The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (The Wallflower Wins Book 2) Page 7

  Her stomach rioted.

  Slowly, she drew in a long, steady breath. She needed to stay calm.

  His dark blue gaze hovered over her face. “I have found out something most interesting about you, Miss Highbury.”

  “Yes?” she prompted, swallowing, readying herself to be accused and sacked.

  “You tell very good stories, don’t you?”

  She laughed, relieved. “Indeed I do, sir.”

  “Yes, the boys have said as much,” he began, his voice soft, but his gaze was sharp and full of curiosity. “They have regaled me with tales of the wonderful stories you tell them at night.”

  He hesitated, cocking his head to the side. “I was wondering if you might be so kind as to regale me with a story too.”

  A story?

  Her throat tightened. Whatever could he be on about?

  She licked her lips, imagining sitting beside him as she spun a whole world about them. The intimacy of that image filled her with both pleasure and amazement. It was terribly inappropriate!

  She cleared her throat. “That hardly seems–”

  “Why not?” he cut in, his soft burr suddenly more pronounced. “Don’t you think I should be allowed the pleasure of your excellent stories?”

  “How can you be certain they are excellent, Laird MacAlister? You’ve never heard me tell a story, and the quality of my stories may only live up to the hopes of small boys.”

  He paused and adjusted the golden signet ring upon his broad hand. “I have a confession to make, Miss Highbury.”

  Those words sent a strange zing of alarm and anticipation through her. “Oh dear, that sounds most dire.”

  “I came across your writing desk this afternoon,” he stated, locking gazes with her.

  “You did what?” she rasped, her mouth growing dry. In fact, her entire body tensed with shock.

  He nodded, drawing in a breath which expanded his chest against the perfect tailoring of his coat in the most fascinating of ways. “I found your writing desk beneath the tree.”

  “And, of course, like a good gentleman, you kept it closed,” she said, willing it to be true.

  “Alas, I’m apparently a little bit like the villain of your story.” A slow smile tilted his perfect lips before he admitted, “I read the whole thing.”

  She could not draw breath, and the world swung around her so forcefully she had to will herself not to panic.

  Was he about to send her packing?

  The very idea sent a stab of dread through her. She loved it here with the boys. She did not wish to go!

  She licked her lips, desperate to defend herself. “Such writing is something I do for my own pleasure, in my own time. I have done nothing scandalous.”

  Her words were false, she knew. Just the act of writing something so salacious was a scandal in and of itself.

  What he must think of her!

  But instead of censure or condemnation, he scoffed, “Of course there’s nothing scandalous about you. You’re a young woman with an interesting imagination.”

  She blinked, amazed at his declaration. “Is that what you think?”

  “Indeed it is what I think.” He crossed to his desk, then casually leaned against it as he captured her gaze. “And I want to know what happens next in your story. Very much.”

  She laughed, a tight but relieved sound, but then as his gaze continued to linger and she felt the intensity of his stare, her smile dimmed. “Goodness. You’re quite serious?”

  “Indeed I am,” he replied simply. “You’re an excellent writer. It was agony to come to the last page and find no conclusion.”

  A wave of pleasure washed over her. He liked it so very much?

  He scowled. “I don’t think I particularly like your villain though.”

  “He’s not a villain,” she pointed out quickly. “He’s the hero.”

  MacAlister arched a dark brow. “Is he, by God? Stealing her away like that? Putting her in a tower?”

  “He has his reasons,” she rushed, feeling compelled to protect the characters of her making.

  Laird MacAlister folded his arms across his chest. “He could not possibly have good reasons for doing such a thing.”

  “It is a drama, Laird MacAlister,” she reminded, astounded to be discussing the motives of her characters with anyone, let alone a Highland laird.

  “Even if it is a drama,” he declared, “one should never treat a lady thus. I would never do such a thing.”

  “Of course you would not!” she assured, amazed by his passion regarding her work and the care of her heroine. “It’s why it’s a work of fiction.”

  “He does look a bit like me,” he pointed out.

  “Yes,” she confessed, wary. Suddenly, she wished she could kick herself for allowing his portrait to so inspire her. It had. There was no getting around it. Frankly, he did too. How could he not, a man so unique?

  She dared to take a step forward and explain, “But you are rather heroic in your appearance. You already know that, of course.”

  His sensual lips turned in a playful curve. “Are you suggesting that I am not heroic in deed?”

  Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Of course you’re heroic in deed. In everyday life, I should far rather know you than the hero of my story.”

  He frowned, leaned forward and questioned, “Are you suggesting that I’m not very interesting?”

  “You are interesting for everyday use,” she explained carefully, wondering if she had the power to bruise his feelings. Surely not? She swallowed and plunged forward. “But in a novel, the hero must be… Well, he must do very bold things.”

  “I see,” he said, his gaze all but dancing. Then he braced his hands on his desk. “Why have you not finished it?”

  She’d asked herself the same question for several days. She gave him the same answer she gave herself. “I have no time.”

  “Bah,” he replied bluntly. “An excuse.”

  Her spine straightened, rather indignant at being so called out. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is an excuse,” he repeated, neither cruelly nor kindly. He said it as a simple fact. “There are enough hours in the day for you to spend at least one of them writing.”

  She folded her hands in front of her, finding it quite uncomfortable to have her own doubts put before her in the guise of someone else’s words. “I am always looking after your nephews.”

  “No,” he said gently. “That is not true. For instance, right now you are not looking after my nephews.”

  “No,” she agreed before gritting her teeth. “I am having a conversation with you.”

  “And they are with their nursemaid,” he said gently, “because we have the good fortune to be able to have maids for the children as well as a nursemaid. It is true that you teach them, and look after them, and entertain them. But it is also true you have assistance with them.”

  He paused, then said firmly, “You do not need to be with them every waking hour of the day. It is what you choose.”

  Her heart beat rapidly as he said all the things she had often thought. She’d often chosen the boys instead of her book. She’d convinced herself that it was a good thing. But was she giving up her dreams?

  “They are wonderful children,” she rushed. “And I wish them to be happy.”

  “Good,” he declared, clapping his hands together. “So do I, but I think this might be something else.”

  “Indeed?” she drawled. “Do illuminate it.”

  “Fear,” he observed kindly. “Are you afraid to finish it?”

  A flash of anger coursed through her before she realized he was bloody right. Even so, it was difficult to hear. And how the blazes had he so accurately guessed?

  “You are very bold, sir, making such assumptions,” she countered.

  “I don’t think I am,” he replied, pushing away from his ornately carved desk. “You see, I’ve known several creative people and they have difficulty finishing their work at times. Usually,
when they’re concerned about how it will be received. How long have you been writing your book?”

  She lifted her chin. “You, sir, make very bold assessments and seem to act as if you know me, when indeed you do not.”

  Instead of being put off, he drew in a long breath. “Months?”

  His accuracy was infuriating.

  “Months,” she agreed. She’d begun plotting it several months ago. And she’d assumed she’d be able to finish it in but a few weeks. The pace she was writing now? It would be a year. A year before she could even attempt to sell it.

  “Honestly,” he replied passionately. “I wager that you could finish this within a week if you so wished.”

  She swallowed.

  He was right, of course.

  She didn’t wish to face it. She had been blaming being exhausted with the boys, but she’d also been afraid. Afraid that if she did finish her book, what would it mean? If she finally finished it and sent it to a publisher and they didn’t publish it?

  Her dreams would be for naught.

  “I can see it on your face, you know,” he said.

  “What?” she demanded, blinking rapidly.

  “Your worry,” he said softly.

  “I am not worried,” she retaliated. Except the words came out as a goose-like protest. For it was a lie.

  He did not seem to judge her for it but simply continued.

  “You fear that your dreams might not work out, that people might judge your work and find it wanting? I think that every artist has that, at least from what I can tell.”

  He crossed the distance between them, looking down from his great height. Ever so gently, he touched her shoulder. “You know, I have commissioned many paintings and I’ve commissioned many theater pieces as well. It is the general constitution of an artist to fear the outcome and fear the rejection of many. They all fear, secretly, that their genius will not be recognized.”

  “My genius?” she repeated, tilting her head back to truly look at him.

  She studied his handsome face for some sign of mockery.

  There was none.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Miss Helena Highbury, your genius. You’re as good as any writer living or any who have written in the last hundred years. I’d even dare say since the invention of the novel.” He leaned down ever so slightly, his hand resting gently on her upper arm as if he could somehow give her his own confidence. “You are denying the world a great deal by not finishing your book and sending it into the world where it will create so much joy.”

  Her heart began to thunder almost painfully in her chest.

  His nearness. . . His words. . .

  The power of them nearly undid her.

  She swayed towards him, then blinked. Bracing herself, she clutched her writing desk as if it, like his hand, could give her strength.

  “I cannot believe you are saying such things,” she whispered.

  “Indeed I am,” he replied, his voice a low rumble as his dark locks teased his brow. “And now we must find a way of prompting you to finish.”

  The closeness of his hard body and his scent, vanilla and soap, surrounded her.

  It was thrilling and almost as overpowering as his belief in her.

  “How?” she asked. “When I am, as you say, afraid. You see, it does sometimes seem to steal my ability to write away. I avoid the page all together.”

  He was silent for a long moment before, oh so slowly, he lifted his hand to her chin and caressed her jaw with his thumb.

  “A wager, perhaps?”

  “A wager?” she repeated.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “A wager wherein losing is impossible for you. Something which might alarm you more than not finishing.”

  “And what is that?” she prompted, enthralled by the feel of his hand upon her skin.

  He licked his lower lip. “I have an idea, but you might hate me for it.”

  “I don’t think I could ever hate you after you called me a genius.”

  “Good then,” he replied, allowing his fingers to trail to the nape of her neck in a shocking display of intimacy. “I will make a wager with you.” His eyes grew dark and full of hunger. “I wager. . .that I can seduce you before you finish your book.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she gasped, barely able to countenance how he was holding her.

  His strong fingers slid into her curls, keeping her still with the promise of pleasure. “Miss Highbury, I will use all my wiles upon you and I will only cease when you finish writing. You don’t wish to me to actually ruin you, do you? You will feel motivated to finish?”

  “Of course, I don’t wish to be ruined,” she hissed. Though it was hard to deny how evocative his touch was. How it made the strangest sensations dance through her body.

  “Then we have a wager.”

  “Laird MacAlister, you have suddenly become the villain of my story.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “But sometimes, a villain moves the plot along, no?”

  And that, she realized, was why he was doing this.

  He knew that she would finish. She could see it in his eyes, dark with passion. But he was not going to stand by while she prevaricated or procrastinated any longer.

  And she was not the sort to be seduced easily.

  He knew that too.

  And so, she lifted her chin. “We have a wager, then.”

  He bit his lower lip ever so slightly, then breathed, “Let the game begin.”

  “I’m going to my room,” she announced bluntly, hardly able to understand how her world had turned so entirely upside down.

  “Shall I follow you there?” he asked, his voice low and as tempting as rich, red wine.

  “No,” she said. “I have a story write.”

  He smiled a wicked smile. “I’m glad to hear it, but I shall not lose this wager easily.”

  “Nor I, Laird MacAlister. Nor I.”

  Chapter 8

  Someone thought she was a genius.

  And not just any someone.

  Laird Gideon MacAlister.

  A genius!

  Helena couldn’t stop grinning as she all but danced before her fire.

  In fact, her cheeks almost ached at her continual smile due to her joy at his proclamation.

  The feelings coursing through her were marvelous.

  Before, she’d only had her friends to validate her writing. She’d happily shared it with them, but they were her friends, so how could she not doubt their compliments?

  But a laird, and a veritable stranger, her employer?

  His enthusiasm and confidence in her book seemed somehow easier to believe, though she did wonder if it was all a dream.

  Yes, he was quite pleased with her writing. More than pleased. He wanted her to do more of it, so much more that he was creating the most absurd wager known to man.

  Really, the idea that he would seduce her was simply absurd. If he did indeed try to seduce her, she’d assume he was mocking her at every possible moment.

  Which was what he had to mean surely?

  He knew that she would not wish to be laughed at day in and day out, and so she would finish to avoid such a perverse show.

  And he was correct.

  She wouldn’t put up with it.

  She was no fool. A man like him would never truly wish to seduce a woman like her.

  No, his silliness was not to be born.

  She would write her book as quickly as possible, share it with him, and then they could go back to how things were. She would not be putting up with his condescension on the seduction front.

  In truth, she should have told him such a wager was not worth doing. How could she ever take credence in it?

  But the truth was she did need the motivation to finish her novel. She’d been struggling with it for weeks upon weeks.

  Waves of self-doubt had threatened to crush her every time she sat down to write it.

  And it really was true.

  She was terrified that when she sent it to
a publisher, nothing would come of it.

  She stopped before the fire and traced her hand along the mantel, gazing down at the glow of the burning logs.

  She had such big dreams. Some would laugh at her for them. MacAlister had not. He had fanned them, much like one would a fire like the one before her.

  Oh, she loved writing so much, and she wished beyond anything to become a writer who could make their living from their pen.

  She pressed her lips together, envisioning him following her about, trying to seduce her like a rake in a novel.

  There was only one thing to do.

  She would have to make sure that she won the wager quickly.

  Helena gave herself a nod. She could do this. She could ignore the doubts and difficult voices in her head insisting she’d fail.

  With a sense of new determination, she whirled around, clapped her hands, turned to her desk, and sat down upon the simple wooden chair. Without wasting another moment, she whipped out her quill.

  She stared at the blank page but did not allow herself to think of all the barriers between this moment and the one where she was successful, as she usually did.

  Instead, she thought of MacAlister and the pure enthusiasm that had shone from his eyes as he discussed her characters.

  She dipped the nib into her ink well, then made words flow from her consciousness, not correcting herself at all.

  She wrote, and she wrote, and she wrote until her hand began to cramp.

  Helena winced, shook it off, then wrote some more.

  Though she loathed to admit it, she realized that she was seeing Gideon MacAlister’s face in her head, hearing his voice as she wrote her own hero’s chapters.

  Goodness, MacAlister truly was the very image of her hero.

  It was interesting that he thought her hero was a villain.

  She supposed she could understand that, and she admired the fact that MacAlister had such high standards for men.

  Truly, more men should have high standards for themselves, she thought. But in this particular kind of fiction, the hero was always dangerous, always doing that which might be questionable, and it was the journey of the story which made him choose the right path. A path where he met the heroine.