Highlander Mine (22 page)

What would I do with Hamish? How would I save Cecelia?

I felt, in that moment, very tired. Not physically tired, but spiritually. I realized I could have left earlier. Quite easily. In fact, the longer I stalled, the more difficult my escape would be. I knew by now that Hamish would not only survive but thrive with these people and in these surroundings. And so would I. He had been accepted by the other children easily because he was an exceedingly likable boy who endeared himself to everyone he met. That, too, had me hanging on to this fantasy. I didn’t want to leave him no matter how badly I was needed elsewhere. The time to do exactly that, however, was nigh. I must reacclimatize to the downtrodden and the tarnished. I must once again face the reality of who I was.

“Tomorrow.”

He glared at me coolly. “Nay, Amelia. Not tomorrow.
Now.
”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night, you see,” I said, backing away from him.

He reached to clasp my fingers, gently but with strength, holding me in place. “One of the messenger parties I was telling you about will depart on the morrow and—”

“
Please,
Laird Mackenzie!” I pleaded in hushed tones. “I’m really not feeling well. If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my chambers to take some rest. I—”

His hand slid up my arm, where his clasp was firm, almost painfully so. “I must
insist,
Amelia,” he said quietly but with firm, unquestionable authority, “that you accompany me to my den. You may take a rest there, while we discuss this new information—or, more aptly, this new
lack
of information that has come to light.”

“Take your hands off me,” I whispered, fuming and quietly frantic.

“Gladly,” he said. “If you would agree to speak with me where we might not be overheard or interrupted. I will have the truth from you.”

I looked around me. I could try to break free and flee, but such an act would be idiotic at best. Where would I flee
to?
I could continue to lie, to grasp at fibs that we both knew were ridiculously untrue.

My humiliation was somewhat indescribable. I felt more than defeated, more than defiant; I felt wild. Manically so. I wished I’d... Oh, my thoughts were muddled and anxious. Tendrils of genuine fear at my predicament skulked through my body.

Knox Mackenzie touched his fingers to my chin, tilting my face up to look at him. “Amelia,” he said, his voice so deep and reassuring I was taken wholly off guard by him, not only by the sound of him but by the vision. “You’re safe. I’m not angry with you. I’m not going to hurt you or cast you out. Nor Hamish. I just want the truth.”

I stared up at him, and I was ashamed by the tears that welled in my eyes. It almost seemed wasteful, that his beauty had become blurred like that.

How I wished that his words were true. How I wished that I
was
safe. I brushed the tears away.

“You’re going to walk out that side door just behind you,” he murmured, “and follow the corridor to the left. It will take you to my private meeting room, where we can talk. I will use the other entrance. There’s no need for us to call undue attention to our meeting.”

Knox watched me consider this. The thoughts churned, to be sure. This was my chance to flee the disgrace of my trial and my exposure. Hamish would be forgiven; he was only a child. He would find my nearly finished letter, in my belongings, which I would leave behind. Could I somehow grab a fur wrap as I fled? I was hardly wearing traveling garb, just a thin film of cream-colored satin. I could run to the boathouse. I could travel tonight.

One of Knox Mackenzie’s eyebrows rose as he watched me consider my options. He appeared mildly amused by my labored deliberation, entertained by my false perception that I had options. This irked me. “There’s a guard standing just outside that door,” he said. “He will escort you where you need to go.”

He had already anticipated my desertion and
preempted
it?
Bastard!
How could any man possess this much self-possession, this much practical confidence? He’d been thinking about this, plotting and planning to trap me and force me to confess my long list of sins! And I hated him for it!

The paradox was not lost on me. Not five minutes ago I’d been swooning over the arrogant beast, floating in some sort of love-struck haze and picturing his thorough ravishing. What infuriated me most of all was that the residue of that haze still clung to my new, vehement resentment. He was—irritatingly—just as beautiful as he had been five minutes ago, still touching his thumb to my jawbone, drawing attention to our hushed conversation even as he avowed not to.

“I
said
all right,” I said churlishly. “I’ll come with you. I’ll speak with you.”

To this he did smile—almost. “Good lass. That’s my sweet Amelia. I will see you shortly.” And with that, he walked away, disappearing into the crowd and through a far door.

And I, damn it all, was pathetically swooning in the aftermath of his flattery.
That’s my sweet Amelia.

Equally irate at my own delight over his possessive endearment and delirious for the very same reason, I headed toward the opposite door, as he had directed me to do. As promised, a beefy guard was waiting for me. After furrowing his brow for a brief, disarmed moment as he studied me, the guard began walking down the corridor, watching me to make sure I would follow.

I did.

And I soon found myself being ushered through the door of Knox Mackenzie’s private den, illuminated only by a number of candles; these seemed to offer only meager circles of cast light, leaving much of the room shrouded and eclipsed. The door closed behind me and I was once again alone with this infuriating, beautiful man, who was leaning, shadowed and patient, against one of the wide windowsills, backlit by moonlight.

Already, the intensity of this encounter did not bode well.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
NEARLY
FELT
AFRAID
.
Not of Knox Mackenzie himself but of what might happen. What
could
happen. What very likely
would
happen.

The icy flare of his eyes offered their odd, contrasting gleam. Luminous, light-flicked opalescent gray rimmed with circles of darkest black. There was no indecision in him, just a patient sureness, like a player who holds an unbeatable hand. And under it was a new presence that I had not noticed before. A new thread to his personality that, in a sense, I recognized. A little devil of his own, but one that was not small at all but quietly monstrous, imposing and alluring, lurking behind his expression and the soft clench of his fist.

I leaned my back up against the solid plane of the wooden door, adjusting to the silent wisps of abandon that coiled throughout my body like ethereal whispers.

Knox Mackenzie walked over to the fireplace, where a fire burned low. He added several logs to it distractedly, which caused sparks to jump and the flames to lick higher. “Come,” he said. “Stand by the fire. The night is cool.”

When I didn’t move, he stepped away to allow me some space. I didn’t want to get too close to him and he sensed this. He half sat against a sturdy wooden desk and folded his arms across his chest, watching me. Once I judged him to be at a safe distance, I followed his command.

Walking to the fire, I held my hands close to it to warm myself and to calm myself. I succeeded only in the former. The heat of the fire chased away a chill and I shivered as the warmth settled in a simmering glow.

“Your hair is as colorful as the flames,” he commented, his voice raspy. “More so, in fact. A thousand shades of red, copper and gold. And the very tips—the end coils of the longest strands—are nearly blond.”

I looked at him, watching him revel somehow at the sight of me. Some detail of the look of me pleased him and intrigued him: I could clearly detect this. And I took comfort from the connectivity of his appreciation; it was as warming as the fire, steeping my body in a tranquil, prolific awareness.

His hair was also richly colored, I could have said. Aye, the colors of him were distinctive. The black and the gray. The dark blues and greens of his tartan kilt, the threads of red. The white of his shirt. Earthy leather straps and spare, metallic weapons. All those shades were but a canvas for the fiery play of light that seemed to illuminate him, always.

He was radiant, even in the dimness.

“Whenever you’re ready to begin,” he said.

“What was it you wanted to know, exactly?” I asked, staring into the red heat of the embers.

“What is your name?”

“Amelia Isobel Abbott Taylor.”

“Where are you from?”

“Edinburgh.”

“And what was your father’s profession?” he asked. “If he has in fact passed.”

“Aye. He was a doctor.”

Knox looked into the fire. His expression took on a stymied, exasperated scowl. His fists were white-knuckling on the wooden rim of the table he was leaning against. It was crystal clear from his posture and the look on his face that he thought my claims to be false, again.

Was it
that
difficult to believe that I was the daughter of a skilled, cultured professional? “’Tis true!” I protested. “He was a doctor!”

He launched directly into the next question. “And are you a trained teacher?”

I faltered at this one, but Knox was tired of waiting.

“Katriona has said that you are talented,” he said. “Yet your methods are highly...unorthodox. She has asked that you provide proof of your qualifications. After a mishap, so it seems, in the apple orchard. An incident, I believe, concerning a sword and a game of cards, as described in detail by both the boy Edward and his mother.” He paused briefly to assess my reaction to this. I gave none, but my knees felt decidedly weak. “Edward’s father, you should know, was one of the most loyal and excellent soldiers I’ve ever had the honor to lead. I must take their concerns to heart. Katriona has requested that, if you are to continue teaching her children, either you offer more information about yourself or we gather it through our own means.”

I was a chaotic mess of too many tempestuous emotions to name. One I could identify, however, was a tiny yet billowing fury. The mention of Katriona, perhaps, was the worst thing about his dictatorial tirade, or the cutting distinction between “yourself” and “we.” Us and them. He and Katriona occupied their idyllic, virtuous realm and I existed separately in my own domain: one that was shameless and base, worlds away from their shared utopia.
That,
more than anything else that he had ever said to me, infuriated me beyond control or compunction.

“Well, by all means,
Laird
Mackenzie,” I seethed. “Do Katriona’s bidding, each and every one. She’s right about me, I’m sure. Has she mentioned to you that I’m the wickedest, most terrible deviant you’ve likely ever come across? I’ve lied to you, aye! I’ve told you half-truths, for no reason other than to bask in the glow of your complete ignorance.”

There was a crease between the dark stripes of his eyebrows as he contemplated me with something akin to confusion. “I—”

“I’ll tell you everything there is to know, and more,” I interrupted, an act of insubordination that was somehow immensely satisfying. I wondered if anyone had ever interrupted the venerable Laird Mackenzie before. I hoped I was the first. I wanted to undermine his steely authority in every way I could think of. Just the thought of doing so was having an odd, heady effect on me. Distinct points on my body felt humid and riled, as though I was channeling my agitation physically, and in a
very
intimate way. The soft satin of my gown felt suddenly confining and excessively tight. “But first, let me ask you one tiny, trivial, innocuous little question.
If
you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead,” he offered, intrigued. Slowly, he stood. He walked closer to where I was standing and he sat on a tall, sturdy-looking armless chair that was mere feet from me.

The very first time I had met Knox Mackenzie, one of my initial thoughts had been this:
he doesn’t know what to make of you.
I felt that now, more than ever before. He didn’t know how to read me. And there was more to his manner than that: he
wanted
to know. Very much so.

“You and Katriona are...acquainted?” I dared to ask.

He hesitated, and a near smile played at the corner of his mouth, as though my jealousy was agreeable to him. “Acquainted, aye. I know her as the widow of an officer.”

“She...” I faltered. It was too personal a subject to discuss with him. Yet I wanted to know. We were alone in a secluded, candlelit room. We had shared an unspeakably intimate moment, and the memory of it was recurring to me in devastating detail each time I happened to allow myself to look briefly in his direction. And it was a memory that promised—perhaps—to be not only repeated but also surpassed. I felt the beginning of my descent, the slippery slope. The astounding draw of him was enveloping me, causing my nipples to tighten and the fluttery, hot cove between my legs to swell and to yearn. The sensation was distractingly voracious, greedy, as though my own inner sprite had transformed into a shameless, lustful siren who was not only adamant but
voracious.

I wanted to ask this question of him because I felt entitled to, in light of what I was intending to do. He had admitted to me in our private moment by the loch that he was not inclined to promiscuity. He’d defined himself as, if I recalled correctly:
a very faithful, particular, singularly devoted romantic.
One overcome moment, or two, could hardly be considered promiscuous, or unusual. I wanted to know, either way. “She hoped to acquaint herself with you in other ways, too. Was she able to...in any way...to
get
acquainted with you?”

Knox rubbed his jaw, where the stubble was faintly sparkled in the firelight. The thought of that rough bristle touching me, rubbing against me as it had done once before...
Oh, damn it all to hell!
My intimate flesh grew soft and wet, throbbing with a rhythmic, succulent ache.

His gaze speared me but his voice was gentle, almost indulgent. “Where did you hear of this?”

“I have my own sources,” I said.

“Which sources are these?” he prodded patiently.

“The ladies in Lachlan’s home. The weavers. They discussed it at some length.”
I don’t blame her for trying,
one of them had said.
I just don’t think it’s a good match. He needs a woman who can pull him out of his mood, not mire him deeper into it.

He placed his hands on his knees, which were apart and draped only partially by the cloth of his kilt. “They did, did they?”

“Aye. They did. And I wondered if—”

“Let me lay your concerns to rest, then. To answer your question, nay. At the time, I was still mourning my wife. And I was not inclined, at all, to yet follow my brothers’ advice.” I remembered:
’Tis time to move on.

My eyes stole to the collar of his shirt, which was open at the top to reveal the bronzed hue of his throat, the light dusting of hair at the top of his chest—and the absence of his gold chain.

“Where is it?” I said. I looked up at his face, shadowed in the textured darkness. “Where’s the chain?” I asked. “And her ring?”

“I put it in a very safe place.”

’Tis time to move on. And so, it seemed, he was. He had mourned for his wife and child for more than two years. It gave me a great sense of joy to realize that he was beginning to move on, and I might have been the one who inspired it.

“What was she like?” I whispered to him, almost regretting the impulse but too curious to withhold my question.

He was quiet for a moment. And the response he gave was surprisingly matter-of-fact. “She was beautiful. Quiet. Gentle. Gracious. A sensitive soul. She was small, very slim. Too slim. She wasn’t strong enough.”

She wasn’t strong enough to bear his child.

All the reasons behind his long-held sorrow might have speared the moment with regret and distance. Oddly, they did neither. There was an insinuation here, one that was flicked with sadness but also with an outlying, unexpected revival. I couldn’t be sure about what he was thinking, but with his eyes on all the plentiful curves of my body, I guessed at a small part of this attraction.
I
wasn’t small, nor slim. My soul had never been referred to as sensitive. Not once had I ever been described as quiet.

Nor was I refined or noble.

No doubt about it, I was a complete departure in every way from his lost wife. And I had a feeling that we were both glad of this. There could be no comparisons. Neither were there guarantees or promises. Just a mutual attraction that was divinely, wickedly potent. His wife was lost to him. But
I
was here.

’Tis time to move on.

I dared to whisper my next question. “And now?”

He contemplated me lazily, his mouth forming that tempting pout that drove me mad. “And now?” he repeated.

I did not speak, waiting for his answer.

After an excruciating pause, he gave it. “So it seems,” he said darkly. “I am now...very much, so inclined. Much more than I can begin to express.”

This admission ignited a spark of hope in me that I could not name, but before I could bask in any promise it might have offered, he promptly extinguished it.

“Either way,” he said. “I did not bring you here to my private chambers tonight to indulge any inclinations beyond those of seeking the truth from you.”

This irked me, and in no small measure. He had not brought me here to seduce me, but to scold me. And to bully me into revealing all my dark, horrible secrets and my true identity as an expert gambler, a seedy cardshark, a wayward waif, all rolled up into one wild, wanton, misfit package.

Because that’s how I felt: wild and wanton. Desperate. Alone. And ridiculously, almost uncomfortably aroused. It was this heavy lust that provoked me most of all. I willed myself to maintain control, but I could feel it slipping.

“I’m only asking you to confirm the truth, Amelia. I just want to know who you are,” he said gently, reading my agitation, I hoped, and not my desperation. “Begin at the beginning, and tell me everything. I can tell you that your carriage was searched for, yet nothing was found. No murdered driver, nor gang of black-clad bandits. So I will ask you, why did you flee Edinburgh? What are you looking for here in the Highlands?”

His eyes wandered from my face to my body. In my impassioned outburst, the tie of my dress had loosened, causing the neckline to gape just a little lower, revealing a fraction more of the rounded curves of my young, full breasts. My nipples poked against the filmy fabric. But I was too mired in the topic at hand to immediately address this.

It was time. He was waiting for my explanation. Here was the moment I had done my very best to avoid. I had lost this crucial round. Laird Knox Mackenzie would have his way. In all his absolute power and his unwavering authority, he would win
every
round, I now realized. I could no longer fool myself into thinking I had ever had the advantage against a man such as this. The social divide between us might have been a vast continent instead of a distance so small I could have reached to touch the flicked strands of his midnight hair with my craving fingers. Instead, I fingered a strand of my own hair, twisting it around my finger as I began to speak. There was no point in lying any longer and the sudden, stark realization that I was no better than the devious thieves I struggled to avoid sent a lunging pang of sadness through my heart. I could have given in to the tears that threatened to spill, but I held them back, choosing instead to look him in the eye and give him every honesty. There was sadness in my voice, but also a lingering defiance.

“My name
is
Amelia Taylor. Hamish is not my brother but my nephew. He’s not to blame for any of this. I asked him to lie, to hide our true identities because I feared you would not offer us refuge if you knew the truth. We played on your sympathies so you would harbor us, and feed us. My father’s name was Dr. Robert Taylor. He died ten years ago, as did my mother. My sister, Cecelia, married a business owner named James Scott.”