by Marie Laval
He stopped mid-sentence, looked away and coughed to clear his throat.
‘Rumours of what?’ Bruce asked, frowning.
The old man turned away, but not before Bruce saw his face colour.
‘Never mind. It was a shame he got himself killed at Waterloo. Life at Westmore was never the same after that. Lady Patricia was already a harsh and bitter woman, but after Lord Niall died she let that thug Morven rule the estate like he owned it. And that son of hers, he was never any good.’
Yes, the man had got that right. Lady Patricia was indeed a heartless bitch, and McRae a depraved rake.
When the crofter’s house was ready the McKenzies and Bruce made their way back to the women and children. Bruce stopped by the barn to take care of Shadow on the way. It was dark by the time he walked across the clearing. He kicked the snow off his boots against the wall, pushed the door open and was greeted by the sound of Rose’s voice telling the children a story.
One glance at her was enough for his breath to catch in his throat. She sat on the bench in her long white nightdress, his plaid wrapped around her shoulders and her blonde hair falling in wild curls down to her waist, glowing like gold threads spun by fairies in the light of the fire.
The two McKenzie girls sat on her knees. Next to her the boy pretended to be bored but Bruce could tell from the intent look in his eyes that he was listening to her every word. Longing tightened his chest so much he actually stopped breathing. This was what she would look like one day, sitting with her own children – hers and McRae’s children – as she told them bedtime stories.
Children… The thought of having any had never crossed his mind before. You didn’t have children when you had nothing to give, nothing to teach but bitterness.
He crossed his arms on his chest and leant against the door to listen.
‘And so the evil djin tricked Old Ibrahim to lean into the well and tugged hard on his long, black beard. Old Ibrahim fell down the deep, dark pit, never to be seen again.’
Rose paused and carried on with a whisper.
‘But every so often, people swear that a long, dark shadow creeps out of the village well, slides into the houses of Ibrahim’s enemies and scares them to death.’
The three children shrieked in one voice. ‘The beard!’
Rose nodded and repeated. ‘The beard indeed. People say it’s still as beautiful, lustrous and black now as it was fifty years ago.’
Bruce smiled. A haunted beard? Now that was unusual! So this was the story behind that Ibrahim character she so often referred to.
Sensing his presence, Rose looked at him. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen. He frowned, a pang of alarm hit his chest.
‘What’s wrong?’
She stroked the little girls’ hair before lifting them gently off her lap.
‘Go and help your mother and grandmother prepare something to eat,’ she said before rising to her feet.
She looked so small, vulnerable and lost that he had to fight the urge to gather her in his arms and hold her against him. Instead he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and scowled.
‘Why are you wearing your nightclothes when we have company?’
She pulled the sides of the plaid closer onto her chest.
‘I spilled hot tea all over my dress.’
‘Miss Rose got herself all upset when we told her about Lord McRae getting married,’ Alana said.
‘What do mean, McRae’s getting married?’ He glanced between the woman and Rose, who stood pale and still as a statue.
‘Lord McRae is marrying a grand lady from London,’ Alana explained. ‘We were in church when the banns were read last Sunday.’
So Rose had lied. She wasn’t married to McRae at all and McRae’s wedding to Lady Sophia Fairbanks was still on… Not pausing to examine why he felt more relief than anger at the news of being taken for a fool, he took his coat off and threw it on the bed.
‘I need a drink.’
‘There’s some tea left,’ Rose said in a weak voice.
‘Tea? I’d rather have a dram of whisky.’ He looked around. ‘Have you seen my flask anywhere?’
This time, her cheeks flushed bright pink.
‘It’s in your bag but…’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘But what?’
‘It’s empty. I- I poured the whisky out.’
‘You did what?’
‘I thought I was doing you a favour since whisky doesn’t agree with you.’
‘Good grief, woman, whisky does agree with me! What happened last night had nothing to do with it,’ he roared. ‘Oh and never mind. If all we have is tea, then you’d better make it strong.’
Chapter Six
Bruce closed the door to the McKenzie’s cottage and strode across the clearing at the centre of the abandoned hamlet. It had stopped snowing some time during the evening and the temperature had dropped even further. The cold burnt his lungs, the wind slapped his cheeks but he relished the chance to be alone at last.
He gave a last look to the cottage where children and adults were tucked up in bed, safe and warm for now. He brushed away the odd feeling he had experienced when he’d put to bed Ross McKenzie while Angus and Garbhan took care of the little girls. As the boy linked his arms around his neck and gave him a sleepy smile, he had once again felt something stir deep inside – an urge so strong, so vital and alien it had knocked him sideways. What would it feel like to have a son, to care for him, watch him grow and become a man – and to be the core of a family? Would his life have turned out any differently had he been wanted, loved and cherished like Ross McKenzie, instead of being the bastard son of a mother who’d taken her own life, the bastard grandson of a violent drunk eaten by hatred and bitterness?
He would never know… He took a deep, cold, burning breath before pushing the door to his cottage. Damn, he was being annoyingly sentimental tonight. Not a good idea when he had to confront a liar, find a murderer and save his estate from ruin.
He walked into the house and shrugged off his coat. Rose was still up, seemingly engrossed in tidying up.
He gave her a hard stare and threw the coat onto the back of a chair.
‘Why did you lie to me?’
‘I didn’t.’
She looked calm and didn’t even look at him but carried on stacking the dirty tumblers up. She then snapped shut the lid of the jam jar and brushed the crumbs off the table top into the palm of her hand. When she threw the crumbs into the fire, the flames hissed and flared.
Like his temper. He strode towards her, stopping only a couple of paces from her.
‘You did lie. You heard the McKenzies…The question is why.’
The rush of heat to her cheeks didn’t escape his attention, and neither did the trembling of her hands as she caught the sides of the plaid slipping off her shoulders. So she wasn’t that cool and composed after all.
He narrowed his eyes, hardened his voice.
‘I want answers, and I want them now. Who are you? McRae’s mistress? A whore he picked up in the docks in Algiers?’
She gasped, the plaid dropped down from her shoulders onto the floor but this time she didn’t seem to notice. The fire behind her outlined the contours of her body, the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. Her blonde hair fell in tight curls and ringlets down to the small of her back, her lips parted, her breasts stretched the thin fabric of the nightdress with every breath she took. She looked as innocent as an angel, as tempting as sin.
He clenched his jaw and stepped closer. Some angel she was. She would damn well explain herself even if he had to pull the truth out of her the hard way.
‘Are you even called Rose Saintclair? You may have invented the whole story about your father being a French Cuirassier colonel and your mother running an estate in North Africa.’
The post-guard’s words suddenly came back to him. The man had claimed that Morven wanted to stop Rose from making trouble for McRae. What kind of trouble was he talk
ing about? Was she planning to stop his wedding to Sophia Fairbanks?
‘I have told no lies.’ She tilted her head high and they stared at each other in silence.
Tension sizzled, so potent his body tightened, hardened, ached. His breath hitched in his throat. Blood pulsed inside him. Wife, mistress, impostor, heiress or courtesan, what did it matter? Right now he wanted her so much he didn’t care who, or what, she was.
‘The McKenzies made a mistake,’ she added. ‘Cameron can’t marry this Lady Fairbanks, or anyone else, because he married me in Algiers. You must believe me. Please. I told the truth.’
Her voice broke, her shoulders rose in a helpless shrug, and tears slid down her cheeks. Something shifted, softened inside him. She sounded sincere, or she was a damned good actress.
‘Let’s say I believe you for a minute,’ he started in a gruff voice. ‘Tell me about the wedding.’
‘A Reverend Thompson performed the ceremony. I’d never met him before, and neither had I met the witnesses. Cameron told me they were clerks at the Embassy.’
‘Where and when did the ceremony take place?’
‘In the chapel at the back of the Embassy, the evening before Cameron sailed back.’
‘Hmm… Do you have the marriage certificate, the proof that you’re legally Lady McRae?’
She shook he head. ‘No, Cameron kept it.’
‘What about your friends, can any of them vouch that the ceremony took place?’
She closed her eyes, briefly. ‘Nobody came.’
‘You were on your own?’ He couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘You said Malika left after you two had an argument, but what about Akhtar, the man who escorted you to Algiers. Didn’t he give you away?’
‘He didn’t approve of my marrying Cameron without my mother’s consent – even if I was old enough to make my own decisions. He too left the day before the wedding.’
He didn’t say anything but he didn’t think much of this Akhtar. The man was supposed to look out for Rose, not leave alone to fend for herself and make what the biggest mistake of her life.
‘So for all we know McRae could have asked someone to impersonate a minister and paid a couple of witnesses to sign a fake certificate.’
‘Are you implying that my wedding was a charade?’
He shrugged. ‘It seems obvious, doesn’t it?’
‘No, no you’re wrong.’ She rushed to her bag, and after a frantic search produced a small velvet pouch she opened carefully.
‘Look. Cameron gave me a ring.’ She held out a shiny gold wedding band.
‘Anyone can buy a ring, it doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘But he wouldn’t stoop so low as to fake a wedding. The McKenzies must have misunderstood when the banns were read.’
‘The thing is, there has been talk of a wedding to Lady Fairbanks for months. That’s why I was so taken aback when you arrived at Wrath and announced that you were McRae’s wife.’
He softened his voice. ‘The man conned you, and the sooner you accept it the better.’
‘But why? Why would he do that?’
‘I have no idea.’ He shrugged. ‘To get you into bed, perhaps.’
She let out a small whimper and fresh tears slid down her cheeks. As she lifted her hand to rub her eyes, the fabric of her nightdress brushed over her breasts again, outlining their full, soft round shape. He took a deep breath and made himself look away. A man would sorely be tempted to make up a whole heap of lies for just one night with her.
‘No, it can’t be, you’re all wrong,’ she whispered. ‘Oh… What am I going to do?’
‘Don’t worry, things may not be so bad. I can arrange your return journey to Algiers. No one need ever know McRae took advantage of you. You could always tell Akhtar and your family that you changed your mind and did not marry McRae after all…’
When she sobbed more loudly, he clenched his fists. What an idiot. Of course! She might be pregnant and not have the luxury of pretending nothing had happened. What hadn’t he thought about it before?
‘Is there any chance you might be with child?’ he asked.
She flung her head back as if he’d slapped her, buried her face in her hands and carried on crying without answering.
He sighed. He may have been too brusque and not have handled that the way he should have, but he hoped for her sake and that of any child that she wasn’t pregnant. If she was, she would suffer the shame of being an unmarried mother, and the child would be taunted and sneered at – an outcast. Every taunt, every sneer would hurt like hell, like salt rubbed into a raw wound.
Bruce knew exactly what that felt like. Not only was he born out of wedlock, but he had no idea who his father was. His mother had taken her secret with her. All he knew was that his father was a thug and a rogue. His grandfather had said so many times – the night he announced he was enrolling him in the 92nd Gordon Highlanders for example. ‘I doubt the army will make a man out of you. You’re a bad seed, always were. You’ll never be any good, just like your father – may Black Donald roast his balls in hell.’
As usual the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He pushed it to the back of his mind, looked at the woman crying in front of him, and before he realised what he was doing, strode across the room and pulled her to him in a clumsy attempt to soothe and comfort her.
‘Here. Please don’t cry,’ he said in a hoarse voice.
She nestled closer, and it felt like she was melting, warm and pliant in his arms. Heat shot throughout his body and suddenly he didn’t want to comfort her at all, but kiss those lips and breathe in her sweet female scent until he was drunk on it.
She rubbed her wet cheek against his shirt, nestled closer and he gave up the struggle. His hands slid along her spine, rested on her waist. He bent down until his lips brushed the wet, salty velvet of her cheek, trailed down slowly towardss her mouth. He felt her tremble in his arms but she didn’t move away. His hands glided further down, settled on the swell of her hips, and moulded her to him.
The feel of her smooth, naked body under the flimsy nightdress set his blood on fire. His heart drummed fast and hard. All he wanted to do was pull the gown up until he touched her bare skin, lost himself inside her and fill his darkness with her light, her warmth, her sunshine.
His fingers travelled up and down, traced feverish patterns along her spine. Her eyes still closed, she let out a helpless moan of surrender which burned through him like a firebrand. She tilted her head back, her lips parted in an irresistible offering.
No.
The word rang in his mind, loud and clear. He wouldn’t take advantage of her when she was distressed and confused. Stepping away felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done.
‘That’s quite enough crying,’ he growled. ‘Pull yourself together, damn it.’
She opened her eyes and looked at him as if she’d just awakened from a dream and had no idea who he was. A fierce blush spread on her face, her throat, down to the opening of her nightdress. She took a hurried step back, picked up the plaid from the floor and covered herself with it.
‘I‘m s-sorry.’
‘It sounds as if the worst of the storm has passed. We’ll set off for Westmore tomorrow.’
‘I thought you were taking me back to Wrath.’
‘I changed my mind.’
She gasped. ‘I see. Now you believe I’m not married to Cameron, I’m no use to you anymore. And since you can’t blackmail him, you might as well take me with you and get rid of me, is that right?’
‘Aye,’ he answered even it is wasn’t exactly true. How could he explain his sudden, irrational and overwhelming reluctance at the thought of parting with her, even for a few days? Whether she was married to McRae or not, his instincts, his whole being, screamed at him not to let her out of his sight and to keep her close to him.
Silence hung heavy between them. Then she said it was late, she was tired and was going to bed, and he pulled a chair close to the fire, sat down
and prepared himself for a long vigil – and another attack of his illness.
Damn. He hadn’t even thanked her for looking after him the night before. Her gentle voice, the feel of her hand on his face had soothed him, and eventually made the nightmares go away – even the dream-like vision of Malika’s face, her eyes wide with blind terror and her mouth opened onto a silent scream. The same question that had haunted him for the past few days tormented him once more. Where had he seen her before? Why did she look so scared? Had he done anything to hurt the girl?
He clenched his fists on his thighs. Perhaps he would find the answers he sought at Westmore.
Rose paused at the edge of the forest. No wonder they called this place Fairy Wood. It was truly an enchanted place in an enchanted dawn which in a strange way reminded her of early morning at Bou Saada, even if snow covered the ground instead of golden sand. The sky glowed with delicate shades of violet, mauve and pinks mixed with translucent greys and blues. Further down the valley two mountains covered with pine forests and tipped with snow rose like sleepy giants standing guard. At the edge of the woods a stream sang a pure, crystalline song as it cascaded over rocks. Perhaps fairies hid behind the tall, dark firs, or behind those rocks shiny with frost and ice.
She left the path and walked across the field, her boots sinking into the pristine, thick and fluffy snow. She dropped the tin pot and dirty cups she’d brought from the cottage for washing down on the river bank, knelt down and stared into her distorted reflection.
What a sorry sight she was, with her matted hair, her eyes gritty and swollen from the lack of sleep, her face pale and blotchy. It was no wonder really, considering she had spent yet another sleepless night. This time, it wasn’t Lord McGunn’s illness which had kept her awake but the maddening questions swirling inside her head, over and over again. Did Cameron deceive her, and if so, why?
As she lay on the grimy straw mattress, she had replayed every moment of their three-week whirlwind courtship, culminating with Cameron proposing to her in the Jardin d’Essai one balmy evening, as stars reflected in the dark surface of the sea in the bay and a silver moon watched over them. She had dissected their wedding day hour by hour, minute by minute, to find any clues indicating that it had been a clever deception. She found none.
