The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [82]
He saw her standing beside the empty fireplace, wearing the same gown, holding a glass of sherry. Aunt Arleth was holding forth about something doubtless unpleasant, Serena was seated on a settee looking dreamily off into space, and the children were there, sitting side by side on a love seat, Dulcie standing like a big-bosomed pixie guard behind them.
Sinjun looked up to see him striding into the room. Damn, but he was splendid. She didn’t want to take his place, the stupid lout. How could he be so blind? She wanted her own place, not his, she wanted to be beside him, laughing with him, working with him, kissing him and feeling his body with her hands.
“Good evening,” Colin said to all assembled.
“Papa, she said we couldn’t have any dinner, but since you’re here she had to give in.”
Dulcie gasped and grabbed Dahling’s arm. “Ye’re a wicked wee mite, ye are, Dahling Kinross!”
“A veritable witch, I see,” Colin said.
“You overdid that one a bit, Dahling,” Sinjun said, smiling toward her stepdaughter, “but it was a worthy try. I will give you dramatic lessons. You mustn’t ever overdo a role, you know, that’s the cardinal rule of the theater.”
“I should like to tread the boards,” Serena said. “That is the correct way the English say it, isn’t it, Joan?”
“That’s exactly the way. You already walk so gracefully it’s as if you float. The rest would be easy for you.”
“All of this is nonsense,” Aunt Arleth said, standing. “What are your intentions, Colin?”
“To dine, Aunt Arleth. Joan, here’s Philpot to announce our dinner. Give me your arm.”
She didn’t want to, particularly, but everyone was watching and she had no choice. She tensed as he patted her hand, preparing for battle. “Oh, my dear, not here. When I tell you what I expect from you it will be from behind a locked door in my bedchamber—the laird’s bedchamber—the laird’s very clean bedchamber.”
CHAPTER
12
COLIN WAS GOOD to his word. He gently shoved Sinjun into the laird’s bedchamber, then closed and locked the door. He watched her even as he slipped the key into his vest pocket. He watched her walk to the center of the vast room and stop, rubbing her arms with her hands.
“Should you like me to light a fire?”
She shook her head.
“Perhaps it would be a good idea. You will shortly be naked, after all, and I won’t wish to have you shivering from cold. I want you shivering just from me.”
So this was a man’s punishment, she thought, looking back at him now. He was completely in control, his size alone gave him that, and he looked mean and determined and oddly angry. She’d said nothing to draw forth that anger, at least not at the dining table. He was probably smelling the dreaded beeswax and lemon again.
But Sinjun had been blessed with two singularly unmanageable, obstinate, very intelligent brothers, who had taught her a lot about men and their strange outlooks and unaccountable behaviors.
Here was Colin acting like the sultan, and she was here to be his slave girl. The image pleased her. It would have pleased her more were he laughing and teasing her. Ah yes, veils, dozens of veils in all colors, and she would dance for him and . . .
“What the devil are you smiling about?”
“Veils.”
“Joan, have you lost your wits?”
“Oh no, I was just seeing you as the head sultan and me your slave girl for the night, and I was wearing veils and dancing for you.”
He paused, at a loss. She was unexpected; what she thought and said were unanticipated. Even when she said something that he could possibly expect, at the edge of his brain it still shook him that she could speak so clearly and candidly and without guile. He didn’t like it.
“I think that a charming and apt idea. However, tonight you will simply dance for me naked. I will clap my hands for you if you need accompaniment. I will fetch you some veils when I return to Edinburgh. Then we can try it again, conforming more to your vision.”
“Ah, so it is your intention to leave in the morning, then? Before dawn, I daresay.