by Madelyn Hill
Alice continued to wet the tea. Her slow movements soothed Vivian; they were deliberate, as if Alice were giving her time to mull over what she wanted to say.
She hadn’t forgotten the brisk manner in which Alice had treated her, but the older woman appeared to have warmed to her presence. “And how will he punish me?”
The teapot clattered on the tray. “Punish you?” Alice asked with an indignant shudder of her shoulders.
Clutching the coverlet, Vivian said, “Aye, for trying to leave.”
The maid came close to the bed, her finger wagging like a crooked stick. “He nearly drowned saving you. If he was of a mind to punish, you’d be dead.”
She shivered at the vehemence in Alice’s words. She and Laird Maclean had nearly died. All because of her stupidity. The ominous thought caught in her chest and she was so ashamed of her rash actions.
“The laird will be sending you away when he’s able. You best not anger him, lest you find yourself stuck on this island until the thaw.”
She scrambled to lift herself out of the bed, crying out at the searing pain that ripped through her body. “You must speak with him. I must return to the mainland.” She vowed to stop the betrothal.
Alice shrugged as she gently pushed her back into bed. “’Tis the way of the world and of Scotland’s weather, lass.”
“Please,” she implored trying to stop the rising panic. “Speak with him.”
Alice watched her with a pinched brow. “What has you feared so?”
Vivian looked to the fireplace and the sight of Donal Burke flashed in her mind. The ugly sneer of his face as he told her he was leaving, how he took advantage of her innocence. She winced, not wanting to relive the distasteful and frightening memory of what had happened on that evening with her betrothed.
She shook her head and turned away from Alice.
“Lass, you’re distressed. Please, let me help.” The older woman touched her shoulder.
Vivian turned toward her and saw sincere concern in her eyes. “’Tis hard to speak of.”
Alice shrugged and gave a sad nod. She handed her a cup of tea and sat in the chair next to the bed. “Tell Alice, dear. You’ll be relieved to be sharing.”
She exhaled and started talking. “Four months ago I was working in the library with my betrothed.” The scene played before her as she remembered Donal and his self-assured manner in the lab. “I transcribed my father’s notes as Donal cleaned the lab equipment. When we were done, Nessa brought us tea and biscuits to share by the fire.”
Vivian took a sip of tea, her throat dry from speaking. She kenned Nessa was trying to chaperone them against her father’s wishes. He trusted them, he’d said. Kenned Donal was an honorable man. Vivian shivered at the thought of Donal’s character.
“Take your time, lass.” Alice poured herself some tea and stirred in a spoonful of honey.
Vivian took another sip. “My father called to Nessa and she left. I. . .I sat on the chair nearest the fire and Donal, he came over to me— He—”
Alice grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Take a rest, lass.”
She nodded and blinked to stop her eyes from smarting. Alice passed her a handkerchief and Vivian wiped her eyes. ‘Twas unfair, she thought with a scowl, that she had never done any harm and yet harm seemed to come to her at every turn.
Immediately, she felt contrite. Pitiful was the only way to describe herself. A quick glance at Alice told her that the woman was patiently waiting for her to finish her story.
“Och, Alice, I was such a fool.”
Alice chuckled. “Most women are when it comes to a lad.”
Surely not as foolish as Vivian had been. But she continued, “Donal knelt before me and wrapped my hands in his. He seemed so. . .attentive. Then he kissed me.” Heat raced up her face. She behaved so horribly. “I didn’t ken what to do, but I did pull away.” Donal had laughed at her, partly pleased at her modesty, slightly chastising her for not thinking him proper. “He pulled me toward the settee and kissed me again.” Tears trickled over her cheeks.
“Och, lass. Nothing to be ashamed of. ‘Twas your betrothed. Many a couple has found themselves in the same situation.”
Aye, ’twas the truth of it, but that didn’t lessen her shame. “He kept kissing me, grabbing, then he—I can’t be telling you.”
Alice stood and pulled the coverlet up to her chin. “No need, lass. I ken what he did, the wee bit o’mon.” She felt her forehead and tsked. “Rest, lass. And forget that devil of a mon. ‘Tis not worth your time or pain.”
Her nerves were rattled, pulled tight beneath her skin at the memories. “I’m shamed, Alice. ‘Tis the truth of it.”
“Nay. You’re a fine lass. One any mon would be proud to call his.” She held the cup up to Vivian’s lips for a sip. “Rest.”
“He never returned after that night,” she said softly. “He never came back.”
Alice watched her, compassion etched within the many lines of her face. She shook her head. “Then he can no be calling himself a mon.”
And for Vivian all hope of marriage was lost. No one would want her as their wife. Not a shamed woman such as herself, she thought with regret.
She blinked and took a deep breath, relieved once again to be free of that nightmare and only ridden with the memories and fears.
“I’ll be no more trouble, I assure you.” Come the first opportunity, she would be on her way to freedom. But only with the laird’s approval. “You can go back to the way it was before we stepped foot in the castle.”
“Humph,” Alice muttered. “’Twould be a shame. Haven’t seen the lad take so much interest in anything in a verra long time.”
Easing up to lean against the headboard, Vivian wrinkled her brow. Alice had a strange definition of interest. “His interest is only to see me gone.”
Alice stirred her tea with a thoughtful expression. “Would it be wretched living here?”
Vivian thought for a moment before answering, not wanting to hurt the woman’s feelings, or truly express the reasons she so wanted to leave. “Laird Maclean despises me. I’ve been nothing but trouble.”
Alice chuckled. “He never left your side.”
The revelation astonished her as she allowed Alice to adjust her pillows and hand her the steaming cup of tea. Taking a sip, Vivian relished the hot sweetness sliding down her sore throat.
He never left my side.
Confused, she tried to scour her memories of him being at her side. A lullaby trickled through her mind, the song many lads and lasses were familiar with. It had soothed her, made her feel like she was no longer lost in the sea. “Why would Laird Maclean bother with me?”
Slowly Alice turned, her face masked with tense lines of concern, apprehension, and a touch of anger. “You’re his only hope for life. He doesn’t ken this, but I do.” Her fist pounded against her chest.
Perplexed Vivian opened her mouth to speak when Alice shook her head in one brisk motion.
She left the room with one more piece of advice. “He needs ye, truth be told. As much as you need him.”
Vivian watched her go as she mused over the prophetic statement, confused and, more importantly, terrified by what Alice had said.
Was she really Laird Maclean’s only hope? If she were, why would he be so eager to send her away? She kenned so little about him. His cold demeanor and the fact that he looked down at her with such anger gave her little indication that Alice’s words held any truth.
Would there be a way to learn? He seemed so distant and lonely. Vivian hated to think of anyone as lonely as Laird Maclean. In fact, it pained her to see him so tortured. Even in her limited existence, she had her father, Nessa, and Bernard.
Vivian was curious, purely in a scientific realm. The study of nature, even human nature, intrigued her. And he was certainly an interesting subject.
She decided to observe him while she waited for safe passage. Mayhap he’d thaw a bit of his icy exterior and give her a chance.
>
Chapter 10
Vivian threw back the covers and struggled to place her feet on the cold floor, her muscles weak from lying abed the past seven days. She was growing mad staring at the four walls.
Laird Maclean had failed to appear in her chamber again since she’d awakened. She grew frustrated at the staid messages he sent through his servants.
And she assumed the servants were trying to compensate for the rudeness of their laird.
Liam faithfully stocked the hearth with peat and entertained her with humorous stories of his youth in Inverness. She had grown to love his quite manner. And when he told her some of her father’s books had washed ashore, she nearly leapt up and kissed him. When she tried, fatigue won out and she wasn’t able to chase down her father’s tomes no matter her effort. And she’d stopped asking if Laird Maclean would bring them to her two days past.
Luckily Alice filled the time between Liam’s visits and Vivian’s naps. And she’d grown to love the protective Alice, blustery one moment, as tender as a lamb the next. The time spent with the maid allowed for lengthy conversations of the laird’s past. It troubled her how interested she was in the dramatic lifestyle of the Macleans. Troubled her and fascinated her. Her settled life at Westington paled next to the intrigue and deceit of Lomarcan. But she felt the older woman was leaving something out. She’d often remain silent when asked about Galen and his youth.
“’Twas tragic. Aye, the Scots are a tragic lot, to be sure,” Alice confirmed one day as Vivian rested over herb tea and apple tartlets. “M’lady was a fish out o’ water, she was. He, Laird Maclean, I mean, snatched her practically out of her mam’s arms. Too young to handle an estate, too young for the passion he held for her.”
Intrigued, she asked, “What was she like?”
Stirring her tea, Alice thought for a moment and replied, “A beauty to be sure. Hair black as pitch and eyes the blue of a clear sky.” The maid tilted her head; Vivian smiled at the twinkle in her wise, light-brown eyes. “She hadn’t a chance. Laird Maclean was determined to have her for his own. ‘Twas why he rebuilt Wolf’s Castle.”
She gaped as she thought about the décor of the castle. “Why would he rebuild such a castle if he was in love?”
Tsking, Alice set her cup down. “’Twasn’t it quite the scandal in its day on the mainland? His grandsire started the castle ages ago when the clan lost its castle on Isle Tiree to Clan Campbell.” Alice scowled. “This island was the first place they landed. Och, but he was a wretched mon—horrid and when he was murdered the clan moved on—except for Galen’s father. When Laird Maclean asked for Lady Brighid’s hand, she refused him. He paid her mother a tidy sum and brought her to the island.” A crimson hue rose over the maid’s face from the stiff collar of her proper chemise to the roots of her sooty hair. “He kept her here until she was with child. All the while still working on the castle. After the laird was born, the lady took to the east wing and barely spoke a civil word to the auld bastard. And the bairn, why she never as much as held him in her arms.”
It was hard to breathe, the idea was so horrid. And so familiar. Hadn’t her own mother abandoned her? Vivian stayed still beneath the thick coverlet. Only the warmth of the wool halted the rack of chills racing up her spine.
The story broke her heart. How wretched to grow up in such a lethal atmosphere.
Alice seemed not to notice her discomfort. “’Twas then Laird Maclean started bringing in strange chemists. No one kenned what they were about, but the castle became his lair. He finished building the castle, och it took an ugly turn.”
Recalling the conversation with Auld Alice brought the realization that Robert Stuart must have known Laird Maclean during this time. How had her father called a man so vile his dear friend? Vivian cringed at how little she kenned the man who’d so lovingly raised her. His judgment of character, beginning with her mother and ending with her betrothed, was misguided.
Needing answers, Vivian found herself trying to change from her sleeping gown. Nessa had begged her to ring if she needed help, but she was impatient. When she opened the ebony armoire, she gasped.
It was filled.
Not with men’s clothing, but a range of vibrant gowns, woolen skirts, and cloaks. There was an old arisaid made of the clan’s plaid and another of thick charcoal wool. She pulled them aside and found satin slippers and sturdy shoes lining the bottom like obedient soldiers. She donned a midnight blue skirt with an ecru lace bustle peeking out like ruffled feathers. A matching blouse and waist coat completed the outfit. Viewing herself in the looking glass, Vivian approved of the somber color but not the lace. She fingered the finely stitched wool; Laird Maclean’s mother had possessed beautiful clothing. ‘Twas dreadfully soon to escape from mourning clothes, she thought, but she saw no other option.
Her pallor made her look as if she had been mourning for years. She touched the bruise stretching across her brow and sighed at the matching rings beneath her eyes. Shrugging her aching shoulders, Vivian rolled a kertch to form a triangle. Out of habit, she crossed herself in reverence to the holy trinity. The embroidered kertch held back her curly hair. ‘Twas serviceable, however inappropriate to wear as an unmarried woman. No matter, she thought with a grin, she’d done little proper since landing on Mac Tìre.
She headed down the stairs. Och, didn’t the castle still have the ever-present darkness? She tried to remain focused as she strode forward instead of thinking of Laird and Lady Maclean’s hatred of each other.
One purpose drove her toward the library—she wanted the books.
Over breakfast, Liam had confirmed that the Laird Maclean pored over the volumes nightly. She sent a quick prayer upward for remembering to wrap the treasured tomes in oil cloth and several layers of wool. The salt water hadn’t destroyed the books altogether and she vowed to continue her lessons, no matter how rudimentary they proved to be.
She stopped before the library, startled by the massive oak doors barring entry. She had to knock. ‘Twas the proper thing to do. Ignoring the serpent carved on the door, she rapped on the panel under the curl of its scaly belly. A grumble made its way through the thick wood. Hesitantly, she opened the door and peeked in.
Dear God, disaster—no, chaos. Books and papers littered every tabletop. Ashes spilled over the hearth and onto the floor in a grimy mess as the acrid smell of a stale fire clouded the room. She passed by an overturned chair and curtains torn from once gilded rods now folded beneath plate glass windows.
“May I help you?” came a hoarse grumble.
She spied a figure in a winged chair before the view of the turbulent ocean and carefully stepped between papers and broken glass. “I would like to continue my studies,” she said loudly, ignoring the potent smell of whiskey.
His body shifted against the thick damask of the chair. Encouraged he didn’t command her to leave, she stepped onto the small dais of the bowed window.
“What need does a young lady have with the knowledge of alchemy?” he asked without removing his gaze from the water.
“I’ve studied alchemy for several years.” Gathering courage, she pushed even further into his sanctuary. She followed his gaze out the window, searching for what captivated him. Finding nothing, she looked back to Laird Maclean.
His once white shirt was torn, filthy. Mud encased boots sat carelessly by his foot. Allowing her search to continue, Vivian’s gaze rested on his face. “Now that my father is gone, I no longer need to do so in secret.”
“Ah, but will your future husband allow you to continue?”
She tipped up her chin. “I’ll not marry.”
He chuckled without mirth as a nasty scowl creased his face. “I’m certain your father had plans for you to marry.”
“You don’t understand. Once I am one and twenty, I may have my inheritance.” And she wouldn’t have to wed in order to survive.
He seemed to be weighing what she said before speaking. “Most codicils stipulate an inheritance would go to your husband. ‘T
is a wee bit unusual for a woman to carry on by herself.”
“Nay!” Devastated, she groped for the wall behind her. All she felt was cold glass. She hadn’t thought of the legalities of her father’s will.
Galen vaulted out of the chair, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Are you off your head?”
His hold steadied her, then she shook free of his steely grip. “If I marry, I’ll choose my husband.” One who will allow her to study alchemy.
He cocked a brow as he looked down at her. Shadows cast a disturbing look to his face. Hard planes. Mysterious. Frightening. “I would think you’d love to wed and have a family.”
The way he said family grated her nerves. As if the word was vile. But she had to admit, to him the idea of a family must be similar to pain.
She narrowed her gaze at him and wrenched out of his hold. “On my own terms, m’laird.”
He grunted and sat back on his throne before the window. “You’ve no leverage, no matter how much you wish it so.”
A glare creased his troubled features; his penetrating blue eyes never wavered from the ocean for a moment. His unsecured hair grazed his shoulders. The gray streak made him look even more haunted—cold.
He turned and gave her a haughty glance. “Are you finished?”
Vivian blushed when she realized he’d sensed her probing inspection. He cocked a brow as he awaited her answer.
“Are you well, m’laird?”
A maddening chuckle rumbled through his chest. The tremor of his broad shoulders unexpectedly enthralled her as he rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “They’re on the shelf.”
