She’d been a willing captive of his hands, of his lips. He’d cupped her face with utter tenderness, but it was her own desire, her own curious temptation, that had kept her a prisoner of the moment.
Because his hard mouth had been softer against hers than she’d imagined. And, Lord help her, but she’d imagined it happening again. More than once. Nothing her fanciful mind could have invented came close to the illicit and primitive heat that she hadn’t been able to rid herself of for two blasted days.
The disquieting warmth kept her awake more than anything else. A slow burn that would begin just below her belly and spread lower and out until her limbs smoldered and squirmed with needs she couldn’t begin to contemplate.
That she shouldn’t even consider. She had too many secrets. Secrets that would salt the ground, preventing anything from growing between them. Because even though she’d never return to her husband, she was a married woman, and would do well to remember it.
What had happened between them could never happen again. The consequences of such an entanglement were simply too disastrous.
But, oh, did she want to—
“English!”
Mena snatched her hand away from the painting with a guilty start at the pleased exclamation that echoed right next to her. She would have lost her balance and toppled down the stairs if a pair of strong hands hadn’t reached out to steady her.
Moss-green eyes smiled down from the alarmingly handsome features of Gavin St. James. He stood two steps above her, and Mena couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten so close without her noting his presence.
She couldn’t have been that entranced with the painting, could she? No, her distraction had nothing at all to do with the canvas, said a hateful inner voice, and everything to do with the laird who owned it.
“I told ye I’d be seeing ye again, English,” the Highlander purred in his silky brogue. “And let me tell ye, it’s a thorough pleasure to have saved yer life.”
“You did no such thing,” Mena argued, though she couldn’t hide the answering smile he elicited.
“Ye’d have toppled hide over head down the stairs had I not caught ye,” he bragged.
“Yes, but ’twas you who crept up on me in the first place and startled me half to death. That was very wicked of you,” she scolded.
“I wasna creeping. It was ye who was lost in yer thoughts.” He chuckled, his eyes glimmering with impish delight as he glanced at the painting. “That isna to say I’m not a wicked man.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” She laughed. “Not that it isn’t a genuine pleasure to meet you again, Mr. St. James, but might I inquire as to what you are doing here dressed to the nines?”
His expression turned sheepish as he brushed at the cravat of his fine suit. “A wee bit of distillery business is all. I just returned from London with some good news for the marquess.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Though it’d take a bleeding miracle to coax a compliment from the old goat, if ye ask me.”
“Oh, do go on with you.” Mena suppressed a nervous laugh, scandalized by his audacity.
“I gather no introductions are necessary.” Ravencroft’s cavernous voice could have turned the lush Highlands into a brittle desert.
Blood deserted Mena’s extremities as she noted that Gavin St. James still held her arm above the elbow from when he’d reached to steady her. She pulled away from him, reaching for the solidity of the stone banister to hold her up as her suddenly trembling legs no longer seemed to feel the need to fulfill their occupation.
The marquess stood at the top of the staircase, legs splayed and arms folded over his wide chest as he glared down at them both in contemptuous condemnation. Though he was dressed in an impeccable suit, his ebony hair combed back into a tight queue, he appeared as stark and sinister as ever. Mena found herself concerned over the integrity of his suit, as his tense muscles strained the seams.
Now she knew what beauty lay beneath, and had to look away.
“Ye’re actually mistaken, Liam, as yer lovely governess and I have shared a previous … encounter, but have yet to be formally introduced.” He winked at Mena, who considered hurling herself down the stairs rather than glancing up to see the withering glare Ravencroft surely focused on them both.
Who was this man to address a marquess in so informal a manner? And why did he insist on making playful insinuations about their previous “encounter” in the woods? She’d nearly been sacked over the whole ordeal.
Gavin didn’t give her a chance to recover from her astonishment before he took her hand again and bowed theatrically low over it. “Allow me to introduce myself, English, as Lord Gavin St. James, Earl of Thorne and half brother to the most illustrious Marquess of Ravencroft, Laird Liam Mackenzie of Wester Ross.”
He pressed his lips to her hand, but Mena hardly felt it as she could have sworn she actually heard a growl rumble from the top of the stairs.
Snatching her hand back, she winced at the perceptive glance the earl gave her from behind amber lashes.
“Brother?” She wagged an incensed finger at the smirking Lord Thorne. “You cad! You led me to believe you were nothing more than the foreman at the distillery.”
“I beg yer pardon, English, but I didna lie to ye.” He flashed her a devastatingly handsome smile, and Mena found herself forgiving him instantly, not that she’d been that angry in the first place. “I spoke the truth when I said I was the distillery foreman. Had ye inquired about me, ye would have learned that I’m part owner and the rest.” Thorne shrugged, his eyes glinting with mirth. “I admit to being a wee bit wounded that ye didna.”