Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore
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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.
“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