Heat Of The Knight. Jackie Ivie

she was hiding behind, startling her, and bringing even more rose to her cheeks.

      Langston caught his smile before she saw it, but he couldn’t do a thing about how his heart stumbled, his breath caught, and how all of that made his hand tremble again as he reached for her chin, tilting her upward for him. He watched the lashes flutter to her cheeks as she closed her eyes. He knew she wasn’t doing it to experience it more fully; it was to shut him out.

      Langston drew her closer, his arm molding about the slim waist to lift her from the floor, feeling the bundle she held as it was the first thing to touch his chest, and then his lips were at her ear, whispering words his mind hadn’t cleared. “I’ll na’ claim a kiss until you give it freely,” he said, and he could have bitten his own tongue off the moment they left his lips.

      He only hoped the surprise on her face wasn’t the mirror to his own as he pulled back; seized, and then held, by sky-blue eyes that hadn’t an ounce of disinterest in them, but were full of life and shock, disgust, and confusion.

      That would have to do. Langston felt the flush creeping up the side of his neck, and wished now that he’d had the cravat tied higher, to stop her from seeing it. He knew she was, too, for her eyes didn’t leave him as he set her back on her feet and started walking, holding her at arm’s length and then letting her go completely. The fact that she didn’t move away from him was the only sign she was giving him that she wasn’t going to die on the spot after all, although that was probably what she’d been wishing; that, and the way her lashes fluttered, and her cheeks went from rose to red, and then dead white again as she realized it.

      He’d never seen anything as intriguing as this woman he’d just married, and he wasn’t letting her out of his sight. The prearrangement he’d made to send her to Monteith Hall in the separate carriage was tossed right out of his head. He wanted her by him, with him, eating, sleeping, and caressing him. He wanted her to learn about him, and he wasn’t going to able to give her any clue.

      The walk to the carriage was excruciating, the ride was going to be worse, and there was nothing she could do about any of it. What was one supposed to say to a stranger one had just wed, giving the rights to one’s body to? Especially a stranger that wasn’t even going to force it?

      He had no right to be chivalrous. How dare he do something so against character that it tossed her emotions up into a blur of confusion before giving them back to her? He was supposed to be vicious; taking, ravishing, stealing…exactly like the Sassenach had done to every woman they came across after Culloden. He was supposed to be a devil. He was supposed to have evil intent behind those eyes that looked to be so brown, they were almost black. He surely wasn’t supposed to be chivalrous.

      Lisle was at his side when he reached yet another carriage, where the door was opened by two groomsmen smiling—no, they looked more like open grins, she decided—at both her and Monteith, while they waited for the couple to enter, so they could be sealed in together.

      That was it, she told herself. He was waiting. He’d force her when they were alone, and no one would be there to rescue her, or even hear her screams. He’d probably ordered them to drive slowly; to give him enough time to make certain she hadn’t a bone left that wasn’t violated.

      “Do you need an assist in?” he asked, at her elbow, since she had been standing there, stupidly looking at the yawning opening of the carriage like it was supposed to swallow her up without her having to expend any effort.

      “I—I…uh, no,” she answered, stumbling over the words and having to look away from the humor that was starting to haunt every bit of every look he was giving her.

      He stood back a step and waited while she lifted one part of her skirt with a hand, showing that her slippers were caved in at the heel, and not fully on her. It wasn’t because her feet were too big, although she suspected that was what he thought, since he had even more humor about his features the next time she dared to glance at him. It was because the linen wrapped about her blisters had made the slippers too small to wear.

      If the other coaches were luxurious, there was no description for this one. Lisle stooped to get in, running her hand along red and black–patterned silk that could only have come from the Orient, meeting dark mahogany everywhere else, and trying to keep the gasp in where he couldn’t hear it. She should have known it wouldn’t succeed.

      “I had it built in Edinburgh. For one occasion, and one only. Then, I’m retiring it,” he informed her, in a bored-sounding voice.

      “Good Lord, why?” she asked, before she could stop herself. Then, she busied herself with putting the pipes reverently at her side, arranging her skirts about her ankles, and taking up as much of her side of the coach as she could, so he wouldn’t even think about sitting next to her.

      He looked like he’d known what she was about, too. He entered, the carriage rocking slightly with his weight, which, from the stolen glimpses she was still trying to keep him from seeing, looked to be considerable. She couldn’t imagine where he’d gained such an amount of bulk to his frame. From all she’d heard, he didn’t do a thing, except spend gold.

      “For posterity,” he replied, with the same bored tone that hadn’t a hint of depth, sense, or reason to it.

      Lisle glanced at him again. He wasn’t looking at her. He was settling himself on the opposite bench, opening the buttons on his black coat, and then pulling a bit at the white material he’d swathed all about his throat. She couldn’t stop the smile.

      “Something amuses you?” he asked.

      “What is that for?” She pointed.

      “It’s called a cravat. Menswear. For formal dress occasions. This being one of them.”

      “A cravat,” she replied, without inflection.

      “I decided that if we have to dress in the English fashion, I may as well adopt some of their ways. You doona’ like it?”

      “It looks like a bundling of scarf, in the event of cold weather.”

      “My valets will be crushed,” he replied.

      “Valets?” she asked.

      “Personal servants. I have a score of them. Very observant chaps, very conscientious in their duties, very precise. According to Etheridge, this is the height of fashion in London.”

      “Oh.” It was all she could think of to say. The height of fashion in London? she repeated to herself.

      “I’m na’ very fond of it, but one must play by the rules one is given, nae?”

      “If you’re asking about living under Sassenach rule, and liking it, you’re asking the wrong person,” she replied, using the exact same, bored tone of voice he was.

      “That’s distressing,” he replied.

      “That’s not the most distressing part, let me assure you,” she continued.

      “It’s not?” he asked, almost jovially. At least, it looked like he had even more humor to his features when she looked up. It was muted the moment their glances touched, until it became almost a frown.

      “I’ll not be made fun of,” Lisle announced.

      “I’d never allow such a thing to occur.”

      “Good. Then we’ll start this marriage by discussing your spendthrift habits and the cessation of them.”

      “Excuse me?” he asked.

      “You. Spendthrift. It’s a word attached to your name…our name, more oft’ than necessary. Nae one likes a neighbor with more gold than they have. It’s making enemies of us.”

      “Do tell,” he responded and quirked one of his eyebrows.

      “Someone should have told you sooner. The more you toss gold about, the more contempt you’re held in. I doona’ like it.”

      “So?” he asked.

      “You’d