Читать книгу Wild Wicked Scot - Julia London, Julia London - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

Balhaire

1710

IF THERE WAS one thing Arran held as irrefutable fact, it was that the English and women could never be completely trusted. So when he heard a rustling about sometime in the night, long after the fire had turned to embers, he was not surprised to see Margot standing at his chest of drawers, one of the bed linens wrapped loosely about her.

He admired her for a moment as she rose up on her toes and examined the articles on top of the chest. One long, shapely leg was visible. Waves of auburn hair fell almost to her waist, ending a few inches above the curve of her hip. She touched his things, and her delicate, manicured fingers fluttered over the folded vellum that Jock had brought to Arran, an urgent message from the chieftain of the MacLearys of Mallaig.

He silently rose up on one elbow, watching her as she picked up the vellum between finger and thumb and seemed to debate opening it.

God, but she was beautiful, he thought, as he carefully and soundlessly removed himself from the bed. It had been her eyes that had captured Arran’s fancy when he first saw her. Wide, deep-set eyes, the color of them reminding him of the moss that grew on the trees at Balhaire, and her gaze discerning. He’d known right away, before even hearing her speak, that she was a perceptive lass.

He’d also known, by the way those eyes had looked at him, that she’d been a wee bit beguiled by him, too.

He made his way to stand behind her and folded his arms across his chest. “What are you doing there?”

With a gasp, she dropped the vellum and groped around the top of the chest as she whirled around to face him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Could you no’?”

She suddenly thrust a gold chain into his face. “Who is this for?”

“For you, leannan,” he said smoothly, and reached around her, pushing the vellum under a pair of gloves.

“That’s absurd.”

“Who else?” he asked easily, and pried the necklace from her hand. He’d actually taken it in trade for a pistol.

“Maybe the girl who was sitting in your lap when I arrived,” she said curtly, her brows dipping into a vee.

He frowned at her attempt to appear jealous and casually laid his hand across her throat. “Would I have loved you as I did tonight if this gold was for that wee strumpet?” He turned Margot about, pushed her mane of hair out of his way and draped the necklace around her throat. He bent his head to kiss her neck. He was aroused again and pushed his erection into her hips. “It’s yours now.”

“I don’t want it,” she said, but made no move to remove it.

Arran reached around her abdomen, grabbed the linen and yanked it free of her body. Margot didn’t resist; she leaned back against him, her hands sliding down his thighs. She was different than before. Now she seemed to understand the power she wielded over him.