An Invitation to Pleasure Read Free Page A

remember.
    The wind had whipped several wispy tendrils of hair out from under her bonnet. Her skin was very pale, her lips very red, her hair blue-black, the starkly contrasting colours giving her a touch of the exotic. A most unexpected stirring of his blood made him remember something else from that first meeting of theirs. He had kissed her. Or he had only just stopped himself from kissing her. It was the way she’d stood up to him, challenging his tirade, that had roused him. For a demure wee thing, she’d packed quite a punch. Now she was no longer a demure wee thing, but quite clearly and very delectably grown into her skin, it would be amusing to see if he could stoke her fire. It had been a long while, too long a while, since he’d had either the inclination or the opportunity for a bit of verbal sparring, but damn, there was something about this woman that made him want to forget all about taking life seriously and do just that.
    Fergus smiled. ‘Has the cat got your tongue, Lady Mountjoy? No, I can’t call you that, it sticks in my craw. Since our acquaintance is of such long standing, perhaps you would allow me to call you Susanna, and you may call me Fergus?’
    She simply stared, as if he had asked her to call him the devil, and damn, if it didn’t make the devil in him react. ‘I wonder now, though you would not kiss a mere captain all those years ago, have you a kiss for the laird?’
    She looked as if she was torn between slapping him and doing as he was bid. Then, to his astonishment, she laughed. It was a wonderful sound, like the gurgling of a stream. ‘You are quite outrageous, Captain—Laird! And in one sense, wholly unchanged, for you must still be taking enormous liberties. In every other sense, however, I barely recognised you.’
    Fergus laughed. ‘You’ve no objection then, to a Highlander over a soldier?’
    ‘Laird Kilmun, you may assume the guise of a Russian peasant for all I care. It is no business of mine.’
    Her voice remained cool, but he could see the smile lurking in her eyes. Such a serious business duty was, it had not occurred to Fergus that the doing of it would be enjoyable. But then, the woman he’d pictured in the role by his side was a poor wee soul filled with gratitude. A destitute, put-upon widow, he had imagined. But this widow, who was patently not in mourning, did not at all look as if she was in need of saving. He had thought it would be as simple as putting his proposition to her and awaiting her eager and delighted acceptance. His conscience would finally be quieted and his tenants reassured by the sight of the woman who would bear the future laird. Faced with a witty and exotic creature biting back her laughter, Fergus felt a distinct twinge of doubt.
    He cursed himself for having made his plans public—though who would blame him, with so much pressure from so many sides to settle down and secure the future for his lands. He was sick to the back teeth of being introduced to Highland misses, all of them eligible, and, to his eyes, wholly interchangeable. Which had led him to conclude that that side of him was dead. Until now.
    Fergus put his arms around his visitor’s shoulder and steered her towards the path which led to the castle, thanking his stars that her lack of the Gaelic would keep her in temporary ignorance of his presumption. ‘You’ve had a long journey, and there are a good few people who are eager to welcome you to the Highlands,’ he said. ‘Let me take you home.’
    ‘Home’ was a castle. Built of grey stone, it sat square to the loch, though its facade was hidden from the village by a carriageway bordered with oak trees. A round tower with a high conical roof like a witch’s hat sat at each corner of the edifice, and although it had no moat, there looked as if there ought to be one to serve the drawbridge which led up to the studded front door. Gothic and baroque, pretty and flamboyant with its buttressed roof and tower windows formed