“Tip the spoon to your lips rather than breathing in,” Miss Lockhart corrected. “Just thus.” She lifted another perfect spoonful, though before it reached her mouth, a tremor in her hand sent half of it spilling onto the bared skin of her chest.
Everyone froze, and that pink color appeared from beneath her gown once more.
An undignified snort of laughter escaped Rhianna and she clapped her hands over her mouth, unable to control the shaking of her shoulders. Even Andrew bit his lips to stop their quivering.
But it was the governess, herself, who broke into a brilliant smile before a merry laugh bubbled up from her throat. Now that her amusement was allowed, Rhianna joined in, as did Andrew, and finally Russell. The tension of the evening dissipated like an unpleasant odor.
It occurred to Liam that laughter was something long missing not just from his table, but from his life. From his keep. But he couldn’t possibly join in. Not because he didn’t want to, or because he wasn’t amused.
It was the perfectly creamy texture of the soup that arrested him. White and slick. It dripped over the curve of her breast, threatening to slide into the valley between as she fished the linen from her lap.
She caught it in time, still enjoying the joviality of the moment.
Salacious, wicked images seized Liam and held him in thrall. He could barely believe he was having such thoughts in the company of his own children, but Liam could only think of that warm, smooth liquid running between her magnificent breasts, and fight the violent lust sizzling through his body.
This had nothing to do with her, personally. It was the Mackenzie appetite to blame for his crass and demeaning fantasies. It was the demon who whispered dark and unbidden things in his ear.
* * *
Mena didn’t know if it was the warm meal, the French wine, or the soft glow of the candelabra, but the band of suffocating iron clamped about her chest suddenly released. She filled her lungs for what seemed like the first time in months, and savored the scent of crisp summer apples in the sweet Vouvray Jean-Pierre had sent up to accompany the dessert soufflé.
Taking another sip of the wine, she regarded the marquess over the glass as he discussed the suspicious fire in the barley fields with Russell Mackenzie.
He hadn’t so much as acknowledged her presence since the soup course.
Mena still couldn’t believe it. The savage Highlander from the road had transformed into a militant marquess. He’d been telling her the truth, after all. Though he’d donned his white-tie finery, bathed, shaved, and slicked his hair back into a neat queue, Mena still expected the barbarian to somehow rip free of the refined nobleman any moment and threaten to hack her to pieces with a claymore.
Troubled, she set down her wine. Lord, he must think her a fool for how she’d acted this afternoon. But he hadn’t mentioned it, and she hoped he wouldn’t. Or maybe she needed him to say something, to allow her to explain, to perhaps absolve her, somehow.
Mena watched the muscles of his jaw work ponderously on a bite as he listened to his steward’s reports intently. Only a fool would expect absolution from such a man. He was the sort that granted favor sparingly and forgiveness never.
She’d do well to remember that.
He was the Demon Highlander, elder brother to the Blackheart of Ben More. These monikers, they were not granted by the happenstance of birth or marriage, like marquess or earl, they were earned by means of ruthless violence and bloodshed. It was easy to forget that fact beneath the grand chandelier of this lofty keep. That was, until the fire in the hearth ignited the amber in his eyes, lending him a ferocity that even his expensive attire couldn’t tame.
Suddenly feeling as though she’d taken refuge in a sleeping bear’s den, Mena drained the last of her wine much faster than was strictly proper.
When dinner adjourned, she bade the children a fond good night and curtsied to Russell and the marquess.
Rhianna attempted a curtsy, as well, and Mena put that on the list of things to practice with the girl. Andrew merely nodded at her and mumbled an excuse before hurrying away, not once lifting his eyes from the carpet. He was on the tall side of thirteen, and very slim, but his hands and feet were large and ungainly on his frame, hinting that he had the propensity for his father’s build.
His aloofness distressed her, and Mena decided, as she made to slip away, that she’d use the next few restless hours in her bed thinking of ways to ingratiate herself to the boy.
“Remain a moment, Miss Lockhart, I would have words with ye.”
The vise winched around her lungs once again at Ravencroft’s command, squeezing them until her limbs weakened for want of breath. Turning toward him, Mena kept the length of the grand table between them. “Yes, my lord?” she answered, as she watched Russell Mackenzie’s retreating back until it disappeared around the entry, abandoning her to the terrifying presence of the so-called Demon Highlander.
“Forgive me, as I’m not the expert, but is it considered good manners to call a conversation across a room?” His expression revealed nothing. Not an eyebrow lift, a half-smile, or even a scowl. Just an unsettling stoic watchfulness that set every hair of her body on its end with absolute awareness.
He’d not-so-subtly requested for her to approach him, but it sounded like a dare.
Like a temptation.
“No, my lord, it is not.” Remembering Millie LeCour’s advice, Mena lifted her chin and forced her eyes to remain on his, summoning every iota of British superiority that had been beaten into her since she’d come to London as the Viscountess Benchley.
The flames that reflected in his unblinking eyes licked his gaze with heat and, for a moment, Mena could truly believe that a demon stared out at her from those abysmal depths. He regarded her approach with the same sulfurous glare she imagined the devil used to survey his unholy realm.
To compensate for her apprehension, Mena rolled her shoulders back, as though stowing angel wings, and traversed the length of the table with the deportment of a benevolent royal. Though she kept the corner of the table and one of the high-backed chairs in between them.