The Pretender (18 page)

Douglas stopped. “Why do you ask?”

“Eithne said it to me right before she fainted.”

Douglas looked at her but didn’t immediately respond. Finally, he said, “It is Gaelic. For ‘washerwoman.’ ”

Elizabeth knit her brow. “I don’t understand. Why would that have upset her so much?”

Douglas studied her face for a long moment. “Do you believe in faeries, lass?”

The question took Elizabeth by surprise. “I suppose I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve certainly read of them and other such phenomena. I’ve never really made any determination.” And then she realized why he’d asked. “Is that why Eithne became so upset today? Because she believed she saw something, a faery, at the burn?”

Douglas just looked at her. “There is a belief here in the Highlands, an apparition called the
bean nighe
. It is purported to be the spirit of a woman who died in childbirth, doomed to spend what would have been the rest of her time on earth washing clothes by the river.”

“But I still do not understand. Why would that have caused Eithne such distress?”

“It is commonly believed that when the
bean nighe
appears, she washes the clothes of those who are about to die. The words Eithne repeated to you—
‘Se do leine, se do leine ga mi nigheadh’
—it is a chant, ‘It is your shirt, it is your shirt I am washing’.”

“So Eithne believes this spirit she saw was singing the song to warn her?”

“Aye. And she believes the shirt that the
bean nighe
was washing was Roderick’s.”

A chill swept suddenly through Elizabeth’s body. “That is why you were so desperate to find him. But surely Eithne can see Roderick is well, that no danger has befallen him.”

“Aye. She still fears he is in danger.”

“How horrible for her.”

Douglas stopped and looked at her.

“What is it?”

He started to answer, but instead found all he could do was look at her. How could he explain how much she amazed him, how every day she amazed him even more? He’d been reluctant to tell her of the superstition, thinking she would scoff, or ridicule him and the beliefs of his people. But she hadn’t.

As he looked at her now, he realized that every day she was looking less and less the stranger to him.

Douglas touched a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face to his. Elizabeth said nothing, but he heard her take in a breath and hold it. He saw so many parts of her as he looked into her eyes—the noble lady, the vulnerable girl afraid to admit her fear of the dark, the gentle lass who stood before him looking more lovely than he ever thought possible.

Without giving it a second thought, he lowered his head to kiss her.

A moment later, he was lost.

Douglas threw wide the door and crossed the room to the box bed, all the while locked mouth-to-mouth with Elizabeth.

As he lay Elizabeth back upon the mattress, freshly filled with the fragrant heather he’d gathered himself that morning, he thought to himself that he’d never before seen anything more beautiful than this woman . . . his wife. Her eyes were shiny and large, and she said nothing, not a word. Silently, she reached for him, entreating him to kiss her again.

Douglas used his mouth, his tongue, his breath, overwhelming her as completely as she had overwhelmed him. He worked his fingers over the kerchief that covered her hair, unraveling its knot until her hair was loose and falling over her shoulders in a river of red and gold. He kissed along her jaw, her neck, nuzzling the soft skin behind her ear. He fisted his hands in the tangle of her
hair and slowly drew back her head so he could kiss her again.

He felt her hands slide upward along his arms, twining her fingers with his. Douglas lifted his head, caught his breath at the sight of her, and brought his mouth down to her breast. He heard her gasp, felt her fingers tighten as she arched her back against his mouth, seeking more. And he gave it. Much, much more.

“I need to see you,” he whispered, untangling his fingers from hers. He drew his knuckles down the side of her face, the nape of her neck, pulling the tie on her chemise that would free her to his touch.

“Sweet
Dia
in heaven. You are lovely.”

Her breasts were soft, full, and shaped to fit in his hand. He stroked her tender flesh with his fingertips, thumbing her nipple to hardness until he felt her shiver, heard her moan, and whisper his name once, twice.

It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

“Close your eyes,
leannan,
” he whispered against her cheek. “You needn’t fear the dark this night.”

He loosened the stays that bound her waist, pulled away her skirts. He slid his hand beneath her and lifted her, sweeping away the petticoats underneath.

She was nearly naked. His breath was coming quickly. His body felt on fire. He sat back on his knees, drinking in the sight of her as she lay scarcely covered by her scrap of chemise. He tugged his shirt over his head, saw her lashes flutter open. He leaned over her until his chest was pressed to hers. He softly kissed her nose.

He kissed her mouth again, long and deep, and felt her body yielding to the pleasure of his touch. As he
looked down on her in the moonlight, he could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she lay, eyes closed, senses heightened, anticipating something she had never known, could never have suspected . . . but would remember for the rest of her life.

By
Dia
she would remember.

He pulled away, looking at her in the twilight. He could take her, he knew, bury himself within her and end the torment. He could make love to her and lose himself in her softness and her scent. God, how he wanted to do that. Never in his life had he wanted something so badly. But just as much as he wanted, ached for it with a need he’d never known existed, he knew deep inside himself that it could never, ever be. Giving in to his need would change the course of destiny. But he could give her a woman’s pleasure so that for as long as she lived, she would have this night, this time . . . and the memory of him.

He settled himself above her, parting her with his hips as his mouth moved down, searing the flesh along her throat, her breasts, nipping at those taut peaks until she cried out his name. He pressed against her, trying to imagine her around him. When he felt her lift her hips, opening to him, wanting him, it nearly did him in. The wool of the kilt was suddenly, unbearably hot, confining, so he fumbled with the buckle until it was loose and he was free, free to cover her, his body to her body, his flesh to her flesh.

He slid his body down, dragging his mouth across her breasts, over her belly, nipping at the angle of her hip. He parted her legs, opening her as he slowly lowered his mouth against her.

When he touched his tongue to her, she lifted off the bed on a strangled half gasp.

“Douglas, we cannot—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, urging her back. “And let me love you in the only way I can.”

As he spoke, he caressed her with his fingertip, finding that place where all her senses pulsed and tingled. He touched her, and when he slid his finger inside her, he felt her body still as she took in a breath, saw her lips part in wonder, her eyes tightly closed.

He stroked her with his finger, as he eased his body lower. He drew up her knees, opening her to his mouth while his fingers moved yet deeper. He knew when she was ready, felt the tightness in her legs as they squeezed against his shoulders. She lifted her hips, struggling against his constant caress. He felt her rake her fingers through his hair, clutching him tightly. She begged him to go on. He could no more stop pleasuring her than he could cease breathing . . . he could only love her.

Her breath hitched, once, twice . . . and with his next caress he knew she would plummet over the edge. And he gave it to her, that gift, that caress, drawing her hips up into his hands and taking her orgasm into his mouth as she cried out.

Only when her body had stilled and her breathing had quieted did he release her, easing her back as he pulled himself over her and drew her into his arms.

The sun was shining when Elizabeth awoke, stretching her arms over her head as she lazed amidst the bedcovers.

She hadn’t felt this good in . . . in truth, she’d
never
felt this good. Now she knew why young ladies fluttered their lashes and sighed over the prospect of being swept off their feet. She’d been swept off her feet, utterly and completely, and then thrown into a tidal wave of feelings too wonderful to have been believed. Douglas had loved her, he’d loved her in a way she had never thought possible. He’d taken her to a place so precious, so real, it must surely be heaven’s model.

He had held her in his arms throughout the night and they had slept the sleep of lovers, breaths mingling, pulses beating together. Had she been any other woman and he any other man, all would have been right in the world. But for one inescapable thing: He might have kissed her, touched her, loved her with his hands and his mouth, but he had not made her his wife.

And she’d wanted him to. Oh, how she’d wanted him to.

Elizabeth sat up on the bed, pushing back the bedclothes. He was gone. She knew without calling his name. His sword wasn’t leaning by the door. His coat was missing. But more noticeably than that, the cottage just felt empty.

She stood and pushed her mussed hair from her eyes, tucking it behind one ear. She crossed the room to the table, taking up the kettle for tea, and it was then she saw them, sitting on the table, waiting just for her.

Books.

Her heart gave a familiar skip as she took them up, running her fingers over the bindings. There was Defoe, Milton, even Chaucer. Some she was not familiar with; others she had already read . . . and would read again.

She didn’t know how, but somehow Douglas had
gotten these for her, to replace the ones lost to the sea. They were the most thoughtful gift she had ever been given. And she couldn’t wait to thank him.

Elizabeth dressed quickly, slipping on a chemise and simple skirt and the stays Eithne had given her to wear. She poured the water for her tea and tried to decide which book to read first. When the tea had been made, she settled into a chair, tucked her feet up beneath her, and opened to the first page.

Hours passed. Morning slipped quickly into day. Day passed into twilight while she read page after delightful page. Only when her stomach gave a hollow grumbling did she tear her attention away long enough to realize she had read the entire day away.

Outside, the sky was darkening. Where could Douglas have gone for so long? It had been hours. And then she realized.

Eithne.

She should have thought of it sooner.

Taking up her shawl, Elizabeth headed off across the glen.

As she walked, she hummed a tune Caroline often played on her spinet. She’d been on Skye nearly a week and hadn’t yet sent her sister the letter she’d promised. She reminded herself to ask Douglas about the foolscap and she picked a sprig of fragrant heather to press inside the page.

When she arrived at Eithne’s cottage, the sun had dipped to the hilltops, summoning the coming night.

“Good day to you, lass,” Eithne said when she noticed Elizabeth’s approach on the hill. She was standing outside, beating the dust from her rugs. “I expected to see
you long afore now. Did you find something to occupy your day?”

Elizabeth took one end of the rug and helped Eithne to shake it out. “Indeed. I’ve been reading. When I awoke this morning, I found several books lying on the table. Some poetry, novels . . . I thought perhaps Douglas would be here . . . I wanted to thank him for getting them for me.”

“Oh, lass, I dinna think the books could be from Douglas.”

“No?”

“Where could he have gotten them so quickly?”

“But if they’re not from Douglas, then who could they be from?”

Eithne thought. “Well, the only person I know of around this part of the isle with books would be the laird.”

“The laird?”

“Aye, MacKinnon of Dunakin. He’s a library filled with them passed down from the MacKinnon clan chief. Likely he heard of the loss of your things and thought you might enjoy the loan of some of his. Someone should be reading them. Otherwise they sit untouched, moldering in that auld empty castle . . .”

“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth agreed. “It would have to be the laird, wouldn’t it? I have never heard Douglas mention him, so it didn’t occur to me that it might be him. Perhaps this MacKinnon of Dunakin brought them to the cottage yesterday whilst we were away?”

Eithne nodded. “Perhaps . . .”

“Yes, that must be it. I should go there, to the castle to thank him.”

“Yes, lass, why don’t you do that? But not today.” She took Elizabeth’s hand and urged her toward the cottage. “I’ve had a stew simmering on the fire a’day. Have a wee bit o’ supper wit’ me and tell me what you read about in these books, eh?”

As she watched Elizabeth turn and duck inside the door, Eithne couldn’t help giving in to a small smile.

She’d told Douglas she wouldn’t lie to the lass.

And she hadn’t.

Oh, Eithne MacKenzie, you are a muckle clever woman, you are.

Douglas was frowning as he read his uncle’s note.

“The prince is on Skye?”

“Aye, so it would seem.”

Roderick poured himself a brandy, then filled another for Douglas. He settled into the chair before the hearth, scratching one of the hounds behind the ears.

“He fled Benbecula in the guise of an Irish maid of all things. ‘Betty Burke’ they called him. Can you believe it? A royal Stuart trussed up in petticoats like a lassie?”

“Better an Irish maid than a dead prince.”

“Aye, true. He rowed over, I’m told, with a schoolmaster from Uist and Hugh MacDonald’s stepdaughter, Flora.”

“Flora MacDonald? But isn’t Hugh MacDonald a captain in the king’s militia?”

“Aye, he is. As you well know, Douglas, a good many who did not join the rebellion are true Jacobites at heart.”

Roderick paused, giving Douglas time to take this all in. “Your uncle has called a meeting of those who can be
counted on for support. Two nights hence. It is to be held here, at Dunakin.”

This news brought Douglas forward in his chair. “Why Dunakin?”

“If we were all to meet at Kilmarie, ’twould surely arouse suspicion, and would put your uncle and young Iain at great risk for capture.”

Douglas could not refute his point. “Who will come?”

“Iain Dubh, of course, Macleod of Raasay, myself . . . and young Iain.”

It pleased Douglas to know that he’d finally see his brother. He only wished it was for any other reason. “What of Maclean?”

“Nae. Your uncle was firm on that point. Carsaig is just the sort of man who would betray us all for the prize of thirty thousand pounds.” Roderick looked at him. “Douglas, I know you were determined not to take any part in this rebellion . . .”

“Say no more. There is no rebellion any longer. A man’s life is at stake. He is being hunted like a beast. Nothing, not even my inheritance, is worth more than saving him.”

At the sudden sound outside the cottage, Elizabeth dropped the book she’d been reading, scuttled from her chair, and yanked the door open.

“I was beginning to—”

But it wasn’t Douglas. It wasn’t Eithne, either. Instead, it was the goat, happily munching one of the stockings she’d just hung out to dry.

“Truis!” she cried. “Drop that stocking before I . . . put you in the stew pot!”

Instead of heeding her, the goat trotted off across the cottage yard, her white stocking fluttering from his mouth like a victory banner.

“Truis!” she called, chasing after him. “You absurd little beast. Bring back my stocking. Why don’t you come when I call? Truis! Truis . . .”

She followed him into the byre. “Truis?”

She took in a sharp breath when she saw a figure outlined in the shadows.

“Douglas.”

He was standing with her stocking dangling from his fingers.

“Looking for this?”

“Ridiculous creature,” she muttered. “The beast doesn’t even have the sense to come when he’s called.”

“Perhaps if you tried giving him a name.”

“I did. Did you not hear me? I called him just as you did, ‘
Truis
.’ ”

Douglas smiled. “
Truis
is Gaelic for ‘begone,’ lass. In truth, he was only doing as you instructed.”

A horned head appeared from behind a pile of straw, letting out an affirmative
naa
.

Elizabeth walked into the byre, snatching the stolen bit of silk from Douglas’s grasp. “You’ve been gone a long time,” she said. “It is . . . too quiet here when I am alone.”

Douglas looked at her. “But that is what you were after, isn’t it? A house in London, to live in as you please?”