Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

temptation, like dessert, for later.  
    Quince smoothed down her skirts in preparation for disappearing back into the crowd in the ballroom, where she would do well to find an unobtrusive spot to keep a wary eye on Strathcairn. “Thank you, Jeannie, Once more into the breach, dear friend.”  
    Only to find the breach of the doorway filled with Strathcairn.
    “Taking snuff, are we now, Lady Quince?” he growled as he clamped his hand around her elbow, and hauled her down the corridor with a great deal less subtlety, and far less good humor, than he had displayed in whisking her from the ballroom earlier.
    Oh, nay, there was nothing gentle or humorous about the way he reeled her into an empty, unlit room—there was anger and the potential for violence in his grip. She would have to tread a very fine line indeed.  
    Because her own unruly anger was rising to the occasion.
    Quince rounded her elbow out of his possession. “Strathcairn.” She polished her voice down to a hard shine. “I wish I could say this wasn’t a terrible surprise. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
    “I might ask the exact same question of you, Lady Quince.” His voice had lost every last ounce of its pleasing, teasing intonation—the refined Scot’s burr was now as thorny as a thistle. “What have you done with them?”
    “With whom?” She narrowed her own gaze down to a matching frown—she had the measure of him now, and would give as good as she got.  
    “I am speaking,” he bit out, “of the buttons from my coat and Fergus McElmore’s snuffbox.”
    Oh, holy iced macaroons. It was he who had the measure of her, and was weighing her up as accurately an undertaker.  
    Thank goodness the only light came from the moon filtering through the windows, washing her in silver, or he might have seen her face pale. As it was, she had everything to do to control her breathing, and act affronted and confused, and not give into the impulse to chafe her arms to warm the skin that had suddenly gone cold and clammy. “My dress does not have any buttons. And I don’t take snuff. The occasional nip of whisky, aye. But not snuff.” She did not have to fake the shudder that worked its way up her spine. “Disgusting habit.”  
    The darkness of the room made Strathcairn look even more grim and unforgiving as he advanced upon her. “I should advise ye, brat, to stop attempting to bamboozle me. Just give me the damn buttons.”
    Bamboozle . In any other instance she would have delighted in his pronunciation of the word—no man should be able to make the words themselves jump up and dance to his tune. Especially when he was angry. And he was very angry. Inconveniently so.
    Because she had some serious bamboozling to do.  
    She began with misdirection. “Strathcairn, clearly you have misunderstood something.” She put up her empty palms to keep him from advancing any farther. “What buttons?”
    “The buttons from my damn coat.” He pulled up the tail of his coat to show her the bare swath of crimson velvet.
    “Your coat doesn’t have buttons.” Misdirection worked best with the obvious. “So there is certainly no call for you to shout at me so.”
    “I am not shouting.” He crossed his arms over his chest as if it were the only way he could keep himself from throttling her. “I am everything calm and reasonable considering the circumstances. And so I will warn you not to lie to me, wee Quince Winthrop, though you do it alarmingly well, and without a shred of remorse. You’re altogether too convincing, and too larcenous, for a lass your age.”
    Not convincing or larcenous enough, apparently.
    “Now,” he instructed succinctly. “Give them to me.”
    She had much rather put the buttons up his gorgeously fine, straight Scots nose, but alas, such a feat would undoubtedly be unwise. Not to mention terribly messy. And utterly impossible.
    One must pick one’s battles, Mama always said, and fight only upon firm ground.