Beloved Impostor

by Patricia Potter

  Rory thought that only an excuse, though he also thought the woman far too calm under the circumstances. “How many men were killed?”

  “No’ even one.”

  Rory stared at his captain of the guards with disbelief. “Are you saying her escort did nothing to protect her?”

  “She was no’ with them. We were following. We heard noise. Curses. Little Willie snuck up and said some had lost their saddles, then he saw the lady turning away. Confused or frightened in the mist, mayhap. Ye could say we found her.”

  “Then no one knows she is here?”

  “Nay. She disappeared in the mist.”

  “She did not scream?”

  “Well …”

  “Well what?”

  “I might have had my hand over her mouth.”

  Rory sighed. “I will talk to her. If she will say we rescued her, then no harm done. If she does not …”

  “A Cameron alliance would help us against the Campbells,” Archibald said hopefully. “She would not say nay to you. Any lady—”

  Rory’s temper was near explosion. “I will hear no more about marriage. She returns tomorrow. Let us hope that she is agreeable. King James has made it clear he does not want the clans feuding. It is my neck you are risking, Archibald. And those of the crofters. If you had not helped raise me, I would see you gone this day.”

  He strode off before he said more. Archibald and Douglas had been a part of his life since he had been a wee lad. Archibald had instructed him in warrior arts, and Douglas had taught him to read and write. Both had been more father to him than his own sire.

  Mayhap that was the problem. They both saw him as a lad, not as a man of three and thirty years, a man who had commanded a ship for the last six of those years.

  He was hesitant to exert authority for that same reason. He had never wanted to be laird. He held this place for his older brother, nothing more.

  Rory retreated to his room and poured himself a tankard of wine from a jug on the table, then went to the window that overlooked the sea. It was low tide, and the rock where his ancestor chained his wife jutted upward from the beach. Waves washed around it, splashing water high into the air.

  He could only imagine the lady’s terror as she watched the waves rise slowly, as her body was buffeted and frozen by wind and icy spray.

  He brushed the images from his mind and thought about the woman in the chamber below him. It was the room his mother had used years ago before her death, the same room that Patrick’s and Lachlan’s mothers had inhabited.

  He had not taken the chamber next to it, the one which belonged to the laird. Although it had been prepared for him upon his arrival. He felt the chamber belonged to Patrick. Rory preferred the plain, stark chamber of his youth.

  He turned away from the window and took another sip of wine as he considered how to approach the lady, how to convince her that she had not been abducted at all.

  Felicia followed Moira. She tried to control the small tremors that racked her. They did not all come from the cold winds that had buffeted her all day.

  She had never been a timid person, but she was in the enemy’s lair, and she knew she had to keep her wits about her.

  She had expected a villain. According to her Campbell clansmen, every Maclean was a fearsome being. Corrupt, brutal, and untrustworthy. She had expected someone like Morneith, only younger.

  Instead, the Maclean had been courteous, apologetic, and solicitous. Even charming with his unexpected apologies. He’d appeared to be as confused by her kidnapping as she had been. Mary help her, but he was also as handsome a man as any she had seen.

  She kept telling herself he was an enemy, yet he had been nothing but kind. He was tall and well formed. His eyes were steel gray and his hair a dark brown, almost black. His face was hard, and his lips unsmiling, but he had a face that attracted attention. In that, he reminded her of Jamie.

  But while Jamie was open and frank, Rory Maclean seemed surrounded by shadows despite his outward courtesy. His eyes were guarded, and despite polite words, there had been no smile. His touch had been electric, and when he’d so unexpectedly lifted her, she’d felt a brief impression of confidence and strength. She’d even felt safe.

  She knew that for the falsity it was. He believed she was Janet Cameron, and it was to his advantage to be charming and protective. His charm would vanish quickly enough if he discovered he had a hated Campbell in his keep.

  Still, her skin remained warm where he had touched her, and an unfamiliar ache plagued her.

  Moira opened the door to a large chamber. The furnishings were magnificent, though covered with a film of dust. The bed was finer than hers at home, but it looked neglected, the covering slightly stained.

  Moira’s face fell. “I know it must no’ be as grand as that you know.”

  “It is fine,” Felicia assured her.

  Moira’s anxious face creased into a smile. “’Tis a long time since we have had a lady here. We have needed a lady’s presence.” Her face fell as her gaze moved around the room. “We have had no lady or lord for too long.”

  Felicia looked at her. “But I just met …”

  “Lord Rory returned just a few days ago from years at sea. The old lord died nearly three years ago, and Lord Rory’s older brother, the heir …” Her voice trailed off.

  “His older brother?” Felicia prompted. She knew some of the story. And a Cameron that had maintained relations with both clans should know more. Yet her life might well depend on information tossed like crumbs to a hungry bird.

  “He went to fight with the French three years ago. He was an adventurer, that one. He has no’ returned. No one knows what happened to him.”

  They were interrupted by a succession of men who filled the fireplace with wood and lit it. Others brought a tub and steaming pails of water. The old woman quickly shooed the men out and offered to help Felicia undress.

  She could not allow that to happen. “Nay,” she said. “I would prefer privacy.”

  The woman looked crestfallen, as if she had failed in some way, but she backed out the door. “I will bring ye a nightrobe and some food,” she said.

  Felicia remained standing until Moira left, then she went to the steel mirror on the wall and looked at herself. She did not know when she had looked worse. Her hair clung to her head in tight curls, and her eyes were tired and dull-looking. No beauty here. How long could her masquerade last?

  She turned away from the condemning object in front of her and hurriedly undressed, discarding one layer after the other. She laid her cloak with its jewels sewn inside in the empty wardrobe and removed her gown, then the one underneath it. She finally reached the lad’s clothes, took them off, and tucked them under the mattress. She had little doubt she would need them later.

  Wearing only the chemise, and many pounds lighter, she stood in front of the first flickers of flame in the fireplace and tried to control the shivers that ran down her body. She removed that last garment and slipped into the tub, relishing the hot water. She closed her eyes, wondering what she should do next.

  She was tired, so very tired, yet she knew she needed all her wits about her. Still, her thoughts kept returning to the tall lord who had carried her with so little effort and whose gaze had been so direct.

  A knock came at the door, and before she could say anything Moira entered with a tray of food. A young lass behind her carried a luxurious robe trimmed with fur, along with warmed thick towels.

  “This is Robina,” Moira said. “She will be attending ye. She is no’ a lady’s maid, but she is a fine worker and wishes to please.”

  The lass bobbed her head, then stood ready to towel off her new charge.

  With a sigh, Felicia stood. The water was cooling all too quickly, but she hated to leave it just the same. Robina quickly wrapped her in towels, rubbing her until she thought she would have no skin left.

  “Ye have bonny red hair,” the girl said shyly.

  Felicia had always hat
ed it. It was the color of rust and crinkled in hundreds of curls rather than running smoothly down her back as did Janet’s dark hair.

  “Thank you,” Felicia said and reached for her chemise, slipping it over her shoulders.

  Robina bobbed again and fetched the robe, helping Felicia into it and nearly knocked her back into the tub with her eager ministrations. “Milady … I … I mean …” the girl stuttered.

  Moira scowled at her.

  Felicia’s heart melted. The maid was no more than a child, probably no more then ten and three years. Felicia knew being a lady’s maid was a much valued position, and the young lass was a combination of inexperience and hope.

  Felicia knew much about both. “It was my fault,” she said, and the child beamed with gratitude.

  “Ye must be hungry,” Moira said. “I am not the best of cooks, but there is fruit and cheese, bread and mutton.”

  She waited, apparently expecting Felicia to crawl into the bed, and she did so. Gratefully. Despite the faded tapestries and layers of dust, the bed was warm and comfortable.

  The tray was placed in front of her, and she suddenly realized how hungry she was. She took a bite of cheese and struggled not to wince. It was undoubtedly the worst cheese she had ever tasted. She tried a piece of fruit, only to find it spoiled. She could not cut through the mutton. The ale in the tankard was sour.

  “I am very tired,” she said, pushing the tray away. Moira’s face fell.

  “It is not your food, Moira,” Felicia said hurriedly. “I am just too weary to eat.”

  The woman looked unconvinced. She curtsied and took the tray. “Robina will stay here and see to yer every need,” she said.

  That would not do at all. As tired as she was, Felicia had scouting to do this night.

  “I would prefer to be alone,” she said with a touch of haughtiness. Haughtiness, she thought, would probably be expected when a high-born lady was spirited away from home and clan. She was not quite sure, since she did not feel high born at all.

  Robina looked as if she were about to cry.

  Felicia was being put in the very strange position of trying to comfort her captors. The lass obviously, desperately, wanted to succeed in this duty.

  “I would like my garments laundered,” Felicia said.

  “Aye, milady,” the lass said hopefully as she gathered up the clothing and fled.

  Felicia wondered for a fleeting second whether the girl had any idea as to how to launder. But of course she would.

  Moira took the tray. “I wish ye a good night, milady.”

  The door closed behind the serving woman. Felicia waited to hear a latch fall. It did not.

  So she was not to be locked inside.

  By orders of the lord?

  She’d felt fear when she’d learned where she was going. The stories of the Macleans were told repeatedly in the Campbell keep. Then she had come face-to-face with the man she had been taught to hate. Not only was he a striking looking man, but there had been no cruelty in his face. To the contrary, there had been only concern for her. There was no sign of the demon she’d been taught to fear, the Maclean who had butchered women and children years ago.

  But then he had mistaken her for Janet Cameron, and he had reason to be conciliatory. And charming.

  For a fleeting traitorous moment, she had thought that prospect not an unwelcome one.

  He was, as his man had said, well favored. He wore his dark hair short, like a soldier, and he had cool, gray eyes. His body—when she had stumbled into it—was hard and muscled, and he had lifted her as easily as she might lift a feather.

  That had shocked her beyond reaction. So had the heat that had rushed through her. When he had put her back on her feet, her legs barely held her, and she’d been mesmerized by his flinty eyes.

  She knew then she had leaped from the pot into the fire. If the Macleans learned who she really was, she would be returned immediately or held for ransom. The latter did not concern her as much as the former, though she doubted the same amount of cordiality would be accorded her, under those circumstances.

  And when would her uncle discover she was missing? No doubt, there would be a hue and cry, and the Macleans would realize who they had.

  Certainly they must already understand they didn’t have the beauty that Janet was known to be. How much time did she have? She would have to escape again, before her true identity was discovered.

  She probably should have wailed and trembled and cried many tears. Yet she hadn’t been able to force them. She never cried. She couldn’t feign outrage when she was at fault. She truly regretted that honest streak.

  There was no choice but to continue the masquerade until she could run once more. The lad’s clothes hidden beneath the mattress, and the jewels sewn into the cloak were her tools of escape. She had to believe it and to make it so.

  A knock came at the door. From the impatient sound, she knew exactly who stood outside. She did not answer. After a few seconds, the door opened, and Rory Maclean strode in.

  He filled the room with his presence. He paced back and forth before saying anything, then looking as if he had steeled himself, he confronted her. “You are not frightened,” he said. “Why?”

  “Mayhap I am,” she challenged him. “Mayhap I just choose not to display it to my captors.”

  His gaze speared her, then a small mirthless smile played on his lips. “I am not sure you are afraid of anything, milady.”

  But she was frightened and for very different reasons than he could possibly imagine. Feeling very much at a disadvantage in the bed, she attacked. “Is it your custom to invade a lady’s bedchamber?”

  He looked startled at being challenged. “You have not demanded to be taken home.”

  “You already told me you were sending me there. Did you lie?”

  He scowled. “I do not lie.”

  “You just kidnap brides.”

  “A mistake was made. My men believed you were in trouble. You were alone.”

  “Archibald said you needed a bride.”

  His expression did not change as the lie was exposed.

  He shrugged. “Archibald has fantasies. I hope Moira has made you comfortable. I will personally escort you to your father tomorrow. We will leave at dawn.”

  She merely nodded.

  “If there is nothing else I can do, I would leave you to your rest,” he said stiffly.

  “There is nothing.”

  He did not leave immediately. Instead, his eyes studied hers even as she did the same. She found it difficult to tear her gaze from his compelling face, his watchful eyes. She doubted he missed much.

  It did not make sense. None of it did. Why did his clansmen feel they had to go to such extraordinary measures? Their lord was not ill-favored, though there was a sense of aloneness about him. Most women, she was sure, would find him appealing.

  She flushed as warmth washed through her. Blithely ignoring reason, she did not want him to go. She wanted to know about this Maclean. It was madness, she knew. He was an enemy. And she was plain Felicia Campbell. Pledged to a monster.

  He hesitated at the door as if he wished to say more. Again their gazes met, held, and she felt a rush of her heartbeat. She had a wild desire to feel his arms around her again. For that brief moment in the courtyard, she had felt safe. More than safe.

  She didn’t understand her conflicting feelings. She had the desire to linger, to learn more of him, while he expressed nothing but an urgency to rid himself of her. Reason told her he had likely known of the abduction and simply had been disappointed in her.

  In spite of reason and his insistence that she leave on the morrow, she thought she saw a flash of awareness in those wary eyes, a glint of masculine interest.

  Impossible.

  She only wanted it to be true. More the fool, she.

  “I wish you a restful night, my lady,” he said again.

  She closed her eyes as he left the room, but his presence lingered, a strong masculine
power that made her wish she were not a Campbell and that she had Janet’s fair countenance.

  Wishing would not make it so. She could not change the facts. She must have mistaken the sudden glint in his eyes.

  She had to think of a way to prevent her departure in the morning. She could not be taken to the Camerons and exposed, and ultimately returned to her uncle.

  She had to find a way to leave the keep alone. Undetected. There must be a private exit somewhere.

  She would find it. She had to.

  Chapter 5

  Janet Cameron was the most puzzling female he’d ever met.

  Rory went down to the great hall to sup, even as the lass remained in his thoughts. It was the first time in several years that a woman had raised more than a fleeting physical reaction in him.

  He didn’t understand why. Though she had been hailed as a beauty, she was more intriguing than lovely. No quaking lass, she.

  Her face was interesting, if not beautiful. None of the parts went together—the wide eyes, the button nose, the square chin—and yet they were appealing to him. The bulk of her clothes had been deceptive. The robe had swayed when she moved and could not conceal the graceful outlines of her slender body.

  God’s breath, but those eyes held challenge.

  She was as unlike Maggie as any woman could be. Maggie had been gently rounded and her nature had been kind. She had been a dreamer who saw the best in everyone. She liked everyone and expected everyone to like her. They always had.

  She’d loved flowers and sun-filled May days. She rejoiced in the moon and stars and even the cold Highlands rain. And when she was carrying his child, she would sing to it and tempt him into playing the lute.

  The world had been enchanted then.

  Loneliness pierced him. He thought he had conquered it. Now he realized he had not.

  The woman revived memories he did not want, that he had held at bay for years. Why had they flooded back now?

  By all that was holy, the sooner the Cameron woman left this hall, the better.

  Douglas met him at the entrance of the hall and walked in with him. “Should I put a guard on her door?” asked his steward.