Beloved Impostor

by Patricia Potter

As if summoned by his thoughts, his younger brother approached him. Rory stopped and glared, his anger—and despair—finding a new target.

  “No need to glower at me, brother,” Lachlan said with his easy grin.

  Lachlan had always been able to charm, even though he was unaware of the impact he had. Perhaps his charm came from a refreshing lack of guile and ambition.

  Rory relaxed. He always did in his younger brother’s presence.

  He had always competed with Patrick. It had been expected, and he’d usually been bested by his older brother. Patrick was a natural warrior. Rory always had to work at it. But Lachlan had avoided competition and physical tests. He’d always preferred music and books.

  “Are you here to tell me I should wed again?”

  “You should know me better, brother. I dislike interfering in the lives of others for fear they might try to interfere with mine.”

  “Patrick does that anyway.”

  “Aye, he does. He wants to make me into himself. But you never have.”

  “I like you as you are.”

  “My lack of ambition appeals to you?”

  “Nay. Your music does. Your good nature does.”

  “You once played the lute. You were very good.”

  “It was a boyish pasttime.”

  “Was it?” Lachlan said. “Then I hope I am always a lad.”

  “You want me to sing of lost loves, Lachlan. Unlike you, I’ve tasted the pain. I have no desire to sing of it.”

  Lachlan’s handsome face clouded. “I am sorry. You know I loved Maggie. We all did.”

  “I know.”

  Maggie had loved Lachlan more than any other member of the family. They sang together, walked together, told stories to each other. Rory would have been jealous if he had not loved them both so much and known that they loved him as well. Maggie had made him appreciate Lachlan’s gentleness, something Patrick constantly belittled.

  They—Maggie and Lachlan—had a connection he’d never quite understood.

  “She would want—”

  “Lachlan, you cannot know what she would want. You were not her husband.”

  He turned and strode away from his brother, not understanding the sudden, overwhelming anger he felt. Why for God’s nails wouldn’t everyone leave him alone? He did not even want to be here.

  The sea was solace. Scotland was pain.

  Felicia tried not to touch the body of her abductor.

  The cloth was taken from her mouth after several miles. She was warned, though, that any cry would mean that the gag would be returned.

  She had no intention of screaming. She was frightened. Beyond frightened. But she was equally terrified of being returned to her home. And to her prospective groom.

  They stopped after several hours. She was gently dropped to the ground, and food was offered. It was naught but rough bread and cheese, but she was hungry.

  She glanced around as she ate. The mist had lifted, but clouds kept the sun at bay, and it was cold and dreary. There were no more than five men. ’Twas odd, but she felt no threat from them. She should. She knew that. She had been abducted by men unknown to her.

  She only knew that they had been respectful. That boded well.

  “My lady?”

  The speaker was the same large man who had lifted her onto the horse. He looked even more fearsome as she sat on a fallen log, staring up at him. His beard was red and long, and he had but one visible eye. The other was covered by a patch.

  Despite his wicked appearance, there was a soft courtesy in his voice.

  “Why have you taken me?” she asked.

  “For yer good and the good of my lord,” he said.

  “My good?” she asked incredulously. “I do not understand.”

  “An alliance between the Camerons and Macleans would be good for both,” he said. “My lord is a handsome man, a man of strength and wealth, and he be needing a bride.”

  Maclean.

  Dear Mother in Heaven. The Maclean. Everyone knew the Macleans and Campbells were mortal enemies.

  Suddenly she realized what had happened. They thought they had Janet.

  What would happen to the courtesy when they realized they had abducted a Campbell as bride for their lord? Their courtesy would unquestionably vanish.

  Her blood turned to ice. If he discovered who she was, the Maclean would hold her hostage, if not slay her. She had to continue the masquerade. Only now it was even more important. If the Camerons had discovered her identity, they would merely have returned her home. But the Macleans were known for their ferocity. One had even chained one of her ancestors to a rock in hopes she would drown. Others had raided Campbell properties. Only fifteen years ago, a Maclean had led a party that had raped women and killed children.

  Could it be this Maclean?

  She tried to contain the new terror. Maclean was worse even than Morneith.

  She would have to pretend to be amenable to the match, then escape before they discovered her true identity.

  How soon would an alarm be raised? How quickly would her uncle discover that she had been abducted? And what would they do to the Macleans? And the Macleans, in turn, do the Campbells? To her cousin Jamie?

  Dear Mary in Heaven, what have I done?

  The food she’d just consumed rose in her throat.

  “My lady,” the man, obviously alarmed at her distress, tried again. “My lord is a fair and true mon.”

  She would be expected to protest.

  “How dare you?” she said. “My family—”

  “Your family canna but be pleased. We have had long alliances.”

  “Is that why you felt free to abduct me?” she asked with the indignation he would expect.

  “My lord. He … he …”

  The man was stammering. His large face flushed red. It was such a strange reaction that apprehension ran rampant inside her.

  “Is he a monster that he needs to abduct a wife?”

  “Nay, lady. You will find him well favored and of mild temperament. It is only—”

  “Only what?”

  “He does not wish to wed again. But men speak of your beauty. He will surely be …”

  Just then his gaze met her eyes. The cloak had fallen from her head, and her hair had come out from under the cap. She knew it was plastered to her head. Even at the best of times, she was certainly no beauty. Now she must look like a drowned rat.

  Janet was the beauty, not her.

  When would they discover their mistake?

  She realized now they must have heard that Janet was to return home. The Macleans must have followed the escort, and when she had veered away they had followed. They probably couldn’t believe their luck. No battle. No casualties. And they had their heiress.

  What if Janet had accompanied the escort?

  Well, she had much less to lose than Janet.

  Felicia had no man she loved. And Janet was not being forced into a marriage with a man she detested.

  The big man tried to reassure her. “I am Archibald,” he said. “Know that no harm will come to ye while under our protection. We will reach Inverleith tonight, and you will be made most comfortable.”

  “My family will not be pleased,” she said haughtily.

  “They would no’ be displeased at the match.”

  “I am betrothed to Jamie Campbell.”

  The man spat on the ground. “A Campbell. Ye can do far better than that.”

  “I love him.”

  “Ye have not yet met our lord.”

  “The king will be most displeased.”

  Archibald shrugged as if King James was of no matter. “’Tis time to continue.”

  “You said your lord does not wish to be wed,” she said desperately. “You can let me go now, and I will say naught.”

  “I must admit ye are no’ what I thought to be bringing to my laird,” he said, his gaze wandering over her face and her rather large size caused by her several layers of clothes.

  Th
e observation wounded. To be disparaged by a criminal Maclean was adding insult to injury.

  “You, sir, are a brigand and thief and have no right to judge me.”

  Archibald grimaced. “Ye should be grateful to avoid a wedding with a Campbell,” he said. “Any good Scot would say so.”

  The words confirmed the seriousness of her situation. What would happen when they learned who she was?

  They could not. They simply could not discover she was not Janet Cameron.

  Not until she escaped again.

  But she realized it would not be as easy as it had been when she’d had Janet’s help.

  The Camerons had not known what she intended. They had trusted her.

  This man would not do that. He had taken her captive and meant to keep her one until she did their bidding.

  If she succumbed too easily, would she be suspected?

  Or should she fight them?

  Humility and fear would disarm them. Would allow her to escape again.

  She forced tears, hiding the hurt and rage within her.

  She really wanted to stab the bloody man with a sword. No’ what I thought, indeed.

  Mayhap she would get the chance.

  That thought produced a momentary satisfaction. The Macleans would discover this Campbell had a sting.

  Chapter 4

  The sound of the horn echoed through the keep.

  It was followed by a shout, “Riders approaching!”

  The alarm came from the rampart, then echoed as other Macleans took up the call.

  Rory left his supper and took the stone steps quickly to join the sentry.

  Rain had fallen most of the day, but the sun had peeked between the clouds in the past hour. It was setting now, coloring the sky with scarlet and golden hues. Shadows made it difficult to identify the riders approaching the gate, but one was obviously Archibald. No one could mistake his size.

  Rory signaled his men to open the gate and watched his riders file inside. Archibald led a white mare that was carrying a small but bulky figure.

  A woman!

  Rory suddenly understood the sly looks, the evasive answers.

  His men had stolen a bride for him.

  Such actions were not that unusual in Scotland, he knew. Brides had been stolen before. But he had made his feelings about marriage very clear.

  His hands clenched into fists.

  His clansmen would not have dared disobey his father, or Patrick. Rory was an unproven leader to them, but by God, they would learn now.

  “Find Douglas,” he told the man standing next to him. “Tell him to meet me in the courtyard.”

  He strode toward the stairs, took them quickly, and reached the riders as they dismounted.

  Archibald stood in front of him and removed his helmet.

  “What is the lady doing here?” Rory demanded, his anger barely contained.

  “I …”

  Douglas appeared at his side. “Rory?”

  Rory turned on him. “What have you done?”

  “Milord,” Archibald said in a low voice. “Douglas did nothing. It was my doing alone. We brought you Janet Cameron to be your bride. She is said to be pleasing and gentle.”

  Only then did Rory look up at the rider on the white mare. Her back was ramrod straight, and she was covered head to toe by a fur cloak and hood that protected her face from the cold. He wondered if she had heard Archibald’s words.

  He went to her side and offered his hand to her. She ignored it and started to dismount on her own. He caught her by her waist and eased her down, surprised at how much lighter she was than she looked. “My apologies, my lady,” he said.

  She looked at him with dark blue eyes that were quite remarkable. They roiled with emotion, but he could not decipher it. Fear? Anger? A combination?

  He tried to reassure her. “My men acted without my approval. I will be sending you home as soon as you are well rested.”

  She shivered, and he was not sure whether it was from fear or the cold Highland wind that blew through the bailey. All her clothes were damp. Her eyes regarded him warily.

  He had heard of Janet Cameron. There had even been talk of an alliance between her and Patrick. He also knew that she was pledged to Jamie Campbell. He tried to tamp the fury bubbling inside. The Campbells most assuredly would retaliate. That meant more Maclean deaths.

  The lady did not reply. He could not blame her. She had been stolen by men she did not know, forced to ride long and hard in wet, cold weather.

  Any gentle maiden would be stunned with fear.

  He turned to Archibald. “She will be returning. Rest your horses and prepare to ride on the morrow.” He turned back to the woman. “My cook will make you comfortable and find you warm clothing. We have no lady’s maids, but there are scullery maids that can assist you.” He did not like feeling awkward and in the wrong. It didn’t matter that others had put him there. He was responsible, God help him.

  She still didn’t speak. Why did she not rage at him? The silence made him feel even worse.

  Even in Edinburgh, he had heard of Lady Janet Cameron’s beauty. He searched for a hint of it, but it eluded him.

  He told himself that if he had been hauled across many miles in a cold Scotland mist, he, too, might look worse than he would like.

  He bowed. “I am Rory Maclean, Lady Janet. I assure you this is a mistake,” he said, afraid she hadn’t understood his earlier attempt to explain. “You will not be harmed in any way, and I will see you returned immediately.”

  Her gaze did not waver as she regarded him, but he could read little in it.

  “Your men were considerate,” she said. She spoke in a low mellow voice. Only the slightest tremor was audible.

  “As well they should have been,” he said abruptly, his anger barely under control. But he did not wish to frighten her. “I will see to your comfort and send word to the Camerons,” he said.

  She swayed slightly at that. She was obviously exhausted.

  He took her arm and guided her toward the great hall, but her foot slipped in the mud. He caught her as she started to fall, and her body leaned into his as she struggled to remain upright. She looked up at him as the hood slipped from her head.

  Despite her reputation as a beauty, her face was plain except for her eyes. Her face was more square than oval, her mouth too wide, and her nose small, like a button. He could tell little about her hair, but a dark red ringlet curled tightly against her face. Although it wasn’t beautiful, it was an intriguing face, an appealing one.

  What was extraordinary was her controlled expression. There was no hysteria, nor apparent anger, and that stunned him.

  She should be angry. Fearful. Indignant at the very least.

  He picked her up to avoid getting her skirts muddier than they already were and confirmed his earlier impression that the bulk was more cloth than body. Her clothes smelled of damp wool, but there was another scent as well. Light and flowery.

  It reminded him of another woman. Too much. A jolt of heat struck him.

  He saw a satisfied smile on Archibald’s face and knew it was long past time to have a discussion with his captain of the guard.

  A clansman ran ahead and opened the door.

  Rory entered and set the lady back on her feet, ignoring the stunned look on her face. He wondered whether she had felt the same jolt that he had. But no, that was ridiculous. He had been long without a woman. ’Twas only natural urges.

  “Moira,” he bellowed and noticed that Janet Cameron flinched slightly.

  “She will see to your comfort,” he said, anxious that his reluctant guest feel safe until he could send her home without bringing harm to her reputation or his rebellious clan.

  He would send word ahead to the Camerons.

  Then he caught himself. He needed to know the exact circumstances of the abduction. Had anyone been wounded? Killed?

  He would like to wound Archibald at this very moment.

  Moira appeared, her siz
e testament to her love of sweets.

  “Moira, this is Lady Janet Cameron. She will be a guest this eve. See her to my mother’s chamber and fetch her anything she might need. He looked back at the captive. “Do you have any dry clothes?”

  She shook her head.

  “She is to have whatever she needs from my mother’s wardrobe.”

  “Aye,” Moira said, her lips pursed with disapproval. “Puir child,” she said, clucking like a mother hen. “Ye come wi’ me.”

  Rory suddenly realized that Moira knew exactly what had happened. Bloody hell, had everyone known about Archibald’s plan but him?

  He watched as they mounted the steps together. Midway, Moira looked back to order hot water for a bath. He noted at the same time that the Cameron woman moved with uncommon grace despite the bulk of her clothes.

  Rory strode back outside to where Archibald, his bearded face apprehensive, remained standing.

  Rory glared at him. “I would have a word with you.” He turned and strode into the great hall where a log blazed. He whirled around to confront Archibald. “Who is lord here?”

  Archibald’s pale blue gaze met his. “Ye are.”

  “I had no wish to return,” Rory said. “Now that I have, I am laird. I will no’ have anyone doubting that.”

  “We need an heir,” Archibald insisted stubbornly.

  “You will not be getting one from me. If that was all you wanted, you should have looked elsewhere. I have made my wishes clear. They will be respected. Dammit, man, Lady Janet is betrothed to a Campbell.”

  “All the better,” Archibald muttered.

  “I will not continue warring with the Campbells. It may please you, but it does nothing to help our clan. ’Twas not your crofts burned out, but theirs.”

  “Ye canna’ make bargains with the devil.”

  “My ancestor was at fault. I will not have it said that the Macleans continue to mistreats ladies.”

  “Ye would be a fine husband. Far better than a Campbell. She was not mistreated. She dinna say she was.”

  “Of course not. She was probably frightened half to death.”

  “No’ that one,” Archibald said in a barely audible voice.

  Rory narrowed his eyes. “I do not ken your meaning.”

  “Not a cry. Not a protest. ’Twas almost as if she were … relieved.”