“I have spent a lifetime training myself not to want what I could never have,” he said, and dipped his head to feather kisses along her lower lip. She arched in his arms and he splayed his hand between her shoulder blades to support her.

“But then you arrived,” he said, “and played havoc with my will. Every barrier, every defense, every bit of common sense, and every hard-learned lesson has been shattered by your smile, razed by your glance.”

She smiled, joy slowly blooming in her heart. “Then you’ll marry me?”

In answer, he covered her mouth with his own, kissing her with a thoroughness that left her shivering in his arms. “Oh yes. There’s nothing for it now, my lass. I’ll ask your father and then we can only hope he’s fool enough to agree, because it won’t matter if he does not.

“He could spirit you away, wed you to another man, secret you in a French nunnery. No matter how long it might take, no matter what I must do, I would find you.

“Because, you see, the only thing stopping me before was the idea that you would be happier without me. But now I know you love me and so nothing will stop me until you are mine, by fair means or foul.”

“I do not think we need to elope just yet,” she teased in a shaky voice, because if she did not tease him she might cry, and there were far better things to do this night then cry.

“Unless there is no other way, we are not going to elope at all,” he said severely. “I intend to stand before your family looking for all intents and purposes like the most brazen and bald-faced fortune hunter London has ever seen and pledge before God and gawkers my undying love and devotion and care of you, and it will not matter to me a whit who believes me. Except for you, Cecily. That, I own, I must have.”

“I do,” she said.

“Good,” he said, looking amazed and bemused, a man who has just heard a death sentence commuted into an extravagant reward. Then shaking his head slightly, he gently clasped her shoulders and lifted her upright on his lap. “And now, my beloved, you must leave.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What?”

“You must leave,” he said. “Because I do not want anyone in this castle saying you were forced to marry me because I’d seduced you.”

“You seduced me?” she echoed. She scrambled around in his embrace until she sat straddling his lap, her hands flat against his chest. “No one who’d seen the concerted effort you have put into avoiding me these past four days would even consider the possibility.”

He stared at her, apparently having a hard time coming up with a response. She felt the hard evidence of his arousal, and heat rose and flowed up her chest and neck into her cheeks. It was beyond arousing. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and his eyes narrowed, his gaze falling raptly on her mouth.

“No, indeed,” she said, breathless and exultant. “ ’Tis I who’ve seduced you, and everyone here knows it. Besides,” she said, “I have discovered I do not care what others think.”

He groaned, his eyes slipping shut and ground out, “And I have discovered that I do. At least where you are concerned.”

She frowned, leaning forward, and pressed a soft, clinging kiss against his lips. He shuddered.

“What matter?” she murmured. “We are to be wed anyway, are we not?”

His arms slipped around her, crushing her to him. “Yes. Yes. And yes,” he said, giving in to the irresistible temptation of her mouth before tearing his mouth free. “But,” he said, “and I cannot believe I am about to say this—truly, if Byron were dead I would swear I’d been possessed by his stiff-rumped spirit—but I want you speaking your vows at the altar knowing that you do so only because you love me, not because you were compelled by a rash decision made in a moment of passionate excess and are afraid you might be pregnant.”

“I would very much like to experience your passionate excess.” She sighed, leaning forward for another kiss.

He pulled her close and bent her over his arm, his mouth plundering hers for long, erotic moments before, with a groan, he lifted his head. “You have no concept of what you are doing to me, or the effort I am exercising. But I swear soon enough you shall.

“There will be a better time and better place for these things, my love,” he said, his dark eyes narrowed but unable to hide the hunger burning within them. “Long, passionate nights followed by languid days when we will be undisturbed while we teach each other about desire and pleasure.” He dipped his head, once more sipping a kiss from her lips before jerking his head back, breathing hard.

“I want to explore every nuance of lovemaking with you. Enjoy every taste of you.” He nibbled the tender flesh at the base of her neck, traced the tip of his tongue beneath her chin to the corner of her mouth. She arched into it, her eyes closing in a swoon of pleasure.

With a low, strained chuckle, he pulled her upright, catching her face between his hands and gazing deeply into her eyes. “I will not hurry one second of that maiden exploration, my beloved. Because I have never been in love, you see, and when we do make love, my darling, my wondrous Cecily, I do not want anything interfering.”

She burrowed her hands beneath his shirt, astonished and aroused by the satiny smooth texture of his skin stretched taut across the hard pectoral muscles. “What would interfere?” she asked, breathing hard, riveted by the idea of knowing him, this man she loved, in every sense.

“Well . . .” He hissed with pleasure as she raked her teeth lightly along his jawline.

“Well?” she echoed. He tasted subtly of soap and smoke.

“Taran,” he gulped. “He might pop in for a nightcap. Then I’d have to kill him.”

She froze.

“Dear God, what a hideous notion,” she said, her ardor momentarily doused. “I counted you a great seducer, but I see now you can kill passion as easily as you engender it.”

But then his arms came round her once more, pulling her back into his embrace, and ardor burst into flame anew. She wrapped her arms around his neck, whispering, “But for now we can still practice a bit, yes?”

“Oh yes,” he said, laughing as his mouth settled over hers. “Oh yes . . .”







Epilogue

Amid hollered threats, imprecations, and vows to unman any men they found near their daughters, the rescuers leaped from their horses and barreled into Finovair, heedless of the fact that no one barred their way and that, in fact, Hamish held the castle’s ancient portal open for them.

Finnian Burns led the charge, him having only the one bairn, and thus feeling both the insult and the fear the greatest. Jamie Chisholm was close at his heels, bellowing for his Marilla, while at his side strode the Earl of Maycott, looking justly grim, as everyone knew how much he doted on his eldest daughter, Cecily. Behind them crowded half the men of Kilkarnity, ostensibly to see that justice was finally done to that old brigand Taran Ferguson, but in actuality because nothing near so exciting had happened in the parish in thirty years and they wanted a front-row seat.

The small horde swept down Finovair’s high, empty hall, wrenching open the doors to every hidey-hole, cupboard, and room, one after the other as they hunted down their quarry until finally, they stood before the last door in the corridor, the one leading into the dilapidated family chapel.

“They’ll be no sanctuary in there for you, Taran Ferguson!” Chisholm cried out, and kicked the heavy oak door with all his might.

Unfortunately for Chisholm, the door had not been latched and the violence of his kick sent him flying in and sprawling face-first on the chapel floor. Burns and Maycott, who’d endured four days of Chisholm’s bombast and bluster, and had both come to conclusion that those four interminable days might well lead the list of their grievances against Taran, stepped over him and into the chapel, followed close by the men of Kilkarnity.

Whereupon they all stopped in their tracks.

Standing with their backs to them, facing the altar, stood eight people, four tall men and four ladies in evening attire, while at the foot of the altar stood Father Munro, still wearing the greatcoat Hamish had tossed over the old priest long before daybreak this morning when he’d kidnapped the man from his cozy bed, dragged him up onto a saddle in front of him, and galloped all the way from Kilkarnity to Finovair.

Now, all eight turned around to look at them, variously reflecting amusement, cool appraisal, and steely resolve, yet, oddly enough, also in each face a full measure of indisputable happiness, the happiest of all looking to be the old reprobate Taran, who might as well have been rubbing his hands together, his gloating was that evident.