But there seemed nothing wrong with foolery, not on a crisp day in May when her near husband had smiled at her in such a way. The problem was that while he rode next to the carriage, all she did was think of questions that she wanted to ask him.
“This is not a kissing question,” she told him that evening. They were in an inn so old and magnificent that it boasted King James VI once slept there, before he moved down to England. They had eaten like kings, and were finally alone. Bowls of fruit in silver bowls glowed dully in the light from the candles. Annabel regarded Ewan thoughtfully over a tiny glass filled with golden cognac. “How old were you when the flood took your parents?”
“Seven.”
“And your siblings?”
“They were twins and still just babies. I only remember the way they used to cry at night. If one stopped, the other would start. My mother and their nurse would run between their cribs and I would laugh.”
“So you remember your parents? I have hardly any memories of my mother.”
His eyes were shaded by the candlelight so that she couldn’t see them clearly. “I remember my mother, but not my father.”
There was something about the way he said it that told her Ewan hated not remembering his father. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Imogen can’t remember Mama at all, and I know that she wishes dearly that she could. When she was small, she always asked for stories about her.”
“That’s likely part of your sister’s problem.”
“What do you mean by that?” Annabel scowled at him.
“She’s a reckless girl who’ll come to grief if she’s not lucky, and you know it, darling. After all, first she eloped with her poor husband—and I get the feeling she probably forced the man over the border herself—and then she threw herself at me. A dangerous woman.”
Annabel knew she should defend her sister, but something in her liked the fact that Ewan showed no signs of wishing that Imogen had been the one to marry him. “You’re not one to talk. After all, you invited Imogen to your hotel.”
“But I asked her to marry me first.”
Annabel frowned at him. “Did you ask every woman you met to marry you?”
“Not at all,” Ewan said. “I only asked two…or perhaps three, now I think of it.”
“But marriage is a serious consideration!” Annabel cried. “How on earth could you treat it so cavalierly?”
He shrugged. “I don’t find the question earthshaking.”
“Do you mean,” she said slowly, “that it didn’t make any difference to you whether you brought home myself or my sister as your bride?” She had a queer, empty feeling in her stomach.
But Ewan grinned at her as cheerfully as ever. “Actually, as I recall, I thought your sister would be a better bride than you.”
She scowled at him.
“You’re a woman to drive a man insane with desire. And I didn’t want that.” He didn’t even move, but there was something in his eyes that gave her the hot, melting feeling she felt when he kissed her.
“Why not?” she managed.
“I’m not the sort to run after my wife like a tame lapdog. As a rational man, I have no fear that I couldn’t make myself compatible with almost anyone. But you…”
“You thought I was shrewish and would beat you about the head?” she said, smiling.
His gaze was like a caress. “I thought I ran the risk of making a fool of myself over you,” he said. “Prescience on my part, I have no doubt.”
“But you wouldn’t have made a fool of yourself over Imogen?” Annabel persisted, wanting to hear it said aloud.
“I thought your sister would make a handy wife because she was Scottish, she was miserable and I could give her the heart’s ease that she needed. But no, she certainly wouldn’t drive me to distraction. I have no doubt we would have become comfortable together, after she’d had time to grieve.”
“You thought of Imogen as some sort of charity case!” she said, staring at him in fascination.
He raised an eyebrow. “And isn’t she, then? The poor lass was threatening to sleep with the Earl of Mayne. He isn’t a man to be toyed with. He’s clearly had many a lover, and I didn’t think she should be indulging in such antics with Mayne.”
“So you asked her to marry you—”
“Which didn’t work because the girl was set on debauchery.”
“So you invited Imogen to your room,” Annabel said with a scowl.
“That was just to dissuade her.”
She snorted. “A kind of dissuasion that every rake understands, then.”
“I was as coarse to her as I could be, thinking I’d scare her off. I did my best to give her a fear of debauchery. And my plan worked like a charm.”
“How did you do it?”
“I suppose these are all relevant points, in the long run,” he said. There was a sinful glint in his eye. “I told her that she would have to sleep with me naked. That there’d be no nightgowns between us. Of course,” he added, “I wasn’t thinking about scraps of silk.”
A surge of desire swept over Annabel’s body at the look in his eyes. No nightgowns! “You mean adulterous women don’t—”
“Never,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t you know that, lass?”
“No, in fact, now that I—”
“Never. No more than do man and wife wear clothing in bed together. And then I told her that I hoped she knew how to pleasure a man.”
Annabel frowned at him. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say!”
“I didn’t want to be nice,” he said painstakingly. “I wanted that silly girl to reject the idea of forgetting her husband and risking her soul in the bargain. And then I said something else, and I do think that the last was what changed her mind.”
“What was it?” Annabel demanded.
He looked at her.
“Oh, all right, it’s a question,” she said.
“I told her that I was particularly fond of a coney’s kiss.”
She blinked at him. “A what?”
He shook his head. “So much to learn…and only a lifetime to do it in.” He was laughing at her again, but Annabel was possessed by curiosity.
“Imogen knew what this kiss was? I can’t believe it!” Annabel was the one who had talked to women in the village, since she did all their bargaining. Imogen had stayed at home, mooning over Draven. How could she know what this kiss was, if Annabel had never hear do fit?
“Have we done this kiss already?” she demanded.
He laughed even louder. “No. I’m sorry to tell you, Annabel, that you didn’t learn quite everything there was to learn from the gossips in your village. And now I believe you owe me any number of kisses.” He was beside her seat so fast that she hadn’t even seen him move.
At the end of his kiss, she felt mad, maddened by desire for him. “Was that a coney’s kiss?” she asked, falling back into her chair.
He just grinned. “No.” He pulled a pack of cards from the mantelpiece. “Do you want to play? I’ll teach you speculation, so that Uncle Pearce can fleece you without feeling guilty. Not that he ever shows signs of such a worthy emotion.”