by Madelyn Hill
Leaning forward with bravado she summoned from the recesses of her being, she took the initiative and kissed him again. A groan rumbled deep within him. Excited by his response, she allowed him to part her lips with his tongue and delve into the hot moistness of her mouth.
As the embrace continued, all of her trepidation and fear slipped to the floor and floated away.
Galen ripped away from her. The abrupt separation threw her. She tried to voice her displeasure, but he held up a hand for silence.
He paced to the doorway. Turning, he said, “Forgive me.”
Galen went directly to his private chamber. From the anguished look on Vivian’s face, he kenned that she’d remain where he left her. He had to hurt her. It would save her in the end. There was so much he should tell her, but if history proved itself, he’d damage her innocence.
Slamming the broad doors, he headed toward the window, too restless to sleep.
Her image haunted him. She looked spectacular in the red gown, her beauty unparalleled. Smooth skin, haunting eyes the shade of heather. Her lips, aye, those lips were lush and sensual. And her womanly form. Och, he cringed when he thought of his body’s reaction to her curves. The folds of silk molded perfectly to the round of her shoulder, the plump sloop of her breasts, breasts that had tortured him during the entire meal.
’Twas her innocence he savored. The light in her eyes despite the tragedies she’d suffered of late, the ready smile on her enticing mouth. A mouth that begged for his kiss, as if she were a siren and he was at her mercy.
“Bollocks,” he swore under his breath. Her femininity had dulled his common sense. Every time he looked at her, he’d catch himself and drink more to still any urge. The wine had betrayed him, made him vulnerable to her charm.
When had he ever seen such a mixture of beauty, innocence, and intelligence? Ridiculing her about her interest in alchemy had been a weak attempt to distance himself. When all he wanted was to hear more about what she’d learned from her father and his books.
God, he thought as he raked his fingers through his hair, she was bonnie.
Galen gripped the decanter of whiskey and guzzled the contents. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked out the large window and watched as waves tumbled against the rocky coast. Darkness began to seep into the evening, misting the scene outside the window, bringing with it the demons of the night that plagued Galen.
He watched for what seemed like hours. Pathetic. He was pathetic.
Galen paced from the room and headed toward the wing in which he’d demanded Vivian sleep.
He raised his hand to pound on the door but thought better of it. Galen kenned a better path—or, he thought wryly, the secret path.
When his mother was still alive, he’d disappear for hours within the concealed avenues. They became his refuge from her apathy. After her death, the passages offered solace from his father’s unforgiving temper. The passages comforted him; walking the endless open hallways exposed him.
Ensuring privacy, he’d moved a thin molding and a square of paneling slid to the left, revealing an opening stale with dust. Brushing the cobwebs aside, Galen climbed into the passage and felt his way toward her chamber. The darkness didn’t hinder his attempt. It enveloped him, calming him with its bleakness and solitude. After pacing fifteen steps, he reached for the lever above his head. Silently, he pushed the concealed door into the once uninhabited chamber. Standing still so he wouldn’t be detected, he waited until he heard Vivian’s slow, rhythmic breathing.
He made his way to the monstrous bed. Firelight flickered across her pale face, and her long lashes cast shadows along high cheekbones. He bent close, her shallow breaths feathering against his skin. He would describe her as a delicate beauty. He kenned she was anything but.
The sheet shifted when Vivian moved, revealing an elegant neck. She squirmed and began moaning, low-pitched sounds that resounded from deep within her. Her lashes fluttered, as if they were beating against her dreams to drive them away. Dreams, no. Surely she was filled with the nightmare of her time in Wolf’s Castle.
Galen reached forward, tempted to brush a curled strand of dark hair from her face. He longed for a touch of her alabaster skin, to soothe the pain he was well familiar with.
What had he done?
He pulled back his hand to rub the base of his neck. Unfamiliar emotions clogged his thoughts with over-romantic urges.
Bollocks. He strode to the hearth and tossed more fuel onto the fire, attempting to gain control over his errant emotions and sentimentality. Empathy was for fools, and he’d sworn off being a fool long ago.
Sparks spit and crackled. Live ashes marred the floor and nearby area rug. Galen snuffed the glowing spots of red with the tip of his boot. He replaced the grate and turned to leave. Steady, in control.
No matter that she pulled him to her and Galen watched her as if she were water and he a man dying of thirst. With every rustle of the bed coverings, he longed to be sharing her bed. He shook his head, trying to clear the image of Vivian from his mind.
Still, he watched her sleep. She must have loved her home. And she must return to it.
This frightened little dove wouldn’t regret being turned out. Those who lived in the castle ended up damaged. . . or dead. Too many haunting secrets lay dormant inside these decaying walls and Galen refused to allow another to succumb to the curse of unhappiness.
There was no swaying him—he must remain focused in order to decipher the experiments and keep others from harm. But Robert Stuart’s hand was far worse than his own and laboriously slow to read. She mentioned she had assisted Stuart; she’d have to be able to read his handwriting. Maybe she would work with him. For when he found what he was looking for, only then would he be able to duplicate the mixture that killed his father. He had to ken what went wrong—it was his honor driving his actions. No matter if he was harmed in the process, Galen had to find out what went wrong.
He looked to Vivian one more time. Och, she was so beautiful. “Good night,” he whispered before disappearing through the passages and going to his chamber.
Reassured, he bypassed his nighttime drinking ritual and fell asleep with an ease that had evaded him for years.
Chapter 12
Her stomach clenched at the thought of going to break her fast. Aye, but she loathed the idea of reverting to the meekness that ruled her past. Rising early, Vivian tried to imagine how she’d approach her day. No matter, her stubborn mind continued to review the kiss. She traced her lips with a fingertip, enjoying the sensation, longing for Galen’s mouth to once again join with hers. Unfamiliar with the unique quiver of her stomach, she abandoned her chamber, determined to bravely face a man who obviously hadn’t enjoyed their embrace as she had.
He sat at the head of the table. As she swept into the room, he averted his gaze and became overly interested in adding honey to his tea. She grinned after he loaded the fifth spoonful.
“Good morn.”
He greeted her with a sheepish grin, one that reminded her of a little boy and contradicted his usual stern countenance. The silence made her uncomfortable as the roaring wind raged outside. The storm had swirled to life during the night, gaining fierce momentum by dawn. Clattering windows and the creaks of the neglected castle walls had disturbed her sleep. But not as much as the embrace that still lingered tight around her body.
“I have a proposition,” he said. “I need to go over my father’s notes. I. . . Would you care to join me?”
He wanted to work with her? “Aye. I’ll bring my father’s books.”
He nodded. “Grand. ‘Twould be grand.” His eyes seemed clear—less sad and cold. His clothing was fresh, unlike the usual rumpled, slept-in shirts he wore. The storm must not have interrupted his rest.
Did he forego his time in the library, she wondered? The library! Not that wreck of a room. And the smell—she must tell him.
She pursed her lips, then spoke. “Laird Maclean, I cannot work in the libra
ry. Is there another room where we may go over the experiments?”
“Aye.” A bemused look lit his face. “Another chamber has been readied. Near the entrance to the west wing. That will suit you, to be sure.”
She jumped from her chair, too excited to eat. “I’ll meet you within the hour.” She adjusted the skirt of her simple wool gown. The dark fabric obeyed her touch as she made a hasty exit.
Away from Laird Maclean’s intense gaze, she leaned against a paneled wall and released her held breath. She laughed as tension flowed from her shoulders with relief. The surly laird seemed to be warming to her presence.
She made her way to her chamber to gather her father’s books. Aye, she thought as she found her way through the many dark corridors, didn’t she have a different goal now? Someone had to bring light into the castle—into the lives of the inhabitants.
She must restore his faith in himself, that he was worthy of happiness. She saw that within him—the glimpse of hope trying to break through the despair.
She had planned on taking her father’s treasured tomes back to the main land. But not until Alice, Madge, and dear Liam had happiness. And most of all, Galen was restored and happy.
Her future must wait until that time. With her inheritance, she would have the luxury of delving into alchemy with the same fervor as any man. What a relief. Once she reached her majority, she would not need to rely on a husband for her support, despite Laird Maclean’s contradictory claims. She still planned on leaving Lomarcan, but she’d help him first. Help him solve the mystery that plagued him so he wouldn’t be haunted.
The actions of her former betrothed still weighed her mind with the dim and elusive images of betrayal. It wasn’t as if she loved Donal Burke, but his treatment of her blunted her desire to marry. His charm had been a farce and she loathed that he’d been lying to her all along. His actions proved he didn’t want to marry her. He didn’t hold a tender for her.
Aye, she’d live out her life as she chose, not as someone else had chosen for her.
Vivian attempted to secure her hair, but the springy curls just bounced back with annoying stubbornness. She changed into a linen chemise, a grey vest, charcoal skirt, and quilted petticoat. She’d worn much the same when working in the gardens at Westington. It would cope well with any mishap during an experiment. Running her hand over the tightly woven linen, she recalled how many ivory blouses had ended in the rag heap due to her father’s somewhat clumsy approach to science.
She grabbed the books. Hugging them close, she sniffed the books for any hint of home. A slight mix of tobacco and zinc wafted through her senses along with sea water. Aye, she was lucky to have wrapped them so dear; the water hadn’t ruined them.
Ah, Father, how I wish you could be here. But he wasn’t. She was on her own and determined to succeed. She shook off the melancholy mood, knowing it would gain her nothing.
She thumbed through History of the World. A note slipped from between the worn pages and fluttered to the floor. Recognizing her father’s aggravatingly sloppy penmanship, she replaced it, knowing the notes may be useful later.
Excitement prodded her actions. Aye, she was thrilled to be practicing alchemy. Vivian gathered the books and headed toward the west wing. It sounded so mysterious and she surmised the same gloom that consumed the entire castle would be evident in the west wing as well.
Vivian slowed when the hall veered and an eerie cry echoed down the hall. Her heart started to thump. The sound stopped and she continued walking. A slim ray of light peeked from beneath a door, urging her forward.
“This must be the room,” she whispered. Raising her hand, she meant to knock, but uncertainty forced her to pull it back. Och, what was she so afraid of?
Common sense prevailed as her heartbeat steadied. Laird Maclean had invited her of his own free will. She hadn’t pressured him in any way. In fact, the invitation had surprised her. Vivian worried the laird would ignore her after their embrace. When he actually spoke to her, albeit hesitantly, an excitement had raced through her and she wished he’d speak of their embrace, not alchemy.
The door thrust open. Vivian jumped back, spilling the armload of books onto the floor. An equally startled Laird Maclean bent to retrieve them.
A heated blush rose over her cheeks at an embarrassing speed. “I’m sorry, m’laird.”
He collected the last book. “No harm done.”
He nodded for her to enter the chamber. She hesitated, then ducked past his probing gaze and into a room illuminated by numerous candles and large windows.
Not only did the room lack clutter, it lacked the dire mood that inhabited the rest of Lomarcan. Vivian ran a finger along a gleaming mahogany desk highlighted by thick candles. The wood felt like satin beneath her touch. ‘Twas right to be here. Not knowing what he expected of her, she sat on the edge of a chair near the hissing fire.
The thud of books garnered her attention. Laird Maclean began spreading them out between an intricate arrangement of glass beakers and candle-filled pots.
The scene appeared out of place to her. A tall, handsome laird rummaging about alchemy equipment, framed by leaded windows with a view of a turbulent storm. The wind swirling the trees and the dry winter grass outside warred with the calming atmosphere he presented.
She stepped forward, eager to start the experiment. “Do you need assistance, m’laird?”
He started and looked up as if he had forgotten she was there. “In a moment.” He paused, then added hastily as he looked at her, “You may call me Galen.”
She smiled and glanced away. “Aye. . .Galen.” His name rolled off her tongue with familiarity and intimacy. She liked how it felt and that he’d asked her to be so informal.
He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Do you need a lab apron?”
She stood and grabbed the one hanging from a peg near the desk, tied it on, and moved to stand as close as she thought proper. Their relationship was undefined, a fact that brought disquiet and apprehension as she wrinkled her brow.
“Is there something wrong?”
She straightened and boldly raised her gaze. “Nay. Is there a particular experiment you were interested in?”
His jaw tensed and all warmth vanished from his eyes. They snapped to a coldness that made her nervous. Stepping back, Vivian grabbed for the table edge.
Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, Galen grabbed a ball of lead and held it up between his fingers. “I need to turn this into gold.”
Vivian gasped. He wanted to recreate the very experiment that killed his father. She shook her head and attempted to untie her apron with trembling fingers.
He stilled her hands with his own. “I need your help.”
She stopped and looked up at him. He was so earnest. She paused while she thought of his request. She nodded and began translating her father’s coded notes. She’d seen him duplicate the formula many times without the desired effect, but the supplies at Lomarcan were vastly different from those on Mac Tìre. Residing on the remote island surely delayed receiving materials in an efficient manner.
She furrowed her brow. Something was not right. Vivian traced the ingredients with her finger. But repeating the words to herself failed to ferret out the problem. Spirit of salt, manganese, pumbago, and mercury of life, each necessary and accounted for. I’m more tired than I thought, she chastised silently as she resumed listing the components to Galen.
Slowly, she deciphered the code her father meticulously drafted in order to protect the numerous hours he sweated over concocting the experiments. Robert Stuart was a brilliant man. She wondered once again how his misjudgment had landed her in the middle of a betrothal to a vile man, then stranded on a moor-covered island. Still, she was relieved he had chosen to share his method of note taking with her, and she eagerly assisted Galen.
Galen seemed to be in his element, owning a definite prowess even in the makeshift lab. Entranced, Vivian sat and watched the grace with which Galen moved as he gathered
the contents for the experiment. His eyes squinted in concentration as he mixed the ingredients in an entfleurage vessel, then poured the liquid into a fermentation chamber. Steam rose from the copper tubing linking the large beaker with a smaller, clear crucible. After grinding fine shavings of lead in the mortar and pestle, he gave her an expectant look.
Regaining her composure, she continued to feed him the details of each laborious step.
How differently he worked from her father. His work area sat spotless in the midst of the chaos and disorder of the experiment. When Galen spilled, he swiped a white rag across the table, clearing it of any unsightly spot. His lab apron snugly covered his austere clothing, accentuating the breadth of a chest that led to a narrow waist. His boots were the only objects in the room marred with dirt. Mud caked them and crumbled onto the hewed flooring.
“Did you venture into the storm?” she asked.
Lifting his gaze, he stared a moment before responding. Was he weighing the idea of telling her where he’d been? “The animals needed tending.” Was that all he had to say?
“Do you often see to them?”
Sighing, he shifted his weight to one foot and looked down his patrician nose. “Liam is auld and feeble. You don’t expect me to send him out in this weather, to be sure?” His tone was accusatory, dripping with irritation and anger.
She vehemently shook her head, aghast he thought her so senseless. “Nay, of course not.”
Their conversation ceased, but she was still amazed that a laird would choose to risk his health and maybe even his life in the tumultuous storm to feed a drove of sheep.
Sensing his interested regard of her, she looked up. With a cocked brow, he awaited the next measure of ingredient. Flustered, she answered him and then proceeded to wander about, holding her father’s dear notes close to her chest.
