Beloved Impostor

by Patricia Potter

  “No,” Rory said as he stretched his long legs out at the table. “She is not to think she is a prisoner. She will be gone tomorrow. Why should she try to escape?”

  “She may not believe you.”

  “I think she did. She appeared to accept my explanation.”

  “Will you not reconsider, my lord? I saw her expression. She was not displeased with you.”

  Rory stared at his steward. “Do you not remember how my mother died, and Lachlan’s? My Maggie and, God help me, Anne.

  “Maggie died in childbirth,” Douglas said, “and Anne of a fever. Half of Leith died.”

  “Anne was there because of me. Waiting for me to come home.”

  “It was her choice, my lord,” Douglas said. “Not yours.”

  “It does not matter. The Cameron lass goes back,” Rory said firmly, weary of the subject.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “In the morning.”

  “Aye.”

  “No more tricks.”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  Rory did not like Douglas’s agreeability. He never gave up that easily. Still, what could he do? Rory planned to escort the lady himself. He drained the tankard in front of him. He would take his rest and prepare to leave early.

  Felicia waited until all sounds ceased.

  Judging the hour to be well past midnight, she took the candle and tried the door. Unlocked. She said a brief prayer of thanks.

  The candle flickered from the air in the hallway. She shivered in the cold air, but then stiffened her resolve. She needed to know more about this place.

  The adjacent chamber to hers was much like her own, more dusty, but truly grand. When she stepped on the elaborate carpet, a cloud of dust rose.

  Rory Maclean was laird. All those she’d encountered acknowledged him as such. Why did he not use the chamber obviously intended for the chief?

  She studied the interior, wondering if it, like some in the Campbell home, had secret chambers and passages.

  But she found nothing that would indicate such. It was richly furnished with tapestries and exotic floor covering, unlike the rushes used throughout her home.

  She wondered again why the laird did not use the chamber, though she was grateful he did not. The thought of his proximity sent a new shiver down her back. The fact that it was not one of fear frightened her in an entirely different way.

  She found nothing and left the room, following the stairs up to the next floor. She continued up as she heard voices. On the fourth level there were more chambers, all of them had obviously been unoccupied for a long time. They had minimal furnishings: bed, table.

  Then she found a chamber that appeared to have been sealed off. Shrouds covered the furnishings. She lifted one and saw an intricately carved cradle. A nursery. Another shroud covered a large box half filled with both new and worn toys. She regarded the box thoughtfully. It was large enough to secret a body her size, if need be.

  Her gaze went back to the cradle, and she felt a sudden pang. She adored children. Now it was unlikely she would ever have any of her own. She banished the thought as she inspected a connecting chamber, plainer than any of the others. It would have been for a child’s nurse.

  Melancholy seemed to linger here. It shouldn’t. This should be a happy place. She shivered and went to the window. It faced the sea, much like her own room at home, and she glimpsed a rock far from shore. Was this where the Maclean had attempted to murder his Campbell wife in the sea? Had he watched her struggle?

  The light from a half moon bounced off the wild waves. Felicia wondered whether that woman had looked at the sea from here. Had she dreamed of having a child? Had she loved the man who had ultimately caused her death?

  Fate had played a strange trick bringing Felicia here. Yet she had an odd feeling of belonging, of familiarity. A shudder ran through her. She had not come here to indulge in fantasy. She needed to find places to hide.

  She could not go to the Camerons tomorrow and have her identity revealed. She would be returned quickly to her uncle. She needed time to find a way safely out.

  She left the room, oddly reluctant to do so, and continued her exploration. Everyone in the tower seemed to be asleep, though she knew there were guards on the ramparts.

  Felicia combed the rest of the rooms, stopping only when she reached the steps leading to the ramparts and the guards.

  She started back to her chamber, her slippers making only a whisper of sound.

  She passed her room. Hesitated. The lower floors would have more activity. Yet she needed to know more. If she met someone, she could always say she was still hungry.

  She stopped when she heard voices in the passageway below her.

  One belonged to the tall laird. She recognized the deep, authoritative tone.

  “Have twenty men ready at daybreak.”

  “I think you should take more. There will be parties looking for her. They may act before you can explain.”

  “Explain what? That we took their heiress? Damn it, Douglas, you should have stopped this. But now I will no’ have killing over it.”

  “If you would but consider wedding her … even hand-fast. They would be bound then to help us against the Campbells.”

  A silence. Then the man called Douglas said, “Perhaps the Camerons will be grateful.”

  “I doubt it,” the Maclean said. “You will have the men saddled and ready to go. I will not use a woman in that way.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  She moved swiftly back to her room. Help us against the Campbells. Against Jamie. Her blood curdled at the thought of a combined force of Macleans and Camerons.

  It wouldn’t happen. Janet loved Jamie. And Felicia was not a Cameron. They would not fight for her.

  She’d heard her Campbell kinsmen talk about the raids on Maclean properties. The old laird had died, and the heir had disappeared in foreign lands. The middle son had been at sea. A good opportunity to grab Maclean land and cattle and crops.

  The hatred was obviously reciprocated. She heard it in Maclean voices every time her clan was mentioned.

  She would be safe if they took her to the Camerons. The Camerons would protect her, but then they would see her delivered to Edinburgh.

  No, she had to continue with her original plan. Reach Jamie. Or a nunnery where no one knew her family. Either would be preferable to the marriage planned for her.

  But she had to delay tomorrow’s departure. She needed time to find a way to leave on her own and travel to Edinburgh—and Jamie.

  She opened the door to her chamber again. No sounds. She had another mission now. She found her way down the steps and moved silently across the great hall to the kitchen. No one had stirred yet, though a great log was burning in the giant fireplace.

  Using the candle for light, she found what she needed, then swiftly returned to her chamber. She closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. She had a plan and it was every bit as desperate as her last one.

  “Milady is ill!”

  Rory had risen long before dawn. He had shaved and bathed in ice-cold water, then dressed in his white shirt and the plaid. He wore more constrictive—and fashionable—clothes when he sailed and visited foreign ports, and he appreciated the freedom of the plaid.

  He’d been ready to leave his room when Moira had knocked.

  Moira was more family than servant. She had helped raise him, along with Douglas. His father, like himself, had not wanted to take and lose another wife. Alexander Maclean had married for love three times and had watched each bride die.

  As Rory had twice.

  He followed Moira along the passageway, his soft shoes barely making a sound on the stone floors.

  The door was open. He entered, Moira trailing behind him. A servant was beside the slight figure in the large bed.

  Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her eyes hollow, and she sneezed.

  “My lady,” he said with a frown.

  She looked up at him with clouded ey
es.

  God’s blood. If the Cameron lass were to sicken in his care …

  He looked helplessly at Moira.

  “The poor lass canna be traveling today,” she said. “I will be making a potion for her.”

  “When will she be able to travel?”

  “I do not know,” Moira said.

  “I should send word to the Camerons,” he said.

  Janet Cameron began to cough.

  “’Tis no’ a good idea,” came Douglas’s voice from the doorway.

  Rory whirled around, saw Douglas’s concerned face.

  “I will be back,” Rory told Moira and stepped outside with Douglas, closing the door behind him. “Why is it not a good idea?”

  “Archibald claims that no one knows we took her. No one knows she is here. I think it best if we return her in good health.”

  Rory knew instantly that Douglas was right. If anything happened to the lass, the blame would fall on Maclean heads.

  She would not worsen. She could not.

  A cold knot formed in his stomach. He did not know if he could bear to see another woman die. Especially by his hand, or that of his clan. They were the same, he knew, and would be judged so. Intentions did not matter.

  He could not allow it to happen.

  He turned to Douglas. “Is there a physician?”

  “Not in fifty miles.”

  “Send someone for him. Take two horses and change them on the way.”

  “Moira—”

  “Moira is a fine healer, but I will not take any chances with the lass’s life.

  Douglas nodded. “I will send one man and tell the others to dismount.”

  “Nay. I want them to scout the area. And I want more sentries on the walls. There is always the chance that someone did see her taken.”

  Rory watched him go down the steps, then stared at the closed door of the chamber again.

  He hated indecision. He did not like feeling helpless. Nor did he like the feeling that he had been here before. He had watched two wives die. Pain rushed through him at both memories.

  He vowed that if the fever worsened, he would send a rider to the Cameron keep. She should have those who cared for her nearby.

  He went back into the room.

  Moira was washing the lady’s face with cool water, and some of the fever flush was fading.

  Mayhap God was with him this time.

  He knelt at her side. “I can send word to your clan that you are ill.”

  “Nay,” she said with a soft sigh. “I would no’ wish to be the cause of war.”

  “They must know you are missing now. They will be worried.”

  “My father is in Edinburgh.”

  “Your mother then.”

  A cloud passed across her face, and she turned away.

  Was there some reason then that she would not want her family to know where she was?

  By all that was holy, he had been responsible for enough misery. And now he was responsible for her. He would do as she wished. For now. But he felt bloody uncomfortable doing it. The longer he waited, the more blame could come to the clan.

  He had returned home to try to bring peace after years of war. As a youth, he had taken part in the bitter warfare with the Campbells. It wasn’t until he heard a woman’s tortured cries and realized a child had died that his blood had cooled. He would never forget that day. Though he had not dealt the death blow, the cries of the mother still haunted him.

  And then he had wed Maggie, though he had never felt worthy of her. She had brought gentleness to his life. Now he was facing conflict with still another clan, one nearly as powerful as the Campbells.

  He rose to his feet and turned to Moira. “Let me know of any change. Even the smallest one.”

  Felicia had always taken pride in being forthright and honest. Now lies were tumbling from her mouth quicker than fleas jumped onto a dog.

  She had not expected the stricken look on the lord’s face, nor Moira’s deep concern. She had expected that everyone would leave her in peace just as they did when she was ill at Dunstaffnage. She was naught to the Macleans. The lord only wanted rid of her.

  A few hot stones wrapped in cloth and placed next to her cheeks, pepper to make her sneeze, and no sleep to make her eyes red-rimmed made her look ill. Enough, she’d thought, to delay the journey.

  She thought she might have four days to make her escape. Not much more. Janet would have returned to the Camerons, and there would be no outcry there. The steward at Dunstaffnage was not a timid man, but he did fear her uncle. He would not report her escape to his lord until he felt certain he could not find her. He would comb the entire area for her before admitting failure.

  But rather than being left to herself to recover, she was being smothered by care, by worry, by concern. It was new to her; no one other than Jamie had ever shown such bother over her before. Even the cold, angry lord had seemed uncertain. She’d felt warmed by the concern in his eyes. For the first time, they had reflected something other than the fact that he felt her to be a monumental nuisance.

  He had looked intensely masculine and appealing. He entered a room like a storm, directing all attention to himself just by his presence.

  He is a Maclean, her family’s greatest enemy. And hers was his.

  And now he was thinking about sending someone to notify Janet’s family. Her family.

  Dear mother of God. She had become enmeshed in a web of her own creation. This was why she so rarely bed.

  “Milady, do you feel ye could eat something?”

  She nodded. “Mayhap a little.”

  “I will return in a wee moment.”

  Moira left, and Felicia rose from the bed, and looked under the bed where she had hidden the rocks. She had only a few moments, if that many, before someone else came to inquire about her health.

  Using the fireplace tools, she placed the rocks in the fire, waited until they heated, then very carefully wrapped them back in pieces of cloth and scampered back to the bed. She placed the wrapped stones against her cheeks, forcing herself to bear the heat. When she felt sufficiently fevered, she again placed them under the bed, then snuggled down under the covers.

  Moira arrived several minutes later, a tray in her arms. Unfortunately there seemed to be naught but a tankard and a bowl of porridge.

  Moira’s face darkened as she saw the newly produced flush in Felicia’s cheeks. “Here, milady,” she said, presenting the tankard filled with a foul-smelling brew. Felicia sniffed, then sneezed.

  “’Tis good for ye, milady,” Moira said.

  Since she had an interest in seeming to try to make herself well, Felicia forced herself to drink the mixture, which truly was quite terrible. The porridge was not much better.

  “The fever seems worse,” Moira said, her brow crinkling with worry.

  “I think I just need rest,” Felicia said.

  “I will stay with ye.”

  “Nay,” Felicia said. “I know you have duties, and I have taken you away from them. ’Tis nothing but weariness, and I canna sleep with someone worrying over me.” She said the last with a smile to indicate it was her own foible and not Moira’s presence that was the problem.

  “The lord—”

  “The lord would like to see me better,” she said.

  The woman clucked, but gave her one more worried look and backed out of the room. She hesitated before closing the door, obviously loath to leave her charge. “Ye let us know if ye need anything?”

  “Aye,” she said.

  “I will have someone outside the door.”

  “There is no need,” Felicia protested.

  “The lord will have my head if aught happened to ye.” She hesitated. “He is a good mon. He should have no blame on this.”

  “He will not,” Felicia said, hoping that it was true. She truly did not wish to be responsible for any violence.

  Moira gave her a rare smile. “He would make a good husband.”

  Did everyone wish to
marry them off? “He obviously has no wish to wed,” she said.

  “He has had much sadness,” Moira said. But then she quickly disappeared out the door and closed it quietly behind her.

  What sadness?

  She tried to remember everything she had heard about the Macleans. There had been the curse. And since then constant war. In her mind, the Macleans had been frightening and evil. But in truth, she had seen little that was frightening and even less that was evil.

  The man called Archibald had been uncommonly thoughtful after their initial encounter, and the Maclean laird had not fit her image of a monster. He was, in fact, the opposite.

  The sea was alluring too, beautiful, but there was also deception and danger in the tides, in the rush of water against rocks.

  It was foolish even thinking such things. She should be thinking about escaping from the keep and making her way to her cousin.

  She found herself yawning. Mayhap something in the foul potion she’d just consumed made her drowsy, or the fact she had stayed awake last night and had had little sleep the nights preceding that.

  She fought it. The fever would leave without her trickery. So would the sneeze.

  Mayhap a short nap. No more.

  Her eyes closed.

  Rory stabled his horse.

  The quiet had worried him. He’d expected Camerons at the gate, and he didn’t understand why they were not.

  Surely the disappearance of the daughter of the house would have aroused men to search all the lands around the area where she disappeared. The fact that this was not happening caused him concern.

  He had ridden out with several of his men. They had spied no Camerons, only a band of Campbells. He had ordered his men to disappear into the wooded countryside. He wanted no confrontation even as he saw the disappointment in the faces of his men.

  Rory knew they were not pleased. Their grumbling was meant to be heard. Patrick would have fought.

  None called him coward. They had seen him fight in the past. But he had heard their whispers that Maggie had softened him, had changed him. He had been gone too long.

  They wanted Patrick.

  Bloody hell, he wanted Patrick back as well.

  When he returned to the keep, he strode up to the chamber the Cameron lass occupied.