Read Highland Surrender Online
Authors: Dawn Halliday
Highland Surrender (15 page)
“Rest easy, lass. No one else noticed.”
Making a sound of distress, Elizabeth surged to her feet.
“I think that ought to be enough.” Ceana brushed her hands off, then collected the basket and rose.
Elizabeth suddenly stood directly in front of her. “You mustn’t tell anyone. If you do—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Ceana interrupted. “Why ever would I have reason to cause trouble for Rob?”
“Because your affair is over.” Elizabeth’s pretty pink lips twisted. “Or so you say.”
“Aye, we have parted ways, but it was amicable. I shouldn’t wish Cam’s wrath to rain down upon him. Or the duke’s.”
“Not the duke’s,” Elizabeth repeated, shaking her head somberly. “You don’t want to witness the duke’s wrath, I promise you.”
Ceana stared at her for a long moment. “Tell me something. If you’re attracted to Rob MacLean, why should you care whether Cam lives or dies?”
“I care deeply,” Elizabeth whispered. “I care because Cam is my savior.”
Later, Elizabeth climbed the stairs toward her bedchamber, deep in thought.
Ceana MacNab possessed no fear. While an Englishwoman of Ceana’s status would scarcely dare to glance at Elizabeth, Ceana looked her in the eye and told her exactly what she thought. She didn’t mince words, nor did she pretend to be something she was not.
After what she’d seen happen between Rob and Ceana in the stables, Elizabeth was perplexed by her reaction to the healer. She’d expected to be disgusted by her, or at the very least jealous. But she found Ceana oddly fascinating.
Elizabeth had never known anyone quite like her. She admired her. More than that—she truly
liked
her. Elizabeth grasped onto this strange feeling, this genuine respect for another, and smiled. Perhaps, as unlikely as a friendship would seem between the two of them, she could work to forge one.
liked
her. Elizabeth grasped onto this strange feeling, this genuine respect for another, and smiled. Perhaps, as unlikely as a friendship would seem between the two of them, she could work to forge one.
She pushed open the door to her room and stepped inside, only to jump backward when she saw who stood at one of the arrow slit windows.
Uncle Walter.
He turned to face her. “Close the door, Lizzy, dear.”
Trying to stifle the fear leaping into her throat, Elizabeth reached for the handle. Once the door was closed, there would be no more
Lizzy, dears
from the duke. Her doting uncle would be gone.
Lizzy, dears
from the duke. Her doting uncle would be gone.
Elizabeth had spent the better part of her life trying to avoid being alone with her uncle. Since her parents and brother had died, she’d been his tool—the object he’d used to show the world what a good, kindhearted, heroic man he was. But when she was alone with him, that pretense disappeared. She was one of the very few people who knew exactly what he was—she’d known his true colors since she was six years old.
Lord, he frightened her. Elizabeth understood what he was capable of. He was a monster. A murderer. And she spent a great majority of her time in abject terror that if she pushed him too hard, he’d repeat the horror of what she’d witnessed when she was a little girl.
He’d come close many times. Poor Bitsy had been the object of his wrath. Through the years, Elizabeth had watched him hurt her innocent lady’s maid, slowly stripping the woman of her humanity.
Elizabeth’s own impetuous, reckless actions were responsible for Bitsy’s suffering. Elizabeth was naughty. She was impulsive. She couldn’t stop herself from acting out, even when she knew the consequences.
Elizabeth was a wily child and a cunning young woman, and her impetuous nature, her need to escape from her stifling confinement at Purefoy Abbey, and her desire for a bit of normalcy and happiness had often prompted her to sneak out of the house. She’d usually gotten away with playing with the village children and exploring the nearby forests, but Uncle Walter occasionally caught her. Six times total, in thirteen years.
She made a heroic effort not to shrink against the door. “Good afternoon, Uncle.”
His lips twisted, causing his patch to nearly disappear into the crevice of a deep wrinkle. “Enjoy your walk?”
“Yes.”
“You were with the healer woman Camdonn has employed.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“You are not to associate with that woman. She is a heathen.”
“But Lord Camdonn said—”
“Lord Camdonn’s injury has affected his mind in a most unhealthy manner.” Uncle Walter’s scowl deepened. “If I weren’t certain he’d recover, we’d have already returned to England.” He shuddered to drive home his point. “From their language to their filthy ways, these people disturb me.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Elizabeth was glad her uncle was nearly as eager to be rid of her as she was to be rid of him. He was too deeply involved in his scheme and wouldn’t take her home now—not when he was so close to her being out of his life and far away from him forever.
Now that she was an adult, Elizabeth’s usefulness had come to an end. He could no longer exploit her to show himself to the world as the doting, caring uncle, as the hero and savior of his poor orphaned niece. She was too old, and if he kept his young, marriageable kins-woman sequestered in Hampshire, people might question his motives for doing so. Yet if he married her to a nearby lord or someone with a strong connection to London, she might someday reveal the truth about him. His plan to marry her to a Scottish earl who lived in a remote corner of the earth and had no plans to return to England was, in his mind, the best way to safely—and admirably—get rid of her with the least risk to himself.
“You must not fall into the trap of becoming like them,” Uncle Walter said. “You are young yet, Lizzy, and vulnerable. However, you are also English, and I have spent many years training you to rise above those who are below you. You and I possess far superior blood-lines to any single person within scores of miles of this place. We must never forget that fact.”
“No, of course not, Uncle.”
“It would be unseemly for you to befriend any of them. You must stand apart. Revel in your distinction. If you desire companionship, there is Lord Camdonn himself, but beyond that, there is no one acceptable. If you desire a confidante, you must look to your friends in England.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
Uncle Walter assumed that there existed ties between her and her “English friends,” but there weren’t any. There never had been. She’d write to none of those witless girls whose company had been foisted on her through the years. The feeling was entirely mutual—she wouldn’t be hearing from them, either.
“Good.” He paused and tilted his head. “You will make me proud, Lizzy. I will not have you denigrating yourself and embarrassing our esteemed family. I have trained you sufficiently, I hope, but if it becomes clear that I have not done my duty well enough, I will not hesitate to punish you most harshly.”
His words stabbed directly into her lungs, leaving her struggling for air. “But . . . but we are in Scotland. I am to be married soon . . .”
“Until the day of your marriage, you are mine to manage—and to punish—as I see fit. I will continue to endeavor to mold you into the fine young woman your lineage demands until I place your hand in the Earl of Camdonn’s. And then I can only pray that he will take as firm a stance with you as I have.”
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth breathed finally. “You are right, Uncle. I shall be conscious of my superior status hereafter.”
But a part of her, that rebellious part that she tried so hard to squelch, rose up and screamed in denial. She liked these people; she liked this place; she wanted to talk more, know more, learn more. But she forced these desires down. Uncle Walter would not be here forever, and Cam was nothing like him. There would be time for all that once her uncle had gone back to Hampshire.
“Above all, you must stay away from that witch Ceana MacNab. There is something about the woman that is pure evil.”
Ceana wasn’t evil; that much Elizabeth knew to the depths of her heart. She knew evil intimately already, and Ceana MacNab didn’t qualify.
CHAPTER SEVEN
S
he didn’t venture to the stables again. Elizabeth couldn’t fathom what had drawn her there to begin with.
he didn’t venture to the stables again. Elizabeth couldn’t fathom what had drawn her there to begin with.
Well, that wasn’t being completely honest. She could fathom it. Rob MacLean had lured her there.
She’d never felt this pull with anyone. Not even Tom, a footman at Purefoy Abbey, the only man she’d ever touched. Tom was handsome and young, but there had been nothing to her feelings for him beyond interest and curiosity . . . and the irresistible compulsion to be bad.
Nonetheless, Elizabeth wasn’t stupid enough to expect that she and Rob would have a torrid affair beneath the Earl of Camdonn’s nose. She might have wicked thoughts, but even she couldn’t go that far. To hurt Uncle Walter, maybe. To risk her marriage to Cam . . . no. She wouldn’t do it. No matter how strongly Rob drew her, she must stay away from him.
So when she slipped out tonight to enjoy her small taste of freedom, she ventured in the opposite direction from the stables. She drifted to the edge of the cliff facing the loch and wedged her body between two bushes blooming abundantly with white flowers.
She felt safe out here. Safer than in the castle proper, in such close proximity to her uncle. Being inside stifled her. Outside in the clear, star-studded Highland night, she could pretend she was free.
Even though she wasn’t.
Almost, Elizabeth. Almost.
She didn’t care about the dewy ground soaking through her wrap and robe. She sat in the grass, her legs drawn up into the circle of her arms, and gazed out over the smooth black surface of the loch.
It was so beautiful here. How could she ever have thought this was a wild land? It was a peaceful land. So varied, full of life, altogether marvelous. Mrs. MacAdam told her that in the winter, snow would blanket the surrounding mountains in white. In the summer, everything that so hesitantly came to life right now would flare into full, prodigious bloom.
Elizabeth could love it here. She’d known since the day she’d been stranded alone up in the mountain. Something about this place called to her in a far deeper and more primitive way than anything in Hampshire.
Rob stood in the shadows of the keep, watching her as she tucked her slender frame between the two small blooming hawthorns.
The hawthorn bush was known by Highlanders as the entrance to the fairy world. Some unsuspecting onlooker might see her flitting over the castle grounds with her blond curls and her white robe flowing behind her, and think she was one of the fae when she disappeared into the hawthorn.
She hadn’t escaped into another world, though. Her white garments flashed among the similarly colored blooms as she shifted her position.
What was it about her?
Ceana was right: Even so much as talking to Elizabeth was dangerous. Touching her could mean his doom. And yet the compulsion to do both was too strong to resist.
He must learn more about her. Understand what it was that drew him to her. He wanted to touch her. To care for her. To make her shudder in his arms.
His shoes silent on the grass, he ducked into the hawthorn behind her and clamped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. “Shh.” His lips brushed over the satin of her hair. “It’s Rob MacLean.”
Instantly, she relaxed, and he forced himself to let her go, as strong as the urge was to keep her pinned in the safe circle of his arms.
“Sorry to startle you.” When his arms fell away, she looked at him over her shoulder. “I gather you didn’t wish to be discovered,” he murmured.
“You gather correctly.”
“Well.” He looked to the right and left of the bush. “It seems I am the only one who has spotted you. Anyone who looks this way will think I’m only pissing in the bushes.”
She grinned, an expression that was as surprising as it was beautiful. “Who’d dare to say such a thing to me besides Robert MacLean?”
He shrugged.
“I’d invite you to sit, but there isn’t any room.”
As it was, branches scratched at them both, threatening to tear her robe. “I know a better place.” He held out his hand. “Come.”
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