Lost in Your Arms (23 page)

“I sent someone to take the fishing boat back.”

“What?”

“The fishing boat we borrowed to get here.”

“Good.” He twisted her in knots with his convoluted conversation, and now she knew he did it on purpose. He did it to distract her. He would not succeed. “As long as I’ve got you here, I want to say—everyone knows we’re not married, so I’m in no danger. I want to go home.”

He looked less intoxicated, less tired, and more like the commanding jackass she’d come to know. “You are not leaving until I have remembered everything.”

“You might not ever remember everything.”

“Then you will be here for a long, long time.”

She pointed at the door. “Get out, and don’t come back.”

This time, he went.

* * *

“You can never go out alone.” Kinman leaned forward, hands clasped at his knees, and looked earnestly at MacLean.

MacLean nursed his hangover. “You’re right.”

The fire crackled in the fireplace, releasing the faint scent of pine into the air. The great hall rang with after dinner conversation and laughter. All was as it should be, for MacLean sat with the three Englishmen, and Graeme MacQuarrie, Jimmy MacGillivray, and Rab Hardie, and the women sat at the other end of the hall beside their own fireplace. There Donaldina attempted to teach Enid to spin wool with a spindle, apparently with little success by the sound of the laughter. Everything was appointed just as MacLean liked it. Man talk for him, wench duties for them.

“We shipped off most of our men today,” Kinman said, “but whoever is after you is desperate, and there must be more than one.”

Although Jackson sat on the outermost edge of their group, they included him in their counsel. He stayed, by nature of his disposition and his appearance, almost invisible, but now he lifted his hand. “May I ask, Mr. Kinman, how you know that?”

“The man you shot in the attack on the train—”

That was news to MacLean. “Jackson shot someone?”

“An Englishman, an officer in the militia with a reputation for fierceness in battle,” Harry answered.

“Apparently someone else owned his loyalty,” Graeme said.

Kinman bristled as if Graeme slurred all Englishmen.

Harry nodded, calm as always. “Apparently. He was on board as one of our defenders. He killed the engineer and stopped the train. Jackson fired when he burst into the car.”

MacLean eyed the dull, fastidious Jackson with new respect. “You can shoot?”

Jackson picked at a piece of lint on his sleeve. “My former master shot birds at his estate near Edinburgh, and he insisted I learn.”

“I thought your former master was a friend of Throckmorton’s. Lord Featherstonebaugh, was it not?”

Jackson turned his unremarkable blue eyes on MacLean. “I have worked for several gentlemen at different times in my life.”

Fascinating. MacLean would send to Throckmorton and ask that he investigate the valet’s past more closely.

A burst of feminine laughter distracted MacLean, and he glanced across the hall once more. He’d been with Enid perpetually for months. He couldn’t miss her just because they’d been separated a day—and not even a whole day.

He winced as he remembered his arrival in her bedchamber this morning. He couldn’t believe he’d been so inebriated that he’d sought her out. He had told her every family secret because, in some twisted place in his mind, he had decided she deserved to know.

Even now, while in his right, but hungover, mind, he thought she did. She had been with him almost since the beginning of this adventure. She was in danger because of him. Surely such devotion justified informing her of the day-to-day happenings of the
castle. Even the little things that seemed of no importance.

Kinman dragged the conversation back to the topic at hand. “The other men boarded the train when it stopped.”

“I saw only two,” Jackson said.

“But in the dark and confusion, it was impossible to count. I know at least one more entered MacLean’s car, probably just after he escaped,” Harry replied.

Kinman grasped MacLean’s arm to recapture his attention. “So you see, MacLean, we do know someone will come after you again. Someone will try again to kill you. Someone will ambush you.”

The men glanced at each other with the kind of narrow-eyed determination men showed before battle.

“I know you, MacLean,” Kinman said earnestly. “You’ll balk at restrictions, but you must see they’re a necessity.”

“A complete necessity,” MacLean said. He couldn’t sneak into Enid’s bedchamber for conversation, because this morning he’d managed to get himself thrown out. Of course, they weren’t yet married. She didn’t yet know his intentions, and she’d made it clear she wouldn’t welcome his suit. He had no right in her bedchamber, but . . . he wanted to win that right.

Unfortunately, his mother was right. He didn’t know how to court a woman. He’d never had to; as laird, women had courted him. Of course, he knew the basics: how to flirt, how to tell a woman lies. But never before had he wanted a woman who didn’t want him. Never before had it mattered so much.

“You have to appear to be casual, and at the same
time always be on your guard.” Kinman squeezed his hands together and looked as nervous as ever that large gentleman could look.

“Absolutely.” If MacLean hadn’t recovered his memory, he would have undoubtedly got her with child.

He sat up straight.

Perhaps a child already grew in her womb. In which case they would have to wed, regardless of her lack of enthusiasm.

Kinman had said it before, but now he said it again. “We don’t know what information you have hidden within the depths of your mind, but the traitor has proved its importance by doing everything in his power to eliminate you.”

“You’re right,” MacLean repeated in a daze.

A child . . . with Enid? His gut and his heart leaped at the idea.

Kinman jumped to his feet. “Blast you, MacLean, you’re not listening to me!”

MacLean blinked at the huffing, red-faced Kinman. “I’ve agreed with everything you said!”

“And how unlikely is that?” Kinman complained.

Now that MacLean had his memory back, he remembered Kinman. They had grown to know each other when MacLean had gone to England to trace Stephen. Kinman was a conscientious, kindly, dutiful man who could fight with the best of them. His shambling appearance hid a sharp mind, and MacLean respected him.

But Kinman seemed to believe MacLean was intractable, and MacLean willingly reassured him. “I’m not to go out by myself,” MacLean recited. “Most of
the English guards are gone, but I’m still not safe. We don’t know what I know, but the killer has proved how important that bit of knowledge is by torching the cottage, stopping the train, chasing me through Scotland, and shooting at me.”

Kinman looked down at his feet and shuffled them. “Perhaps there is more than one killer after you.”

“That’s obvious.” MacLean looked around at the serious faces. “I’d call myself brave, but I’m not stupid. I can’t stop a bullet, and I’ll not go haring off outdoors without men guarding my back. Does that satisfy you?”

They all nodded.

“Good, then.” He stood. “I’m off to talk with the ladies. Come if you like. The worst any of them will do is stab me with her spindle.”

Harry lounged in his chair. “And we know who she would be.”

MacLean threw him a black look and headed across the great hall. The men trailed him, not to protect him, as MacLean well knew, but for the amusement of seeing the MacLean join the ladies.

All except Harry, who stayed where he was and stared into the fire.

By the time MacLean had crossed the room, the serving women were nudging each other and grinning, and his mother was shuffling her well-worn deck of cards.

MacLean almost paused to touch her shoulder.

Enid couldn’t be right about Lady Bess. His mother dressed disgracefully. She flirted constantly, and with younger men. She smoked too much, drank to excess, played cards. She couldn’t have sacrificed herself for
him and his estate. It was impossible that he could have been so dim-witted as to overlook her selflessness.

“Mother . . .”

She glanced up at him. “Son?”

He looked around to see everyone observing him. He couldn’t question her here. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s of no moment.”

Planting himself in front of Enid, he wondered what he should say. He could scarcely demand if she’d had her menses. So instead he stared at her downturned head and noted how the candlelight flickered on the dark waves of her upswept hair, how wisps slipped down her slender neck, the way the new white gown Celeste had sent clung to her curves. Enid was beautiful. He wanted her. His body and his very instincts identified his gentle, perfect mate.

Looking up, his gentle, perfect mate snapped, “Either go away or sit down. You’re standing in the light.”

Chapter 23

What had Enid been thinking when she’d thrown MacLean out of her bedroom?

Of course, she knew. She’d been thinking she would go home soon—wherever home was. It was certainly not here at Castle MacLean, where an Englishman lurked in every corner and a Scotsman lurked behind each of them, and Enid ran into all of them with suspicious regularity. In the four days since her arrival, she’d begun to suspect they were following her.

Turning swiftly, she peered behind her. Shadows filled the long upstairs gallery, but nothing could account for her attack of nerves. She glanced at the marble bust set on a pedestal. She examined the window alcoves. Nothing. All she could see outside was the constant, drenching rain and the advent of purple evening.

She had to take herself in hand and remember who she was. Enid MacLean, a female who would soon be back in a dull job where one day would follow another
without change or excitement—or futile yearning or long evenings in the great hall wherein Kiernan MacLean sat, staring at her and brooding.

Everyone in the castle observed his preoccupation with obvious glee.

She avoided looking at him at all costs. But she always knew he sat there, in the traditional Scottish garb with the hand-knit wool stockings gartered at the knee, his precious sporran, tied about his waist, and a kilt that allowed for occasional, breathtaking glimpses of his muscled thighs—and beyond.

She sighed. That explained why she dragged her feet on her way down for supper. For four days she’d dealt with this constant, tiresome scrutiny, and she was starting to spill things, to forget what she’d been saying, to blush for no reason. The whole situation was wearing on her.

If only something would happen. If only the villain would reveal himself! But while none of the men would discuss the situation with her—they didn’t want to upset her delicate, female sensibilities—she knew they must be pondering the probability that their criminal had left with the English guards. How long would they wait before declaring MacLean out of harm’s way and her able to return home?

Sometimes, she wondered whether MacLean kept her here for the pleasure of tormenting her. He knew the location of her bedchamber, and although she now kept the door locked, he could obtain the key. She was determined to bar him from her bed. But, oh! How she wished to avoid that test, for at night her body yearned for his touch. When she slept, her mind wandered through the Scottish hills in his company, and always
they found a small hut where the wind was still and the sunshine warm, and they made love while the very mountains hummed their approval. She imagined that, somewhere in the castle, MacLean sent tendrils of desire chasing after her, and it seemed that every night he commanded with ever-increasing vigor that she come to him.

That was why she imagined someone watched her. Always, she hoped it was MacLean.

Hands clasped behind her back, she again started down the gallery, looking up at the walls crowded with portraits of long-dead lairds, their dogs, their horses, and their wives.

The portrait on the end in particular attracted her—the painting that showed the last laird with his wife, Lady Bess, their children, Kiernan and Elizabeth, Lady Catriona . . . and Stephen. Enid stared at the two lads, standing together as if they had been friends. Stephen had been older than Kiernan, seventeen to Kiernan’s eleven, but already Kiernan topped Stephen in height and breadth. The artist had well captured the charm Stephen cultivated and Kiernan’s rough impatience at being constrained. Two MacLeans, raised together, yet so different.

“He was handsome, wasn’t he?” a breathy feminine voice asked beside Enid.

Enid jumped and turned.

Although she hadn’t laid eyes on the lady since the first night, she recognized Lady Catriona. Lady Catriona’s gray hair was swirled in a knot and topped with a black lace widow’s cap. Her face was worn, her garb unremitting black, and she crumpled a handkerchief in her nervous fingers. She couldn’t have been much
older than Lady Bess; indeed, Enid thought she should be younger, but the years showed on Lady Catriona in her stooped shoulders, her stout figure, and the wrinkles around her drooping mouth and red-rimmed eyes.

“Did I startle you?” Lady Catriona came up no further than Enid’s chin. “I didn’t mean to. You were so absorbed in my dear boy’s portrait.”

“Yes . . . I was.” Enid supposed she had been, but Lady Catriona must be able to glide without a sound to have crept up on Enid so completely.

“I’m Lady Catriona MacLean.” She extended her trembling hand. “I apologize for not having greeted you sooner, but I have been in seclusion. In mourning.”

“Of course.” Enid couldn’t have felt more awkward. She was the widow of this woman’s son, but her own mourning had not occurred. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Lady Catriona’s faded blue eyes filled with tears. “But it’s
our
loss, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Although Lady Catriona hadn’t exactly offered her condolences.

“I haven’t felt up to dining with the family. They have been so utterly without the proper sentiments at this sad time.”

“Oh. Yes.” By that, Enid supposed, she meant that no one showed regret for the absence of her son. “But Stephen has been gone from here for so long, I’m sure they mourned his loss before.”

“Don’t excuse their behavior. They are a disgrace.”

As was Enid, she supposed, since she defended the family. On the other hand, Lady Catriona slyly castigated Enid, also, whose velvet ruby red gown could never be called mourning garb. Enid almost said, “I lost all my clothing in a fire,” but she would not excuse
herself to Lady Catriona. This woman had never made any attempt to contact Enid after the wedding, never made the effort to welcome her into the family, never before extended a hand in friendship. The fault in decorum was not Enid’s alone.

When Enid did not speak, Lady Catriona said, “I’ve known Kiernan since he was a babe, and he is the worst of the lot. A sly bully who always thought himself better than Stephen because of his title.”

“Really?” Enid’s lips felt stiff. “I would not have thought that of him.”

“That’s because Stephen never complained. Stephen was always the gentle, caring older cousin.” Lady Catriona’s voice lingered over her son’s name, then her eyes flashed as she said, “And Kiernan was always an ingrate.”

Driven to protest, Enid said, “Kiernan went to rescue Stephen.”

Lady Catriona lifted her head and smiled with still, chill politeness. “You call Kiernan by his first name?”

Was this whole conversation filled with traps? “I named him as you did. I call him MacLean. The MacLean, everyone calls him here.”

“Ah.” Lady Catriona looked away to the portrait. “Well, Kiernan didn’t rescue Stephen, and my poor mother’s heart wonders if he failed on purpose.”

Enid didn’t even think. She snapped, “Lady Catriona, what a dreadful thing to say. MacLean would never deliberately fail in any mission he undertook!”

“I should have known you would take his side. Stephen couldn’t even count on his own wife to champion him as he deserved.” Tears swelled in Lady Catriona’s eyes, and she dabbed at them with her
handkerchief. “I am the only one who ever understood my darling son.”

This woman was a manipulative spider, and Enid had allowed Lady Catriona to maneuver her in ways she had never imagined. She wanted nothing so much as to get away. Instead she asked politely, “Will we have the pleasure of your company tonight?”

“No.” Lady Catriona sighed. “No. I did want to meet you, but I fear this heavy sorrow has worn me out. I’ll go back to my chamber. I’ll have a tray, although I have scarcely managed to choke down a bite.”

Enid watched as Lady Catriona wandered off, a lost soul in the gallery of prodigiously vibrant MacLeans.

Then Enid again looked at Stephen’s portrait, and for the first time in nine years, Enid felt sorry for him.

Supper in the great hall of the Castle MacLean was a huge, blithe meal, with laughter, the occasional argument and frequent flirtation. Only the head table was quiet. There MacLean and Enid sat in a pool of silence. Silence, because MacLean seemed unable to carry on a conversation. When asked questions, he would answer yes or no. He could even on occasion form entire sentences. But for the most part he stared at Enid as if trying to discern some great issue relevant only to him.

When the covers had been pulled away and the brandy poured, Enid had at last had enough of MacLean’s ominous gaze. In a clear tone, she announced, “I met Lady Catriona tonight.”

The clatter of silverware against plates dwindled. Conversation died. Enid looked up from her plate to see every Scottish face turned to her, all wearing identical expressions of chagrin and sympathy.

Lady Bess, usually so outspoken, said nothing but, “Oh, dear.”

Driven to speech at last, MacLean asked, “What did she say?”

Enid straightened her napkin in her lap. “She wanted to meet me so we could share in each other’s sorrow.”

“That was good of her,” MacLean said. “Now what did she really say?”

Enid fussed with her napkin again. “I fear I have offended her by not donning mourning.”

“We have all offended in that matter.” Lady Bess lit one of her stinking cigars.

“It is impossible not to offend my aunt.” MacLean nodded solemnly to Enid. “If she has insulted you, I beg your pardon on her behalf.”

“No.” Now Enid felt like Lady Catriona herself, manipulating MacLean for her own satisfaction. “I thought her unhappy.”

Lady Bess blew out a stream of smoke. “Perpetually.”

“And a little . . . unsettled,” Enid concluded.

“Daft as a hatter, just like the rest of her family,” Lady Bess agreed. “I’ve always thought so.”

MacLean turned to his mother. “Is she eating?”

“Oh, please.” Lady Bess pulled a long face. “When have you ever seen Catriona so melancholic she couldn’t eat?”

“Then I won’t worry that she will waste away.” MacLean pushed back his chair and stood. “Shall we adjourn to the fireplace?”

“No.” Enid stood also. “I’m weary.” And irritable and depressed—all sure signs her menses were in full strength. “I am going to my chamber.”

MacLean replied, “I’ll walk you.”

“What?” Enid glanced about at the company, all present to hear MacLean make his remarkably compromising statement. “Why?”

“It’s a long, dark staircase and a long, dark corridor. You need an escort. Someone to carry your candle.”

She primmed her mouth. “It is not proper for you to accompany me to my bedchamber.”

With a placid smile, Lady Bess said, “My dear, this isn’t England with all its fancy rules and high etiquette. In fact, in Scotland we have an institution called a handfast, where a couple is married for a year and a day and if a bairn results, the marriage is binding.”

“And if a child doesn’t result, what is the woman to do? Declare herself a failure and slink away?” Blood burned in Enid’s cheeks. She had been the wife with a failed marriage. She knew what it was like to suffer pity and disdain. “Why would any woman consent to such an arrangement?”

“Lass, it’s not exactly a matter of obtaining the female’s consent,” MacLean said. “The handfast is a legacy of days gone by when a man carried off his bride regardless of her wishes.”

Enid did not care for his tone or his words, and she crushed him with a firm “Thank heavens we live in enlightened times.”

He appeared to be uncrushed. Indeed, the slight smile that played about his lips made her worry he considered such a drastic action. But no. No. He didn’t wish to wed her. Bad enough that she had fornicated with him, and not just once . . . she cupped her forehead in her palm. Fornicated with him time and again when she had known his true identity!

“Do you have the headache?” He rested his hand on her shoulder, and he used that caressing tone that recalled that day in the Scottish mountains.

She ducked and stepped swiftly away. “I’m fine!” she snapped.

He smiled again, and the way he looked at her, all strength and dominance, made her think he had truly been exerting his will to bring her to his bedchamber.

Turning to Lady Bess, she said, “I’m not Scottish and as such am not subject to your handfast laws.”

“Weel, yes, dear, you are.” Lady Bess laughed heartily. “But that’s not in question.”

“No. What is in question is my ability to carry my candle,” Enid said tartly, “and I have been doing so successfully these four nights. I can do it again tonight.”

“Nevertheless, I will escort you,” MacLean said with uncompromising certainty.

If she said she’d been jesting, that she wasn’t really going to go to bed, that would merely postpone the inevitable. Eventually, he would escort her. Since she knew his mind, she knew there could be no question. He would also escort her only as far as her door. Of that she was determined.

So she smiled, a brief, tight grimace with no warmth. “As you wish, my lord.” She started toward the stairway.

He started after her.

She halted. “MacLean? You have forgotten the candle.”

He scowled, and she waited for him to say he didn’t want to be bothered about the blasted candle. But when a smiling serving girl offered him a single lit taper in a holder, he accepted it and followed Enid as she made
her way up the stairs and along the portrait gallery.