by Madelyn Hill
“Thank you.” She grabbed the only books left intact, not caring if they were about alchemy. She needed to escape this chamber, den to a man who frightened her beyond reason, yet drew her with a longing to make him at peace.
She heard his whisper as she swept past the threshold and paced toward the dining room. “You’re welcome.”
Ah, she yearned to pour over the formula-filled pages in her chamber. As she walked she tripped on a rug as her legs weakened. She frowned as she set the books on a table until someone could help her carry them. She lovingly ran a finger along a leather spine, knowing her father had touched them, read and loved them as much as his daughter.
The scent of freshly baked bread tempted her senses, drawing her toward the kitchen. Vivian peeked in and spied several loaves cooling on the servants’ meal table.
Alice turned and faced her with a chagrinned grimace. “Does my heart good to see you up, lass,” Alice greeted her as she reached for a bunch of herbs.
She tsked at the frozen herbs. “Lost the whole lot.” Yet with a smile that exposed her crooked teeth she hardly looked troubled as she began to pluck some leaves from the stems.
“Do you need help?”
“Mind your tongue. Needing help from a lady, no less a sick one.” Alice clucked as she rinsed the icy crust from a bunch of parsley. “Madge and Nessa will be helping soon enough. Let me wet some tea.”
She pulled a face at the thought of more medicinal tea.
The old woman chuckled and filled a cup. With an easy familiarity, Alice puttered about the inviting kitchen as Vivian sipped her blissfully sweetened tea.
“I’m not a lady, Alice. You must stop referring to me as such.”
She stopped, fisting her hand at her waist. “Och. If you’re not a lady, then I am.”
Vivian laughed; the woman had quite the sense of humor.
She wondered if this was how her mother would have been with Nessa. Taking a deserved break from her social obligations and running a respectable estate. Did Ellen Stuart speak in a friendly banter or did she hold a stern reverence for the employer-maid relationship? She had never heard Nessa say a word of her mother unless pressed. Either her father forbade it, or their relationship had been strained.
Madge and Nessa arrived, interrupting her musings. After receiving a quick embrace from them, she continued to bask in the essence of the homey room. ‘Twas after her third slice of bread when the idea struck her.
“Alice, have you planned Friday’s meal?”
The maid stilled and gave her a questioning look. “Nay, lass. Why do you ask?”
“Do you think Laird Maclean would object to dining with me?” It would give her four days of preparation and, although she hated to admit, recuperation.
Realization twinkled in the older woman’s eyes. Madge scowled as Nessa clapped her hands in excitement.
“We’ll start cleaning right away, we will.”
“I will not,” spattered Madge crossly.
“Aye, you will, I say.” Nessa faced the other woman with such forcefulness, she bumped the edge of the hot stove.
“Now look what you made me do, you wee woman.”
“I did no—
“Madge,” Vivian interrupted as she rolled her eyes. “Could you do me a favor and help? I’m sure Liam and Bernard would be willing to lend a hand.”
The maidservant looked to the limestone flooring. Vivian didn’t miss the hostile emotion that skittered across her face and she wondered at her demeanor.
Madge shrugged her shoulders but kept her gaze downward. “Aye, I’ll be doing as you ask.”
Alice smiled as the other two women fought to exit the chamber first. “Like pecking hens they are, like pecking hens,” she said with a chuckle.
Chapter 11
Vivian paced back and forth before the fading fire. Her plan was set in motion. Doubts assailed her as she sank into the damask chair by the hearth.
Alice had promised to fetch her when Laird Maclean arrived for dinner. In anticipation, she’d changed into a more elaborate gown. It was one that belied her status of mourning but put a tinge of color in her cheeks. She had to admit, the supple fabric felt lovely against her skin. Smoothing the crimson silk with shaking hands, she whispered a quick prayer for her father’s forgiveness.
“Excuse me, m’lady.”
Turning, she sighed with relief at the sight of Madge. “Laird Maclean is ready for dinner?”
The maid nodded. “I should warn you, m’lady. The laird’s mood is none too good. Just as this plan is no good.”
‘Twas her luck he didn’t emerge from his dark moods when she wished it. She smiled and tried to lighten her tone. “It ‘tisn’t at all, you’ll see.”
Madge narrowed her gaze. “You’re wearing Lady Maclean’s gown?”
Vivian clutched at her dress and smiled up at the maid. “Aye, ‘twas given to me.”
“Should be mine,” she muttered as anger creased her brow.
Shocked stopped her movement. “What?”
Madge shook her head.
Resolve stiffened the line of her back as Vivian ignored the grumpy maid and strode forward before common sense conquered her bravado.
She gestured to Madge. “Shall we?”
A wry smile lifted the small maid’s mouth. “Aye, this way then.” She stopped and added, “Are you sure you want to be doing this? You never ken what his anger will make him do.”
She waved a hand. “Nonsense. Laird Maclean wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
The maidservant shrugged her shoulders and gave a sad shake of her head. Vivian had to brush the concern aside. If she didn’t, surely she’d run back and hide in her chamber. And she refused to be a prisoner of her sleeping chamber.
She hurried to the main dining hall. Madge continued past her with an uncertain glance over her shoulder. Steadying herself, she caught a glimpse of her mussed hair in a cracked mirror. The black spots on the looking glass freckled her face but failed to hide the rosy blush staining her cheeks. Taking a calming breath, she attempted to tame her hair back into a tight chignon. The familiar task slowed her pulse and she calmly stepped from the dreary hall into the candlelit room.
Nessa, Madge, and Alice had done themselves proud. The table gleamed due to a healthy polish and candles flanked a centerpiece of china figurines. She touched her stomach as it grumbled. Och, she was hungry.
She began to feel more comfortable with her plan. Aye, this island was filled with surprises as Nessa had told her they had stores below to last through the harsh winter weather. Bernard had shared there were many a lamb in the barn and a few cows as well. But never did she think they’d be able to have such a sumptuous meal.
Laird Maclean looked over the rim of his wine glass at her. A storm raged in his ocean-colored eyes. “Go upstairs and rest,” he commanded.
Hmmm. Did Alice not tell him she’d be dining here as well? “Rest,” she said with the sweep of her hand, “is all I’ve been doing these past several days.”
He cocked a brow as he lowered his glass. “You are ill.” His reminder played less harsh and Vivian strode to the right side of the table.
Liam emerged from the shadows, wearing a pressed wool coat over his usual rumpled shirt. Bernard followed shyly as he slipped a quick smile. Alice must have relayed the importance of the evening. The elderly man pulled out a chair and Vivian tucked her voluminous skirts around her as she sat.
“Thank you.”
Laird Maclean scoffed beneath his breath, but it did little to deter the servant’s broad smile.
“May I be pouring you some wine, miss?” His wrinkled eyes sparkled with conspiracy.
“You may not,” came the growl from across the table.
This was going to be harder than she thought. Raising her gaze so it met Laird Maclean’s directly, Vivian flashed the overbearing man a challenging look. “I’ll have a wee bit. Thank you, Bernard.”
The laird severed their visual connection and grasped his drink
once again. He swallowed the contents in one gulp and thudded the glass against the hard wood of the table. “More.”
Liam obliged him, bowed, and then left the room. Bernard moved a platter from the serving table and onto the sizeable dining table before following after Liam.
She clutched the crystal glass, then sipped the mellow, oaky wine. She decided it was time for civil conversation to help ease the tension. “Tell me about your experiments.”
Alarm exploded across his chiseled features. When the line of his shoulders lowered, he spoke with the thick brogue of the region. “I merely assisted my father.”
“Oh.” She tried to hide her disappointment. She’d thought they shared an interest and had planned on spending the evening discussing alchemy. She fiddled with her fork. She had no experience talking with men, especially, she thought as she looked at him, a man who was so angry.
Nessa and Madge entered carrying trays laden with roasted pheasant and heaping bowls of vegetables. Food was one comfort Lomarcan Castle did offer. Mores the pity that conversation wasn’t included.
“That will be all,” he told the maids with a dismissive tone.
“Aye, m’laird.” Madge removed Nessa’s burdensome tray and bustled her out of the room. She looked at Vivian, concern and something Vivian didn’t fathom filled her gaze.
He served himself, as if trying to ignore her presence.
She reached for a platter of buttered peas and spooned a serving onto her plate. You can do this. “I also assisted my father,” she confided between bites, “but he rarely allowed me to be present for the actual mixing of components.”
The laird straightened in his seat, his scowl easing. “At least he was sensible.”
“Mattered not,” she said with a shrug. “I taught myself while he slept.”
He spoke without glancing her way and continued to fill himself. “And just what did you expect to accomplish?”
Vivian looked around the dim room. A fire crackled quietly at the far end. Its heat twined its fingers around her, bringing relief. Or was it the unfamiliar effect of the red wine easing her nerves?
She had thought she’d be able to study unhampered by society at Lomarcan and his attitude grated her. “I just wanted to learn, ‘tis all. My father provided me with little knowledge of the outside world.”
“A lady of substance such as yourself, I’m quite surprised.”
She didn’t appreciate his snide tone and raised her brow. “’Tis true. I never left our estate until he decided to travel to Lomarcan.”
His fork stopped before his mouth. “How can that be?” he demanded.
She looked to the fireplace, uncertain how to answer and frightened of the truth of her life at Westington. She waved away his comment, uncomfortable with the direction their conversation had taken. ‘Twasn’t his business.
Laird Maclean emptied his goblet and filled it again. The man certainly appeared to like spirits.
“How did your father die?”
All emotion fled his face. His jaw clenched as if it were granite shifting in a quake. “I’ll not speak of my father.”
She felt the bristly coldness of his response as if the wind barreled through the chamber. “’Tis fine,” she replied disappointed the evening hadn’t proceeded as she envisioned. “I miss my father incredibly.”
He tipped his head toward her. “Aye.”
“He was merely trying to meet with your father.” The words clogged her throat, but she braved on. “He was so excited.”
The laird scoffed. “’Tis the first time I’ve heard of someone excited to meet my father.”
She looked at the table, unable to respond and reveal what she kenned about his father. “My father was a grand man. He planned to discuss a new theory. But he needed help and thought your father had answers.”
He pushed his plate away and leaned against the high back of his regally carved chair. Glass in hand, he swirled the burgundy liquid as if mesmerized. “And, surprise, you found me.” Self-loathing tainted his voice.
Vivian immediately felt contrite. “I’m sorry. I’m still in shock.” She shuddered as chills quivered up her spin. “Numb.”
He nodded in understanding. “I’ve been numb for years.” His tone was rough, as if the words had to scratch loose from his throat.
Regardless of the way he’d treated her, her heart ached for him. The vulnerability of his tone, the sad cast of his gaze pulled at her. “Tell me about your father,” she pleaded in an attempt to learn more about him. Perhaps she needed to see a hint of humanity.
“He died because of me.” There wasn’t an ounce of emotion in his tone. But the edge of steel in his gaze cut through her.
She’d opened a valley of pain. She remained silent and patiently waited for him to continue.
“We were working in his lab.” Laird Maclean unsteadily walked to the fireplace. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. She thought he was finished, but he spoke in a barely audible whisper. “I’m not certain, but when we added water, it sparked—burst into flame. The fire engulfed my father’s coat. I. . .tried to help, but ‘twas too late.”
Vivian rose up to join him. She touched his sleeve, but he remained unyielding.
“The flames reached the rest of the elements on the table and. . .” Galen stared over her head as if he were lost in the moment of his father’s death. “I’ve gone over the experiment many times since then. Never have I had the same result,” he growled. Anger flooded the room as he turned toward her. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “I don’t ken what went wrong.”
His passionate outburst startled her as his grip held tight when she tried to wrench away. Shaking his head, he released her and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry—”
“Nay, I’m sorry for bringing up your father’s death.” She thought a moment and tapped her lip with her fingertip. “Did you say you worked with lead and magnesium?”
“Aye.” Fatigue weighed heavy in his voice. Laird Maclean walked over to the sideboard and poured a snifter of port.
She followed him, intrigued and frightened, but unable to resist the intrigue and, she admitted, his presence. “’Tis peculiar, my father was also working with lead and magnesium.”
He set down the port and turned toward her. She’d captured his interest. “Tell me more,” he urged.
“I don’t ken more. He was working all hours of the day. At a feverish pace, which was most unusual for him.” She tried to remember all the details of his work habits and the state of the library. “He ordered Nessa to bring pots of tea. Then one day he announced we needed to travel to Mac Tìre.” She gasped as tears filled her eyes.
Laird Maclean tipped up her chin. “I ken ‘tis difficult for you.”
“My fiancé met with him three days before his death. ‘Twas when my father became like a mad man—”
Laird Maclean stilled. “Your fiancé?”
Vivian felt heat rise across her face. “Aye, we. . .I will not marry him.” For reasons she’d never reveal to Laird Maclean.
“’Tis pure coincidence.” He looked troubled as he sat back at the table.
But she was not convinced. How many men kenned the secrets of alchemy as well as her father and the elder Laird Maclean? The science was cloaked in secrecy and few were willing to share their findings for fear they’d be robbed or even killed for their studies.
“Please, let’s speak of other things.” She carried over the teacakes and tarts Alice had baked earlier in the day. “Have an apple tart.”
He smiled, a kind smile meant to placate her, but it warmed her nonetheless as his features lost their harshness. “Thank you.”
The soft sound of Liam playing the violin eased through the corridors and filtered into the dining room. The old man proved skilled as he wielded his bow through song after song. When the tune turned jaunty, a mischievous look appeared on Laird Maclean’s face.
He stood by her and offered a hand. “May I?”
With a
shaking hand, she accepted. The minute her hand touched his, a rhythm of sensations shifted through her body. Heat, pleasure, and something very welcoming.
She stumbled as she followed him to the open space before the fire and tried to catch her breath. Liam’s tune slowed and Laird Maclean folded her close to him and began moving in a type of step pattern that had them twirling around the small space. The warmth of him breached the space between them. Her step faltered, as she had no experience with dancing with a gentleman besides her father. Giving a weak laugh, she righted herself. He looked down at her and Vivian smiled just as she nearly tripped again. Galen tightened his grip.
“Liam plays a fine tune,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Was the brawny laird as nervous as she? Vivian hoped so and commanded her limbs to stop shaking. The music and wine began to soothe her nerves as she followed Laird Maclean’s lead. When she raised her gaze from her feet, her eyes sought his handsome face.
His hair, pulled tight in a queue, gleamed in the candlelight. He was clean-shaven, and his white shirt accentuated his tanned skin. His familial plaid and an accompanying green waistcoat made a fine display. What drew her most was the startling blue of his eyes; they glowed with a primal brightness. Emotion rang true in them, which was what she valued. No trace of the deceit Donal Burke had used to woo her. She blinked and quickly pulled her thoughts away from that of her fiancé.
“You look lovely.” His gaze skimmed her so intently, a trail of fire heated her skin.
Without warning, he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips were soft, but insistent. Slowly he nipped away at her nerves and claimed her. Their feet stopped and he pulled her into the hard expanse of his chest.
He tasted of apples and wine.
His tongue traced the line of her trembling lips. The action so intimate, so inviting, she wanted more.
Dazed, Vivian pulled back from her wanton thoughts and actions. What if he was like Donal? It would utterly destroy her. Laird Maclean’s hooded eyes looked at her with languid sensuality. It was a look she recognized, but she didn’t fear him.
