by Fiona Neal
“I suppose you are right.” She smiled. “But you will not squirm like a worm on the end of a hook if I tell you that you are handsome as well, my lord. You are so tall and muscular.” She squeezed his arm. “And such white, even teeth! I cannot believe some bright-eyed heiress has yet to capture your heart.”
Strathaven exchanged a meaningful look with Ian.
“Lady Ballanross,” Aunt Barbara called across the floor.
Strathaven raised his brows, and Ian wished he could melt into the floorboards as everyone turned to look at them. Deirdre seemed to float toward them in a cloud of light pink silk trimmed with white lace.
“But why aren’t you two love birds dancing?” His aunt’s glance traveled from Deirdre to Ian.
Strathaven chuckled.
“We shall in a moment, my lady,” Ian replied, as Lieutenant Pickering joined them.
“My compliments, my lords and ladies,” the man bowed.
“Oh, my dear lieutenant,” his Aunt Barbara said, “what have you heard about The Flame?”
“As of yet, my lady, I am chagrined to report nothing new has turned up. The knave has just vanished without a trace as usual.”
“But he must have had a least two dozen men with him. Surely, they could not have all disappeared,” Strathaven commented.
“It is obvious they did, Strathaven,” Ian contradicted. “Doubtless, his loyal accomplices harbor him still.” He glanced sharply at Deirdre, but her face betrayed no emotion.
“I am sure the king will demand that anyone giving the rapscallion shelter will be hanged as well,” Strathaven remarked.
Deirdre’s jaw jutted forward. “The king may hang as many as he wishes, but another man will come forward and take The Flame’s place until you change—”
“My lady, your uncle and Lady Mary have relinquished the floor,” Ian interrupted her. Alarmed her words would be misconstrued as treason, he said, “It is time to take our place.” He turned to the men and his aunt. “Please excuse us.” Gripping Deirdre’s arm, he led her onto the dance floor.
“How dare you interrupt me!” she whispered, glaring at him.
“Now, Deirdre, certainly you aren’t going to create a scene.”
She glanced about the room as if considering the possibility. “Nay, but you had no right to drag me away mid-sentence.”
“Forgive me, but I was just trying to spare everyone from a harangue about The Flame,” he answered as they moved through the dance steps.
“The Flame’s exploits are unorthodox but necessary.”
Unorthodox? Necessary? Ian’s stomach lurched. He immediately led her off the dance floor and outside onto the terrace overlooking the garden.
Through the open door, his uncle, the Duke of Argyll, called out, “Good strategy, lad. Get the lass alone and steal a kiss.”
Laughter roared from the guests as Ian maneuvered her to a secluded place where her words could not be misconstrued as seditious.
A spring breeze sang through the trees, a counterpoint to the strains of music coming from the ballroom.
Ian wished to speak of something other than the notorious bandit, but he had to silence her careless tongue. “Deirdre, The Flame need not rob innocent people.” He urged her toward the marble balustrade. “He chooses to do that.”
She faced him, meeting his gaze, as shutters snapped closed in the depths of her eyes. “Of c-course, it is just that he has compassion for the poor.”
“Let me repeat; he does not have to rob.” Ian gently placed his hands on her shoulders.
“And neither do the greedy lairds who robbed their own clansmen first and now benefit from the present laws. The Flame merely returns to the poor what coin belonged to them initially.”
Dismayed that she refused to be dissuaded from her dangerous opinion, Ian took hold of her hand. “The man is a criminal, Deirdre.”
“Are his crimes worse than burning the thatch above the heads of poor crofters and sending them away from the land they’ve worked for generations to die of starvation, so sheep can graze the land?”
“I do not hold with that practice, but the landowners are acting within the law.”
“Those laws are made by the rich for their own benefit! Some legislation should be changed.”
“Not by taking it into one’s own hands.”
“What are the people to do? The Sassenachs care not a whit about what happens in Scotland except if it profits England. Meanwhile, the poor starve and live worse than beasts in the forest. The Flame takes action for them.”
“Deirdre, you sound almost as if you admire this scoundrel.” He kept his voice low as he searched her face.
“Admire? Nay, Ian, but I understand the necessity of his action.”
Her voice tolled with despair, and the deep sorrow in her eyes moved him.
“Deirdre, your words condone lawlessness and anarchy. If someone else hears you, they will think you speak treason.”
“Treason? By all that is holy! I am not advocating rebellion and more bloodshed. I am espousing fairness and compassion for the people by a change in legislation.”
These were perilous times in Scotland, especially dangerous for her because no one had yet told her of the other threat now surrounding her. Unfortunately, Deirdre burned with impetuosity and was unlikely to rein in her impulsivity.
He wearied of the contention between them. “Deirdre, tomorrow we shall wed. I do not want to live in discord. Let us resume the friendly relations we enjoyed a few days ago.”
As she gazed at him, her eyes reminded Ian of a loch reflecting the sky on a clear spring morn.
“So you are now convinced nothing improper transpired between Fergus and me.”
“To be perfectly honest with you, I think the two of you do share a bond—a strong one,” he replied evenly. Moreover, there was something about Fergus that bothered him deeply, too. For some unfathomable reason, Ian distrusted the man—and his gut feelings thus far had never proven wrong.
Deirdre lowered her lids and remained mute.
What a frustrating minx! First she defends The Flame, and now she protects Fergus. Doesn’t she suspect that the outlaw might be conspiring with the very people who mean to kidnap her? Fergus could be one of their confederates. Everyone knows she has sympathy for the poor. Surely, The Flame has that information also.
Suppose Fergus had instructions to gull her into a situation where she could be abducted? Ian knew many a servant who had turned on his mistress for money. The idea crazed him with fear, and his grip tightened on her shoulders. Her silence convinced him she had something to hide.
But what was it?
“Well, do you not allow that there is a bond, Deirdre?” Hell, why did she refuse to give him the reassurance he needed?
She arched an eyebrow. “I am not on the witness stand, Ian. Do not endeavor to cross-examine me.”
“Blast it all! Why can you not confide in me? Legally, I am already your husband.”
“May I remind you, my lord, that your statement is inaccurate? We have another requirement to fulfill before we can legally be called man and wife.”
Ian could hardly believe he made such a mistake. Here stood this woman instructing him in the law—a woman he wanted so much she muddled his thoughts and racked his body with the tortures of hell.
“Besides,” she continued, “I told you once that I never break a confidence.”
“Damnation.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders.
“You still do not trust me do you, Ian?”
“You told me you did not want my trust.”
“Nay, I told you to keep it because I know I can never earn it. From the way you are interrogating me, my assumption appears correct. As for Fergus, I have a duty to him. I am unlike others of my class who blithely dispossess those in their service.”
“I see.” Deep in his soul he felt her answer was another evasion. “Deirdre, I must ask you one question. Will you answer it truly?”
Caution flick
ered over her lovely features. “I shall try.”
“Is Fergus connected with The Flame?”
She stared at him for what seemed to be an eternity. Then suddenly, she burst into gales of laughter and continued until tears streamed down her cheeks. “T-That is hilarious,” she gasped out between spasms. “Everyone said you were so serious. I never dreamed you had such a sense of humor.” Holding her sides, she sat on the stone bench. “How clever you are to break the tension with such a droll joke.”
Her mirth proved infectious, and others, hearing her uproarious outburst, came on the terrace and began to laugh also.
“A merry bride is a good sign, lad!” The Duke of Argyll slapped Ian on the back.
Perhaps his imagination had run to fancy. After all, he had no proof about Fergus, and surely, if he had been correct, Deirdre would have done what all liars do. She would have protested the man’s innocence too much.
Ian vowed to rein in his jealousy. New to him, the emotion clouded his reason. In fact, he felt a whole repertoire of novel sensations when he thought of Deirdre.
* * * *
The embers smoldered, and the planks beneath Deirdre’s feet felt stone cold as she paced the floor. Fear pulled at her like an undertow. These last few days had tried her nerves more sorely than anything she’d ever experienced. As a result, that horrible nightmare made another visit. She shuddered, afraid to go back to bed.
Moreover, Ian’s question about Fergus had terrified her, causing her to respond with wild, hysterical laughter. To her great relief the unexpected involuntary response seemed to distract Ian,.
Henceforth, she intended to practice caution and restraint instead of her usual impetuosity because Ian Campbell, Lord Kilbraeton, posed a serious danger. Intelligent and calculating, he would eventually deduce the truth if she made even a slight mistake. Why did she have to marry the one man in Scotland who wanted her dead?
And yet…despite the peril, or perhaps because of it, he fascinated her, evoking sensations she never knew existed. She trembled every time she recalled his kisses. The more danger he posed to her, the more he excited her—the way a flame attracts a moth—for Deirdre loved the challenge, the duel of wits.
That brought to mind another problem: Deirdre still possessed Lady Glenmuir’s jewels. Each time she remembered robbing the old woman, shame ambushed her. To make matters worse, she had become fond of the guileless, old lady. In a few hours, the woman would become her aunt, a part of her family. Deirdre hated herself for causing the gentle soul distress.
She slumped into the armchair by the hearth.
I could give the jewels back. Deirdre contemplated the feasibility of the scheme. She had a key to every room in the manor house. With everyone asleep, she could slip down the corridor, enter Lady Glenmuir’s room, leave the jewels, and return.
Furthermore, everyone would recall the last deed of The Flame as one of gallantry. Indeed, that was truly the best plan.
With the point settled in her mind, Deirdre even decided to write a flowery note to Lady Glenmuir.
With a new burst of energy, Deirdre rose from the chair and hurried to her escritoire. Candle in hand, she moved to the hearth, lighting the taper from the last of the embers.
Returning to the desk, she picked up her quill. Writing remained the one task she performed with her right hand since her old governess insisted upon it.
However, she must disguise her penmanship as Lady Glenmuir would probably show Ian the note, and he was bound to recognize her penmanship, for he had seen her signature on the betrothal contract.
Hurriedly, Deirdre scratched out a message in primitive looking letters.
My dear Lady Glenmuir,
Upon considering your charm and grace, I cannot bring myself to keep these jewels. Lovely as they are, they pale in the light of your incomparable beauty. Therefore, I must return your treasures to you.
Your faithful servant,
The Flame
Deirdre set down the pen and blotted the ink. Rushing to the dressing table, she removed the secret key and, unlocking her chest, lifted out the jewelry.
Deirdre had intended to wait, break the pieces apart, and sell the gems and gold separately. She would then give the proceeds to the poor, but now she could not carry out her plan.
She replaced that key and took up her set of house keys, removing the proper one from the large circular holder. She had no wish to fumble with the collection of jangling pieces of metal and alert anyone.
Heart thundering, Deirdre donned her robe and padded down the dim corridor. The sconces extinguished, and the windows few and far between in this ancient part of the manor, only the pale light of the long springtime night beamed in from the windows.
She tripped on the end of a carpet, softly thudding against the wall, but she recovered, grateful she had not take a candle with her and set the carpet afire.
Terrified someone had heard her, she froze, but no one came. Deirdre then continued on her journey until she reached Lady Glenmuir’s room. She tried the door first, hoping it would be open, but her hopes plummeted. The stout oaken barrier remained shut.
Holding her breath, Deirdre slipped the key in the lock and slowly turned it. She wiped her sweating palm on her robe and grabbed hold of the doorknob.
The door swung open silently, but the sound of the old woman’s snores reminded Deirdre of a sawyer cutting through a log. She exhaled a pent-up breath and quickly eased inside, leaving the door behind her open.
Careful not to stumble again, she hastened to the bed, grateful that the fire in the hearth still radiated enough light for her to see, for Lady Glenmuir had drawn the drapes. She sighed in relief, noticing that Lady Glenmuir had also closed the thick velvet curtains hanging from the canopy of the bedstead. If the old woman suddenly woke and saw her standing by the bedstead, disaster would surely ensue.
Deirdre quietly set the note and jewels on the nightstand and left the chamber. She quietly secured the door and fled down the corridor toward her chamber.
She had almost reached her door when she crashed into a rock-hard mass. Pain exploded behind her eyelids like a volley of shooting stars, and Deirdre dropped the key on the carpet.
Chapter Eight
“Oh!” she moaned softly, putting her hands to her nose.
“Are you hurt, Deirdre?”
“Ian?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Whom were you expecting?” he whispered back.
“No one,” she gasped out, wiping her tears on the cuff of her robe. “That’s why you scared me witless.”
“Sorry.”
She stooped.
“What are you doing?” he asked
“I’m looking for my key.”
He joined her in the activity. “Do you always lock your door?”
“Aye, I like privacy.”
His hand grazed hers, and he was surprised to find her fingers ice cold.
“I found it,” she announced.
They stood.
“You’re still shaken, Deirdre. Let’s sit for a minute.”
Placing his arm about her shoulders, he led her to the padded seat beneath the only leaded casement in the embrasure of the wall. As the moonlight fell upon her, he swore softly.
“I hope you did not break my nose.” she sniffed.
“May I remind you that you crashed into me, Deirdre.”
“Very well, I hope I did not break it.”
“It would be a pity. You have such a pretty little nose. Let me see.” He gently tilted her face toward the light of the moon. “It is not bleeding. Does it hurt when I do this?” Ian gently squeezed the bridge of her nose. The tears on her cheeks glistened like diamonds in the moonlight.
“Nay,” she answered, her eyes tearing again.
He mopped them up with a final flourish and deposited a quick kiss on her injured nose, handing her the handkerchief as he did so.
“Thank you, Ian.” She shivered and dabbed her eyes.
“You are cold.”
Against his better judgment, he opened his banyan and cradled her on his lap.
Acutely aware that only their thin nightshirts separated them, Ian felt as if his blood turned to sunshine. “Feeling better?”
“Aye,” she responded.
“Why were you prowling these chilly halls?”
“I-I could not sleep and w-went to the kitchen for some warm milk.”
That could be true. He heard brides rarely dozed on their wedding eves. “Do you often suffer from insomnia?”
“Aye, but why are you here?” she whispered.
Her hot breath fanned the whorls of his ears, increasing the tension tingling through every fiber of his body. “I heard a noise in the corridor and went to investigate.”
Tensing, she tried to rise. “We must go.”
But Ian held her close, though he knew they should not linger. Still, she felt so deliciously warm and soft in his arms.
She laid her head on his shoulder, and Ian’s body clamored for hers, his blood rushing hot and heavy to his loins. He wanted to feel her dewy lips against his once again, but he hesitated, debating the wisdom of that act. One kiss does not constitute consummation.
He succumbed; inclining his mouth toward hers, his heart leapt as her arms encircled his neck. All noble resolve forgotten, he kissed her hungrily.
She gasped, and he deepened the kiss, reveling in the texture of her velvety tongue as it swirled with his. Breaking the kiss, his lips skimmed over the silken flesh of her neck. Instinctively, he nestled his palm over her breast.
To his delight, he felt her erect nipple, and she writhed against him like a hot, sinuous flame, consuming him with passion.
Deirdre wanted him! Fueled by that knowledge, Ian answered her siren song. He opened the gap of her shift, and fastened his lips to one breast while his fingers caressed the other.
Her back bowed, she pressed her breasts forward, urging him on. He continued jubilantly, listening to her moan softly.
The urge to meld with her proved irresistible. Cradling her in his arms, he stood, heading toward his chamber.
Suddenly, a woman’s cry rent the silence. Ian froze, and his whole body stiffened with alarm. “That sounds like Aunt Barbara!” He’d certainly heard her wails often enough.
