Read Online Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) by Elizabeth Essex - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Essex
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willing to teach me, then I’m sure I can find someone who is.” She turned for the door.
He knew she was goading him. Knew if she had wanted to kiss some other man she would have bloody well done so long before now, and not waited to strike a bargain with him.
“Well. You’ll not get what you’re looking for with some callow youth. Nay.” He shook his head, and gave her what he knew was a knowing smile. “Because they won’t understand you like I do, and they couldn’t possibly ken what it is you really want, wee Quince Winthrop.”
Like the curious clever creature she was, she could not help being intrigued. “And you do?”
He gave her a slow nod. “Aye, lass. I do.”
She did not answer, and for a moment, he wondered if he had played the wrong hand with this card player of a girl. “Come, Quince, lass.” He could not keep his feelings from his voice—it mattered too damn much. “You’re too young, and too pretty, and come from too nice a family to fall into such an idle, destructive vice as going into dark rooms for kisses. It might not be opium, or dallying with callow cads, but once the thrill of the mere dangerous wears off, you’ll be on to more forbidden pastimes to give you the same guilty thrill. Because that’s what you really want—not kisses, but a cracking good thrill.”
She paled stark white in the moonlight. Finally, he had hit a nerve. “Nay. I—” she denied, but all the heat had gone from her voice.
“Oh, aye, my wee Quince Winthrop. I reckon I know a thrill seeker when I see one.”
Because he, Alasdair Colquhoun, sixth Marquess Cairn, diligent, upstanding member of the Westminster government, had himself once done almost anything just for a thrill.
And damned if he didn’t want to do so still.
Chapter Five
His words might have been insulting if they hadn’t been so awfully true.
Strathcairn had her dead to rights—she had become inordinately attached to the sweet, coppery tang of danger. She might tell herself she lied out of necessity, and stole to feed hungry children and families, but the naked truth of the matter was that she was in it for the risky, illicit thrill.
And she had kissed Strathcairn to try to replicate it—her lips still tingled with something too heady to be mere excitement.
But this was no time to give Strathcairn and all his inconvenient, insightful scruples the upper hand. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But the particular problem of the moment is that the poor kiss never quite reached the level of ‘thrill.’ Though I am given to understand that happens sometimes.” She tossed up one shoulder in a resigned shrug. “Unfortunate, but there you have it.”
“Nay, lass.” His ire brought out the marvelously musical roughness of his brogue. “Fortunate is what you are. It takes a great deal of care to be left wanting. And you were certainly thrilled enough to be left wanting more.”
Insightful, inconvenient man.
“Well, I don’t care much for being left wanting. It smacks of unfulfilled bargain.”
“You’d care if I left you ruined. Or perhaps not.” His smile was so knowing it was nearly intimate. “If I left you ruined, you’d be bloody thrilled enough not to care.”
Now that was insulting. And promising.
But she’d be damned if she would let the sting of the insult show. Though he was Strathcairn, she was no meek little miss to be intimidated by the fact that he seemed to have acquired a great deal of cleverness and experience along with his scruples. “I may be bereft of scruples, my lord, but I sold them for a profit I later spent on backbone. You keep to your part of the bargain—thrill without ruin—or I won’t hold to mine.”
Strathcairn smiled at her in that lethal, tomcat way. “Why then,” he finally decided, “you’re nothing but a wee, opportunistic scoundrel.”
Quince raised her chin, and smiled to show him she was a species of mouse that would bite him back. “What I am, my lord, is an
He knew she was goading him. Knew if she had wanted to kiss some other man she would have bloody well done so long before now, and not waited to strike a bargain with him.
“Well. You’ll not get what you’re looking for with some callow youth. Nay.” He shook his head, and gave her what he knew was a knowing smile. “Because they won’t understand you like I do, and they couldn’t possibly ken what it is you really want, wee Quince Winthrop.”
Like the curious clever creature she was, she could not help being intrigued. “And you do?”
He gave her a slow nod. “Aye, lass. I do.”
She did not answer, and for a moment, he wondered if he had played the wrong hand with this card player of a girl. “Come, Quince, lass.” He could not keep his feelings from his voice—it mattered too damn much. “You’re too young, and too pretty, and come from too nice a family to fall into such an idle, destructive vice as going into dark rooms for kisses. It might not be opium, or dallying with callow cads, but once the thrill of the mere dangerous wears off, you’ll be on to more forbidden pastimes to give you the same guilty thrill. Because that’s what you really want—not kisses, but a cracking good thrill.”
She paled stark white in the moonlight. Finally, he had hit a nerve. “Nay. I—” she denied, but all the heat had gone from her voice.
“Oh, aye, my wee Quince Winthrop. I reckon I know a thrill seeker when I see one.”
Because he, Alasdair Colquhoun, sixth Marquess Cairn, diligent, upstanding member of the Westminster government, had himself once done almost anything just for a thrill.
And damned if he didn’t want to do so still.
Chapter Five
His words might have been insulting if they hadn’t been so awfully true.
Strathcairn had her dead to rights—she had become inordinately attached to the sweet, coppery tang of danger. She might tell herself she lied out of necessity, and stole to feed hungry children and families, but the naked truth of the matter was that she was in it for the risky, illicit thrill.
And she had kissed Strathcairn to try to replicate it—her lips still tingled with something too heady to be mere excitement.
But this was no time to give Strathcairn and all his inconvenient, insightful scruples the upper hand. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “But the particular problem of the moment is that the poor kiss never quite reached the level of ‘thrill.’ Though I am given to understand that happens sometimes.” She tossed up one shoulder in a resigned shrug. “Unfortunate, but there you have it.”
“Nay, lass.” His ire brought out the marvelously musical roughness of his brogue. “Fortunate is what you are. It takes a great deal of care to be left wanting. And you were certainly thrilled enough to be left wanting more.”
Insightful, inconvenient man.
“Well, I don’t care much for being left wanting. It smacks of unfulfilled bargain.”
“You’d care if I left you ruined. Or perhaps not.” His smile was so knowing it was nearly intimate. “If I left you ruined, you’d be bloody thrilled enough not to care.”
Now that was insulting. And promising.
But she’d be damned if she would let the sting of the insult show. Though he was Strathcairn, she was no meek little miss to be intimidated by the fact that he seemed to have acquired a great deal of cleverness and experience along with his scruples. “I may be bereft of scruples, my lord, but I sold them for a profit I later spent on backbone. You keep to your part of the bargain—thrill without ruin—or I won’t hold to mine.”
Strathcairn smiled at her in that lethal, tomcat way. “Why then,” he finally decided, “you’re nothing but a wee, opportunistic scoundrel.”
Quince raised her chin, and smiled to show him she was a species of mouse that would bite him back. “What I am, my lord, is an
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