Stuart, Elizabeth (13 page)

There
was a serious moment as everyone raised a glass in silent salute. "We'd
best drink to five men," Francis said, amending the toast. "Conall's
in Edinburgh watching Glenkennon's every move. The lad'd not take kindly to
being left out of our plans."

Ian
grinned. "If I know Conall, he's got his own revel going in some snug
little inn."

"Not
this time," MacLean said seriously. "Conall's got his work cut out
for him."

Janet's
smile trembled, but she raised her glass high. "Aye to Conall. May God
give him aid."

MacLean
gazed at his sister affectionately, then returned to his pleasurable perusal of
Anne. He took a slow sip of wine. "Do I recognize Mother's necklace?"
he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"Of
course," Janet said lightly, making an obvious attempt to put her worries
away. "It seems you forgot Anne's jewel box... along with the trifling
matter of her clothing. I've made her a loan for the evening."

MacLean
moved closer to Anne, as if to study the jewels, his eyes dropping to the
rounded fullness of her breasts. "That was always my favorite
necklace." He raised his hand, catching the flashing stones.

The
warm brush of his fingers against the naked skin of her throat sent a strange
feeling skittering along the edges of Anne's nerves. Her knees felt suddenly
shaky and her heart missed several beats. It did not matter that he touched
her, she assured herself. It was only an accident; he had meant nothing by it.

MacLean
saw the pulse leap in her throat and longed to press his lips against the spot.
He studied the necklace silently, then lifted laughing eyes to hers. "I
don't remember the thing ever looking so fetching on Mother."

Anne
felt a blush steal over her cheeks. She was unsure what to say to MacLean in
his present flirtatious mood. He seemed different tonight, and besides... his
proximity was having a strange effect on her heart. She longed to move away,
but his fingers clasped the chain and kept her effectively beneath his hand.

"Francis,
mind your manners!" Janet reproved. "You're embarrassing the
girl." She shook her head at Anne. "Ignore him, Anne. I promise the
other men you meet will be gentlemen, even if their host is not."

MacLean
ended his inspection of the necklace with obvious reluctance, allowing the
chain to fall back against Anne's throat. She moved away without meeting his
eyes, knowing instinctively the danger of doing so. He was too adept at this
fine art of dalliance, and she was as tongue-tied and inexperienced as a child
just out of the nursery. Ignore him, Janet had suggested; Anne only wished she
could!

Finishing
the wine, the group moved into the hall where guests were already gathering.
Soon a welter of people had assembled, and the names and faces swirled in
Anne's head. Janet remained staunchly beside her, pointing out individuals of
interest and smoothing over the awkward introductions.

Gradually
Anne began to feel less self-conscious. Janet's guests were interested and
friendly—and none mentioned her father. Perhaps the evening would be a success
after all.

Just
when dinner was about to begin, a stir near the doorway caught her attention. A
breathtakingly beautiful young woman in a wine-colored gown swept in,
immediately becoming the center of a group of eager gentlemen. Anne studied her
admiringly. The woman's dark hair formed a smoky cloud about her face and bare
shoulders. Her eyes were large and lustrous, but they scanned the room
restlessly.

"Who's
that?" she whispered.

Janet
glanced toward the door "That's Elizabeth Macintyre making her grand
entrance," she said dryly. "The woman can't be content unless she has
every eye on her and every man in Scotland at her feet."

Anne
watched as MacLean broke away from a circle of friends and moved across the
room to take the beauty's hand. Standing in the bright light of the flaming
torches, they made a handsome couple. Both were tall and dark, and they laughed
easily together with the intimacy of an old friendship.

"Some
say she'll be Lady MacLean by fall, though I'm not so sure," Janet
whispered. "Francis needs to take a wife, and she's the only woman he's
hinted taking an interest in... I mean a marriageable interest," she
corrected herself with a smile. "I'm not fond of the girl. Still, it's better
she than no one if Francis is inclined. I'll do my best to like her so long as
she makes him happy."

Anne
gazed woodenly at the laughing pair, feeling all the excitement and pleasure of
the evening draining away. The intensity of her disappointment sounded the
first warning alarm in her head. Why should it matter that Francis MacLean was
promised to another woman?

Remembering
his practiced flirtation earlier, she was suddenly ashamed of her response to
his touch—ashamed and irrationally angry. Turning from the handsome couple, she
made a great show of interest in conversing with a woman claiming kinship to
the MacDonnells of Glengarry.

Dinner
began with Elizabeth, who stood strategically beside MacLean at the start,
seated to his right. Anne sat between her uncle and the admiring Eric, forcing
herself to respond to their lighthearted comments while she attempted to choke
down the tasteless food on her plate. The rich laughter that rang repeatedly
down the table was a continual source of misery, for her one glance in that
direction had fallen upon Francis and Elizabeth, laughing together over their
wine.

Jealous—she
was actually jealous, she admitted incredulously. She stared down the table in
dismay. When had Sir Francis MacLean's opinion begun to matter so much to her?
When had he first stopped being an enemy to dread and despise?

Days
ago, she confessed honestly. But it was only that he was the first man who had
been kind to her, the first to flirt with her and tease her and treat her as a
woman worthy of attention. There was nothing more, she assured herself hastily.
She had no reason for shame.

After
dinner, Anne's spirits rose considerably when the benches and tables were
pushed back against the walls to ready the room for dancing. Indeed, it was
hard to be despondent with a dozen gentlemen clamoring for the promise of a
dance. No one seemed to mind who she was or why she was there. Determinedly
banishing the thought of Elizabeth and MacLean, she began to enjoy herself.

The
first strains of music were beginning when MacLean pushed his way through the
crowd to claim her hand. "I believe I'd the promise of the first
dance," he reminded her with a smile.

"Don't
regard it," she said, forcing herself to speak pleasantly. She cast a
significant glance toward Elizabeth. "I'll not hold you to your
promise."

MacLean
noticed the look but chose to ignore it. "You'll not get out of it so
easily, lass." He took her arm, leaning toward her so closely she felt the
warmth of his breath against her ear. "I've looked forward to this all
night. You're caught, lass. You might as well come peacefully."

Throughout
the dance, Anne refused to meet Mac-Lean's eyes, replying to his polite
attempts at conversation with brief answers. She had been foolish to dance with
him. He was much too close, and the warm feel of his fingers clasping her own
sent her emotions whirling. She was hot and cold at the same time—and aware of
her feelings as she hadn't been before.

"Given
the chance to guard your bath again, there might be a different tale to tell,"
MacLean murmured after a long silence. "I've been wishing this night that
I'd not been such a gentleman."

Anne's
eyes flew to his, then away to a couple on her right. "Lower your
voice," she whispered. "I've no wish that the entire company hear
that tale. Besides—" She sent him an arch smile. "I doubt you'd know
the difference between a gentleman and a knave."

He
caught her hands and turned her deftly about in front of him, pulling her
closer than the movement of the dance required. "I'll be happy to show you
the difference, lass," he threatened softly in her ear.

Anne
forced herself to smile and curtsy as the dance ended. Francis MacLean was an
accomplished flirt; she had seen evidence aplenty of that tonight. Why, he must
have had half the women in the room languishing and sighing, certain he was in
love with them.

And
he planned to wed Elizabeth Macintyre, Anne reminded herself. He was only
amusing himself with her and countless other fools. She turned quickly, before
she could betray her feelings, leaving him in the middle of the floor without a
backward glance.

For
the rest of the evening, she stayed as far away from MacLean as possible
without causing comment. She danced every dance, letting the lively music and
the laughter and compliments of her partners ease the ridiculous ache beneath
her heart. She kept her eyes resolutely away from her host—especially when he
danced with Elizabeth and leaned his dark head down toward hers.

She
was dancing a spirited reel with Eric when Francis maneuvered into position
beside her. Forced to encounter him in the movement of the dance, she smiled
and spoke in passing. At the end of the dance, he caught her before she moved
away. "I'll see to Mistress Randall," he said with a curt nod of
dismissal toward Eric.

Taking
her arm, he edged through the crowd toward a line of benches along the wall.
"You've been avoiding me all night. Shall I beg pardon on bended knee? I
only spoke my thoughts honestly."

Anne
wished for something polished and worldly to say, but could think of nothing.
"Oh, did you?" she asked lightly. "I doubt you do anything
honestly, Francis Mac-Lean."

He
halted abruptly, a look of incredulous surprise sweeping all signs of amusement
from his face. "What, lass?"

Anne
glanced away, knowing she needed to escape before she said something she would
regret. "Excuse me, m'lord, but I've promised a dance to—"

"Not
now," MacLean interrupted. "We must talk." Unmindful of her
protest, he dragged her along in his wake. Waylaying a passing servant, he
thrust a glass of wine into her hand and seized one for himself. Still holding
her elbow, he steered her down the uncrowded corridor to a curtained alcove
which serviced the hall.

The
cool emptiness of the room was a welcome relief after the heated press of the
hall. Anne picked her way between two narrow tables covered with unused trays
and scattered tankards, holding her skirts carefully away from contact with
three dusty barrels of ale waiting to be broached. Turning, she faced MacLean
warily across the short space.

"I'd
like to know your meaning just now," he said, his eyes following her every
move.

She
took a slow sip of wine before placing the glass carefully on the table, buying
time while she searched for words that would not sound foolish. It was none of
her business whom he fancied—and for all she knew, it was the practice for
gentlemen to flirt outrageously with every woman who crossed their path. She
had never been so miserably aware of her own inexperience.

"Don't
regard it," she said, leaning back against the cool stone and closing her
eyes. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded... and it doesn't matter
anyway."

"But
it matters a great deal to me," MacLean replied. He leaned forward,
catching her bare shoulders and sliding his hands caressingly down her arms
until his thumbs gently stroked the sensitive skin at the base of her wrists.

At
his touch, Anne felt a pleasurable stir begin inside her, but the image of
Elizabeth Macintyre materialized to spoil the feeling. She jerked away. How
dare he try to make love to her now. She was no such fool! "How can you
touch me like this when everyone knows you're to wed Elizabeth Macintyre?"
she blurted out.

"Sweet
Jesu, Anne, where'd you hear that tale?"

"From
your sister. And half the other women in the room. It's common enough
gossip."

"Women
must always be gossiping, I suppose," he said calmly, "but there's no
truth to the tale. I've no plans to wed Elizabeth, nor have I ever indicated
any such intention. Her father is one of my oldest friends. I suppose her
frequent presence here has given rise to the talk."

Anne
felt a ridiculous happiness sweep over her, which must have shown immediately
in her face. MacLean smiled. "And as for touching you like this," he
continued, leaning closer and sliding both hands slowly along her arms,
"why, I'll be damned if I can do otherwise."

He
was so close that she could see her own image reflected in the dark pupils of
his eyes. Her gaze dropped to his mouth... to the hollow of his suntanned
throat where the rapid beat of his pulse was plainly visible...

His
grip tightened on her arms, drawing her closer. This time she would not pull
away. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the powerful surge of excitement
washing over her. He was going to kiss her...

"So,
here you two are!"

Anne's
eyes flew open in dismay. Elizabeth Macintyre stood in the doorway, Eric
fidgeting uncomfortably at her side. The woman's cold, hazel eyes glittered
dangerously, but she forced her tone to one of teasing playfulness. "Janet
is looking for you, Mistress Randall. She sent Eric and me to see you weren't
getting into mischief." She flashed a sidelong glance at Francis.
"Someone should have warned you about the dangers of these hidden spots
after a few glasses of wine. Francis, shame on you for disappearing without a
word—and with such an innocent!"