Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  “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.

  “Do you like the castle?” he asked.

  She blinked and wondered why he would care what she thought. “I do, indeed. There’s an overwhelming sense of history here.”

  “Fifty generations of MacLeans have made their home on this rock outcropping. The original Mac-Lean came in on the tide and hunkered down on the first place that he could defend. We never left.” As if the words had dried up, MacLean stopped talking.

  But he’d said more to her tonight than he had on the previous four nights, so she encouraged him. “The castle is so large, I can’t even tell how many levels there are.”

  “Four.” He cleared his throat. “Four levels. A multitude of lairds added onto the castle. The original building was wood, with a moat, and all was for war against the English and the Northmen. Then the castle was rebuilt in stone, with battlements that looked out over land and sea.”

  Now that she had stayed here, she better understood MacLean’s limitless arrogance. Or, call it what it truly was—his conceit.

  Although he seemed to be paying attention only to the candle, he now asked, “Why are you smiling?”

  She hadn’t realized she was smiling, but she had no intention of provoking him. “So the MacLeans have repelled the enemy for all these years.”

  “Yes . . . but the MacLean women always got their way, too. That’s why there are carvings.” He pointed at a battle scene hewn from a walnut slab and hung in the middle of the gallery.

  Enid examined the depiction of decapitation, of blood spurting, of enemies dragged beneath a horse. “Very feminine.”

  “You’re being sarcastic. All right.” In a belligerent tone, he said, “How about that? A vase.”

  A Chinese Ming vase on a marble pedestal. “Incredibly beautiful.”

  “No MacLean male bought that.” He nodded. “Some MacLean wife who wanted it, and her husband couldn’t say no.”

  Enid subdued her amusement. “I suppose that explains the carpets and tapestries, too.”

  “Yes, it does. MacLean men have no appreciation of beauty, but they spoil their women without ceasing.”

  “Then I would suppose they usually marry ugly women.”

  “What? No!” He looked directly at her. His gaze softened. His voice became that purr of blandishment that sent shivers up her spine. “No, MacLean men recognize beauty in their women, and once they find their one true love, they see beauty nowhere else.”

  Her smirk abruptly disappeared. His commentary on the castle was more than just a man’s poor attempt at entertainment. He was indicating interest in her. He was courting her.

  With a well-pleased smile, he said, “Lass, you look a little flabbergasted. Are you well?”

  “I am well, thank you.” But she whispered.

  He was courting her.

  But no. She was mistaken.

  But he was presenting his home to her like a jewel on a silver tray.

  But he had said in no uncertain terms that she was a mercenary unworthy to wipe his feet. He’d called her a bastard. He’d asked if Throckmorton had paid her to sleep with him.

  But he’d apologized. Enid rubbed her forehead. This couldn’t be happening. She had been unhappy before. Now she was panicked, afraid, almost sick with the need to run until she could run no more.

  And why? All she had to do was say no. There were no hidden traps; she knew them all. She’d sprung them all.

  “You do have a headache.” He positively crooned.

  “No.” She certainly did not have a headache. She was well. She was strong.

  “Let me stroke your temples,” he said.

  “No!” This panic roiling in her stomach could be subdued once she faced the truth. She might find the idea of living under MacLean’s largess superficially appealing, but if she consented to be his wife, she would always know he was disappointed in his choice of an English orphan, and always on the look-out for a return of her greediness.

  Greediness . . . she glanced around at the portraits, the vases, the security encapsulated by the sheer display of wealth. He did have a great house. A noble family. If she wed him, she would always be secure. She shook away temptation.

  So she would survive this ordeal by summoning such wit as she had acquired in the difficult circumstances of her life. She would change the subject. Pacing again down the gallery, she said, “I have a question about your Scottish customs.”

  “Do you now?” His accent settled on him like a well-fitting cloak. “It’s good that you wish to know about Scottish customs.”

  He made it sound as if she were asking to learn more about his ways. She wasn’t. She just needed something to fill the silence. Hastily, she asked, “Why do you wear the sporran and the kilt? Stephen told me they were obsolete.”

  As MacLean looked down at her, he looked broader and taller than ever. An illusion, of course, for while his daily walks about his castle, accompanied by the Englishmen and his Scotsmen, had probably contributed to his well-being, he was far too old to change either his physiognomy or his way of thinking.

  “After the Forty-Five, the British tried to wipe out the traditional dress, as they tried to wipe out the clans themselves. They especially objected to the sporran, since a man could keep a weapon hidden within.” MacLean fingered the scorched fur. “The explosion ruined mine, yet since it was my father’s, I’ll carry it forever.”

  “An admirable sentiment.” Her heartbeat calmed.

  “Memories are long here, and while we’ve been forced to learn to live with the English, we don’t forget our traditions.” He smiled faintly. “Funny, that. We are now ‘allowed’ to wear our tartans and our kilts, and they’re becoming the fashion among the English who visit.” MacLean leaned closer. “Some would tell you the reason a Scotsman wears a kilt is that it’s easy to lift for the lassies. Shall I lift mine for you?”

  She had asked an innocuous question, and somehow he had turned the conversation into channels sure to shock. Not that she was titillated. She crossed her arms over her chest and said, in oppressive tones, “I am sure you wear some kind of undergarment beneath.”

  Lips puckered, he shook his head. “It’s tradition. You wouldn’t want me to break with tradition, would you?”

  “That’s . . . scandalous!” And she was scandalized at herself for the number of times she had wondered. Shooting him a loathsome glance, she took extra long strides to hurry him along the length of the gallery.

  It didn’t work; he took her arm to slow her down. “Now I have a question for you. We were living as man and wife.”

  His hand held her arm against his side; the warmth of him h
eated her whether she wished it or not, and her heart rate quickened. “Yes.”

  “For more than a fortnight, we were together, and by my reckoning, we made love six times.”

  “Perhaps. I didn’t count.” Exactly six times.

  “So I must ask the question any man would ask a woman he’s known—”

  He was going to ask her to marry him. She feared this intimacy . . . this enticement. “No, please don’t.”

  “Are you expecting my bairn?”

  She froze. She blushed at her own gullibility. She wanted to close her eyes and bang her head against the wall—because of the relief, of course. She was relieved. The mystery was solved. He had insisted on accompanying her not to propose marriage, not even to seduce her, but to discover if he’d accidentally fathered a child.

  And if she had continued on this course of falling weak-kneed into MacLean’s arms, she would repeat her mother’s mistake. She would produce an illegitimate baby. For some reason, during the turmoil and the travels, the idea of a babe had never occurred to her. In her quietest voice, she said, “No. I am not with child.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Her hand formed a fist. His questioning would have exasperated her at any time, but at this time of the month, he made her want to box his ears. “Yes. I’m very, very sure. I couldn’t be more certain.”

  “Ah.” He nodded.

  Which also made her want to box his ears. How dare he act so knowing, as if he comprehended the workings of her body? Even she didn’t comprehend the workings of her body, with its cramps and its aches, and its illogical desires which, if she weren’t careful, could drive her to do something stupid, like again falling in bed with MacLean.

  They had reached the end of the gallery, and without looking at him, she took a grip on the candle holder. “You’ve found out what you came to discover. Don’t bother to accompany me farther.”