Dreaming (26 page)

That I can see where they are!“

She waved her arms around in front of the mirror, squeezed her eyes shut, then snapped her fingers.

The mirror fell off the wall.

She stared at the fallen mirror for a moment, then scowled and gave her fists a couple of frustrated shakes. “I did it wrong again!”

“Good thing that mirror didn’t break, Scottish. It would have given
Seymour
seven years’ worth of gray hair.”

She spun around, her hands covering her mouth. “Oh, Alec!” Her look turned sheepish. “I’m having a problem.”

“I can see that.” He gave the mirror a pointed look.

“Yes, well . . . ” She paused, then quickly changed the subject. “Have you seen the MacLean?”

“Did you check the broom cupboard?”

“My aunt would fill your precious port bottles with
ratafia
for that comment.”

“Before or after she stopped stirring her cauldron?”

“I’ll have you know, Alec,” she said, crossing her arms over her burgeoning belly and tapping a small foot, “there are times when I long for the days when you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

Alec crossed the room and stood behind her, sliding his arms around her and resting his hands on her bulging belly—the precious place where his future heir slept. He whispered into her ear. “No you don’t, Scottish. I was a pompous ass.”

She sighed. “Yes, you were, weren’t you? But you were still a wonderful pompous ass.”

He laughed a laugh that was no longer rusty, and she leaned back against his chest and crossed her arms comfortably over his.

“Stephen’s planting the new roses. I told him to plant the pink ones first.”

She smiled.

“He’s already begun to plant them, so I doubt we’ll see him for a while.”

“The garden will be lovely when he’s finally finished,” she said distractedly.

“I detect little enthusiasm in that response, Scottish. What’s wrong?”

“I haven’t heard one wee word from the MacLean in days.”

“Knowing your aunt, I’d say she’s probably out wreaking havoc on some poor unsuspecting mortal’s life and future.”

Joy sighed. “She does enjoy wielding her powers, especially if she can play Cupid. The only thing she finds as amusing are those silly wagers of hers.”

Alec stiffened slightly. “I fail to find them as amusing as she does.”

“That’s because she goads you into them and you always lose.”

He grumbled some response, then added, “Mary MacLean can well take care of herself. I doubt you have anything to worry over. She has popped in and out before.”

“I know, but I suppose I’m more concerned than I would normally be because of this situation with Richard.”

Alec was quiet for a moment, then said, “
Seymour
’s taking the ransom to Lundy. He should be there by tomorrow.”

She looked up into her husband’s serious face. “I can hear the concern in your voice. You could go, Alec. I wouldn’t mind.”

He glanced down at her, his features unmoving. “I mind.”

“I’m fine. Truly, I am.”

“And I intend to make certain you stay that way.”

“I wish the MacLean were here. She could get Richard back with just a snap of her fingers.” Her voice trailed off as if she were uneasy. She added quietly, “I suppose I could try to cast my own traveling spell.”

Alec cast a wary glance at the mirror. “I don’t think you should, uh . . . exert yourself in your condition, Scottish. It’s going to take more than a magic spell to help
Downe
.”

“You mean because of the Hornsby girl?”

He nodded.

“She loves him.”

“I suppose she does. But
Downe’s
not ready for marriage.”

She gave a small snort of subtle laughter.

He looked down at her and frowned. “What is so humorous?”

“Alec. No man, especially one as stubborn as Richard, ever thinks he is ready for love, much less prepared for marriage.”

In Alec’s arms was the woman who had taught him what love was and who had loved him in spite of himself. He smiled down at her. “I suppose we need you women to knock some sense into us then, don’t we?”

“Someone must do it. Left to your own devices, you men would never come ’round.”

Alec began to laugh. “Then perhaps
Downe
could use some of your aunt’s matchmaking magic. I can speak from experience when I say that if the MacLean and her Machiavellian witchcraft did become involved, Richard would never know what in the bloody hell had hit him.”

“Bloody hell!” Richard cursed, releasing the hellion. He shook his head in disbelief and sat upright “Why did you hit me?”

“You told me to.”

He scowled down at her, a distinct ringing in his ears and his head throbbing. He hadn’t known one could go from sleepy passion to anger in the blink of eye—or, in this case, a bash on the head. His voice full of his disbelief, he repeated, “I told you to?”

“Yes, you did,” she said in a stubborn tone. “On the smugglers’ ship. I shall never forget it. You were very angry and told me I should have hit you for touching my breast that way.”

He groaned and rubbed his sore head, his breath still passionately uneven. He’d been half asleep, her body pressed against his, and his touch had been instinctive.

She seemed to be searching his face for some answer. Hell, he had no answers to his own questions, much less hers.

“I didn’t think hitting you was a particularly good idea,” she admitted, still appearing to study him. “Now you look as if you want to hit something yourself.”

“Where’s Gus?”

“Richard!”

“
Grrrrrrr
.” The low growl came from a corner of the cave. The beast was still asleep.

“I remember the Reverend Mrs.
Poppit
saying that violence breeds violence. If you strike someone, they’ll strike back. It’s instinctive . . . human nature.” She adjusted her clothing, then sat there in the uncomfortable silence plucking at her hem. Quietly, she said, “I would never have hit you if you hadn’t said I should. You did tell me to do so.”

“I know I did,” he bit out in a terse voice, then picked up the piece of driftwood she’d dropped, scowling at it, because he didn’t know what else to do. “I meant to slap me.”

“You weren’t specific. You said ‘hit.’ You didn’t say what with.”

“I didn’t expect you to crack my head open with a piece of driftwood.” He gave the wood one last look, then tossed it over his shoulder.

“You’re angry with me again, aren’t you?”

He sat there, his forehead resting on one hand as he stared down at nothing. He was angry, angry at himself, angry at his situation, angry at his past, but not truly angry at her.

“I’m not certain what I am anymore,” he admitted, knowing he spoke the truth. He wanted her, yet he didn’t want to want her. He felt things he didn’t want to feel. He looked at her and saw in her his guilt, the poverty of his morals, and, even poorer, his inability to control his response to her.

“I only hit you to make you happy,” she told him in that open, honest way she had, the one that made him aware that he was only using her.

She cocked her head, as if that way she could better understand him. He looked at her for a long time and had the grounding thought that perhaps she didn’t need to understand him after all, but instead that what she needed was for him to understand her.

Half the time he didn’t understand himself. And he wasn’t certain he ever wanted to. He swore silently and looked away.

“The truth is,” she said, “I didn’t wish you to stop. I like it when you touch me that way. Makes my heart fly.”

Unable to believe what he heard, he turned back to her.

She patted her chest. “In here. Actually I wish you’d touch my other breast because it feels so wonderful.” She sighed. “As if I’ve swallowed warm butterflies.”

Her dreamy words hit him like a pail of salt water. He pinned her with a hard look meant to quiet her. “Dammit! Would you stop that!”

She frowned, her face telling him that she didn’t understand what she’d done wrong.

“God . . .
Letty
. Don’t you have any pride?”

His words hung there, cruel and callous. The air grew state with silence. There was raw pain in her expression, and it told him how completely he had just humiliated her.

As the seconds ticked by, his harsh words were an echo in his mind. He heard himself say them again and again. The only image he could picture was her face, and it was poignant with pain.

For the first time in his life he asked himself how he could have come to the point where it was easier to hurt someone than to care for them.

He looked at the hellion, searching for words that would win him forgiveness, the right words, but he was afraid that if he said anything at all it would only make things worse.

So he said nothing.

Instinct made him try to steel himself against the incredible and overwhelming sense of guilt he was feeling.

Her face crumpled and his chest tightened as if he’d been punched in it. She turned away, her bearing—the slump of her shoulders, her head bent in defeat— telling him more strongly than words that she could do nothing else at that moment but turn away, so great was her humiliation.

Bastard . . . bastard . . . bastard
 . . .

Part of him, some humane part, wanted to go back in time, to swallow the cruel words he’d shouted at her. But it was too late. If there was one thing he knew, it was that words once spoken, cruel or not, could never be taken back.

She didn’t look at him. He didn’t blame her. He couldn’t have looked at himself at that moment either.

When she spoke, it was softly, a voice barely audible for the wealth of her tears. “Yes, I have pride, but it really doesn’t matter if I do or not.” She took a breath, a deep breath that he heard shudder deep in her chest. It was the kind of breath that sounded as if her heart were struggling to keep its beat. She stared across the cave at nothing, her eyes sparkling with tears, tears he had caused.

“I think, Richard, that you have more than enough pride for both of us.”