The Devilish Lord Will: Mackenzies, Book 10 Page 11

  He spooned into her as they lay down. “Sleep well, love,” he said, pulling her back against him. “I won’t let anyone near you.”

  His strong arm around her waist was reassuring, his body at her back a wall of protection.

  But who protects me from Will? Josette wondered sleepily, as exhaustion from the journey and the night of entertainments took over.

  As she drifted off, the answer came to her. He does.

  * * *

  Will didn’t mean to sleep, but tiredness as well as the comfort of Josette overwhelmed him. He’d learned to control his sleep—to go without for long stretches, and then hole up and slumber for days to recover—but when he was with Josette, his self-discipline deserted him.

  He had no dreams, for once, and woke hours later. One glance at a crack between the bed’s drapes and long experience told him it was about noon.

  Josette slept on, curled up against him, her face relaxed. He loved her like this, when all tension left her, and she simply enjoyed the sweet release of sleep.

  Today Will would search the room and stop up the peepholes or any other openings. He hadn’t had time to do it yesterday, and there had continually been one servant or the other in the chamber whenever he’d entered it—unpacking their clothes, turning down the bed, keeping the fire going. He wouldn’t have known about the peepholes if Lady Bentley hadn’t been so transparent.

  “You will enjoy these,” she’d said when she’d pressed the bowl of strawberries into his hands. “You and your lovely wife. And I will enjoy you enjoying them.”

  She’d looked mysterious and departed, and Will had concluded she must have a way to watch them.

  Poor woman. She obviously craved bodily satisfaction, and her husband looked to be uncomfortable about anything to do with bed. No wonder there were so many young men here, including a few clearly out of love with their wives.

  But while Will felt pity for Lady Bentley, he would not give her the voyeuristic satisfaction of watching him with Josette, or let her look at Josette at all.

  Will lay with his head on Josette’s pillow, basking in their closeness. Soon this would be over, not only the intimacy in bed, but their time together. They’d discover things, or discover nothing, and return to the castle, where Josette would again keep him at arm’s length. Best to soak up what he could.

  Josette stirred. She murmured as she stretched, then she rolled over, landing against him. Her eyes fluttered open in confusion.

  “Good morning, darling,” Will said, adopting Sir William’s tones in case of listeners. “Did you sleep well?”

  After the first startled glance, Josette realized where she was and why, and why Will lay next to her. He readied himself for her to leap from the bed or suggest he leave it, but she relaxed and nestled into him.

  “Amazingly well, sir. Fresh air, good strawberries …”

  “And a fine bed. Remarkably comfortable. With you.” The last he said in a low voice, the truth.

  Josette’s face went red. “What shall we do today?”

  Will sent her a slow smile, liking that her blush grew stronger. “Sir Harmon says there’s excellent fishing. As evidenced by the tasty fish at dinner. Perhaps I’ll catch our next meal.”

  “Oh, men and their fishing.” Josette pushed at him playfully. “I suppose I must remain behind and embroider?”

  “Do you embroider? I never knew. Perhaps our hostess and other ladies will provide some entertainment for you.”

  Will made himself sound exactly like the sort of husband who pursued his own interests and neither knew nor cared what his wife got up to in his absence.

  He vowed then and there that when he persuaded Josette to marry him, he’d make it his business to discover what she enjoyed, all her interests. He’d drive her distracted with it. The man who ignored his wife, in Will’s opinion, shouldn’t be amazed when she began to ignore him.

  For now, Josette was nestled against his nightshirted body, she only in a nightgown. The bed’s thick hangings were pulled closed, and shadows prevailed, never mind that outside it was bright midday.

  Will cupped Josette’s face with one hand and kissed her.

  Instead of pushing him away as he feared, Josette rose into the kiss, her body warm from slumber. She was a loving woman, never holding back. She showed it in her obvious love for Glenna, and whenever she’d been with Will …

  They’d been unstoppable.

  Will sank down to her, hungry for her. Josette’s smaller frame fit against his big form, and she stretched against him, as though wanting to touch every part of him.

  Her mouth held heat, as did her fingers on his back, his hips, his backside. It had been too long, too many years. Will caressed her as she touched him, savoring her kisses.

  She cradled him in softness, and at the same time, strength. Josette was beauty, kindness, resilience. Everything terrible in Will’s life receded, becoming distant and unable to reach him, defeated by the magic of Josette.

  She held him against the tumult that roiled around him, the danger that struck him from every side, somehow deflecting pain so that it could not hurt him.

  The nightshirt bared Will’s thigh as he slid it between her legs, the thin cloth of the nightgown moving aside to let him touch her heat. He knew how to pleasure her even when they were both half-dressed, always had, knew what made her lose control and composure.

  Her face tightened at his touch, and then Will watched Josette let herself relax. They were in a place of aloneness, the thick curtains around the bed shielding them from would-be watchers.

  Will’s kiss hid her soft moan. She clutched him, rubbing herself against his thigh, taking her joy in the hot friction. Will ached for her, his hardness bumping her and the bedclothes as he pleasured her.

  The action made him want to come, to drive inside Josette and fill her, but Will clamped down on his instincts. Josette had consented to this charade, and he wouldn’t repay her by simply taking what he wanted.

  On the other hand, this was punishing. Will was about to lift away, drag himself from the bed and her, when Josette seized him and pulled him down to her.

  She squirmed against him, and he saw when she let reason flee and pure sensation take over. Damned if Will would move then. Josette opened her eyes, her smile wide as she cried out her release.

  She took her pleasure for a very long time, Will shaking with effort to hold her and keep himself from simply thrusting into her. He was dying, but he was a strong man. He’d learned to live with disappointment before.

  “You’re beautiful, love,” he whispered, his words drowned out by her cries. “So beautiful. My J— My sweet.”

  Even now, he couldn’t say her name. They couldn’t be Will and Josette.

  One day—one day, he vowed it—they’d shut out the world and be only themselves.

  “William,” she gasped.

  Josette held him to her in a crushing grip. Will fell onto her gladly, embracing her strength. This lady was worth loving. He’d protect her with all his might, and one day soon she would be his.

  * * *

  Another tedious day of tediousness. Will began to wonder how the inhabitants of this house existed without killing each other.

  The Scottish land beyond the gates was vividly beautiful, the loch an ever-changing glory, yet these people shut themselves inside and scarcely bothered to look out the windows. To them, Highland Scotland was a place of barely tolerable exile, while Will fought to call it home.

  Sir Harmon invited Captain Ellis to join him and Will fishing. Ellis started to accept, then realizing Josette was staying behind, changed his mind.

  Will had almost changed his mind as well, but Josette’s covert glare sent him on. Josette had the courage, intelligence, resources, and ability to take care of herself—Will knew. But it was a relief that she also had the watchdog of Captain Ellis guarding her.

  Will kissed Josette good-bye, letting the kiss become warm enough for others to exchange either disdainful or kn
owing looks. He left her striving to be polite to the ladies who were, as she’d predicted, embroidering, and shouldered fishing poles to accompany Sir Harmon out into the damp summer day.

  The wind was fresh, the day warm in the brief glory that was the Scottish summer. Mist hung in the air, tatters of it streaming over the loch.

  Will tramped toward the loch behind Sir Harmon and his retinue—the man couldn’t move without two or three servants surrounding him at all times. One was the young man who’d guided Will and Josette around the fountains the day before. The footmen had at least shed their red satin coats and breeches and wore sensible drab-colored wool against the damp.

  Will’s thoughts of Josette distracted him from the business at hand. Mostly those thoughts were of her warmth, her scent, her body beneath him. The beauty of her invaded his soul.

  How the devil had he stayed away from her so long? Simple—Will had known that if he went to her, he’d toss aside the rest of his life to remain with her, no matter if they ran a boardinghouse in London, or retreated to France, or camped in a hut in a remote part of Scotland. The two of them being together would be the point.

  Josette didn’t necessarily want that. She agreed they were companionable, and fell into the game with ease. But she didn’t like the variable wind that was Will Mackenzie, and the constant peril he brought that might risk her life, or more importantly to her, the life of her daughter.

  Would she believe him if he said he would abandon his dangerous pursuit of secrets, of covertly hunting down dangerous men? Very likely not.

  He’d just have to convince her, then.

  While Sir Harmon had proved to be a feeble conversationalist, he seemed to know much about fishing. He picked the spot on the shore Will would have, and instructed his servants to set up stools and poles, and also a rather elaborate tent a little way up the hill where they’d dine.

  Sir Harmon didn’t speak as they cast their lines. Will, as Sir William, began to chatter, but fell into an embarrassed silence when Sir Harmon glowered at him.

  “Right—fish.” Will turned his gaze to the slowly rippling loch. “Must be quiet.”

  This gained Will an approving nod. He gained more approval from Sir Harmon by fishing competently and catching a few quickly.

  “Not much else to do in Switzerland,” Will said when Sir Harmon laconically praised him. “Well, that and climb about. Good fishing there.”

  “You were in Lucerne?” Sir Harmon asked.

  “And Basel. Lovely city.” Will had spent a year of his life there, which was why he’d chosen it for William and Anna’s sojourn.

  “I had friends in Basel.” Sir Harmon cast his line across the water. “Lived in Hottingen.”

  Will contrived to look confused as Sir Harmon named a town near Zurich. “I don’t believe that’s in Basel. But we stayed mainly to the south of the Rhine. Near the Basler Münster.”

  Sir Harmon raised his brows. “Ah. Well, perhaps I mistook him.”

  He’d been testing Will. Interesting. Perhaps the man was not as feeble-minded as he seemed.

  They fished for a time, no sound but the soft swish of lines being cast, the splash of a fish as it investigated the bait. In the quiet mist, the fish bit well, and the two men accumulated a nice pile.

  “No need to return to the house for a meal,” Sir Harmon said. “Unless you wish to rush back to your wife.” He gave Will a disapproving look before handing the string of fish to the dark-skinned footman.

  Will sent him a rueful grin. “My darling girl is no doubt glad to be rid of me for a bit. I do tend to live in her pocket.”

  “Want to be careful your house isn’t run by petticoats.” Sir Harmon shouldered his pole. “Trust me.”

  “But my wife’s petticoats are things of beauty. Especially when they are coming off her.” Will guffawed, and Sir Harmon sent him a disapproving look. Definitely not a man fond of bodily passions.

  They reached the tent. The dark-skinned footman began to clean the fish behind it while another had a fire going, ready for cooking. They’d set a table with linens and silver inside the tent, and the third footman was pouring deep red wine.

  “No whisky?” Will inquired cheerily.

  Sir Harmon frowned in distaste. “Won’t have it in my house. Filthy stuff. Destroys your gut.”

  Will thought back to the tasting days in his brother Malcolm’s distillery, breathing the scents of copper and steam in the stillroom, the mellow scent of oak in the aging room, the acrid, smoky smell of the coopery, where wine barrels were charred and rebuilt to be used for the whisky.

  Mal would broach the first cask that had come out of its three-year hibernation, and the brothers would lift their glasses and taste. They’d sprawl about Mal’s tasting room, laughing, drinking, telling horrible jokes, happy without realizing it.

  I’ll give it all back to you, Runt, Will vowed in silence. I promise you.

  Sir Harmon and Will strolled out of the tent again and now Sir Harmon wandered back to the loch, shielding his glass of wine from the mist as he looked out over the water.

  Will caught the dark-skinned footman watching him, eyes sliding sideways while he worked on the fish. The lad’s gaze went to Sir Harmon, the hatred on his face unmistakable.

  Will moved to him while the other footmen followed Sir Harmon in case he might suddenly want something.

  “Wicked-looking knife,” Will remarked.

  The young man started and glanced down at his knife—a long thin blade with a small hook on the end.

  “Best for gutting,” he said.

  “I imagine. What’s your name, lad?”

  “John.”

  Sir Harmon called every footman in his house “John.” “I mean your real name.”

  The footman gave Will a sullen glare. “Henri.”

  “You’ll never do it, Henri,” Will said softly. “Too many witnesses.”

  Henri didn’t protest or grow indignant. He only looked at Will with fear and rage so entangled Will knew he’d been nursing his fury for some time.

  “You going to arrest me?” Henri’s voice went defiant.

  “For gutting fish? Not if that knife stays only in the fish. What did you plan to do? Creep up on him? Or simply attack him? The other lads won’t let you, you know. Most likely they’d hang too, for not stopping you.”

  Henri blinked, as though he hadn’t thought of that. When a servant killed a master, often other servants were blamed as well. A powerful man could have those innocents tried and convicted.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Henri said stubbornly. “I’m cleaning fish, like the master asked me to.”

  “I understand vengeance, Henri,” Will told him in a quiet voice. “Believe me. But there are better ways of going about it. Ways in which you won’t get caught.”

  He saw that he’d gained Henri’s interest, if not his trust. “Don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  “I’d like to speak to you about it. Not now,” Will put in quickly. Sir Harmon had turned back toward the tent. “Later. I’ll have another hankering to see the gardens. Tell me then.”

  He didn’t wait for Henri to acquiesce. Will resumed his Sir William face and joined Sir Harmon as they ducked into the tent and sat down to wait for their meal.

  “Sir Harmon,” Will said companionably as another of the footman poured them more of the blood-red hock. “What should a young man—such as myself—do if he needs money quickly? Very quickly? Do you have any advice?”

  Chapter 12

  Sir Harmon froze in the act of lifting his glass to his lips. “Are you touching me for money, young man?”

  “No, no, no,” Will said quickly, with a breathy laugh. “I would never presume. But …” He shrugged. “You know how it can be. My wife, bless her boots, had a nice fortune when we married, but with one thing and another … The dear gel must have the best of everything, you know.”

  “You lived extravagantly and ran through the principal,” Sir Harmon sai
d with brutal bluntness. “Foolish.”

  “Agreed. Neither of us is exactly wise. On the other hand, our man of business let us down. One’s man of business is supposed to keep one out of difficulties, isn’t he?”

  Sir Harmon snorted. “A man of business only wants his fee. Good sound investments are the way to wealth, sir, but there are few to be had. The colonies are where I made my money, as you know. My advice is to go there. Land is cheap—the king wants men to reap the bounty of the New World and bring it home. Become a planter. Tobacco or sugar—cash crops. You’ll have your wife in pretty new frocks in no time.”

  “Planter?” Will raised his brows. “I haven’t the vaguest notion how to farm, especially in a foreign clime. I barely understood my father’s little fields of barley and potatoes.”

  “You hire men who do know about it,” Sir Harmon said impatiently. “They understand when to sow and when to harvest, where to get the workers, and how to sell the crops.”

  “I suppose, in the colonies, these workers are enslaved?” Will blenched. “I’m against slavery, myself. Don’t approve of men in bondage.”

  “You find someone to deal with that side of things as well.”

  Never have to soil my hands, Will thought in disgust.

  “I’d make a meal of it.” Will sighed. “I was hoping for something that involved less travel. I am miserable on the journey between Britain and Amsterdam. I can’t imagine weeks at sea.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, as though already seasick.

  “You’re a bit of a milksop, aren’t you, son?” Sir Harmon asked.

  “I’m not ashamed of it. The ladies still love me.”

  “Hmph.” Sir Harmon looked him over. “I suppose they do. Females haven’t much sense. Well, then, you’ll have to find money here. For investing, you understand.”

  Sir Harmon snapped his fingers, and one of the footmen stepped forward with a box. Will half expected Sir Harmon to open it and pull out a handful of gold, but he only lifted out two pipes and a pouch of tobacco.