No Other Woman (No Other Series) (43 page)

Oh, God! What else had Fergus said?

She ran for her door, throwing it open.

James McGregor stood there, arms crossed over his chest.

" 'Tis a lovely dress, my lady," he said politely.

"Let me by, James."

"My lady—"

"He is just walking down the stairs, I can hear him!"

McGregor hesitated just a second, then let her by him. Shawna went tearing down the stairs herself.

David had reached the great hall. He was approaching the fire. She ran to him as if flying on wings of fury, slamming her hands against his back.

He whirled around, facing her. She locked her balled fists at her sides, staring at him.

"You belong on a convict ship!" she told him, tears stinging her eyes. "Lashed and whipped and torn to shreds."

She narrowed her eyes, wild with fear and fury and desperate frustration. He didn't say a word.

He didn't seem willing to take her word—against that of Fergus Anderson.

She could prove nothing!

"Is that quite all?" he inquired icily.

"Nay, nay, it is not!" she hissed, and before any good sense, reason, or self-preservation could leap forward to stop her, she slapped him across the cheek with all her strength.

He didn't move; didn't speak.

She stood dead still in horror herself.

Then gasped out a strangled cry because he lifted her, picking her up by her waist, throwing her over his shoulder. For a moment she perched there in shock. Afraid she would burst into tears any second, she pounded his back.

"You're an idiot! You're a fool! God has simply made you pay early for being such a complete ass—"

"Stop, Shawna!"

She stopped, but only to gasp for breath.

"Fool!" she repeated, pounding his back with her clenched fist. There had to be more that she could say, but she couldn't begin to express the fear and pain and frustration welling within her. "Fool!" she repeated more desperately.

He carried her so back up both stairways to her bedroom—past McGregor without a word.

He threw her down upon the bed without a word, started out, then turned back.

He noted her gown. Really noted it.

"You planned on going out."

She stood in silence.

"You call
me, fool.
You planned on going out, when you seem to be target practice for someone every single time you make a move?"

"I—planned nothing."

"You're lying, and you know it well. Damn you, you will not get yourself killed."

"I will not be kept prisoner while you steal my child—"

"Don't play the injured party here, Shawna. And you know damned well that I'm right to keep that child safe now! Just as I am trying to keep you alive, though God knows why, since it seems you don't care in the least about being Danny's mother or anything else for that matter since you are so determined to risk death."

"You are as susceptible to a bullet as I am!"

"But I am much better with a gun, and quite lethal with a sword."

"I'm not trying to risk death—"

"Why the black gown?"

"You destroyed the other, and since the room was a bit chill, I did not feel the urge to sit about in tatters. Damn you—you ruined the riding habit I wore. It is rags."

"By God, then, this one shall become confetti!"

He came at her then with such complete menace that she shrieked, attempting to fly from the bed and find some escape—the window seemed a fair choice, compared with the deadly gaze he had cast her way.

But he caught her long before she reached the window. Caught her arm, spun her around. His fingers caught hold of the very proper collar of her high-necked gown, and he ripped. "Stop!" she hissed, struggling, scratching, clawing, desperate to be free from him.

He had never been more determined, more ruthless, more relentless. With incredible purpose, he destroyed the gown, ripping with a vengeance. Choking, gasping, struggling, striking out, Shawna struggled in vain. Soon, it lay in absolute tatters at her feet.

His hands fell away from her.

She glared at her. He was looking only into her eyes. "You'll not leave this room!" he informed her with a quiet menace that was even more frightening in a strange way than the manner in which he had destroyed her clothing.

"Oh, God!" she gasped out, once again spinning to run, when she realized he meant to reach for her again. "Nay, you will not touch me, you will not!" she cried.

But he did. Picking her up, he tossed her down upon the bed.

"Go to sleep. You're not leaving this room."

"I—" she protested, starting to rise.

He leaned over her. "Go to sleep!"

She lay dead still, her heart beating a thousand rounds a second, her lungs heaving for breath. "I—"

"This once, my lady, use some common sense. Not another word. I'm not leaving this room again tonight. Neither are you."

She swallowed hard, sinking back against the pillows, watching him very warily. She slipped beneath the covers.

Freezing.

She didn't think that she'd ever been so cold in all her life.

He turned away from her. Moving about the tower room, he doused the lights.

In the darkness and orange-gold shadows, he stood before the mantel, watching the flame. Shadow and light played over his features, the striking sculpture of his cheeks and brow, the set square of his chin. The light reflected against his eyes, and played strangely upon his shirt, amplifying the supple ripple of muscle beneath it.

His face gave away nothing, none of his emotions, though it seemed he searched for something in the flames, while knowing that he could not find his answers there. Shawna shivered suddenly, remembering her earlier conversation with James McGregor.

Hard labor. He'd worked at hard labor. And the scar above his eye and other minute nicks and tears upon his body gave evidence to the fights he had fought through the years. If she had but lived his life, could she better understand his inability to trust her—especially when it did appear at every turn that she might have been involved more and more deeply with the happenings here?

He left the fire at last. She braced herself to remain still as he neared the bed.

He didn't touch her.

The fierce green flicker of his eyes upon her scalded her flesh, yet it seemed as well that he had no desire to touch her whatsoever.

He did not. He turned his back on her, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. He cast off his boots. Then he lay back upon the bed, hands folded behind his head.

Shawna lay silent for several long moments.

"I know nothing about Mary Jane. Nothing!"

"Curious that she is involved. And she is gone."

"If she is missing," Shawna insisted, "we should be searching for her!"

"She is missing by choice," he said flatly.

"How do you know that?"

"Her clothing is gone."

"She might have been forced from the castle, and her things might have been taken—"

"Shawna, stop."

She should have stopped, just as he suggested. But she couldn't.

She wrenched his pillow from beneath him, slamming it over his chest.

He moved like lightening. She was suddenly crushed against him. His arms were like the steel bars of a dungeon. She lay with her back flush against the cotton of his shirt and the denim of his breeches, her wrists held in a punishing grasp before her.

She could scarcely breathe.

And she scarcely dared to do so.

"I cannot believe this!" she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Mary Jane! Who had pretended to be her friend as well as her servant! "Maybe it's not true. How could you so easily believe Fergus?"

"Because he told the truth."

"How can you believe that?"

"Because my sword was at his throat." He sighed with vast impatience. "Shawna! You cannot go on refusing to see that people close to you harmed you and mean you greater harm!"

She held very still for several moments, then said, "You're—crushing me."

His hold upon her eased. In fact, he moved away from her.

And she lay in bed with him, naked with him, and he did not touch her.

Their backs were now to one another.

And she wondered if it hadn't been much better when their anger ignited passion. The desperation of their sex seemed preferable to the chill that seemed to assail her from all over.

"David?"

"Damn it, Shawna, why didn't you tell me about having a child?"

She swallowed, moistening her lips. "You were too embittered over your own past for me to mention that losing a child had not been pleasant."

He didn't reply. He lay silent for so long that she thought he slept. Then she nearly jumped as he lashed out with, "Damn, m'lady, do stop shaking!"

He suddenly pulled her hard against him.

She should protest. She should freeze for all eternity before allowing his touch in any way.

But she had been so cold. And he was warm. And though there was no tenderness in his touch, tonight, especially tonight, she did not want the cold.

"We should be looking for Mary Jane," she said.

He was silent for a moment.

"We will find Mary Jane tomorrow," he said.

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because it will be the Night of the Moon Maiden. I implore you, get some rest. And if you don't choose to, my God, allow me my sleep."

Shawna fell silent again. It plagued her now that she was lying in the arms of the man who had given her back her child—then stolen him from her again within minutes.

"David?"

"Oh, God, what, Shawna?"

"When can I see Danny?"

He let out a very long sigh and rose then on an elbow at her side. He touched her lips with a finger, and smiled slightly, and she realized that he wanted to trust her completely, believe in her completely....

She kept him from doing so. By refusing to believe that someone very close to her had nearly cost them both their lives.

"Soon," he promised her.

"How soon?"

"Hmm..." he mused. "Well, there's something I shall have you do tomorrow. A promise you will make to me at the Night of Moon Maiden. And when that's done, you will have Danny back."

"What promise?"

"You'll find out tomorrow."

"David—"

"Alistair pulled us both from the flames," he told her quietly then.

"What?"

"Alistair—"

"How can you know?" she inquired desperately. "Alistair wasn't even part of the plan, he—"

"He talked to me, Shawna. He told me."

"Oh, God! Then he sold you to that convict ship! David, I know he meant you no harm! You can't—"

"I've no intention of slaying Alistair," David said with amusement. "He told me—and I believe—that he was convinced that I would be murdered if I didn't disappear. He'd been attacked by the escaped convict in the woods, and killed the man in the fight. Alistair is no saint, but he is working hard at redeeming himself. Or so I believe. We'll find out tomorrow night, won't we?"

"The Night of the Moon Maiden," she said.

"And I beg you, go to sleep!"

She lay down, her head upon his chest. He had just said that he would bring Danny back to her, when she fulfilled a promise to him.

She would never sleep. Never.

For hours, she did remain awake. She didn't know if David slept or not.

Finally, however, she must have fallen asleep. She awoke to a scream so loud and high-pitched that it seemed to penetrate every nook and cranny of the huge castle.

"Sweet Jesu!" David gasped, bounding up.

He was still clad in his breeches, shirt, and stockings; he had only to pull on his boots. Shawna, leaping up as well, had a greater difficulty, seeking a gown and robe and slippers.

David was dressed and exiting the room. She eschewed the slippers, and went tearing after him.

They raced down the stairs together, pausing at the landing to the great hall. As they stood there, Sloan Trelawny came silently behind them; Hawk, Skylar, and Sabrina nearly plowed into him.

Anne-Marie, her hand upon her heart, supported by Myer, stood before Gawain, Alistair, and Alaric at the hearth.

Anne-Marie spoke rapidly, gasping all the while, the words gushing from her lips. "I started bringing out the kegs with one of the lads... oh, God! I say... by the Good Laird Jesus, I've never seen such a thing, never, in my days, so horrible... horrible... Oh, God... it's him... his corpse... the poor, dead corpse of David Douglas. Black and charred, laid out, laid out, oh, God, it was there when I brought the basket, I didn't realize... right on the Druid Stone, it was there—the corpse of David Douglas, laid out just like an ancient sacrifice."

"The corpse was on the Druid Stone?" Gawain repeated in astonishment. "Now, Anne-Marie, perhaps it was just some dirt, a prank by the village boys—"

"She's probably telling the truth, Father," Alistair said. "The corpse was stolen. Hawk and I found the coffin empty yesterday."

"You what?" Gawain inquired. "You found that the crypt had been broken into—and no one mentioned it to me?"

"Hawk is a Douglas, Father," Alistair reminded him.

"Aye, and we'll not have a Douglas grave dishonored, not while we are caretakers here!" Gawain said indignantly. "We'll have Master David reinterred immediately—"

"That won't be necessary," David interrupted, walking across the landing to address Gawain.

Gawain, startled, looked over to David, and watched as he approached him.

"As I live and breathe!" Gawain exclaimed. "David Douglas."

"Aye. And not dead yet," David said.

"David!" Alaric said, gaping as he stared at the man who should have been a ghost.

"Aye, 'tis me. Back. We should, however, see to it that the corpse is removed from the Druid Stone. I'd not have the Night of the Moon Maiden ruined for everyone."

A peculiar noise sounded.

It was a stuttering.

It was Anne-Marie.

David gently turned to her.

" 'Tis most distressing that you should have found such a gruesome thing, Anne-Marie, and I'm sorry," David said.

Anne-Marie, her eyes very wide, let out another scream.