Chapter 15
MacLean. Enid struggled out of the covers. She had to get MacLean out of the cottage, and she didn’t know how. She couldn’t carry him, couldn’t drag him . . . perhaps the guards below . . .
But MacLean was already up. Moving toward her, holding her pink wrapper.
With a cry, she tried to catch at him.
“Sh. I’m fine.” He fed one of her arms into the sleeve. “Hurry. We’ve got to get out.”
It was a miracle. Another miracle, one as great as when he’d opened his eyes and spoken. He could walk!
And the fire was going to kill him—and her.
The pounding on the trapdoor continued. “Wake up! Wake up! Fire!”
Fire. God, fire. Smoke oozed through the cracks in the floorboards. An odd light illuminated the west side of the room.
MacLean already had his trousers on. Kneeling at her feet, he helped her with one of her shoes while she stuck her arm in the other hole and tied the belt.
“I’m all right,” she said hoarsely. “Go on!”
MacLean moved without any sign of distress, as if he saw no reason for haste, as if he dealt with crisis every day, as if he walked all the time.
She wanted to scream at him to hurry, then to be careful. This was too much for him. He might fall. His leg might break. He might die in the fire.
She pulled on her shoe while he tried to unfasten the latch of the trapdoor. Jerking his hand back, he shook it as if it had been burned.
Enid threw him a towel. He wrapped it around his fingers. He unlatched the door and tugged at it. Whoever stood below pushed at the same time. The door slammed back. Smoke rushed in. Enid heard a roaring from below as flames consumed the wooden walls on the interior of the cottage.
Holding a towel before his face, Harry bounded up the stairs and shut the door after him. “The way is blocked. We’re going to have to go out the window.”
“MacLean can’t go out the window,” Enid protested, and coughed as the smoke billowed around her face. “His leg—”
But the men weren’t listening to her. They went to work, pulling a rope out of a bag MacLean had stashed beneath his bed. Before she knew it, Enid found herself crawling into the thicket of rosebushes beside the cottage. Hands from below caught her and pulled her out of the brambles.
Men shouted encouragement as MacLean started the descent. She wanted to shout, too, but she couldn’t. Terror closed her throat. She feared for him too much.
Then he stood beside her, grasping her arm. He led her to the picket fence, instructed, “Stay there until I come for you,” and went back to help Harry off the rope and make sure no one else remained inside the cottage.
What did he think he could do? Mount a rescue? He’d been ill. She found herself crying again, she who never cried. The stone walls of the cottage glowed from the heat inside. Lady Halifax had died. Like a fool, Enid had consummated her marriage, letting MacLean assume all sorts of wrong things. Now a fire devoured everything while he stalked about like a man capable of performing rescues, going on adventures . . . abandoning her again.
Sobs shook her every limb. When she had allowed herself to think about MacLean’s recovery, she had imagined she would lead him, slowly and carefully, back into the world of perambulation.
But he didn’t need her. He wasn’t her patient anymore. Everything had changed.
What was she going to do?
Someone gently took her arm and led her outside the gate, away from the gathering crowd who shouted and pointed at the flames shooting out of the roof. “Mrs. MacLean? Are you hurt?”
It was Mr. Throckmorton, his face illuminated in the weird, flickering light. He wore no cravat, his shirt had no collar and his hair stuck up wildly, but his tone was soothing and his gaze concerned.
She took a quivering breath. “I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.” He offered his handkerchief. “Why are you crying?”
Oh, as if she would tell him that!
“It’s all right.” Gingerly, he patted her shoulder. “Everyone is safe, and that’s all that truly matters. And I know you’ve lost all your possessions, but I promise we’ll replace everything we can.”
Her things! She hadn’t even thought . . . her clothes, her letters from Lady Halifax, the shawl she’d been painstakingly tatting for over four years . . . she sobbed harder.
With a roar, the roof caved in. Men scattered in all directions. Enid forgot her own grief and wildly looked about, trying to locate MacLean.
Face smudged, smelling of smoke, he appeared at her side and pulled her into his arms.
She held onto him and sobbed.
This was getting to be a habit, one she shouldn’t encourage, but she was tired and everything was horrible.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
She shook her head.
“She’s a little concerned about her belongings,” Mr. Throckmorton said.
MacLean hugged her, rocked her. “Don’t worry about your things. The important thing is, we’re safe.”
Sharply furious at him, at Mr. Throckmorton, at the whole stupid world, she pushed away from him. “I’m not . . . worried about my . . . possessions!” Her voice hit such a high note that dogs were howling. She didn’t care. “How can you think I’m so . . . foolish I would worry about my . . . things?”
Mr. Kinman had joined them, and Harry, and all four of them had that distinctly uncomfortable mien of men forced to witness feminine emotion.
“It’s just . . . the fire, and . . . you walking, and—” She caught herself before she mentioned that she and MacLean had spent the evening fornicating like rabbits. But she wanted to.
MacLean realized it, too, for he pulled her back into his arms and muffled her face in his chest. “I’m sorry. Throckmorton and I were wrong to worry about you.”
“My letters from Lady Halifax.” She hiccupped a last sob.
MacLean stroked her hair and wisely didn’t answer.
Her fingers rubbed at his bare chest. She sniffled. “MacLean, why don’t you ever wear a shirt? I’m tired of dripping on you.”
Harry said, “She’s irritable.”
“I am not.” But she muttered the denial.
In an amused tone, MacLean said, “Next time we have a fire in the middle of the night, we’ll rescue her, but we won’t wake her up.”
Enid knew the men were nodding, and she wanted to slap them all. First MacLean, then Mr. Throckmorton, then Mr. Kinman, then Harry—then MacLean again. They didn’t understand.
“The men are all accounted for,” Mr. Kinman said.
Above her head, MacLean spoke in the sharp, commanding tone he usually saved for her. “So, Throckmorton, what caused the fire?”
Mr. Throckmorton answered, “We’ll find out.”
“Seems havey-cavey to me,” Harry added.
A long silence followed his comment. Enid lifted her head and saw MacLean, Mr. Kinman, and Mr. Throckmorton all glaring at Harry.
Harry’s eyes glowed in the light of the dying flames, and he jerked his thumb toward her. “She’s not stupid, you know.”
“You think someone set the fire?”
Harry stuck his finger in his ear and jiggled it. She had hit that high note again.
“I think someone was careless, and whoever it is will be removed from his station,” Mr. Throckmorton said firmly. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, Mrs. MacLean.”
She didn’t believe him. Hadn’t believed his assurances about her and about MacLean for quite a while now. An assassin, perhaps, would finish what the bomb had started. A killer would set a fire and trap a crippled man and burn him to death.
Harry was right. She wasn’t stupid. She would be on the alert.
Mr. Throckmorton spoke gently to her. “We’ll take you to the main house. The women can take care of you there.” Then, to MacLean, he said, “I’ve sent for a carriage.”
“Good.” MacLean cleared his throat and lowered his voice so only she could
hear him. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”
Guilt assaulted her. She’d been thinking of herself and her letters, for heaven’s sake, while MacLean had risen for the first time in months and walked! And of course, being a man and as stubborn as a donkey, he didn’t want to admit his fatigue in front of the other men. Enid gave a fierce scowl at Harry and Mr. Kinman, who backed off hurriedly, then she slipped her arm around MacLean’s waist. “Come and sit on that bench.”
On the other side, Mr. Throckmorton hooked his arm through MacLean’s. “We’ll get you clothes and everything you require for your trip.”
His trip?
But MacLean sounded as if he understood. “Have you set the departure time, then?”
“As soon as possible. I don’t believe in coincidence, and this . . .” Mr. Throckmorton trailed off, and when someone hailed him, he looked relieved. “Can you make it to the bench without me? It’s not far.” At MacLean’s nod, he hurried away.
The stone bench stood only a few steps away. She was glad, for MacLean leaned his full weight on her.
His trip? She’d give him a trip! Dropping his arm, she shoved at him.
Off-balance, he toppled onto the bench. “Enid, be careful. My leg . . .”
She managed to keep her tone reasonable. “Your trip? Where are you going?”
“To Scotland.”
“To Scotland.” He was going to Scotland. He was leaving, and no one had said a word to her.
Of course, why would they? She was just the caretaker.
She was just his wife.
MacLean continued, “Throckmorton hopes I’ll recover my memory at home.”
“Too bad about the fire, isn’t it?” She inveighed every word with sarcasm. “If not for the fire, you could have sneaked out of here without ever having to face me.”
He did a good imitation of a man startled and offended. “Enid, you’ve misunderstood.”
His weighty, commiserating tone made her want to retch. “Misunderstood? Not at all. You’re abandoning me again. You can wrap it up in all the pretty words you like, but you’re abandoning me again!” She put her fists on her hips, which made her look like a fishwife, but anything was better than giving in to the temptation of hitting him. “You’ve had your way with me, and you’re running off home.”
“No, dearling, listen—”
“I know I’m not the wife you wanted. I know I’m not particularly good between the sheets. But maybe that’s because I haven’t had enough practice, and whose fault is that?”
He glanced around at the people standing about, watching the dying flames. “Hush.”
She raised her voice. “I will not hush! And what’s wrong with my methods, anyway? You certainly seemed satisfied tonight!”
“I was. Enid, you’ve misunderstood!”
“Misunderstood what? That you’re going to leave me here without a position to go to, thrust me into poverty once more, abandon me—”
“For God’s sake, woman, would you clabber your maw?” he roared.
She stopped talking, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at him.
He looked her over, then held out his hand. “Help me up.”
She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to uncross her arms or take his hand. She suspected a trick. She suspected he would try and talk her around, and she would be forced to push him over again. But when he began to struggle to his feet on his own, she stuck out her hand. “Oh, here.”
Taking it, he hefted himself up and wrapped her in his embrace all in one motion. “You’re going with me.”
She caught her breath. “Oh.”
He rested his cheek on top of her head. “I wouldn’t go anywhere without you. Not now. Not ever.”
“Oh.” She felt vaguely foolish. She wondered how many people had overheard her tirade. She wondered if she would care in the morning.
“Throckmorton and I discussed it today while you were gone. I had no time to tell you last night.” His voice dropped to a whisper and warmed to an ember. “You know why.”
Yes, she knew why. Standing here with his arms around her and her body stirring, she knew why very well.
“So I’m going to Scotland to meet your family at last.” She wondered how they would welcome her. Whether Kiernan MacLean would disdain her. Whether Stephen MacLean would recover his memory and she would be once again alone.
MacLean tilted her chin up and smoothed the lines from between her eyebrows. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. I will care for you.”
She looked at that strong, stubborn, determined face, and for the first time realized they could succeed as husband and wife. Even when MacLean got his memory back, he couldn’t return to immaturity and selfishness. It wasn’t possible for a character to regress so profoundly, and this new MacLean was everything she’d ever dreamed of. No—he was more than she had ever allowed herself to dream of.
“You look so dazed and so . . . pretty.” He smiled at her with all the crooked charm his injured face would allow. “I was just thinking—when I was prone and you were bossing me around, I thought you a veritable giant, and you’re only a wee bit of a thing. I assumed you were taller than this.”
“Yes, well, I thought you were . . .” She caught her breath on a shard of dismay. Shorter. She thought he was shorter. Her husband, Stephen MacLean, was a bit under six feet tall. This man, this husband, was at least three inches taller.
“You thought I was . . . what?” He still smiled at her with his stranger’s face.
Her desperate mind fumbled for an explanation.
She had forgotten his height as well as his face.
No, she hadn’t. A woman always remembered gazing up at her husband during their wedding ceremony, and the top of her head had reached Stephen’s chin.
He had grown.
Impossible. Stephen had been twenty-six when he’d wed her.
Only one explanation remained.
“What’s wrong?” MacLean caught her shoulders in his hands. “Enid, what’s wrong? You look as if you could faint.”
This wasn’t Stephen.
This man wasn’t her husband.
Chapter 16
“Is there anything I can do for you before you leave, Mrs. MacLean?”
Enid stared around at the controlled pandemonium in the secluded drawing room, at the maids folding clothes and placing them in trunks, at Mrs. Brown, who carried linens, at Harry, who stood by the doorway, arms crossed, the epitome of belligerent suspicion. Then Enid looked up at Mr. Throckmorton.
She wanted to shriek, Yes, tell me why you’ve done this.
She breathed hard, trying to get enough air to save herself from fainting. Every time she thought of the dreadful deception, her stomach knotted, her hands shook, and she feared she would collapse in a blithering passion of hysteria. Because the man she had spent two months caring for, the man she had uprooted her whole life for . . . the man she had given her body to . . . wasn’t her husband.
Yet those eyes. Those eyes were Stephen’s. About that she could not be wrong.
But his face . . . not just battered from the explosion, but the wrong face. He was . . . he had to be . . . Kiernan MacLean, laird of the MacLeans. Kiernan MacLean, who on the occasion of her marriage to Stephen, had written to cruelly reject her.
She wasn’t sure Mr. Throckmorton knew. MacLean’s appearance had fooled her, so maybe . . . oh, she didn’t know. She didn’t know if she should tell Mr. Throckmorton. She didn’t know if her confession would cause more trouble and call forth more danger. So she said only, “I don’t understand. Why are we going to Scotland today?” The sun had scarcely peeked over the horizon, yet they had been packing since they’d arrived at the main house.
“These are our normal precautions in a situation such as this,” Mr. Throckmorton assured her. “Her Majesty’s government does not take lightly the murder or the attempted murder of her subjects by a foreign power.”
Perhaps, but with the far-flung borders
of the empire growing ever larger, Enid had trouble believing Her Majesty’s government exerted itself quite so much for each death. “Couldn’t we at least wait until MacLean has recovered from the shock of the fire?”
Mr. Throckmorton seated himself in the chair opposite her. “MacLean seems to be thriving.”
True. MacLean’s color was good, his expression animated. He had demanded that his hair be cut, and the auburn locks she had slid through her fingers only the night before had been shorn to a more gentlemanly length. Clearly the inactivity of the sickroom had worn on him, and he welcomed departure. Yet he glanced at her occasionally, checking on her as if he were worried about her.
Well. She had almost passed out in front of the burning cottage. He didn’t seem to know why. Indeed, she acquitted him of dissembling; he truly believed he was her husband.
But he wasn’t. He wasn’t.
“It’s you I’m worried about,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “Pardon me for observing, but you’re pale and have dark rings under your eyes. We have a bedchamber made up for you. Won’t you try to get some sleep?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” If she tried, she would see MacLean’s green-and-gold eyes before her and know . . . know that she had committed fornication.
MacLean caught her looking at him, and right there, in front of everyone, he blew her a kiss.
Silly, romantic gesture. She wanted to duck and hide, for when he found out the truth, he would be furious.
Dear Lord, she had fornicated with Kiernan Mac-Lean.
“You’re not to worry about your lost clothing.” Mr. Throckmorton seemed to be trying to reassure her on every level. “Celeste is packing for you, and I know some of the gowns are from her own trousseau.”
“I wish she wouldn’t.” Enid smoothed the skirt of the green tweed traveling outfit Celeste had insisted on giving her. Two seamstresses were sewing madly on a variety of costumes, clothes such as Enid had never dreamed of wearing, altering them to fit Enid’s taller frame. “I can’t ever pay her back.”
Mr. Throckmorton looked pained. “Please, Mrs. MacLean. The fire which destroyed your belongings is my responsibility. I promise you I will replace every gown for Celeste.” He looked at Celeste as she consulted with the seamstresses. “My fiancée is generous and clever, and you must not try to get in her way in this matter or any other, or she’ll shoot you.” He turned back to Enid, his mouth twisted in sardonic amusement. “I have the scars to prove it.”
Lost in Your Arms Page 15
