His Duty, Her Destiny Page 7

  She breathed in his virile male odour of exertion and horses, and something else that lingered, enticing, exciting, increasing the conflict in her mind and slowing it over a recent memory, daring her to allow a repeat. Her defences weakened and faltered, and she failed to react quickly enough when he closed in. Then it was too late.

  Never having felt the frightening restriction of a man’s embrace until that night in Lotti’s garden, she resisted him because she was too proud to be coerced in this shameful manner by one who had never accepted opposition in any form. Nor had she been swayed by his impertinent assumption that she would like it just because, for one weak moment, she had been stilled in his arms as he kissed her.

  But her plan to fight him off was stillborn when he took her wrists in one hand and held them behind her back, and her cries of protest were stopped by his lips bearing down upon hers, warming and sensuous, softening her too soon, bending her into him. Then all the guilty dreams of the past few nights came roaring back to melt her thighs and to make of her a weak and impotent woman, weaponless against him. A distant voice called for her to come to her senses, telling her that this was all wrong, but then faded again as his mouth moved over hers, letting the first kiss run seamlessly into the next, and the next.

  Unthinking, effortless, she responded. Holding herself in a kind of limbo, she followed his questing mouth to seek the next sensation as she had not done before, and it was the sound of a horse’s neigh and the rattle of a bucket hitting the cobblestones that brought them back to earth. It took them both a moment to adjust.

  Fergus watched her eyelids lift to reveal deep bottomless pools of uncertainty and some faraway pain, and he knew he still had much ground to make up before she would begin to warm to him. ‘You thought to get rid of me, lady,’ he whispered. ‘Well, you will not. You should remember that much about me, if nothing else.’

  The grip on her wrist relaxed, and she arched away from him like an uncoiled spring, bristling with indignation. ‘I remember little about you, sir, except your rustic Scottish manners. Yet another demonstration of your lust, I see. Lord John manages to control his, so that keeps him in the lead still.’ Words tumbled out madly in an effort to wound him.

  ‘Not with bigamy or adultery as his intention,’ Fergus said with obvious disdain. ‘And wealth, of course. His gambling skills are very mediocre, so my man says. How much of your wealth has he helped you to spend?’

  ‘Is there any other crime you can heap upon his head, while you’re about it?’ she snarled, trying to step out of his reach, but stopped by an open stable door.

  ‘Plenty, but I’d rather talk of more interesting things like a date for our betrothal, for a start. You may as well accept it, my lady.’

  She could have turned and walked away at that and he would either have had to follow, remonstrating or silent, or have held her back forcibly to develop the argument further. To go would have been the easiest and most sensible course for her to take, and yet she was to look back upon this episode in later years and wonder what it was that kept her there, bickering and upset, while the sounds of the stableyard floated around them as if life could not wait for them to make their minds up. It had to go on.

  She had made it sound, or rather she hoped she’d made it sound, as if her mind was finally and irrevocably made up. And he was supposed to believe it. But the truth was that they had taken each other by surprise, and while Nicola’s memories of him were fossilised in time, Fergus’s memories of her had suffered on different grounds. It was understandable, but not to Nicola. For her, he should have remembered every single incident, every slight, and he should not have smiled when she mentioned the muck-heap, for it had been particularly distressing and she had stunk for days. More than that, he should have been contrite, apologetic and, if he really wanted her hand in marriage, the very reverse of how he used to be. Kind. Adoring. Eager to please. Like Lord John. Was he really as bad as that?

  But Fergus had reappeared with all his old hauteur, plus an almost primitive sensuality that most men would give their eye teeth for. Not even Nicola could have missed that, having responded to his undeveloped magnetism at such an early age without being able to identify it except by the pain it caused her. Now, it had burst upon her with a terrifying speed when she had only resentments to protect her, except that they couldn’t and didn’t. And now, when he had kissed her so thoroughly and with such obvious spontaneity, it was as if everything she had ever wanted from him, ever, ever, had been granted in one huge portion. Too much, too soon. She was unready, and angry that he thought she might be, angry that he had made her respond. He would know now what she would rather have kept to herself, just to dent his pride. Now she was weak, and he knew that, too. Which was why, she supposed, he was keeping up the offensive as he had earlier with the rapiers.

  Fergus was experienced enough to see that the opposition was almost at a standstill, though the battle was not yet won. ‘Nicola,’ he said, ‘do you hear what I’m saying? I’m not giving up. We can fight in private as much as you wish, but in public you’ll have to pretend.’

  ‘Pretend what, exactly? I’ve no interest in fighting you in public or in private. In fact, I’ve no interest in you at all, and I’m certainly not going to—’

  Her denials got no further before he pulled her back to him, angrily. ‘Oh, yes, you have, my lass,’ he whispered, harshly. ‘You’ve done little else but fight me since I arrived and I only have to look at you to set your hackles up, don’t I? You’ve tried every insult, deserved and undeserved, and maybe I should have put you across my knee there and then. Now all you can do is to fight like a wildcat because you fear what’s happening to you.’

  ‘That’s rubbish!’ she hissed, hearing the truth of it at last.

  ‘Then what’s this all about if not fear? Eh? You think I shall hurt you?’

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Tell me. Is it that you fear you’re softening? Melting? Isn’t that what I felt just now when you sought my kisses? You learn fast, my lady.’

  Gathering together every past resentment into her last ounce of strength, she swung a hand at his head for what ought to have been enough to send it rolling on to the cobbles. But Sir Fergus had seen it coming, he was experienced, and the quick block of his arm caused her to yelp at the pain in her wrist. He caught her hand and held it behind her, and once again there was nothing she could do but wait, imprisoned, hurting and seething with yet another disability of her own making.

  ‘That’s how it will be,’ he said. ‘You’ll hurt yourself, not me, and eventually you’ll fight yourself to an impasse and I’ll still be here when you’ve learned how to enjoy losing. You can, you know. Losing need not be painful any more. So until then you can pretend friendship, for your family’s sake. Unless you want them to see you get hurt just as they used to. Is that what you want? To fight for the sake of it?’

  With clenched teeth to prevent tears of pain, she forced out the first words that came. ‘I hate you, Fergus Melrose. I hate you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. His grim expression softened as he thought on it a while. ‘You wear your heart on your sleeve, lass, don’t you? You always did.’ Then, before she realised what he was doing, he lifted her aching arm to his mouth and kissed it, just as a mother kisses away her child’s hurt. ‘Come,’ he said, holding on to her hand, ‘we’ll go inside where it’s cooler, and you can practice your pretending where there’s no one to see.’

  Bitterly, she recalled a time when to hold her hand would have been the last thing on his mind. The warm strength of his fingers closed over hers. ‘We are not friends, Sir Fergus.’

  What a pity you could not have pretended all those years ago. And why did you call me Lady Coldheart when it was Muir who had used the name first? Is he also a part of your scheme, Fergus Melrose?

  Chapter Four

  They were met in the cool passageway by Lavender with a panting white rabbit in her arms, while from the garden beyond came the sound of the gardener’s
curses and Rosemary’s attempts to soothe him. To add to the drama, a caged popinjay screeched a phrase so often quoted by Nicola herself, ‘Tell-im-to-go-way!’

  ‘Master Ramond is here, m’lady,’ said Lavender, rather loudly, still holding the rabbit’s ears. ‘In the hall.’

  ‘Tell-im-to-go-way!’ came the indiscriminate squawk.

  Nicola was not quite quick enough, however, to release herself from Fergus’s possessive hand before her brother came to meet them and, with a cry of joy such as she would never have used on any of her other brothers, she almost bowled him over with her energetic hug.

  Ramond Coldyngham, a sturdy man of twenty-six summers, didn’t appear to be in the least put out. Nevertheless, his own warm greeting was tempered by amazement that these two should have been holding hands like lovers, and while he hugged his sister with genuine delight, his first question was to Fergus, delivered over the top of Nicola’s head. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Thank you,’ drawled Sir Fergus. ‘How good to see you too.’ He came forward, laughing at the reaction and waiting his turn for an embrace. It had been many years since their last meeting, and now soft punches to each chest were meant to span the missed seasons and to say what neither of them could put into words about their retrospective view of the gauche youths they had once been. Fergus had never understood weakness in any form, Ramond had never understood competition; whereas the former had had to learn of compassion, the latter had known of it since birth. Still, in the different lives they had chosen, there was room for acceptance and admiration.

  Greetings over, Ramond placed an arm about Nicola’s waist and pulled her to him teasingly. ‘What’s all this then?’ he said, looking doubtfully at her. ‘You two friends at last, are you?’

  ‘No…yes!’ The two replies fell into the same space, leaving Ramond wide-eyed and blinking.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So your holding hands is…?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Nicola, quickly. ‘Nothing at all. What are you doing here, love?’ Gently, she disengaged herself and went to pour two glasses of wine, relieved that it was only Ramond who had seen and no one else.

  His visits had not been too frequent in the last few months, though it was no great distance from Gray’s Inn where he was a law student. Like all the Coldynghams, he had the height, graceful bearing and fine features that indicated noble stock, and already he had acquired a cultured and sober manner in the company of which both men and women felt safe. Not that he lacked sexual attraction, only that it was of a quieter sort than that of the Melrose brothers. Dark-haired, dark-clothed and neat in every detail, Ramond was rarely perturbed, though now his smile was strained, hinting at a problem.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ he said, peering through the panes of wobbly green glass into the sunny garden. ‘I’m beginning to wonder. Perhaps…er…I think this may not be a good time.’ With a slight sigh, he turned his attention to Sir Fergus. ‘How are things with you, Ferg? Do you live in London now, or are you here on business?’

  ‘Both,’ said Sir Fergus, accepting the glass of wine from Nicola. ‘I have a place near Holyrood Wharf so I never have to wait for the bridge to open to get my ships in and out.’ He took a sip of the wine and placed the glass on the table. ‘But if there’s a problem, Ramond, surely you’ll allow me to help? Don’t let my being here change your plans. The Lady Nicola and I were only talking.’

  They had not been talking when Ramond had first seen them, but his hopes of being a diplomat had taught him when to keep silent. He held his glass of wine up to the light before replying. ‘It’s Patrick. He’s on the run. I can’t keep him at my lodgings at Gray’s Inn, so I thought he might…no…of course he can’t. I don’t know what I was thinking of.’ He studied the wine, frowning at the reflection of diamond-shaped panes.

  ‘Come,’ said Nicola, taking him by the hand, ‘sit down here at the table and tell me what’s happened. What’s Patrick been up to this time?’ She made no sign that she minded when Sir Fergus placed himself next to her, nor could she explain the most unusual sense of support at his presence.

  ‘He’s at Oxford, you know,’ Ramond said to Sir Fergus. ‘In his last year. George is not going to like this one bit. Best if he doesn’t know, I think.’

  ‘Start at the beginning, Ramond,’ said Sir Fergus.

  Ramond took a sip of the wine at last, placing the glass down on the table with almost comical precision. He could ill afford to have any disruption to his studies, for he was ambitious and totally single-minded. ‘It’s a set-up,’ he said. ‘Anyone can see that. There are two brothers in Oxford who’ve accused him of raping their sister.’

  ‘Oh, Ramond! That can’t be true.’ Nicola sat bolt upright in alarm. Patrick might be feckless, but he was not given to vices of that nature. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe it, either. As I said, I think it’s a set-up to get him to pay for their silence. They want five hundred pounds from him or they’ll tell the university authorities and get him imprisoned, sent down, the lot. They say they have witnesses who’ll swear that he was with her. That’s the kind of scandal that won’t please George one bit. He’s hoping to be elected to office in the Mercers’ Guild this year, you know.’ What it would do for his own career he was too modest to say.

  ‘How did you hear about this?’ said Sir Fergus. ‘Did Patrick send a message?’

  ‘He’s here in London,’ said Ramond, ‘with me. Those thugs gave him a good kicking, so his pals put him on a wagon going in this direction with enough money to pay for it. He’s in a bit of a mess. Not our Patrick at all. But I can’t keep him with me at my tutor’s house, so I thought you might be able to find him a corner somewhere, just till he can decide what to do.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, but on reflection I can see that it’s not a very clever idea. They’re bound to pursue him, and that puts you in danger.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Sir Fergus, ‘it’s not a good idea, Ramond. But has Patrick denied the charges?’

  ‘Well, that’s part of the problem. He doesn’t know. He goes out to get drunk most nights because he can’t face the studies, he can’t debate or say what he means, and he can’t remember who he’s been with or where he’s been. He talks about a dare made one night, but that’s as far as he can go, so when these two brothers waylaid him and accused him, he had to admit he knew their sister but then he told them, foolishly, I thought, that it wouldn’t have been necessary to rape her. Naturally they didn’t appreciate that, so they beat him up. They’ve given him till today to produce the money, but now I suppose they’ll start to look for him. They’ll know where to find all the other Coldynghams, too.’

  ‘So he certainly can’t stay here,’ said Sir Fergus with unmistakable finality and ignoring Nicola’s scowl. ‘We have to find somewhere safer.’

  ‘We?’ said Nicola. ‘Sir Fergus, this is between Ramond and me. I expect we’ll be able to come up with some alternative. He can stay here a while until we can find somewhere else.’ She owed it to Ramond to help him out, for once.

  ‘Sir Fergus?’ Ramond’s glum face lit up at that. ‘Well done, man. Do I have to bow and scrape now? Will it be my lordship next?’

  Sir Fergus grinned. ‘The bowing and scraping will do very well for the time being,’ he said.

  Nicola felt that her objections were being ignored, as usual. ‘You can bring Patrick here, Ramond,’ she said. ‘And George will have to be told.’

  ‘No,’ said Ramond. ‘George will hit the roof. Pat doesn’t want him to know. He’s sure it’ll all blow over.’

  Sir Fergus swung his long legs over the bench, signalling an end to the discussion, almost bumping Nicola with his back as he did so and having no idea how the warm scent of his body caught in her nostrils and sent a wave of excitement into her breast. ‘He’s not coming here,’ he said, standing up. ‘Come on, Master Ramond, sir. Take me to him. I know just the place.’

  The deep cr
ease in Nicola’s brow did not escape the observant Ramond. He reached across the table to lay a hand on her arm. ‘I know what you’re saying, Nick. Thank you. I know you’d have him here, but it was wrong of me to suggest it. These two thugs mean business and they’ll not let matters rest there. Fergus will help me.’

  She could not explain; Ramond had already misread the situation. ‘Yes,’ she said. Changing to a whisper, ‘It’s not what you think, Ramond.’

  He squeezed her arm. ‘Tell me about it later.’

  ‘You’ll come back?’

  ‘Course I will. Today. Later on. Promise.’ His hand squeezed again as he took the glass of wine and downed the contents in one gulp. ‘Too good to leave,’ he said as he stood up. ‘Oh, and it’s time you either changed the locks on your doors or got a new steward. Anyone could walk in here.’

  ‘Isn’t that just like him?’ Nicola stormed after the two men had ridden off. ‘Absolutely typical. He walks in here and makes decisions and even now, after all these years, Ramond gives in to him as if he were a god. In spite of me saying I’d take Patrick,’ she scolded her maids, ‘I’m being told in my own house what I can and can’t do. I know it would have been dangerous, Lavender,’ she snapped as the maid tried to pacify her, ‘but what are sisters for? How many chances have I ever had to pay Ramond back for caring for me? None. Until now.’ She paced back along the passageway with the white rabbit bouncing in the wake of her long russet skirts. ‘And then it’s snatched away from me by that…that…upstart! Why does he always have to have the last word, I wonder?’

  The creature stopped when she did and sat on her hem, waiting for a signal. Nicola turned and looked down at it. ‘And what about you, Melrose?’ she said. ‘Are you going to follow me everywhere, too?’ She bent to pick up the end of the blue leash. ‘Tch! Come on, then, if you must.’