Beauty and the Brute Read online

  She stood riveted, her skin prickling from more than the frigid air. The ghostly dinner waited as if the residents of the castle had been called away in mid-meal. What could have happened? A clan war perhaps? It must have been a tragedy if even the servants had not come back to clear the table.

  'The stairs are that way."

  The harsh echo of MacBrut's voice startled her. She spun around, the candle flame guttering. He stood pointing, a mythical beast outlined against the fire. His body cast a colossal shadow across the floor.

  Still shaken by the strangeness of the abandoned meal, she mounted the winding stone staircase, half expecting to meet the specters of those long-forgotten diners. The upper corridor loomed dark and eerie, but she prodded «* herself along with the reminder of Abbott's injury.

  Venturing through the first doorway, she found herself in a spacious bedchamber outfitted as finely as any London house with silk hangings and exquisite wood furniture, sadly begrimed now. At the foot of a massive four-poster bed stood a trunk of carved mahogany. She leaned down and blew a cloud of dust off the top. The leather hinges creaked when she opened the lid, and the musty odor of wool long shut away drifted to her, tinged by a certain subtle sweetness. Helen inhaled deeply, but couldn't quite identify the pleasant scent. Having no desire to linger in the lonely dark room, she grabbed an armload of blankets and hastened back downstairs.

  Amazingly, the sound of laughter came from the group around the fire. A smile wreathed Abbott's broad face, and even MacBrut relaxed his unsociable scowl as he encouraged Miss Gilbert to accept a silver flask. She stared askance at the vessel before taking a dainty swallow. She coughed delicately, then drank again, more deeply.

  Helen reached the welcome warmth of the fire and set down the blankets. "What is that you're drinking?"

  Miss Gilbert dabbed her lips with a handkerchief. "A medicinal tonic. Mr. MacBrut recommended it to ward off a chill."

  Helen sniffed the flask and almost reeled from the strong aroma. "Why, it's spirits."

  "The finest Scots whisky," MacBrut said. "I'd offer you a nip, m'lady, but others need it more." He rudely plucked the flask from her and handed it to Abbott. "Drink this down, man. 'Twill dull the pain."

  Like Miss Gilbert, the coachman obeyed MacBrut without question.

  Of course, Helen reflected, perhaps they didn't catch the hostility burning in his eyes whenever he glanced at her. And they must not have noticed the hint of contempt in his voice. But she had noticed—especially the mocking way m'lady rolled off his tongue. He resented her presence in his ruined castle. Why?

  The question piqued her curiosity. If they had intruded upon his solitude, she could understand his displeasure. But why single her out as the recipient of his ill humor?

  Kneeling beside Abbott, the Highlander removed the makeshift splint. "I'll ha' to cut awa' your boot," he said, drawing a dirk from the sheath at his waist.

  Abbott nodded, and took a long pull from the flask. "Do as you must."

  MacBrut wielded the knife with an expert hand. Steel flashed as he sliced into the leather and neatly removed the boot. He sheathed the dirk, but not before Helen saw the gleam of a large cabochon sapphire decorating the scrolled hilt. Why would this rough Highlander have a weapon fit for a prince?

  "It's a fine dirk," she said. "Where did you get it?"

  His gaze met hers. In the light of the fire, his eyes were not black, but a deep midnight-blue that quite took her breath away. "I didna steal it."

  "I never said you did." But she had felt a fleeting suspicion, and his frank scrutiny made her blush and turn away.

  She busied herself folding one of the blankets into a compact square, then knelt down opposite MacBrut. "Here, we can prop his leg on this."

  MacBrut frowned, but made no comment as he helped her position the support. Then he examined the coachman's ankle, probing so carefully that the coachman scarcely winced.

  His deft movements fascinated Helen. She found herself studying his large hands, the long fingers and clean, trimmed nails, the broad, strong backs. They were not the soft hands of an aristocrat, but showed the talent and dexterity of a man accustomed to physical labor. She had the sudden, inexplicable image of him using those hands to pleasure a woman, his fingers dark against the fairness of her bosom, his touch tender and loving..

  Loving? Surely not this curmudgeon.

  "The cold has kept the swelling down, at least," MacBrut pronounced. " 'Tis something to be thankful for."

  As he spoke, he took the stick and wrapped a piece of yellowed linen around it to make a padded splint, which he placed against the injured limb. Abbott sucked in a sharp breath, his weathered cheeks gray with pain.

  "Oh, dear," Miss Gilbert said, averting her face and covering her eyes.

  "Now, dinna trouble yourself, ma'am," MacBrut said with surprising kindness. "You might fetch the food from the basket. Once we're done here, Mr. Abbott will need some nourishment."

  The older woman hopped off the stool. "I should be happy to do so." She trotted away.

  MacBrut's gaze took on a distinct hostility as he looked at Helen. "Go on and help her," he said. "This is no place for an English lady."

  Helen refused to let him scare her off when she might be a comfort to Abbott. "I'm staying here."

  "Suit yourself. But if you swoon, I'll leave you lying where you fall."

  "I never swoon."

  Abbott attempted a jovial laugh. "Rest assured, sir, her ladyship is not one for hysterics. She never quailed the time we faced brigands in the Alps. She jabbed one in the belly with her umbrella, and the others ran away." The coachman fell silent, the corners of his mouth pinched with pain.

  "Swallow that whisky," MacBrut said. "Every wee drop of it."

  While the coachman was occupied with drinking, MacBrut turned his penetrating gaze on Helen. "Scared off the brigands, did you?" He looked her up and down, and lowered his voice to an undertone. "And here I thought Sassenach women had but one use."

  His gaze ogled her bosom, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Helen told herself to feel outraged, but a tingling warmth filled her instead. The sensation had little to do with thawing skin, and everything to do with a shocking awareness of him as a man. A big, bold rogue of a man.

  MacBrut focused on the task of splinting the injured limb. " Tis a clean break, I trow. At least you willna be getting the fever."

  Helen felt as if she were the one with the fever. The firelight caressed his clean-shaven cheeks and strong jaw. Melted snow glittered on the night-black hair that brushed his shoulders. For so large a man, he had a remarkably gentle touch. What a curious mix of barbarian and healer he was.

  "Where did you learn to set a broken bone?" she asked.

  "Here and there." His blue stare bored into her. "So far from the city, we canna send down the street for a doctor."

  "I don't suppose you can." And that made him all the more fascinating. He had skills unknown to the civilized gentlemen of London. His rough-edged manner only made her wonder what other unique abilities he possessed. An insistent curiosity settled low in her belly. In truth, he was unlike any other man she had met in her travels.

  She helped to lift Abbott's leg so that MacBrut could pass the strip of linen bandage around the splinted ankle. As they worked together, she grew more intensely aware of him. Aware of the quirk of his hard mouth. Aware of the lock of black hair that had tumbled onto his brow. Aware of the clever movements of his hands, and how perfectly her breasts would fit his palms—

  "That's quite enough," MacBrut said.

  Flustered, Helen moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "I beg your pardon?"

  His gaze narrowed on her mouth, and his scowl deepened. "I'm finished. You can lower his leg, careful now."

  "Oh." Helen saw that the bandage had been tied neatly. She eased Abbott's leg back onto the blanket. "How are you doing?"

  The coachman sighed as if glad the ordeal was over. "Ready for that bite to eat, m'lady."<
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  With the timing of a stage actress, Miss Gilbert trotted back with the provisions, and Helen helped her set up a picnic by the fire. She found herself seated beside MacBrut. A strange aching tension distracted her from any interest in food. While everyone dined on cold ham, bread, and cheese, she merely nibbled at her meal, feeding small bites to M'lord. She stole sideways glances at MacBrut, at the muscled bare legs beneath the kilt and the way his rough linen shirt and black and red plaid clung to his chest. He was so different from the elegant noblemen that Papa too often steered into her path. Was MacBrut thinking of her, too?

  No. He had made it clear he despised her.

  When she reached for the wine flask, their hands bumped and the contact prickled up her arm and into her bosom. His gaze jerked to hers, and for an unguarded moment she glimpsed a burning intensity in him, something vastly different from hatred, something deep and rich and mysterious. Elation swept like wildfire through Helen. She'd been around enough men to recognize the truth.

  MacBrut desired her.

  Though he turned abruptly away, she reveled in the feminine thrill of conquest. MacBrut wanted her. He wanted to take her to his bed. He wanted to do wicked things with her.

  Things she wanted desperately to experience.

  The heat within her flared into a pulsebeat. She had the spark of an idea so outrageous she doused it at once.

  But the thought took hold like tinder, burning brighter until she could deny it no longer.

  MacBrut was the perfect man to show her the secrets of physical love.

  The deep hush of night shrouded the castle.

  As Helen slipped out of bed in the small upstairs chamber, she could hear only the whine of the wind down the chimney and the soft snoring of Miss Gilbert, who lay burrowed beneath the pile of blankets. Nestled at the foot, M'lord lifted his head and wagged his tail, but Helen whispered, "Stay," and he obeyed, his liquid brown eyes watching as she crept toward the door.

  The fire had burned down to smoldering embers during the hour she had waited to make certain her companion was soundly slumbering. Helen had spent the time in dreamy romantic fantasy until her every nerve hummed and she could bear the suspense no longer.

  It was now. Or never.

  The icy floor caused her toes to curl inside her thin silk stockings. She'd left off her shoes, which were still damp from the snow. Luckily, she had retrieved her cloak when Abbott had been moved to a bedchamber, for the air held a frosty nip that penetrated her thin shift and petticoats.

  When Gillie had innocently suggested she remove her gown and corset before retiring, Helen had complied. She had also unbound her hair and let it tumble to her waist. Now she felt deliciously daring as she opened the door and stole out into the gloomy corridor.

  Where did the master of the castle sleep?

  MacBrut would have chosen the best room for his own—the laird's chamber. This was his castle, after all. Questions clamored in her. Where were his servants? Did he have another home elsewhere? Who was he, really? Helen sensed there was more to him than he let the world see. Much more.

  With one hand on the cold stone wall, she slowly felt her way through the darkness. A frisson of excitement scurried over her skin. She could scarcely believe she was on her way to meet a man in his bedchamber. Such scandalous behavior could ruin an unmarried lady.

  And if all went as planned, who would ever find out? Certainly no one from her social circle. This was her one night of adventure, her one chance to learn the truth behind the mystery of the sexes.

  After tomorrow, she would never see. MacBrut again.

  She stumbled into a chair, and the legs scraped the floor with a loud screech. Helen froze, her heartbeat surging. The passage was pitch-black; belatedly she realized she should have brought a candle. She had the eerie sense of being watched by a ghostly presence, and the image of that dusty abandoned table in the great hall flitted to her. But she deliberately put it out of her mind. She would let no morbid thoughts intrude upon her quest.

  Carefully she moved on until she reached the bedchamber. The door stood halfway open. Feeling giddy, she tiptoed closer. From within came the glow of a fire and the faint crackling of logs. Helen pictured MacBrut lying sprawled in the four-poster bed: His eyes would widen with surprised appreciation when she walked into his room. He would be stunned by her offer; then he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her and do the wicked deed and at last she would know . . .

  It would be as simple as that. Or would it?

  She paused, her palm frozen against the studded oak door. All she had to do was to push it open and walk inside. But her hand disobeyed the edict of her brain. Her legs had all the strength of frostbitten flower stalks. What if MacBrut scorned her overture? What if he gave her that stony look of his? What would she say to persuade him?

  Hello, I wondered if you would mind taking my virginity. Too blatant.

  Ithought you might be feeling as lonely as I am. Too dreary.

  It's frightfully cold. May I join you in bed? Too childish.

  A draft of chilly air eddied down the corridor and slapped her cheeks. Helen shivered, hugging the ermine-trimmed cloak in an effort to contain the heat of her fantasies. Now that the moment was nigh, however, cold common sense asserted itself. What madness had brought her here?

  She was no seductress. She couldn't offer herself to a stranger. Especially not a Highlander who hated her. What if MacBrut treated her ill?

  Perhaps she had only deluded herself into believing he had a kind nature beneath his gruff exterior. Caring for an injured servant didn't necessarily make MacBrut a hero.

  Perhaps she should find another man to be her teacher. A civilized gentleman whom she could trust.

  She turned to go. And ran smack into the solid bulwark of a man. «

  He crowded her against the wall, and her mind registered danger in the fingers gripping her upper arms. In the musk of his male scent. In the massiveness of his muscled chest pressing into her soft bosom.

  Tilting her head back, she could discern only his large black outline against the gloom. But she didn't need to see his face to identify him.

  MacBrut.

  A secret thrill pulsed deep in her belly. It was part fright and part fascination. Like a wolf, he'd crept up and caught her. "What are you doing out here?" she asked in a breathy voice.

  "Better I should ask that of you."

  His deep, rolling brogue stirred her senses. The heat of his large body sparked a blaze of carnal curiosity, the feeling so powerful she forgot her change of heart. In a rush she blurted out, "I came to see you. To be with you."

  Would he understand her meaning? Would he accept her bold offer? She waited in agonizing hope.

  Silence throbbed around them. The tensing of his fingers betrayed a response in him, though whether it was disgust or desire, she could not tell. In contrast to the furnacelike warmth of him, the frigid stone wall pressed into her spine. From a distance came the scolding of the wind like the voice of her conscience. Turn back, make an excuse, flee while there's still time ...

  He parted her cloak and cupped her breasts. A shocking fervor melted the remnants of her resistance. His touch felt so right, so perfect, and she leaned into him, wanting more.

  Abruptly he ground his hips against hers. "Out whoring, m'lady? I shouldna be surprised."

  "Don't speak to me like that." She drew an indignant breath at his crude remark. "I'm not what you think."

  " 'Tis pretty words you ladies want. And fancy trappings for your lust. But underneath you're all the same."

  His hands descended, following the curve of waist and hips, moving downward over the layers of petticoats until he captured the prize between her legs. Gasping, she instinctively clamped her thighs together, but succeeded only in trapping his hand in place.

  She shoved at his arm, a futile effort against iron muscles. "Don't."

  "Don't? You came here wanting this." He rubbed slowly, provocatively. "But perhaps my manner is n
o' so genteel as your other lovers'."

  This was how a man touched a woman? With harsh insistence? And to her utter shame, why did she like it? "I have no lovers. And I won't tolerate you acting like a brute." She gave him another, harder push. "That's brute with an e."

  He jumped back half a step, removing his hand but remaining so close she could feel his body heat. His grimace flashed through the darkness. "You've a husband, then, I trow. Well, it doesna matter to me how many men you've had in the past."

  "I have no husband, either," she retorted. "I've never done this before."

  "You've never sought out a man in his chamber?" He fingered a silky strand of her hair. "No doubt the rutting curs grovel at your doorstep."

  "Blast you." Helen slapped at his hand. "The truth is, I was curious. I'm twenty-four years old, and I've never been with a man. Not ever"

  He stood unmoving. "You. A virgin."

  She hated the skepticism that roughened his voice. She hated him for ruining her golden dream of discovery. "Step aside. I was mad to come here. If you must know, I was returning to my room when you appeared and started pawing me."

  He didn't budge. Rather, he placed his hands on the stone wall to form a prison around her. "Were you now?"

  "Yes, this was all a mistake. A momentary loss of reason." She ducked under his arm, but he moved with the swiftness of a predator, catching her against his hard form, his grip deceptively loose.

  "Coward," he said softly.

  Was he laughing at her? Certainly not MacBrut; he didn't possess a smidgen of humor in his muscle-bound body. She tugged at his arm to no avail. "Let me go."

  "Not so quickly, lass. 'Twould seem I must voice an apology."

  "So say it and be done."

  "I shouldna ha' spoken so ill to you just now. If you are truly untouched—"

  "There's no if about it."

  "Then you canna be used to a man's ways. I shouldna ha' fondled you so." He was fondling her now, his fingers sliding beneath her cloak to trace her waist and spine with masterful delicacy. In contrast to his earlier scorn, his voice was pure honey, sweet and thick and addictive. "But you canna blame a man for going a bit daft over you. You're soft and curvy and warm the way a woman should be."