Highland Rogue, London Miss

Or that he wanted to be the only man who ever kissed her.

But so it was, as he moved his mouth over hers in a hired coach lumbering northward toward Scotland.

Chapter Three

Esme had never been so confused and disconcerted in her life.

Quintus MacLachlann was kissing her and it wasn’t terrible. His mouth was on hers intimately, his lips gently gliding over hers, and she didn’t find the sensation repellent.

Indeed, it was completely intoxicating, as if she’d imbibed the entire contents of Jamie’s brandy bottle in one gulp.

She’d never been kissed before. Never once, in all her life. No man had ever wanted to, or dared. Only MacLachlann—the rogue who’d probably kissed a thousand women in his time, and with no more genuine affection than he’d bestow on a horse or dog he found of use.

Shame and disgust at her own weakness drove Esme backward. Indignation at his bold, disgraceful act followed just as swiftly.

“How dare you?” she demanded as she retreated to the farthest corner of the coach. “You … you … cur! Don’t you ever do that again! If you do, I shall write to my brother immediately and you’ll never work for him again!”

Instead of being upset, MacLachlann crossed his arms and regarded her with mild amusement. “I hardly think a simple kiss is cause for such an extreme reaction.”

His unrepentant, cavalier attitude cut her to the quick—until she realized it was another proof of his degeneracy. “It was a kiss that I did not want, did not invite and did not enjoy. It was also an affront to my dignity, as well as a sign of gross disrespect.”

The man grinned. “Good God, all that? Was it treason, too?”

“How would you like it if I reached over and started pawing at you?”

“Why don’t you try it and we’ll see?”

She was horrified, appalled, disgusted—and tempted, which was surely wrong and sinful.

“Or do you fear for your virtue?” he asked. “If so, rest assured you’re the last woman in England I would ever want to seduce.”

“As if you’d have any hope of succeeding!”

“Careful, Miss McCallan,” he replied with a leer she wanted to slap off his face. “I like a challenge.”

“You disgusting, vain oaf! Even the thought of you touching me makes my skin crawl! You are impossible! I should order this coach to turn around at once.”

The sardonic amusement disappeared from Mac-Lachlann’s face. “Are you forgetting that Jamie is counting on us? Is that how you’d repay him for all he’s done for you? I can’t think of one man in a thousand who’d let his sister take such a place in his life, let alone his business.”

He was right. Nevertheless, so was she. “Then I must insist that in the future, you treat me with respect, not like one of your dockside dollies.”

“Although I admit I made an error by acting without warning, I don’t consort with prostitutes,” he said without a hint of remorse or apology. “And if we’re to pass as Augustus and his wife, you had better get used to the occasional spontaneous kiss. The men in my family are known for their passion and public displays of affection. If I don’t ever touch you when we are in public, people will surely wonder why.”

As if she were that naive. He was just trying to find an excuse for whatever lustful impulse seized him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why else would I kiss you?” he countered.

Since this was Quintus MacLachlann, who enjoyed teasing and tormenting her, it couldn’t be because he found her attractive. There had to be another reason, and she found it. “To silence me in the only way a man of your ilk would, because I was besting you in an argument.”

His expression told her she’d guessed correctly, which was … No, she wouldn’t find it disappointing. Not when the man who’d kissed her was Quintus MacLachlann.

And then a slow smile spread across his face. “Which just goes to prove my point. My brother is of the same ilk, Miss McCallan, and he would use the same method to silence his wife in a similar situation.”

“If that is true,” she sceptically replied, “we should have a signal of some sort, so I can steel myself in preparation for your assaults. Otherwise, I’m liable to recoil in horror.”

His dark brows lowered and his lips turned down in a frown. “You enjoyed that kiss or you would have stopped me the moment I touched you. Don’t try to deny it. We both know it’s true.”

It was true, as Esme well knew, yet to acknowledge the veracity of his statement would be to give him the upper hand, and that she would not do. He was, after all, a man and men believed they had every right to rule over women. Moreover, he was a very virile, powerful, confident man whose kiss had completely overwhelmed her reason. She must take care that such a thing never happened again or he would no doubt try to take command of the entire enterprise. And her. “I cannot deny that you have a facility in that regard, MacLachlann, and one I found momentarily interesting. However, I am not like the sort of women with whom you usually consort. I suggest you remember that and give me some sort of indication that you are about to embrace me before you again take such liberties in the name of verisimilitude.”

MacLachlann folded his arms and regarded her with his usual and infuriating insolence. “How about a wink?”

“Hardly subtle, although my brother seems to think you are a paragon of discretion.”

“I am,” he replied. “Otherwise, you would know all about my private life, which you don’t.”

“I have no wish to know about your private life.”

Despite her honest response, she couldn’t deny that she’d sometimes wondered where he lived and with whom he passed his leisure time, especially after he’d spent an evening with Jamie and she had heard them laughing in the library. MacLachlann had an attractive laugh, rich and deep and merry.

“I shall look at you like this,” he said, bringing her back to the present.

Was it possible for a look to raise one’s body temperature? How else to explain the rush of heat that overtook her as he regarded her with an expression of apparently genuine desire?

She definitely didn’t want to encourage that. “If that’s the best you can do, I suggest something else.”

As she expected, that loving expression died instantly, replaced with mocking insouciance. “How else do you propose I convey the full measure of my desire for my wife?”

“By treating her with courtesy and respect,” Esme returned. “That is how a gentleman shows his regard for his wife.”

“Or his mother, or his sovereign,” he replied. “A man should show a little something more passionate toward his wife, don’t you think? Or maybe you don’t, in which case I shall pity your husband, if you ever get one.”

His words stung, because she secretly did want to marry, and have children, too. But she wasn’t about to let him discover any chink in her armor. “If you must demonstrate your spousal affection in company, a simple kiss on the cheek will suffice.”

“Very well,” he conceded with a shrug—and to Esme’s vast relief. “A little peck on the cheek it will be.”

Then he turned to look out the window and said not another word.

Quinn was glad Esme stayed silent for the rest of that stage of their journey. He didn’t want to endure another quarrel with her, or be bombarded by her caustic observations. It was enough that she’d made it clear that pretending to be his wife was something she considered abhorrent. As for that kiss … Although she’d reacted as if he’d ravished her right there on the seat, she’d responded with shocking passion, at least at first.

He would not imagine making love with Esme McCallan right here on the seat, her body against his as he thrust, hot and hard, driving them both to ecstasy.

God help him, what was wrong with him? Was he fatigued? Feverish?

Really that lonely?

Fortunately, they had only a few more miles to go before the coach entered the yard of an inn in Stamford through its high, arched gate. It was a bustling, busy, half-timbered place, with guests, servants, grooms, stable boys and maids going about their work. Vines covered the stone wall surrounding the yard and straggled around the edges. Large stone troughs stood filled and ready, and smoke billowed from the chimneys of the public rooms and kitchen. Although it was not yet evening, the glow of the windows foretold bright lamps, warmth and candles within.

Glad it was no longer raining, Quinn dutifully helped Esme disembark from the coach, as their roles demanded. Meanwhile, the innkeeper, a thin, sallow fellow in plain homespun jacket, neatly tied cravat, white shirt and dark trousers, rushed toward them. A beefier servant in a yoked smock appeared from the stable and started to take their baggage from the boot.