“Aye, and he still refuses to tell me anything, insisting that I go to the duke himself for an explanation. If he is innocent, why didn’t Geddes just tell me the circumstances instead of changing the subject and getting angry with me every time I brought it up? And if there’s a logical explanation for it all, why not tell me that, too?”
“I see your point. So, what will you do?”
Rosalyn gnawed on her thumbnail. “I don’t know. I have agreed to marry him, but how can I?”
“You’re going to marry him? When did this come about? The last we talked, you couldn’t endure the thought of it.”
“I know. I know.”
“Well, it isn’t written in stone that you must wed him. It’s not like you’re carrying his heir.”
Rosalyn shot her a quick glance.
“Rosalyn,” she said slowly, “what did you do?”
Too embarrassed to look Fen in the eye, she studied the round rug on the floor. “He was shouting in his sleep. I went to his room and he thought I was someone else.”
“And you didn’t resist?”
She continued to look down, having trouble admitting her weakness even to her dearest friend. She shook her head. “No. And now I could be carrying a murderer’s heir. Good God, Fen, how can I go through with a wedding?”
“You should confront him.”
“Aye, but how will I know if he’s telling me the truth? Leod fooled me completely.”
“Stop dragging that bastard into everything,” Fen scolded. “Good lord, Roz, if he only knew how much power he still has over you, he’d rise from his watery grave and accept a bloody round of applause.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’s just very hard for me to trust again.”
Fen gave her a knowing glance. “It’s obvious to me your heart says something else.”
“The same heart that loved Leod.”
“Roz, your brain is far too muddled with memories of Leod. Talk to the duke. See how he responds. Listen to his story. If you don’t believe him, don’t marry him.”
As Rosalyn left Fen’s cottage, she knew she had to talk to the duke face to face. She was surprised by how much she hoped she could believe his answer.
• • •
Fletcher didn’t even wait to have breakfast. When he learned that Rosalyn was already gone, he remembered that Geddes had once told him that whenever she was upset, she went to see her friend. He got directions from Evan and then rode out to find her. He saw her leave the small cottage, get into her gig and take the castle road. He nudged his mount toward the small, neat structure, where a big man with a wide chest and arms the size of tree trunks stepped out from behind a shed and blocked his path.
The cottage door opened and a woman appeared. “It’s all right, Reggie.” The giant tossed Fletcher a suspicious glance before retreating. The woman stood, hands on hips, and studied him. She was tall and wore soft leather boots and a baggy shirt tucked into the waistband of a pair of mannish trousers that only accentuated her curves. Her dark hair was cropped short, wild curls softening her angular features. She was handsome rather than beautiful, dramatic rather than demure.
“You must be the new duke.”
Fletcher dismounted. “I am.”
“I’m Fenella Begley, Rosalyn’s friend. You just missed her.”
“I saw her leave. I’m told she spends a lot of time with you. I had hoped you could tell me something about her.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “I could, if I trusted you.”
“The fact that I’m here asking should tell you something.”
Fenella Begley looked off into the distance. “I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you Rosalyn’s secrets.”
“I don’t want to know her secrets; I want to know her.”
The widow gazed past him. “She’s had a hard life, harder than most women of her station. Her father was a successful barrister and they lived very comfortably in Edinburgh. Women like Rosalyn should have their own families by this time. They should have homes, gardens, servants of their own.”
“She has those things at the castle.”
“Aye, but it isn’t hers, don’t you understand? At any moment she and Geddes could be thrown out into the street.”
“I wouldn’t do that. Even old Barnaby has a home for the rest of his life, and he’s hardly worth the air he breathes, poor old coot.”
The widow stared at him. “But that isn’t a certainty, is it? Stranger things have happened to make Rosalyn’s life a living hell.”
“Tell me.”
“Those are her secrets; they aren’t mine to tell.”
“Then whose is it?” He cursed. “She barely speaks to me at all, and this morning I learned that she thinks I’m a murderer.”
“Are you?”
“While I feel I am probably to blame for the woman’s death, I did not kill her.”
She narrowed her gaze, studying him, and then motioned for him to follow her. They walked through a rose-covered trellis to her flower garden. “What do you know about her first marriage?” she asked.
“Only that it wasn’t happy, and I presume the man was akin to the devil in Rosalyn’s eyes.”
Mrs. Begley reached into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out a small clipper. As she snipped off dead petals from the trellis roses, she asked, “Did you know that Rosalyn had a daughter?”
Surprised, he answered, “No, I didn’t.”
“Rosalyn and Leod—that was her husband—were living in Edinburgh. He was reasonably prosperous; I believe he managed a cannery business. Nearly four years into their marriage, they began having some problems, severe enough, according to Rosalyn, that she couldn’t suffer them any longer. She asked him to leave; he would not. So, she took their three-year-old daughter, Fiona, and left him. She had little money, so she came here. We have been friends for a long time.” She reached in and snipped off a dead branch.
“Before she left him he had apparently told her she could go to hell as far as he was concerned, but she wouldn’t take his daughter with her.”
“I presume he eventually found her,” Fletcher said.
Mrs. Begley’s smile was like ice. “Leod was relentless in his search. After a time, he found her here with me, and he was very charming, telling us it was all a misunderstanding. He even told Rosalyn that she could have her divorce, although he still wanted to see Fiona from time to time.
“Rosalyn knew him better than anyone; she didn’t trust him. But Leod could be persuasive.”
Fletcher began to get a clearer picture for the cause of Rosalyn’s behavior.
“He came back the next day, when Reggie and I were gone. He brought a bottle of champagne, which Rosalyn loves. He asked her to at least think about allowing him visiting privileges after their divorce. According to Rosalyn, he had seemed remorseful and willing to set her free, yet she was still very suspicious of his motives. But as well as she knew him, she hadn’t expected him to drug her, and that’s what he did. He slipped something into the champagne.” She stood and strode to the edge of the garden.
“Once the drug had taken effect, he stole Fiona away. When Rosalyn awoke and both Leod and Fiona were gone, she became hysterical. No one had seen them leave. Later, a search party found the boat he’d stolen smashed against the rocks. His body was floating nearby.”
She paused, then looked at him, her eyes shiny. “They never found Fiona’s body. The child drowned, but Rosalyn could never give her a proper burial. There is no real end to this for her. She cannot say goodbye.”
She touched his arm, her gaze probing his. “I know you have inherited a grand position. Some men think that’s enough to satisfy a woman. Rosalyn isn’t impressed by money or power. All she wants is for someone to treat her as if she matters. She is my friend. If you hurt her, I’ll come after you and cut off your manhood while you sleep, and don’t think I won’t. You might be handy with a knife, but I have removed the rotting limbs of soldiers with mine, and I know jus
t where to cut to enhance your bleeding.”
She gave him a look that spoke volumes. He stifled a shudder. He believed every word she said.
The look that passed between them lasted a long time. Fletcher looked away first, uncomfortable. “I will do my best not to hurt her. I gave Geddes my word on that, and I will tell you the same.”
She said nothing, and the awkwardness stretched between them. He mounted his horse, looking down at the woman who seemed to see inside his head, heart, and soul. She studied him, then smiled and went back to trimming her flowers.
As Fletcher rode toward the castle he thought about his promises to Geddes and now to Rosalyn’s friend. His father told him long ago that a man who kept his promises showed his worth and value and deserved trust. A man’s word needed to stand for something. Rosalyn didn’t trust him. He had to earn her trust—a big order. He had always been a private man, but he would have to tell her everything about his life, his past, his mistakes. He had no other choice. His life was no longer his to hide. And he definitely didn’t want that Begley woman coming after him, wielding her knife at his balls.
Chapter Ten
Fletcher stabled Ahote and then took the path to the castle entrance. Geddes was waiting for him.
“She’s in the solarium.”
Fletcher wasn’t surprised. Of all the rooms in the castle, the solarium had to be Rosalyn’s favorite. Though small, it housed plants that bloomed lavish and exotic flowers, none of which he could identify. He had passed by the room on a couple of occasions and the rich, lusty aroma of plant life, heated by the sun through panes of glass, had briefly made him feel he was in a warmer clime, where lush succulence abounded and scantily clad women frolicked in the sunshine. Like Texas. He suppressed a sigh.
Perhaps, he thought, as he made his way toward the west wing, Rosalyn felt she had moral support from her foliage that she couldn’t find anywhere else. Indeed, he realized that she found solace in plants, flowers, and dogs, all of which gave total devotion if handled properly.
He took a deep breath and crossed the threshold into the warm, sunny room. Amidst the rich and colorful flora sat Rosalyn, looking as beautiful and unattainable as her flowers. Sima and one of her pups were close by, the puppy playfully attacking its mother. Rosalyn stood as he entered, a book clutched to her bosom. Sunshine gleamed off her hair, catching loose ringlets, igniting them into flame. Until this moment he hadn’t realized that there was any red in her hair at all.
“Rosalyn—”
She raised her hand. “Please. We must do this my way.”
He nodded and looked around for a chair.
“I would rather you didn’t sit,” she said.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “As you wish.”
She stepped forward. “I’m going to ask you some questions, one at a time, and I want your honest answer.”
“Of course.”
She held the book toward him. “Are you a Christian?”
He lifted an eyebrow, noting that the book she held was a leather-bound Bible. “My father saw to it that I learned his faith.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“I don’t disbelieve,” he answered.
Her gaze was intense. “This Bible has been in your family for many generations; each birth is entered, as is each death. I must know that if you place your hand on the Bible your answers will be honest and true.”
He believed that all religions, including his mother’s and his father’s, were intertwined. He believed that man needed religion to deal with the ebbs and flows of life. He respected any man’s right to his beliefs. He certainly respected Rosalyn’s.
“I have great consideration for the Bible. I will answer your questions as honestly as I can.”
“Thank you.” She inhaled, expelling the breath slowly, and held the Bible toward him in both of her hands.
He placed his palm on the book.
“Who is Lindsay?”
Ah, Lindsay. He hoped one day she would disappear from his nightmares. “She was a young woman I knew in Texas.”
“Did you love her?”
Fletcher frowned, thoughtful. “I cared for her.”
Rosalyn considered this and then asked, “What happened to her?”
“She died.”
“How did she die?”
“She was shot.”
Rosalyn inhaled sharply. “Who shot her?”
Old anger threatened to fester. “Her husband. She—”
“No,” Rosalyn interrupted. “Just answer my questions. Please. If I want explanations, I’ll ask for them.”
He nodded and said no more.
“Were you with her when she was shot?”
The memory was still vivid: the blinding light from the blast, the circle of blood on Lindsay’s chest, the brief look of fear and surprise in her eyes before the light went out of them and she died. “Yes.”
“Why did her husband shoot her?”
“I don’t think he meant to,” Fletcher answered, clearly remembering the hatred in Bannerman’s gaze at the trial.
“I don’t understand.”
“He meant to shoot me.”
“You? Why?”
Fletcher took a deep breath. “Because I was in bed with her at the time.”
Rosalyn blinked and glanced away, the rhythmic pulse at her throat throbbing against her pale skin. Her gaze pinned his again. “If her husband killed her, why were you in prison?”
“Because he blamed me for it.”
“Why?”
“He claimed I raped her.”
“And it wasn’t rape?”
“No. It wasn’t rape.”
Rosalyn was a strong woman, revealing very little. He couldn’t tell if she was relieved or distraught at his admission.
Rosalyn lowered her arms, the Bible still clutched in one hand. Her face was a study in concentration. “And you believe he meant to kill you, not her.”
“I do,” Fletcher answered.
“Didn’t you tell someone what really happened?”
He laughed. It was an empty sound. “I supposedly had my day in court.”
“But no one believed you?”
He smirked. “No one believed me. Consider it. Who is more believable, a wild half-breed or a proper army captain? I was a dead man before I even entered the courtroom. It was very easy for the army to sentence me to hang.”
“So, if Geddes hadn’t come looking for Shamus, you would have been hanged?”
“Yes.”
She sagged into a chair, the Bible clutched in her hands, her gaze focused on something he couldn’t see, something only her mind projected. “If this is all true, then I’m sorry.”
“I have sworn that it’s true, and I don’t want your pity, Rosalyn. I want to be your husband.”
Her glance was sharp, as if, once again, her name on his tongue astonished her. She put the Bible on the table beside her and stood. “I will marry you.”
Fletcher was surprised at the relief that washed over him. He wanted to drag her into his arms, hold her close, smell her hair, and kiss her. He wanted to feel the length of her against him, her softness, and her strength.
Weeks before, he would have, if only to enjoy her discomfort. But now he wanted nothing to change her mind, so he merely turned to leave her. “I understand the license will be here in a week or so.”
She nodded. “I hope we can have the ceremony shortly after that, if it pleases you.”
He thought he heard a slight quiver in her voice, but when he looked back at her she appeared stalwart and strong. He found himself saying, “It pleases me.”
He left the solarium in search of Geddes. One hurdle had been jumped; now he had to discover if there was news of his siblings.
• • •
Rosalyn sank into a chair, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the back. Her heart raced. There was so much more she had wanted to ask him, but perhaps there would be a time for that.
She bel
ieved him. She had to. Either that or her instincts were still all wrong and she’d learned nothing from her past experiences.
Her thoughts unconsciously went to their mating, when he’d thought she was someone else. Lindsay. You’re alive! The words had been spoken with elation and joy. And he had touched her with such awe, finding pleasure with her body, giving pleasure in return.
And all because he thought she was someone else.
“Silly fool,” she scolded. None of that mattered. What he did or what he was before he came here was no longer an issue. But still, if he had taken her in his arms and sealed their coming marriage with a kiss, she wouldn’t have stopped him. She wanted to lean into his body, feel the strength in it, and lose herself, if only for a moment, in the fantasy that someone had finally come along in whom she could find safety and comfort and, eventually, love.
Indeed, in her secret heart she longed for someone to find that same such pleasure with her and for that someone to be Fletcher MacNeil.
Chapter Eleven
Geddes had never intentionally lied, especially if the lie could harm someone. He also knew he was not very good at deception. And now, as he walked from the harbor master’s office, the letter tucked carefully away in his breast pocket, he rationalized that if he kept the good news to himself for just a short while, it wouldn’t be a lie and it would hurt no one.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the duke to keep his promise—he did. But with the wedding mere days away, Geddes wanted everything to go as planned. News of the children would be icing on the cake, so to speak.
In the distance, the faded sign of the Potted Haugh, Angus MacNab’s pub, creaked in the wind. Some found it amusing that the pub was named for a spiced, jellied meat. Geddes just found the place disgusting.
As he approached, he heard MacNab’s voice raised in anger, but Geddes wasn’t surprised, nor was he alarmed. MacNab was a surly, unpleasant man. Geddes could think of no logical reason why he continued to defend the bastard to Rosalyn, except that each time they argued about him, her friend Fenella Begley was in the mix. He supposed that was what got his ire up, for the mention of the woman’s saintly attributes set him off and he didn’t know why.
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