Enraptured (7 page)

No, that was nonsense. It was the arrogance of it, the certainty of the English aristocracy that everyone else was put on earth to serve them. A moment earlier they had been talking easily, no assumption of inequality between them, so that one could almost forget there was a gulf of social class between them. But then, in an instant, Violet was back on her high perch, ordering him about like a servant. It would have been the same if it had been a man issuing the orders. That the words came from those eminently kissable lips made no difference, any more than it mattered that ice had formed in
her warm brown eyes or that he had a moment earlier been imagining the softness of her skin beneath his fingers.

Well . . . perhaps it did matter that she was a woman.

And even though she was supremely irritating, it had been wrong of him to just walk away from her like that. She was new here and all alone on the cliff. Perhaps he should turn around and go back, make sure she remembered the way back to Duncally.

Fortunately, he came to his senses before he could act on his thoughts. He would look a fool. And Lady Violet would doubtless blister his ears if he intimated she might be unable to manage the site alone or to find her way home by herself. He would return at the end of the day and show her the shorter, quicker path up the hill to the gardens. He could mend his fences with her then.

The day seemed to wear on forever; Coll kept glancing out the window to see if the sun was low enough in the sky that he could count the day over. Then, just when the afternoon was drawing to a close, John Grant and Dan Fraser came in. He struggled to quell his impatience as the two men started on a long explanation of their sides over the meadow between their crofts.

Finally Coll snapped, “Good Lord, you're grown men. Canna you reason it out yourselves? Just share the bloody bit of land.” He scowled at Grant. “You're not even one of the earl's crofters.”

The two men looked taken aback, but Grant went doggedly
on, “Aye, weel, that's the thing, isn't it? The meadow lies between Mardoun land and Baillannan.”

“It's Mardoun's,” Fraser put in.

“Share it. That's Mardoun's answer, and I dinna doubt Isobel will agree.” He sighed, feeling a trifle guilty over his short words, and added, “I'll talk to Isobel about it.”

That seemed to satisfy the men, though they left still grumbling in a way that seemed more habitual than heated. Coll wasted no time in grabbing his jacket and starting out the door. He groaned under his breath when he saw Dermid Boyd walking purposefully toward him. Coll stepped out and closed the office door behind him. At least he could walk as Boyd laid out his problem.

“Boyd.” Coll nodded. “What brings you up here?”

Dermid nodded back and fell in alongside Coll. “I tried tae tell you last night at the tavern, but I couldna before you left.”

“Aye? What's amiss?”

“Not really my concern, but I thought you'd want tae know: Donald MacRae is here.”

“What?” Coll stopped and turned to Dermid. “Are you certain?”

“Aye. I saw him myself in Kinclannoch.”

“What does that bastard want?” Coll started forward again.

“I dinna ask. But he was staying at auld Mrs. Stewart's; she takes in boarders, you ken.” Boyd paused. “Will you be gang to see him then?”

“I will.” Coll's steps quickened as he strode down the hill. He glanced toward the standing stones as he passed. He had to take care of this first. With any luck, he'd be through with MacRae in time to catch Violet at the ruins.

He loped down the last stretch to the village, leaving Boyd behind him. Auld Mrs. Stewart answered the door, and between the old woman's deafness and the greetings and inquiries about family that courtesy demanded, it took several minutes to find out if Mardoun's former estate manager was in fact residing there.

“Aye,” she said finally, nodding. “First room on the richt, top of the stairs. But I dinna want you brawling in my house, mind.”

“I won't hurt him,” Coll assured her as he bounded up the steps, adding beneath his breath, “This time.”

His knock was thunderous, and he did not wait to open the door. MacRae whirled as Coll strode in. He held a candlestick in his raised hand.

“Dinna even think about it.” Coll cast a contemptuous glance at the weapon. “You couldna reach my head.”

“It'd do little enough damage to your hard head, anyway,” MacRae agreed sourly.

“What are you doing here, MacRae?”

“I dinna answer to you.” The man held Coll's gaze for a moment, then glanced away. “I have debts to collect. I've a right to get my money.”

“Whatever money's owed you, I'm sure you dinna earn it any decent way.”

“That's not your business.”

“No? I'll warrant it's the earl's.”

“Oh, yes, I heard you're the earl's man now. There's a change.” MacRae gave Coll a sly look. “It's a wonder how fast you turned your coat—and what you can get from a sister sleeping—” He broke off and took a hasty step backward as Coll moved forward, his fist clenching.

“If you value your miserable life, you'll not mention my sister. Now pack your things and leave Kinclannoch. I'll do you a favor and not tell Mardoun you came back.”

“Mardoun's an earl, not God. He canna stop me from going and coming as I please.”

“Well, I can. I will.”

“You're threatening to kill me now?”

“Nae. I'd not kill you, MacRae.” Coll gave him a chilling grin. “But I can make you wish I had. Get out.”

“Now? You canna toss me out on the road this late. It's almost dark.”

“I never noticed that stopping you when you threw folks off their own crofts. But, no, I'll give you the night to get your things together and collect these debts of yours. But you'd best not be here when I come back tomorrow. Understand?”

“Yes,” the other man said grudgingly. “I understand. I'm leaving.”

Coll nodded and left. A faint smile touched his lips as behind him he heard MacRae slam his erstwhile weapon to the floor, cursing. Coll took the shortcut from the bridge to the ruins, but when he reached the cliffs, he was not surprised to find the place vacant. As that worm MacRae had pointed out, night was falling fast.

Violet would be fine, Coll told himself as he climbed up to Duncally. She would remember the way they'd come this morning, and she'd have no qualms about setting out on her own. Surely she would not have tried to find the shorter trail through the woods on her own. Still, the knot in his chest loosened when he reached the kitchen at Duncally and learned that Lady Violet had already returned to the house.

“She had her tea and went up to her room,” Sally McEwan told him. “Are you wanting to see her? I could send Rose up to fetch her.”

“No. No. No need to bother her. I just wanted to make sure she'd had no trouble.”

“I ken that one can handle most any trouble,” the plump, gregarious cook told him, grinning.

“No doubt you're right.”

“I warrant you could use a wee bite.” Sally steered him toward a stool at the kitchen table. “Sit yourself down, and I'll fetch you something to eat.” She paused, tilting her head. “Unless maybe you're coming back tonight to eat with her ladyship.”

“Now, why would I be doing that? I've no interest in dining at the grand table.”

“And no interest in sitting down with a bonny lass?” She quirked an eyebrow.

“Och, Sally, you know I've got no eye for bonny lasses. How can I when my heart belongs to you?”

“More like your stomach, you mean.” She snorted, smiling as she bustled off.

“Sally, can you make a poultice for lumbago?” he asked as she set down a filled plate in front of him. “Graeme MacLeod came by this afternoon, wanting one for his grandda. Meg makes him something for it. She made up a few tinctures and such for me to give people, but not that.”

“Aye, I could do it if I knew what Meg uses. Do you have her recipe?”

He shook his head. “I could look in her books. I'll come back to look in the library tonight.” Later, after he'd had a chance to go home and clean up. Look a bit more civilized
in case he ran into Lady Violet. Not, of course, that that was likely. Not that it mattered.

As it turned out, Coll waited too long. He could see as he approached Duncally that all the windows were dark. Doubtless Violet—and everyone else—had gone to bed. She had arisen with the birds, after all, and worked at the site all day. She'd be tired.

He was quiet as he slipped in the side door and made his way to the library. He lit the oil lamps on the table, an imposing expanse of mahogany that would have dwarfed any room besides the cavernous library. The bookshelves lining the walls remained in shadow, the lamps providing only twin pools of light in the darkness.

Coll didn't mind. He preferred Duncally at night when its palatial proportions and ornamentation were decreased and softened by darkness. He felt at home in the library, where he often spent an evening. Though grander by far than the one he was used to at Baillannan, it carried the same comforting scents of old books, leather chairs, and burning lamps and offered the same alluring possibilities of hundreds of volumes.

He strode to the glass-doored cabinet where Meg kept their grandmother's journal and took it to the table to read, opening and turning its yellowed pages with care. It was all he and his sister had of their grandmother—indeed, of their grandfather as well, since he had given it to her. Reflexively Coll touched the sgian-dubh he carried at the back of his belt, wondering if it, too, was indeed Malcolm's.

It was easy for Coll to get lost in a book, especially one such as this that held old secrets, but tonight he had difficulty concentrating. His thoughts kept turning to Violet, somewhere in the rooms above him. He wondered which bedchamber was hers. Was she curled up in a chair by the fire, reading as he was? She was sure to be a bookish woman. Or was she asleep, tucked up in one of the great monstrosities of a bed that Duncally offered, sheltered by looming headboards and canopies and heavy draperies? He shifted restlessly in his chair, thinking of her nestled among the pillows, dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, a doubtlessly chaste white nightgown covering the soft swell of her breasts.

Sharp, rapid footsteps in the hall roused him from his wandering thoughts. Coll lifted his head, pulse quickening, as Violet Thornhill strode through the door. She stopped abruptly when she saw him, letting out a little gasp, but recovered her composure quickly.

“Mr. Munro.”

“Lady Violet.” He rose to his feet, his blood pumping through him in a hot, hard rhythm.

She was dressed for bed, soft slippers on her feet and a brocade dressing gown belted around her. The heavy robe concealed her body more than any frock would, but something about the knowledge that she was dressed for bed was inherently arousing. Between the lapels of her robe, he could see a small V of that white cotton gown he had imagined a moment earlier. And her hair—ah, her hair, thick and dark and lustrous, spilling over her shoulders and down her back—was enough to make him weak in the knees.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was quick and a trifle breathless. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“Amazingly, I am able to read, despite my low birth.”

“I didn't mean that!” Color rose in her cheeks. “I just—I was unaware you were in the house. You are uncommonly quick to take offense.”

“Mm. You should know about that.”

She lifted her chin, but then, surprising him, she dropped her pugnacious pose, looking faintly embarrassed. “I know I can appear somewhat, um, prickly.”

“Can you now?” He widened his eyes dramatically.

Violet gave him a dark look. “Yes; I am well aware what people think of me. However, I do not mean to give offense.”

“Then I shall strive not to take it.” Coll smiled. “As long as you will promise to do the same for me.”