“You cannot directly petition the queen for your title,” he told her, hoping to nip this inanity in the bud. “It has to go through proper channels, and that will most likely include a parliamentary committee and more red tape. It is not a simple matter.”
“The queen can make it simple, if she wishes. Is your father on her right or wrong side these days?”
She may as well have smacked him, inquiring about the marquess’s aid as if Gerard were naught more than a stepping stone. He understood why men might threaten to horsewhip her. “Politically, they’re at odds. Personally, Vicki likes looking at him. He occasionally gets away with metaphorical murder. And I am not applying to my father on a matter of no concern to him. He has enough to do.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll ask the ladies at the School of Malcolms. I need to go to Edinburgh. Would you be interested in helping me to do that?”
“Why?” he demanded. “So you can sell yourself to the American, then run away again?”
It would be just like the damned noble countess to sacrifice herself for her sister.
“I have given our discussion some thought. I have never been particularly interested in marriage or children. I want a freedom that women aren’t permitted. I’m not like Mary Mike. I have no desire to be a man. But I would like to have the ability to improve my estate, experiment with my bees, travel to London. . . all things I cannot do now. As a married woman with wealth, I could do a great deal more.”
She gave him one of her enigmatic molten-honey looks. “What I need is a good negotiator. I thought your father might be a possibility. Mr. Winter would probably genuflect to a marquess. But the ladies will know someone.”
Gerard clenched fists, molars, and lips to prevent steam from escaping. Inhaling carefully, he managed not to shout. “You are doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Couldn’t you simply ask me to take you to Edinburgh and negotiate with Winter? Why torture me?”
Her eyes widened just a little. “I don’t know why my choosing my future would be torture for you. And I have no idea if you’re a good negotiator.”
No one had any idea what he could do, including himself. He’d never really been given the opportunity. But his cranium held encyclopedias of knowledge—and apparently the voice of a Roman soldier who chuckled.
“You don’t need a good negotiator, you need a magician,” Gerard told her callously. “There is no way on heaven, earth, or hell that Parliament will allow an American to be an earl. You can petition for your letters patent, if you like, so you can claim the title, lands, and vote. But he will never be allowed to be anything more than Lord Arthur, your consort.”
“He doesn’t know that, though, does he?” she asked, looking thoughtful. “If I’m given letters patent, then I can vote? That would be singularly amusing. I think Isobel would enjoy it more than I would though.”
“You mean your sister is even more of a managing female than you?” he asked, unable to quell the horror in his voice.
The lady laughed. “My sister is much quieter and more devious. She likes managing books and leaves people to me. I’ve often thought that together, we might make one whole person. I’m not certain either of us has what it takes to be a parliamentarian, but she’d listen to speeches more patiently.”
Treasure, claim her! shouted the insane voice in his head.
Gerard was quite clear that he wasn’t insane. He knew he only had to take the medallion out of his pocket to have peace and quiet again. He had a table full of artifacts to prove that. He might be stupid for listening to the voice though.
But honestly, the soldier wasn’t saying anything that Gerard wasn’t thinking. Except he couldn’t claim a lady without marriage. One did not lure virgins to bed without expectations.
“You have the determination to make a most excellent countess,” he told her, before he knew what he meant to say.
She gazed up at him in astonishment, her long lashes trapping him like a bee in a flower. If this might be his only chance to simply hold her. . .
Gerard circled Iona’s slender waist, bent down, and kissed her luscious lips, just to see if they tasted like honey. They did.
For moments out of time, she clung to him, allowing him to savor her sweetness, giving him access when he pressed for more. The instant his hand roamed below her waist, she shoved away, panting hard and keeping her distance, glaring warily.
Had the beekeeper not been an impoverished Malcolm, he’d be proposing marriage right now. He wanted her, any way he could have her.
All right, that might be insane.
Without apology, Gerard dropped the medallion in the grass and ground it into the earth with his boot. “So it’s agreed—you’ll stay here while I ride out to do interviews and sell property and learn what I can of this reward being offered?”
She brushed herself off as if they hadn’t just shared the deepest, most soul-wrenching kiss he’d ever experienced. She was giving him a taste of what other people might feel when confronted with his indifference. It twisted his gut.
“I have no say in what you do, my lord, any more than you can dictate what I do. Cast me out if that bothers you. I need to write Isobel to let her know I’m safe for now. Good evening.” She bobbed a very small curtsy and strode off, revealing dainty shoes instead of boots.
He had the brains, wealth, and power of two men. She admitted she was a halfwit without her sister and lacked so much as a farthing to her name. And after she’d kissed him as if she meant it, she’d cut him off at the knees.
There was a lesson to be learned from this, but he’d be damned if he knew what it was.
Grabbing the medallion from
