He inclined his head, but didn’t utter her name. Poppy had her hands full with this one. The girl was very young, too pretty for her own good and a flirt.
“Did you go for a ride?” she asked in a singsong voice, reminding him that she was just a little girl, even if her face and body belonged to a woman.
“Yes.” He turned to rub down the horse with a brush.
“How invigorating. I would love to go riding.”
“Do you know how?” The rhythmic strokes of the brush filled the air.
“No, but you could teach me.” She sidled closer.
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. She affected a coquettish smile, her bottom lip thrust out.
Shaking his head, he returned his attention to his brushing. “It’s cold. You should be inside.”
“You’re not,” she returned pertly.
He shrugged. “I’m a man.” He was on the verge of adding that he was also Scottish and accustomed to colder weather than this when she spoke.
“Of that, I’m very aware, Struan.” Her fingers brushed the front of her bodice in a practiced move to draw attention to her bosom. She was brazen. Poppy needed to keep her on a tighter leash.
He shook his head, turning fully to face her and put an end to this. He doubted she would stop her antics until he made his lack of interest clear.
“Mr. Mackenzie,” he corrected in a chiding tone. He spoke softly to lessen the sting, but he wanted to leave no doubt of where things stood between them.
She laughed. “So stern,” she said mockingly. Not to be deterred, she flattened a hand to his chest.
“What are you doing, Miss Fairchurch? I’m old enough to be your father.”
She made a tsking sound. “You’re hardly that old.”
“Close enough.”
She batted her lashes. “Don’t you like me?”
“You’re very young.”
“That’s not an answer.” Suddenly, she stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek.
Damnation. He supposed this would not be a good time to let the girl know he preferred her sister. The notion made him smile. That would wound the girl’s vanity, but then a little bit of wounded vanity might be a good thing for her. She was full of far too much confidence.
He cleared his throat to let her down in far firmer terms she would not mistake when a flash of movement caught his attention. He glanced up, his gaze colliding with Poppy’s.
Hellfire. She’d chosen a fine time to stop avoiding him. He followed her gaze, looking down at where her sister stood inappropriately close to him, her hand on his chest, her soft kiss still palpable on his cheek. No doubt, Poppy had observed that little display. He looked back up, appraising her and not missing the flash of fury in her eyes.
Aye, she’d seen that.
He arched an eyebrow, suddenly, foolishly, glad to see her. He’d take this—a furious Poppy over the indifferent one who avoided him like a plague. This he could work with.
A sneaking suspicion led Poppy to the stables.
For all her avoidance of Mackenzie, she was achingly aware of his every movement. She had to be in order to effectively avoid him. She had vowed that his presence would not catch her by surprise and she would not be forced into close quarters with him ever again. She had to remain vigilant.
Of course, then, she knew when he left for a morning ride. She eyed him through an upstairs window as he headed out to the snow-draped stables. She maintained her position by Lord Autenberry’s bed, the window in full view so that she would not miss his return.
She did not see him return. Indeed not. Instead, quite some time later, she watched her sister scurry out along the path to the stables. Her sister without Lady Clara beside her was a rare sight. The two had been inseparable over the last few days. And it was not as though Bryony possessed any affinity for horseflesh. What could be drawing her to the stables?
What indeed?
A slow trickle of dread coursed through her and she rose to her feet, departing Autenberry’s chamber. She scarcely took the time to don her cloak before hastening outside to investigate.
Upon entering the shadowy interior, she followed the murmur of voices to a stall at the far end of the aisle. The door stood open and Poppy identified her sister, young and fresh in her pink dress, standing before Mackenzie.
She was oblivious to Poppy, all her attention focused on the man beside a massive stallion. She tossed back her head with soft, throaty laughter, showing off the lovely arch of her throat. Poppy felt a stab of an unfamiliar emotion. Her sister really was lovely. For all her little-girl ways, she didn’t look like a little girl anymore. No, indeed not. She and Poppy looked of like age. It was deceptive. They could both be twenty years old. With one exception—Bryony was the beautiful one. The one men stared at wherever they went.
Poppy narrowed her gaze, taking in the cozy scene. A scene that only grew cozier as her sister’s hand fluttered to her chest and the décolletage so modestly on display.
Struan murmured something that Poppy could not hear. She glared across the distance, imagining it to be vastly inappropriate. And why wouldn’t it be? He had been inappropriate with her at every turn.
Whatever he said, Bryony found it exceedingly amusing. She laughed again, this time lifting her hand off her bosom and pressing it to Struan’s broad chest in a move that looked practiced and expert. Poppy gawked.
The chit was too bold! Where did she learn such things? In that moment, Poppy recognized Bryony’s every movement and gesture for what it was intended—enticement.
Clearly certain females were born with an abundance of feminine wiles. It must be writ within their composition. Sadly, that trait must have skipped right over Poppy and landed on her baby sister.
Suddenly Bryony sobered, her laughter fading. She leaned closer, brushing her hand in little circles over Mackenzie’s chest in a far too familiar manner. Then, before Poppy had any idea what her sister was about, Bryony stood up on her tiptoes and a pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek.
Poppy saw red. She couldn’t breathe. She thought her head was going to explode. Her sister needed a good thrashing for such forwardness.
And what of you and the intimacy you shared with Mackenzie?
She shoved the voice aside with a mental snarl. It was not the same. For one thing, she was a woman of twenty. Not ten and five.
An uncomfortable sensation—the same she had felt moments ago only more pronounced, more painful—prickled in her chest as she stood watching her sister.
Struan stared at Bryony, the barest smile on his face—a face Poppy suddenly wanted to scratch to ribbons. How dare he toy with her and then move on to her sister?
Oddly, his face wasn’t the only one she wanted to attack. For years she had indulged her sister, feeling guilty because Bryony had no memories of their mother and Poppy was Papa’s favorite. That had left an uneasy guilt within her. She was always trying to compensate by sacrificing whatever she could for Bryony. She had never been jealous or wished her sister ill.
Until now.
Poppy pushed the ugly thoughts aside. Bryony was her sister. She was young and naïve and didn’t know what game she played at—or that Struan Mackenzie was a man far out of her realm. Poppy knew. She knew that firsthand. She needed Poppy’s understanding and guidance now—not some foolish, misplaced jealousy.
Poppy narrowed her gaze back on the lothario in question. What was he thinking as he looked at her much too impressionable sister? The reprobate! He was likely thinking how quickly he might find his way beneath her skirts.
Over my dead body.
As though he could feel the knife of her stare, he turned and his gaze landed on her. For once it wasn’t hard to maintain his gaze. Acid churned in her stomach and her fingers curled at her sides, itching to sink into his too-handsome face.
He arched an eyebrow at her.
She arched both eyebrows back at him and crossed her arms.
“Bryony
,” she called.
Her sister looked at her and took a hasty step back, proving she wasn’t entirely oblivious to the inappropriateness of her behavior.
“Poppy,” she greeted.
“Lady Clara is looking for you,” she lied. It was likely true.
“Oh.” Bryony cast a quick look at Mackenzie before stepping out of the stall. “I best see what she needs.”
Poppy nodded, still not averting her gaze from Mackenzie. Not even when her sister hurried past, her footsteps fading out of the stables, did she break their gaze. She held his stare, not about to back down.
He strolled toward her, his gait indolent and unhurried. “Poppy,” he greeted.
“Miss Fairchurch,” she snapped.
His eyes darkened on her, the moss green deepening to a wooded night. “That seems silly, does it not? Given our shared intimacies.”
Hearing him put that to words on the heels of his inappropriate behavior with her sister only intensified her temper.
“Stay away from my sister.”
He smiled slowly then, actually showing a flash of white teeth. It was disarming. Enticing as sin. Her stomach muscles tightened.
Her hands curled tightly at her sides. She wanted to wipe that smile off his face. There was something sinister and manipulative in it. The seductive curve of those handsome lips made her shiver. Clearly he knew the appeal of his smile. It made her want to run after her sister and throw a blanket over her head. A man who looked as he did and smiled so wickedly couldn’t be trusted in any proximity to Bryony. She already knew how weak she was around him. Her sister was made of far less resistance.
He stepped toward her and she took a step back. He kept coming, backing her up until she bumped the wall of the stall. His arms came up on each side of her, caging her in. It was a decidedly familiar moment.
Except this time she could see his face much clearer. She could practically count each and every one of his ridiculously long and lush eyelashes. She inhaled, scenting his maleness, fresh hay and horseflesh.
A sense of vulnerability swept over her. She hated that. Her eyes locked with his. “What are you doing? Anyone can happen upon us. Is it not enough that you risk my sister’s reputation, must you—”
“Your sister is a little girl.”
She paused, taken aback that he should agree on anything with her.
“Precisely,” she said slowly. “For that exact reason, I demand you give her a wide berth. She doesn’t need the likes of you to—”
“Your warning is needless. My appetites run to slightly more seasoned fare.”
She paused, gazing into his eyes, feeling herself being dragged into the mesmerizing depths against her will. “Indeed,” she managed to say in gratifyingly haughty tones.
“You, kitten,” he replied easily, as though he were commenting on the weather. “In case there is any confusion, my tastes run to you.” His gaze flicked over her. “You’re no little girl.”
“I b-beg your pardon?” she sputtered, not even bothering to remind him to quit with that infernal nickname. There was a bigger problem at the moment. Such as the closeness of his big body—and his words that wrought havoc on her senses.
He shook his head. “I see directness is required. My tastes run to you. In my bed. Under me. Over me. In every way possible.”
An odd strangled sound escaped her.
She let out a frustrated sound that was part grunt and part groan. He was still at this ridiculous game of pursuing her. Blast him!
“Put that thought from your mind, Mr. Mackenzie. I’m engaged to your brother—”
“Are you now?” he mocked. His laughing eyes carried the reminder of the two times he had kissed her. When he had fondled her and touched her beneath her skirts. Damnably inconvenient history in a moment where she was trying to drive home the point of her unavailability.
“Yes! I am!”
“I have trouble recalling that fact at times.”
So did she.
But no more.
She would not lapse with him again. She would not forget now.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity. He still doubted her. He thought she was the duke’s tart. Oh, it lit a fire inside her, stirring her ire. He thought she wasn’t good enough to be Marcus’s wife. Even more insulting, he assumed men were interchangeable for her and she would be receptive to his advances. Oh, the temerity.
“Stay away from my sister. Stay away from me.”
The humor faded from his eyes and she was reminded of something she had already realized about this man—he did not like being denied.
“I’ve no issue with the first request. As to you, Poppy, you know where I stand on that matter.”
He leaned in, those delicious-looking lips of his descending.
With a yelp, she ducked under one of his arms and darted forward, feeling quite smug at evading him so neatly.
That smugness died a swift death when he snatched her wrist and tumbled her back into his arms, his chest a hard wall at her back.
“Oomph!” she cried out at the impact, then stilled as his arm slipped around her waist, his big, warm hand searing her rib cage, directly beneath her breast. If she relaxed, she could rest his head on his shoulder. She could turn her face slightly and graze her lips to his jaw . . .
Only in no way could she ever relax like this.
Especially when he lowered his head and placed his open mouth just over the whorls of her ear. His hot warm breath tickled the sensitive skin. It wasn’t a kiss, but it was just as distracting. Just as dangerous to her senses.
“You needn’t be jealous, lass, it’s you I prefer.” His lips brushed over the lobe of her ear as he spoke and her belly clenched. “Just as you prefer me.”
“I don’t prefer you.” Heat climbed up her neck as his actual words penetrated. Her face throbbed with mortification. “And I’m not jealous.”
“Yes. You do . . . and you are, but you needn’t be. Not when it’s you I imagine in my bed.” His fingers fanned out on her ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. “And you imagine it, too. Admit it.”
“I’ll admit no such thing! You arrogant—”
“Honest—”
“Insufferable—”
“Irresistible,” he supplied.
“Oh!” Her cheeks burned with outrage. His head dipped even lower, his face turning so that his mouth grazed the side of her neck. He was going to kiss her. Again. Perhaps even bite her as he did that once. Heat throbbed between her legs.
Her chest squeezed, the air trapped inside, no longer flowing in and out of her.
She couldn’t let that happen, not when she was so desperately trying to stand strong and show him exactly how objectionable she found him to be.
She was too late, of course. In a manner. He didn’t kiss her. No, it was worse. He opened his mouth over the side of her throat. The velvet warmth of his tongue slid over her skin, tasting and turning her limbs to jam. She whimpered, her legs giving out. His arm tightened around her waist, holding her up, and then he bit down, his teeth scoring the stretched cord of her neck.
A strangled sound escaped her at the pleasure-pain of his teeth sinking into her. One of his hands lifted to her head. His fingers fisted in her hair, forcing her head back so that he had more of her to taste and bite.
If she had any doubt before that this man was wicked she no longer did. The things his hands and mouth did could only be called sinful. Perhaps even evil.
Before she could sink deeper under his spell, she lifted her foot and brought her heel down hard on his foot. Pain flared in the sole of her foot from the force of her kick, but she didn’t care. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.
He cursed, his hold loosening, and she bolted.
“Poppy,” he growled as she raced down the wide aisle. She heard his steps fast on her heels and her heart hammered with equal parts fear and something else that felt horribly close to excitement. Blast her contrary heart.<
br />
It was the same sensation she had felt as a girl when she would swing from a tree rope and drop into the village pond. The brief moment when she was airborne and falling, wind rushing over her as her stomach lurched up to her throat.
She dove outside, racing for the house. She burst inside, startling the doorman. She spared him only a quick glance before rushing upstairs.
The duke’s bedchamber loomed ahead like a welcome beacon in the dark. He was never left unattended. Someone would be there to shield her, even if only a maid.
With that comforting knowledge, she plunged inside the room and let out a relieved breath. As expected, the room was occupied. Not only did a maid stand sentry in the corner but Lord Strickland was there, too, sitting in a chair by the duke’s bedside and holding a newspaper.
“Lord Strickland,” she exclaimed breathlessly, her voice louder than she intended. She winced and swallowed, fighting for some much needed composure.
“Miss Fairchurch.” His gaze flicked beyond her as Struan emerged fast behind her. A small measure of satisfaction churned through her at the sight of him. He looked rattled, too, his cheeks ruddy with color, eyes bright as though suffering a fever. The effect was altogether shattering, making him only more attractive. Much too threatening to her senses.
“Mr. Mackenzie,” Lord Strickland added in greeting.
“Lord Strickland,” Struan greeted, his deep voice tight.
The earl looked back and forth between them. “Are we having a race?”
“A race? Y-yes, a race,” she quickly agreed, releasing a single nervous titter of laughter. “I won.”
Lord Strickland looked knowingly between them.
She smiled uncertainly as Struan stopped at her elbow. “Mr. Mackenzie challenged me. I could not refuse.” She forced a smile, hoping that did not sound as ridiculous as it did to her ears.
Lord Strickland nodded, looking bemused and still much too knowing. He turned his attention to folding his newspaper and setting it aside.
Struan chose that moment to lean close and whisper for her ears alone. “This time you win. Enjoy it. For the next time the victory will be mine. You’ll see what happens when you run from me.”