Emma might have felt self-conscious about the tear she was forced to dash from her cheek if Malcolm hadn’t tugged a grimy kerchief from his pocket and honked loudly into it before passing it to his brother.
“Who would do such a thing?” she whispered when she could speak again.
Jamie shrugged. “The Hepburns blamed the Sinclairs. The Sinclairs blamed the Hepburns. Accusations flew and the feud continued, more bitterly and violently than before.”
“What happened to the poor ba—” She hesitated, knowing he was more likely to scorn her pity than appreciate it. “To you?”
“The Hepburn despised the very fact of my existence so my mother’s father took me in and raised me as his own.” Jamie’s gaze traveled the circle of his men’s rapt faces before returning to Emma. “So now you all know why there are some who say my parents’ shades still drift through these woods, calling out to each other on misty nights. ’Tis still whispered they’re doomed to wander this place where they died—together yet ever apart—until their murderer is revealed.”
His words sent a fresh shiver dancing down Emma’s spine. “Is that what you believe?”
“Of course not. As you pointed out so eloquently, Miss Marlowe,” he said, lifting the jug of whisky to her in a mocking toast, “we live in the Age of Reason. And the Hepburn has certainly proved there are more turrible monsters to fear than ghosts.”
IT WAS FAR TOO easy for Emma to believe in ghosts—and even more sinister agents of darkness—while lying on her side in the middle of a strange wood and watching the mist come creeping out of the trees toward her. The spectral tendrils seemed to ripple and curl, weaving themselves into forms that were alien and yet all too recognizable—a hollow-eyed skull, a snarling wolf, a beckoning finger, inviting her to rise from her bedroll and come meet her doom.
She flung herself to her other side, starting to feel like some overly fanciful heroine from one of the Gothic novels Ernestine would sneak between the pages of her Bible when their mother wasn’t looking.
She’d been kidnapped by a gang of Highland ruffians. She had far more substantial threats to fear than a pair of restless ghosts.
Like the man who still sat gazing into the dying flames of the fire, the empty jug of whisky dangling from his strong, tanned fingers.
Jamie’s men had been snoring in their bedrolls for quite some time now, leaving him to face the night all alone. The flickering shadows played over his strong jaw and the stark planes beneath his cheekbones. Emma could not help but wonder what images he might be seeing in those waning flames.
Did he see the face of an innocent young girl foolish enough to trust her heart to a man born to be her enemy? Or did he see the wizened visage of the Hepburn—a vindictive old man who would deny his grandson’s very existence before admitting his son had fallen in love with a Sinclair?
Was it truly a ransom Jamie was demanding from the Hepburn in exchange for her return? Or simply the inheritance that rightfully belonged to him?
And if the Hepburn refused him, would she be the one to pay the price? Would it be her body found in some deserted wood? Her ghost doomed to wander the misty night without even a lover to drift by its side?
Or would Jamie’s revenge be even more diabolical?
This time, her shiver had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with the dangerous power a mortal man might wield over a woman. The breathless moments they had shared in Muira’s bed had only given her a taste of that power. If he unleashed its full might against her, she wasn’t sure her body—or her heart—would survive.
Yet here in this dark and forbidding wood, she was oddly comforted by the sight of him, by the knowledge that he was watching over them all. Her eyes began to drift shut as her weary body succumbed to exhaustion.
A shrill cry shattered the peaceful hush.
Unsure how long she had been dozing, Emma sat bolt upright, her every nerve jangling with alarm.
It was the same cry they had heard earlier, but closer this time. And there was no denying its chilling resemblance to a woman’s scream. It sounded like the cry of a woman who was about to lose everything she held dear and could do nothing to stop it.
Emma pressed a hand to her thundering heart. She could still hear Jamie’s men snoring, their sleep undisturbed. Wondering if the cry had simply been the echo from a nightmare she couldn’t remember, Emma glanced over to see if Jamie had heard it.
The fire was deserted. Jamie was gone.
* * *
“MR. SINCLAIR?” EMMA WHISPERED as she picked her way through the dense undergrowth surrounding their campsite. “Mr. Sinclair, are you out there?”
A silence as thick and cloying as the mist greeted her words. At least she hadn’t been answered by that dreadful cry. If she had, she feared she would have leapt clear out of Bon’s boots.
She brushed aside a curtain of tangled vines, venturing a few steps deeper into the forest. The mist drifted past her in a billowing veil of white, obscuring all but the most determined beams of moonlight. She couldn’t have said what had possessed her to go after Jamie. She only knew she couldn’t bear the thought of him wandering these woods where his parents had been murdered all alone.
She had no intention of straying very far from their camp. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a comforting glimpse of the waning campfire through the trees.
A loud crack, like that of a boot snapping a branch, whipped her head back around. “Mr. Sinclair?” she called out softly, drifting forward with the mist. “Jamie?” she added in a hopeful whisper, the name as unbearably intimate as a caress on her lips.
The forest seemed to hold its breath, silent except for the quaking of the aspen leaves in the wind.
Wasn’t she the one who had insisted to Jamie’s men that they were living in the Age of Reason? She wasn’t superstitious. Or ignorant. But even so, it was growing difficult to ignore the atmosphere of brooding menace that seemed to be deepening with each step she took.
What if these woods were cursed? What if that piteous cry had been nothing but a trap to lure some foolish wanderer to their doom? Hadn’t Jamie and his men already lost two of their own comrades-in-arms beneath these very boughs?
From what his men had said, one had disappeared without a trace while the other had ridden his mount straight off a cliff. Emma wondered just how many other unfortunate souls had vanished or perished in this place since that terrible night when Jamie’s parents had been murdered.
She wondered if she would be next.
She did an abrupt about-face, deciding it would be wiser to return to the camp without Jamie than to risk letting her own fancies drive her over the edge of some cliff.
The campfire had vanished, its flickering light extinguished by a dense shroud of white. It was almost as if the mist had deliberately closed in behind her, making it impossible for her to retrace her steps.
Her heart skittered into an uneven rhythm. She briefly considered screaming but was half afraid of just exactly who—or what—might answer her cry for help.
She wove her way among the ghostly white trunks of a stand of birches, keenly aware of the irony of her situation. If Jamie returned to the camp to find her missing, he would assume she’d used the mist to stage another escape attempt. He would never believe she had been running to him instead of away from him. She could hardly believe it herself.
There was no need to panic, she told herself sternly. She couldn’t have wandered very far in such a short time. She would simply start off in the most promising direction and soon arrive safely back at her bedroll.
Her plan seemed a sound one but after trudging past a towering clump of pines utterly indistinguishable from the clump of pines she had passed nearly a quarter of an hour ago, Emma finally had to admit she was hopelessly, irretrievably lost. The mist made it impossible to tell if she was wandering in circles only a stone’s throw away from their camp or if each step was carrying her farther away from where she wanted to be.
Another twig cracked. She froze, holding her breath. Was it just her overwrought imagination or did she hear stealthy footfalls behind her, muted by the mist?
She had thought it a fearful thing to be alone in this forest. It was even more terrifying to realize she might not be alone after all.
Had the mist been this treacherous on the night Jamie’s parents had died? Had someone come upon them without warning, catching them unawares? Or had they been stalked through the shadows, hunted like animals, their breath coming so fast it made their chests ache? Their panic would have grown with each frantic step until they finally turned to see that deadly pistol gripped in the hand of a ruthless stranger. Or even worse, in the hand of someone they trusted, someone they might even have loved. Someone determined to punish them for daring to believe their love could conquer centuries of hatred.
Almost as if conjured up by her bleak thoughts, a hazy shape seemed to separate itself from the pallid trunks of the birches just ahead of her. Was it another tendril of mist or a woman garbed in a flowing white gown? Emma blinked to clear her vision but the spectral figure continued to drift toward her, its mouth gaping open as if frozen forever in a mournful cry.
A piercing yowl that was all too real sounded practically in her ear. She whirled around to find a pair of malevolent yellow eyes glowing down at her out of the darkness.
A scream tore from her throat. Spinning sideways, she took off at a dead run, plunging blindly through the mist.
* * *
JAMIE DESPISED THIS PLACE.
He would have gladly risked his neck and those of his men driving their horses through the wood at a dead gallop just so they wouldn’t have to pass the night there. But he wasn’t willing to risk Emma’s slender neck.
It was far too valuable to him.
He swept a drooping pine bough out of his way, knowing exactly where his determined steps were leading him. Neither the brooding shadows nor the creeping veil of mist slowed his pace. He could have found his destination on a moonless night while blindfolded. He had been halfway there earlier in the evening before forcing himself to turn around and return to camp.
Earlier he hadn't had half a jug of whisky burning a hole in his belly and Emma's bold questions echoing through his mind. It wasn't as if sleep would be possible anyway. Not here in this place and most certainly not with Emma sleeping only a few feet away from him in her bedroll, as sleepy and warm and ripe for the taking as she had been in Muira's bed.
His long strides didn't slow until he reached the bottom of a steep slope and emerged from the shelter of the trees. Here the mist hung low to the ground. The moonlight played gently over it, bathing the entire glen in an unearthly glow. It was the perfect place for two lovers to meet.
Or to die.
Jamie drifted forward. His grandfather had brought him to this place for the first time when he was just a boy. He had knelt down and touched his fingers to the grass, his craggy face lined with pain as he described the night the bodies of Jamie's parents had been found in such detail Jamie had almost felt as if he had been there. He could almost see them splayed out on their backs in the grass, their eyes open wide yet unseeing, their bloodstained fingers ever reaching but never finding.
Jamie squatted down and touched his own fingers to the grass. One would think the ravages of twenty-seven years of sun and wind, rain and snow, would wash away every trace of tragedy. That there would be no lingering miasma of loss or grief poisoning the air.
Emma had been courageous enough to face him and demand the truth, yet he had offered her only lies. He did believe in ghosts. How could he not when they’d been haunting him for most of his life?
Despite that admission he felt no fear, only grim determination. Because he knew these woods weren’t cursed. He was. It wasn’t his parents who were doomed to wander this mountain until their murderer confessed his guilt.
It was him.
He had no fear of the mist drifting through the glen or of the shadows lurking beneath the trees or of the mysterious cries that pierced the night. His only fear was that he might fail them.
A bloodcurdling shriek echoed through the glen.
Jamie froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. That hadn’t been the cry of a night bird or some woodland creature stalking its prey. It had been a woman’s scream, hoarse and ripe with terror.
It took Jamie a numb moment to realize the scream hadn’t come from the ground beneath his hand—ground that had once been soaked with his mother’s blood—but from the line of trees behind him.
He rose and turned just in time to see a slender figure come flying out of the forest, heading straight for his arms.
Chapter Nineteen
EMMA CAME HURTLING OUT of the woods, desperate to escape whatever was crashing through the underbrush behind her. Her relief at leaving the trees behind rapidly evaporated when she realized it would only be that much easier for her pursuer to run her to ground.
Gasping for breath, she threw a wild-eyed glance over her shoulder. Her foot snagged on a hillock, nearly sending her sprawling. She managed to recover her balance just in time to see a dark shape come looming out of the mist in front of her. Between one frantic footfall and the next she realized it wasn’t some terrible specter with an hourglass in one bony claw and a scythe in the other, but Jamie himself.
Without an ounce of conscious thought, she threw herself at him. His arms closed around her, holding her fast. Unable to help herself, Emma buried her face in his chest and clung to him, quaking with a mixture of terror and relief. He smelled like woodsmoke and leather and everything that was warm and safe in a cold, scary world.
Rubbing her back as if his only purpose in life was to ease her violent trembling, he murmured, “There, there, lass. It’s all right now. There’s no need to be afraid. I’ve got you.”
“Not for long,” she mumbled through her chattering teeth. “Once the earl delivers your precious ransom, you’ll have to return me.”
His chest rumbled beneath her ear in a reluctant laugh. “If this was yet another escape attempt on your part, you really should give it up. You’re bluidy turrible at it.”
“I wasn’t trying to escape this time. There was a ghost chasing me.”
His big hand tenderly stroked her hair. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“So did I.” She tipped back her head to meet his gaze, still fighting to steady her breathing. “But that was before one had the temerity to chase me.”
Jamie gazed down at her for a long moment, his heavy-lidded gaze warning her that there were other things he’d much rather be doing with her in his arms than hunting ghosts. But he finally sighed and gently set her away from him, his watchful gaze scanning the line of trees bordering the glen.
Emma continued to clutch at his sleeve, fully prepared to leap back into his arms should it prove prudent to do so.
“There!” she cried, pointing toward the trees. “Don’t you see it?” A fresh shudder raked her. “As long as I live, I shall never forget the sight of those horrible eyes glowing down at me from the shadows!”
As Jamie stared at the spot she indicated, a smile slowly began to curve his lips. “If it’s a ghost, lass, then it’s naught but the ghost of a wee wildcat.”
Emma squinted. It took her a moment but she finally picked out the shadowy outline of a striped creature with phosphorescent eyes and pointed ears crouching at the very edge of the underbrush. Her mouth fell open. “Why, he’s not much bigger than Mr. Winky!”
Jamie lifted a quizzical eyebrow.
“Mr. Winky is Elberta’s tomcat,” she hastened to explain. “He lost one of his eyes in a fight with one of the barn toms so he looks as if he’s always flirting with you.”
“You must have wandered into the wee lad’s territory. They can be very dangerous but they don’t usually trouble humans unless they’re crossed. They’re notoriously shy.”
As if to prove his point, the wildcat gave them a haughty look befo
re turning and slinking away without a sound.
Emma scowled at the place where he had been. “He certainly didn’t seem very shy while he was chasing me. He seemed savage. And hungry.” She shook her head, her terror melting to chagrin. “I can’t believe I let him give me such a fright.”
“You needn’t feel like a fool. You’re hardly the first person to mistake a wildcat’s mating call for the wail of a banshee.”
“I might not have been so quick to panic if I hadn’t just seen—” She snapped her mouth shut. She wasn’t about to tell him she had also seen an apparition melting out of the mist. An apparition that had borne an eerie resemblance to his murdered mother.
His smile faded. “Seen what?”
She shook her head. “Nothing of any import.”
He studied her face. “If you weren’t trying to escape, then just what were you doing?”
She inclined her head, hoping the milky moonlight wouldn’t expose the flush she could feel creeping into her cheeks. “If you must know, I was looking for you.”
“And just what did you intend to do with me once you found me?” he asked, his burr even more silky than usual.
He was so close she could feel the whisper of his breath stirring her hair. She took a few steps away from him, afraid he might be on the verge of pulling her back into his arms, and even more afraid that she would go.
She peered down the long, narrow glen, taking in their surroundings for the first time. The mist was thinner here, drifting close to the ground like ribbons of tattered lace.
“This is the place, isn’t it?” she whispered, realization slowly dawning. “The place where your parents died?”
He didn’t have to answer. His expression—or lack thereof—told her everything she needed to know.
While she had been out chasing imaginary ghosts, he had been here in this clearing facing real ones. One would have expected some ugly echo of rage or horror to linger at the scene of such tragic violence. But all Emma felt was an overwhelming sadness that made her heart feel heavy in her breast.
The Devil Wears Plaid Page 16
