The Whiskey Laird's Bed Read online

  Just then, the door to the library opened, and who should enter but the bonny lass herself.

  “Miss Starke.” He saw that his voice startled her, but she quickly recovered. “Please come in.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes darting from the crystal decanter on the long table to the glowing candles, then back to him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I didn’t see a light.”

  “I prefer candles if I’m not reading.” He glanced to the ceiling. “Electric lights may be convenient, but they’re too harsh at times. Please . . .” He stood, flashing his most inviting smile before offering her a nearby chair. “I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve missed talking to you.”

  She seemed hesitant. Bollocks! It was that kiss. That kiss would have led to more if her friend hadn’t interrupted. Now that interrupted kiss stood between them.

  “Have you been hiding from me?” he asked, hoping to provoke her. Lord, he loved it when she was riled and stared down her opponent like a mighty warrior queen.

  “Not exactly hiding,” she said, averting her eyes. He knew her well enough to recognize that she was lying. No woman was more willing to look him straight in the eye than Miss Starke. His lips curved in sympathy. Admitting to a vulnerability was never easy.

  She brightened. “I’ve been making photographs while there was still time.” She glanced about the library. “I shall miss this place—the woods, the loch, the freedom.” She laughed as she silently approached the end of the table. “I think I shall even miss the sound of the ever-present wind.” She stood before him and opened her mouth to say something else, but then lowered her eyes to follow the trail of her finger sliding along the edge of the table. “We’ll be leaving in a few days.”

  “I’m keenly aware of the date of your planned departure, Miss Starke.” So keenly it hurt, especially when she looked as she did tonight. She’d removed that lacy covering, exposing enough skin to make his manly parts take notice. “Please, come sit with me.”

  She reluctantly lowered herself to the chair, but seemed ready to bolt at any moment. He frowned. This wasn’t at all like his Claire. Was she not pleased to see him? Perhaps she was expecting to meet someone else in the library this evening. That titled English scum perhaps? He narrowed his eyes.

  “Have I told you how lovely you look this evening?” he said, watching her reaction. Her cheeks warmed in the manner of a woman not accustomed to compliments. Damn that Ancram. She was as prime for the picking as a wounded rabbit.

  “It’s the gown.” A tender smile crept across her face, illuminated in gentle candlelight. In that moment, she looked like a fresh young lassie full of hope for a new day. Innocent. Pure. She fingered the low neckline. His throat dried to ash. “It’s certainly not practical, but it makes me feel—”

  “Did you wear it to attract Ancram’s notice?” He couldn’t hide the snarl in his voice. The thought of him with her roiled his guts. “Because I tell you,” he continued when she hadn’t spoken, “the earl is no interested in you, your talents, or your principles. He’s only interested in the pleasure that can be found between your—”

  Her eyes widened, that sweet innocence faded, and he realized what he’d been about to say. He stopped abruptly. If a kiss had scared her, then his little brothel speech would have her packing for the train tonight. He didn’t want to lose her any sooner than he had to.

  He ran his fingertip along the rim of his near-empty glass and avoided her eyes. “He won’t respect you. Not like I . . .”

  Bollocks! Why couldn’t he keep his lips from spilling his every thought? At least he caught himself before he finished with “would.”

  “Not like you what?” she asked, a challenge in her voice.

  He scowled, unsure how to tell her that, unlike Ancram, he’d respect her even after he took her virtue and made her scream with pleasure. That thought registered with enthusiasm in his groin, dampened only by the realization that the opportunity to do just that was quickly fading. She would be leaving in a few days.

  “Miss Starke.” He selected one of the empty glasses, then lifted the decanter to fill it partway. “I’m curious. You have lectured myself and others on the evils of whisky, yet I’ve never seen you take a drink.” He filled his own glass to the same level. “How can you chastise others when you haven’t tried it yourself?” He placed the first glass before her, then lifted a brow.

  She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling as if he’d challenged her to a game of wits. “One doesn’t need to indulge in a vice to recognize the consequences.”

  Holy God and all the Apostles! Did she realize that with her wearing that dress and leaning at that angle, he had a boundless view of two perfect breasts? Breasts that she’d always kept hidden beneath practical blouses, breasts that glowed in the soft candlelight. His bedroom waited below them, a mere flight of steps away. He could carry her there and free those glorious orbs in a moment. He glanced into her eyes, which were lit with humor. Of course, she’d scream bloody murder the entire way to his room. But Dear Lord in Heaven, that dress was made to be removed!

  What was wrong with him? Was it the rise of the Viking blood of his ancestors? He took a gulp of whisky and hoped the resulting burn would dampen the impulse to take her right here on the table.

  “Let us take the Earl of Ancram as an example,” she continued, apparently unaware of his silent struggle. “I do not have to succumb to his lust to know his desire is only temporary. He would forget my name by morning.”

  “Then it is only the man to whom you object, not his purpose?” This was an interesting development. Would she truly choose a scarred impostor over a handsome earl? He leaned close enough to smell vanilla. “Would your answer be different if I were to invite you to my bed?”

  ***

  Claire couldn’t breathe. In the heat of his gaze, the room seemed suddenly deprived of air. Her jaw dropped ever so slightly, allowing her to inhale between her parted lips, while her glance slipped to his enticing mouth. She had thought they were simply exchanging wits, but this was different—very different from Ancram’s improper invitation.

  Her entire body responded to the laird’s question, from the tingling in her nipples to the strange ache between her legs. She couldn’t recall ever feeling such a strong attraction to a man before. Thinking of the cold bedroom that awaited her down the hall and the brevity of this opportunity, Lucifer take her but she wanted to say yes. Other words, however, found their way past her lips.

  “I should go back. Faith will be looking—”

  Was that a flash of pain in his eyes? She couldn’t tell as he settled back in his chair and away from the light of the candles in one swift movement.

  “No need to run off, Miss Starke. We were only speaking generalities. I was merely suggesting you might want to try the very thing you protest so diligently.” He sipped the spicy liquid from his own glass as if it held no evil effects.

  Claire eyed the glass he’d set before her. Their brief exchange had left her throat parched from the possibilities. Would whisky truly be so bad? Lady Macpherson often had a small sampling of Scotch before dinner, and often after, as well.

  Though he sat in shadows, she could feel his regard like a pricking on her skin. Given the nature of her gown, she experienced a lot of lush, heated, entrancing prickling.

  “What would it take to encourage you to drink that glass before you?” He tilted his head. “Look at it. Such a small amount.”

  “You wish me to compromise my principles for your amusement?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Her refusal had wounded him, and this was his method of punishing her for her rejection. It was the act, not the man, that she was rejecting. She moistened her lips. “Please understand, if I were to lie with any man—”

  He stood abruptly, then strode so as to put the table between them. He stopped and studied her. She watched the flickering light play across h
is handsome face. She’d called him the Devil more than once. A Devil like that would make sinning easy.

  “What if I promised to talk to Lord Lothian about the need for temperance legislation? Would you empty that glass for such a prize?”

  Shocked, she looked up at him. “You would do that? Speak with the Secretary for Scotland?”

  He issued a low chuckle. “I believe you may be compromising your principles by not drinking, don’t you think? You said you wanted to make a meaningful difference. This is your chance.”

  She could hear both his triumph and the possibility in his words. She fingered the glass. It didn’t seem all that much to drink. A request for legislation from a distiller would carry more significance than it would from her.

  “When would you speak with him?” If she were to accept his challenge, she wanted his promise that he would fulfill his end of the bargain before she left for London.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll speak to him after dinner, when he’s relaxed from the hunt.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Wouldn’t he be enjoying a glass of Scotch whisky then?”

  “Oh, I see your point,” he said, as if the two of them were somehow conspiring together. He sat back in the seat that he’d earlier abandoned. His eyes were burning bright; the candlelight caught the amber flecks. Whisky eyes, she thought.

  “He won’t want to abandon the very thing he’s enjoying. That’s the difficulty, isn’t it? Drinking a fine Scotch whisky is so very enjoyable.” He sipped from his own glass as if to emphasize that very thing.

  Her mouth watered watching the moisture on his lips. He pushed her glass closer, but she didn’t pick it up. After a moment’s silent dare, he leaned back in his chair. “I’ll speak to him in the morning before the hunt. He won’t indulge that early, or he’d never sit his horse.”

  She wrapped her hand around the glass, then held her nose. Surely, she could swallow this small amount in two or three quick gulps, but he grasped her arm, stopping her from tilting the glass to the proper angle.

  “Not like you’re taking cod-liver oil,” he said with a tsk. “Whisky is meant to be enjoyed. If you’re to understand its appeal, you’ll have to attempt to enjoy it.”

  She released her pinched nose. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  He glanced around the room. “No one is here to see you. No one beyond you and I will know what happened in this room. To the ladies of that Silly Society—”

  “Sober Society,” she corrected.

  “—you’ll still be pure and chaste. But if Lord Lothian moves on your behalf”—he winked— “wouldn’t that be worth it?”

  She frowned a moment. Could drinking such a small amount be such a terrible thing? As he’d said, no one would know. And the rewards . . . She raised her gaze to him.

  “What do I do?”

  Chapter 28

  “That’s my girl,” he said with a triumphant smile.

  She had a fleeting concern that she’d just sold her soul to the Devil—but oh, what a handsome and charming devil he was.

  “First, you swirl the whisky in the glass to release all the scents of the aging.” He swirled his own glass to demonstrate, then took a big sniff. “It’s the scent of the Highlands. Can you smell it?”

  She could’ve just watched him talk about this subject he loved. He was so relaxed, and his eyes crinkled with his smile. She swirled her glass in the way he indicated, then sniffed. The spicy vapor burned a path straight up her nose, sufficient to make her eyes water. She blinked rapidly and held the potent glass at arm’s length. “You drink this?”

  “Try again,” he urged gently. “Take it in nice and slow.” He closed his eyes and inhaled from his glass. “Can you smell the caramel from the charred oak? Scotch whisky is aged in oak casks from three to twenty years. This particular whisky matured in a cask that was previously used to age sherry. Can you smell the fruity complexity?” He sniffed again. “Whisky made in the Highlands has a slight vanilla overtone that sweetens the elements, yet calms the fire of the distillation.”

  “My glass must need a lot more vanilla,” she said, cautiously sniffing at the vapor. If merely smelling the concoction heated her so, what would drinking it do?

  He chuckled lightly and opened his eyes partway, as if lost in a dream. “Ah, English, you smell like my beloved Highlands. Have I told you that, lass? I noticed your vanilla scent the first day we met.”

  She wiggled her finger at his shoulder and laughed. “You couldn’t smell anything the day we met. You were wearing that horrid wolf pelt.” She felt a flush on her cheeks, but she couldn’t have said whether it resulted from inhaling whisky vapors or from his comment.

  He smiled in agreement and then straightened. “I know, let’s make this more interesting. We’ll have a contest.” He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “You match me. For every sip I take, you take a sip as well. We’ll see who reaches the bottom first.”

  “Not fair,” she protested. “You’re an accomplished drinker, while I’m a novice. You’re bound to win.”

  He smiled, obviously enjoying their banter. He reached for the decanter and poured an amount in his glass to double the amount in hers. “There. That should balance the odds.”

  “I understand what’s at stake if I finish this glass. You’ll speak to Lord Lothian about the need for temperance legislation,” she said, a bit dubious. “But if this is a contest and you finish first, what do I forfeit?”

  He leveled a gaze on her that made her feel as if the fiery spice of the whisky were already racing through her veins. Once again, her body cried in unison for something she couldn’t name.

  “A kiss,” he said simply. “My sweet Highland sprite shall initiate a kiss.”

  “English,” she corrected.

  “I’m willing to overlook that.” He held his glass up to the candlelight. “We swirl the whisky again, but this time look for the legs.” Again he demonstrated. “Can you see how the whisky clings to the side of the glass, flowing back to the bottom in long streams? Those are the legs. The more full-bodied whiskies have longer legs.”

  She followed his example and noticed the striping he described, but she felt no grand appreciation from the exercise. “I don’t see how this affects the taste.”

  “It’s all in the anticipation.” He contemplated a moment, and she thought he might be anticipating something other than the liquid in his glass. It sent a delicious shiver down her spine.

  “Now we take a sip and let the whisky sit on the tongue before we swallow.” He lifted the glass. “To Scotland.” He tipped his glass.

  “God save the Queen.” She followed his example. Although somewhat prepared for the fire, based on her sniffing experience, the burn of the whisky on the edges of her tongue caught her off guard. She lifted her tongue, sending the alcohol to the back of her throat, swallowing in reflex. The fire burned down her throat, sending her into a coughing fit.

  “Breathe in,” he encouraged, “but through your nose, no your mouth.”

  Too late. She’d taken a breath through her mouth, which seemed to fan the flames even higher, triggering even more coughs.

  “Easy now.” He rubbed her back. “Easy. You shouldna take large swallows when you’re starting out.”

  She gasped. “It was a sip. How can people drink that?”

  “You’ll find it easy once you get the hang of it. Can you taste the fruitiness now? The vanilla?”

  “I can’t taste anything,” she protested. “I’ve lost all sense of taste.”

  “Then it’s time for another drink,” he said. “To Lord Lothian.”

  The sneaky devil. Reminding her why she’d agreed to this silly contest in the first place. She raised her glass and looked him square in the eye. “Lord Lothian.”

  This time she took a much smaller sip. Her tongue swished the alcohol in her mouth, mixing it with her na
tural saliva. By the time she went to swallow, much of the liquid seemed to have evaporated. She didn’t lapse into choking coughs this time.

  Proud of her accomplishment, she smiled at Cameron, noting how the candlelight flickered off his cheekbones. She could see the reflection of the candles’ flames in his eyes. The man was so incredibly handsome. Much like the whisky, he took her breath away. “I believe I’ve mastered the proper way to drink whisky,” she said with a smile. “I intend to win this contest.” She lifted her glass.

  “Do you now? I’ll have to take bigger sips.” He smiled mischievously. “I want that kiss.”

  She took a larger swallow this time, but it didn’t have the same effect as the first. The heat warmed instead of burned. She looked at her glass, imagining the internal heat was likely one of the reasons for whisky’s popularity here. This latest sip gently burned her lips. She studied Cameron’s lush, proud, tempting lips, wondering if they burned as well. His tongue swept over them.

  Who knew a tongue could be so incredibly . . . stimulating. The single movement sent repercussions throughout her body. Pondering that phenomenon, she sipped again, letting the pleasant heat warm her insides. There was no burn, or perhaps she no longer cared about the burn. She felt light-headed and bold, with a strong desire to sample his whisky lips.

  He had more amber liquid in his glass than she, yet she was making definite progress. Which was sad, because she’d really like to grant Cameron his forfeit.

  “You know,” she said, “there’s a way you can receive a kiss without winning the contest.”

  “How is that, lass?”

  “Take a swallow from my glass and let me drink it from your lips,” she said slyly.

  His teeth gleamed white in his smile. He pushed his chair back and slapped his thigh. “Come sit here, you sly English sprite. It’ll make it easier to transfer the whisky if you sit on my lap.”