by Karen Ranney
“Thank you,” Emma said, a little startled.
“Fergus, you mustn’t embarrass Emma. Not so soon, at least,” Patricia added, reaching up and patting the side of his face with one hand.
He turned his attention to his wife.
“No one can be as beautiful as you, my love,” he said, dropping Emma’s hands and directing all his attention toward Patricia. No one existed but the two of them.
She turned her head to find that Ian had arrived. She hadn’t expected him to accompany them. Would she have accepted the invitation if she’d known he’d be present?
Probably, and chided herself for doing so.
Ian helped Rebecca into one of the boats, while Fergus assisted Patricia. A young man introduced himself as Broderick and held out a hand to her. Emma accepted it with gratitude, getting into the second boat with him and two large baskets. She’d never been in a boat, and the experience of not having any balance whatsoever was disconcerting.
Broderick didn’t speak as they crossed the lake, the waves surging so strongly beneath the hull that Emma wondered if the lake had its own tide. Or was it somehow linked to the North Sea? The wind was howling, as if it had gathered speed for a thousand miles and now its sole aim was to push them back to shore. Neither Broderick nor any of the occupants of the first boat looked uneasy. Emma could only guess that the wind was always this brisk and the water always this turbulent.
She could understand why the first McNairs had chosen the island for their fortress. It was easily defensible since there was no beach, no welcoming shore, only a series of large boulders sitting like jagged teeth along the edge of the island. Over the years, someone had cleared a way through the boulders, and it was there they docked.
The others left their boat with practiced ease, while Emma relied heavily on Broderick’s kindness. He reached behind him, grabbed the two baskets, and together they followed the others.
Around her were thickly forested trees, tall pines, maples, and elms. The birds sang prettily in the vicinity, a rustle in the undergrowth signaling the alarm of creatures not often disturbed.
The path, soft with loamy soil, dried leaves, and pine needles, wound upward from the beach to the highest point of the island.
To her left, sitting in forlorn isolation, were the ruins of the McNair castle. Emma stopped to study it for a moment, moving to the side of the path so Broderick could move past. Lochlaven was barely visible through the trees, and it struck her that the two structures were separated by both a narrow inlet of water and centuries.
The damp breeze was a caress against her cheek, the sunlight filtering through the trees a soft welcome. Emma would have liked to linger in that one spot, but their party was in pursuit of the summit. She cast one longing look toward the ruins of Lochlaven Castle before lifting her skirts and following them in silence.
She’d never been given to adventure. Her life had been mostly sedate, until her marriage to Anthony. This journey to Scotland had proven to her that travel was not easy, nor as exciting as she’d once imagined. Train travel was a bit frightening, and riding in a boat could be difficult on the stomach.
“Are you all right, Emma?”
She looked up to find that Ian had separated from the rest and come back to see why she was falling behind.
“I must confess that my mind was wandering,” she said. “I was not as intent upon my destination as I was my thoughts.”
He stepped to the side of the path and waited until she came level to him, then matched his strides to hers so they were climbing to the peak together.
“Were your thoughts that onerous?”
“I think they were, yes,” she said. “I was thinking that travel wasn’t as pleasant as I envisioned it to be. Perhaps that’s the same with all things we imagine. They’re never quite as attractive in reality.”
He didn’t say anything in response. Nor did she glance over at him to see his reaction to her words.
“I discovered how your maid left Lochlaven,” he said a few minutes later. “The supply wagon. We send it once a week to Inverness, and it’s just now returned.”
She glanced over at him.
“According to the driver, she decided to return to London. She said that she’d never agreed to come to Scotland.”
Emma stared down at the path. “That’s true,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean she’s innocent,” he said.
“I know.” Juliana had been on her mind for the last three days. Try as she might, however, Emma couldn’t come up with a reason why the maid would have wanted to murder Bryce. Nor was he yet conscious and able to give them any information.
Ian shrugged. “I’m going to send some men to Inverness to see if they can find her. Perhaps she knows something. I’m not as forgiving as you.”
“You think I was wrong in not reporting Anthony’s murder,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply. “At the same time, I can understand why you didn’t.”
“I just wanted it over,” she said. “I just wanted to forget those years.”
“Is that what you do?” he asked. “When circumstances are too difficult, you simply pretend they didn’t happen?”
She glanced at him to find him studying her, his eyes turbulent.
“Anthony, yes.”
“And me?”
It wouldn’t be wise to tell him that she hadn’t yet found a way to pretend that the interlude in London hadn’t happened.
She only shook her head, a wordless admission that she couldn’t answer his question.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Do you think you should mention that now? When Rebecca might hear? Or Patricia?”
“My sister and her husband have eyes and ears for no one but themselves,” he said.
She glanced ahead to where Patricia and her husband were holding hands as they walked.
“And Rebecca?”
“Do you think,” he said softly, “if you and I were engaged to be married, that we’d hold hands? Or after we’ve been married for two years, still look at each other in such a way?”
She was entirely too warm, and it wasn’t the summer afternoon that was affecting her.
“Ian,” she said softly, “please do not do this.”
“A man can think. There aren’t any penalties for thoughts.”
“As long as they remain unvoiced,” she said.
He stopped, turned and looked at her.
Had anyone else ever looked at her the way Ian did? Did he study her to imprint her in his thoughts and his memory? As if he knew how she should look and was measuring the reality of her against an image he’d already formed in his mind. As if he wanted to know every one of her thoughts and value them, unspoken.
“Being around you, Emma, is sometimes hell.”
She stared at him. What did she say to that? How did she defend herself?
“We should avoid each other, then,” she said.
For a few moments the only sound was the leaves and the twigs crunching beneath their feet.
“You’ve already been avoiding me,” he said.
She sent an irritated glance toward him, one that he correctly interpreted, if his smile was any indication.
“Avoiding me only lessens the time we spend together, Emma. It has no effect on my thoughts.”
She stopped in the middle of the path and turned. “Ian, you mustn’t think of me. I mustn’t think of you.”
Dappled sun danced through the leaves and played upon his shoulders. He might have been a Celt of old, one of the original McNairs. A man destined to know his own future and still stride confidently toward it.
He was a devastating person to know, and by knowing him—remembering him—she also had to fight against him. He was a much greater
temptation than any she’d ever known. Those years at Chavensworth felt simple now and almost easy compared to the chore and the necessity of pushing Ian away.
Because one part of her, perhaps the whole of her, didn’t want to be proper and moral. She wanted, even now, to walk into his embrace and allow him to hold her. She could tell herself it was a farewell gesture, but that lie died before it could be born. She dared not touch him, or think about those days in London, or dream of his kiss.
He reached out and plucked a bit of leaf from her shoulder. But his hand lingered, the warmth of his fingers felt even through her dress. The pretty yellow dress Rebecca had given her.
She bowed her head and concentrated on the shine of his shoes, the drape of his trousers at the ankle. Anything but his eyes and the tender expression that shouldn’t be there.
“I always thought I was strong,” she said softly.
“And you don’t think so now?”
She merely shook her head from side to side.
Emma regretted this moment more than any other moment in her entire life. She regretted the need to step away from him, turn and continue on her way. She resented having to do something so virtuous, and so terrible. He was a man with whom she might have found happiness. He was a man she respected and admired, and had perhaps come to love. Her experience with love was lamentable, but if it meant that a person felt unfinished, unaware, and only half alive without another, then it was truly love she felt for this man.
A forbidden love that no one would understand.
“Forgive me, Emma. I would not add to your burdens.”
“Then do not seek me out anymore, Ian. Please. We only knew each other for three days,” she said softly. “We don’t know the important things about each other.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I know the depth of your courage. I know what kind of books you like, that you love flowers, that you’ve never experienced simple pleasures. I know you’re afraid to feel, and yet you give of yourself with such freedom that it awes me. What else is more important than that?”
Silence surrounded them, as if even the forest creatures and the birds quieted to listen to his words.
She forced herself to look at him directly. “Are you asking me to be an adulteress, Ian? Are you asking me to be what everyone thinks I am? Immoral and profane?”
“No,” he said softly.
“Then what do you want from me?”
He placed his hand on the back of his neck and looked up as if seeking guidance from the clouds. Finally, he blew out a breath and looked at her.
“This is not the conversation I meant to have with you,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about Juliana.”
She halted on the path and waited.
“I went back and tested all three bottles again. At first I thought it would be impossible because there was little of the wine left, but there was enough.”
“What did you find?”
“The bottle containing the arsenic was from the crate. Not the bottle Juliana purchased in Inverness.”
She understood immediately. “The crate from London,” she said.
He nodded.
“The crate from your uncle’s cellar.”
Chapter 28
Suddenly, Rebecca was advancing on them, her skirts held up with both hands, her smile fixed and determined.
“What are you two talking about back here? You both look so earnest and serious.”
“Bryce,” Emma said, finding the ability to lie came quickly and easily to her.
Let Ian judge her for that.
Rebecca’s face instantly transformed into a sympathetic look.
“My dear Emma, I am certain he is on the road to recovery. I am quite certain he is going to be well any day. Don’t you agree, Ian?”
Instead of answering her, he looked ahead. “I think we’re nearly there, are we not?”
“Ian, you know the island far better than I,” Rebecca said, sending him a fond smile.
Ian turned to Emma. “We’re nearly at the summit. There are some ruins here. Roman, I suspect.”
Rebecca grabbed Ian’s right arm with both her hands and smiled up at him.
“Dear Ian, have you told Emma of our plans for our wedding? I was saying, just this morning, that she really should plan to attend. Don’t you agree?” she said.
“Of course,” he said.
Emma smiled politely, an effort that was nearly beyond her.
Please, God, do not let me be here when Ian marries.
“Ian says that he met you in London,” Rebecca said. “Before you and Bryce were married.”
Emma glanced at Ian, uncertain how to respond. Why on earth had he said that? How did she tell Rebecca that he’d pretended to be a burglar? Or that she’d realized, all too soon, that he wasn’t exactly the brigand he pretended to be?
What would Rebecca say if she told her the truth? I was a slave to passion, dear Rebecca, and Ian was my master.
He might still be.
“Instead of discussing the past,” Patricia said, coming down the path, “I’m more concerned with the future. Whose idea was it to have your wedding ceremony on the island? Yours or Ian’s? He’s always loved this place ever since he was a boy.”
Rebecca smiled at her future sister-in-law. “It was Ian’s but I confess I really don’t care where the ceremony is held. It’s simply enough that I get to marry Ian.”
“Which is exactly how my wife felt about marrying me,” Fergus said, generating a smile from his wife.
The glance they shared was filled with passion, but there was nothing of licentiousness or lust in their gaze. Instead, this was love, so direct and so forceful that Emma could not help but feel it.
Rebecca no doubt felt the same, because she sighed a little.
“When Ian and I are married,” she said, smiling up at him with artless candor, “we shall be just as much in love.”
Emma excused herself and began to walk ahead.
Rebecca must have said something amusing because both Fergus and Ian laughed.
A charming young woman. No doubt innocent and virtuous, as well. Why did that thought annoy her?
The forest abruptly fell away as they reached the summit. The area was larger than she imagined, the top of the hill flattened as if by a giant’s hand. Pine needles were layered over what looked to be limestone, or perhaps granite, some grayish stone that sparkled in the afternoon sun.
From here she had a view all around the island, as well as the lake stretching to the horizon.
Broderick began to open the baskets, spreading a cloth on the ground. The top of the hill was a lovely place for an outing, and an even more magnificent spot for a wedding ceremony.
Sadness surrounded her, seeped inside her, as if it were a damp and pervasive fog. Emma held herself tight, walking closer to a low wall that looked out of place for this hilltop. The wall stretched only about nine feet in length, of pale red brick that had crumbled in places. She peered over it to find herself looking down to a sheer drop. At the bottom were jagged boulders. Perhaps the Romans had built this as a retaining wall. Or a caution to anyone not to venture too close to the edge.
Were these the ruins Ian meant?
She turned to ask, only to find him with his head bent toward Rebecca, their conversation evidently a personal one.
Envy curled in her stomach. Rebecca would have him with her during all the small, unimportant moments that made up life. She’d be able to smile at him across a table, have him hold her hand, have him touch her face with tenderness in his fingertips and mirrored in his eyes.
Rebecca would be his companion for all those years, for decades of conversations, of mundane questions interspersed with laughter. Rebecca would be the one to bear his children, hear his tales o
f triumph, and cajole him from despair.
Suddenly, she wanted to be away from all of them. She wanted to be alone, a condition in which she’d found herself in the last eighteen months, one that suited her best. Without people there was no one to criticize her, no one to speculate on her past, no one to whisper tales that may or may not be true. No one to hurt her.
When she was a child, her mother had vanished for long stretches of time, creating niches of silence for herself. Sometimes she’d be found in the upstairs parlor. Sometimes Emma viewed her in the garden, sitting on a bench, staring at the flowers so intently it was as if she were listening to them. For years she wanted to know why her mother was so content in her own company, and now she knew why.
Silence was a friend. The absence of people meant safety. People could hurt you. Or if they didn’t hurt you, they lured you to think that you could be someone you weren’t. Someone who could laugh and be at ease, who could trust and believe in an impossible future.
What she was feeling was not a physical pain. This was a sorrow so vast and so deep that it felt as large as the lake surrounding the island.
Turning, she began to walk back the way she’d come, glancing over her shoulder at the others. No one noticed her departure. Broderick was intent upon laying out luncheon. Fergus and Patricia were immersed in each other. Rebecca had both hands clamped around Ian’s arm as if she were afraid she’d fall without his support.
Emma began to follow the path, descending into the forest again. Without the others, she could hear the sounds of the birds. In that moment she wished she could become a creature of the forest itself. She would let her hair flow free, dress in a simple shift, and converse only with the squirrels, the foxes, and the birds.
When she saw the abandoned castle through the trees, she stepped off the path, holding her skirts up a little higher than was proper, and began to walk toward the original home of the McNairs.
The castle was little more than a moss-covered ruin, three walls leaning toward each other. No roof remained, and only fallen stones marked where the rest of the castle had stood.
