by L. L. Muir
None of what she said made sense to him, but she was American and most of it likely had naught to do with him and could be dismissed out of hand. But her insistence upon the year was beginning to annoy him. He was well educated. She need not speak to him as if he knew not how to read or write—or tell the date.
He stomped out of the room and down the hall to his study and tried not to be so terribly pleased when she followed him like a curious puppy. He sat upon his chair behind the desk only to have her come ‘round behind him and peer over his shoulder. His hands shuffled through papers with little purpose while he was so very distracted by her proximity. It had been a long time since he’d had such close contact with a female. Other than the women at court slithering their hands around his arms, he’d had little chance to put his hands on a woman, let alone lift her into his embrace and feel her weight. And now, there she was, leaning against his chair, brushing his shoulder.
He wondered where her other hand was in relation to the back of his neck, then shivered. He was fair to certain she was touching a strand of his hair. It took a deep breath to remember what he was about. Grasping a stack of posts from the corner of the desk, he lifted them within her reach. There would be plenty there to prove the year.
She took them and walked around the desk, taking a seat opposite him. The fact she was not blushing, meant he’d likely imagined her fingers on his hair. He ignored his disappointment. She untied the first missive and read quickly. Then read the next. Her expression told him nothing.
“These are very nice,” she said. “They look a little too new to be genuine antiques, but the lettering is beautiful.”
“Antiques? Of course they’re nay antiques. Ye hold me correspondence from the past month.”
She looked again and grinned. “Mm hmn. Sure. Maybe you’re one of those eccentrics who got a little too into character during a local re-enactment or something. I bet the tourists even tip you. But I’m not buying it.” She tied the letters back into a bundle and replaced it on the desk.
“I assure ye, I doona intend to sell ye anything. Perhaps we should let the date on the wet missive decide which of us is the true...eccentric.”
“Fine. But there should be a punishment for the loser.”
“Fine.” A shiver of excitement slipped up his spine. He had never sparred verbally with a woman since his grandmother had passed on. “Choose yer punishment.”
“I’d rather choose yours, thanks.” She considered only moment. “I think I’ll have a foot rub. And no kicking me out until I have somewhere to go and a way to get there.”
“Ye wish me to rub yer...” He couldn’t say it.
“My feet. Yes. It might help me appreciate that I just about lost my toes tonight.”
He swallowed. “Ye intend this to be a punishment?” When had his mouth gone so dry?
“Yes. Now choose mine.”
Oh, but the lass had much to learn about punishment and rewards. If she were daft, it was not his place to teach her anything at all. But if she proved to be of sound mind...Well, then, he’d like to teach her just a thing or two. At the very least, he should teach her not to go about inviting men to touch her feet.
“Well, Mr. McKinnon? What will my punishment be if it’s really 1806? Although, if it’s really 1806, I think that would be punishment enough.”
He ignored the jibe. “If I win, it will mean ye are completely mad. I canna punish a mad woman.”
“Oh yeah? If I win, that means you belong in a loony bin, but I’m not too proud to take advantage of you before the guys show up with their little white truck. I’ll have my foot rub before they drag you away.”
The image of Brianna Colby being dragged away to an asylum made him quite uncomfortable. Of course he’d never be the one to expose her, but one of them was in error, and it was she.
“Fine. I’ll collect a reward when the letter is read.”
“Great. What is it? Not that you’ll be getting it, but we should at least pretend you have a chance.”
“A kiss then.” He would swear to The Almighty Himself that he’d intended to say no such thing. But he had to admit, whatever else he might have intended to say, he could not recall.
For a moment, they sat in silence. He wondered whether or not she’d heard his declaration or if perhaps he’d merely heard the words in his head. Perhaps she was waiting—
“A kiss? From me?” Her face was utterly pink.
His breath quickened against his control, but he would not take it back. In truth, it was the only thing he truly desired at the moment.
He nodded once.
“Okay,” she said, her voice a bit smaller than before. “When do we open the letter?”
Was she anxious to be kissed, or to be touched? Either way, he was flattered in a way much different than the empty flattery of those women in Edinburg. And he had so little to anticipate, he thought dragging it out a bit might prove entertaining.
“First thing on the morrow,” he said, and he’d be damned if she didn’t look a mite disappointed. He pretended not to notice. “Let us return to the parlor. We all sleep there tonight. I’d not planned to keep more than one room warm, and I dare not leave the cherub alone. When I found her skin cold to the touch...” He shook his head, unable to finish.
“I know. Popsicle. That was so weird. I can’t believe she isn’t sick.”
He could not help but ask, “Ye said that word before. What does it mean, popsicle?”
“You know. Frozen on a stick?” Then she laughed and stood. “Ah, you’re still playing the game. I get it. But come morning, you’re going to be rubbing my feet.”
“Come morning, I’ll be collecting that kiss, Brianna Colby.” He let her move ahead of him. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “And ye’ll be begging for another.”
Considering the manner in which her spine straightened, he was sure she’d heard it. The fact she did not protest gave him hope—when of course there was nothing to hope for.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Heathcliff slept like the dead—for nearly four hours—and when he woke, he felt as if it was Christmas morn and not Christmas Eve. He was about to collect a kiss. What else might make a man rise so happily with the sun, even if that sun was obstructed from view by a belligerent storm?
With his feet still on the floor, he reclined on the chaise with a small lass to one side and a woman to the other. Neither of them had stirred as yet, so he took just a moment to relish the illusion of a wee family comfortably mashed together.
The cherub turned her head and opened her amazing blue eyes. Blue like a July sky, happy as only a child could be. As if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if there was no one she missed. As if she’d been his all her life. And in that moment, his heart broke for wishing it had been true.
Miss Colby stirred from his side and leaned away from him, slipping back to sleep, or possibly never having awakened at all.
Heathcliff looked at the damaged envelope. Had the wee lass overheard their conversation? Was she also anxious to see what the missive contained?
He already knew what date he’d find within, but he was curious to know what other clarity the message might bestow. The illusion of a proper family would not lift from his mind, but he could not begin to reach for such a dream—with a different woman, of course—until all his questions were answered.
Who was this coachman? Why had he delivered Brianna Colby to his door? How had he disappeared so quickly? Was there a spy within his household, helping the man to hide so completely from view? And how would the woman react when she could no longer insist the year was over 200 years in the future? Would she cease her teasing? Had she somehow convinced herself that it was true? For of a certainty, she would never be able to convince him.
The wee lass sat up, freeing him to reach for the envelope. He turned it over and reached for the opening, but his hand stilled. Perhaps there were answers within that he would not wish to know.
Nonsense.
He
wanted only truth. He could rest only when he knew the whole of it. Perhaps the coachman had written to him, explaining from whence the woman hailed, to whence she must be returned. Perhaps she had escaped?
He shook the thought from his head. No wisdom in borrowing trouble. He would deal with whatever truths he could find. What other choice had he?
He opened the envelope and slid out the letter.
First of all, the letter had no date. Odd, that, since it was customary to note the date on messages of any sort. Secondly, it proved his first suspicions had been correct after all. He should have closed his door and allowed Miss Brianna Colby to become a popsicle, whatever that proved to be.
He could no longer stand to sit so near her, so he jumped to his feet and began pacing. One glance at the cherub’s smile proved his abrupt change of mood had no effect on her. Would that he could keep it that way.
“There’s a good lass. Do you remember the room in which ye played yesterday? The nursery? With the toys?”
She nodded, her eyes lighting with interest.
“Do ye suppose ye could find that room?”
She nodded and jumped to her feet.
“And will ye return to me if the room is cold? It has the morning sun, but promise me ye’ll return straight away if you find it cold.”
She nodded again, then put her fingers to her mouth and moved them away quickly, as if she’d blown him a kiss, but missed her lips.
“That means thank you.” The woman’s voice intruded over his shoulder.
He waited for the child to leave, then turned to face his enemy—for he must see her as the enemy now. Nothing more. Nothing softer, for pity’s sake.
“This,” she made the same motion the wee lass had made, “means thank you. It also means you’re welcome.”
Of course he’d stow the knowledge away and try it with the wee one later, but not until after Brianna Colby was hell and gone from his doorstep.
She noticed the letter in his hand, then looked at the envelope still sitting on the table before the fire.
“You opened it without me? It says 2012, doesn’t it? You don’t look too happy about it, so you must have lost. But since my feet are feeling just fine this morning, I’d like to change your punishment.”
“I’m not surprised in the least. Disappointed, of course, but nay surprised.” He was surprised, however, that she was not more nervous about what the letter might contain.
Her brow raised. “Are you okay? It wasn’t that big of a deal, you know. Just a joke. You didn’t really think it was 1806 did you?”
“I would hear what ye have in mind for my punishment.” He was boiling with rage inside and hoped she would say something incriminating so he could release his frustration into the room.
“I think you should have to buy a computer and a cell phone. Maybe a satellite phone, considering the remote location.” She smiled, pleased with herself.
“And I suppose I should send ye on this purchasing trip on me behalf? Perhaps send you with enough money to purchase aught else ye deem necessary for me home?”
She frowned and stood. “What’s wrong? Has something happened? You’re back to being an... Back to not being nice.”
He held up the letter. Perhaps she was unaware her accomplice was going to write her. And if that was so, he would relish the look on her face when she realized she’d been exposed. He wanted to draw it out, make her squirm, make her pay for the blow he’d suffered when he’d read the letter.
“I will give ye one chance, Brianna Colby. One chance to confess all. I am not above forgiveness when given honesty.”
He took a step toward her. She took a step away. It was a heady dance, this stalking. And he was in no hurry for it to end.
“Confess? Me?” She edged around the chaise. He kept advancing. “Just what do you think I need to confess to?”
“That is the point of the confession, lass. Ye tell me.”
The silly woman eventually backed herself into a corner, but still he followed.
“Why did you send the girl away?” She’d whispered the question. The sound of it did disturbing things to him, as did the knowledge that they were completely alone.
The enemy, he thought. Remember, she is the enemy.
But still, his heart tripped. Tripped again. A deep breath in, then out. It made little difference. He could not hold another thought in his head. His only purpose now, was to kiss her.
And what harm would a kiss cause?
He could think of nothing.
“Fine. I confess,” she whispered. “I’d rather have a kiss for my reward. Okay? Are you happy now?”
Was he happy? He was in hell. And her speaking aloud of the kiss he was determined to take? It should sober him. He should turn and put space between them. He should walk about in the snow outside, perhaps with his feet bare, to remember his purpose. And still, he advanced.
She hid her shaking hands behind her back and waited. When the toes of his stockinged feet mingled with hers, he leaned down, breathing her in. He measured the moment, tucking each rise of her chest into his memory, to relive later.
How sad, that it would all be relegated to memory.
With his mouth an inch from hers, he murmured, “There was no date on the letter lass. I win. I claim my prize.”
Their lips brushed past, then returned, hers pressing forward as much as his. But he wanted to ensure she would remember it, this one and only kiss between them. He teased, sipped the taste of her, his lips a whisper against her own, then he pressed in again, renewing the heat they’d begun with, stealing her breath away.
Then he stepped back and did the only thing that would ensure it would never happen again.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
She frowned.
He smiled. “I’ll just read this to ye, shall I?”
She took a step to her right, but he cut her off, herding her back into her corner. Then he held her there, with the fingers of one hand pushing gently but firmly against her collar bones. He ignored the heat emanating from her body, slipping easily through the thin layer of her shirt, and read.
“Dearest Brianna,
McKinnon promised all he had, so that is just what we shall take from him. Play yer part well. I shall come to collect it all, including the child, at Midnight on New Year’s Eve.
“It was signed, Ever Your Coachman.” Heathcliff turned his attention back on his prey and leaned forward. “Now, ye will tell me who is this coachman and what the pair of ye have planned. Then ye will help me catch this villain and perhaps not hang for yer part in it!”
“My part in it? Are you freaking kidding me?” She tried to push him away and when she could not, she stretched up on her toes until her nose was nigh to his chin. “I don’t have anything to do with this guy. He has to be messing with you. And I can’t believe he’s still messing with me!”
Heathcliff held his ground. If he but let all the breath escape his lungs, his lips would rest upon hers. So close. So easy. So ridiculous.
He straightened and retreated half a step. She rocked back to her heels. Nearly two feet separated their lips, then. Relief would have been appropriate, not loss.
“The missive is clear enough,” he said quietly. “Besides, last eve, when ye told me how ye teach mute children, I confessed how I promised all I have in exchange for someone like ye. No other heard that promise but Brianna Colby and a child that canna speak. Unless this coachman was sent by Satan himself, he heard the tale from yer own lips.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bree refused to panic.
Even when Laird Gorgeous swung a blanket under his arm, snatched up her re-packed suitcase, and dragged her along behind him, up the lovely staircase she had no chance to admire. Even when he led her back to the bedroom where she’d first seen the little girl. Even when he tossed the blanket on the bed and stalked toward her.
She could honestly admit it was not panic that made her heart thump like a hammer in h
er chest—cause she was pretty sure it was just the adrenaline leftovers from that kiss he’d given her. Since she was still floating in a bit of pink haze, she had a hard time believing the murderous look in his eyes. But there was something else in those dark eyes she did believe.
Pain.
He stepped up to her, close enough to kiss her, then glared down instead.
“Ye will stay here until I can bear the sight o’ ye again. The midday sun will warm the room.”
“Why do you want to keep me around if you don’t believe me?” She tried not to stare at his lips while she spoke. “Why don’t you just let me leave? I’ll find a way back to civilization on my own. I promise I have nothing to do with this. Whatever you have going on with that old man, you can work it out without me around.”
He looked at her for the longest time. Just breathing. She had no clue what he was thinking.
“You will stay—as my guest—until the blackheart returns. I’ll not give ye leave to lurk about the place waiting for a chance to take the child, or anything else, from me home.”
She really wished he wanted to keep her around for romantic reasons, but as the pink fog cleared, it was obvious their kiss hadn’t affected them both the same.
“That’s kidnapping,” she pointed out. Even in Scotland, the chance of breaking the law had to make him reconsider. He couldn’t seriously be planning on holding her prisoner until New Year’s Eve. So maybe this was just his knee jerk reaction. You can’t fight knee jerk reactions. So maybe he’d change his mind when he cooled down a bit.
And midnight? Couldn’t the old man have been a little more original? It was right out of a Cinderella story—only the prince was going to be disappointed when instead of a glass slipper left behind, he’d get a clunky red rainboot.
“I prefer to think of it as Scottish Hospitality—the traditional kind.”
Great. It was obviously going to take him a while to calm down and see reason. She’d just have to grin and bear it for a while.
Speaking of baring it...
