by Candace Camp
The old man let out a strangled noise that Violet thought might be a laugh. “Aye, I micht wonder a wee bit.”
“As did I.” Violet smiled. “Perhaps you would like to take a closer look at the dig, Mr. McKay. If you want to come by some afternoon, I would be happy to show you around.”
“Hmmph.” McKay regarded her for a moment. “And sae I micht.”
Sally distracted Old Angus by asking him about the state of his ailing back. He responded with a fierce admonition that it was none of her business, followed by a lengthy description of each and every twinge of pain he had suffered.
As the others chatted around them, Coll bent his head toward Violet’s. “Now you’ve let yourself in for it. Old Angus will be there to visit tomorrow, I’ll wager.”
“I look forward to it.”
“I believe you do.” Coll grinned. “I might have known. The two of you will squabble the whole afternoon and doubtless enjoy every minute of it.”
Violet laughed. “Are you comparing me to a crotchety old man?”
“Nae, I’m not fool enough to step into that quagmire.” Coll’s blue eyes danced, and Violet’s heart lifted in response. It was almost impossible not to glow under the warmth of his smile. His eyes darkened, the warmth turning into another sort of heat.
Violet felt herself blushing, and she looked away, her gaze falling on a young blond woman on the other side of the room. The girl had a fresh, pretty face, but it was marred by the scowl that creased her forehead. She stared at Violet as if contemplating where to plunge the knife.
Startled, Violet glanced away quickly. Before she could ask Coll the girl’s name, the girl herself swept up to them, her face now beaming.
“Coll Munro!” The blonde reached out to give his arm a playful tap. “It’s been ages since I hae seen you. Pa was saying yesterday that you maun hae got too grand for us.” She did not glance toward Violet or the others, her eyes fixed on Coll.
“Nae, now, Dot, you know I’m not too grand.” Coll shifted from one foot to the other. “There’s a deal of work to be done and, um . . .” He glanced at Violet. “Have you met Lady Thornhill? My lady, allow me to introduce you to Miss Cromartie.”
“Ooh, a lady.” Dot’s eyes widened dramatically and she bobbed a curtsy. “ ’Tis an honor. I hope you dinna find it too quiet and simple for you here, my lady.”
Violet suspected the girl meant the opposite. She also suspected that Miss Cromartie had her sights firmly set on Coll. She wondered if Coll reciprocated her feelings. He appeared a trifle stiff and uncomfortable, but Violet was not sure how to interpret that.
“Your da’s been playing for half an hour now,” Dot went on, gazing up at Coll with limpid eyes. “And you hae no’ asked me to take the floor with you even once.”
“Um, well, I’ve been talking.”
“But you maun dance!” Dot aimed a dazzling smile at him, leaning in. “I heard him say a reel’s next. Will you no’ come and dance with me?” She held out her hands.
“Well, um . . .” Coll glanced toward Violet, then Sally, and finally said, “Yes, of course. If you will excuse me . . .” He nodded toward the others and started with Dot toward the dance floor. Violet noticed he did not take the girl’s hand.
“Och, that Dot, she’s been chasing Coll for two months now.” Sally shook her head.
“They are courting?” Violet asked casually.
“She is,” Angus McKay snorted. “Not Coll.”
“She’s not one who could hold his interest for long,” Sally agreed.
“The lass is thick as a plank of wood,” Angus added.
“There’s many a man dinna mind a foolish wife, but not our Coll.” Sally gave an approving nod.
“I am surprised Mr. Munro is not spoken for,” Violet said. “He seems a very eligible bachelor.”
“Aye, that he is. But particular.” Sally gave Violet an assessing glance. “It’s the way he was brought up. Here at Baillannan with all the Roses.”
“Och, the Munros hae ayeways been choosy.” Angus shook his head.
“Coll seems very fond of Mrs. Kensington,” Violet ventured, glancing over at Isobel. She was a beautiful woman, blond and tall and slender as a sylph. Just the opposite of Violet herself.
“Oh, aye, he’s nigh as much a brother to her as he is to Meg,” Sally said.
Violet was not as certain that Coll’s feelings for Isobel Kensington were those of a brother. She watched Isobel as she smiled and nodded to a departing guest, then turned back to her husband. Jack bent his head toward his wife’s, his eyes as soft on her as a caress. Isobel gazed back up at him, smiling, and though they did not touch, intimacy and love radiated from them with such clarity that it took Violet’s breath away.
What must it be like to love like that and be loved in return? To feel the closeness, the warmth, the magical exclusion of all else in the world? A pang pierced Violet’s chest. She herself would never know the feeling, the oneness; she had given up hope of that long ago. Yet for an aching instant she could not help but wish that she could know the sweet taste of love.
Resolutely Violet turned away. She was certain now that Isobel did not love Coll beyond the sisterly affection Sally had described. But that did not mean he felt the same way about Isobel. Perhaps he loved her even though her heart was given to another.
Violet’s gaze went to the dance floor, where it was easy to find Coll, taller than anyone else. She watched him, flushed and smiling, as he circled the floor, the lantern light catching the gold of his hair. He did not look like a man suffering from unrequited love.
Violet realized suddenly that her companions had fallen silent, and she turned to find them watching her. “I—I beg your pardon. My mind had drifted.”
“Och, no matter.” Sally waved it away. “ ’Tis a lively song they’re playing. What lass wouldn’t rather be out on the floor than talking to old folks?”
“Oh, no—I’m not going to dance.”
“What? A lass who does not like to dance? I canna believe that.”
“No. I mean, I do not know these dances.”
“Then you must learn! Coll!”
Violet saw that the music had stopped and Coll was strolling back, thankfully without Dot Cromartie. “Oh, no, Sally, do not make Coll—”
Beside Violet, Angus shook his head, saying with some sympathy, “Nae, you micht as weel try to stop the sea as Sally McEwan when she’s got the bit between her teeth.”
“Coll Munro, hae you no’ taught this girl our dances?” Sally clucked her tongue in disapproval.
“Dinna scold, Sally.” Coll grinned. “I promised I would show her tonight.”
“You just want to see me look foolish stumbling about among all these nimble-footed people,” Violet teased Coll, amazed by how fiercely she wanted to dance with him.
“Never,” he denied, holding out his hand to her.
“Very well, then. Teach me.” Violet took his hand.
“Here you go, lass.” Angus pulled a flask from inside his jacket. “Take a wee sip; it’ll gie you courage.”
Violet took a gulp from his flask. Her eyes began to water as her insides burst into flames. However fiery the drink Coll had coaxed her into taking earlier had been, it was the sweetest of wine compared to this. Indeed, she thought perhaps the old man had mistakenly filled his flask with kerosene.
Angus beamed with pride. “Angus McKay’s whiskey cures all.”
“I daresay.” It would, she thought, kill any number of pestilences.
Coll leaned in, chuckling. “I dinna think to warn you: never take whiskey from Old Angus.”
“My mouth is numb.” Violet licked her lips. “And I think the top of my head is about to explode. I cannot possibly dance now.”
Coll’s laughter increased. “Ah, nae, lass. Many a Scot will tell you, a dram makes the dancing easier.”
He showed her the steps, then led her through them, with Sally and Angus offering their encouragement and conflicting advice. Amazi
ngly, with Coll’s hands at her waist, guiding her through the steps, Violet did not feel clumsy or ignorant, and her mistakes only made her laugh along with him. When he pulled her out onto the floor, she went easily, not caring whether she appeared clumsy or could think of nothing to say. Indeed, with the music and the sound of feet stamping and people clapping or laughing or calling out, there was no need to speak at all. Here, with Coll, dancing was not methodical, stiff, and boring. With Coll, it was . . . delightful.
The rest of the evening whirled by for Violet, both literally and figuratively. She danced not only with Coll, but with Jack and Isobel’s cousin Gregory and several of the Baillannan crofters whose names she did not know. She spent a half hour chatting with Elizabeth and Isobel. Isobel introduced her to Coll’s father, a handsome man with twinkling blue eyes and a ready charm. It was easy to see where Coll had gotten both his looks and his smile.
When Coll and Violet left the party, she was in a soaring mood. As they walked to the boat, she broke away to dance a few of the steps she had just learned. The trip across the loch held no fear for her this time. Violet, humming beneath her breath, pushed back her hood and let the air cool her flushed cheeks. Coll began to sing the words to the tune, and Violet wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned forward, losing herself in the sound. It was a sad, haunting song, but Violet did not care. All that mattered was the moonlight on his hair, the hush of the night, and the way his voice wound through her. Listening to Coll, she thought, she could not be cold.
When they reached Duncally’s dock, Coll climbed out to tie up the dory, then reached down to help her up the wooden ladder to the platform. His hand engulfed hers. She had forgotten her muff when they left the party, and now she was glad, for his hands were strong and warm and the roughness of his skin against hers added to the thrumming energy inside her. When she reached the dock, Violet swung around, arms upraised and face lifted to the sky.
“It was a wonderful evening!”
“Careful.” Coll reached out to steady her. “We canna have you tumbling into the loch.” He did not take his hands away.
“I shan’t.” Violet smiled up at him, resting her hands on his arms.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the party.”
“It was perfect. I learned dances; I heard stories; I met wonderful people.”
“So you did.” He smiled. “You also sampled the whiskey. Perhaps too much.”
“Nonsense.” She paused, tilting her head consideringly. “Though I do fear that after Old Angus’s ‘wee sip,’ my tongue may be forever singed.”
Coll laughed, his fingers flexing on her waist. His thumbs began to circle slowly. “You are a beautiful woman.”
Violet’s lips curved, and she swayed toward him. Taking his lapels in her hands, she gave a little tug. “I think you are the one who drank too much whiskey.”
“Nonsense.” He tossed back her answer as he bent toward her, his fingers spread wide, urging her gently toward him.
“I am ‘wee’ and dictatorial.”
“You are perfect.”
He lowered his head, and Violet stretched up to meet him. Then his mouth was on hers and his arms were around her, lifting her up into him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, every nerve in her body igniting. She clung to him as her world tilted, then narrowed to just this man, only this moment.
The wool of his jacket was scratchy beneath her fingertips, his heat all around her, his lips like velvet and tasting faintly of whiskey. The night air caressed her cheeks, and the smell of the loch mingled with the scent of peat fires; the water lapped hypnotically against the dock. It all twined and twisted in her, part of the surging hunger, the pleasure and excitement that rushed in her so hard and fast she trembled.
Coll pressed her into him, his mouth consuming hers with the same fiery urgency that burned in her. His hands slid beneath her cloak, roaming over the soft curves and dips of her body. Violet shuddered, astonished and aroused. She ached with a yearning to know more, feel more, taste more.
With a groan, Coll pulled his mouth from hers. “Violet . . .” His chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, his hands resting loosely on her hips. “I canna do this.”
“Oh.” Violet stiffened. She pulled back, embarrassment burning through her. “I beg your pardon.”
“No . . . wait.” He followed her, reaching for her arm, but she sidestepped his touch. “You’ve been drinking. I canna—”
“Of course. You are right.” Violet’s voice was brittle. “Clearly I am not in full possession of my senses.” She fairly ran up the stairs to the garden. Her cheeks flamed, not with passion now but shame. She had been drunk, he was saying. She had fallen into his arms like a drunken hussy.
Violet thought back with horror. Perhaps she had been drunk the whole evening. What if all the bonhomie, the fun, the conviviality, had merely been the product of her inebriation! It occurred to her now that everyone had been humoring her because she was Coll’s guest. She had been an embarrassment to him.
She heard him coming after her. “Violet . . . please. I am sorry. I dinna mean to—I should not have kissed you, but I was—you were so . . .”
“Bosky? Besotted?” Violet whirled to face him, shame fueling her anger. “Yes. I realize. The whiskey went to my head. I acted like a fool. I wish I had not gone. I wish you had not asked me.” She caught her breath, dangerously near tears.
He stiffened, his hand falling to his side. “I apologize.”
“You need not accompany me any farther. I can find my way through the garden. Good night, Mr. Munro.”
“My lady.”
She did not pause until she had reached the upper gardens, and when she looked back, Coll was no longer there.
7
Violet awoke the next morning with a violent headache and the bitter taste of regret in her mouth. She had made a proper fool of herself, and she didn’t know how she could face Coll again. But then, she would probably not have to—he would make sure to avoid her. The thought did little to lighten her spirits.
Since it was Sunday, she did not have even the distraction of working at the ruins to keep her from brooding over the humiliating way she had thrown herself at Coll last night. She had told Coll that she did not care what others thought of her, but she realized now that she did indeed care—very much—what Coll thought of her.
She had been so sure he felt the same desire she did. His mouth had been so hungry, his embrace so tight. But then he had pulled away, saying he could not do it, as if he had forced himself to respond to her advances but finally gave up. Clearly, she knew nothing about men.
It was a relief a day later to be able to throw herself back into work. The discovery of a small pierced, carved piece of bone also raised her spirits—though she wished, with a fierce pang of sorrow, that Uncle Lionel were here to share in the excitement.
Later in the day, she glanced up from her sketch of the site and the artifact’s position in it and was surprised to see a man walking toward them. He was small and wore a bright red, knitted cap, beneath which a fringe of white hair peeked out. In one hand, he gripped a gnarled, dark wooden staff, but from the spryness of his walk, he scarcely needed it. Violet recognized him at once.
“Mr. McKay.” She smiled. Behind her Dougal let out a groan, but she ignored him. “I am glad you took me up on my invitation.”
“Aye. I’d a mind to see what you were up to.” The old man surveyed the ruins. “Doesna look like much tae me.” He turned his gaze on the McKenna brothers and Dougal. “I would hae thought young Munro would gie you better workers.”
Bruce McKenna rolled his eyes, and his brother said, “Whisht, now, Angus, hae you naught better tae do than tae watch men work?”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Angus retorted. “Hae you found aught but sand?”
“As a matter of fact, we did.” Proudly, Violet unwrapped her handkerchief to reveal the small article inside.
A
ngus leaned in to peer at the piece of bone. “A bit wee, isn’t it?”
Violet laughed. “Mr. McKay, do you ever say anything nice?”
“Course I do.” He ignored the snort from the men. “When I see something that warrants it.”
The old man settled down on a nearby rock and spent the rest of the afternoon watching them work, now and then tossing in a comment about their efforts and the results (or lack thereof). He returned the next day, so apparently he had enjoyed his visit, though Violet was not sure why.
Violet saw nothing of Coll the next two days. That was precisely what she wanted, of course; she was careful not to walk past the gatehouse—indeed she was careful not to even look in that direction. She avoided the library in the evening. It was somewhat lowering that Coll just as assiduously avoided coming to the main house.
When she did see Coll again, she was completely unprepared. She was kneeling at the excavation site when she felt an intangible change in the atmosphere and looked up. Coll Munro was walking toward the site. He moved with his usual easy grace, and she was reminded all over again of how wide his shoulders were, how long his legs. He wore no cap, and the wind teased the strands of his hair.
Her throat closed, her chest tightened, and for a moment she could not move. Then she popped to her feet, stepping on her skirt and stumbling. Already she looked a fool.
Violet lifted her chin. “Mr. Munro.” Her voice sounded tinny in her ears. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“My lady.” He stopped several feet away. The sun was behind him, making it difficult to read his expression. “I, um—Isobel would like to visit your site.”
Isobel had asked him. Of course that would bring him. Violet kept her voice steady. “Mrs. Kensington and her aunt have an open invitation.”
“Yes, well. She sent a note saying they planned to visit this afternoon. I thought you might like to know.” He shifted. “So you could expect them.”
