“I considered that. But I did not want to invite Camerons inside the walls until I was sure what she would say. And to deny hospitality would be to admit guilt. On the other hand, an escort of Macleans would signal our goodwill.”
“You will have to charm her,” Lachlan said lightly.
Rory looked at him suspiciously. “Not you, too?”
“Oh I have no intention of asking you to seduce her. Merely to make her sympathetic to the misguided efforts of our kinsmen. That might take a few days.”
“We cannot wait that long.”
“They probably think she is lost. They will be hunting her in the hills and caves. In the meantime, you can be pleasant to her.”
“A day,” Rory said. “No more.”
“I have no doubt you can accomplish much in that time,” Lachlan said before turning toward the stone steps.
Rory took a deep breath. Unfortunately, Lachlan was right. If he wished to keep peace with the neighboring clans, he would have to enlist his prisoner’s assistance.
He opened the door.
Janet Cameron was sitting on the bed, brushing her long, unruly, red hair. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
He bowed. “My lady. You look far better than you did when you arrived.”
He suddenly realized how that sounded. So much for charm. “I mean your health appears much improved.”
She smiled suddenly, and he was surprised at its power. Her entire face lit. “I was wet, my lord. I must admit I felt like a drowning rat.”
His gaze met hers. “Would you like us to take you home today?”
“I am very weary from the journey. Your men ride hard.”
“We can send word to the Camerons.”
“I would prefer to borrow a horse tomorrow and travel on my own. That way, no blame will come to you.”
“You care about that?” He did not tell her Moira had already conveyed the offer.
“I like your brother. I would not wish harm to come to him. My family is offended easily. But if I were just lost …”
Not that she did not wish harm to him. She had specified his brother. An inexplicable jealousy struck him.
He realized that she was holding her breath while awaiting his answer. Did she truly care that no violence came as a result of Archibald’s actions?
“You cannot travel alone. The Campbells …”
“I am betrothed to a Campbell,” she said. “They will do naught to harm me.”
He shook his head. “I will accompany you.”
The light in her sapphire blue eyes dimmed. The room seemed to grow darker with it gone.
He wanted to ask whether there was a reason she did not rush to the keep of her family. But he didn’t. It was best he did not know. He could allow nothing to affect his decisions. Nothing but the welfare of his clan.
Charm her, Lachlan had instructed.
That from his brother who seldom indulged in guile.
Perhaps he, too, realized the stakes this time.
“Will you have supper with us tonight?”
“I have naught to wear.”
“Moira will find something.”
“Then aye.”
“I must warn you. Moira is the cook and—”
“I know,” she replied and the light was back in her eyes. Her lips twitched.
“Since my father died, there has been little order. Moira is Archibald’s aunt, and she needed the position. We needed a cook. I have decent wine, though,” he added quickly. A little too quickly, he thought.
Charm, Lachlan had insisted.
She nodded slowly.
“Moira will check on you during the day and bring several gowns. Select whatever you like.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He looked at her as her hands continued to plait her hair in one long braid. Wisps of red hair escaped and curled around her face. She looked young and innocent and uncertain.
And fetching.
Not beautiful, but appealing.
Too appealing.
He stepped outside without another word and closed the door behind him. It was only then that he wondered whether his guileless younger brother had been in on the scheme to see him wed again?
If so, he would be disappointed.
Sorely so.
Chapter 7
Felicia knew she had to be careful. She could not appear to have recovered too quickly, and she had to evade Moira’s overprotective mothering as well.
She had to do more exploration. She had to find a way to escape. But every time she stood, Moira seemed to appear and suggest she return to bed.
Toward late afternoon, Moira disappeared. Felicia managed to dress herself in her own garments, which had been washed and returned.
She put on the sorely used pair of slippers and quickly snuck out before Moira returned. She moved quickly down the stone steps, darting into a corridor when she heard the sound of boots coming from above. When it felt safe enough, she managed to open the heavy door.
She found herself in a large bailey. She had been here only at night before, and her room looked out over the sea. Now she studied the interior of the keep.
Heavy gates were open, and riders galloped in. The great doors groaned as they closed behind them. She darted into the afternoon shadows, hoping no one would notice her, and watched as they dismounted and went through the same door she’d just departed from.
Her gaze skipped to a door in the wall. A guard stood immediately above it. She turned toward the stable and walked inside. Grooms were busy with the newcomers’ horses, taking off saddles and halters. She went down the long line of stalls, finally finding Janet’s little mare. She wished she had something from the kitchen to offer when the mare nuzzled her hand for a treat.
“Later,” she assured her. Such an errand would provide another opportunity to visit the stable.
In the meantime, she studied the interior. Four boys were working the horses. Were they always here?
One of them caught her eye and came over to her. “Milady, can I help ye?”
“I was just thinking my mare needed some exercise, but you seem very busy.”
He looked regretful. “Ye canna leave the bailey, milady. Archibald, he said nay.”
“I do not care about leaving the bailey. I just wish to exercise the mare. I will stay within the walls.”
The boy looked skeptical. “I will ask Archibald, but first I must help cool down the horses. Lord Rory feels strongly about his beasts.”
That said something about Rory Maclean. She turned away and let him get back to work. She walked down the line of stalls until she reached the end. There was an extra large stall in which a black mare moved restlessly. She was obviously close to foaling.
Felicia held her hand out, and the mare nipped at it. One of her fingers bled, but Felicia held no malice. Ordinarily she would have disciplined the mare, but had she been as swollen and as uncomfortable, she probably would nip, too.
She watched as the grooms started bringing in water from the well for the watering buckets, wondering if she could befriend one of them. She feared not. The lad she had spoken with seemed to have a healthy respect for authority. She supposed the others did as well.
Still, there might be one …
She had to find some way to leave.
The groom returned and regarded her curiously. “Archibald said you were no’ feeling well.”
“I am improved,” she said, “and needed some fresh air. I feel like a prisoner.”
“I canna help that, milady. But someone might accompany you on a ride tomorrow.”
“I would be most grateful.” She hesitated, then continued. She wanted to form a bond with the lad. “The black mare is ready to foal?”
“Aye. Tonight, Lachlan says.”
“I would like to watch,” she said wistfully. She had always loved the sight of a foal taking its first few uncertain steps. It had always seemed a miracle to her.
The lad looked at her in shock. �
��’Tis no sight for a lady,” he said.
She had seen more than a few foals born. Neither Jamie nor the grooms at Dunstaffnage had this quaint idea of what a lady should do.
But would Janet have made such a comment? She had to remind herself that as of two days ago she was Janet. Fair and modest. Certainly not someone mucking in straw and blood. She had to stop making mistakes.
She changed the subject. “What is your name?”
“Mine, milady?” He looked startled to be asked.
“Aye.”
“’Tis Hector, milady,” he replied, his face growing bright pink.
“I will not forget it,” she said. Nor would she. She needed every ally she could find.
She had to delay tomorrow’s journey to the Cameron property and find an opportunity to get outside the walls. Every moment she stayed here, she risked her freedom. Perhaps, even, her life.
Reluctantly, she left the stable and returned to her room. She had not accomplished all she wished, but at least she knew more about the bailey and the walls.
She only wished she’d discovered more about the laird. Despite his courtesy, his eyes appeared to miss little. They were always watchful, always cautious. He would not be as easy to trick as the unsuspecting Camerons had been.
When she returned to her room, a fretful Moira was waiting for her. Several dresses lay on the bed. Robina was with her.
“Milady, ye should not be wandering in these drafty halls,” Moira scolded with the authority of someone who knew her position was safe. “Robina will help ye dress. I must go and see about supper.” She turned and left the chamber.
Felicia’s gaze went immediately to an underdress of pale green and a surcoat of a darker green trimmed with fur. ’Twas out of fashion but the color suited her.
“These are for me?”
“Aye, milady,” Robina said. “Moira chose them.”
Felicia tried on the garments, and they fit perfectly.
“Oh, milady, ’tis perfect with yer coloring,” Robina exclaimed as she stood back. “Now yer hair.”
Unfortunately Robina knew nothing about taming Felicia’s wild curls. Felicia brushed it, and Robina attempted to confine it with pins, but nothing worked. Felicia finally plaited it into her usual long braid even as she wished she had Janet’s hair that fell in silky waves to her waist.
Why did she care? The Maclean was an enemy, an impediment to her escape.
She did care. She’d once overheard her uncle telling Jamie that it was unfortunate she had not inherited her mother’s beauty instead of the plain features of Felicia’s father. It had wounded her deeply, and even Jamie’s reply had not helped. He had praised her intelligence and spirit.
Jamie never knew she had overheard the conversation. He had, in truth, often told her she was bonny. But she’d known he lied.
So how, she wondered, had the Macleans accepted the tale that she was a famed beauty?
When she rose from the chair, Robina beamed as if she was indeed a beauty.
No one else would believe it, though. She only prayed that no one at the table had seen Janet.
A knock came at the door. Felicia stiffened as Moira opened it.
She did not want to see the disappointment in Rory Maclean’s face when he saw her, but not to look would be cowardly, and she prided herself on being brave.
To her surprise, she did not see disappointment or disapproval, but a certain glint that warmed his eyes considerably. It disappeared quickly enough that she wondered whether she had actually seen it.
“My lady,” he acknowledged, respect in his voice.
Startled, she found herself speechless. She felt totally inadequate standing there.
“Am I that frightening?” Lord Maclean queried, apparently taking her silence for fear.
“Nay, my lord,” she said, “though your reputation and that of your clan is fierce.”
“Only toward our enemies,” he said.
That did not comfort her.
She did not move away as he offered his arm and approached the stairs. She needed his steadiness. Her legs felt suddenly weak, and her skin unexpectedly warm.
She mused for a moment that perhaps she really was ill, then his hand steadied her. As his strength and warmth surrounded her, she realized the flutter in her heart was not from any illness. Far too aware of his impact on her, she stumbled and was suddenly in his arms. The warmth turned to white-hot heat.
“The steps are rough, my lady.”
She did not reply. She feared she would babble.
She was relieved when they reached the foot of the stairs and his hand relaxed on her arm. He did not release her immediately. Nor did she wish him to. She felt safe. Safe and protected and wanted.
Illusion. He thought her an heiress of a friendly clan. That was all. His interest would fade quickly enough if he knew the truth. Most likely it would turn to hatred, just as her uncle and cousin hated the Macleans.
As she should. The Macleans had been responsible for the spilling of Campbell blood, even that of women and children.
For now, though, she was aware only of the tingling of her blood, the heat crawling up her spine, the exhilaration of being in his presence, the unexpected pleasure of seeing his rare smile.
The Maclean accompanied her to the great hall, which was filled with male voices. There were no women in attendance except for the servants.
She thought that most odd. Except for Moira, she had seen few other women and certainly no well-dressed gentlewomen.
The keep itself also looked as if it had had no mistress for a long while. Dust was everywhere. Fireplaces looked as if they had not been cleaned in months, windows were dark with grime, and there was a general feeling of neglect.
Well, the former laird had been dead these past three years, and apparently there had been no one in charge until Rory appeared. Was he indifferent to it? Or did he not care because he intended to leave soon for the sea?
How she wished to hear of his adventures. How she longed to sail the world herself.
Not for the first time she wished she had been born a man. But for the first time, she felt the thrill of being a woman.
It was perverse, the devil playing a nasty trick.
Nonetheless, all eyes were on her as the Maclean led her to the head table and seated her next to him. Avid eyes studied her.
Among the men were those who had abducted her for their lord. Their faces beamed as they watched their lord treat her with courtesy. It was obvious they had not surrendered hope. Perhaps she could play on that as well.
She noticed an empty seat to her left, and before she could wonder about it, Lachlan appeared. His dress was disheveled, but he sported a wide grin. It seemed to be aimed directly at her.
“You are late,” Rory Maclean said.
“Aye, a foal,” he said. “It came faster than I expected. Perhaps Lady Janet would like to see her later.”
Janet’s heart jumped. “The black mare?”
Lachlan looked at her with surprise.
“I saw her earlier.”
“Aye, it was a quick birth.”
“And the foal?”
“A filly. Would you like to visit her?”
“Thank you, I would like that.”
“Tonight?”
“Aye,” she agreed and turned toward the platters of food being displayed. Rory Maclean poured her wine from a pitcher, and she sipped it. In contrast to the food, it was a very good wine.
“It comes from France,” he said as he watched her.
She took another sip. Mayhap she could act as if she had drunk too much.
She tasted the partridge. It was underdone. She tried a piece of meat, and it was charred, too hard to eat. She took some bread and nibbled at it, knowing she needed the strength.
He said in a low voice, “I have no’ had the time to find a new cook, and Moira tries hard.”
She admired the loyalty. Her uncle had little loyalty to any of his servants.
&nb
sp; She bent her head and tried to eat again. She would need food in her stomach if she were to escape tomorrow. Perhaps after viewing the foal, she would ask Lachlan to accompany her on a ride at dawn. She would try to lose him. Or bargain with him.
“I hope you are comfortable,” the older Maclean said.
“Moira and Robina have been very attentive,” she said. She sipped the wine. “I heard you have been at sea and have just returned.”
His gray eyes impaled hers. “Aye.”
“How long?”
“Ten years.”
He had been here, then, when his clan had raped women and killed a child. She had hoped otherwise. She tried to keep her voice even. “Where have you been?”
“France and Portugal, mostly. Depends on who is at war with which country,” he added wryly.
Felicia played with her goblet of wine. “I would like to sail. At times I wish …” She stopped.
“Wish what?” he prompted.
“That I had the freedom to do as I wish.”
“The sea is a dangerous place.”
“So is Scotland,” she said. “People are abducted.”
He had the grace to flinch, and the corner of his mouth twisted up in a half smile. “Aye, it can be.”
Their gazes met, and again she thought she saw shadows in those gray eyes that were so watchful. There was fleeting amusement, even a flicker of appreciation, but then both disappeared. The shadows returned, and something more, an anguish that tore at her heart, and a loneliness that was stark.
Remarkably, she wanted to ease the lines of pain bracketing his mouth. She wanted to touch the dark hair that framed the hard face.
She struggled to return to their conversation. “Have you been in storms at sea?”
“Every sailor has been.”
“I like storms.”
She saw the surprise in his eyes.
“I doubt whether you would like one at sea,” he said. “It’s sheer terror when you are at the mercy of the sea and wind.”
“I cannot imagine you ever feeling terror.”
“Every man knows terror.”
She took another sip of wine. Most men did, of course, but few would ever admit it.
She felt the warmth from the wine, from his presence. Why was she drawn to him? He was her family’s enemy. Yet she was drawn to him as she had never been drawn to another person.
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