Read Online Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) by Elizabeth Essex - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Essex
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ambitious scoundrel.”
“Scoundrel all the same,” he insisted, but there was at least a little amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.
And she had to admit, she was coming to rather like the idea of being a scoundrel. Men were scoundrels. The hint of respect that the masculine term implied went a long way to mitigating any insult.
“Just so.” She gave him her best smile yet. “I told you, Strathcairn, I’ve long since done with being good. And the bare truth of the matter is that I had much rather be bad, and be with you —if you’ll agree to accommodate me.”
“Depends on how you’ll accommodate—”
She gave him her flat terms. “We’ve already made the bargain—I’ll only accommodate and help you if ruination is not in the cards.”
“It’s not.” His voice told her he was both frustrated with her obstinacy and very obstinate himself. “And that’s why I’m over here, and you’re all the way over there. But if we’re to go on, at some future point you’ll have to bow to my greater experience and superior judgment in these matters—matters related to ‘thrilling.’”
Quince wasn’t a lass who bowed much to anyone, and she rarely trusted anyone’s judgment but her own. But Strathcairn did have a point. “I suppose I might—just this once, mind you—accede to your greater experience. For the common good.”
His smile widened, gleaming in the moonlight. “Aye. The common good is a very good thing indeed.”
“Then we’re agreed.” This time she licked her thumb before she held out her hand, as a proper Scot would when making a bargain. “You’ll give me regular lessons in kissing.”
“If you’ll help me with these thefts.”
“Agreed.” Quince kept her smile to herself. Because the thefts weren’t going to be a problem anymore. She could guarantee it. “There’s my thumb.”
Strathcairn was enough of a Scot to do the proper thing—he licked his own thumb and struck it against hers. “Aye, we’ve a bargain.”
It wasn’t very romantic as propositions went, but she was a realist, and she’d take honesty over romance any day.
Three days later, Quince wasn’t so sure—it was harder than she had thought to stop stealing. For a number of reasons she had not anticipated.
The first was now that she was on the straight and narrow, time weighed heavily on her hands. The jangle of excitement and anticipation that had speeded her days and spiced her evenings was now replaced by an unbearable dragging tension that could not be relieved—Strathcairn had disappeared.
Three long days had gone by without her seeing or hearing from him. And she really, really wanted to be kissed. She needed to be kissed.
To mitigate her itchy, idle discomfort, she took to long, athletic walks, and bruising hell-for-leather rides into the Pentland Hills surrounding Edinburgh. But nothing worked. It was annoying and nearly painful—like trying not to scratch a particularly venomous midge bite.
Oh, by jimble. Perhaps the dratted man was right. Perhaps the stealing was a compulsion she could not control. It certainly had been a thrill to take the snuffbox despite the risk, and a double thrill to know she had defied him.
But maybe, just maybe, this prickly feeling that she was coming out of her skin was because she simply wanted to see Strathcairn. Maybe his kisses had been so thrilling that she was indeed itching for more. But there was no way for her to test out her hypotheses.
Dratted, inconvenient, nowhere-to-be-found man.
“Who are you looking for?” Plum pulled Quince out of her contemplation of all things itchy and inconvenient as the three of them—Quince, Plum and Mama, followed by Mama’s maid and a footman—walked the short distance up the narrow close from their home at the foot of Calton Hill to the Canongate, which ran like a granite spine along the cobbled ridge of the old town.
“Whom, Plum,” Mama corrected. “For whom are you looking?” But Mama in
“Scoundrel all the same,” he insisted, but there was at least a little amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.
And she had to admit, she was coming to rather like the idea of being a scoundrel. Men were scoundrels. The hint of respect that the masculine term implied went a long way to mitigating any insult.
“Just so.” She gave him her best smile yet. “I told you, Strathcairn, I’ve long since done with being good. And the bare truth of the matter is that I had much rather be bad, and be with you —if you’ll agree to accommodate me.”
“Depends on how you’ll accommodate—”
She gave him her flat terms. “We’ve already made the bargain—I’ll only accommodate and help you if ruination is not in the cards.”
“It’s not.” His voice told her he was both frustrated with her obstinacy and very obstinate himself. “And that’s why I’m over here, and you’re all the way over there. But if we’re to go on, at some future point you’ll have to bow to my greater experience and superior judgment in these matters—matters related to ‘thrilling.’”
Quince wasn’t a lass who bowed much to anyone, and she rarely trusted anyone’s judgment but her own. But Strathcairn did have a point. “I suppose I might—just this once, mind you—accede to your greater experience. For the common good.”
His smile widened, gleaming in the moonlight. “Aye. The common good is a very good thing indeed.”
“Then we’re agreed.” This time she licked her thumb before she held out her hand, as a proper Scot would when making a bargain. “You’ll give me regular lessons in kissing.”
“If you’ll help me with these thefts.”
“Agreed.” Quince kept her smile to herself. Because the thefts weren’t going to be a problem anymore. She could guarantee it. “There’s my thumb.”
Strathcairn was enough of a Scot to do the proper thing—he licked his own thumb and struck it against hers. “Aye, we’ve a bargain.”
It wasn’t very romantic as propositions went, but she was a realist, and she’d take honesty over romance any day.
Three days later, Quince wasn’t so sure—it was harder than she had thought to stop stealing. For a number of reasons she had not anticipated.
The first was now that she was on the straight and narrow, time weighed heavily on her hands. The jangle of excitement and anticipation that had speeded her days and spiced her evenings was now replaced by an unbearable dragging tension that could not be relieved—Strathcairn had disappeared.
Three long days had gone by without her seeing or hearing from him. And she really, really wanted to be kissed. She needed to be kissed.
To mitigate her itchy, idle discomfort, she took to long, athletic walks, and bruising hell-for-leather rides into the Pentland Hills surrounding Edinburgh. But nothing worked. It was annoying and nearly painful—like trying not to scratch a particularly venomous midge bite.
Oh, by jimble. Perhaps the dratted man was right. Perhaps the stealing was a compulsion she could not control. It certainly had been a thrill to take the snuffbox despite the risk, and a double thrill to know she had defied him.
But maybe, just maybe, this prickly feeling that she was coming out of her skin was because she simply wanted to see Strathcairn. Maybe his kisses had been so thrilling that she was indeed itching for more. But there was no way for her to test out her hypotheses.
Dratted, inconvenient, nowhere-to-be-found man.
“Who are you looking for?” Plum pulled Quince out of her contemplation of all things itchy and inconvenient as the three of them—Quince, Plum and Mama, followed by Mama’s maid and a footman—walked the short distance up the narrow close from their home at the foot of Calton Hill to the Canongate, which ran like a granite spine along the cobbled ridge of the old town.
“Whom, Plum,” Mama corrected. “For whom are you looking?” But Mama in
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