He opened the door and was, oddly, not surprised when he saw her sitting next to the cradle.
She looked up at him. Dusk had fallen, and the room was full of shadows.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I looked everywhere else,” he admitted.
“You thought I had escaped.”
He kneeled, his face level with hers. “I had hoped you would not wish to.”
“Why would I not?”
Her eyes were in the shadows, and her gaze darted away from him, as if she did not want him to see what was in them.
“Why here?” he asked.
“I explored the keep the first night I was here. I knew this room was … no longer used.”
“It is not. We have not had bairns here in a long time.”
“That is sad.” If it had been a mere comment on the obvious, he could have accepted it. But there was a longing and regret in her voice that reached out to him.
“Aye.” He knew the emotion he’d tried to keep at bay was in the crack of his voice.
Their gazes met, and the anger in hers faded in the empathy he felt reaching out to him. She knew sadness, and regret. He realized he had never asked her how she had come to be the ward of Angus Campbell. He had, in fact, asked little. He had not wanted to know. To know was to care. And he was too afraid to care.
He had taken much.
He’d given nothing.
Yet something in her reached out to him, just as it had to Moira and Alina and others.
He stretched out a hand, taking her slender one in his. She tried to withdraw it, but he tightened his grasp.
“You are a good warrior,” he said.
“You allowed me to win,” she accused.
“I was tired.”
“You knew who I was.”
He knew lying would not help him now. “Aye, I did. I have come to know you.”
She glared at him, and his heart contracted. She looked so fierce and yet moments earlier so vulnerable.
“But you certainly tested me,” he added.
“You did not try.”
“I tried to protect myself. You are a dangerous opponent.”
Her gaze turned suspicious. “I do not need humoring.”
“I do not think I would dare,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. He thought for a moment she might hit him.
Instead she stood with great dignity, this time successfully pulling her hand from his. “I have need of better company.”
He stood as well.
He meant to leave, but as in so many other occasions with her, he could not quite remove himself. Her blue eyes were shimmering, glazing with just a hint of tears.
“I want to go back to Dunstaffnage,” she said.
“And to the marriage?”
“It is better than being considered your—”
He stopped the words with his mouth. She tried to move away, but his arms caught her.
His lips caressed hers. She resisted but only for a fraction of a moment, and then her lips yielded, opened to his. Still, he felt a certain resistance.
He released her and stepped back. “You could still go to France,” he said. “I have a ship. I know a family that would look after you.”
“They would blame you,” she said. “They would believe you—”
“Did what my ancestor did?” he asked. “There would be no proof,” he finally said. Then he shrugged. “There could be something else, but …” He stopped before he blurted out a plan that, in all likelihood, would not even work.
Tears glazed her eyes, but she blinked them back.
He felt he was walking on white hot coals without boots. “God’s eyes but I want you,” he said.
“Do you?” she whispered. “You did not say that a few nights ago. I felt … bought.”
He turned away, unable to bear the pain in her eyes. “I did not intend that,” he finally said. “I wanted only to help you do what you had intended to do before we so abruptly interfered.”
“And if I do not want that any longer?”
He turned back to her. “I am a Maclean. You are a Campbell. We cannot change that.”
“Not that, perhaps, but that does not mean there could not be peace.”
“You are still pledged to another,” he said. “And your father would never permit a marriage with a Maclean. In truth, I cannot blame him, considering what happened years ago.”
“That was a hundred years ago.”
“That is nothing in the Highlands. We like our feuds,” he said bitterly.
“But if we can leave—”
“I cannot leave Inverleith again, especially not with you. Your father would destroy the clan. I cannot do that. Even if that were not true,” he interrupted her, “I have vowed never to wed again.”
“You do not believe the curse?”
He shrugged. “I married twice and buried both wives and one child. I will not see you follow the same path.”
He heard her withdrawn breath. “Is that why you left me?”
“Aye.” He looked at the cradle beside her. “The cradle was for my child. A son, as it turned out. But he died at birth and also killed my wife.” Just moments earlier, he had thought he had accepted the pain. Now, hearing his own harsh, broken words, he knew he had not.
“I do not believe the curse,” she said. “Women die in childbirth.”
“Aye, but every woman who has married into the clan has died within a year or two. Curse or not, I cannot bear another loss. I will not.”
“What if I am willing to take the risk? Do I have no say?”
His eyes met hers. He touched her face. “You are bonny and gallant, and God knows I want you.” He tried to control the jolt that ran through him as he realized how much. “But I will not risk your life.”
She seemed to weigh his words, then turned abruptly and went to the window.
He felt a sudden chill in the room as if spirits of the lost mothers and children lingered here.
Was that why he’d never returned after Maggie died?
Why had Felicia been drawn here of all places? Did she feel the chill as well? Did it touch Campbells?
The shadows had deepened as they talked. He looked for a candle and found none, but then there would be no way of lighting it. This floor was rarely used, and they did not keep the sconces in the hall lit. Before long, it would be pitch black.
“We should go, lass.”
“Felicia,” she said. “My name is Felicia. Felicia Campbell.” The anger was back in her voice.
“We should go, Felicia,” he corrected himself.
“You go,” she said. “I wish to stay here. Unless you wish to keep me prisoner again.” Her voice was stubborn, determined.
Rory did not know what to do. He had tried to explain, but his explanation had obviously failed. He wanted to touch her, but that he knew would be fatal.
By the saints, he wanted to taste her kiss again. He wanted to feel her passion. He wanted to plunge himself into her warmth. He wanted to wake up next to her and watch her sleep. He wanted to hold her and never let go.
“Felicia,” he tried again. She turned then, and in the gloom, he saw tears glistening against her cheeks. It was the first time he had seen her cry. She wiped them away impatiently with her hand.
He wanted to kiss them away.
He held out his hand, and she took it. They were like lodestones, meant to come together. It had been obvious since they first met.
But even as they stood next to each other, Rory knew a chasm lay between them, one he did not know how to cross. “I meant no insult the other night,” he said. “I want you safe. I want you to be happy. I can offer you neither safety nor happiness, nor even life.”
“I know,” she said, and there was resignation in her voice, even as her hand held tightly to his. “I did not before, but I do now.”
Rory closed his eyes against the pain that radiated between them. They were both prisoners of
hatred, and history, and duty. And there was no way of ever bridging them.
Jamie waited to hear from Morneith.
He received a response the third day he was in Edinburgh. Morneith had evidently interrupted his hunting trip. An encouraging sign.
He read the reply. “I would be honored to meet the son of my very good friend and the brother of my future wife.” Jamie almost gagged at the sentence.
It suggested a meeting in Morneith’s Edinburgh home tomorrow.
That did not suit Jamie at all.
He refused, citing previous engagements. He suggested meeting at supper in his father’s rooms at Edinburgh Castle instead. He added that his father was ill, and they would not be disturbed.
He waited another day for a reply. Despite Morneith’s warm words, he obviously was in no hurry.
That worried Jamie. So did the time being consumed.
He decided to take the next step. He needed help. Janet’s father, Dugald Cameron, was in Edinburgh, and he invited the Cameron chief to supper. The Cameron readily accepted, anxious to hear every detail of Felicia’s abduction and Jamie’s own capture and imprisonment.
“I would not have suspected them to abduct a woman,” he mused. “Since that first Lachlan Maclean tried to murder his wife, the Macleans have sought to recover their reputation.”
“They believed her to be Janet,” Jamie said. “She was under Cameron escort. I was told that the captain of the guard made the decision without telling Rory Maclean. They were hoping for a marriage between the two.”
“Over my body,” the Cameron said. “I would not allow a daughter of mine to wed a Maclean. I am not a superstitious man, but there have been far too many deaths.”
“What do you know of them?” Jamie asked, interested in Cameron’s opinion.
“I knew Patrick. He was a born warrior. No one could best him in a fight. And when there was not enough around here, he went to France to fight against Spain. With his father’s approval. The old laird had numerous French contacts and relationships. He wanted to strengthen them. He always believed that Scotland’s one hope was a firm alliance with France, and much of Maclean wealth was in trading with the French.”
“What happened to him?”
“No one knows. He just disappeared. Most believe him dead. If he had been taken prisoner, there would be demands for a ransom. Some word.”
“And Rory Maclean?”
The Cameron shrugged. “I know little about him. I saw him years ago, before he went to sea. I attended his wedding to Margaret McDonald, and I liked the lass. I hoped the curse had been broken,” he said, glancing quickly at Jamie. “I was saddened to hear of her death a year later. I haven’t seen Rory Maclean since. I know little about him, except his father said he was a good seaman and trader.” Then his eyes sharpened. “You would not have left her there had you thought she would be harmed.”
He was the first one to have reached that conclusion. Not Janet. Not his own father. Gratitude flooded him. “Nay, I would not.”
“I have been caught in the middle,” Cameron said slowly. “Rory’s father was a friend, but after a Maclean raid on the Campbells, your father made it clear I had to make a choice. I could not be an ally to both, and we could not afford to alienate the Campbells.” He sighed heavily. “I have not seen the Macleans since. I hear only gossip.”
Cameron’s gaze went back to his. “What did you think of the new laird?”
Jamie knew he had to be cautious. Despite his words, Cameron might well have more loyalty to his father than to his future son-in-law. Jamie knew his father was feared, especially by his neighbors.
“Do you know Morneith well?” he asked, ignoring the question about Rory Maclean.
The man’s mouth thinned. “Aye. He is ambitious.”
“You knew about the betrothal between the earl and my cousin.”
“I heard. I could scarcely believe it. Felicia is no’ a beauty but she could marry much better.” Cameron’s gaze found his. “I would not be surprised if she had run to the Macleans herself. With my daughter’s help.”
Jamie did not say anything.
“I know my daughter,” Cameron said. “She is shy and even timid at times, but she would do anything for someone she cared about.” He paused, then asked, “Would you?”
So he was not so sure after all about his future son-in-law’s motives.
“Aye,” Jamie replied. “I hope so.”
“Then if you need assistance, come to me.”
They finished the meal in silence, Jamie mulling over what had been said, the offer of assistance. He knew the Cameron chief and had always liked him, but the man usually faded away beside Angus Campbell. Now he wondered if he had underestimated him.
Jamie left and started for the tavern where Lachlan stayed. He had not gone far when unease crawled up his spine. He looked around. The road was nearly empty of both people and conveyances. He was sure, though, that some noise or movement awakened his senses.
He could not go to Lachlan’s tavern now. Not if there was the slightest chance that he was being followed.
He turned down another street and walked briskly to another tavern and went inside. It was not crowded. He took a chair against a wall, where he could watch the door, and ordered a tankard of ale.
When it came, he took a sip and almost spat it out. It was the worst he had tasted.
Two men entered, their eyes sidling around the room. They were dressed roughly, and one had a scar above his eyes. Both were armed. They sat at a table and ordered ale.
Jamie finished his ale and ordered another, raising his voice slightly to fake drunkenness. He drank it quickly, tossed a coin at the man who owned the establishment, stood, and strode to the door. Once outside, he hurried down the road until he found an alley. He entered it and backed up to the building. The walls were dark with smoke from peat fires, and he wore a dark mantle. Even if someone peered in, they would have difficulty seeing him.
He waited.
In minutes, he heard loud, disgusted voices. “Wher’ did ’e go?”
“The earl will ’ave our ’eads.”
Jamie wanted to step out and smash their heads together. Instead, he slunk back into the blackness of the building. He had discovered what he wanted to know. He had apparently worried the Earl of Morneith. Whether the two footpads had been ordered to follow him to learn more about him, or whether they had been dispatched to kill him was the question.
The answer was not important enough to alert Morneith that he might not be the foolish, greedy man that Jamie planned to portray. Better to let the man’s lackeys make excuses for their own incompetence.
But he had learned that he would have to be very, very cautious in the future.
Chapter 25
Two days after the incident outside the tavern, Jamie dressed in one of the rooms allotted to his father at Edinburgh Castle. Frustrated that he had not received a reply from Morneith, he’d spent a restless night after returning from yet another tavern.
He was sick of spending each evening under the pretense of debauchery. He enjoyed lifting the cups with friends, but he had never liked excess. He’d been cautious about seeing Lachlan too often and had made a habit of going to several taverns.
He had not seen the two men who’d followed him that one night, but he had sensed eyes on him. Someone was obviously interested in his movements, and that someone had employed better spies. Had that person felt the two men had lost Jamie out of carelessness, or because Jamie was more than he appeared to be? He suspected Morneith had waited to meet with him until finding out as much as possible.
As if he had mentally summoned the earl, a servant knocked, entered, and handed Jamie a card.
It was from Morneith.
Jamie bade the man to enter and then allowed him to stand as he finished washing. Jamie looked at himself in the mirror. He had not yet shaved and decided not to, nor did he comb his hair. He wanted to look as if he’d had a long night of drink and perhaps w
orse.
He poured wine from a pitcher into a goblet that sat on the table. It was an ungodly hour to drink, but good theater. Then he condescended to look at Morneith’s man, who did not quite conceal his anger.
The message was verbal.
“The Earl of Morneith would be honored to accept your invitation to sup. He suggested tonight, if that meets with your pleasure,” the emissary said. He was unexpectedly well spoken, obviously more than a footman. Was he here to weigh Jamie?
“Tell your lord that I eagerly await his presence,” Jamie said wryly. He named a late hour.
The messenger continued to hold his ground. “His lordship wanted to know if your father will be present.”
“Nay, he is suffering from gout,” Jamie replied.
“I will inform him. Thank you, my lord.”
Jamie studied him. The two who’d followed him earlier had the mark of scoundrels about them. This man looked, and sounded, more presentable, and yet there was a feral gleam in his cold, dark eyes, which lingered far too long, and familiarly, on Jamie.
Jamie did not want to be obvious in his own perusal, although his mind was quickly memorizing the man’s every feature, the clothes that proclaimed him a rank above servant. He turned his back and poured more wine into his goblet. He drank it in one long drought, then turned back as if he’d just then remembered the man.
“Are you still here?” he said carelessly. “You are dismissed.”
Swift and ugly anger filled the man’s eyes before he bowed slightly, then turned. His shoulders were rigid with insult.
Jamie smiled to himself. He had taken an intense dislike to the man, something he rarely did, particularly when he had no reason except for physical looks. There was something about his visitor, though, that raised hackles along his neck.
He placed the goblet down. The wine was thick and sweet in his throat. He was surprised to find it inferior to that which was offered him as a prisoner at Inverleith.
Jamie went to the narrow window and looked down over the courtyard. He watched as his visitor mounted a horse. No mere servant. He wished he could have asked the man’s name, but that might have been revealing. The man he wanted Morneith to believe he was would not ask a servant’s name.
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