by Jill Barnett
“The women’s clothing is in the trunks nearest the front,” Calum told him. “They’re labeled according to content and size.” He paused and took a breath, and then both brothers spoke at the same time.
“There’s a chart on the wall above them.”
Calum snapped his mouth shut and looked at Amy. His face colored slightly. His brother had embarrassed him. She felt a sudden sense of anger when she looked at the man who had kidnapped her.
Eachann MacLachlan had a knowing expression. “Are they stacked alphabetically . . . drawers above petticoats and shirts?” He leaned indolently against the doorjamb and waited for his brother to respond.
Just then Amy felt something fall in her wet hair. She slapped a hand on her head, then frowned. There was nothing there. Then something flicked on her bodice. She looked down, but still saw nothing.
She swiped at her hair and dress, wondering if there could be bugs on her from the cave. She took one last swipe then looked up at the men.
Calum held his hand out in front of him, palm side up. He was watching water drip into it.
Meanwhile, Eachann stared up at the ceiling with a perfectly stunned look. “Dammit to hell! I’m going to wring her blue-blooded neck!”
A second later he was gone, leaving Calum and Amy staring up at the ceiling where a growing stain of water dripped and plopped all over them.
Chapter 23
Some kiss hot
Some kiss cold,
Some don’t kiss at all,
Until they’re told.
—Anonymous
The oaf opened the door. Georgina was waiting. She smacked him hard in the face with a sopping wet towel. The water rushed out the door, and so did she.
She ran down the hall, where the water was seeping out behind her; it hid her wet footprints. She passed three doors and went around a small turn, ran down another hallway and another short turn. She jerked open the first door and disappeared inside.
The room was huge and dimly lit by smoldering logs in a fireplace big enough to stand in. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hide in it. She knew she had only a few minutes.
He would have to check the rooms she’d passed; that gave her time. She scanned the bedroom quickly, listening with half an ear for Eachann MacLachlan’s footsteps.
There were two doors across from a massive dark carved wooden bed. She went for the door farthest from the entry. Inside was a long tunnel-like closet with a mishmash of men’s clothing hung along a big wooden clothing rod. Boots and leather shoes were strewn all over the floor along with a saddle, a couple of crops, and some things that were completely unidentifiable.
She closed the door and moved deeper into the dark closet. It was like walking through a train wreck. She stepped on a spur with her bare foot and stumbled. She bit back an oath and grabbed a handful of clothes to keep from falling.
Her shoulder hit the wall with a thud.
Oh God . . . what if he’d heard her?
She swiftly and quietly moved into the depths of the closet, picking her way through while her heart thudded in her ears. She edged between two camel-backed trunks and felt the sweep of silk and woolen dresses that were hung on the back section of the rod. She dug around behind them, hoping for a cabinet or storage nook. But there was nothing but wall.
There had to be some place in here to hide, some place where he couldn’t find her by just pushing aside the clothes. She reached out, feeling her way in the dark and trying to keep from stumbling again over what she couldn’t see.
Her hand hit the end wall. The closet was a dead end.
She turned and made her way through the mess again.
There was a noise, as if a nearby door had just closed. Her breath stopped.
Hide! Quickly!
The trunks were too obvious. Panicking, she looked up, shoved some dresses together, and grabbed the wooden rod.
A couple of minutes later she was standing on the wooden rod, her damp skirt wrung out and tucked up tightly between her legs. She had her hands braced on the ceiling.
The door opened. He moved inside slowly. His head first.
She felt like a moron. Why hadn’t she grabbed something to hit him with? There was enough litter and junk lying all over the floor. She let her angst go because it was too late now.
Instead she concentrated on being quiet. Quiet as a mouse. She held her breath inside her chest so long that she was almost afraid that exhaling would give her away. She watched his every movement, even grew irritated that his breathing looked easy. Not tense like hers.
Just as she’d figured, he did look in the trunks. He turned then and moved back toward the door. She prayed her skirt wouldn’t pick that moment to drip on him; it didn’t.
The door closed. She exhaled then, very quietly still because he was just outside the door. She didn’t move until she heard an odd sound.
She listened keenly and realized the odd noise was the sound of his sodden boots squishing across the bedroom floor. She almost wished she could have floated on the ceiling and watched him in that flooded room.
She knew he must be searching the bedroom and she waited, perched tensely on the wooden clothes rod. Finally she heard the squishing again and the bedroom door clicked closed.
With a deep breath she sagged back against the wall, then swung down from the rod. Still being cautious, she only opened the door a small crack. She didn’t trust him.
She listened, but heard nothing, so she opened the door and looked out quickly. She made straight for the door, thinking if she could get back downstairs, then she could get away.
Her hand closed over the cool brass doorknob. She turned it slowly.
He could be in the hall.
The doorknob stuck. She frowned down at it, then slowly turned it the other way. Nothing.
She jiggled it as she turned it toward the right, then left again. She stared down at the brass placket with a sudden feeling of sinking dread.
“Looking for this, George?”
She inhaled sharply, then her shoulders sagged and her hand just fell away from the door handle. She needed a moment and shoved a tangle of snarled hair back from her face before she turned around.
Eachann MacLachlan leaned against a bedpost, his wet boots tossed to one side. One hairy male foot crossed the other while he watched her with that arrogant and sardonic expression she really hated.
In one hand he was holding up the key. She looked from the key to his face. Even in the dim firelight she could see a bright red slap mark from the towel on one cheek and part of his jaw. For the briefest of instants, a small humane part of her was aware of how that must have hurt.
But her sense returned. He didn’t need her pity. He needed a good thrashing for what he had done to her. She gave him a look as haughty as she could drum up.
They both just stood there.
Finally he pushed away from the bed and walked slowly toward her. “You’re causing a lot of unnecessary trouble for yourself.”
“I’ve caused trouble?”
“Aye.” He was barely a foot away.
“Me?” She almost shrieked the word.
“You’re lucky I’m a patient man.”
She saw red. She drew back her hand in a fist and threw a hard punch right for his cocky face. He caught her fist the way he’d caught the apple. His huge hand just snatched it in a snap.
He held it tightly, just as his dark green eyes held hers with an unfamiliar gleam. He pulled her against him with a hard jerk. One hand pinned her fist behind her back and the other hand slid to her neck and gripped it.
She never took her eyes off him. Something in his look mocked her. She wanted him to see her anger, to feel the heat of it the way she did.
Her blood felt like it was burning through her body. Her emotional control was stretched so thin it felt as if it would snap any moment.
She tried to kick him.
He stepped back just as her knee came up. “Stop fighting me. You won’t win.”
/> “I won’t give in.”
“Neither will I.” His words were a challenge, but the look he had was what kept her silent. It was unsettling because it no longer mocked her. It was different. Raw and intense.
His gaze flicked to her mouth. The hand that held her neck tightened. She could feel pressure from his thumb. Then he lowered his head.
“Don’t.”
His mouth stopped just barely an inch from hers. His breath was hot and brushed her lips. He didn’t move again. But he didn’t blink either. The longer he looked at her, the harder it was for her to breathe, to keep her own eyes equally hard. For a brief moment she felt a flash of sympathy for rabbits and foxes and whatever other game was destined to be hunted and trapped.
“You don’t want this.” His statement was really a question.
It took her a moment to find her voice, at least to find a voice she was certain wouldn’t give away her fear. When she spoke her tone was clear. “No.”
She waited for him. He would do it. She was certain he would kiss her anyway. This was a man who took whatever he wanted.
The next thing she knew he had swept her up into his arms. He carried her to the unmade bed. A terrible panic seized her. The room swam for a dizzying moment; it was such a foreign and helpless feeling that she couldn’t stop the small sound of fear that escaped her lips.
He dropped her on the bed so hard she bounced. Stunned, she looked up at him.
He stood there looming over her with a stance and look like that of Lucifer. She was acutely aware that he was powerful enough to do whatever he wanted to her. He knew it, too; she could read that awareness in his eyes.
“Go to sleep, George.” He jerked a blanket over her.
She watched him, waiting for his next move. She didn’t believe he would leave her alone. But she remembered she wasn’t alone. Amy.
She sat up. “What about Amy?”
He looked back at her. “Calum rescued her.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s with him. Just like you’re with me.”
At the foot of the bed he grabbed his boots and shoved his feet into them, then crossed the room and unlocked the door. He turned in the doorway, one hand firmly gripping the edge of the door. “Don’t try anything else foolish. There’s no way out of here.”
Chapter 24
I like men to behave like men.
I like them strong and childish.
—Francoise Sagan
There was a way out.
Georgina tugged hard on the last tight knot in her makeshift rope. She had used his shirts. She stood and walked across the room to a window.
After eyeing the rocky ground below, she looked back at the length of the rope. She really couldn’t tell if it was long enough. She needed to test it so she went to the window and pulled up hard on the sash.
The window was heavy and swollen from the moist air. She raised it and it squeaked loudly. She stopped. She had to make certain no one heard her.
Once it was open she leaned outside and fed down the line of shirts. The end stopped just short of the ground.
She gave a wicked laugh. “Go to sleep? Hunh!” She laughed again. “Not me, MacOaf.”
She was still muttering happily when she sat down by the headboard of the huge bed and tied the remaining end around one of the heavily carved feet. She used at least seven good and tight double knots. She stood, dusted off her hands, and ran back to the window where she judged the length again.
Perhaps one more shirt. She drew up the link of shirts and coiled it on the floor.
A moment later she stood inside the closet, examining the clothes. She’d used every last one of his shirts, so she thumbed through the remaining things and took a pair of buckskin leather riding breeches. They worked wonderfully.
Daylight was coming and the mist outside was growing lighter. But she was ready. She picked up a heavy coat she was stealing and wrapped some spare clothes inside, tying the arms of the jacket together with a firm knot.
For just the briefest span of seconds she thought of the little girl, Kirsty. Georgina was certain the skirt and shirtwaist she was wearing and the dress for Amy she’d rolled inside the heavy jacket were her mother’s clothes.
She had no choice. Besides there were plenty of things left for the child. She tossed the bundled clothing outside before she crawled onto the window ledge and sat there with her feet dangling in the damp air.
It was certainly a long way down. She took a deep breath and turned around. She gripped the shirts tightly in both hands, then she lowered herself out the upper window.
She moved carefully, hand over hand. Twice she scraped the side of the house and the rocks scratched her knuckles and forearms.
The rope became wilder the farther down she got. It tended to swing back and forth. To keep from banging against the house every half foot or so, she had to struggle and kick her legs wildly and clamp the rope between her thighs.
She looked down. She was just about halfway. So she paused for a moment, took a deep breath, then she slid the next hand down a few inches.
Not more than an instant later she heard a sharp whistle.
She froze.
“Great legs, George.” Eachann was standing beneath her, right next to the side of the house. He had one boot resting on a large rock and an elbow propped on his bent knee while he grinned up at her.
She hung there, her legs wrapped tightly around his shirts and her hands gripping them so hard her arms had begun to quiver.
“Do that little thing again where you wiggle your butt and let my shirts slide between your drawers.”
Her hands slipped and she struggled, kicking out her legs to try to grasp a steady hold again.
He was crowing the whole time. “Thanks, George. That last eyeful was even better.” He paused. “You know, I’ll never look at these shirts in the same way again.” Then he gave an obnoxious and wicked bark of laughter.
She struggled and fumed and flushed angrily, trying to keep her legs together and to not slide down any farther.
Time ticked by with nothing but stubborn silence.
He stretched and gave a mock yawn, then said, “Not in a hurry anymore? Well, that’s fine, George. I’m in no hurry.”
Her arms were killing her.
His arms were crossed again in that annoying way he had, as if all he had to do was wait and the world would come to him.
She didn’t budge, just glared down at him. Then her hands slipped again and she groaned, hanging there stubbornly.
“George.” He held out his arms. “Just let go. I’ll catch you.”
She looked up at the window above her. Gritting her teeth, she started to climb back up, but she could only go about a foot because she had almost no feeling left in her arms and hands.
“You are stubborn.”
She knew she didn’t have the strength to go back up. But to admit that to him would be worse than sawing off her own feet.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, then. I have no choice.” He reached out and tugged on the shirts. “The way I see it, the odds are three to one it will hold both of us. Let’s test it.”
“Wait! It can’t possibly hold both of us!”
“I thought I warned you about doing anything else foolish. You don’t listen very well.” He grabbed the shirts and jerked them so tautly that Georgina slid down two feet all at once.
She shrieked.
His hands slid slowly up her calves.
She kicked her legs out at him, but missed. Her hands slipped. She fell the rest of the way. Her bottom smacked him right in the chest and they both tumbled to the ground.
Stunned and shocked, she lay there sprawled all over him.
She was mortified.
He was laughing.
Chapter 25
’Tis always morning somewhere.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was almost morning and Calum wasn’t laughing. He was standing in the library before
an open window. He dumped out a bucket half filled with water. It was just one of many scattered randomly around the room. He set the bucket down and went to get another. He walked past the chair where Amy was curled up and sound asleep. She’d been asleep since the ceiling had stopped leaking. About a half an hour ago.
He stopped to watch her for what must have been the tenth time. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to look at her. He just did.
A log snapped loudly in the fireplace. He remembered himself and turned away. It wasn’t easy.
He grabbed two more buckets, crossed the room, and dumped them out. He closed the window and turned the latch, but he didn’t move.
He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, then shoved his hands in his pockets and stared outside in an attempt to prove to himself he could look at something else.
It had been one hell of a night. Thank God it was almost over. Outside, the color of the fog was changing. The sun was coming up; it turned the dark gray curtain of mist into a bright white one.
This was the kind of fog that rolled in and walled off the islands, made them seem like small independent countries. Most mainlanders thought of the islands as places where you were lonely and trapped. Prisons.
Islanders seemed like foreigners to those who lived on the mainland where they could move about from town to town or city to city with something they mistook for freedom.
But Calum had Highland blood flowing through his veins. He liked the aloneness. The isolation. He had freedom here, where he could do as he wished. He was free to hunt or ride, run or walk about all that was his own.
To him it wasn’t a prison, but a refuge.
But he suddenly felt confused and uncomfortable in his own home; it was like waking up to find that his skin didn’t fit. He tried to sort out his feelings and found himself looking at Amy again.
She was still sound asleep in that chair.
