Enraptured (23 page)

“I don't suppose it occurred to you to ask
me
if I wanted you to protect my honor. After all, it's scarcely any concern of mine, is it? No doubt you know far better what I should or should not do.”

“It was not about you.”

“What?” Her brows soared up. “Now my virtue is naught to do with me?”

He made a noise very much like a growl. “Dinna try me, Violet. I am not talking about your virtue or deciding
anything for you. I am talking about what I do. I am not the sort of man to treat a woman that way.”

Violet's jaw dropped. “Do you mean—then you have never, um, been with a woman?”

He stared at her. “What? No! Of course I've lain with a woman. But not one like you. A lady. A lass who's untouched. Whose reputation would be harmed.”

“You lie only with trollops? With women you pay?”

“I would not take a maiden. I would not seduce a young lass and ruin her reputation.”

“I told you!” She ground out the words. “I don't care about my reputation.”

“ 'Tis easy enough to say, but you dinna know what it's like.”

“Oh!” She narrowed her eyes, her hands again tightening into fists on her hips. “I suppose you know better than I what it is like for a woman to be an outcast? To have her family turn away from her or to be treated with scorn?”

“People think you are a bluestocking. Perhaps even eccentric. It's hardly the same as being deemed a jade. You have no idea what it's like to be looked upon with contempt, to be whispered about. I know how people regarded my mother. I know the sort of gossip that followed Meg all her life, though she had never done aught to warrant it. I will not have people treat you like that.”

“
You
will not have it! Of course. That is what matters. What
you
will have. What you decide. What you want. I have nothing to say in the matter. No doubt I cannot be trusted to make decisions about the course of my life. I am only a weak female and must have a man tell me what to do.”

“I never said that.” His jaw jutted mulishly.

“You did not have to. I understand the message quite well. I have heard it all my life!” She whirled and grabbed her cloak. “I will not bother you any longer with my shameful behavior.”

“Violet! Stop. You canna go out there—the weather.”

“I don't care about the weather. I'd rather be out in the rain and the cold than stuck in here with a sanctimonious, overbearing prig!” She strode for the door, tying her cloak around her.

“Wait.” He picked up his coat and began to pull it on. “Let me put out the fire, and I'll go with you. You should not be out in this by yourself.”

She spun back, fixing him with an icy gaze. “No. I will do what I want. There is no ‘should' about it. I am sure we will both be happier if you stay here and take your pleasure by yourself, as you prefer it.”

Violet marched out, slamming the door behind her.

The foul weather suited her mood. Her anger took her down the path to where it split off to the castle before she realized that, in fact, the weather was no longer so foul. Though the gray sky still drizzled, it was not pouring down rain, and the wind had also died down, making it possible to keep her hood covering her head and her cloak wrapped around her.

She climbed the sloping path to Duncally at a good pace, her mind in a stew. Of all the insufferable men! To decide what was best for her! As if she were a child who did not realize the consequences of her actions!

Gradually her steps began to slow—and her mind as well. She remembered him sitting with his back to her, his fingers gripping his bowed head, his whole body taut. However frustrating and aggravating his rejection had been to her, it had not been easy for him. A faint smile touched her lips. He was not disinterested in her. His desire had not been illusory nor had it been fleeting.

She walked on, recalling Coll's actions the last few days. Viewed in this new light, they did not speak of indifference. Had he really thought of her so often? Wanted her? Was it unfulfilled hunger that had brought the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his face? She thought again of that moment in front of the fireplace when his face had flamed with desire. The faint trembling of his hand when he slid it along her skin.

Violet paused, thinking of that hand, those supple fingers as they moved beneath her gown, the delicious texture of his skin as he touched her sensitive nipples. It was not a terrible trait to have concern for her reputation. She could not revile him for treating her with honor. He would not be a man she could respect if he callously dismissed such things. But, blast it, she should be the one to make the decisions about her life.

A snap came in the trees behind her. Violet tensed. Had Coll followed her? She turned, her eyes scanning the woods. She could see nothing on the path, and the shadows beneath the trees revealed little. It was not Coll; he would not hide.

She started forward again. Her back prickled between her shoulder blades; she could not dismiss the idea that she was being watched. The leaves rustled, and she was not sure if it was the wind that had sent them skittering on the
ground or a person's feet. More likely some small animal, running off at the sight of a human.

She spun around. The scene was the same, empty but for trees and shrubs and shadows. She was being fanciful. It was simply the gray afternoon and her own jumbled feelings that plucked her nerves, merely the unaccustomed aloneness after spending the day with Coll.

Holding her head high, she strode forward with purpose. With a sigh of relief she saw the stone steps of Duncally ahead of her. She took the flight of stairs to the lowest garden, then turned and watched the trail she had just traversed. There was no sign of anyone.

She felt foolish. There was no reason for her uneasy feeling. Yet she could not help but think of the time last week when she had had the same itchy sense that she was being watched. She had seen nothing to indicate that the idea was warranted either time; she knew it was illogical. It had been born out of her being generally on edge the last few days, that was all.

Once she was back in her room, her first instinct was to spend the rest of the day there. She could have her supper brought to her on a tray and not have to face Coll. But that would be cowardly. Violet refused to run away. She had dealt with exclusion and rejection all her life; she could deal with this. It would be awkward at first, but they would move past it. Coll had certain beliefs, and she had others. They would accept that and remain colleagues.

She went down to the evening meal at the usual time, both relieved and disappointed to see that Coll was not there. Footsteps sounded in the hall. They checked for an instant at the door, then came closer.

Glad that she had had a moment to prepare herself, Violet turned with a carefully polite expression. “Good evening, Coll.” She quelled the small pang of regret. That, too, would pass.

“Violet. I was not certain I would see you here tonight.”

“Really? I hope I am not so petty as to fault a man for adhering to his principles. Indeed, I commend you for holding yourself to the same standard of conduct you expect of women. So many men believe that what is loose behavior in a woman is acceptable for a man.”

His brows drew together. “I dinna say that your behav—”

“Please.” She raised her hand with a cool smile. “Let us not quarrel. I hope that we can put what happened this afternoon behind us and move forward without animosity.”

“Of course.” His tone was less certain than his words.

“Good. Then you agree that we should continue to work together on deciphering the clues to the treasure?”

“Yes. I dinna want to stop.”

“I am glad.” Violet ignored the fluttering in her stomach. If she applied herself to the task, soon she would be able to look at Coll without thinking of his hands sliding over her. She would converse with him without focusing on his mouth. Someday she would mean it when she praised him for holding to his morals, without wondering if he would have broken his rules if only she were more desirable.

She picked up her fork. “There must be some sort of marker wherever Faye buried the sacks. Or a further clue.”

Coll fiddled with his cutlery. “I agree. We aren't even sure that the Munro graves are what she meant. She said ‘our ancestors.' Perhaps she meant Sir Malcolm's ancestors as well or a general group. The graveyard in the village.”

“There's also that statement about ‘guarding it as we have guarded them.' That could be a hint about a specific area.”

“Perhaps the tombs that lie inside the kirk?” Coll ventured.

“That would narrow it down. Do you know how many there are there?”

He shrugged. “No. Several. Some beneath the floor. Stone vaults along the walls.”

“That seems a bit difficult, though. She couldn't have pried up the paving stones or the stone lids.”

“The Roses have a grand tomb or two in the side yard of the kirk. Then there's the castle.”

“They have graves there, too?” Violet asked in exasperation.

“Aye. The lairds of Baillannan liked to be remembered. The old castle had a chapel and small cemetery.”

“We can't search all over the glen. Surely she would not have intended for her children to have to. There must be something we have missed.”

“It would have been more helpful if she'd just said, ‘I'm burying it half a foot deep between Annie's grave and the wall.' ”

“Perhaps a little too obvious to anyone who might happen to pick up the book.” Violet smiled.

“Let's go back to the journal tomorrow.”

“Very well.” She was glad he had not suggested that they start tonight. Her nerves were too much at a jangle now, her body still too alive with passion.

This would give her time to steady herself. And she would manage it. She would. If not, she could not remain around Coll—and she could not bear to think of that.

V
iolet threw herself back into
her routine the following morning. The days were easy enough. Away from Coll, surrounded by the work she loved, she could forget for whole stretches of time that her body defiantly ached for him. It helped that she was often distracted by Angus McKay, who had apparently decided to oversee the excavation. Every few days, he would pop in for an hour or two to needle the workers and cross verbal swords with Violet. He was there when their careful digging revealed a fourth wall, confirming Violet's conjecture that the walls were likely the remains of a room or a shed.

“It could even be a house,” she told Coll over supper that evening. “Of course, that means that the rest of the rock walls in the area are probably other buildings, which is even more exciting.”

Coll nodded and asked a polite question. The progress of her dig was one of the mainstays of their stilted conversations at the dining table. It was impossible to go back to the easy
relationship they had had before that afternoon in the Munro cottage. They had to pick their way carefully through whatever they said, avoiding any topic that might bring up the memory of that encounter—as if she needed anything to remind her! Just looking at Coll made it difficult to think of anything else.

It was easier, in a way, to be with him later in the evening when they sat at the huge library table, going through Faye's journal. At least then she did not have to wrack her brain for safe subjects. Yet it was even more difficult because of their enforced closeness—Coll's arm only inches from hers on the table, his leg accidentally brushing hers when he shifted in his chair. His scent. His heat.

She had trouble concentrating on the journal. She found herself listening to the sound of Coll's voice instead of the words. Her gaze was drawn to Coll's long fingers as he turned the pages or to the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek as he read. It was all too much. Violet felt as if she were constantly vibrating on some low level, a smothered fire not quite extinguished. The only sensible thing to do was to stay away from Coll. Yet each evening she rushed eagerly into the torment.