He knocked lightly.
No answer.
Moira should be there.
He opened the heavy door and stepped inside. The fire warmed the chamber and cast flickering shadows across the bed.
The lass was asleep. Long black lashes sheltered those striking eyes. The red of fever had left her cheeks. She breathed naturally.
His prayers had been answered. Apparently, Moira had left her because the danger was over.
He wanted to lean over and touch her cheek, to feel that the fever was indeed gone. But he knew that was an excuse. It had been a long time since he had touched a woman.
Rory could have bought women in the ports he visited. He probably wouldn’t have to buy favors at all. Women often looked at him with invitation in their eyes.
But when Anne had followed Maggie in death, he had forsworn casual dalliances, which seemed disloyal to him.
He found himself staring down at the lass. He did not know why she intrigued him. Nor did he understand the brief tenderness that made him want to reach out.
She seemed so alone. She had, in truth, seemed that way when she entered his courtyard and met him with a quiet dignity that affected him far more than tears would have.
He stared at her for several more minutes, at the wild red hair flowing over the pillow, the stubborn jaw. He thought of the fire that had been in her eyes earlier.
Before he realized what he was doing, he leaned down and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. Her skin was smooth. Cool.
Thank the saints.
He should take her to the Camerons on the morn, but mayhap it would be best to give her another day of rest, time to gain her strength.
It was not because he wanted her to stay another day.
He carefully opened the door, left the room, and closed the door behind him. He despaired at his reluctance in doing so.
Chapter 6
Streams of light woke Felicia. She burrowed deeper into the feather bed and stretched like a lazy cat even as she realized her situation was precarious.
She knew she should feel urgency. Fear. She should feel terror.
Yet she should be safe enough today. She would talk to servants. She would explore. She would find a way out.
She must!
She touched her cheek. She’d dreamt that someone had touched it last night. Not just any man. Lord Rory Maclean.
He should be the last man in Scotland to haunt her dreams. Her uncle had proclaimed all Macleans to be devils. But she had not seen that in him. Instead, he appeared a man very much alone, but not unkind. And certainly not a monster.
Her cheek still felt warm from that brief impression, or dream, or whatever it was. It was far warmer than the hot rocks she’d held against her cheeks. Rocks didn’t convey tenderness, nor did they send rivers of heat throughout her body.
Had it really happened?
And if it had? He was the enemy.
She sank deeper into the bed, trying to avoid the image of the Maclean standing above her, his hand touching her. She should shrink from the thought. Instead, she was drawn to it like a moth to light, and it remained a small treasure stored in her mind.
Memories. The touch awakened memories. She had known tenderness before, but it had been so long ago …
She turned over, trying to reject the clanging thoughts and memories. They were too painful. Instead, she concentrated on the warmth and comfort of the bed.
Another image struck her. A bare cot in a tiny room in a nunnery.
One of the options she’d considered. Still considered, as a last resort, if she could not find Jamie. Or, if she did, but he could do nothing.
She had always considered herself devout. Perhaps not as much as she should be, but she tried. A life of prayer and peace had seemed a bearable compromise to marriage.
But as her body remembered and reacted to that dreamlike sensation, she realized she was probably not very suited for a religious life.
That frightened her far more than any of her previous thoughts. She had to find a way to leave the walls of this keep for London. And before those beguiling feelings deviling her caused her to make mistakes. She could not be attracted to Rory Maclean.
The door opened, and Moira entered, carrying a tray. She glowed as she looked at Felicia.
“My herbs did well. Ye look much better.”
“I feel much improved,” Felicia said. “Thank you for all your care. I know I am added trouble.”
“Nay, it is good to have a lass here again. My lord has been—” She suddenly stopped, obviously afraid she was speaking out of turn.
“My lord has been what?” Felicia asked.
“’Tis not my place to say,” Moira said. “I will return with yer clothes. They be washed and mended. My lord said ye should also have anything else you need. We still have clothes that belonged to his or Lachlan’s mither.”
“Lachlan?” She immediately identified the name as the one belonging to the Maclean who had chained his Campbell wife to a rock.
“He is Lord Rory’s brother.”
‘Tell me more about your lord,” she said. “Does he ever smile?”
Moira looked wistful. “He once smiled all the time.”
“But no more?”
“He ha’ much sorrow.”
Felicia knew there were three Maclean sons. She also knew each had different mothers and each mother had died young. She knew all that because it was part of the legend and smug gossip among Campbells. Deserving, they all said.
She also knew that one of the Macleans was said to have destroyed a Campbell village years earlier. It was said that women and children had been killed then. She found it difficult to believe the man responsible for that was Rory Maclean. He had not been welcoming, but he had treated her with every courtesy. Would he do the same if he knew she was a Campbell?
She couldn’t stay here in his keep to find out, yet she wondered at Moira’s words.
“What sorrow?”
Moira searched her face as if trying to decide whether she was worthy to hear more. Then she nodded as if making a decision.
“He lost two wives. Inverleith is a sad place fer him.”
“He loved them?” She had heard of too few love matches.
“Oh yes, particularly his Maggie. The other I did no’ know, but his Maggie was a love.”
His Maggie.
The way Moira said the words told her much. “I heard … there was a curse.”
Moira scowled. “I donna believe in curses.” She set the tray down on a chair with a bang that belied her words. “’Tis naught but foolishness,” she said though her voice quivered slightly. “Women die giving birth.”
Felicia couldn’t help herself. “Is that what happened to Maggie?”
“Aye. Both she and the wee lad were lost.”
A wave of sadness swept over Felicia. She remembered her own mother and father. They had both been taken by the same fever that had swept the nearby village.
But now she understood the aloofness of Rory Maclean. Did he worry another woman would die? Or did he fear the Camerons’ wrath if she were to die?
“And Lachlan?” she asked.
Moira smiled, her eyes crinkling with affection. “He be a gentle soul.”
A Maclean a gentle soul?
“I will be leaving ye to eat. My lord will want to hear the fever is gone.”
But Felicia did not want her to go. She wanted to hear more about Rory Maclean and his brother. The more she knew, the more likely she could escape before anyone discovered she wasn’t Janet Cameron.
“Will you keep me company?” she pleaded.
Moira looked pleased. “Aye.”
“Is the laird here?”
“He left to see if there are parties searching fer ye.”
Stark terror struck her. What if he encountered Campbells looking for her? Her web of lies would be discovered.
Moira regarded her with an odd look.
Felicia tried to act as if she’
d nearly swooned. “I am still light-headed.”
“Of course ye are,” Moira replied sympathetically. “Men,” she muttered then in a barely audible voice.
She stepped aside. “Ye eat, milady. Lord Rory will have my head if ye are not better.”
“So he can send me away?”
“Aye, I fear so. I thought it a foul scheme in the beginning, but I would like to see him wed again.” Again, blue eyes weighed her.
“You knew about it.”
“Aye.”
“And Lord Rory?”
“Nay. Archibald knew he would forbid it.”
“He said it was a ‘mistake.’” She did not add that she thought it might have been because she was plain and not at all what he expected. Nor did she add the hurt that the thought caused. She had not wished to be kidnapped, but neither did she wish to be a rejected prisoner. That was humiliating beyond tolerance.
“Our laird just returned from the sea. He were summoned when Patrick did not return from France, but Archibald fears he will no’ stay, that he will return to the sea. He canna do that as long as there is war between the Campbells and our clan. He wishes to make a truce so he can leave again.”
“He does not wish a wife? Archibald said …”
“Archibald did not consult him.”
“Then why can he not give me a horse, and I will return on my own? No one will know Macleans had aught to do with it. I will say I became lost in the fog.”
Moira shook her head. “He will want to see ye safely back.”
Felicia was tempted to bargain. But bargaining with Moira would do no good. She would have to make her devil’s bargain with the laird himself.
“I will leave ye to eat,” Moira said and left before Felicia could ask any more questions.
Famished, Felicia sat up in bed and started to eat from the tray. There were pastries and fruit and bread. Despite her hunger, the pastries were not very good. In truth, they were dreadful.
She started on the bread and that, too, was nearly leaden, not light and tasty like that made at Dunstaffnage. Even the fruit was poor, overripe and overly sweetened.
She managed only a few bites when the door opened again, and a young man with cropped auburn hair peered inside.
“May I come in?” he asked cautiously.
“Since you are the only one to ask permission, aye,” she said.
He stepped inside and bowed extravagantly, despite one hand carrying a lute. “I am Lachlan, the youngest of the Macleans.” He grinned. “And the most personable. Moira said you were eating. I thought to entertain you and try to counter my brother’s more surly manner.”
His grin and teasing words were infectious. She found herself smiling. Perhaps she could find out more about Lord Rory and how he might react if he discovered who she really was.
“Thank you, I would like that.”
“Moira said you were ill.”
“I was. Her good herbs and a night’s rest were miraculous.”
“I am glad,” he said simply, and she knew he truly was. He glanced at the tray. “I but wish she was as good with food as she is with healing herbs. But I imagine you have already discovered that.” He spoke the words with true amusement.
She studied him. He was slighter in build than his brother, tall and lean. His face had not Rory Maclean’s striking handsomeness, but in an odd way was more attractive, since it had none of the dark wariness. His mouth was wide and expressive. He smiled easily, and when he did, his entire face lit up, and the area around his eyes crinkled. It was a face that one instinctively trusted.
“You are Lady Janet Cameron. Now that the formalities are over, I want to welcome you and wish most sincerely you suffered no ill effects as a result of a too enthusiastic quest to find my brother a wife.”
“You did not approve?”
“I neither approved nor disapproved. I am rarely consulted.”
“Why?”
“I am not sufficiently warlike.”
“And your brother is?”
“Both of my brothers are. I am the only embarrassment. I prefer books and music to swords. I keep the estate records,” he offered without rancor, as if he happily accepted the role of misfit.
She never had. Her uncle had never understood why she wanted to learn to read, but he had readily accepted Jamie’s reasoning that it would enable her to better run a household. Jamie had never told him she knew little else about running a household.
Still, despite the younger Maclean’s words, she recognized strength in him. Perhaps because it took strength to realize what one was and to be true to oneself. Lachlan Maclean appeared to do just that.
He sat down and started strumming the lute. He was good, very good.
“Do not let me stop you from eating, my lady,” he said, looking up.
She did as he asked, despite the unappealing fare. She wanted him to stay. She wanted to learn more about the Macleans. “I have heard of a Lachlan Maclean.”
“No doubt my infamous ancestor who tried to kill his wife in a most unpleasant manner.”
“I pray it’s not a family trait.”
“Nay,” he said with the grin that made her want to smile, too. “My brothers like the ladies too much.”
“Lord Rory does not seem to like me.” Why did it even matter?
His grin faded. “’Tis not you, my lady. He wants to make peace, and your … misadventure could spoil his plans. Once he decides on a course, he rarely moves away from it.”
“I thought the Campbells and Macleans have fought for years.”
“They have. Some of us would like to end it. It hurts both clans and benefits no one.”
“And others?”
He shrugged. “They know nothing else. Hatred has existed between our clans for years. The Campbells kill Macleans, and Macleans kill Campbells.”
“But your brother seeks to end it?”
“Aye.” He started to finger the lute again, and she listened to the plaintive melody. Then he started to sing in a soft, true voice. It was her story, a tale of a beautiful lady who was spirited away to be the wife of a handsome lord.
“I am not beautiful,” she said when he finished. “But it is a fine song.”
He eyed her critically. “Why do you think you are not beautiful? Songs are written about you.”
About Janet Cameron. Not about Felicia Campbell. Everyone here must wonder about that.
She did not answer. Instead, her mind worked furiously. Perhaps he could help her escape the walls of the keep.
But that was only if she could avoid being returned to the Camerons today or tomorrow.
“Archibald said he wanted me to wed Lord Rory, but Moira said the lord did not want to wed. I thought it might be because I am … not as he thought.”
He looked at her with renewed interest. “It has nothing to do with you, Lady Janet. It’s just that his … Maggie, died here in childbirth. He lost his wee son as well. He would have gladly given his life for hers. She made him forget—”
He stopped suddenly as if he realized he had said too much.
“Forget?”
Instead, he started playing again, his head bent in concentration.
When he finished, he stood and walked toward the door. “All my songs are true,” he said as he opened the door and left.
“The lass ate well,” Moira reported when Rory returned and summoned her.
“The fever?”
“’Tis gone.”
“We can leave then.” He did not like the unexpected reluctance he felt. It was only because he had been too long without a woman. Since Anne’s death, he had not made love to a woman.
His own private penance.
In any event, Janet Cameron was not the sort of woman who appealed to him. He liked gentleness. Compatibility. Her eyes were too challenging, her chin too stubborn. Even that unruly hair spoke of wildness.
Moira hesitated. “She offered to take a horse and return alone, to say she was lost. Then no blame would
visit here.”
“I cannot do that. What if brigands attacked her?” He stopped, then said ironically, “I guess they already have.”
“Archibald is no’ a brigand.”
“I wonder if she thought so when he grabbed her. But I will not have her riding alone. The borders are too dangerous.”
Moira sighed. “I do not think she should leave today even if it were safe. She is still weak. Ye would no’ wish to see the fever return.”
“Every day adds danger. She is pledged to the Campbell heir. We could not withstand a siege by both Campbells and Camerons, especially when they both have the ear of King James.”
“Mayhap she is no’ so happy with the event,” Moira said slowly. “She does no’ appear to be so anxious to return.”
He had received the same impression, and it had puzzled him. She had not demanded an immediate return to her family or to the Campbell keep. He had believed it fear, fear of him and the Macleans, but mayhap Moira was right.
It did not matter, he told himself. He could not risk his clan’s future for a reluctant lass.
“I will judge her fitness for travel myself,” he said, leaving Moira and taking the stone steps two at a time. The sooner he returned the lass, the better.
He reached her door and heard the sound of the lute inside, then his brother’s voice. He was singing a song.
Lachlan used to do that for Maggie. His brother had been but a lad but half in love with Maggie himself. But then every man had been. Rory leaned against the stone wall and listened. It had been a long time since he’d heard his brother play. Not since Maggie died. He wondered what had prompted it.
And then he heard Lachlan’s words about Maggie, and his heart seemed to stop.
Lachlan saw him as he left Felicia’s room, and he closed the door behind him.
“It has been a long time since I heard you sing.”
“You have been gone a long time.”
“Not long enough.” He changed the subject. “How is our guest? Do you think she is ready to ride?”
“No,” Lachlan said. “She barely ate. She is pale. You do not want to deliver a sick hostage.”
“She is not a hostage.”
Lachlan shrugged. “Why not send a message to the Camerons? Tell them that our men found her wandering and lost.”
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