Free Scottish Brides by Christina Dodd Page B

still playing some game.
    Excitement flashed down her nerves; anticipation pulled them taut. The room was large and long; even with her gaze fixed on Duncan’s face, she had ample time to appreciate the changes the last twelve years had wrought. He was larger, for a start—much larger. His shoulders were wider; he was at least two inches taller. And he was harder—all over—from his face to the long muscles of his legs. He looked dangerous—he felt dangerous. An aura of male aggression lapped about him, tangible in his stride, in the tension investing his long frame.
    The lock of black hair lying rakishly across his forehead, the harsh angularity of his features and his stubbornly square chin—and the male arrogance in his blue eyes—were the same, yet much sharper, more clearly defined. As if the years had stripped away the superficial softness and exposed the granite core beneath.
    He halted a mere two feet away. His black brows were drawn down in a scowl.
    Forced to look up, Rose tilted her head—and let her lips curve, again.
    His scowl grew blacker. “I repeat”—he bit off the words—“what the devil are you doing here?”
    Rose let her smile deepen, let laughter ripple through her voice. “I’m here for Midsummer, of course.”
    His eyes remained locked on hers; his scowl eased to a frown. “Mama invited you.”
    It wasn’t a question; she answered nevertheless. “Yes. But I always visit every summer.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œHmm.” Looking down, she dropped the lid of the piano stool, then shuffled the music sheets together and stacked them on the piano.
    â€œI must have missed you.”
    She looked up. “You haven’t been here all that much these last years.”
    â€œI’ve been tending to business.”
    Rose nodded and quelled a craven impulse to edge toward the windows, to put some space between them. She had never been frightened of Duncan before; this couldn’t be fright she felt now. She tossed her head back and looked him in the eye. “So I’ve heard. Away in London, resurrecting the Macintyre fortunes.”
    He shrugged. “The Macintyre fortunes are well and truly resurrected.” His gaze sharpened. “And I haven’t forgotten what you did twelve years ago.”
    Twelve years ago, when last they’d met. He’d been a painfully fashionable twenty-three, with the highest, starchiest shirtpoints north of the border. Even south of it. She hadn’t been able to resist. Half an hour before he’d gone up to dress for his mother’s Hunt Ball, she’d slipped into his room and steamed all his collars. He’d been forced to appear slightly less than sartorially perfect. Unrepentant still, Rose grinned. “If only you could have seen yourself . . .”
    â€Don’t remind me.” His gaze searched her face, then returned to her eyes. His narrowed. “You’re twenty-seven—why haven’t you married?”
    Rose met his gaze directly, and coolly raised her brows. “Because I haven’t yet met a man I wish to marry, of course. But you’re thirty-five, and you haven’t married either—although that’s about to change, I understand.”
    Exasperation colored his frown. His lips thinned. “Possibly. I haven’t yet made up my mind.”
    â€œBut you’ve invited her here, with her parents, haven’t you?”
    â€œYes—no. Mama invited them.”
    â€œAt your instruction.” When she got no response beyond a further tightening of his lips, Rose dared a teasing grin. She wasn’t entirely sure it was safe to play her old game, but the old tricks still seemed to work. The change was infinitesimal, yet he tensed in response to her smile.
    She’d known Duncan literally all her life. As the only child of aging and wealthy parents, her childhood had been one of indulgence and