Page 76 of The Scot Beds His Wife
“English!” he greeted warmly, his wicked grin intensifying to devilish.
English? Samantha limped forward another step. Just who was he speaking to?
“Dear Thorne,” a husky feminine voice greeted, matching him in warmth. “What a thorough pleasure. I know this is mostly a formality, but I simply couldn’t miss your wedding day.”
Samantha recognized that crisp, perfect British accent the split-second before Mena Mackenzie swept into view, draped in wine-red velvet, both her hands extended toward the apparently delighted Lord Thorne.
Gavin pulled the marchioness scandalously close, and lowered his head to plant a kiss on the woman’s lush lips.
Samantha’s unbidden sound of protest was covered by an equally inarticulate noise.
A growl, if she wasn’t mistaken.
To her credit, Lady Ravencroft turned her head just in time to receive his kiss on her cheek. In doing so, she caught sight of Samantha, and quickly stepped out of Gavin’s clutches.
“Oh, hello again, Miss Ross.” She wiped at her cheek, looking a bit abashed, if not exactly guilty.
“Lady Ravencroft.” The cold clip to her words surprised her as much as it did anyone else, Samantha figured. But sharp suspicion needled at her with surprising strength.
Gavin’s head swiveled much like an owl’s, and he spearedher with a look so bright with unidentifiable meaning, she swallowed and fought an instinctual step backward.
“You’re not supposed to be down here,” he said through his teeth, all pretense of charm slipping for the space of a dangerous moment.
Samantha had to pretend that his obvious displeasure at her presence didn’t sting.
A dark brogue sounded from the doorway, thick with snide sarcasm. “If that’s a sample of yer famous charm, Thorne, then ’tis a good thing ye’re handsome.”
“Liam, you told me you were going to behave,” Mena said over her shoulder to the man still hidden behind the stones. She glided toward Samantha while pulling black kid gloves from her fingers. “Surely Gavin meant he wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding. Not only is it bad luck, it’s rather wicked.”
“See her in what? My mother’s nightgown? That hardly counts, nor does it necessarily inspire wicked thoughts.” Gavin made a dismissive gesture with his shoulders, his artificial smile reaffixed, though he swiftly overtook Mena in her quest to be at Samantha’s side. “Besides, luck has nothing to do with why we’re here today, so it’s better we just get on with it.”
Get on with it,Samantha thought glumly. His words would have hurt if she didn’t entirely share the sentiment.
His gaze confused her, though. In direct contrast to his cold words, it lingered where her shawl revealed her clavicles and a few open buttons. For a moment his veneer slipped, and something a little like hunger tightened his features and fists.
“I’ll have you know, I came in search of somethingotherthan your mother’s nightgown to wear.” She’d have planted her hands on her hips if she were able to let go ofher cane. “I assume my entire trousseau was burned in the fire, and if you want to marry me in this getup while you’re dressed like some French dandy then I’ll need—Oomph!”
She didn’t know he’d planned to scoop her off her feet until he’d done just that. Hell, he didn’t even break stride. One moment she was on the ground, and the next she was draped over the swells of his biceps like a sandbag as he hauled her back up the spiral steps.
“Put me down,” she demanded, a little breathlessly.
“Nay.” His teeth had yet to separate, and Samantha knew somewhere back in that protective part of herself that a smarter woman would be afraid. But…
“Don’t you fucking tell menay.” She mimicked his word rather terribly. “And while we’re on the subject, where are my guns?”
“Haud yer wheesht,woman.”
“Hold your own wished.”
“Och, I like her.” The Laird’s chuckle followed them up the stairs and did exactly nothing for Gavin’s dark mood.
“It’s not like ye need arealwedding dress,” he explained in the fashion of a parent running out of patience. Though how he could maintain his even breath while hauling her up three floors’ worth of stairs was beyond her. “Alice was supposed to set one of my mother’s pale frocks out for ye this morning and do the necessary alterations.”
“Well, she didn’t,” Samantha spat, wriggling in his unyielding grip. “I haven’t seen a single soul but Eammon since yesterday. Includingyou,” she added for good measure, painfully aware she sounded like a plaintive lover. “I’ve had nothing but a sponge bath since the fire. There’s probably still soot in my hair, though you can’t smell it over the aroma of the bog mud Eammon keeps slathering on my leg. And I’m not asking for a wedding dress or anything, but a clean pair of knickers would be nice as I’m currently not wearing any at all.”
The sure-footed Highlander stumbled, paused, and glowered down at her with enough fire to set the stones ablaze.
“Shite,”he muttered under his breath, following that with a slew of words she’d never before heard but absolutely understood.
