Highland Rogue, London Miss

“Good day, good day!” the innkeeper cried, making a swift survey of their clothes and the coach. Quinn didn’t doubt the middle-aged man could gauge the value of their garments and equipage almost to the penny. “Staying the night, sir?”

“Yes,” Quinn replied with his most charming smile. “My wife and I require two rooms.”

The innkeeper frowned and rubbed his nearly bald pate. “Two, eh? I’m sorry to say, sir, we’re nearly full up. I have only one room left that’ll be good enough for you and your wife.”

That was a problem.

“I’m sure one will be sufficient,” Esme replied sweetly, slipping her arm through Quinn’s.

It took a mighty effort not to stare at her, for he’d never in his life guessed Esme McCallan could sound so docile and demure. As for the sensation of her arm in his and the possibility of sharing a room …

Gad, how long had it been since he’d made love to a woman? Too long, clearly. What else could explain the way his body seemed to leap to life the instant the scornful, prudish miss, who never looked at him except to frown, touched him? She could barely tolerate him, while he’d been more excited by that one kiss, and now this touch, than by a practised courtesan’s most seductive efforts.

Determined to act as if he wasn’t aroused and their relationship was perfectly ordinary, he patted her gloved hand. “Yes, one will be quite all right. Please show us to the room and have our baggage brought up. And we’ll require a supper, of course.” He’d already decided on one point of procedure for this part of their journey and saw no need to change it. “We’ll dine in our room.”

Esme’s grip tightened. He ignored that, and her, as they followed the innkeeper across the yard, through the door and into the crowded taproom. Not surprisingly, several of those inside turned to watch the new arrivals and more than one of the men regarded Esme with open admiration.

He could guess what they were thinking—that she was lovely and desirable. That they’d gladly bed her, if they could only have the chance.

A rush of primal possessiveness filled him and he glared at them all as if they were thieves attempting to steal his most valuable possession.

Not that Esme needed that sort of assistance. She could cut a man down to size with a look, or a few sharp words. Indeed, he’d pay good money to witness that … except she couldn’t see them. That fancy bonnet she was wearing was like blinkers on a horse, shielding her from their attention, and him from seeing her face.

“Here you go, madam, sir,” the innkeeper said after they’d gone up the stairs and he opened the door to a small, but comfortably appointed room. Although there was a commode and a washstand with plenty of fresh linen, most of the space was taken up by a large curtained bed that looked at least two hundred years old. “When would you like supper?”

“Eight o’clock,” Quinn replied as Esme walked over to the small, mullioned window and looked out at the yard. “We’ll breakfast at six.”

“Right you are, my lord. Boots outside the door for cleaning, if you like.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod, the innkeeper went out and closed the door, leaving Quintus MacLachlann alone in a room with a large, probably very comfortable bed.

And a beautiful woman who hated him.

Out of the corner of her eye Esme watched MacLachlann stroll toward the curtained bed covered with a brown woollen blanket. He pushed down on it as if checking its softness … or stability.

Good heavens, surely he didn’t think …! “You will, of course, be sleeping on the floor tonight,” she said as she turned to face him.

MacLachlann flopped on the bed like a landed fish and cushioned his head with his hands while crossing his long legs. He still had his boots on, too—the typical behavior of a selfish, inconsiderate man who thought only of his own comfort and not of the person who would have to clean the covering.

“Have you forgotten we’re supposed to be married?” he asked, as if she was stupid.

Her hands balled into fists as she turned back to glare at the massive oak tree at the edge of the yard. How she’d dearly love to wipe that smug, arrogant grin from his face! “Supposed to be, but most definitely are not. You’re the last man on earth I’d ever want to—”

A vision popped into her head, of Quintus MacLachlann in that same pose and place, naked and smiling with a come-hither look in his eye.

“Ever want to what?” he prompted, his voice low and husky and rather close, too.

She stiffened. Had he gotten off the bed?

Wherever he was, she didn’t want to let him know she was curious about him in any way, so she didn’t even move her head to glance in the small framed mirror over the washstand to try to locate him.

“Ever want to marry,” she continued. “If you’re the best I can hope for, I’ll gladly be a spinster. You’re far too insolent, rude, crude and barbaric, as exemplified by your behavior in the coach.”

“I assume you’re referring to the kiss.”

Of course she was. How could he possibly think that kiss was appropriate, or that she would enjoy such an unwelcome familiarity?

Except that she had. Far, far too much. Even now she couldn’t stop thinking about it and wondering if she’d feel that same surge of longing and excitement if he did it again. “I’m also referring to your impudent manner of speaking. And slouching.”

“Saints preserve me!” he cried with a mockery that was impertinence personified. “I had no idea that even my posture was damning me in your fine eyes!”

Determined not to be cowed or intimidated by him, she turned into the room, to find him only about two feet away, looking like the epitome of a Handsome Gentleman—except that he was no gentleman, as she well knew.

Nor was she a trollop or loose woman. She was Jamie McCallan’s sister and a virtuous woman, and she expected to be treated with respect. “Your language is most inappropriate, as was that kiss.”

“Inappropriate, but enjoyable.”

“For you perhaps, but not for me.”

His eyes seemed to glitter with feline satisfaction and his smile would have done credit to a satyr. “Liar.”

“You are insufferable!” she declared, turning her back to him and wrapping her arms around herself.

“You liked it when I kissed you.”

She glared at the window. “Leave me alone.”

“I liked it, too.”

She mustn’t listen. Anything he said couldn’t be taken at face value, and any feelings a man like MacLachlann aroused must be suspect. Despite his new apparel and clean-shaven appearance that had suddenly and vividly reminded her that he was the son of an earl, he was still a disgrace and a scoundrel who had probably seduced scores of women. That was what she must remember, not the yearning she felt when his lips slid softly over hers. “Go away!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I assure you, I do!”

There was a knock on the door.

Grateful for the interruption, Esme darted past MacLachlann and opened the door, to find the beefy servant waiting with her trunk full of new clothes on his back.

“Please put that at the foot of the bed,” she directed.

Another servant, twice the weight and age of the first, followed with MacLachlann’s much smaller valise. “Put that beside my wife’s baggage,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a few coins. He gave them to the men, who tugged their forelocks, then departed.

Ignoring MacLachlann, Esme pulled off her bonnet, set it on the dressing table and started to tug the pins from her hair. She would feel better when her hair was down; she always did.

She realized he was watching her. “Must you stare at me?”