“Naturally, miss.” Cromwell regarded her almost reproachfully. “Assuming Mr. Fergusson would prefer to be located close to you, I’ve had the room two doors down from your own prepared. His horse is in the stable, and his bags have been placed in his room.”
“Thank you, Cromwell.” Caitlin struggled to mute her smile; apparently, the household was ready to embrace any relative of hers. “That’s perfect.”
“Yes, miss.” Cromwell bowed, then held the door as she led Rory and Gregory out.
The three of them strolled toward the front hall.
Rory was looking about, taking in all the side corridors and smaller halls and doors they passed. “This place is a ruddy great monstrosity, isn’t it?”
Gregory laughed. “You’re not the first to describe it that way.”
They reached the front hall and climbed the main stairs.
Gregory halted in the gallery. His gaze briefly touched Caitlin’s, then he nodded to Rory. “Good night. In case you’re wondering, we don’t actually have ghosts—at least not inside the house.”
“Good to know.” Rory saluted him.
Caitlin waved Rory on, then with a last, questioning glance at Gregory, fell in beside her cousin. They walked down the corridor. She showed him the door to her room as they passed, then continued on to the room Cromwell had assigned to him.
After showing him inside, pointing out the bellpull, and telling him the house had a full complement of staff, she confirmed he had everything he needed for the night, then left him to his rest. She closed the door behind her, then looked back along the corridor to the gallery and the figure waiting there.
A smile curving her lips, she walked past her room and on to where Gregory was leaning on the balustrade and looking down into the now-dark hall.
She joined him, leaning on the polished wood so that their shoulders brushed.
There was nothing of interest in the hall below. She shifted her gaze to his profile and boldly asked, “Has learning that I’m a Scottish heiress changed your view of me?”
His lips lifted, and he glanced her way. “No. Not in the least.”
“Are you concerned about Rory coming to retrieve me?”
He shook his head. “In fact, I’m rather glad he arrived.” He met her gaze, amusement riding his expression. “Thanks to your cousin, I got the entire story in one sitting.” He paused, studying her eyes, then his expression sobered. “I understand why you fled and also why you stayed. This”—he gestured, indicating the Hall around them—“the estate and how it runs, has echoes of what you would be accustomed to on your own lands.”
She blinked, then nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true.” After a moment of further thought, she added, “That’s likely why I felt so comfortable—why I fitted in so easily.”
He nodded. “So this evening’s revelations alter nothing between us—rather, if anything, the opposite. Learning of your background only…makes you more desirable in my eyes.”
His voice had lowered, deepened, and there was a weight in his gaze that made her inwardly shiver.
In response—in reaction—she smiled and lightly scoffed, “You wouldn’t say that if you knew my uncle Patrick.”
The epitome of confidence, he grinned and pushed away from the balustrade, and then he was drawing her to him. “We’ll see.”
The moonlight pouring in from above etched his features and let her see just how focused, how intent on her, he was.
Then he bent his head, and she laid a hand against his lean cheek and stretched up…
Their lips met, and sensation took hold. The hunger she sensed behind the pressure of his mobile lips as they supped—so restrainedly—at hers, lured and enticed. They fascinated and drew her on until she parted her lips, and his tongue surged between, and she would have sagged as her knees went weak, but his arm cinched about her and held her even more tightly against him.
Desire flitted like a rainbow at the edge of her awareness, camouflaged by the escalating yearning, his and hers, that rose to entwine and overwhelm her wits, consigning them to a distant corner of her mind.
This, then, was the prelude to passion—the first step along a road she’d never trod.
Oh, she’d been kissed before, and with desire on the man’s part, but never had her desire risen to the call as it did now, surging through her in the moonlit night as he angled his head and drew her deeper into the kiss.
Her hands fell to his lapels, and she clutched tight, anchoring herself in the heady, swirling vortex of sensations. Of feelings and the needs they evoked.
She pressed closer still, kissing him back every bit as hungrily, as greedily and avidly, as he was kissing her.
