The Flame on the Moor

by Fiona Neal

  “I know the law, but I feel there is another reason for your actions.” She leaned forward, staring at him. “What is it?”

  “Nay, there is none.”

  But the alarm in his eyes confirmed her suspicions.

  “Haven’t I always kept them for you?” he continued. “Besides, if I know you, you will sell the jewels and give all the money to the poor.” He set the snuffbox down.

  Stunned, Deirdre sat motionless. Did he read minds? Nay, he knew her—too well. “Uh, do you really believe that I would do such a thing?”

  He gave her a penetrating look. “It is only right Ian keep the jewels in his counting room at Kilbraeton.”

  Oh, Uncle Robert, you may be signing my death warrant. Without access to her jewels, she could not make restitution or help the poor. This marriage was supposed to provide her with the means to do both. Instead, it now robbed her.

  What plot did her uncle and husband hatch between them? But their schemes would prove fruitless. She refused to accept defeat. She would get her jewels. Let Ian try to stop her.

  Still, the situation need not be reduced to that if Ian fell in love with her, and the Avenger of Scotland’s armor showed serious signs of weakening. Then she would get her property, make restitution, and he would never know the difference.

  Besides, she thought smugly, if Morag had not interrupted them this morning, Deirdre believed Ian’s lovemaking would have proceeded to its logical conclusion, no matter what he had proclaimed! Well, Lord Kilbraeton had a few surprises in his future.

  Her uncle continued to look at her, expecting some comment. She swallowed her anger and disappointment and decided to play along. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “Well, your marriage has already produced a peaceful effect on you.” He looked pleased. “Last month, nay last week even, you would have argued with me until we were both hoarse. Who knows?” He glanced at her stomach. “By the time you reach your majority, you may be expecting another kind of little gem.”

  If I can seduce Ian into my bed, that may happen.

  * * * *

  Braving the persistent cold spring drizzle, the wedding guests, servants, and village folk gathered to see the newlyweds depart.

  Before stepping into the coach, Deirdre fiercely hugged her uncle. “I know you hate to leave Ballanross Castle, but will you please visit me in Kilbraeton?”

  “Nothing will keep me away, my dear. I look forward to hearing that you are expecting my grandnephew or niece, and I shall be grateful for either one.”

  Her face burned with the knowledge that Ian avoided her bed.

  “Still the blushing bride?” Her uncle chuckled. “You should not be embarrassed, lass. It is the most natural thing in the world.” He turned to Ian. “Take care of her, my lord.” Her uncle kissed her cheek. “I shall pay you a visit in September. Perhaps we can all do some grouse shooting. I love the taste of that bird when it is roasted on a spit.”

  Deirdre walked to Lady Mary. “Come with him, Lady Mary,” she whispered, “and do not give up. With me gone, he will turn to you for companionship.”

  “Perhaps, he will, my lady.” Lady Mary curtsied, but did not smile.

  Her farewells done, Deirdre and Ian entered the carriage where Aunt Barbara and Lord Strathaven awaited them. Behind them, a number of conveyances followed, carrying servants, and luggage. The rest of her huge trousseau would follow. Her riding horses trotted at the end of the parade while redcoats, dressed as servants, rode two men to a coach.

  “Obviously, everyone is still concerned about The Flame,” Deirdre remarked, looking at the soldiers.

  “Everyone but you and Aunt Barbara,” Ian said and shot her a penetrating look.

  The older woman exclaimed, “Why I shall never tire of reading his lovely note!” Her china-blue eyes gleamed with excitement.

  “I am sure our wedding guests will spread the story far and wide.” Ian commented. “You are probably already a celebrity, Aunt Barbara.”

  Deirdre continued to hold her husband’s gaze. “I do not wish to be robbed anymore than you do, but I have a feeling that no one will be disturbed by The Flame on this journey.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Ian raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  Her husband remained as relentless as a deerhound after a stag, hoping she would betray herself, no doubt, Deirdre thought. “I never heard of him robbing the same person twice. Besides, he couldn’t rob Aunt Barbara. He has already proven himself incapable of that.”

  “It would seem you are well versed in the knave’s habits.” Ian took hold of her gloved hand. “Still, there may be other dangers in these hills.”

  “What other dangers?” she asked.

  Deirdre did not miss the sharp look Lord Strathaven shot to Ian. Unfortunately, she lost her chance to ask more questions because Aunt Barbara quickly changed the subject.

  “I do get so terribly seasick,” the older woman worried.

  “Perhaps the weather will change, Aunt Barbara.” Ian smiled reassuringly.

  Deirdre hoped so, because if the wind buffeted their ship as it did their coach, they were in for a terrible crossing.

  * * * *

  Mirrored in the waters of the loch below it, Kilbraeton Castle loomed over the windswept moor, its soaring towers silhouetted against the crimson and mauve sky of sunset. Just six hours from Glasgow, the ancient fortress stood in formerly Stewart territory, wrested from that clan centuries ago in a war. Ian had told her his family found the place convenient because it was close to their shipping concerns in Glasgow.

  “What do you think of your new home, my lady?” Strathaven asked, a smile on his handsome face.

  “It is magnificent! One gets the feeling of strength and power just looking at it.”

  “The oldest part of it dates back to the thirteenth century, and the walls of the main keep are twelve feet thick,” Ian remarked. “As soon as we arrive inside, this long journey will vanish from your memory.”

  “Never,” Aunt Barbara commented. “And I shall never set foot on a ship again as long as I live.”

  For once, the flamboyant woman had not overstated the situation. Though short, the sea voyage had been beyond Deirdre’s worst imaginings. From the moment they boarded from Skye, the poor ship pitched and rolled, pounded by waves and lashed by rain and gale-force winds. The crossing had taken twice the usual time.

  When they finally landed in Mallig, Deirdre needed the assistance of Ian’s strong arms to debark the ship. They rested at a fine inn for a few hours before resuming their long, arduous trip through the Highlands, past Fort William, down through the Trossachs, by Loch Lomond, and on to Kilbraeton.

  Deirdre felt exhausted, cold, and shaky. From the looks of her, Aunt Barbara had not fared any better.

  “You will both feel better once we’ve got you into a bed with some hot broth.” Ian put his arm about her shoulders.

  Neither he nor Strathaven suffered any ill effects from the hard voyage. To give both men their due, they had shown all the care and solicitation in the world toward her and Aunt Barbara.

  Still, Deirdre wondered if her husband continued to shun her bed out of consideration, or because he promised not to enter it until she invited him. His persistent questioning of her honesty testified to his single-mindedness. She did not doubt it was the latter. The attraction between them flared constantly, inexorably drawing them together like a swirling eddy, yet he refused to succumb.

  The coach swayed in the wind as they rode along the avenue. Thousands of daffodils trumpeted beneath the spreading boughs of the copper beeches, and huge clumps of golden gorse clung tenaciously to the emerald-green hillsides.

  They passed under the huge gatehouse in the curtain wall and into the outer bailey then into the inner one. The castle’s varied architecture proclaimed that the Earls of Kilbraeton had added several wings in different periods over the years.

  Carved in the limestone above the door in the oldest wing, their coat of arms with its snar
ling boar and motto, Ne Oblivicaris, which meant, Do Not Forget, presided proudly.

  In happier times, a piper, garbed in plaid, would have played his bagpipes in welcome. Now a liveried footman came forward and opened the door.

  Bone-weary, hungry, and chilled, Deirdre descended from the coach and walked to the entrance.

  “Welcome home, my lords and ladies.” The liveried servant bowed.

  “It is good to be back, Dugald.” Ian smiled.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Deirdre added with a smile, briefly distracted from the opulence of the great castle.

  “My lady,” Dugald replied with a warm smile and formal bow.

  The man opened the studded oaken doors. Linking arms with Ian, Deirdre walked on stiff limbs through the main entrance. Targes, swords, and firearms hung from the soaring sandstone walls.

  They moved through another set of doors into the great hall. Circular, wrought iron chandeliers hung from the hammered beam of the trestle ceiling that vaulted up at least thirty feet. At both ends of the huge chamber, enormous fireplaces blazed.

  To Deirdre’s dismay, the entire staff filled the cavernous room. In unison, they bowed as she and her new husband entered. She almost groaned aloud, aching with exhaustion. Surely, they did not expect her to stand in a receiving line and make her introduction to each one of them.

  But her fears were confirmed as Lady Barbara made her excuses, and Lord Strathaven, followed by his manservant, made his way to his room.

  A long hour later, Deirdre and Ian still stood, making introductions, when suddenly the room seemed to spin about her in a blur of color. A buzz whirring loudly in her ears, Deirdre pitched forward into a black void.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ian caught Deirdre, sweeping her into his arms before she struck the cold, hard flags of the floor.

  Marsaili, his old housekeeper, quickly came forward. “My lord, I have prepared the suite adjoining yours for her ladyship.”

  Ian carried his wife to their suites in the west tower as Morag, Marsaili, and Padraig followed behind them.

  Ian placed her on the big bed with rose velvet curtains hanging from the tester.

  Morag, pale and her eyes ringed with dark circles, removed her shoes.

  “Nay, Morag,” Ian protested. “You look exhausted yourself. Go to your room.”

  The girl set down the shoes, bobbed a curtsy, and made her exit.

  Ian gazed at the housekeeper. “Marsaili, please tend to the boy, Connor. I shall care for Lady Kilbraeton.”

  “Shall I ask cook to send up some soup and tea on a tray, my lord?”

  “Aye,” he said and nodded.

  The woman left as Padraig lit the peat in the hearth. As the fire threw its welcomed heat, Ian felt a surge of gratitude for small favors.

  His task completed, Padraig rose. “I shall unpack your things and ready your chambers, my lord,” his valet announced, hurrying through the adjoining door.

  Alone now, Ian focused his full attention on Deirdre. She looked so pale. Why hadn’t she told him she felt ill?

  He struggled to remove her brown velvet skirt, but her panniers made the task impossible. Frustrated, he flung back her petticoats and untied the linen strips holding the basket-like undergarments in place. “Stupid things,” he muttered, placing them on the chest at the foot of the bed.

  Finally, her lids parted.

  “Ian?” She squinted. “Oh,” she groaned, “what happened?”

  He took hold of her icy hand. “You swooned. I am sorry. I should have realized how tired you were.”

  “I remember feeling dizzy.” She tried to sit up then fell back.

  “It is no wonder. You have not eaten enough these last days to keep a midge alive. And I cannot understand how you can breathe with those stays and panniers.”

  “Where is Morag?”

  “She looked worn to the bone. I ordered her to rest.”

  “It will be easier to get out of my raiment if I stand.”

  He slipped his arm under her shoulders and helped her up. One by one, they shed her garments, and with every one that fell away Ian’s excitement increased. Finally, she wore naught but her shift and her clocked stockings.

  Turning back the rose counterpane and crisp, lavender-scented linens, he plumped her pillows, urging her to lie down. She slid into bed, and he pulled off her stockings, rubbing her icy feet.

  She purred and closed her eyes. “I could become accustomed to this.”

  Her words caused his desire to burgeon, but he could not impose on an ill woman. Besides, Deirdre had not satisfied him that she knew nothing about The Flame. Still, he wanted nothing more than to slip in beside her, hold her close, and make her his wife in fact.

  Instead, he tucked her in and moved to the hearth, throwing more peat on the grate before returning to her.

  “You make a proficient lady’s maid. Thank you, Ian.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” He caressed her cheek.

  “You undo laces faster than Morag.”

  “Your compliment warms my heart.”

  “Perhaps you have had plenty of practice.”

  “For a person who is ill, your tongue seems sharp enough.”

  “Do you undress women often?”

  “Deirdre!” he exclaimed.

  She smiled smugly. “I have my answer. If you were innocent, you would have denied the accusation immediately.”

  “Let us just say that I do not consider myself a rake, but I am no monk either.”

  A knock heralded the entrance of a tiny young kitchen maid. Ian did not recognize her. Marsaili must have recently recruited her from the village.

  The girl set down the tray on a small table near the bedstead and curtsied. “Besides the soup, cook sent scones along with the tea, my lord. There are also slices of cold beef, some shortbread.”

  Ian’s stomach growled.

  “Is there anything else you’ll be wanting, my lord?”

  “Nay, you may go.”

  The girl left, and Ian carefully took the bowl and spoon. He sat on the edge of the bed. “And now, my bonnie lass, you are going to eat.” He was starving himself, and the delicious aroma of the beef and barley soup made his mouth water.

  She complied as he patiently spooned the hot liquid into her, not stopping until the entire bowl was empty. Ian leaned forward and dabbed her mouth with his napkin, wanting very much to kiss her moist lips. Instead he turned, placing the empty receptacle on the nearby table. Then he put a slice of beef on a plate with a scone and proffered it to her.

  “Nay, thank you.” She pushed her hand gently against the edge of the plate.

  “Now, Deirdre, you must eat.”

  “Please, Ian, I shall be sick.” Ian jerked back as distress swam in her watering eyes, and her chin trembled.

  If she vomited now, she would lose the badly needed food.

  “You should see the look on your face,” Deirdre remarked. “I shall have to use that tactic more frequently.”

  “Very droll, lass, but you should eat more.”

  “I cannot, but what about you?” Her brows lifted. “You must be hungry, too.”

  He was touched by her concern, but he had never doubted her kindness. “I shall eat, now that you have finished.”

  Slathering a scone with butter, he wolfed it down and devoured his soup. He could not recall any meal he had eaten in Paris or Rome tasting any better. Then he attacked the beef, another scone, and shortbread.

  “Did you want some claret or tea?” He wiped his mouth on the big linen napkin.

  “In truth, I could use a wee dram. It will warm me and help me to sleep.”

  His blood already afire, he preferred to warm her himself. Heaven help him, but how he wanted her. Unfortunately, she looked exhausted. Furthermore, she had not invited him.

  “I keep some in my chamber. I’ll see if Padraig has set it out.”

  He strode into his apartments and returned a moment later with two glasses and
a bottle. Setting his trove on the nightstand, he poured, handing her a glass of the amber liquid and taking one for himself.

  “Good health.” He clinked his glass against hers.

  “Good health to you, too, Ian.” She sipped the whisky. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  Damn, he did not want her gratitude. He wanted her body joined with his in the act of love, but he was not going to ask her. She must invite him.

  Of course, he never promised to refrain from enticing her. Ian felt sure it was Deirdre’s pride that kept her reticent. It had to be, because her body responded to his, no matter what went on in that agile mind of hers.

  Another knock brought her luggage. The servants left, taking the tray of dishes. Alone again, they swallowed the dregs of their drinks.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” he asked.

  She nodded shyly.

  “Let me guess…the privy.”

  Color rose to her cheeks.

  He smiled. “You will be happily surprised. My father installed water closets in this wing. There is one right through that door.” He pointed to the arch in the paneling. “And I installed two bathrooms.”

  “My goodness, so much luxury is decadent.”

  “I thought you liked cleanliness. Didn’t you say that old Kilrannoch stank, and his wig was crawling with lice?”

  They both chuckled. It felt so good to share a joke with her, to spend time in amiable companionship.

  He threw back the covers and helped her from bed. Instinctively, he drew her close, inhaling the heather scent of her hair and reveling in the touch of her soft curves. He groaned inwardly as his body erupted with need.

  She slowly disengaged. “Please excuse me,” she pled, hurrying off toward the convenience.

  When she returned, Ian tucked her safely back into bed and gently kissed her brow. “Good night, Deirdre.”

  She yawned and said, “The same to you, Ian.”

  He picked up the candle-snuffer.

  “Please, leave it burning, Ian.”

  He walked to his room, cursing himself for not slipping into bed with her. Still, she was tired and not feeling well. He had waited this long, and he must endure until she either invited him to her bed, or he died maddened by lust. Judging from the painfully engorged stiffness pressing inside his breeches, he expected death at any moment.