The Seduction of Miss Amelia Bell (12 page)

R
avenglade wasn’t the largest castle Amelia had ever been in; at least, it didn’t appear
to be on the outside. The interior was another matter. When they brought Lucan inside
earlier, she had neither the time nor the inclination to look around. Now, left alone
with Grendel close at her heels while Edmund and Malcolm were off speaking with the
Buchanan chief, Amelia took in the grandeur of Ravenglade’s Great Hall and tapestry-covered
walls.

A single wooden table, long enough to seat at least fifty souls, sat in the center
of the Hall. The table was bare now, save for two short candle stands placed at both
ends and years’ worth of nicks and gouges in the wooden surface. Amelia imagined it
in its earlier days, surrounded by rowdy men slamming their daggers into the wood
while they told stories of bravery and menace.

An enormous wrought iron candle chandelier hung directly above the table from the
ceiling, ready to illuminate the cavernous interior when the sun went down. For now,
though, sunlight puddled in from ten long, tapered mullioned windows set with clear
glass. She guessed Malcolm’s family must be quite wealthy to be able to afford such
extravagance as glass.

Oddly, there were no drafts seeping in through the walls, thanks largely to the thick,
colorful tapestries covering most of the walls. The simplicity of the scenes depicted
in the art only served to accentuate the exquisite craftsmanship of the stitches,
the consideration of every color and hue.

“The work of m’ grandmother’s fingers.”

Amelia spun on her heel and found Darach leaning his back against the table, watching
her. She smiled.

He smiled back. This time though, Amelia noticed the spark of flint within his emerald
gaze. It made the backs of her knees tickle. She looked away, unwilling to succumb
to his raw allure. She pitied the ladies who crossed this one’s path.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, turning to admire the tapestries again. “Yer grandmother
is a master embroiderer.”

“Mayhap.” He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the table, his bare, booted legs
dangling over the side. “But she prefers to be known as a master swordswoman.”

Amelia shot him a skeptical glance over her shoulder. “Does every Highlander in Skye
make the same boast? Even the women?”

“They might. But none of them are as convincin’ in their claim as Claire Stuart is.”

“Claire Stuart, Lady Huntley”—Amelia blinked at him—“cousin to the late kings Charles
and James Stuart, family to the queen, is yer grandmother?”

He nodded, then hopped to the floor and joined her in her stroll around the Great
Hall. “M’ grandsire Graham Grant aided her and the great General Monck in restorin’
King Charles to the throne.”

“He is a patriot, like ye and the others then,” Amelia said, noting the measure of
pride in his voice when he spoke.

“He didna’ give a flea-bitten rat’s arse aboot what was best fer the country. He was
in love with his woman. He still is.”

Amelia stopped and turned to him. “Still?” she asked him. Did men continue to love
their wives after a long marriage? Was her father still in love with her mother? She
didn’t think he was. She didn’t want that kind of life for herself. Her dear father.
She missed him. Was he worried about her?

“Aye, still.” The subtle change in the quirk of his lips when he nodded revealed that
this proud, prowling young beast possessed a soft, romantic core.

She had judged both Darach and Grendel too hastily.

“What of yer parents?” she asked him on the way toward the stairs to relieve Sarah
of watching over Lucan’s bed. “Is yer father a warrior, too?”

“Nae, he’s a bard. He’s penned many odes to m’ mother.”

Amelia smiled to herself. Darach made better sense to her now. “Their love still burns
strong, as well?”

“It does.”

Lord, just what kind of men did they grow in those mountains of Skye, she thought
as she reached for the door to Lucan’s room. These Highlanders were different from
the men she met at her uncle’s balls. They didn’t only dress differently, they seemed
stronger, bigger, and more confident, but less arrogant. They were rough and hard
on the outside, but deeper and more intense about what they were passionate about.

Sarah looked up from the wet rag she was twisting in her hands and glanced at the
two people entering. She should have looked tired after having spent her entire afternoon
at the wounded Highlander’s side, but her eyes still shone like sunlit fields behind
strands of ginger waves that had come loose from her plait.

“How is he?” Amelia asked, coming toward the bed. “Thank God, his color is returning.”

“Aye.” Sarah leaned over Lucan and gently dabbed the rag over his forehead. “He’s
strong.”

He certainly was, Amelia thought, scanning her vision over Lucan’s long, lithe form
on the bed. She folded back the blanket that was covering him and sucked in a gulp
of air so hard it gave her the hiccups. He was naked! She tossed the cover back over
him, then stepped back and looked over the bed.

“Sarah, where is his plaid?”

“’Tis there.” Her friend pointed to the wool thrown across his hips, not fully concealing
his loins. “I had to undrape most of him to make certain he was not cut anywhere else.”

Amelia glanced at her beneath her lashes. “And was he?”

Her friend shook her head and then shot Darach a dark look when he smiled. “Come over
here and have a look under them covers. Ye won’t be smilin’ long after that.”

“I’ve seen gruesome gashes before, woman,” Darach informed her.

“I wasn’t speakin’ of his wound.”

Amelia smiled into her hand and looked down to find that Lucan had opened his eyes
and was aiming a soft, intoxicatingly sweet smile at Sarah.

Her friend turned away from Darach in time to catch Lucan’s appraisal. “Welcome back,”
Sarah greeted softly. “Ye had us worried.”

“Fergive me,” he whispered, his throat hoarse. He turned to grant his smile on Amelia
next. His extraordinary eyes burned with residue from his fever, or anticipated dread
to the reply of his next question. “Have my cousins minded themselves with ye both
while I was away?”

“If they hadn’t,” Amelia told him with a wink, “they would be lying beside ye in that
bed.”

“’Tis aboot time ye opened yer eyes.” Darach moseyed to the bed and sat at its edge.
“I was beginnin’ to think yer mettle wasna’ as strong as mine.”

“Och.” Sarah swatted Darach with her damp cloth. “I suppose yer leg has been sliced
down the middle before and ye almost bled out then?”

Amelia smiled; if anyone could give Darach a run for his coin, it was Sarah.

When Darach didn’t answer her, she shooed him away. “Malcolm mentioned a cook. Go
find her please and ask her to prepare something befittin’ a celebration. Go on then,”
she added when Darach didn’t move quickly enough.

They all watched him go, then Lucan’s warm topaz gaze drifted back to Sarah. He licked
his lips to moisten them, which prompted Sarah to pour him a cup of water. He accepted
the offering and took a sip. When his hand trembled, Sarah reached for the cup before
Amelia and held it to his lips.

“And Malcolm?” he asked Sarah directly once his thirst was quenched. “Has he treated
ye with honor?”

Sarah stopped what she was doing and looked at Amelia first, then at Lucan. She laughed,
but Amelia knew her well enough to know her humor was not sincere. When she spoke
again, she proved Amelia to be correct.

“What is honor and what do I care of it?” She shrugged her shoulders and plunged her
rag back into the bowl of water. “Ye needn’t concern yerself with me, Mr. MacGregor.
As ye just saw fer yerself, I can take care of m’self.”

“I would prefer—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. “Now that I see ye’re well”—Sarah abandoned the
rag in the bowl, snatched up a dry cloth, and dried her hands—“I will leave ye to
Amelia’s care.” She smiled, offered him a subtle bow befitting her station, then hurried
out of the room.

Amelia looked after her, wondering what in blazes had come over her friend. This was
the first time in Amelia’s memory that Sarah actually ran from a handsome man. Could
it be that she was losing her heart to Malcolm Grant? She would speak to her friend
about it later and remind her that they could not have relationships with these men.
She remembered with a regretful smile that Sarah was under no bounds. She could wed
whom she wished.

She smiled at Lucan, pushing her thoughts aside. This man deserved her attention.
She gave it to him, her smile wide with genuine happiness that he had recovered.

“She’s correct. Worrying over everyone else will not aid in yer healing. I will prepare
something fer ye later to help ye sleep.”

“Ye have my gratitude,” he told her. “I dinna’ care fer being so helpless.”

“Ye’ll be up and about in no time at all,” she assured him. She wanted to check his
wound but she wasn’t about to go under that blanket again.

“Would ye mind just adjusting yer plaid a bit so that I can have a look at yer thigh?”

He obliged and Amelia pulled back the covering again. Thankfully, everything was hidden,
save fer his wound. Still, that didn’t help her nerves when she touched him. Heavens,
but the man was big. His thighs, dusted with black hair, were long and lean with muscle.
His belly was flat and carved into small squares that rattled Amelia’s nerves. However
did Sarah work on him all day without being affected by his dark good looks?

“Sarah will need some protecting against Malcolm. She fancies him, but I fear he will
leave her in a pool of tears and—”

“What’s this?” Malcolm called from the door, about to enter with Edmund and Grendel
behind him. “I give ye m’ own bed to recover in and here ye are spreadin’ heinous
tales aboot me while restin’ yer head on m’ favored pillow?”

“I’d rather recover in yer barn than in yer bed,” Lucan muttered.

“I could arrange it,” Malcolm told him, then grinned and strode toward the bed.

Amelia watched Edmund make his way to the bed next.

Every assessment she’d made regarding the men here, and any other man in God’s creation,
seemed folly now. She filled her vision with Edmund, basking in the height of him,
the easy rhythm of his gait and the confidence it exuded. He was everything she found
magnificent in a man, from the leisure of his smile and the slow, steady gaze he spread
over her to his anything-but-casual attention to her. Did he favor her? If he did,
could she resist him? She had to. For so many reasons, the most important being her
father. What would her uncle do to him if she ruined his treaty? She couldn’t think
about it. Her father would lose everything, including his wife, his home, all his
coin. It was one thing to get swept away on silly, fanciful thoughts, but this was
real. England’s enemy was holding her captive. The betrayal of caring for him would
destroy her family. And she could never forget that because of her misfortune, it
could destroy Edmund, too.

“I never would have forgiven ye if ye left me with nothing but him”—Edmund motioned
with his shoulder to Malcolm—“and his lazy-tongued cousin.” He leaned down and took
Lucan by the shoulders. They shared a smile. “I’m glad ye decided to stay with us.”

He stepped away and made room for Grendel to rest his massive head on the bed and
stare at Lucan.

“Ye were supposed to have my back, Grendel,” Lucan told him. His voice was growing
fainter. He needed to rest.

The dog whined.

“Lucan needs to rest.” Amelia shooed them all to the door. “Ye can see him later.”

She almost had them all out when Edmund stopped and turned so quickly Amelia nearly
landed in his arms.

He caught her and set her on her feet. “I don’t know about the past,” he said quietly,
standing over her and looking into her eyes, “but ye’ve brought good fortune here,
Amelia Bell.”

Thankfully he didn’t wait around for her to reply—since nothing at all came to her
mind save to thank him and perhaps cry like a blithering fool. He left her wearing
a worried smile, which prompted a grin from Lucan that was so resplendent it made
her trip over the leg of a chair and crash into the table holding the bowl of water
and wet rags.

Instinctively, Lucan moved to catch her and also to avoid the cooled water seeping
into the mattress. He lost his balance and tumbled off the bed with a loud groan.

Fortunately, he landed on a thick plaited rug instead of a hard floor. She would need
to call the men back to help her get him into the bed, but at least his stitchings
hadn’t come open.

Perhaps, she thought with a hopeful heart, Edmund was correct about her ill fortune.

W
hen should we attack?”

“Who are we attacking?” Edmund asked Darach as he slipped into his seat in the Great
Hall with Grendel at his feet.

“The Buchanans,” Darach informed him and then looked at Malcolm, who was sitting next
to him, for confirmation.

None came.

“Their burgh is but a few leagues away!” he insisted. “We could annihilate the entire
clan and be back here in time to break fast.”

“We spoke to William Buchanan.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“The Buchanans’ newest chief,” Edmund told him. “His father, the previous chief, drowned
in the Tay last month. William vows he knew nothing of the attack on Ravenglade and
himself wants peace.”

Darach laughed but there was no humor in the sound. “Of course he made such assurances,
Edmund! He’s the same as the rest. He doesna’ want peace. They almost killed Luke!
Such an offense canna’ go unanswered.”

“Fer now it must, Darach,” Edmund told him. “Fighting between ourselves is foolish
when we all have a bigger enemy out there.”

“The duke didna’ try to kill our cousin.”

“Nae, he would only see us forbidden to practice what we believe. Right now, we should
all have a common purpose and stand together.”

Darach said nothing more and Edmund looked toward the entrance and wondered what the
hell was taking the women so long to dress for supper. Malcolm had shown them a handful
of gowns belonging to his mother and then led them to the private solar to dress.
That was more than an hour ago. He’d never grown impatient to see a lass and he wondered
if he should have Amelia check him for a fever.

He remembered Malcolm and Darach and blinked his gaze away from the entrance.

“What d’ye think would become of Amelia and Sarah if the four of us went to war with
the Buchanans and they got their hands on them?”

“What the hell do I care what becomes of them?” Darach argued.

Malcolm finally looked up from his plate, prepared by his favorite cook. “How in blazes
will ye ever be able to sing aboot duty and honor when ye dinna’ possess a single
strand of either?”

“Who said anythin’ aboot singin’, Malcolm?” Darach asked him with a murderous undercurrent
deepening his voice. “Those lasses shouldna’ even be here and they wouldna’ be if
not fer ye and Edmund.”

Edmund stopped listening when he spotted the women standing beneath the entrance.
Sarah saw them, smiled, then started over to the table. Amelia remained, hands folded
in front of her, her gaze scanning the table, finally resting on him.

Edmund rose from his seat and went to her. Each step that brought him closer sapped
him of his good senses. He didn’t think she could captivate him any more than she
already had, looking like a forest nymph in her nightdress and bare feet. But he was
wrong. She’d chosen to wear one of Mairi MacGregor’s slightly outdated corseted gowns.
Edmund preferred the low neckline and dropped shoulders to the current style of mantuas
and petticoats. This gown, cut from delicate coral fabric, accentuated Amelia’s long
waist. Her luxurious curls were pulled up and arrayed atop her head like an empress’s
crown. She wore no adornment on her neck. She needed nothing to add to her elegant
lines and milky complexion.

“Ye look…” He paused, unable to find the right words to pay her the homage she was
due. At his heels, Grendel barked as if to prompt him to speak. He obeyed. “…radiant.”

“Thank ye.” She accepted the arm he offered and rested her other hand on top of Grendel’s
head. “It smells wonderful in here.”

“’Tis Henrietta’s cooking. ’Tis French.”

“My, no wonder the Buchanans want this place.” She looked around, tilting her face
to take in the high walls and carved ceiling. “Ravenglade is lovely, despite being
uncared for. I can feel the medieval breath of it, and yet it fits perfectly in our
era with its rugs and glass windows. Malcolm says ’twas his father’s doing. ’Tis a
pity his parents left it.”

“The Grants have remained at the MacGregors’ sides since the first proscription. Also,
Malcolm’s mother is a MacGregor and extremely devoted to her heritage and to Skye.”

She paused her steps and looked up at him. “Perhaps ye’ll tell me about Skye and the
other MacGregors after supper—in the garden?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “And ye will tell me of yer affinity fer gardens.”

“Gardens with statues,” she corrected with an arched brow aimed at him.

They reached the table and Edmund was pleased that both Malcolm and Darach rose briefly
from their chairs to welcome her. He winked at Sarah, who was already seated. She
winked back.

“Oh, Darach.” Amelia eyed the dessert he was bringing to his mouth. “Is that a tart?”

He nodded and much to Edmund’s—and Malcolm’s—shock, he broke off a piece of the pastry
and handed it to her, then smiled at her when she bit into it.

“Good, aye?”

She nodded, closing her eyes with delight. Then she turned a mortified look toward
Edmund. “Did I miss supper?”

“Nae,” he told her. “They just like to eat dessert first.”

“Etta’s dessert,” Darach corrected him.

Amelia nodded enthusiastically, then sat back in her chair and glanced around the
Hall. “All we are missing is music.”

He wanted to bask in her lovely features. He could have stared at her all night, but
hell, he wasn’t one of those courtly, flowery types. Or mayhap he was. Mayhap there
simply hadn’t been any lasses in the past who compelled him to go soft on the inside.
He wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of lass around him now. He had a country to save.
A country that came before all else. He would do well to remember that.

Malcolm finished off what was left in his cup and swung his arm around Sarah. “Darach
plays the pipes, and we’ve a set in the garrison.”

Darach aimed a murderous glare at his cousin and opened his mouth to protest. Amelia’s
plea stopped him.

“I love the pipes! Oh, play fer us later, Darach. I beg ye.”

Poor lass, Edmund thought to himself, she didn’t know yet what a stubborn bast—

“If ye truly want me to.”

Edmund’s jaw went slack for a moment at Darach’s reply, but he understood it. None
of them were safe around her. “No one plays the pipes as well as Darach,” he complimented.

“Many have tried,” Malcolm said.

“And failed,” Edmund agreed.

Supper went on in much the same manner, with banter and laughter exchanged, and the
men fawning over their lady guests. It didn’t matter that they were kidnapped guests.
The men of Camlochlin had been raised better than to treat women roughly or mercilessly.
As long as Amelia and Sarah were with them, they would be treated kindly.

When supper was over, Sarah insisted on bringing a plate of Henrietta’s delicacies
to Lucan. With her gone, Malcolm excused himself and left the castle in search of
easier pursuits, and after Edmund removed Grendel from the premises, Darach gave himself
over to what Edmund knew was Darach’s secret passion.

Edmund learned to play many instruments when he was a lad, but he’d never been able
to master the pipes. He didn’t need to when they had Darach to play the way he did.
As much as he wanted to walk with Amelia alone in the garden, he knew she was enjoying
the music by the tears streaming down her face.

“’Tis so haunting and beautiful.” She sniffed quietly. “’Tis difficult to believe
he could produce such a sound.”

Edmund smiled. “Aye, he likes to play the death marches. It helps him believe he’s
not betraying his warrior instincts.”

She smiled and clapped her hands when the tune ended, and Edmund wasn’t certain—in
fact, he doubted the good of his own eyes—that he saw a streak of crimson blushing
Darach’s cheeks. He looked around, wishing the others were there to see it. They would
never believe him.

They shared another drink with Darach before Edmund rose from his chair and offered
to escort Amelia outside. He wanted to be alone with her. He told himself he could
resist her. He could be alone with her, even kiss her, without involving his heart.
He wasn’t the kind of fool who kidnapped his enemy and then fell in love with her.
He made certain, walking with her to the garden, that his heart was properly guarded
and remained separated from his desires.

The garden was quiet save for the sounds of a critter, finding its way in through
one of the many cracks in the walls, and scurrying off into the tangle of bushes.
The waning full moon cast its pale glow on an old stone fountain while deep shadows
clung to gnarled trees and overgrown ivy.

“It must have been quite beautiful out here once,” Amelia said softly, keeping her
arm looped through his.

Edmund didn’t remember Ravenglade in its grander years. By the time his father had
brought him and his mother to Camlochlin, Malcolm’s kin had more or less left Perth
after living there for three years and Connor Grant had begun building his manor house
beneath the braes of Bla Bheinn Skye for his wife and bairns.

“We used to ride here many years ago, when we were younger, me, Malcolm, Luke, and
Adam, our chief’s eldest son, after the Grants left it. We came fer hunting and lasses
and to pretend that we were lairds of our own castle.”

She smiled and moved a bit closer to him. “Ye speak as if ye are old already.”

“I feel older,” he said thoughtfully and covered her hand with his. “Mayhap I’m just
more serious.”

“About what?” she asked after a slight catch in her breath when their fingers touched.

“My duty.”

“Then ye’re correct,” she told him, glancing up at him with the moonlight in her eyes.
“Only a mature man can put away his selfish desires fer something greater than himself.
Or have ye already mastered them, Mr. MacGregor?”

She was correct. He had to put away his selfish desires of being with her. He had
to keep his eyes on his duty, his true passion. But looking into her eyes, he wondered
if she was aware of the effect she had on him. What a successful assassin she would
make had he an enemy intelligent enough to use her. She made him doubt his discipline,
cast his concerns to the damn four winds, and ache to carry her to his room and kiss
her out of her clothes.

He bent to her and pressed his mouth to the pulse at her temples. “Edmund, if it pleases
ye, lass. And nae, I haven’t learned to master them as well as I’d hoped.”

She read his meaning and swept her head away, blushing. He stared at the throat she
exposed to his hunger and was tempted to run his lips, his teeth, down the creamy
length of it.

“Ye have a sweet nose, lass.”

She met his gaze with a curl of her lips that, coupled with the beguiling curve of
her of nose, nearly drove him mad with more than just desire. He wanted to spend more
time with her, enjoy her company, bask in her loveliness.

“Ye have a strong nose, Edmund.” Her smile widened along with his when she used his
given name. “And a lovely mouth.” She sighed close to his lips when he dipped closer
to kiss her. “But…”

She moved away from him but remained fastened to his hand. “Tell me how I might trust
a man who has already used me fer his own gain? Whether or not I understand yer duty,
I prefer not to be manipulated because of it.”

He slowed his steps, pausing to mull over her words. She had a valid point. He’d used
her as a pawn in a dangerous chess match. He couldn’t ever love her without giving
up everything he believed.

His struggle with always doing the right thing was getting more difficult because
of her. Hell, he was beginning to doubt what the right thing was anymore. They could
all end up dead over this. Would he even care about laws and treaties if Malcolm and
Luke or Darach were dead?

Aye, he did feel older than the rest. He’d put the weight of a country on his shoulders.

“There was no laughter in my life for the first four years of it,” he began hesitantly.
He never spoke of this to anyone. He wanted to tell her to help her understand what
drove him. “When I first arrived in Camlochlin, I soaked up my childhood like dry
soil after a drought. I played hard, and practiced hard, both in the list and in my
grandmother Kate’s library. I was accepted fully into the fold, but I felt I had more
to prove because I wasn’t born a MacGregor. Foolish, it might be, but sometimes I
believe that doing my part in saving Scotland will prove my love and my commitment.
I truly am sorry fer bringing ye into it.”

She was quiet for a moment, pondering his words. Then, “Yer kin don’t sound like they
need proof from ye. In fact, from what I’ve heard of them, they sound like they would
prefer it if ye lived a happy life, committed to a wife and children, not to dying
young. Also”—she raised her head and looked at him—“if ye’re trying to save Scotland
to prove something, then ye’re not doing it fer the right reasons.”

When he remained quiet, she tugged his hand. “Are ye angry at my words?”

He shook his head and drew her closer. “I was wrong fer taking ye. But I don’t regret
it. I would keep ye here with me longer…to appease my own selfish desires.”

She laughed and the sound of it was refreshing to his weary soul.

“’Tis a good thing really, that ye kidnapped me. Fer Sarah would have come with or
without me. And I would much prefer to be with her and watch over her.”

“If ye remember, lass, I asked ye to come away with me and ye agreed. I wouldn’t necessarily
call it kidnapping.” He smiled and winked at her.

She pinched his arm hard. “I am the Duke of Queensberry’s niece. Ye kissed me and
then smothered me with a rag and handed me over to be delivered here. How precisely
is that not considered kidnapping?”

When he considered all his possible replies, none seemed worthy of her.

“Never mind it all.” She grinned playfully up at him. “I will forgive ye for it all
if ye promise not to harm Walter or my—”

Her words came to an abrupt halt as an arm appeared out of the bushes, followed by
a big, muscular body, and took hold of her.