make way for him. As Robert bowed to the company, one of them said, ‘Why, it’s Major Anstruther. Welcome, sir. You won’t remember, but I’m Digben. We met briefly at the shooting gallery last month. May I introduce you to—?’

  Robert cut him off with a dismissive wave. ‘Thank you, Digben, but the lady and I are already acquainted. And I could tell from across the room that she needed rescuing from a horde of young rascals like you.’ He smiled amiably round at them. None of them would dare to contradict a man ten years their senior.

  He bowed to Isobel and held out his hand. It was a challenge. Their gazes locked. It was if they were totally alone. And remembering that first touch. ‘May I have the honour of this dance, ma’am?’

  She had become as white as her slip. Was she afraid that he might speak of what had happened between them that first day? He realised with a start that she was no tradesman’s daughter after all. She had been admitted to a society ball. She really did have a lady’s reputation to lose.

  He threw her a long, meaningful look. She had trusted him before. She must do so again.

  Her courage was undimmed. With the briefest nod towards a turbanned old lady seated by the wall, she took a step forward and laid her fingers on Robert’s open hand. Then she smiled serenely at the younger men and said, ‘You will excuse me, gentlemen? I think the music is about to begin.’

  He closed his fingers around hers and drew her arm through his. Despite layers of fabric, he could feel the pulsing, living heat of her. She was so very desirable. And he would prove to her that she had nothing to fear.

  The dance was almost half over by the time Isobel mastered her panic. She needed to plan. She had to speak to him, to explain who she really was, but she did not dare to do so in the middle of this dance. What if there were a confrontation between them? Here, in public? That would spell ruin. She must wait.

  But when the dance ended, he would escort her back to her chaperon. And then there would be proper introductions and—

  Isobel took a deep breath and felt her pulse slow. She had to find another way of being alone with him. She crossed the set at that moment, just laying her hand on his as they turned together. Even through their
evening gloves, she felt the warmth of his touch and the hidden strength of him. It crept along her arm and spread through her unresisting body. In that instant, she understood, deep in her innermost being, that he was no monster. He was an Anstruther, but he was a fine, honourable man. She had let her stupid prejudices win, even when her whole being had known they were bound together by that first, magical encounter. She had told herself she was no Juliet with her forbidden Romeo, tumbling into love on sight. She had told herself that, unlike Juliet, she would marry the man her family chose, that she would do her duty.

  But now he was here, touching her, and now she was become Juliet all over again, forgetting family, and feud, and duty.

  She dared to smile up into his face. Hoping. But his answering smile was polite and fleeting. She could not reach him here. She must find another way.

  The dance ended. The ladies curtsied and the gentlemen bowed.

  ‘Miss Lang, I—’

  ‘Major Anstruther, I—’ They broke off at the same moment. Isobel swallowed nervously. He was waiting courteously for her to speak first. ‘Thank you for the dance, Major. But it is exceedingly hot in here, do you not agree? Perhaps there is somewhere cooler, where I might take the air?’

  The glance he gave her was eloquent. He was too well mannered to comment on such an obvious—and improper—ploy. Instead he ushered her across the ballroom and through tall curtained windows that led to a deserted terrace and a rather overgrown garden. He turned to leave.

  ‘Major?’

  He turned back. ‘I assumed you would wish me to fetch your chaperon, Miss Lang. You would not wish to be discovered out here alone with a man.’ His voice sounded strained, as if he were preventing his emotions from bubbling through by sheer force of will. Was he remembering, perhaps? As she was? He was avoiding her eyes now, concentrating instead on ripping off his gloves.