by L. L. Muir
“Will you stay for a bite, sir?” The tone of her voice suggested he not decline again. The hands on her hips promised no less than war if he did.
The silence stretched.
“I’ll be happy to supper with ye madam.”
Her face didn’t change. The formidable cloud hadn’t moved from her brow. “And a story.”
Rory laughed. It was the sweetest sound, but Bridget forced herself to start up the steps toward the large ornate doors. If she turned now, the baron and all else would know clearly how passionately she wanted more time with the Highlander. She paused at the door as if impatient for her grandmother to join her. Her ears strained to catch his response.
“You’ll have a story, madam, if you doona mind me talkin’ with me mouth full.”
“Done.” Grandmother scurried up the stairs as fast as a woman that age could scurry. She took hold of Bridget’s elbow once more and they made their escape.
Bridget expected to be questioned, but the old woman only patted her arm and led her through the kitchens. Huge copper tubs of steaming water awaited in a private chamber. And as soon as Mallory and Vivianne joined them, maids peeled away their borrowed clothes without ceremony. When Bridget’s underskirts were loosed and dropped, the maid behind her gasped.
She’d nearly forgotten.
Grandmother threatened the attendants to hold their tongues, then sent them away. She waiting on the three of them herself while they told most of what had happened since the day of Grandfather’s funeral more than six months before.
“Imagine my surprise,” she said, “when I got your letter saying you’d not be coming to London, but I was to act as if you had. Then two days later, I received one from your brother, begging me to come to Edinburgh to save your reputations.”
Bridget sighed into the steam. “Did he say how he knew?”
Grandmother nodded and handed her a jar of flaked soap. “Bertie found your list.”
She groaned. “I was afraid I hadn’t burned it.”
Grandmother cleared her throat nervously. Then did it again. “I shouldn’t ask, mind you, but I have no more patience than you do, so there you are. Did any of you find the souvenir you sought?”
Bridget didn’t know how to answer. Obviously, neither did the others. There was only the sound of dripping.
“None of you then? Well, I’m sorry. Like I’ve told you before, no man can ever measure up to a Highlander.”
Bridget wished they could talk about something else, or better yet, not speak at all. Her water was cooling, and her bottom hurt again.
Mallory chuckled. “Grandmother Kennison? Perhaps you should warn us. Just what kind of stories are we going to hear about you and Alistair Graham?”
The old woman blushed. “Nothing happened between us, not that your grandfather would believe me. Oh, he loved me. He simply couldn’t trust me. And he assumed everything Alistair Graham said had to be lie. So it did more harm than good when Alistair gave him the same story. He could never trust that Bridget’s father was truly his son.” She stared into the nearby fire for a long moment. “Nothing makes you want to sin like already being accused of the deed,” she said to herself, then shook her private thoughts away. “I am a wicked influence on you ladies. Don’t listen to me.”
But Bridget was listening. And she was very afraid she would regret a few of the opportunities she’d ignored in the past week. She could easily see herself in her grandmother’s skin, decades from now, wishing for something she should have reached out and taken. But her grandmother’s choices hadn’t affected anyone but herself and the Scotsman who’d loved her from afar. If Bridget had been in the same position, she might have made her grandmother proud.
But if it weren’t for the baron, she might never have accepted the Duchess’ dare. She might never have met Rory in the first place.
CHAPTER FORTY
Bridget held tightly to her grandmother's arm as the women joined the menfolk in the great hall that evening. The old woman had excused her from socializing until morning, but hiding from Braithwaite meant hiding from Rory. She tried, truly tried, not to look first for red hair…but failed. It wasn't her fault, really, when the three Highlanders stood at least a head above the rest, Ian even more so, in addition to standing on the dais at the far end of the room.
The trio spoke quietly while watching Phinny and the baron chatting with Mallory and Vivianne. Rory’s eyes lifted to hers the second her slipper touched the polished wood floor. Then he glanced away. Even from across the room, she noticed the way his jaw flexed. She was going to miss that jaw.
With all men standing, it took no effort to see that Grandmother was right. No man could ever compare to a Highlander. So it was no wonder Grandfather had never believed his wife hadn't succumbed to the charms of one of these. If not for the heartfelt confession in the kitchen only moments before, Bridget wouldn't have believed it either.
She forced herself to look away from the mountain of a man as she neared the dais where a large round table had been set for nine. Phinny did not meet her gaze, but bowed as she passed him. The baron bent nothing in her honor, but raised his brows and smiled. It sent shivers through her, and won her a discreet but concerned glance from Grandmother.
Rory held out a hand to Mallory and seated her between himself and Connor. Vivianne rounded the table to sit next to Ian, leaving a seat for Bridget to the left of the ornately carved chair at the top of the table. She only hoped that seat would be occupied by her grandmother and not the baron. She tried not to feel slighted as she passed Rory, but her chest tightened, then tightened even more when she felt the whisper of his fingers inside the curve of her hand. It happened so quickly she was tempted to examine her palm for some sign of his touch, but she felt far too many eyes upon her. She paused as a page pulled out her seat. Rory held out the ornate chair for Grandmother, but there was not so much as a glance in her direction to indicate he'd been aware of the contact.
Had she imagined it?
As soon as everyone was seated, food poured into the hall from all directions. The toll of the journey became a toll on the household as platters were stripped of their savory and sweet bounties and even Baron Braithwaite appeared too hungry to find fault. Bridget held no illusions, however. As soon as the man was sated, the complaining would begin. She suddenly realized it was just a ruse to lure someone into insulting him, which meant an excuse to lose his temper.
Ahah! She had just mastered one of his games, and they were yet to be married!
She fought to control her excited breathing but couldn’t keep from facing her opponent. When she caught his eye, she smiled whole-heartedly. His answering suspicion only pleased her more but she forced herself to sober and look elsewhere. Just because there were others who could come to her rescue didn’t mean it was wise to take a stick to a hornet’s nest.
“Are you quite all right, Bridget, dear?” Grandmother patted her on the back.
“Fine. I am fine.” She dared not look again at the baron. She knew what he could do when embarrassed. When he'd taken her on that ill-advised tour of his lands, he'd been humiliated, accidentally, by a crofter’s piglet. When they'd driven away, Braithwaite had narrowly missed running over the man's small daughter. No one had suspected it was accidental. Indeed, Bridget was sure the only accident had been in missing the child.
“So, you're young Alistair, then?” Grandmother motioned for her plate to be removed, took a drink of her wine, then settled back for conversation with her hands in her lap.
“Yes, madam. Alistair Macpherson, but I'm called Rory by those who know me.” His eyes flashed to Bridget, stopping her heart, then they flashed away again.
“Tell me everything you remember of your grandsire, Rory.” Grandmother didn't invite, she demanded.
As his voice warmed to a childhood memory, Bridget's mind warmed as well. She'd called him Rory. Did she know him? Was there a message there? She grabbed her goblet and took a long drink, hopefully hiding the flush sh
e could feel heating her face. Was the man aware of what the touch of his fingers and the shock of his gaze could do to her?
But there was danger true danger sitting across the table from him. Even if he wasn’t aware of that danger, she was. If he insulted Braithwaite in any way, he might die for it. Even if the man didn't care for his bride, paying her too much attention was insult enough to a man who saw insults at every corner.
No, the best course for everyone was for Rory to leave. As sad as that made her, she knew she was fortunate he had already made such plans. She'd have plenty of time later to mourn the loss of him, to savor the memory of him.
She would always remember the heart-stopping sight of Rory Macpherson sitting upon that enormous rock as she and young Jamie approached, believing they’d left the Highlander and his friends far behind. She’d had a perfectly sound plan until he’d mucked it up.
She would remember climbing the plateau, taking in the beauty of the gloaming, then turning to see him waiting patiently by his fire, waiting for her to realize she'd been thwarted yet again.
On more than one occasion, she’d turned to find him staring at her with a strange intensity, then frowning, only to ignore her for the remainder of the day. She had come to realize he was suffering just as she was, afflicted with an attraction that threatened all his plans as well. Neither of them had wanted to want each other. Now it didn’t matter if they wanted it or not. It was too late. It just was.
And another surprising truth—it wasn’t just his kisses she longed for.
She looked to across the table and watched Braithwaite's teeth rip the meat from a small game bird. His mouth snarled to wrap around the morsel. Greasy lips closed and twisted as he ate and she wondered if she'd ever be able to suffer through one kiss from that source. Hopefully, the act was far too tender for a man like him to consider.
Those lips tugged to one side in a sly smile. He'd caught her looking. With a wicked leer, he licked the corner of his mouth and laughed.
If she were blushing before, it was naught compared with this. When she reached up to rub her forehead and take a moment’s shelter behind her sleeve, Braithwaite only laughed louder and she was hard pressed to ignore the questioning looks aimed her way by her brother and the rest.
Rory's voice rumbled through her bones; he was telling her grandmother how Alistair Graham had died, happy as he'd always been, still hopeful to find Grandmother sneaking over the Scottish border.
“Yes, I remember his cheerfulness.” The old woman's voice turned wistful. “Hard on a woman's heart, you know, cheerfully being handed over to another man, even if that other man was my husband.”
“I can imagine.” Rory's attention would have appeared to all else in the hall as being on her grandmother; his head was turned toward the woman, but those dark eyes shot through Bridget like arrows.
A footman hurried, breathless, to Phinny's side. After a brief word, with Braithwaite straining to hear, he stepped back with the pages against the wall.
For the first time since they’d arrived, Phinny’s gaze rested briefly on her before moving to Rory. To Phinny’s left, Braithwaite grinned like the devil he was, which meant someone was either hurt, or going to be hurt.
“Macpherson,” Phinny said, “the passage you sought has been found on a ship that leaves within the hour. My man will make the arrangements if you still wish to leave tonight.”
Phinny was being awfully accommodating, was he not? Were these two such fast friends, or was Phinny as relieved as Braithwaite at the possibility of Rory's departure.
“I do.” Rory sounded anxious—yes, anxious—to be gone quickly. But she supposed someone had to end the torture.
“Grandmother? I'd like to retire, if you don't mind.” Bridget rose, and with her, the men. “Thank you, Mr. Macpherson, for your aid in our safe arrival. Godspeed.” She didn't quite raise her eyes to his face as she spoke and quickly turned to Ian on her left. “Perhaps I'll see you and Sir Connor tomorrow? We’ve planned a full two weeks of shopping. It would be nice to have a few more men about in the evenings to save the baron from boredom.”
The Viking shook his blond mane. “I’m sorry, Lady Bridget. The pair of us have business back at the Borders. We’ll need to leave in the morning.” He looked down at Vivianne, gave her a sad smile and a wink.
“Godspeed to you too, then. Perhaps our paths will cross again someday.” Bridget curtsied to the table in general, then strode toward the door.
“Baron Braithwaite!” Grandmother's voice rang through the dining hall.
Bridget turned her head to the side but didn’t slow. The baron had started to follow her, but her grandmother’s voice had stopped him. She took advantage and hurried on.
“Tell me,” the old woman continued merrily. “How are you worthy of my granddaughter? And while you're about it, show me your teeth.”
The prospect of Braithwaite escorting her to her room left her so shaken she couldn’t worry whether or not her grandmother embarrassed the man. If Lady Kennison sensed danger, she could easily bully her way through it.
She passed the kitchen hearth before she had acknowledged where she was headed. A few desperate minutes passed between the house and the stables and soon she was backing up into the darkness, pulling the doors closed behind her. Then she panicked.
What if he goes to the other barn?
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness around her. The tickling smell of fresh hay soothed her. And the sight of Rory's horse gave her hope. Surely, he wouldn't leave his animal behind.
Many footsteps marched across the courtyard, growing louder, and Bridget moved past the last stall and swung around a splintered post. A wood barb pricked her finger but her gasp was covered by the sound of doors crashing open.
Had Braithwaite watched her escape?
“Ian? Bring her to me.” Rory's voice was low, but the command was clear.
“Bridget, do ye mean?”
“Ye ken full well. Go and fetch her, but be quiet about it!”
Ian’s laughter faded.
Did Rory mean to kidnap her? Seduce her into leaving with him? As much as she wanted him to carry her off, she couldn't allow it. Too many would suffer.
Connor, bless him, put the question to him.
“Rory? What are ye thinking, mon?”
“I'm thinking the lass will have a proper goodbye from me is all.”
“Ah. A proper goodbye, ye say.” No one moved. “Proper.” Someone tapped incessantly against wood. “And what do you deem a proper goodbye, then?”
“I'll do nothing you haven't done, my friend.”
“Auch! And what do you suppose I've done, you fool? I've kissed my Lady Pirate, and held her some, 'tis all.”
“Sounds like a proper goodbye to me.”
“Hmph.”
Bridget couldn't argue with that. She walked out of the darkness, slowly, her skirts, lacking the wide under-frame, dragged a bit, and the two men turned toward the noise, both bracing themselves for an attack. Perhaps they'd clearly understood the dangerous man beneath Braithwaite’s fine clothes.
The doors stood open, the bright, large moon tried to usurp the sun’s glory long before it was due to set.
“So, Rory Macpherson, you've deigned to wish me fare-thee-well, have you?” Bridget put her hands on her hips and stepped into the light.
“Go away, Connor,” Rory growled.
“Mayhap the lady wouldn't care to have me go, what with your fine mood—”
“Go away, Connor.” Bridget couldn't help the breathlessness in her voice. The man truly could not move quickly enough to suit her.
The dark one laughed, backed out of the barn, then pushed the doors closed.
Rory came at her reaching out in the shadows and in spite of her excitement and her joy that he'd wanted to kiss her once more, she couldn't help but back away from him. When he finally brushed her arm, then pulled her to him, she shrieked, but was soon silenced in the sweetest possible embrace.
; One hand pulled at her waist, fingers twisted in the fabric of her gown trapping her to him. A forearm wended its way over her collar and up her neck. His fingers laced through her hair, his hand molded her head as he proved his hunger for her mouth, over and over again.
“I love you, Bridget. I didn’t say it before.” The words rushed over her lips before his mouth descended again.
She tried to pull away, but he would not surrender his control. Finally, she turned her head.
“Yes. You did. When you said to never doubt you. I knew.”
He kissed her again, never giving her a chance to tell him the same. After a while, it was difficult to remember why she was going to marry the baron. Difficult, but not impossible. She had to put an end to it.
She pushed on his chest and he broke the kiss and took a step back.
“Do not doubt me, Highlander.”
He grinned. She could see well enough to tell, and those white teeth disappeared as he pulled her close again. She was in the process of giving as good as she'd gotten when the doors opened once more. The moon would not keep their secret and threw a tattle-tale beam on their embrace.
“Rory, ye've got to go!” Connor took her by the elbow and pushed her back toward her previous hiding place and whispered, “Go ye out the back way, lass. Your groom is coming. When he found Ian looking for you, he had the manor searched. Be sure of a good reason he could not find you.”
After a furtive, final glance at her Highlander, she hurried into the shadows and fumbled about for her escape, a door she prayed would be there. She ran her hand lightly over the wall, dreading another splinter from the cracking wood. Finally, she found the thin line of light that marked the edges. The handle was a simple loop of leather and she pulled. She stepped out into the evening light and turned to her right, spurred on by the sound of Braithwaite’s voice calling out to the Scotsmen.
She peaked around the corner of the barn, judged the distance to the carriage house…then she was plunged into darkness when a black cloth was placed over her head from behind.
