"A heartfelt declaration of love if I ever heard one."

He sighed, trying to empathize with her feelings, trying perhaps to express his own as well. "Look, I'm not very experienced with confessions of love, but I wish us to marry. As soon as possible."

"Maybe this child isn't yours?"

He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, a flicker of anger shimmered in their blueness. "Jesus, Elizabeth, you're making this difficult."

"Pardon me, Ravensby. I forget you're only used to obeisance. Men like you who command what-two or three thousand men-only give orders, never take them. But you won't know for certain, will you, Johnnie, that this child is yours? And then maybe this marriage you want will be entirely wasted."

"You can be a b.i.t.c.h," he said very softly, his fingers clenched white over the chair arms. He was making the most significant concession in his life; he was offering his name, his family, his wealth, in marriage, when he'd had no intention of marrying for another decade at least. And all he was getting in return was sarcasm. "Well, let's just say I'll take my chances ... on the paternity of this child."

"A familiar circ.u.mstance for you in any event," she sweetly retorted, incensed that he didn't understand a speck of her anger. His apology was supposed to be enough to wipe clean the slate on his weeks of indifference, on his shocking abduction of her from the church at Hexham-although Redmond was no better in allowing it. Men, she fumed in righteous anger. d.a.m.n them all to h.e.l.l. Reason had been relegated to the farther reaches of her mind at the moment, outrage full stage center in the footlights. And she wouldn't marry Johnnie Carre if he were the last man on the face of the earth.

Which she told him in icy accents.

He wondered for a moment if he was making an enormous mistake, child or not. But he trusted his instincts; he'd survived on more than one occasion because of them. And he'd had plenty of time on the ride to Three Kings to change his mind about marrying her. "Madame Lamieur will be here at half-past ten for a dress fitting," he mildly replied, restraining the hot-tempered reply that came to mind. "Be ready to pick out the fabric for your wedding gown."

"And if I won't?"

"Then I'll pick it out for you."

And he was there shortly after the dressmaker arrived, strolling into the room as if it were his lordly prerogative, seating himself comfortably in an advantageous viewing position, smiling at everyone-the servants, Madame Lamieur, Helen, and especially the dragooned Elizabeth, who stood resentfully in the center of the group of women, attired in only her ribbon-trimmed corset and chemise.

"Lady Graham will need a complete wardrobe," he said, lounging back in one of the apostle chairs, incongruously framed by ascetic saints. "Something adaptable to her pregnancy."

As Elizabeth blushed a furious red and the dressmaker swallowed her shock, he added, "Perhaps we should select the wedding gown first. Do you have a preference, dear?" His blue eyes regarded Elizabeth with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Something black," she said through clenched teeth.

"I prefer cream brocade," Johnnie said, as though Elizabeth hadn't spoken. "We'll need it immediately. Can you manage that?" he inquired of the dressmaker with infinite politeness.

Not quite meeting the eyes of the most powerful man on the Borders, Madame Lamieur stammered her a.s.sent. Even Ravensby had outdone himself this time, she reflected ... bringing home his future wife with a three-hundred-man escort-everyone in the county had the story this morning. And a reluctant wife from the look of it-pregnant too. But he paid extremely well, so who was she to question the bizarre conduct of the n.o.ble cla.s.s? "Perhaps something like this, my lord," she obligingly suggested, offering him several watercolor sketches of gowns.

"Come and look, Elizabeth," Johnnie softly ordered, his command seeming to hover palpably in the hushed silence, everyone's expectant gaze on Elizabeth.

"I can see from here."

"Don't be a child."

Her choices were limited short of throwing a temper tantrum and completely embarra.s.sing herself before the servants and local dressmaker. So, after a contemplative moment, she walked over to the table spread with sketches.

Johnnie's smile was benevolent, hers rigidly fixed, and the selection of suitable gowns was conducted as quickly as possible. When a sufficient number had been agreed on, everyone heard the distinct sharp inhalation of Elizabeth's breath as Johnnie gripped her hand, drew her around the curve of the table, and pulled her down on his lap. "Now show us your fabrics, Madame Lamieur. Some warm cashmeres and woolens for the coming winter."

He could feel her tremble on his lap, and unconscionably he felt an excitement streak through his senses. A primitive kind of possession seized him, captivated his imagination, and he restrained himself from summarily ordering everyone from the room. Her soft bottom warm on his thighs aroused him, access to that sweetness impeded by no more than flimsy silk aroused him, simply her presence in his home aroused him beyond reason. And he wondered for a moment whether she exuded some rare scent of undefiled virtue that made a man want to possess her.

She could feel his arousal swell against her, the heat from his body, his power and strength, tantalizing, aphrodisiac. And she steeled herself against the kindling heat inside her, spiking hotter than she remembered, more intense. She sat up straighter to distance herself from contact with his powerful chest and arms, only to find the movement exerted added pressure downward. And she shivered as his erection hardened.

In self-defense, knowing she had to escape, she rapidly decided on a score of different swatches, saying simply, "I'll take that and that and those," pointing at endless swatches, the colors a blur until Madame Lamieur caught a signal from the Laird of Ravensby's blue eyes and said, "I think we have enough to begin, Lady Graham."

"Am I finished then?" Elizabeth said, tense, taut with the old familiar feelings heating her blood, afraid of her susceptibility when she could feel him hard against her, when her body so easily responded to Johnnie Carre.

"A few more measurements, my Lady, if it's amenable to you, my lord," the village modiste cautiously added, looking for her directives from the Carre chieftain.

"Certainly," Johnnie replied with well-bred civility.

The obvious deference Madame Lamieur demonstrated not to her but to the Lord of the manor further ignited the flame of Elizabeth's temper, mitigating for a transient second the intensity of her arousal. Sharply jabbing her elbow into his chest, she rose from his lap and flounced with a distinct dramatic flair to the table ladened with measuring tapes and pins. "Hopefully, this shouldn't take much longer," Elizabeth coolly declared. "I find myself feeling hungry again."

"If you'd like to eat, Elizabeth"-he glanced significantly at the case clock in the corner with his impudent smile shining from his eyes-"so soon again, Madame Lamieur could come back later." Crossing his legs to conceal his arousal, he gently rubbed his chest where she jabbed him, recalling with pleasure her capacity for fierceness in bed. "Madame will be staying at Goldiehouse until your wardrobe is finished, so she can return at your convenience."

Suddenly afraid he'd send everyone away and she'd be left alone with him, Elizabeth quickly replied, "That won't be necessary. Actually, I'm not that hungry. Do let's finish the fitting now." She couldn't trust herself; her body flushed with desire.

"I feel we should take a few more measurements without your corset, my Lady, so-er-well ... we can better antic.i.p.ate for the coming weeks the ... ah ... waist size."

Elizabeth found herself blushing again before the mantuamaker's obvious discomfort. Or perhaps because she found herself uncomfortable discussing her pregnancy so publicly before an unknown tradeswoman and the servants.

"That is, my Lord," Madame Lamieur went on addressing Johnnie, "if that meets with your approval ... I mean ... about the corset, of course, oh dear ..." And the poor lady stammered to a close before the amused gaze of the most reckless of Border chieftains.

"There's no need for delicacy, Madame Lamieur," Johnnie graciously said. "Everyone is intensely pleased Lady Graham is breeding. Come here, Elizabeth, I'll unlace you."

"I can perfectly well unlace myself, Ravensby," Elizabeth hotly retorted, frustrated at being talked about as though she didn't exist, as though every movement of chalk and measuring tape and fabric sample had to have prior approval from the great Lord seated like some potentate in that d.a.m.nable apostle chair that only reminded her of how much more devil he was than saint.

"But I wish to," he declared. Although he spoke scarcely above a whisper, every person in the room heard the softly p.r.o.nounced words and distinguished the touch of impatience beneath the quiet utterance. And the authority.

His command was like a lightly placed lash, and she flinched for a flashing moment as though he'd struck her. And she stood for an abrasive moment more while all eyes contemplated a pale-haired beauty, barefoot, in half-undress, waging a war of wills with one of the most powerful men in Scotland. "Are you playing lady's maid now, Ravensby?" she sweetly inquired, her sarcasm rich with anger.

"I am with pleasure. Now come," he said, unhampered by her derision, the role of sovereign Lord deeply inbred. And beneath the quiet of his words was a steely hardness.

"Certainly, my Lord Graden," she formally replied with a studied coolness. "If it pleases you," she snidely finished, having the last word at least in this uneven contest.

"It pleases me immensely, Lady Graham," he replied, his lazy smile playful. "It's your turn, I believe," he murmured as she reached him, "for the final riposte."

"My turn will come, Ravensby, when Redmond arrives to get me."

"He's not coming. Now move closer so I can reach the ribbons."

"What do you mean, he's not coming?" she said, shocked and standing utterly motionless before him.

"I mean I sent him a wedding announcement. I expect felicitations from him any day soon. Move or I'll embarra.s.s you."

"More than you have already?"

"Infinitely more," he dryly replied, his blue eyes raised to hers. "Here now," he quietly indicated, pointing to the s.p.a.ce between his sprawled legs.

And she went because she knew how shameless his audacity.

She shut her eyes when he pulled the blue silk bow over her stomach loose and wondered as she felt the ribbon slip through the lacings if she could resist the touch of his hands.

"Your b.r.e.a.s.t.s are much larger," he whispered, his voice very close, the scent of him pungent in her nostrils. "Do they feel different?" And he brushed a light caress over their swelling abundance. The sound of his voice was intimate, lush, suggestive of all the heated pa.s.sion in their past.

"Please don't do this to me, Johnnie," she pleaded, her eyes shut tight against the pulsing heat beginning deep within her. "Not in front of all these people."

"But I can any time I want, my sweet," he gently murmured, his fingers warm through the sheer batiste of her chemise. "Remember that," he whispered. And he touched her nipples lightly before he lifted her corset free.

The piercing sensation flashed downward from her distended nipples, instant, tremulous, melting into hidden recesses of desire. And she swayed forward infinitesimally, as if asking for surcease.

He steadied her. "Not yet, puss," he softly said, his hands on her hips holding her back, more in control after a decade of calculated amours. "Now open your eyes, darling," he gently teased, "because all these people in this room are becoming breathless...."

"I hate you so," she hissed, although her green eyes beneath the lacy fringe of her lashes still held a smoldering heat.

"I know how you feel because I hate you, too ... but in a different way." His smile as he leaned back in his chair held a grim mockery. "And yet I still want to f.u.c.k you every minute." His brows rose in a mild irony. "If I were a religious man, I might think I were being punished for my sins. But I'm not, of course ... so it's only a personal dilemma, soon to be resolved."

"Without my consent, no doubt."

"That's up to you, my dear." He rose abruptly, his derisive smile still in place until his gaze shifted beyond her. "Thank you, Madame Lamieur, for your indulgence," he politely declared to the modiste across the room, as if he and Elizabeth had indeed been discussing fashion plates. "Lady Graham will give you whatever further orders are required. Good day to you all." He bowed gracefully to the room at large. "And I'll see you later," he said to Elizabeth with an insolent wink. "I look forward to taking your new gowns off."

But he stayed away the rest of that day, and she didn't see him again until the following morning, when he strode into her tower room without invitation in his usual way.

"Have you decided on a wedding date?" he asked, dropping into a chair and motioning the servants out with a casual gesture.

"Tell me how long this ludicrous game is going to continue," she snappishly replied. Looking across the table where she'd been seated reading, she laced her hands together and firmly said, "I'll not be ruled by your authority or your polite civility that sees this marriage as nothing more than a negotiated business arrangement. Thank you, but I already had a marriage like that."

"Do you want me to fall on my knees in supplication? Is that it? I thought I've been more or less doing that-at least figuratively-since Hexham."

"Everything's just an amusing diversion for you, isn't it? Even this marriage. How do you keep your feelings so easily in check?"

"While you don't? Come, Elizabeth, you're no less restrained than I." He grinned. "Except, of course, for your sensuality, which is d.a.m.nably easy to arouse."

"Or yours."

His grin widened. "An a.s.set, I've always thought."

"I just don't know if l.u.s.t is reason enough to marry."

"Better than no reason at all, as in your planned marriage to George Baldwin."

"I needed him against the Grahams. Is that so terrible? You don't know the Grahams, so kindly acquit me of your blame. The future of this child matters fiercely to me."

"As it does to me."

"A sore point, as you already know."

"Look," he said with a frustrated sigh, "I don't know exactly what the word 'love' implies, although I know the definition is a point of contention between us. But if love is missing you and wanting you when I know I shouldn't, when I'd prefer not caring for an Englishwoman who happens to be the daughter of b.l.o.o.d.y Harold G.o.dfrey, then this d.a.m.nable misery is love."

"Which charming explanation only strengthens my resolve to refuse your kind offer of marriage. How will we live together with that hatred between us?" And she wished to ask him, too, how to deal with her jealousy of all the women in his life, but she'd not humiliate herself with that admission.

"You can't always deduce the proper answers, Elizabeth, with logic and practicality." And he knew better than most, this man who lived on the edge.

"And you can't always have your way, Johnnie."

He stood abruptly as though she'd shot him, and gazing at her for a piercing moment, he turned away from her to gaze out the windows. "Maybe I'll just bring in my own clergyman and be done with it," he heatedly said, not familiar with such continuing resistance, pressed to previously unknown limits of forbearance. This was an era of sovereignty for men; women's wishes counted for less. "Why am I being so polite?" he said, half to himself.

But she heard him in the quiet room and answered with a small heat of her own. "Because I might disgrace you by screaming my dissent in the middle of the ceremony."

She didn't understand, he realized, that his politeness had nothing to do with himself; what efforts at compromise he exerted were for her sake alone. Whether she screamed to the heavens before his clergyman, whose living depended exclusively on his suffrage, was incidental to him. Whether she cried her objection to the entire town mattered not. What mattered to him were her feelings, her sensibilities, and he decided in a moment of revelation that he'd been approaching the situation entirely wrong: he'd been polite and rational.

But theirs had never been a rational relationship. What had drawn them together and brought them pleasure and had kept her heated memory vividly alive for him had nothing to do with reason. They had a unique, extravagant physical bond so intense, he often wondered if he'd be killing himself by marrying her. And while he'd never attempted to gauge the more subtle, sensitive nuances between pa.s.sion and love, he did know that what he felt for Elizabeth Graham was different from what he felt for all the other women in his life.

Spinning around from the window, he casually said, "I'll be back tonight," as though the words weren't charged with explosive significance.

"Meaning?" Her moods since her pregnancy were intensely erratic, she'd found, and while her query was sharply put, in contrast, a flutter of antic.i.p.ation streaked down her spine.

"Meaning, wear something I'll like." He grinned. "You'll want to be nice to me."

CHAPTER 18.

She hadn't known what to do with herself that day, so agitated were her senses. She'd tried reading; she'd gone for a walk with Helen. She'd spent the afternoon in the kitchen with Mrs. Reid listening to stories of Johnnie's childhood, which only increased her disquietude. She was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain any coolness of judgment when just living in Johnnie Carre's home seemed to bring sensation to a fever pitch.

Helen seemed to take special care dressing her that evening, seeing that the folds of her skirt fell properly, adjusting the lace at her decolletage to the precise nuance, offering her a rose-scented perfume she'd brought in that evening, tying her hair back with gold ribbons to match the lace on her newly finished embroidered silk gown.

And when Elizabeth complained with a nervous testiness to such exact.i.tude, Helen's smile was indulgent. "The bairn do put one in a nervous way," she kindly said. "But I'm almost finished, my Lady, and ye want to look pairfect for himself tonight."

"Why would I want to do that?" Elizabeth said with a small huffiness. "I can't imagine why tonight is any different from any other night."

Her maidservant glanced away.

"You know something," Elizabeth accused, feeling her stomach suddenly pitch, uncomfortably aware her new gown and carefully superintended toilette had some relevance.

"No, my Lady, I dinna know anything at all...." But anxiety trembled in her voice, and her gaze wouldn't meet Elizabeth's.

There was no point in plaguing the poor girl when she was obviously unable to reveal what she knew, but it gave Elizabeth added warning. Not that she wasn't always cautious when Johnnie Carre had plans.

But she hardly ate her dinner, which Helen had set so beautifully before her with hothouse roses to complement her table. When the recognizable staccato knock came at the door, she actually jumped in her chair.

Johnnie walked in a second later, not waiting for permission to enter her room, and said, "Thank you, Helen," in his dismissive way as he pulled a chair up to Elizabeth's table. In a few brief moments Elizabeth found herself alone at night with Johnnie Carre.

It seemed recklessly different with the candlelight golden on his face instead of the fresh morning sun. He seemed different, as though he were no longer a pet.i.tioner, as though he were more familiarly in command.

He wore a black velvet jacket, slashed on the arms and across the chest to show off the beauty of his fine white shirt. The lace at his cuffs and throat fell in fluid splendor; a spectacular diamond twinkled from the crushed folds of his jabot. His trews were muted shades of black and grey, and the embroidered red moroccan leather of his shoes matched the red silk garters at his knees. A peac.o.c.k-blue ribbon tied his long hair back in a queue, the final embellishment to his rich attire.

"My compliments to Madame Lamieur," he said with a dazzling smile, his cheekbones more prominent in the glow of candlelight. "Your gown's magnificent." Silk embroidery picked out the yellow iris on a background of green and deepest purple, while gold lace bunched in a froth of colored ribbons decorated the neckline, elbows, and open sleeves.