"And if I were, after riding to Harbottle and back today?" he impudently reminded her.

"You're never tired, Johnnie," she declared like a child who believed in certainties.

And he wasn't. Actually, now that the question of his independence had been sufficiently clarified with the Countess, he was in extreme good humor. With his hostage snug at Goldiehouse, the bargaining for Robbie's release could begin in the morning; his brother should be home within the week.

"All right then," he said with a grin, "if you insist-I'm not tired, but I am d.a.m.nably hungry. Also," he softly added, "you have altogether too many clothes on, puss, if you want to be my personal maid tonight." And rising from his chair, he moved over to the table near the fire without a glance for the Countess.

He stood for a moment at the table as if waiting for something, and then very quietly said, "My chair, Janet. I need my chair pulled out."

Unfamiliar with orders, unaccustomed to responding to that particular tone in a man's voice, Janet took a brief lapse of time to acknowledge his command. But presently he heard the soft rustle of silk and the sound of her slippers on the carpet. Coming up to him, she stood very close, so her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brushed his arm, and, lifting her face to him said, seductively and a.s.suredly, "Kiss me."

He didn't turn to look at her, nor did he give evidence he'd heard her. Instead, he quietly repeated, "Pull my chair out so I can be seated."

She could smell the clover-scented dampness of his hair, feel the heat of his body. "Kiss me first," she whispered, rubbing the length of her body against his. Since her adolescence no man had refused her.

"The chair," he said, his voice sending tiny shivers down her spine, his cool indifference aphrodisiac.

She reached up, her palm resting on his shoulder, the solid feel of his muscles beneath her hand further igniting her pa.s.sion. "Please ..." she whispered.

His strong fingers curled around her hand, removed it from his shoulder, and, half turning to face her, placed it at her side. "You don't understand," he calmly said, releasing his grip on her fingers. "I give the orders. You obey them."

She reached for the chair.

He made her adjust his position several times until he was sufficiently comfortable with his distance from the table, saying simply, "Closer."

"No, back a bit."

"To the left now."

"There."

Until she'd worked herself into a small temper and a light sweat. And then, like the t.i.tled Earl he was, he motioned with a small gesture for his winegla.s.s to be filled.

"Should I take my gown off first?" the Countess inquired, wishing to equalize the dynamics, her s.e.xual allure always a potent force.

"No," he said, leaning back in his chair, "pour my wine first."

The siren in her took staggering pause. Was she suddenly as inconspicuous as a servant? Un.o.btrusive as the furniture? Petulance drew her dark brows together, and her bottom lip turned sulky. But then the Laird of Ravensby uncrossed his legs, and the soft wool of his trews, raised conspicuously over his arousal, gave her heady pause.

She poured the wine, leaning over with courtesan expertise so her bounteous b.r.e.a.s.t.s, quivering above her tightly laced stays, offered an enticing display. A natural coquette, she understood the finer points of seduction.

"Kindly keep your b.r.e.a.s.t.s out of my face," Johnnie told her. "I prefer more discretion from my servants."

"You're rude," she pouted, dropping the decanter on the table with a thud.

"Servants' opinions are of no interest to me," Ravensby's Laird curtly said. "Unless you're asked a direct question, remain silent." Leaning back in his chair, he held the Rhenish wine up to the light of the candelabra and studied its golden hue for a contemplative moment as though he were alone in the room.

"You're hateful." But her voice held a trembling huskiness; his nonchalance was sensual, challenging. And she stood suddenly quiet before him, like a reprimanded servant.

"Whether I'm hateful or not," he murmured, looking at her finally, his gaze insolently raking her body, "or autocratic and demanding-I think those were the words you suggested," he softly went on, "is of no significance to your ..."-he paused-"position." His blue eyes held hers for a significant second, the exact nature of that position blatantly clear. "And if I decide I wish to f.u.c.k you later, after you've fed me, you have the choice of submitting or losing your post in my household. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the Countess whispered, her body on fire, her hand deferentially covering her deep decolletage in recognition of her employer's wish for less display.

Moving her hand aside, he lightly brushed his fingertips over the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I didn't say I didn't like your b.r.e.a.s.t.s," he said, sliding his hand inside her gown to touch the hard tip of her nipple through the sheer silk of her corset. "I just don't care for them in my food." His hand fell away as he settled back in his chair, and his voice when he spoke held a distinct remoteness.

"Now kindly disrobe, and I'll a.s.sess my interest in you for purposes other than serving my meal."

Nerveless, inaccessible, he gazed at her like a stranger.

A small shiver of excitement raced down her spine, and her hands trembled as she reached for the hooks on her gown. She found it difficult to concentrate with desire flaring like wildfire through her blood, but she managed finally to unfasten the small silk-covered hooks, and the silver tissue fell in a whisper to the carpet. Like an expensive harlot, she stood before her master in red silk stockings, flowered garters, violet velvet slippers, and a crimson corset laced so tightly, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose above her compressed waist like silken globes.

"A shame you're so large-breasted," the Laird, sprawled at his ease, lazily drawled. "I prefer smaller women. Perhaps I should send you away."

"No! Please, my Lord!" Panic swelled her voice. She was peaking already, her blood pulsing in her ears and deep inside her, the rhythm of her heart counterpoint to the steady hard throbbing between her legs. "I'm sorry," she abjectly apologized, pressing her hand against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in an effort to hide their abundance. "I could wear a chemise, Your Grace, and not offend your eyes."

He seemed to consider for a moment, lounging like an Eastern potentate, his finger tracing the base of his winegla.s.s in idle half-circles. He glanced at the tall case clock in the corner briefly, as if contemplating his options against time. "It is late," he said at last, "you're conveniently at hand, and regardless you have those enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s, I do have need of a servant." He sighed. "You might as well stay." A touch of reluctance graced his voice, and then his tone flattened as he added, "I wish to be served without conversation. Take off your corset. Leave on your slippers and stockings. I like red silk stockings." With that same lack of inflection one might say, "I like sugar with my tea."

At the present state of her desire she would have agreed to anything, her hunger for him desperate, ravenous. So she struggled with the laces at the back of her corset while he leisurely drank his wine. Normally, a lady's maid or a helpful lover was on hand for such occasions; she had never undone a corset.

Long, frustrating minutes later she was at last free of it, flushed and heated, her hair tumbled about her face, her need for s.e.xual release flagrant.

"You may feed me," he said then as she stood before him, lushly nude except for her violet slippers and red stockings. And he pointed at a small plate of fruit scones.

"Later," she said, as dismissive as he, no longer concerned with obedience or compliance, the aristocrat born and bred in her disposed to immediate gratification. "Make love to me now," she demanded. Aflame with desire, she moved very close, the sight of him fully clothed in contrast to her nakedness intoxicating; his composure, his careless detachment, tantalized like a favorite dessert almost within reach, like ungentle surcease to the fire within her.

"But I don't want to eat later," he replied, a distinct edge to his voice. "I want to eat now."

"Lord, Johnnie," she whispered, her breathing unsteady, trembling on the brink. "I can't ..."

He looked up at her. "Do it," he simply said.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she reached toward the plate and broke off a crumbly piece of scone.

"Come closer." His voice was very low.

She moved forward, closing her eyes for a moment against the heady friction walking induced, so near was she to climax. She felt his hand drift up her thigh. "Are you hungry?" he conversationally inquired as if he were suddenly a courteous host, and his hand, inches from the damp heat of her desire, was no more than a commonplace gallantry.

She shook her head, too overcome to speak.

"Open your eyes," he softly ordered. And when she did, gazing down at him, aglow with heated pa.s.sion, he said in a low, level voice, "Open your legs." She yielded instantly, humbled by her need, and the warmth of his palm slid upward until his fingers touched the damp evidence of her carnal hunger. She moved against the light caress, urging him to enter her.

"Stand still," he quietly commanded.

She whimpered but meekly obeyed.

"Excellent," he murmured, his fingertips delicately stroking her swollen l.a.b.i.a as if testing her readiness, the softly uttered word ambiguous comment on her compliance or the state of her receptivity. He seemed satisfied on either count apparently, for he slipped a finger inside her.

"Now feed me that," he murmured, as though he didn't hold her prisoner at his side, a nod of his head indicating the bit of scone in her hand.

His stroking fingers continued their arousal, the slow, luscious invasion, the widening penetration echoed in her soft sighs.

"Feed me," he softly repeated when she hadn't immediately responded, sliding two more fingers inside her, driving in so deeply, she caught her breath. "You must mind me," he calmly murmured, "or I'll send you from the room."

It was unthinkable in her current state, and wrenching her mind back from voluptuary sensation, she obeyed, unable to keep her hand from trembling as she carried the small portion of food to his mouth.

He spoke while she stood with her arm extended, forcing her to wait a moment more. "I want you to watch me eat. Keep your eyes open. When I'm finished, I'll want more." He opened his mouth then, allowing her to feed him, and he slowly chewed the delicate flaky morsel as if time had no meaning, his fingers buried inside her, her bare hip against the velvet of his shoulder. His touch was exquisite, skilled. Accomplished.

She had great difficulty properly focusing her attention.

Enormous difficulty keeping her eyes open.

But his warning impelled her.

And her peaking o.r.g.a.s.mic state.

"So obedient," he murmured a short time later, her breathing erratic, her entire body above the red silk of her stockings flushed a delectable pink. "Feed me some of that apple cake over there, look, I want you to look ... that's a good girl. Here, take the knife and cut me a piece. If you follow my instructions completely, I'll make love to you all night.... Have you ever been with a man who made love to you all night?"

She had. They had. Memories of excess flooded her mind, and she climaxed with a small smothered cry.

Bending his head, he leaned over and gently suckled her rigid nipples, intensifying the slow-ebbing pleasure. Then, satisfied her o.r.g.a.s.m was complete, he gently withdrew his fingers, relaxed in his chair, and, reaching for an appliqued linen napkin, slowly wiped his hand.

Only the sound of the Countess's ungentle respiration broke the silence of the small paneled chamber until, some time later, her feverish breathing abated and her sensibilities returned to a degree of normalcy. Her dark lashes lifted; she drew in a deep breath and glared at Johnnie. "d.a.m.n your smug competence. I hate you!" And swiveling her arm back, she swung at him.

He caught her vicious blow easily, his reflexes honed to a fine pitch. "Really," he said with a grin, holding her wrist with a gentle strength. "And it looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Are you saving that erection for someone else?" she hissed, shaking his hand away, flouncing down in the chair opposite him, her pout and glowering look stormy.

The thought of a particular someone else had crossed his mind, of course, several times since he'd met the pale and lovely Lady Graham. But with Robbie's life at issue ... "Not tonight," he said, his grin still in place, his insolent blue eyes offering unbridled pleasure. "Are you available?"

"I should make you wait," she muttered, sulky still.

"If you had the patience, you might," he softly goaded.

"You apparently have enough for both of us."

"How fortunate, then. Are we through with your game? Or do you want me to continue playing the dominant male?"

"A role to which you're eminently suited," she spat, her frustration still explosive. "I hate those elusive o.r.g.a.s.ms."

"You're greedy, pet. They can't all be consummate sensation."

She gazed at him from under half-lowered lashes, her glance still gimlet-eyed.

The blue of his eyes, in contrast, was pure angelic sunshine. "I see...." he said with a small repressed smile, a perceptive man when it came to interpreting female glances. "Apparently, some improvement is required here. Why don't you tell me what kind you like, and I'll see what I can do." The teasing in his voice was familiar and warm and not at all the sovereign Lord.

"Oh d.a.m.n you," she said with a sigh. "As if you don't know...." Leaning back in the upholstered chair, the burgundy damask handsome foil to her ivory skin, she stretched like an indolent cat, her resentment fading. Johnnie Carre was always capable of amusing her in the best possible way. "With that c.o.c.k at attention," she added with an answering grin, "how can I stay angry?"

"How indeed?" he immodestly replied, but his smile was boyish and charming and exclusively hers that night in his private dining room at Goldiehouse.

But before she left in the morning, with grace and care and utmost diplomacy, he made her understand she must stay away until Robbie was home safe. He wouldn't take any chances the negotiations might go awry, he told her. He needed his full concentration on Robbie's release. He couldn't afford to be distracted by seductive ladies no matter how lovely, he declared. He convinced her finally with a persuasion backed by a noteworthy stamina. And when he finally fell asleep toward morning, he was pleasantly content; in a few hours Lady Graham would be alone in his home.

CHAPTER 6.

Elizabeth rose the next morning after a dreamless sleep, Willie's French wine no doubt accounting for her untroubled slumber. After a breakfast that would do justice to a hardworking farmer, with Helen's a.s.sistance she dressed in an exquisite tartan gown of silk in shades of green and red. Consciously ignoring thoughts of the gown's previous owner, Elizabeth retraced her journey of the previous night through the descending corridors of the castle and found her way to the courtyard.

She intended to spend the morning exploring the grounds.

A lady's horse, saddled and held ready by a stable boy, stood at the front door. Janet must have stayed the night. Highborn s.l.u.t.

Chastising herself a moment later for responding to that notion with a flaring resentment, Elizabeth briskly traversed the broad courtyard as if she could leave behind her annoyance at the palace door. Pa.s.sing through the old castle gates, she stood on a gentle rise near the gra.s.sy moat surveying the sweep of green landscape falling away toward the river, wanting to forget Janet Lindsay and all the women in Johnnie Carre's love life.

He was a libertine by reputation, the evidence of which she'd witnessed herself. He made no distinction about whom he slept with, and she would do well to put him from her mind.

In the following days she saw little of the castle's Lord. Johnnie Carre wanted no untoward problems arising over Robbie's release, and Elizabeth Graham's simple presence posed a threat. He had no practice in temperance with women. It was best he didn't see her.

His subconscious, however, responded less well to the logic of restraint, and his dreams were frequented by constant, combustible images of Elizabeth Graham in his bed.

Elizabeth spent long hours in the library at Goldiehouse, fascinated by the Carre collection of architectural books and carefully maintained models of the various additions to the family seat. The love of building had apparently been pa.s.sed down the generations, each heir taking on a project to further beautify Goldiehouse. The newest working model was grand in scale, designed in the cla.s.sical style; the foundations for a new wing were being laid facing west. More intimate, more human in scale, it looked as though the latest Earl of Graden intended to live in a less feudal environment.

She became friends with Munro, the young architect only recently returned from Vicenza, where he'd gone to study Palladio's country villas. She visited him often in his office, listened while he spoke glowingly of Palladio's vision of making his homes one with their natural setting. And she asked serious questions as he showed her drawings by the master and pointed out Palladio's elements of number, measure, and proportion as the means of making architectural s.p.a.ce conform to natural principles. Her interest in design and workmanship was more than that of a dilettante, for her own plans included the construction of a home. With Hotchane's inheritance she intended at last to live independently, and to that purpose she had a land agent searching for property in Northumbria at a suitable distance from her father's meddling.

She ate her meals in her tower room or in the kitchen with the large, friendly staff. She spent cozy hours over tea in Mrs. Reid's parlor, too, listening to the housekeeper's stories of the Carre family. She wasn't invited to dine with Johnnie and his men-a deliberate decision on Johnnie's part. Knowing the fragile state of his resistance to her, he chose the safe ground of complete avoidance. Particularly in light of the drinking customary at dinner with his men. After the brandy or claret had made several rounds of the table, he knew he couldn't trust his restraint.

They met in the formal garden one afternoon though, very much by accident. Saving time, Johnnie had cut through the garden after having met with his architect, Munro, down by the river. They had discussed the projected height of the dome over the small orangery attached by a covered walkway to what would be Johnnie's suite of rooms in the new wing under construction. It was a question of proportion from a distance, and both men had agreed on a lesser height after observing the site from several vantage points. Particularly from the riverbank, the planned elevation would have disturbed the harmony of the skyline.

Late for a meeting with Kinmont to determine their reply to the newest terms delivered that morning from G.o.dfrey, he rapidly strode through the symmetrical parterres, vaulting over the orderly floral borders as he came to them, leaping across the small reflecting pool at the entrance to the garden rather than waste time circling it. Sweeping around the box hedge separating the pool from the gravel walk leading up to the house in a flying turn, he hurtled into a body.

Automatically, his hands came up to steady Elizabeth as she stumbled backward with a small cry. And the books and papers she was carrying tumbled from her arms.

Her eyes flared wide in apprehension. Whether his touch had alarmed her or the suddenness of his appearance was the cause, perversely he found himself stirred by that apprehension. As if he were the hunter and she his prey. An inherent emotion, perhaps, in a man trained to the chase; he didn't question what it meant. But he was acutely aware of his response, and his fingers reflexively closed more firmly on the soft flesh of her upper arm. How can it hurt? a part of him insisted; a hostage isn't sacrosanct. Certainly in the history of the Borders women had been violated; it was the norm rather than the exception. She knew it. He knew it.

His feelings showed in his eyes.

She should be more fearful, she thought, with this powerful man towering over her, holding her captive, the message in his luminous blue eyes unselfconsciously direct. "I'm sorry," she said instead, as if she had abruptly collided with him, and only politesse was on her mind. Or, perhaps unconsciously, she was apologizing for her sudden response to his candid look.

He hesitated for a moment. Her softly uttered phrase struck him oddly. Had he misinterpreted her apprehension? Could she simply be offering a mundane courtesy? Or had he indeed heard an enticing sensuality beneath the simple words? But then the literal meaning of the phrase became clear, and regret of another kind forcibly struck his consciousness. Negotiations were well along for Robbie's release. His brother would soon be out of Harbottle prison, so acting on carnal impulse at the moment seemed foolhardy. Even if she were willing.

"I'm sorry too," he said, more bluntly than she, his voice harsh with the logic of restraint. "Let me help with your scattered books." And so saying, he released her and stooped to gather her books and papers from the raked gravel path.

Her slippered feet were mere inches from his hands as he stacked the few books and brought the papers into order. Her legs were as close. He smelled the fragrance of Mrs. Reid's clover-scented soap, and he couldn't forestall the spontaneous image of Elizabeth Graham lounging in her bath, a hand-milled ball of soap in her palm, steam rising around her, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s half-submerged in the heated water, her hand leisurely rubbing Mrs. Reid's soap over the swelling mounds.... A spiking l.u.s.t flashed through him at his lascivious imagination, and he ground his teeth in resentful frustration.