Elaine Coffman - [MacKinnon 04] (10 page)

The immense room had grown uncomfortably warm. Suddenly
Maggie wanted to be away from this reminder of another’s love. She wondered
what Molly would think if she were suddenly to spring to her feet and run from
the room as fast as her feet could carry her. Then she wondered what had gotten
into her for allowing her thoughts such liberties. She wasn’t a woman to run
from anything. She had always had her feet planted firmly on the ground and was
mindful to keep her head out of the clouds. It shouldn’t matter what Adrian’s
feelings for this woman had been in the past. He had married her, Maggie
Mackinnon, and she intended to see that he did not forget, or regret, it.

As if reading her thoughts, Molly said, “I wouldn’t worry
none, if I were you. Like Adrian, Alex married a woman he didn’t fancy himself
in love with. In Alex’s case, he found out later that he had married the right
woman after all. God does that to us sometimes—doesn’t give us what we want,
but what we need.”

The quiet pensiveness of the room seemed to pervade her
thoughts as Maggie said softly, “Perhaps that is true, but I canna help
wondering if I’m what he needs.”

“Only time will tell that,” Molly said, matter-of-factly.
Then she came to her feet and said, “Here I’ve been blabbing my fool head off
again, knowing all the while that Big John Polly is sitting at home wondering
where in tarnation his supper is. What time would you like your breakfast?”

“Oh, please, there’s no need to go to that much trouble for
me. I can make my own breakfast.”

“It’s what I’m paid to do,” Molly said. “If you don’t have a
preference, I’ll have it ready at the usual time.”

“What time is that?”

“Five.”

Molly turned to leave, and Maggie cleared her throat. “Is
the option still open to choose a time?” she asked. “Because if it is, I’ll
settle for eight.” As she spoke, she could swear she saw the curve of a smile
wrapping itself around Molly Polly’s mouth.

“I’ll have scones and hot tea ready at eight.”

Surprised at those words, Maggie said, “I would have never
expected scones and hot tea to be your usual fare for breakfast here.”

“It isn’t. This will be the first time.”

With that, Molly nodded her head curtly and left. It was the
first indication Maggie had that Molly Polly went out of her way for anyone or
anything.

Maggie turned back to the portrait. So she had been right.
This never-ending feast for the eyes in crimson velvet was Katherine.
Katherine, ghostly and yet so very real. She was just as Maggie would have
imagined her, a woman of extraordinary elegance, a being of beauty seen in a
tender light by the man who had loved her. A dream whose voice haunted and
robbed him of sleep.

“This,” she said softly, “is what stands between us. This is
where it all begins.”

Apparently Adrian Mackinnon was not very well versed in the
Highlander’s way of looking at things, for if he had known that his failure to
return to camp for two weeks after Maggie’s arrival was adding fresh peat to a
well-stoked fire, he would have returned sooner.

It was early afternoon by the time Adrian and Eli rode up
the narrow, winding road toward his house. Summer had come at last to redwood
country; the sky was clear, and the sun overhead was bright and warm. Not one
to become engrossed in his surroundings, Adrian would have never looked across
the grassy, flower-strewn slope at all if something out of the corner of his
eye hadn’t caught his attention. Glancing toward the distraction, he saw a
woman in white, her dress billowing out around her as she stood on a sunlit
point, a summit of rusty-pink earth and sweet spring grasses, looking out
across the haze of blue, sun-dappled ocean. He pulled up, ignoring the
nervousness of a high-strung horse snorting and pawing the earth in his
impatience to be home, and the jingle of bridle as he lowered his head and
rubbed the throat latch against his foreleg.

Adrian felt as if he were seeing this particular patch of
earth beneath a clear blue sky for the first time. His eyes went to the woman,
and he felt there was something fundamental here, something remindful of God
and creation, of the heavens and firmament, of Adam and his helpmate, Eve, of
the beauty and wonder that was woman.

He pondered his feelings for a moment. What was it about
this woman that evoked such a strong reminder of creation?

Feelings along this vein weren’t such strange things for a
body to be thinking, but it was past strange if that body happened to be Adrian
Mackinnon, for he was not one to ever have thoughts such as those. Adrian
simply was not the sort of man to dwell long upon a woman’s appearance. God
created man and woman, and Adrian accepted it as fact. What good did it do to
think upon it? He had more important things on his mind, and his philosophy
was, if it doesn’t make money, it doesn’t deserve much attention.

Intrigued, both with the woman and the strange feeling that,
at least for the moment, some of his shrewdness was being superseded, he
watched the woman make her way down the hillside, her back slightly to him as
she angled off in the opposite direction.

He was both relieved and disappointed that she had not seen
him; disappointed that he could not see her face, relieved that his presence
would not disturb and interfere with her freedom, her almost uninhibited way of
moving. He had no way of knowing just how long he sat there, or even why he
did, captivated by a woman, slender, elegant, mysterious; a gust of wind
fluttering the gauzy thinness of a long veil trailing from her hat, his
attention on the way the wind molded the fabric of her dress against a shapely
length of leg that went on forever, as she seemed to skim across the grass. She
looked soft and feminine. She was loveliness itself. She was woman. His woman.

She also happened to be his wife.

His wife. The thought sobered him. His brows drew together
in his customary way, one of a bold, almost contemptuous, scrutiny. There was
no doubt as to who this woman was, for he had known her immediately, as if she
were something, some part of himself, that had been lost or misplaced, a part
of himself he had suddenly discovered. He found that feeling strange. But even
the strangeness of knowing who she was did not lessen the effect of surprise,
the way she had suddenly appeared, her long, white dress trailing behind her,
as if she had stepped out of a dream with all the unexpected charm of a
childhood apparition. It struck him as strongly as the memory of Katherine.

“Uh…you still want me to come on up to the house?” Eli
asked, clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably in the saddle.

“What?” Adrian turned dazed eyes upon Eli, for until the
moment Eli had spoken, Adrian had forgotten about him.

“The house. You still want me to come with you?”

“No,” Adrian said, looking back at the woman. “We can go
over those accounts another time. Seems I have more pressing business now.”

Eli followed Adrian’s gaze. “Yep, I’d say that you have at
that. But don’t you worry about meeting her none, about being nervous over her
being a real, genuine lady and all of that. She’s just like plain, ordinary
folk, she is. Never met myself a Scot before, but I’ve been thinking they must
not be so different from us, except for the strange way they have of saying
things. You’ll get a kick out of it, when you hear her talk. It’s English, but
then again, it ain’t.” Eli shook his head. “She’s a wiry little thing. Kinda
reminds me of a little terrier I had once. He weren’t very big, but he didn’t
know that. Amazed me every time, how he could stand his own against dogs three
times his size.”

Adrian shot him a quelling look. “Surely you could find a
better comparison for my wife than a dog,” he said.

Eli laughed. “Well, maybe I could, although I don’t think it
would bother her none.”

“It bothers me,” Adrian said. “That should be enough.”

“Well, at any rate, I think you’ll like her. She’s got what
it takes. Came right in here and made up her mind to fit in, and by golly,
she’s done just that. Fell flat on her face in the mud, she did…her first day
here, mind you, but that didn’t stop her none. Pulled herself right up and
marched on like nothing happened, bogging down in the mud, up to her elbows.
Lost both of her slippers.” He chuckled. “Must’ve weighed a ton, with all that
mud, but she never said a word, had every man in the outfit admiring her
spirit. She’s got at it takes,” he said, nodding his head, as if agreeing with,
“Yessir…she’s got bottom, that one has. Real bottom.”

“To hell with her bottom,” Adrian said, not bothering to
look at Eli, but keeping his eyes on the woman. “My interest lies in another
direction entirely.”

“Well, maybe you’ll get that, too… They say the squeaking
wheel’s the one what gets the grease.”

Eli’s words ringing in his head, Adrian turned back to look
at his wife. Possessing a nature that was strictly business at best, he knew
his first impulse was to confront her, to make her immediately aware of his
arrival, to catch her off guard and gain control of the moment by doing so. Yet
he could not compel his body to move with the same urgency that prompted his
mind. He found himself oddly content to observe her—even more closely than before,
as if he had only this moment in time to capture the essence of her, dreading,
almost to the point of fear, that like an apparition, she would be gone all too
soon and he would be left with nothing but a memory and the aftertaste of
something sweet that had once lingered on a tongue accustomed only to tartness
and vinegar.

Some yards behind her, she had abandoned an ivory-handled
parasol, and her arms, he could see even from here, were filled with spring
flowers. He felt inadequate and frustrated at his lack of knowledge, his
inability to interpret each movement, each gesture. There was nothing out of
the ordinary about her behavior that should intrigue him so; no throaty
laughter, no cavorting, no frisky capers, no graceful arabesques, no whirling
around until dizzy—nothing but simple, straight, fleeting lines of
extraordinary elegance, the gentle and unexpected purity of beauty and woman,
the sensitivity and mystery of God’s gentler side. Her loveliness was delicate
and disturbing and just a little terrifying. It was strange how bleak nature
looked beside her, and it crossed his mind that Mother Nature should be
jealous.

For the first time, he understood what Ross had meant when
he had written, “She was born a lady—one look at her defines the word.”

Here truly was a woman who would stand out, and she did so,
even against the fleecy luster of a cloud.

For as long as he lived, he would never forget his first
glimpse of her, the way he was overwhelmed by the lines of a woman’s supple
body graced by a simple dress of brilliant white, his sudden awareness of
blended reflections, gentle shadows, and vivid, vivid light.

Captivated, he watched her turn slowly and walk farther down
the grassy slope, gathering wildflowers, still quite ignorant of his presence.
Life was such a realist painter, for in observing her for only a short time, he
seemed to see and feel all the emotions of existence.

“Well,” Eli said, clearing his throat again, “I guess I’ll
be moseying on back toward camp. I’ll bring these figures by the office
tomorrow.”

“Right,” Adrian said. “Tomorrow will be fine.” When Eli made
no move to leave, Adrian said, “Was there anything else?”

“No, I guess not.”

Adrian opened his mouth, but Eli broke in. “I know, I know,”
he said, “it’s time for me to make myself scarce, but I shore do hate to.
Confrontations are something I don’t like to miss. Especially the good ones.”

Adrian was looking at him strangely now. “You expecting a
confrontation?”

Eli chuckled. “I do, but it won’t last long, I suspect.”

“No,” Adrian said, “it won’t.”

Eli laughed. “I’d watch myself if I were you. The bigger a
man’s head, the bigger his headache.”

Eli turned his horse around, and put his hand respectfully
to the brim of his hat. “Good day to you then, Mr. Mackinnon,” he said drily.
“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow…if you’re up to it.”

Then, with a laugh, he urged his horse forward and rode out
of sight.

Adrian watched Eli leave, then turned his horse off the
road, feeling himself drawn toward her, imagining as he rode what her face
would look like up close. He was frustrated at his inability to learn more
about her just by watching her, as his shrewd, businesslike nature had taught
him to do. The woman intrigued him. The charm had taken hold. As he drew
nearer, momentarily blinded by the brilliant burst of midday upon the whiteness
of her dress, he could not help but wonder how she would look naked, and
turning toward him in the violet shadows of night.

His body stirred at the thought, and he curbed it. Adrian
did not give in easily to emotion, and even less to passion. Control was his
trump card, and he always held one in reserve. He studied the woman with a
hard, arrogant glance, the same he used to intimidate when he felt vulnerable.
One look at the woman on the hillside, and Adrian knew he was like an open
wound.

Although still a few yards away, he could see she had been
painting, her canvas still on the easel, an opened paint box filled with mixing
pots, paints, and brushes sitting on the ground. He wondered if she had any
talent for painting. Or was she one of those of little talent who took up the
brush to wile away the hours of boredom?

Remembering she had been here for over two weeks made him
feel just a little responsible for any boredom she might be experiencing, so he
reminded himself that he was a busy man with a company to run, and it was best
for her to learn early in their relationship that there were parts of his life
that came first, before her.

He nudged his horse forward, knowing it was intimidating to
those on the ground to be looked down upon from a superior height. By the time
he rode up behind her, she was gathering her brushes. He pulled his horse up,
thinking she was a daring little thing, painting as close to the edge of the
cliff as she was, but he was too intrigued by her canvas, her almost naïve
attempt to paint the noble efforts of nature on a tiny square of cloth, to make
any comment.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, and he decided to wait, to see
how long it would take her to feel his presence. He studied her canvas. He was
certainly no judge of art, but he had seen enough, and purchased enough for his
home, to know the pictorial quality of her work was no accident. Her painting
possessed the potent charm of a child; simple and honest, unmarred by
perplexing detail. With remarkable fidelity, she reproduced what she saw on
canvas: a field of spring flowers, sunshine, waves breaking against dark,
jagged rocks, all against the never-ending blue of the sky.

His study was broken by the clattering of a tin pot against
rocks, and he looked toward her in time to see one of her pots go bouncing and
rolling across the rocks, dangerously close to the edge, where it teetered for
a moment.

She moved quickly, so quickly that he didn’t at first
realize she intended to go after the tumbling pot. He reacted with instinct
born of desperation, leaping from his horse and moving behind her with a
swiftness that surprised even him, one lashing about her waist and jerking her
against him as he turned them both away from the edge of the cliff as the pot,
caught by a sudden gust of wind, tumbled over and vanished from sight.

For a blurred instant, Maggie had a glimpse of the jagged
rocks and pounding surf that lay below, then she felt herself wrenched
backward, the breath slammed from her as she contacted with something solid.

Adrian swore swiftly. This wasn’t exactly the kind of
meeting he imagined for their first encounter. He felt the weight and warmth of
her in his arms and became uncomfortable. He found this woman unsettling,
almost annoying. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to
hold her closer than he held her now. He felt angry and he didn’t understand
why. Was it because of the way she felt in his arms, the feelings her closeness
brought to the surface?

Adrian had never known fear like this before. The fear of
losing her before he came to know her caused him to react more harshly than he
intended. He knew he should be gentle with her. She was, after all, a woman,
and more than likely, terrified. And she
had
come damnably close to
going over the cliff with that paint pot of hers. She would probably burst into
tears any moment. The thought of tears did not sit too well with him. It also
removed any thought of gentleness. Anger was a good foil for tears, and anger
was something he was feeling right now. It was also something he was
comfortable with. He had no experience with the softer emotions. “God spare me
a foolish woman,” he said. “Were you intending to kill yourself? Or were you
hankering to spend the rest of your life in bed, an invalid?”