Calumn’s voice, softer now, interrupted her thoughts, which seemed to have strayed far beyond the bounds of what was decent. ‘Being in love is a different matter entirely from feeling affection for someone. The fact you don’t understand that tells me you’re not. And just to prove it, Mademoiselle Lafayette, I’m going to kiss you again.’ He tilted up her chin.
‘No,’ Madeleine whispered.
He put his arms around her.
‘No.’ Her heart raced, as if she had been running. Calumn leaned towards her, and a long lock of hair, bright as new-minted gold, fell over his cheek. She gazed into his eyes as he lowered his lips to hers, knowing she should move away, but something contrary and stronger in her kept her there, because she wanted to know what it would be like to be kissed by him. Properly. Just so she would understand what he meant.
She couldn’t move. She gazed at him like one mesmerised, her lips parting just the tiniest fraction, the movement so small she was not even aware of it.
Calumn hesitated. She should not be here. He should not be doing this. Not even to prove her wrong.
But her mouth was made for kissing. He hadn’t thought of much else since that tantalising taste of her earlier in the day. She felt as if she were made for him, though who would have guessed it to look at her, so fragile compared to his own solid bulk. His hand tightened on her waist. He should not, but how could he resist when she was looking at him, unblinking, with her bewitching eyes, as if she saw into his soul? As if she was luring him towards her, exactly as mermaids do to sailors. She wanted him to kiss her. And it was for her own good, was it not? He could not resist. He simply could not. So he kissed her.
He kissed her and Madeleine sighed, the sound of the dying wind playfully ruffling a sail at sunset. Calumn’s mouth was warm as before. Soft as before. Gentle as before. It fitted over hers perfectly, his lips moulding themselves to hers, sipping on hers, as if tasting, encouraging her to do the same. She twined her fingers into his hair, relishing its springy softness, and pressed her lips against his, relishing the different softness and now the taste of him. She felt her blood heat. He kissed her and she kissed him back, liking the way his breath came just a bit faster, the way his fingers clenched just a bit tighter on her waist, the way his excitement fuelled her own. His tongue touched hers, turning warm into scalding hot. His fingers tangled in her hair. His tongue on hers again, a flash of heat that made her insides quiver and an answering surge in him, for she could feel the hardening of his arousal nudging against her.
She sighed and this time it sounded like a moan. She thirsted for more. His kiss became less gentle and she liked that, too. She pressed, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, flesh to muscle, her softness against his hardness. His hand slipped up from her waist to cup her breast. No one had ever kissed her like this. No one had ever touched her so intimately. No one. Not even—what was she doing!
Madeleine wrenched her mouth away. ‘Non!’ She wriggled free of his embrace. Heat turned to cold in seconds, as if her blood had been flushed with ice, though her lips were burning. She tried to cool them against the back of her hand. She forced herself to meet Calumn’s gaze. His eyes were glazed, his hair in wild disorder. A dark flush suffused his cheek bones. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. Shamed, she realised she probably looked the same.
Calumn shook his head, pushing his hair back from his forehead. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘you’re right, that was more than enough to prove my point.’
‘What point?’
‘You would not have kissed me like that if you really were in love with de Guise.’
Madeleine blushed furiously. ‘It is none of your business how I kiss Guillaume, and none of your business to be kissing me. You should not have done so. I told you to stop. I said no, I—’
‘You’re deluding yourself, mademoiselle,’ Calumn said with infuriating calm. ‘You wanted to kiss me, just as much as I wanted to kiss you.’
Madeleine stared at him in consternation, desperate to contradict him, but instinctively knowing that to do so would be foolish. ‘I …’
Just then, there was a soft rap on the door. ‘Your dinner’s here, Master Munro,’ a female voice called.
‘Saved,’ Calumn said with an infuriating smile as he left the room to relieve Mrs Macfarlane of her loaded tray.
Chapter Three
Mrs Macfarlane’s plain but excellent repast eased the tension between them. As they ate their way through chicken stew served with a dish of peas and greens, Calumn directed the conversation to less personal matters. Perhaps he felt he had made his point, perhaps he wished simply to enjoy his food without further contretemps; whatever it was, Madeleine was happy to follow his lead. Banishing the whole kissing episode to the back of her mind, she regaled Calumn with a highly coloured version of her two days at sea in a Breton fishing boat. It made him laugh, and encouraged him in turn to recount some of his own—carefully edited—traveller’s tales. His description of a meal of pig’s trotters he had eaten in a Paris café encouraged Madeleine to recall the plate of pig’s fry she had been presented with as a child, after attending the ceremonial slaying of the said pig by one of her father’s tenants.
‘It was an honour, you know,’ she said with a grin, ‘but I was only about five, and I said to Papa, I don’t like worms.’
‘Did you eat it?’
‘Oh, yes, Papa would not have his tenants insulted. It didn’t taste of anything much.’ The clock on the mantel chiming the hour surprised them both. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late,’ Madeleine said in dismay.
‘You’ll stay here, then? It’s far too late for you to go looking for somewhere else now, and at least if you’re here I’ll know you are safe.’
Though he phrased the words as a question, his tone indicated that he would brook no argument. Madeleine was inclined to dispute this assumption of responsibility, but common sense and an inclination to spend more time in his rather-too-appealing company made her keep quiet. ‘Thank you. I would like to stay, if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’ Calumn pushed back his chair. ‘I’m going out for a while. Have you everything you need?’
She was disappointed, but realised he was being tactful. ‘Yes. And thank you, Calumn, you’ve been very kind.’
‘Until the morning, then.’ The door closed behind him, leaving the rooms resoundingly quiet. Loneliness threatened. To keep it at bay, Madeleine tried to think about what she would do when—no if, it must be if—Lady Drummond sent her a message with Guillaume’s whereabouts. But that set her into a panic about how she would do whatever she had to do, so she took herself to bed, and despite being absolutely certain she would lie awake all night worrying, Madeleine fell into a sound sleep.
The company at the White Horse was thin, and Calumn was not in the mood for gambling. Returning early, he lay awake, all too aware of Madeleine in bed next door.
Her situation was abominable. He knew too well what it felt like, that wanting to know. If de Guise was alive, the bastard deserved a whipping for not having the guts to face her. He did not deserve her, any more than he deserved to have her save his lands, for he must have known his cousin would claim them in his absence. In fact, de Guise seemed altogether too careless with all his property. Of a certainty he didn’t deserve it. Unless of course he really was dead, which, the more Calumn thought about it, seemed the most likely thing.