Carried Away

by Jill Barnett

  She didn’t flinch at the sound, but seemed intent on giving him an odd and searching look that said she had expected him to eat her and was surprised he hadn’t.

  “You ask a lot of questions, lass, for someone who won’t tell me her name.” He waited, but she said nothing, just looked away, then her eyes began to examine the room.

  “This is my home, and my father’s and his father’s.” Odd how his voice sounded like gravel, rough and angry, yet what he felt was not anger. He wasn’t certain what it was, but he wasn’t angry.

  She continued to look around them as he crossed the entry, the sound of his steps echoing up into the high beam rafters that soared upward over two stories above them.

  He stopped and looked around him. He was proud of his home; he always had been. His great grandfather had been a large man, like Eachann, and he’d built the place in the huge proportions and in the rough Celtic manner of a chieftain’s Highland castle.

  Yet the whole structure was made from the island’s resources. The slate floors and stone block for walls were quarried from the pink granite on the island. All the wood and trim were hemlock, knotted pine, and maple from the native forests; and fat cobbled gray stones polished by the motion of the sea had been made into fireplaces big enough for a clan of Scotsmen to stand inside.

  To the MacLachlans who came here, this was a new castle in a new homeland, built by a proud man, who had been one of the last Highland warriors. A man forced to flee his homeland and everything that was Scots, everything that had, for so many generations, been the MacLachlan of MacLachlan.

  His Scots forefather who had lived in four-hundred-year-old castles would laugh and called this house new. But his home meant something more to Calum, and seemed old enough to him, because the stairs had been hollowed by the footsteps of his great-grandfather.

  He felt the woman’s stare, but he said nothing. She seemed to be studying him as if she were looking for nits. The air was filled with something that made him feel more than awkward, so he turned and walked down a wide paneled hallway with long and proud strides.

  A distant female shriek echoed from the east halls, Eachann’s wing of the house. Calum stopped.

  Something crashed. Glass. There was a loud bang and he thought he heard his brother yelp.

  The woman in his arms gave a quiet gasp. He glanced down at her. Her eyes were wide and her full lips had thinned and turned tense.

  “He won’t harm your friend.”

  “She’s not my friend,” she said almost too quickly, like someone who speaks before thinking. But there was no anger or hatred in her voice. In fact, it was oddly without any tone of emotion.

  She turned away. “We’re from . . . I don’t . . . ” She was suddenly quiet, and when he looked down at her, she said, “We hardly know each other.”

  “Neither of you has to worry, lass.” From Calum’s perspective, Eachann had more to worry about than that wildcat woman did. She was a handful, which he supposed was good revenge. Eachann needed to learn that he couldn’t control everything and everyone on one of his whims.

  There was another crash, and it crossed Calum’s mind that his brother with the fey powers had finally met the one animal who wouldn’t eat from his hand. Hell, from what he’d seen and was hearing, she was more likely to bite the fingers off of it.

  He carried the lass into the library where it was clean and warm and familiar. He set her in a large winged chair that stood by the fire and shook out a throw. He stopped and picked a few of the lint balls from it, then laid it over her. While he creased the sides neatly and tucked the ends into the side cushions of the chair pillows, she cocked her head and watched him as if she had never seen such an action.

  “What’s the matter?” He folded one corner back into a perfectly neat triangle, then pulled it down until the tuck was tight and flat. He squatted down and shoved the edge of the throw neatly beneath the seat cushion.

  She blinked, then shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Do you not want the covers?”

  “I am cold.”

  “I have something else to warm you up, lass.” He poured two whiskeys and handed her one. “Here. Take it.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Go on, now. It will settle your stomach and warm you.”

  She took the glass tentatively, but didn’t drink any. Instead she sat quietly pensive, staring at the fire.

  Her long hair hung down around her like damp yellow ribbons from a rain-drenched maypole and stuck to her cheeks, which still held no color. The heat from the fire dried the dew that had sprinkled her face and hair.

  One small pearl earring dangled from her ear. When she took a breath, it shimmered in the firelight the way a tear does when it’s ready to fall. There was a lost look about her, the same sudden lonely and disoriented look of a fragile bird that has just fallen from its nest.

  It crossed his mind that she must have family.

  God . . . what a thought. He wiped a hand over his face. That was all he needed. Some raging father invading his island to avenge his stolen daughter’s honor. Or worse yet, a passel of angry brothers to beat the hell out of him.

  He was going to kill Eachann. He was. If brothers showed up, Eachann was going to face them first.

  He waited a moment then said, “Lass?”

  She turned.

  “Your family will be worried.”

  She looked at him as if she were wondering who he was speaking to, then she turned away with no answer for him.

  He gave it another try. “How’s your stomach?”

  “Fine,” she whispered.

  He took a long drink, poured another, and when he looked at her again he saw that her color was changing, her cheeks were more pink from the heat. The damp strands of her blond hair were drying and beginning to curl as if suddenly coming back to life. The firelight warmed her face and hair with a golden glow that was the color of early morning sunshine.

  He sat there watching, the way he liked to watch a sunrise, with a sense of quiet awe that makes you focus on the smallest detail. Right now he was fascinated by the pulse point in her neck, where the skin was pale and soft. He wondered how her skin would feel against his fingers, and what it would taste like against his mouth. “I wonder how it would smell,” he said into his whiskey glass.

  She turned just as suddenly. “What did you say?”

  He silently cursed his loose tongue. “Nothing.” His tone was much sharper than he’d meant it to be. He knew it the moment he saw her flinch slightly, then turn away again.

  He took another stiff drink, then went to the fireplace where he squatted down and jabbed the logs into snapping flames with the poker. Sparks flew all over the hearth and onto his sleeve. He swatted at them, slapping at his shirt sleeves, then scowled down at the ashes scattered all over the place.

  He straightened and crossed to the desk almost by rote. A moment later he was bent down sweeping up the hearth with the whisk. When he cleaned up the ashes and burnt splinters of wood, he spotted a trail of wet leaves across the carpet.

  He hadn’t used the boot jack. What the hell was wrong with him? He never forgot to use the boot jack. He whisked up the leaves into the dustpan, frowning the whole time because he couldn’t explain away his curious and odd thoughts of this young woman who meant nothing to him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Cleaning up the leaves.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I tracked them in.”

  “Oh.” There were a hundred questions in the tone of that one word. She looked around again. “You don’t have any help?”

  “They’ve long been in bed.”

  “Oh.”

  He rested his elbow on one bent knee. “Why?”

  “The house is so clean, that’s all. I thought maybe there was a maid. Another woman. Someone . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  “There are no women on the island.” The instant he’d spok
en, he remembered Kirsty, but didn’t say anything, just went about his task.

  She watched him as if he had grown two moose heads. “What are you doing now?”

  He looked down at his hands. He wasn’t doing anything odd. He looked up again. “I’m polishing the dustpan.”

  “You polish the dustpan?” she repeated, then blinked twice. After a stretch of puzzled staring, she giggled.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “You are polishing the dustpan.”

  “Aye.”

  She giggled again, which should have annoyed him like it did when Eachann laughed at him. But instead he only felt some of his earlier tension drain away. At least she wasn’t looking at him as if he was about to have her for breakfast.

  He nodded at the glass in her hand. “Drink, lass.”

  She frowned down at the whisky, then sniffed it.

  “It’s not poison.”

  “It smells like it,” she muttered.

  He gave a small bark of laughter and she looked up, surprised, then after a moment where he couldn’t detect a thing from her blank expression, she gave him a small tentative smile.

  The room was warm. Too warm. He stopped polishing the dustpan and was frozen there. He wanted to keep her smiling at him because . . . well, he didn’t know why. He just did.

  He looked away and crossed to the desk in a few rapid and agitated strides. He put away the whisk and dustpan, then closed the drawer harder than he’d intended.

  He then ignored her because somehow that made up for the smile he’d given her. He began to straighten the alphabetized piles of papers on his desk. They didn’t need straightening, but he did it anyway, tapping the piles on his desktop so every paper would be perfectly aligned. Finally the silence got to him and he cast a quick glance at her.

  She was sipping the whiskey and staring into the fire while the light danced on her profile and made it look shadowy. There were no sounds but the crackle of the pine logs and the hollow, almost labored sound of his own deep breaths.

  The air filled with tension and awareness. He shoved his spectacles back up his nose and tried to forget she was there looking at him with curiosity as she sat huddled under one curved wing of the chair the way the whooper swans tucked their heads beneath a wing while they napped.

  He tried to forget her white skin that looked so soft and her cheeks that had turned pink from the room’s warmth. Don’t think of her, he told himself. He didn’t think. He just watched her long curling hair glow reddish gold in the hot gleam of the firelight.

  He realized he couldn’t help but think about her. He could feel her presence deep inside of him, as if she were a part of him that he’d never known existed.

  The clock struck three with loud and sudden gongs that made them both start. Simultaneously they both turned to look at the clock, realized what they’d done, whipped back around, and sat in awkward silence again. He ran a hand through his hair, then sat on a corner of his desk, staring at the mantel. He felt even more tense and somehow suddenly weak, as if the small blond woman was draining him of something vital.

  The clock face came into focus and he remembered the time. That was the problem. He was just plain tired. He could feel the strain of the day like one felt a bruise. It was almost as if each hour had battered him as it past by.

  No wonder his mind was playing tricks on him and his chest was tight and the room became warm when the lass looked at him. Exhaustion could do that, he rationalized.

  He could imagine how she must feel, thanks to the antics of his wild brother. She stared at him with that same cautious look in her eyes, but just a moment before her eyelids had slipped down twice and she had stifled a yawn.

  He stepped around the desk and walked toward her. He stopped and extended his hand. “It’s late.”

  She must not have seen him because she almost jumped out of her skin. “What?”

  “The time.”

  She frowned at the clock.

  “We need to go upstairs now.”

  “Why?” There were those eyes again. Wary. Wide.

  “Because, lass, it’s time we went to bed.”

  Chapter 14

  You ought never take anything that don’t belong

  to you—if you cannot carry it off.

  —Mark Twain

  Georgina didn’t stop to watch the vase fly past the oaf’s head and shatter against a wall. She was too busy grabbing something else to throw.

  The closest thing was a pillow.

  No pain, she thought with disgust and tossed it aside.

  “You missed, George. Next time you might want to try throwing with your eyes open.”

  Her gaze lit on a brass bowl filled with apples. She glanced up when he moved toward her, still grinning as if ruining her life were funny.

  She picked up an apple, looked straight at him, and threw it. “You’ve ruined everything!”

  He sidestepped. “Much closer. But your aim is off by a good two feet.”

  She let the next one fly; it smacked against the wall with a splat!

  He shook his fat head.

  “You don’t care, do you?” She heaved another one at him. “You don’t care that you have ruined my life!”

  He dodged the apple, then began to applaud. “Very close. I felt the wind on that one. Now if you’ll just take aim and concentrate . . . ”

  She wanted to go at him herself, to scream or yell or beat his chest with her fists until he understood what he had done to her. But she stood there, impotently looking at him, aware that her chest was heaving with each breath she took, that her emotions were lying so near the surface that she was ready to crack.

  “Tell me how I’ve ruined your life.”

  She looked him square in the eye and sought a calming breath or two. “There was a man waiting for me in the gazebo.”

  “All alone with a man, George?”

  “I was alone with you.”

  “Aye.” He smiled slowly.

  “Besides this was a perfectly proper meeting.”

  “In a gazebo near the back of the garden at night.” His look was too knowing, his voice too smug.

  “He was going to propose.” Her voice sounded defensive, even to her, so she stood a little straighter. “He was going to marry me.”

  He shrugged. “Marriage isn’t a problem for me. Actually, it’s the best solution.” He leaned back against the edge of a chair and crossed his ankles in the aggravating and lazy way he had. “I’ll marry you.”

  “Oh? Be still my heart.”

  He laughed again.

  “I want to marry John Cabot.”

  At that he roared with laughter, so she flung another apple at him.

  The devil snatched it right out of the air. “Ah . . . I see.” He nodded, holding the apple up to the light and appearing to examine it. “You are in love with him.”

  “Yes!” she lied.

  He lowered his gaze slowly, which was just as annoying as everything else he did, then he gave her a long penetrating look that said he didn’t believe her.

  She raised her chin a notch. “Madly in love. Madly. Absolutely. I think of him night and day. He’s my life. My future. My . . . ” She waved a hand around. “John Cabot is everything I could ever want in a husband.”

  He tossed the apple like a ball, then polished it on his shirtfront, ignoring her. He took a bite and chewed obnoxiously, then swallowed. He just stood there eating the apple as if he were waiting for her to throw another one and knew she would miss him by a mile.

  After a tense few seconds, he said, “You want to know what I think, George?”

  “No, but I’m certain you’ll tell me.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps not.”

  She grabbed another apple and stood there just like he did, trying to give him the same look of nonchalance he gave her.

  “I think you don’t need to pull down your bodice to attract a man.”

  She stood there, realizing what he just said and what he had see
n in the dark of the garden. She wished the floor would just open up and swallow her.

  “Now, I have to admit it was quite a sight . . . ” He gave her a slow hot smile. “And still is, but I had already decided I wanted you before you pulled your dress down almost to your waist.”

  I will not let him goad me. I will not, she thought, resisting the urge to yank her dress neckline up around her throat, which she was certain was flushed as red as her flaming face felt.

  The seconds slowly dragged by. After a minute or so she looked at the apple, taking her own turn at drawing out the time before she said, “So that’s what you think?”

  He crossed his arms, daring her to throw again. “Aye. That’s what I think.”

  “Well then.” She tossed the apple lightly in the air, as if she were gauging its weight. She studied his head for another exaggerated moment, then gave him her sweetest smile. “I guess I’ll have to throw the next one right where you think.”

  He laughed. “You couldn’t hit my head if I stood still as a stone, George.” He crossed those hammy arms of his again.

  A second later the apple hit him right between the legs.

  “I didn’t say anything about your head.”

  He bent double and shouted five truly vile curses all in one incredibly inventive sentence.

  She raced for the door.

  Just as she reached for the handle, the door burst open and slammed against a wall.

  Amy Emerson stood in the doorway, wrapped in a red plaid blanket and brandishing a shiny pistol. She looked at Georgina in surprise, then her gaze shot to where the lummox was doubled over.

  “Here!” She pulled her other hand from the blanket and handed Georgina a thick coil of braided drapery cord. “Tie him up!”

  He straightened and stood gaping at them, then his eyes narrowed. He was no longer amused. “Where’s Calum?”

  “Your brother?” Amy waved the pistol as if he’d asked a foolish question. “Don’t worry. There’s only a little blood.”