by Fiona Neal
“She is right, and you know it, Sir Robert,” Ian remarked. “I myself can never bear to stand within three feet of the old buzzard without wanting to hold my breath. Likely, the man has not taken a bath in five years.”
“Besides, her ladyship’s humor is perfectly artless,” Strathaven added.
Relieved, Deirdre watched a smile tug at her uncle’s lips. Still, her ploy had failed. Her antics had delighted rather than offended her guests. She nervously lifted her cup and sipped her tea.
Suddenly, Una appeared at the door. “Excuse me, my lords and lady, but Lieutenant Pickering wishes to speak with Sir Robert. He says his business is urgent.”
“Send him in, Una,” her uncle ordered.
Seconds later, an officer and a foot soldier entered. The lieutenant carried a basket—the one she had left in the cave! Deirdre’s stifled a gasp, noticing the man’s assistant held the sack of flintlocks Fergus had hidden.
The officer bowed. “My lords and my lady please forgive the intrusion, but Lord Kilbraeton sent word to search the cave in the hill, and we have made an important discovery.” He opened the basket and pulled out a black outfit.
“It is The Flame’s garb!” Strathaven jumped up.
“Aye and that of his accomplice,” Ian added. He stood and walked toward the officer, looking in the basket.
Her uncle stood tensely, fists clenched at his sides. “I want the rogues caught. Do you hear me, Lieutenant Pickering?”
I think not, Uncle. Deirdre’s heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe. Hands shaking for a second time, she set down her cup.
Ian took hold of the outfit. “Strange, seated on his horse, the fellow appeared much larger.” He looked up. “Tell your men to look for a redheaded man, lieutenant.”
“Redheaded? How do you know that, Kilbraeton?” Strathaven looked at him in disbelief.
Ian lifted a long strand of hair from the black coat. The sole filament glimmered like copper in the candlelight. “I venture this came from The Flame’s head.”
“By thunder, you are right!” Uncle Robert exclaimed.
Deirdre felt dizzy with fear. “Not necessarily, my lord. Mayhap the hair fell from his lover’s head.”
“Mayhap,” Ian said, peering at her coiffure.
Cursing her careless tongue, Deirdre self-consciously put her hand to the curls falling over her shoulder as Ian continued to stare at her. Was that suspicion she saw in his eyes?
“Of course, t-there are many flame-haired men and women in the Highlands,” Deirdre stammered.
“True.” Ian took out his handkerchief. Wrapping the strand of hair in the square of linen, he tucked it back in his pocket. “But I suspect this comes from the Flame’s head.”
“We vow to keep searching, my lord,” the lieutenant stated. “I shall also dispatch a man to Fort William, requesting more soldiers to aid us. I shall send this coat to Colonel Crawford to hold as evidence. It is fortunate we recovered our firearms.”
“But s-surely the rascal is half way across the Sound of Sleat,” Deirdre suggested, hardly able to articulate the words.
“Even if The Flame has fled, his men may still linger in the Cuillin Mountains.” Ian’s gaze continued to hold hers.
“What men?” her uncle asked. “From what I’ve heard, the knave has but one accomplice.”
“He had a band hidden on the hillside. We could only see their torches in the mist.”
“And we heard their gunfire,” Strathaven added. “That is the reason we did not attack. His men would have picked us off like ducks on a millpond.”
Deirdre wondered how these men would feel if they knew that a sole woman and a poor fugitive had held them at bay.
“I plan to interrogate everyone in the vicinity,” the lieutenant commented.
“Good move,” Ian affirmed.
“Your servant, my lords and lady,” the officer said. Clicking his heels, he left, followed by his subordinate.
Her knees shaking, Deirdre sat, praying Fergus was biding safely in the stables.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Ian asked. “You look pale.”
Command your nerves, Deirdre, or you will give yourself away. She nodded, making an effort to smile. “I’m quite all right, my lord. Thank you for your concern.”
“In spite of her brave words, I believe her ladyship is alarmed…and with good reason,” her uncle fumed, putting a hand to his chest. “A dangerous criminal may still be lurking right under our very noses.”
Deirdre’s heart lurched, and she prayed her uncle would not have another attack.
“I beg your pardon, my lords, but I, uh, must retire,” Sir Robert declared. “May I have a word alone with you before supper in my study, Lord Kilbraeton? It is a matter of some urgency.”
“Of course, Sir Robert,” Ian answered.
“Meanwhile, her ladyship will show you both the conservatory.” Her uncle bowed and quit the room.
Why did Uncle Robert wish to see Ian?
“I’m afraid I must leave the two of you alone,” Strathaven declared, conspiracy twinkling in his gray eyes. “My weary bones crave a rest before dinner.”
“We are bereft,” Ian answered, smiling mischievously.
“So I see.” Chuckling, Strathaven left the room, leaving Deirdre with her intended husband.
She must watch her every word, every action, for Ian Campbell was no fool. As she rose and took his arm, the vision of the gallows loomed up before her. Deirdre stifled a gasp, almost feeling the noose tightening around her neck.
Chapter Three
Ian’s face wore a contented expression as he accompanied Deirdre down the long corridor toward the conservatory.
The runner adorning the oak floor muffled their steps, and the brass sconces glowed brightly against the green damask covering on the wall.
Alone with him, Deirdre shuddered with apprehension.
“Are you cold, my lady?”
They stopped, facing each other. His eyes held hers with rapt attention, their vivid color reminding her of dew-drenched foliage on a morn in spring. “Not really, my lord.”
“But I saw you shiver. Are you frightened of The Flame?”
Deirdre wiped the cold sweat of her palms on the overskirt of her tea frock. “Uh, from the gossip I have heard, he usually keeps his business on the road and has never hurt anyone he robs. I doubt he would harm a lady.”
Ian stared at her, his gaze igniting like green fire. “The rogue never removed his aim from my aunt’s heart. He would have fired and killed her if we had disobeyed his orders. The scoundrel should be hanged, drawn and quartered,” he said in a quiet and very ominous tone.
Her hand at her throat, Deirdre turned away. “I find such talk distressing.”
“Please forgive me, my lady.”
“Let us continue on, my lord.”
Finally reaching the conservatory, they paused, looking at the architectural wonder of glass and iron stretching before them like a huge octagonal lantern. Two rows of orange trees rooted in large glazed pots formed a nave down the conservatory’s center. The leafy boughs were starred with waxy white blossoms, which offered up their sweet perfume. Beyond the trees on either side, neat gravel paths divided the beds, which were graced with exotic plants. The structure’s center hosted a marble fountain of Cupid jetting a plume of sparkling water on the pool beneath.
Her pulse leapt as Ian took her hand, and they ambled beneath the canopy of orange trees. The touch of his palm and the fruity perfume in the air made her feel as if she had consumed too much claret.
Glancing around, Ian remarked, “Your uncle built a paradise here but, when you leave, he will have no one with whom to share it. Why has he never taken a wife?”
“I have no notion. The Widow MacNeill has shown more than a fondness for him for years, but he appears oblivious to that fact.”
“Do you mean Lady Mary MacNeill whose late husband left her one of the wealthiest women in Scotland?”
“T
he very same, my lord,” Deirdre answered.
“She is one of the most beautiful women in Britain.” His eyebrows rose. “Your uncle is still a young man. His indifference is hard to fathom.”
Deirdre gave him a sidelong glance. Leave it to a man to think of warming his bed. Likely, Ian had thoughts of heating his own, and from the way he was looking at her, he intended her as his guest. But instead of feeling revulsion, a hot wave of desire washed over Deirdre.
They reached the fountain and sat on one of the curved stone benches facing it.
Ian turned to her. “Speaking of marriage, did you approve of your portion?”
Dumbfounded, Deirdre stared at him. Knowing what her uncle had intended anyway, she had never read the document. Furthermore, she had no reason to concern herself with the details of its contents since she had planned to avoid signing it. “Uh, I-I am certain Uncle Robert assured my future.”
“I asked if you approved, my lady.”
She wanted to tell him that the marriage laws of this country robbed women of their independence. Still as a judge and an adherent of the laws of the land, Ian would probably become angry and tell her uncle, who’d get terribly upset. She must avoid that. “T-To be perfectly honest, I must confess I never read it.”
“Are you always so impulsive?” he asked, his thumb tracing small circles in her palm.
The incredibly seductive contact stormed Deirdre’s resistance. “I, uh, suppose.
Uncle Robert says I tend to be impetuous, but he deliberates for days before making a decision. By that time, I have usually finished my task and gone on to the next.”
His gaze held hers. “Does that spontaneity come with being left-handed?”
Astonished, Deirdre almost lost her breath. “How did you know?”
“By using my powers of observation,” he answered. “By a strange coincidence, you are the second person today I’ve noticed who has that trait.”
“Who is the other?”
“The Flame,” he replied.
Deirdre instinctively withdrew her hand as her mouth went as dry as sawdust. “I-I suppose he is impulsive as well.”
“Nay, the scoundrel plans carefully. That is how he has eluded the law for so long. I cannot imagine him signing a legal document without reading each clause and understanding every word.”
Little did he know! “Is that the judge speaking, my lord?”
“I suppose.” He moved a little closer to her.
“I noticed you have not signed the contract as of yet.” She widened the space between them because his proximity caused her to feel dizzy with desire, despite the danger.
He chuckled. “How could I? I was waiting to see if the terms met with your approval.”
“My approval isn’t relevant in this situation. As a man of the law, you know I’ve not reached my majority, so it is the bride’s kin who usually negotiate the terms of the contract.”
“True, but you must give your consent, and I still want to know how your thoughts.” He moved closer. “It is your life and your future.”
Deirdre felt her heart expand. For the first time, someone had thought about her feelings on the subject. The more she knew about Ian, the more her attraction grew. He closed the space between them, making it impossible to ignore his male magnetism. He impaired her ability to think.
Still, he wanted to see her hang and had sentenced Fergus to death. “Have you considered waiting before you sign, my lord?”
He frowned. “Whatever for? Our families have had this verbal agreement for years. We are to be married in a few days.”
“But we hardly know each other. I thought we should become reacquainted first. When the wedding guests arrive, they can formally celebrate our betrothal instead of our wedding. In a year or so, they can return to attend our nuptials.”
“You want to wait a year or so?” He leaned forward, his body radiating intensity.
Inching sideways, she slipped off the bench, and her bottom hit the hard gravel. Stunned, she gazed up at him.
“Are you all right?” Ian knelt at her side.
“Aye, I am.” She nodded, feeling her face flame.
He sat next to her and smiled mischievously. “Now there’s nowhere to fall.”
And there is nowhere to retreat, she thought as he pulled her onto his lap. She should stand, make some excuse to leave, but her limbs refused to move as her body quickened with a powerful sensation. She breathed deeply to calm herself and inhaled the clean, lemony fragrance of his skin.
“See where your impetuosity leads you?” His arms tightened around her waist.
Mesmerized, Deirdre watched as his gaze kept shifting from her lips to her eyes. She surmised he intended to kiss her. Her heart drummed at the prospect, for Deirdre had never been kissed, except when her uncle placed a chaste peck on her brow or cheek. Slowly, his lips inclined toward hers, and she closed her eyes. Finally, his soft, warm lips took gentle possession of hers.
Erotic sensations engulfed her body with the unstoppable force of the incoming tide. With a life of their own, her arms twined round his neck, and she felt the heat of his body radiating through their clothes, warming her. The enthralling contact continued, intensifying as the soft tip of his tongue probed the seam of her lips, parting them.
Desire flared higher when she allowed him entry, returning his ardor. Her mind shunned everything but the warmth of his embrace and taste of his mouth, still sweet and spicy from the Dundee cake he had eaten at tea.
His hand glided over her ribs and settled on her breast. She gasped and leaned into him, feeling her nipples harden beneath his caress. She moaned, unable to get enough of him. His lips continued to slant over hers in an assault that rendered her weak and mindless.
Finally, Ian broke the kiss, bestowing others on her face, neck, and shoulders. “So sweet,” he murmured against the whorls of her ear.
Trembling with indescribable need, Deirdre placed her head on his shoulder. “I assume you approve of all my spontaneity.”
“I do when you respond to me like that.” He placed a gentle kiss on her temple. “I could stay with you like this forever. Unfortunately, I must leave now to update my report on The Flame to Colonel Crawford. Then I must ready myself for my meeting with your uncle.”
As they stood, Deirdre wondered what secret the men would share. She moved back and smiled at Ian, feeling confident she could wheedle the information from him.
Suddenly she realized she’d failed to postpone the wedding. If she did not bridle her runaway feelings, she and Fergus would dangle.
The Avenger of Scotland had come by his name by meting out swift justice, unmitigated by mercy, to all who came before him, be they noble or common folk. Like Mayor Lynch of Galway, Ireland, who had executed his own son because no one else would carry out the sentence, Ian would never allow a personal relationship to deter him from his duty.
With a dangerous mission ahead of her this night, Deirdre needed wisdom and courage to navigate out of this mess…or Fergus and she would certainly hang.
* * * *
Comfortable in his shirtsleeves, Ian lounged in an armchair by the hearth. A glass of claret in his hand, he recalled Deirdre’s antics and chuckled. Her remarks at tea had been hilarious. Later, she had played the part of the coy maiden at first, pretending she wanted to wait to marry. Perhaps she did not wish to appear eager, but her response to his kiss told him otherwise.
Raw need jolted through him when he remembered her kisses and embraces, launching him on a journey into sensual fantasy. Her lithe and curvaceous body had fit in his arms so perfectly, so comfortably. Soft, sweet, and warm, she stirred him beyond all expectation, and he longed to warm himself in the flames of her passion.
While her kisses declared her inexperience, her ardor had rocked him to his soul. In truth, he had never recalled anything quite like her unabashed enthusiasm. He longed to know her completely, to plumb the depths of her fountainhead. He had been compelled to summon every last ounce of
willpower to restrain himself from taking the girl right on the punishing gravel of the conservatory path.
He must remember to proceed with greater care, since he felt sure Deirdre was a virgin—but that realization caused him to want her even more.
And now, more than ever, he wanted to make the world safe for her and his future family. He longed for an ordered, civil world where women and children lived protected from villains like The Flame. That meant capturing such scoundrels and putting them where they could no longer harm society.
Ian rose, walking to the large chest on the table by the window. He lifted the lid and withdrew a smaller box. Opening it, he gazed at the huge, square emerald winking in the candlelight: the Kilbraeton betrothal ring. He replaced the jewel in its box.
Returning to his seat, Ian wondered why The Flame had not ordered the luggage cart ransacked. The rogue would have found this ring, worth a king’s ransom, plus many other valuables.
Besides, the scoundrel had so many men with whom to split the booty. Furthermore, he must pay someone to dispose of the jewels for cash. From an economic standpoint, the robbery did not make sense.
A knock sounded on his door. “Come in,” he responded.
Strathaven, Lord Strathaven entered, wearing a red banyan.
“Would you care for some wine, or a wee dram?” Ian asked.
“Some claret,” Strathaven answered, walking toward him.
Ian reached into the small table beside his chair and decanted the wine from a crystal bottle into a matching glass.
“You look as content as a flea on a sheep dog.” Strathaven’s his gray eyes scintillated with glee. “I trust you shared a pleasant time with the countess.”
“I did.” Ian smiled.
Strathaven lifted the cylinder of papers tied with a red ribbon resting near the decanter of wine. He gazed quizzically at Ian. “Is this the betrothal contract?”
“Aye,” Ian replied and handed him the wine in exchange for the document. Rising, he untied it and skimmed through the pages. Walking to the secretary, he withdrew the quill from the inkwell and signed the document with a flourish. He poured blotting sand on the wet ink then replaced the quill.
