Page 30 of Devil Black

“Just behave yourself.”

Miraculously, Lachlan did. The ensuing dinner, so Dougal later thought, proved among the more ordinary he could ever recall taking place beneath that roof. Meg, dressed for the occasion, looked bonny enough to strike Lachlan silent for the first half of the meal. Meg and Isobel made conversation, and O’Rourke, still in residence, enlivened the proceedings by becoming richly drunk. Both his brogue and his wit thickened, which Lachlan, predictably, found amusing.

Not until the end of the meal, when Meg and Lachlan began arguing over some nonsense O’Rourke introduced, did Isobel lean toward Dougal and say, “Well, Husband—you are very silent. How went the search for Catherine Maitland?”

Dougal raised moody eyes to her face. “Not well. ’Twas a long, cold trail, and no trace to be seen of that particular lady.”

Isobel’s eyes glinted blue fire. She had piled her russet hair into a knot atop her head, and managed to look both dignified and fetching. The hair, too heavy to stay up, now slid down the back of her neck and made Dougal’s fingers itch. He wanted to touch her, so badly it hurt.

“I do not doubt,” she murmured, “the lady in question is miles away from here and will never be found.”

“And what of any sister of hers who might be in the district? Do you think she would want rescue from her present predicament?”

“I am sure not. I warrant she is enjoying her present predicament immensely.”

“Oh, aye?” Dougal paused, a cup of whisky halfway to his lips, in order to eye her. Was she saying what he thought? His eyes lingered on her lips before dropping to the neck of her gown, where he could see her pulse throbbing. “Enjoying it? Is that so?”

“There is so much of interest to occupy a lively mind.”

“Is it your mind needs occupying?”

“Among other things. Only look—” She nodded toward where Meg and Lachlan still squabbled. “Is that not a fascinating display of emotion?”

Dougal nearly choked on his whisky. “Lachlan pants after my sister like a dog, but she has no interest in him.”

“You think not? And I supposed you a clever man.”

“So I am.”

“Well, but you cannot read women. She bothers to argue with him because he attracts her.”

“I fear you are wrong, Wife. She bears no soft feeling for him, nor any man.”

“A lack of soft feeling does not argue indifference. Do you, my Laird, ever wager?”

“A bet, you mean?”

“I bet she will have him in her bed before month’s end.”

Dougal struggled to conceal his surprise. What manner of woman was this, who discussed such exploits and wagered like a man?

“Meg would eat him alive,” he said dismissively.

“Perhaps, but she will do so in her bed.”

“Wicked!”

“Sir, are you afraid to bet?”

He raked her with his gaze. “Hardly, given you are wrong. But what is the wager? Have you jewels, or gold?”

“I have not, but perhaps something better. The loser shall—” She leaned close and whispered in his ear, words that sent a rush of heat through him and caused all the blood in his body to pool between his legs.

He could not keep from shooting her another incredulous look. “You are not in earnest!”

“Am I not? Do you consider the prize unworthy?”

“I do not.” His honesty made him add, “Indeed, you will have me hoping to lose that bet.”