If she could see him now, she wouldn’t doubt how much he wanted her, he thought wryly. But Agnes didn’t want to discuss what had happened. Aside from his apology in the maze, that topic had ruined every conversation with her since.
And he should know why. Didn’t he hate it when his father kept battering away at something he didn’t want to speak of? His efforts to apologize were only making her uncomfortable. Felix inhaled deeply, the frigid air bracing to both mind and body. He had to let it go.
However, they had managed to talk about other things; she’d even laughed and punched his arm. There lay the foundation of his hopes.
A thump sounded overhead. Felix glanced upward, but nothing followed. He shrugged it off, and was getting back into bed when a door slammed.
He sat up. Stormont was an old house, with thick walls of stone and stout oak doors. That door had slammed rather hard for him to hear it.
A moment later he heard voices—female voices, high and excited. He recognized one as Bella’s, and started to relax again, until someone started pounding on a door—not his—and crying, “Agnes! Agnes, open the door! Are you awake?”
Felix was out of bed and across the room before he remembered he was naked. With a curse he yanked a discarded shirt over his head and clutched his plaid around his waist, and inched open his door.
Out in the corridor huddled Bella and Winnie, swathed in shawls over their nightdresses. They were knocking on a door two down from his. As he watched, it creaked open. “What?” Agnes whispered.
Felix was struck dumb. God, she was beautiful. Her black hair tumbled down her back almost to her waist in loose curls. Her feet were bare beneath her nightgown, and the memory of her satiny soft legs parting for him flashed across his mind like a crack of lightning.
Stop, ye loon. With a shudder he started to close his door, but it creaked and all three women whirled.
“Mr. Duncan!” The candle shook in Winnie’s hand, casting flickering shadows over her pale face. “Did you hear something, too?”
He paused, looking to Agnes, who made a small, puzzled motion. “Like what?”
“A thud, or a scrape, or something frightening,” whispered Bella anxiously. “From above?”
It was as cold as a grave in the corridor, and there was an eerie whistling sound. “I’m sure ’twas an owl on the roof, or a rat in the rafters.”
Bella gave a little scream and Winnie jumped. “It sounded far too big to be a rat!”
Another door creaked open. “What’s the trouble?” grumbled Alex Kincaid, sticking out his head.
The girls erupted in a babble. “Did you hear it, too? It seemed to go on for a long time. Tell me someone else heard what I heard!”
Alex blinked in bemusement. The door on the far side of Agnes’s opened and Mrs. St. James stepped into the corridor, wearing a thick dressing gown and a cap over her hair. “What’s this?” she asked sharply.
“Mama, we heard something!” cried Bella, abandoning all subtlety. “In the attics!”
Punctuating her words, a high distant shriek sounded, making the girls cry out and grab each other. Felix looked upward, perplexed. Winnie had been talking of ghosts since they arrived, especially at dinner tonight, but this was the first sign of anything supernatural.
“Have we a real ghost?” demanded Adam Monteith, appearing out of his room beyond Felix’s. “I say, let’s have a look!”
Winnie uttered another little scream at the word ghost. “No! Could it be? Is this house haunted?”
Felix looked again at Agnes. “I doubt it.”
“Then what made that noise?” demanded Bella. “You heard it, too, didn’t you, Mr. Duncan?”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “But—“
Monteith whistled. “It’s bloody cold enough to be haunted! Didn’t you wish to see a specter, Miss Winifred?”
Winnie looked torn. “Well—perhaps we should look—“
Agnes rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. Felix choked back a laugh. “Aye, perhaps we should.” He snatched a lamp from his mantel and lit it from Winnie’s candle. “Let’s have a look upstairs. To set everyone’s mind at ease.”
On instinct he followed the chill breeze moaning softly through the corridor, to a door on a pitch-dark stair leading upward. There he paused. A block of wood held the door ajar, admitting the icy air that swirled around them.
He’d seen that here at Stormont once before, a door propped open. He’d gone up the stairs to investigate and come out on the roof to find Andrew St. James locked in a passionate embrace with Ilsa Ramsay. Felix hesitated, not wanting to lead the whole party upon another such scene—let alone one more intimate. For one thing, St. James would probably throw him backward down the stairs.
But no light shone from above. This was a stair into the attics, not to the roof, and the temperature would curdle the blood of even the hardiest Scot. If St. James had chosen a frigid attic for his seduction and couldn’t even do it quietly, he deserved to be spied upon.
He kicked aside the block of wood and led the way up. Bella and Winnie crowded behind him, along with everyone else, to Felix’s surprise.
As he climbed he lifted the lamp. The light barely penetrated the gloom, but the attics appeared deserted.
“What do you see, Mr. Duncan?” whispered Winnie.
“Surely ’tis naught but a stray animal,” he assured her. “I see nothing.”
Monteith pushed past him, puffing out his chest. “Show yourself, foul spirits!” he called, stealing a peek at Winnie, whose face glowed with eagerness now.
No longer fearful, both girls hurried up. Felix stepped aside to let them, exchanging a brief glance with Agnes, who followed with her mother. She quirked a questioning brow, and he shrugged. Kincaid brought up the rear with another lamp, still grumbling.
The girls were chattering about ghosts. Monteith was swaggering about, peering uselessly into the darkness. The frigid breeze swirled around Felix’s bare legs. If Monteith wanted to stay up here posturing for Winnie’s benefit, let him.
“I see nothing.” He stifled a yawned behind one hand. “No headless Highland chieftain, no lady who threw herself from the battlements in heartbreak. Not even the spirit of a badger who got trapped in the—”
Behind him sounded a long, low wail, like a dying swan. He whirled to see a towering figure lurching toward him, shimmering pale and indistinct in the weak light. With a shout of astonishment he leapt backward, nearly dropping his lamp as the girls began screaming, Monteith and Kincaid cursed, and—
And Agnes slammed against his back, her fingernails digging into his arm and ribs as she clung to him. Without thought he reached back to hold, protect, comfort her, bracing his knees and raising the lamp aggressively as the specter loomed over them. Her breath was hot on his neck, and he could feel every inch of her body plastered against his.
“Very amusing, Andrew,” said Mrs. St. James dryly.
The figure went still, suddenly shrinking to mere mortal size. St. James pulled the sheet off his head. “It was meant to be terrifying, Mother.”
Felix let out his breath. “Oh merciful God,” breathed Agnes against his shoulder. With a start she jerked away, past her sisters scolding their brother in high-pitched voices, past Kincaid whose shoulders were shaking with laughter, past Monteith who had begun pacing with hands on his hips, past her mother who stood with arms folded and a reluctant smile on her lips.
His heart thudded hard. She’d come to him. In that moment of shock and alarm, she’d run to him. Incredibly, marvelously, Felix wanted to smile.
St. James was explaining that he’d meant to give Winnie a ghostly fright after all her hopeful talk of the house being haunted. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Ilsa Ramsay stepped out of the deep shadows and admitted that she had helped. Ah. Felix bit back a smug grin. St. James wouldn’t miss a chance to sneak off with the lovely widow, and as everyone filed back down the stairs, he did not miss the chance to rib his friend about it.
; But the excitement was over. The ladies disappeared into their bedchambers and the gentlemen to theirs.
Felix closed his door and leaned against it, his pulse still racing. Christ. What an idiotic, childish prank. And yet, his mouth curved and he laughed softly. A trace of Agnes’s scent lingered on his shirt, and for that alone he approved.
* * *
Agnes circled her room, too keyed up to sleep. Not that she’d been asleep when her sisters started pounding on her door, but she’d been trying.
Now she knew she’d never sleep a wink tonight. Her ridiculous brother! And Ilsa, helping and encouraging him! Maybe her sisters were right and they were a perfect match for each other.
Her smile faded a little. And perhaps she wasn’t as detached from Felix as she’d been trying to persuade herself. When people started screaming and running, she’d flown to him before her head even knew where her feet were going. And he had put his arms out as if he would die to protect her.
She paced several more circuits of her room, rubbing her elbows. She’d tried keeping her distance from him, and it had only made her cross and miserable. But talking to him often left her confused; why did things always go wrong with them?
Say it plainly, if you please, echoed her own voice in her head.
She stopped at the window and gazed out blindly. Stormont Palace was beautiful, with magnificent grounds and gardens. Ilsa had pointed out astutely that Drew’s future home would be like this—that this house would be one of his future homes. As his sister, Agnes would meet other men who lived in similarly grand houses. She could be mistress of an elegant manor like this one, with a wealthy, eligible husband.
“I don’t want one of those,” she murmured to herself.
So… what did she want? Or rather… whom?
Tomorrow they were going home. When would she have another chance like this? Too late she regretted avoiding Felix for the last several days. Before she could reconsider, she snatched up her dressing gown and put it back on. At the door, she peered out cautiously, then slipped out, her bare feet silent on the carpet. Heart hammering, she darted two doors down and rapped quietly on the oak and held her breath, waiting.
It opened with a faint creak. His eyes widened.
“May I come in and talk?” she whispered in a rush before he could speak.
Without a word he opened the door, and she slipped inside.
The lamp still burned, and she couldn’t resist glancing about in interest. His room was smaller and more plainly furnished than hers. Aside from a bed and a wardrobe, there was only a small writing desk and chair.
“Can’t sleep?” Felix retreated into the shadows.
“No!” She choked on a giggle. “Could you?”
“I hadn’t tried yet. I suppose your sisters will be whispering about it until dawn.” He shrugged into a banyan and wrapped it around himself.
Her head buzzed. She’d got him out of bed. His bed. Which was mere feet away.
Oh.
He was tying back his hair, both arms stretched behind his head, making his shoulders look very broad. “Are you cold?”
Agnes blinked, realizing she had wrapped her arms around herself. Not from cold, but from awareness. “Yes,” she lied.
For a heartbeat his gaze dropped to her chest before he turned away and pulled a blanket off the bed. His bed. The breath rasped in her ears as she hugged herself tighter, which made the linen of her nightdress pull tight across her breasts. Her nipples were tight and hard, and he’d noticed.
He swirled the blanket around her shoulders. It smelled of wool and heather and Felix. She inhaled deeply and tried not to think that the blanket was warm from his body.
“Thank you,” she said. “For letting me in. It would only be fair for me to invade Drew’s room and scold him for that ridiculous prank, but…”
“Of course not,” Felix said in amusement. “What you really want to do is to rail against his antics and make sport of him, and I assure you I am a more appreciative audience for that.”
Again Agnes laughed. Felix pulled out the chair from the desk for her and set it facing the bed. She sat, tucking the blanket around herself, and he leaned against the bed post.
“It was ridiculous, wasn’t it?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Aye, but it succeeded. Got all of us out of bed and upstairs into the freezing attics for a fright, didn’t it?”
“Are you impressed?” she exclaimed.
“A good prank must be appreciated,” he replied, unrepentant.
“You’re all mad!” she declared. “My sisters, Drew, you, even Ilsa…”
“There.” He raised one finger like a lawyer in court. “There you have named the reason why your brother decided to stomp around the attics. His conspirator.”
“Oh. Yes.” She smiled wryly. “He likes her very much.”
Felix folded his arms. “He’s mad for her.”
“You said gentlemen don’t talk about—”
He snorted. “No need to talk! Any time an otherwise sensible man begins to act like a fool, first look to see if there’s a woman. And lo, there is, one who has entranced him from the first moment he saw her.”
“Why didn’t you say that earlier?”
He shrugged. “Who was I to judge his feelings? Now that he’s made them abundantly clear to all, though…”
Agnes laughed in spite of herself. “My sisters hope he marries her. Do you think he will?”
After a long pause, he said, “That’s a complex question.”
She nodded. “I understand. He’s made a promise to the duchess, about marrying a suitable English lady, and plans to live there, and Ilsa has such a disgust of the English, after the trial—“
He made a noise of dissent.
“What?” She sat up a little straighter. “He’s going to be a duke.” She had only rarely said that, as if to speak it aloud made it more real. It felt like a cloud hovering above her head, ominous and threatening even if the deluge hadn’t yet begun. Her brother’s title would take her away from Edinburgh, the shop… and Felix.
“That generally makes women more eager to marry a man, not less.”
Agnes frowned and fiddled with the blanket.
“I doubt he explicitly promised to marry an Englishwoman, and I suspect Mrs. Ramsay could change his mind about removing to England, if she chose. As for the other charge…” One corner of his mouth turned up. “He’s not English. And it’s not disgust in her face when she looks at him.”
That was true. Agnes had caught Ilsa gazing at Drew with intense longing, looking a little dazed, as if she’d been bowled over by the strength of her attraction to him.
Or perhaps Agnes thought that because it mirrored her own feelings.
Felix tilted his head back and smiled ruefully at the ceiling when she said nothing. “Of course, it’s entirely possible that two people care for each other, but not enough to compromise. Or perhaps their love is not equal. What one might be willing to fight through, the other might not.” He glanced at her. “And then it ends in a broken heart.”
She jumped. “What?”
“He may love her desperately, but if she doesn’t love him enough to go with him, what sort of future can they have? Or perhaps she does love him enough to leave Edinburgh, but he cannot bring himself to defy the duchess and marry her. It would be doomed, either way.”
She cleared her throat. “Aye. Love doesn’t always conquer all. Sometimes it’s simply impossible for two people to be together.”
“Impossible,” he repeated quietly.
She sucked in a shaky breath, knowing they were no longer talking about Ilsa and Drew. “Perhaps not impossible, but too difficult.”
“Why?”
“Well—sometimes things happen that can’t be forgotten…“
“And two people can never begin again.”
She frowned, feeling awkward yet aroused by this intimate conversation, in his bedroom, wrapped in his blanket which was making her unbearably hot and
restless.
“Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” he asked when she didn’t answer. “You can say so plainly.”
Exactly what she had asked him to do, and exactly what she found so difficult now.
“No, I—“ She was burning up. Restlessly she shoved the blanket off her shoulders. “I don’t mean that. That is, I do mean things can’t be forgotten, but one’s perception of them can change.”
He watched her in silence.
Uncomfortably Agnes rambled on. “I did mean it when I told you we could begin again. I want to. I just—I don’t blame you,” she added hastily. “I—I kissed you, and asked you to kiss me, and I liked it all entirely too much, which suggests that I’m—I’m—“
“Agnes.” In two steps he was on one knee before her. “It suggests no such thing.”
“I was drunk,” she blurted out. “That’s not like me!”
He raised a brow. “Because some bloody scoundrel poured you whisky.”
She blushed. “Well—no,” she whispered. “It wasn’t just the whisky. I had wine… rather a lot of wine… and rum punch… and then the whisky.”
His expression was indescribable. Agnes wanted to pull the blanket over her head. But then Felix took hold of her hand. “It still doesn’t make you wicked.” His thumb was making tiny circles on her palm that stirred up that treacherous wanting inside her again.
She tried to ignore it. “Why do things keep going wrong between us? Is it… unequal attraction?”
“Of course ’tis. There’s no way you could find me as attractive as I find you.”
He spoke so calmly that it took a moment to register. “What?” she asked stupidly. “You—what?”
He turned her hand over and stroked her knuckles. “Well, fascinated would be more apt a word. I can’t look away, nor keep my mind off you.”
Her lips parted in wonder.
Felix’s gaze dropped to her hand, still in his. “I thought you’d noticed.” One shoulder rose and fell, and he released her. He started to rise.
Agnes grabbed his hands in both of hers to keep him. She was afraid this moment, just the two of them being honest and open, would be fleeting. If she let it pass, she might never have another opportunity like it. “We are a star-crossed pair, each so wrong about the other.”
How the Scot Was Won Page 9
