The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely #8) - Anna Campbell Page 0,41
I’m nearly mad with wanting you.”
As she met his brilliant eyes, the breath caught in her throat. “I wish you could.”
“Perhaps I can sneak you into a side room and kiss you.”
That was an appealing idea. “As an early birthday present.”
“But let’s not hang about once midnight comes. It’s torture not being able to touch you as I long to do.”
Her smile faded. He didn’t sound like he was joking. “I want to be alone with you, too, Quentin. This has been lovely, but nothing compares to what we do together.”
He groaned again, and his grip on her waist firmed. “If this infernal waltz ever comes to an end, I’ll sweep you away for a few kisses. Then we only have to last an hour or so to preserve appearances.”
Her heart was racing, and not just from the energetic dancing. His hunger for her was exciting and flattering. “Emily and Hamish have been so good to us, we should stay a little longer.”
He looked pained. “I’m beginning to feel like I married the etiquette lady.”
“Do you mind?”
“No.” A sly smile lifted his lips. “Because I’ve discovered that in private, you can be delightfully naughty.”
She laughed, then laughed again with sheer happiness as he twirled her around the floor until she was breathless
Kit was lost in such a haze of private bliss that she didn’t notice when the dancers around them slowed and faltered to a standstill. She only realized something untoward happened when the orchestra faded to silence.
“I seek my stepsister Christabel Urquhart, the Countess of Appin.”
The haughty male voice rang out over the troubled whispers and turned her blood to ice. Kit shrank into Quentin’s body and glanced around the room in instinctive panic. Surely there was some way to escape.
“Kit…” Quentin caught her hand, as the crowd parted to reveal Neil standing in the doorway on the other side of the huge room. Beside him stood the horrid Belmont Sinclair, Earl of Bogle. Half a dozen other men she didn’t know ranged at her stepbrother’s side. All were large and brawny and presented a silent promise of violence with their swords and heavy daggers. One or two were even armed with pistols.
God help her, someone in the glen must have talked. And Neil must have been close enough to finding her that he’d been in a position to listen, curse him.
“Let me go,” she muttered, trying to break away from Quentin, her galloping heart threatening to burst out of her chest.
“Kit, there’s nowhere to run,” Quentin said, firming his grip. “We’ll keep you safe.”
She was so frantic, she hardly heard what he said. Her attention was all on her tormenter. As though he owned the house, Neil strode through the crowd in her direction. He definitely acted as though he owned her.
Feeling like a mouse in front of a snake, she cringed away. The buzz of curiosity around them rose then dropped to expectant silence when Neil spoke again. “Dear Christabel, we’ve all been so worried about you. How could you put us to such trouble? It’s a silly prank that went too far, but now it’s time to take you home to the people who love you.”
Dazed and unmoving, Kit stared at Neil. The word love seemed a blasphemy on his lips. The only things Neil loved were himself and the Appin money. Money that for some reason he felt entitled to claim.
Despair weighted her stomach and made her mouth taste sour. Quentin was right. There was nowhere to run. The time for running had passed when Quentin had uncovered her secrets. After that, her avenues of escape had narrowed by the minute.
As Kit the stableboy, she might have a chance of getting away. But here in Lyon House and dressed as the countess she was, there was no way to evade her stepbrother.
Her view of the room retreated in an alarming manner. As she swayed, she felt a powerful arm curl around her waist. “By what right do you enter this house, you bastard?” Quentin asked, hauling Kit into his side. “Get the hell out.”
Hamish strode up, bristling with anger. “I’m the Laird of Glen Lyon, and I’d like to know what the devil you think you’re doing, bursting in on our Christmas revels without so much as a by-your-leave or an introduction.”
Not shifting his gaze from Kit, Neil performed a perfunctory bow. “I’m Neil Maxwell of Halfrew, this lady’s legal guardian. Under the law, you must return her to my custody.”