by Candace Camp
“Tell that lad to keep a better eye on you,” he said as a parting shot and trudged off, muttering.
Violet turned toward the house. Whatever Old Angus thought, she had no intention of telling Coll about the attack. He would only harangue her and probably insist that she walk with one of the workers back and forth to the house. Besides, she refused to run to him for help. Not with the way things lay between them. It would make her insistence that she was an equal and competent to take care of herself look utterly foolish if, at the slightest sign of trouble, she sought protection from him.
Coll couldn’t do anything about it, anyway. However much the attacker threatened, whatever he did, they did not have the treasure—not that she would give it to him if she did. Violet scowled. The last thing she intended to do was give in to that blackguard’s threats.
She would simply take more care in the future. She had been unprepared for this attack, but no longer. She would get a sturdy walking stick like Angus’s. And she would be more careful about looking around and being alert. She would even go back and forth to the ruins with her workers.
Perhaps she would start searching for the treasure again. On her own, of course; she would not ask for Coll’s assistance. If he wanted to continue to sulk, let him. She would calmly, coolly go on about her business. She did not need Coll Munro.
Coll was certain he was living in hell. He had been doing so for ten days—every aching night burned into his brain. He hated the bed in which he slept because Violet was not there. He hated the chamber in which his bed lay because it did not carry the scent of roses that clung faintly to everything in her room. And he hated the whole bloody, pernicious house because he was trapped there for God only knew how long—the rest of his life, he was beginning to think—unwilling to leave Violet unprotected, determined not to touch her, his whole body continually thrumming with unsatisfied lust.
All he had to do was look at her and his nerves began to sizzle. But if he avoided the sight of her, he thought about her instead. It was, perhaps, even worse to think about her, for then he recalled the way she looked beneath him as he drove to his climax, the way she melted into ecstasy under his hands, the way she took his breath away with a smile.
Nor was it desire only—though that bubbled inside him like a volcano—but a host of other stings and burns, as well. The emptiness when he was alone. The cold that pierced him at Violet’s aloof glance. The absence of laughter, of argument, of lively discussion. Her rejection of him was a constant gaping wound.
Of course, she was unaffected by it all. The woman had a heart of stone. No word, no glance, betrayed anything but serene calm. Violet came down to supper every night, perfectly able to make meaningless chitchat all through the meal, with none of the tongue-tied awkwardness that blanketed him. She spent her evenings contentedly alone, usually puttering around in the library—unless he was there. More than once, even though his good sense had screamed that it was a foolish idea, Coll had gone to the library. He told himself that he went late so he could avoid Violet, but in truth he was there only because of the idiotic hope that she might come in, and that there, in that room where they had been so often together, he could somehow bridge the gulf between them. She never came.
The worst of it was that Coll knew that all he had to do to end his torment was to give in to her. To swallow all pride and return to her even though she had wanted nothing of him—not his name, his protection, his entire life—only what lay between his legs. She’d take that if he was willing to accept the pitiful scraps of a life she offered him. What sort of a weak imitation of a man would that make him? Coll wished Violet had never come to Duncally. Yet the thought of not knowing her cut him like a knife.
He threw himself into his work, hoping it would free him from thoughts of her. Hoping he would be tired and sore enough to sleep when he fell into his bed each night. It rarely worked. He had spent most of the previous day working on Tom Connery’s farm, helping him repair a stone wall. Still, slumber had eluded Coll for hours. When he had finally fallen asleep, he had awakened before dawn, sweating and rock hard, from a lascivious dream that he could not remember. That had been the end of sleep.
Coll left the house early, stopping first in the kitchen for a cup of Sally’s tea. She looked at him in that worried way and pressed him to eat, as if he were starving to death just because he had missed supper a time or two. How was a man to endure sitting at the table with Violet, pretending to eat when it all tasted of ashes, when all he could think about was the way each morsel of idle conversation fell from her soft, rosy lips?
He arrived at Connery’s croft before the man had finished his own breakfast. Coll swallowed his comments about the man’s laziness—he was well aware that his temper was quick these days, causing everyone to walk on eggshells around him—and went down to haul up the stones from the brae himself. They finished the wall by midafternoon and Coll left, wondering what he could find to do for the next few hours. He had hoped to avoid Violet’s presence for another meal.
He almost accounted himself lucky when he came across the ewe that had blundered into a muddy ditch and gotten mired in it. His opinion changed when, splattered with mud and still unable to extract her, he had to walk back to Connery’s croft to get a rope to pull her out.
He had managed to wrap the rope around her, with a great deal of struggling and cursing, when he heard the sound of a rider. He did not turn around until a cool masculine voice said, “Well. Wrestling with sheep now?”
Coll turned to look up at the man silhouetted against the sun. “Jack. What the devil are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing. Never thought I’d see you turn shepherd.”
“Och, and you never will. The more I’m around the creatures, the less I can abide them. She’s not even the bloody earl’s animal, she’s one of Dougal MacKenzie’s, but she’s well and truly stuck. I canna leave her like this.” Coll lifted his hand to shield his eyes against the sun. “Don’t just sit there, man, get down here and help me.”
“In the mud?” Jack Kensington grimaced, but swung off his horse, leaving it placidly cropping grass.
“Just pull.” Coll tossed him the end of the rope. “I’ll shove her from this end. I’m already so covered in mud, it’ll make no difference.”
Jack shrugged and took the rope. Pulling it around behind him and leaning against it, he began to back up. Coll shoved the animal’s hindquarters. With an audible squelch, the sheep’s back legs came free, and the ewe scrambled up the side of the ditch. The sudden shift of momentum sent both men tumbling.
“How is it you get me into these situations?” Jack grumbled, pushing himself up onto his elbows.
“Me! It’s you that’s always pulling me into trouble. At least you’re not the one sitting in the mud.”
Jack looked down at Coll sprawled at the bottom of the ditch and began to laugh. “True. And glad of it.”
Coll climbed out of the ditch, wiping his hands clean on the grass. Little enough, he thought ruefully, could be done with the rest of him. He unwound the rope from the sheep and flopped down on the grass beside Jack. “What brings you here? You passing by or did you track me down?”
“The latter. I went by Duncally and they told me you were at the Connery croft. I was on my way there when I saw you rolling about in the ditch.”
“I’m guessing Isobel sent you.” Coll looked away, idly plucking at the blades of grass.
“You know her well. She wants you to visit. We have not seen you in some time. I scarcely noticed myself, you understand, but Isobel misses you. You might bring Lady Violet along. Isobel and Aunt Elizabeth admire her.”
“Mm.”
“I’m even curious to hear about your treasure hunt.”
Coll rolled his eyes. “Aye, well, that’s as dead as everything else.”
Jack glanced at him, then went on carefully, “The invitation, of course, is only my wife’s excuse. Her real reason for sending me is to inquire into you
r state of mind.”
“Pry, you mean.”
“If you want to be blunt about it.”
“You can tell Mrs. Kensington that I am fine and she has no need to worry about me.”
“I will be sure to do so. But after that, she’ll ask me if you look like you’ve been sleeping and eating. I, you understand, shall have to answer honestly that you’ve shadows the color of Loch Baille beneath your eyes and hollows in your cheeks.”
“I dinna.” Coll sent him a baleful glance. “And you are a traitor to males everywhere.”
“I am a man who likes to sleep in my bed every night. After my wife has established the state of your health—or the lack thereof—next will come the inquisition as to whether it’s true you have taken to frequenting the tavern in Kinclannoch.”
“Once. I went there one time ten bloody days ago.”
“I was told you were singing laments.”
Coll winced. “Dinna remind me.”
“Isobel holds that the laments are an ominous sign. But she is more concerned about the reports of a fistfight.”
“Ronald Fraser would try the patience of a saint.”
“Which we all know you are not. Then, in the end, Isobel will arrive at an accounting of the reason you have been working round the clock.”
“Does everyone in the Highlands know every single thing that happens in my life?”
“I cannot say. However, I can assure you that Isobel hears it within twelve hours.”
Coll heaved a sigh. “I asked Violet to marry me.”
Jack studied him. “You are, um, in love with the lady?”
“I dinna know. I’ve never been in love. But I have never wanted any woman as much as I want her. Violet is the most aggravating, combative female that walks this earth, and I am sure she would prove a constant trial to any husband.” Coll blew out a long, weary breath. “But the only thing I want is to be with her.”
“Lady Violet does not return the feeling?”
“I don’t know what she feels,” Coll said darkly. “If indeed she feels anything. All I know is, she does not want to marry me. I am, you see, a monster who would rule her and break her, take her money and possessions, and not allow her air to breathe or room to live. In short, I am like her father, a man she despises. Holy hell, Jack, what woman wishes never to marry? Did Isobel refuse you when you asked her? Did she act as if you’d thrust a dagger in her?”
“Well, actually . . .” A smile of reminiscence touched Jack’s lips. “ ’Twas Isobel who proposed to me.”
“Of course it was.” Coll rolled his eyes. “You don’t even have to ask, women are so eager to have you.”
“In fairness, I believe it was my house Isobel was eager to have. Fortunately she was willing to take me in the bargain.”
Coll chuckled. “True enough. Perhaps if I had a handy ruin or two, Violet would be more amenable to my suit.”
“I have heard she covets the barrow and standing stones.”
“Aye. I should offer them in trade.” The momentary humor faded from Coll’s face. “I told her I could not keep on the way we were, lying and sneaking about. Now I’ve no peace at all. But if I did not care about her, if I were callous and irresponsible and selfish, I could be in her bed every night.”
“There are a large number of men who would consider that attitude a great good fortune.”
“I know. But I am the fool who wants to be bound to her.”
“Why?” When Coll cast a sharp glance at him, Jack shrugged. “You just said you don’t know if you love her. You want her; you can have her. Why not take what she offers?”
“I could. I did. And when we are alone, when I am in her bed, it’s all I could want. Christ. It’s all I do want, it seems. But I feel like a villain. If her reputation is not ruined already, it will be soon enough. She can say she does not care, but she doesn’t know what it would be like for her. She will regret it when it is too late. I can do naught to shield her except lie and hide and pretend she is nothing to me and I nothing to her. And I hate it.” Coll surged to his feet and began to pace. “I want her children to be mine. I swore . . . I swore my children would not be bastards.”
Jack rose, too, frowning. “Is she with child?”
“No. At least, I dinna think so.” Coll paused, then added bitterly, “If she was, she probably would not tell me. No doubt that would be all her business, too, and none of mine.” He swung toward Jack. “Would you accept that? If it was Isobel, would you not care if she dinna have your name? Your protection? If she did not even want it?”
“No.” Jack’s face hardened. “I wouldn’t like it.”
“Nor do I.” Coll jammed his hands in his pockets. “So . . . that is why I am in the state I’m in. You can assure Isobel that there is naught she can do for me. It will pass, no doubt. At some point, Violet will go back home. In the meantime, we are very civilized, Lady Violet and I. We exchange polite chitchat through dinner.”
“And you work day and night to avoid her.”
“Aye.” Coll smiled ruefully. “At least there is ample opportunity for that.” He bent to pick up the rope and coil it. “I’d best get this back to Connery. It’ll soon be dark.”
“Very well.” Jack took the reins of his horse. “I got in a few bottles of brandy last week. You should come by one evening. We’ll open one, and I’ll take some of your money at whist.”
“I may be a fool about women, but I’m not gudgeon enough to play cards with you. And Isobel will fuss over me.”
“True.” Jack swung up into the saddle. “But I find sometimes a woman’s fussing helps. And you’ll have three of them, for so will Elizabeth and my mother, who persists in believing that you saved my life.”
“Thrice.” Coll held up three fingers.
Jack laughed. “You might be right.”
“I’ll come one night.” Coll nodded a good-bye and walked away.
By the time he returned the rope to Connery and trudged home, Coll had managed to miss another excruciating meal with Violet. He turned toward his gatehouse instead of the mansion. He was filthy after his tussle with MacKenzie’s sheep, in dire need of a bath before he climbed between the clean sheets of his bed. He could have gone to Duncally, but he hated to put the servants to the trouble of hauling and heating water. It was easier to fill the tub in his own cottage, and besides, the thought of bathing only a few doors down the hall from Violet did troublesome things to his insides.
He filled up the tub and added steaming water from the kettle, then poured himself a whiskey and settled down to soak. The water was so hot it stung his skin, and that was glorious on his aching muscles. Leaning his head back against the high edge of the tub, he sipped his whiskey and relaxed. And thought of having Violet in the water with him—the water lapping at her breasts, washing up over the rounded flesh and falling to reveal the dark rose tips, her wet hair clinging to her neck and shoulders. He imagined, too, soaping down her body, his hand gliding over her slippery skin. He could picture her face going slack in sensual pleasure, her legs parting to allow his questing fingers to find her.
With an oath, he grabbed the bar of soap and roughly lathered his hair and body, pouring fresh cold water over himself to rinse the suds free. It was pointless to torture himself this way. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and stepped out to dry off. He should eat, he thought as he dressed and poured out the water, but nothing appealed to him. Perhaps later.
A knock sounded on his door, surprising him. With a sigh, he went to answer it. He was not eager to solve anyone’s problems tonight. He gaped at the man on his doorstep. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Angus McKay glared back at him. “That’s a fine way to answer your door, I maun say.”
Coll snorted. “As if you ever greeted anyone politely.” He stepped back. “Come in, then, it’s bloody cold out.”
“I know it. I’ve just been walking about in it, haven’t I?”
Coll rolled his eyes and walked
away. He would need another drink if he had to deal with Angus. He looked toward the old man. “Whiskey?”
“I wouldna say nae to a wee dram.” Angus shuffled forward and sat, laying his walking stick on the table.
Coll took a seat across from him and waited as the old man tossed down the drink.
“Ahh. It’s guid whiskey you hae. No’ as guid as mine, you ken.”
“Of course not. Why are you here, Angus?”
“Weel, it’s about herself.”
“Who? Violet?”
“Aye. It’s been two days now, and I hae no’ seen a sign you’re doing anything about her.”
Coll stared, wondering if the whiskey had affected him more than he’d realized.
“Dinna gawp at me, lad. Hae you no plan? I walked her home both nights, but the truth is, I am no’ fast enough if she needed help. I thought it would be you bringing her and taking her back. But then—”
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you talking about?” An icy dread stole through him, bringing him to his feet. “Why did you walk Violet home? Why would I be bringing her and where?”
Angus scowled. “To keep her safe! Are you daft?” He peered at Coll. “Did she no’ tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Coll wanted to grab the man up and shake the words from him.
“About the man the other nicht. The one whae attacked her.”
Coll went still as death. “Violet was attacked?”
“Aye. He dinna hurt her,” Angus said quickly. “He grabbed her, and I saw it and yelled, and he ran away.”
“When?”
“Two nights ago. Coming back frae the ruins.”
“Two nights ago. And she did not tell me?” His face flooded red, his eyes blazing, as he roared, “She did not tell me!”
Coll whirled and charged out the door.
25
Violet was in the library, books spread out in front of her on the wide expanse of the table, when the sound of a door slamming shut reverberated through the house, followed by the rapid tromp of feet over the stone floor. Violet lifted her head from her book, everything in her tightening. She knew those footsteps. She rose and faced the door, holding the book tightly against her as if armoring herself. She had barely reached her feet before Coll filled the doorway.
