“There’s a good girl.”
“Marian.” She cleared her throat. “You don’t think there could be something to this curse nonsense. Perhaps it’s not such . . . nonsense?”
“Don’t tell me you believe it, too. What is it with this place? Is there something in the air?”
“Well, there were those two accidents . . .”
“Accidents. Nothing more.” Marian pulled her into a hug. “You will see. All will be well. Now. Why don’t we select a lovely gown for you to wear? You should look your best when you meet with that handsome husband of yours, no?”
“Yes.” She took a fortifying breath, hoping Marian was correct. “The yellow one, I think.” She always felt strong when she wore it, bright and cheerful.
“Excellent choice.”
Several days had passed and he’d only spotted Clara from a distance. They never spoke. When their eyes met, she quickly looked away.
That did not, however, mean she was not constantly in his thoughts. Her bedchamber was located only doors down from his. A mighty temptation.
He had a wife. A wife for whom he happened to possess a great deal of ardor. One could not merely snuff that out as one does a candle. They ought to be together. Truly. In the biblical sense. As God intended a husband and wife to be.
This argument warred within his mind, oftentimes threatening to win out over a lifetime of careful restraint, of telling himself that he didn’t need the things other men had—a wife, children. Telling himself he could live perfectly contented without those things because it meant he would live. He had his home. His people. He was laird. That had always been enough before.
Of course, his very near brush with death yet again served as an effective distraction.
He stalked into his bedchamber, thankful his grandmother had not witnessed the latest incident—although he had no doubt she would hear of it and soon be after him. Perhaps he should take himself off again.
Only as soon as the thought entered his mind he rejected it. He couldn’t run. Couldn’t hide from this. It was the life he had been given and he would make the best of it.
Shaking his head, he exhaled and stripped off his jacket and shirt, stopping before the washstand. With a wince, he twisted around and examined the gash along the side of his torso.
Blood seeped from the jagged tear in his flesh and he reached for a towel hanging along the side of the washstand to sop up the oozing blood. The area around the wound was already an angry red and bruising to purple. A few more inches to the left and it could have been bad. It could have been fatal.
Pressing the towel to the injury, he held it there, applying pressure to stanch the flow of blood.
After a few minutes, he peeled back the towel and looked down, satisfied to see that the bleeding had stopped.
Tossing the stained towel aside, he bent at the waist and splashed fresh water on his face, neck and chest. He rinsed beneath his arms, ridding himself of the day’s sweat.
When he’d decided to work in the stables, pitching hay for the horses with the other lads, it had seemed the perfect way to get his mind off Clara. He hadn’t anticipated one of the lads tripping and running his pitchfork into him, very nearly spearing him. Hunt wanted to believe the lad’s clumsiness was just that—clumsiness. Not the curse.
Not death coming for him.
He knew what his grandmother would say. Hopefully, news of this recent mishap would not reach her. Hopefully, there would be no more mishaps.
“What happened to you?”
He twisted around at the sound of the voice and winced from the sudden movement, the action pulling on the gash in his side.
Clara stood in the threshold, blinking owlishly, her gaze skipping from him to the bloodied towel on the floor.
In his haste to examine his injury, he had left his bedroom door ajar.
“’Tis nothing,” he replied, his gaze feasting on her, missing nothing.
She looked as fresh as a spring flower. Her dark hair was pulled atop her head in gleaming waves. A few strands dangled free, framing her face in the most fetching manner.
His fingers tingled, yearning to touch her, longing to run his hands through that dark mass and free it all of its pins.
She was garbed in a gown of sunny yellow, the brightest thing in this room of masculine browns. The only other color present was the MacLarin tartan draped over his bed.
He had a sudden flash of her there, spread out on his tartan, stripped of her clothes, her soft skin beckoning.
Clearly Clara in his room was not advisable. “You should go.”
Her eyes traveled over him and he was sharply aware of everywhere her gaze touched. His face, shoulders, chest, stomach.
Instead of obeying and going away, she stepped deeper into the room. Apparently his lack of clothing didn’t deter her.
“Did you injure yourself?” She closed the last of the distance between them.
Again. She didn’t say the word, but it hung between them. Heard even if unspoken.
“I had an accident with a pitchfork.”
“A pitchfork,” she exclaimed, her hand reaching out to touch him. Her shaking fingertips brushed along his rib cage and he hissed in a breath that had nothing to do with pain.
His hand shot out to seize hers, stopping those slender fingers from exploring him further. Her touch was a torment—but then that left them holding hands. Still much too intimate. Still connected. Still a torment.
His thumb grazed her pulse point at her wrist. It was racing, but then so was his. She froze, her eyes flaring wide and locking on him.
She glanced down at the gash on his torso. “How did that—?”
“’Tis no’ important.” He shook his head. It was too unbelievable even though he’d been there, even though he had been the one struck by a pitchfork.
It could have been worse. He could have been impaled.
“Another accident,” she murmured with a small shake of her head, the color draining from her face. “It could have killed you.”
“It could have,” he agreed.
She looked stricken. She turned and paced a short line, wringing her hands together.
His stomach knotted. “What is it?”
“Oh, no,” she whispered brokenly.
“What?”
“Another accident. It can’t be. This can’t be happening.” She hugged herself as if needing the comfort.
“Clara. You’re worrying me.”
“I’m . . .” Her voice faded.
“Clara?”
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted as she stopped to face him. “That’s what I came in here to tell you.”
The words should not have served as any surprise. He knew there was a chance of this. His grandmother had been certain it was already a fact and never ceased to bemoan his impending doom.
He was ashamed at how he had thought himself so different from his forefathers, so much better, stronger. He’d done it. The same thing his father had done. And his grandfather. And his great-grandfather.
“Hunt?” She shifted on her feet. “Say something.”
He said the first thing to pop in his mind, his voice a grim whisper.
“You’ve killed me.”
Chapter 17
Clara waited a few hours before dawn to slip away.
She and Marian had packed their belongings before they went to sleep, so they would be ready the instant they woke. Their trunks would have to stay behind. They stuffed what they most needed inside their valises. They could send for the rest of their things later.
Even though she had reached the decision to leave with steady conviction, Clara slept poorly, tossing and turning, seeing Hunt in her mind getting stabbed by a pitchfork. A pitchfork for heaven’s sake! It seemed much too incredible. On the heels of the previous two accidents, it was just too risky for her to remain here. She would not take the chance. She would not place him in further danger. She couldn’t. With any luck, distance from her would soften the cur
se’s power. It was a chance. A hope.
It would be midmorning before anyone realized they had gone. Clara assumed her husband would give pursuit. It was the honorable thing to do, and he was the honorable sort, after all. He couldn’t simply pretend he did not have a wife.
However, she would be safely ensconced at Kilmarkie House before he caught up with her, and then his objections to her retreat would be merely obligatory.
Marcus would not force her to return with Hunt nor would she change her mind and return. This was for the best. For everyone.
Even Hunt would understand that. He, better than anyone, understood the danger, the threat she presented. He didn’t want her around.
This was for the both of them. For the three of them.
Three. Her hand moved to her stomach. She’d hardly had time to think of it. Of him. Or her.
A life grew there, within her, someone who would be part of her world for all the rest of her days, if she should be so blessed. A piece of Hunt even when she didn’t have him. She felt a pang in her chest. She rubbed her fingers there, but it didn’t help.
“Are we going the right way?” Marian called from behind her as they plodded along the lane. Early morning light streaked the sky above the treetops in shades of orange and pink. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. We left early and are keeping good pace. We should be there in time for dinner, if we don’t stop.” She tossed a chiding look over her shoulder.
“Very well,” Marian griped. “I won’t pester for rests, but can you mind the pace? Some of us aren’t horsewomen. Not as you are, at any rate.”
“And you grew up in a country village, you say?” Clara tsked. “What kind of country girl are you?”
“We lived in the village. Riding was not an everyday occurrence. If we wanted to go somewhere we had a pair of proper legs to take us to and fro.”
Clara was smiling when the woods on every side of them suddenly came alive. Her smile shattered as horsemen bound out into the lane with raucous shouts.
Her horse whinnied and danced in distress. She hastily worked to get the beast under control. Clara shot a quick glance over her shoulder, concerned for Marian. Fortunately, she hadn’t been thrown and seemed to be managing her mount adequately.
She turned to find a man astride his horse directly in front of her. He was surrounded by several other men—and he was familiar.
He wagged a finger at her. “Now we’ve met before, lass.” Evidently he recognized her, too.
She remembered him. He was the man from the inn. The man who Hunt had brawled with over his lost bull. She shifted uneasily in her saddle. He was no friend to her husband, so it stood to reason he was no friend to her.
“I’m sure I don’t know you.” She lifted her chin.
“A Sassenach,” he proclaimed to his comrades, chortling as though she were some kind of amusing exhibition.
“Be so kind as to let us pass.” She swept a frosty glare over the party. Right now dignity was the only thing she could cling to in the face of these rough men.
“Such verra fine ladies should no’ be out here without escort.” He shook his head in reproof. “I’m afraid I canna in good conscience abandon ye both.”
“What could happen to us?” she sneered. “We come into contact with a group of unsavory men up to no good?”
They all guffawed at that.
“Indeed,” Marian said in her sharpest governess tone. “What are all you men doing about this early? I don’t believe this is your land.”
Their laughter faded and they all exchanged calculating looks.
“Ye ken that then, lass, do ye?” Bannessy inquired with a tilt to his head, appearing impressed. “And wot would ye fine ladies be doing out here on MacLarin land?” He stretched his neck, taking note of their bags.
“We’re aware,” Marian snapped. “I just pointed that very thing out to you.”
Clara sent her a quelling look, wishing she had not revealed quite so much. Too late, though.
Bannessy considered them with a speculative gaze. He looked down the road behind them, his expression growing ever more calculating.
There was only one thing behind them. MacLarin—his castle and the neighboring village. She knew this Scotsman was reaching that same conclusion. He knew where they had come from. He knew they were connected to his enemy.
Her stomach knotted.
“Ye come from MacLarin Keep,” he announced.
This time, Marian held her tongue, as though realizing she had revealed too much moments ago.
Bannessy pressed on, “Wot business do ye have wi’ MacLarin?”
Clara pressed her lips firmly shut. She could think of no valid story, no viable excuse. Only the truth and she would not give him that.
“I must confess ye have my interest piqued,” he continued.
“I don’t know why.” Clara fought for a casual air. “We’re just two travelers passing through.”
He smirked. “Ye dinna expect me tae believe that. Nay. Until I find out yer connection tae MacLarin, ye best come wi’ me.”
“With you?” Marian cried in outrage. “We are going nowhere with you, sir, now move aside.”
Clara stared at Bannessy for some time before replying to her friend through unsmiling lips. “I don’t believe they’re giving us a choice, Marian.”
He nodded cheerfully, approval bright in his eyes. “That is correct. Ye are a clever lass. Now come along.” He moved his mount closer to Clara. “Make room for me tae ride beside ye so that I may come tae know ye.”
The party of men flanked them and they continued on their way. She tossed Marian a reassuring look—even if she felt far from reassured herself—and faced forward again, determined that he never come to know her. She would tell him nothing. He was her husband’s enemy. She’d give him nothing—especially her identity.
After all, he’d absconded with Hunt’s prize bull. There was no telling what he would do if he discovered who he had beside him.
Hunt stormed through the doors of Kilmarkie House. “Where is she?” he bellowed until Autenberry and Alyse emerged from the drawing room, their expressions equally bewildered.
“MacLarin? What are you doing here?” Autenberry’s gaze flickered around Hunt, searching. “Where is Clara? Why’ve you come?”
Something cold and frightening seized inside him, ten times worse than when he woke to learn she was gone from his home—their home.
“She’s not here?” Hunt glanced back toward the doors through which he’d just entered. The air was dark. Cold gusted in behind him. It was well past the dinner hour. He hated to think of her out there in this . . . in the dark. Where could she be?
She and Marian had left ahead of him. She should have already been here.
It was not until midmorning that one of the maids reported them gone and he could only surmise that they had quite a few hours’ head start on him. They should be here by now.
Clara should be here. It was his only thought, pumping alongside the fear coursing through him.
“Clara?” Autenberry’s face hardened and he suddenly had his hands on Hunt, thrusting him against the wall with violent force. “Where is my sister?”
“She and Marian rode out this morning. I assumed they came here.”
“Why would she have left and returned here on her own? What did you do to her?”
Hunt pushed Autenberry off him. He didn’t need Autenberry in his face to feel guilt. Or panic. He had felt all that and more the moment he realized she had left him—he still felt it. It had not abated nor would it until he had her safely back with him.
All this time he had been worrying about his fate. It had never occurred to him to worry for her.
Fear for her, he now realized, was so much worse than any fear he’d ever felt for himself. Bitter bile rose up in his throat. He wanted her safe before him.
“I dinna ken why she left,” he said. Not entirely true, but it seemed too complicated and personal to explain. A
nd it damn well wasn’t Hunt’s place to inform Autenberry of his sister’s condition. Hunt would leave that to her. It was her right to tell, her news to impart.
Autenberry pointed a finger at him. “You promised me you would take good care of her.”
“Aye.” Hunt nodded. “It’s a promise I intend tae keep.” He turned for the door.
“Where are you going?” Autenberry called after him.
“It’s late . . . and dark out there,” Alyse chimed in.
“If she’s no’ here, then she’s somewhere else.” He spread his arms wide. “I intend tae find her.” He’d not stop until he did.
“Not by yourself, you aren’t.” Autenberry pressed a quick kiss to his wife’s cheek and followed after Hunt. “Let’s go.”
Bannessy lived in a smaller castle, essentially two tower houses conjoined by a timber structure. Like her brother’s and Hunt’s homes, a high curtain wall surrounded the residence so that livestock could roam within the space. Unlike Hunt’s and Marcus’s homes, the place wasn’t very tidy. No one seemed to mind when the loose livestock wandering about the courtyard made their way into the house.
A couple chickens even strolled into the dining room where she and Marian took their breakfast, pecking at the crumbs scattered on the floor. Clara froze midbite, her toast inches from her mouth as she stared at one sharp-eyed bird.
“Are those . . . chickens?” Marian murmured.
Clara and Marian had shared a bedchamber the night before. Neither one of them had any intention of being parted in light of the fact that they had been abducted and trusted no one here. The housekeeper had scarcely grunted a word to them as she led them to their room last night. None of the servants spoke to them. They were definitely considered Bannessy’s captives.
“Yes,” Clara answered, using the toe of her shoe to push one particularly aggressive chicken away when it decided to peck on the tassels on her slippers.
A maid stood in the corner of the room. She stared vacantly into nowhere, presumably not paying attention to either one of them.
Still, Clara leaned forward to whisper, “We need to get away.”
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