Beloved Impostor

by Patricia Potter

He wanted to touch and be touched. He wanted the reality of her, not another ghost that would haunt him.

  His mouth pressed harder, his tongue urging hers to open to him. As she readily acquiesced, he explored and teased. He recognized her urgency as well. It was in the growing pressure of her hands, in the glow of her eyes. His body tensed with desire too long held in check.

  He pulled off her doublet with his hands and then the rough trews she wore. Only her shirt remained. He felt himself harden under his plaid, and he undid the belt and unwound the long piece of cloth until he, too, wore only the long flowing linen shirt.

  His hands went under her last remaining garment and caressed her body until he felt her tremble.

  He hesitated then. He should tell her first. He should confess that he had lied, that he had allowed her to believe her cousin had deserted her. He had allowed her to fear for him.

  “No,” she protested, her hand pulling him to her with a plea that broke his will.

  His lips returned to hers.

  She felt his hesitation.

  His eyes looked tormented, and everything in Felicia melted at the sight. He had never been a man to show emotions. He had guarded them as if his life depended on it.

  But then his lips pressed back on hers again, and all was right with the world.

  Her blood had felt like warm honey when he first touched her, as his lips had explored and tested. But as they pressed down, and her body fitted into his, it turned to hot lava. She knew what to expect now, the magic of desire and love and satisfaction. She had dreamed about it since that first time. She had dreamed and yearned and felt the heat in her body and worried that she would never know it again.

  Her arms went around his neck, her finger catching and fondling a thick lock of slightly curling hair. His mouth pressed harder, his tongue urging hers to open to him. As she complied, his tongue probed, igniting sensations in every sensitive part of her body.

  All the loneliness and despair she had felt earlier exploded in raw need. She wanted his soul. She wanted his heart. And she wanted him deep inside until they merged into one. Her hands tightened around his shoulders, urging him closer. His shirt rode up, and so did hers. His body melded against hers, and he entered her slowly, creating an aching, agonizing need. She moved against him with instinctive circular motions, drawing him farther and farther inside. His strokes increased in rhythm and power until the two were riding the crest of an incredible wave, a giant force that swept them along with unthinking madness, drowning them in waves of pleasure.

  He gave one last stroke, and she felt rocked by bursting sensations. His warmth flooded her, and she knew a completeness that she had never felt before. He collapsed on her, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as their bodies quivered in exquisite reaction.

  They lay next to each other, silent, for several moments. She treasured the quiet intimacy, the shared wonder and quiet profound happiness she felt. “I love you,” she said.

  It was a difficult admission for her. She’d so seldom felt loved or loveable, and now she was holding out love and fearing it might be rejected.

  He turned to her, and her heart thumped, and her blood turned cold. His eyes did not answer as she’d hoped. She’d known a match between them was impossible. She’d known yet …

  But something in his face frightened her, and when he reached out his hand to her, she refused it.

  “Something is wrong,” she said. She should have seen it earlier, but she had been so happy to see him. She had run from him but had felt such unexpected joy when she saw him that she had not asked questions.

  He sat up, and she did the same. Her eyes did not leave his.

  A muscle in his throat jerked. She had seen it before, and she knew it meant something she would not like.

  “There is something I must tell you,” he said.

  She did not answer. Her body was still singing its own song, but her mind was warning her.

  “What?” she said in a low voice.

  “We wanted to protect you,” he said.

  She felt a sudden tightness in her heart, and it was not from lovemaking. She knew from his expression she was not going to like what he had to say.

  He touched her face. “I should have told you, and you would not have endangered yourself.”

  Her body tensed. The warm sensations seeped away, leaving only a chill.

  She waited.

  “Lachlan and your cousin did not escape. It was planned.”

  She tried to put pieces together. “I do not understand.”

  “I had heard that the Earl of Morneith was a traitor, that he had sold his loyalty to the English king. We …”

  “We?”

  “Lachlan, James, and myself … thought we might be able to trap him into an admission. You would be free.”

  She stared at him. The words echoed in her head. She had thought Jamie had abandoned her. That Lachlan was not whom she thought he was. That Rory had been betrayed.

  She had felt an emptiness that drained her soul.

  “Why did you not tell me?” Her voice was impersonal.

  “I feared you would do what you just did. Try to help.”

  “And be foolish enough to ruin everything?” The betrayal she had felt days ago was nothing like the one she felt now. She had been lied to. Repeatedly. She had not been trusted. She had worried about Rory and Jamie meeting in combat. She had …

  She swung her hand back and hit him with every ounce of strength she had.

  Chapter 28

  The blow was stronger that Rory expected. His head snapped back, and his face stung with the power of it.

  But just as punishing was the stricken, wounded look on Felicia’s face.

  “I am sorry, lass. We were trying … we wanted to protect you.”

  “You and Jamie lied to me. You did not trust me.”

  She wore only the too-large shirt that fell to her knees, yet she looked every bit the warrior. She radiated defiance. Anger. And worst of all, betrayal.

  He wanted to take her back into his arms, wanted to feel her body against his once more, but he knew that was the worst thing he could do. He had betrayed her trust, and he knew he would have to work to get it back.

  She was not ready for any overtures, though. “You did not trust me,” she stated again.

  “You would have wanted to help.”

  “And I am so helpless and foolish that you have to lie to me for fear I would endanger Jamie and your people on a whim?”

  “No one is less helpless than you, lass,” he replied wryly. “That is the problem. You have too much courage. And it was important that Morneith and Campbell thought you were being held for ransom. That meant Macleans had to believe it as well.”

  “’Tis my life, not yours,” she said. “I may be given few choices, but I choose for myself what I can.”

  He was silent. She was right. He should have told her. He had no right to make decisions for her. He was as bad as Angus Campbell.

  “I am sorry, lass. I thought …”

  A tear glimmered in one eye. It seemed to be caught there, glistening, and then it started to roll down her face. It shattered his heart far more than harsh words or a torrent of tears. He lifted a finger to wipe it away, but she stepped back.

  She took another step, then spun around and found her discarded clothes. Without comment, she pulled them on.

  Sensing it was best to leave her be for the moment, he went to his saddle bags. It was time to change clothes. He did not want to wear the plaid where he was going. Instead he pulled on a pair of fine wool hose and a serviceable leather doublet. He added a flat-brimmed hat with a feather. It was the costume of a merchant, clothes he often wore when visiting foreign cities.

  She stood and watched, her face closed, her mouth drawn in a tight line. There were no more tears.

  “Come,” he said.

  “I will not go back to Inverleith.”

  “We are going to Edinburgh,” he said.

  “Wh
y?”

  “I have to know what is happening with your cousin and Lachlan. They might need help.”

  Her eyes widened. “You are taking me?”

  “I am certainly not sending you back to Inverleith alone,” he said with a small smile. “I would have no idea where to find you next.”

  Her solemn blue eyes searched his. “Would you want to?”

  “Aye, lass. I would have you safe.”

  A curtain dropped over her face. It was not the answer she wanted. It was not the answer he wanted to give. He wanted to tell her he loved her. That he had been terrified for her. That he wanted her beside him always.

  God’s truth, but he loved her.

  He could do none of those things. There was still the bloody curse. The stain that lingered on his soul. And Campbell would never approve a match.

  So why had he just damned himself by taking her?

  He put a finger under her chin and lifted it up to meet his gaze. “You must do as I tell you,” he said. “Do you promise?”

  “I will tell you when I cannot,” she replied.

  It was not a satisfactory answer but he suspected it was as good a one as he was likely to get.

  “I am a merchant, and you are my apprentice,” he said.

  She nodded.

  He went over to the horse, untied the reins, and mounted. Then he offered her a hand, and she swung up easily behind him. He felt her hands around his waist. They were not as tight as they had been during the short ride from the village.

  Yet after an hour or so, he felt her head rest against his shoulder.

  Good. It was a long journey.

  “A Maclean in my rooms?” Angus Campbell stared at his son with displeasure. “The king’s physician called to heal my enemy? You must be daft.”

  “That enemy saved my life,” Jamie said calmly. He was accustomed to his father’s rages. Unfortunately it was time to tell him more. And that would probably invoke even more anger. He readied himself for a storm of invective.

  “Only because you involved yourself with kidnappers and brigands.”

  “The Macleans did not kidnap Felicia.”

  Angus glared at him. “You said they did.”

  “I did not. I said Felicia was at Inverleith. She was there because she was fleeing a marriage you arranged. Is not that the reason you had the king send me to London? You knew I would not approve.”

  “Your approval means nothing to me. She is but a lass. She does what she is told.”

  “Are we talking about the same Felicia?”

  Angus frowned. “Bring me proof about Morneith, and I will undo the marriage contract. But I will have no Macleans under my roof.”

  “Is it not proof that Morneith tried to have me killed after I accused him of treason?”

  “You do not know …” Angus tried to bluster, but the flame of anger was in his eyes. “It could have been Macleans. They might have wanted both of you.” It was obvious he was still reluctant to believe the Macleans had any redeeming qualities.

  “You do not want to see what is in front of you because the Macleans are involved,” Jamie said coldly. It was the only time he had ever openly defied his father, and the sudden reddening of his father’s face told him the thrust had hit home.

  “Be careful, James,” his father warned him. “You cannot underestimate the Macleans. They have been killing and raiding Campbells for years.”

  “As Campbells have raided and killed them. The new laird, Rory Campbell, wants an end to it. He wants peace.”

  “By kidnapping my niece and imprisoning my son?”

  It was time to explain everything. Jamie honestly did not know what his father would do, or say. He might well be disowned for plotting with Macleans.

  “The Maclean had nothing to do with kidnapping Felicia. His men took her, thinking she was Janet Cameron, to bring him a bride. He wanted to return her immediately, but Felicia did not wish to go. I understand she feigned an illness.”

  Angus stared at him in horror. “She preferred the Macleans to Dunstaffnage?”

  “To Morneith, aye.”

  “They took you,” Angus blustered.

  “I trespassed on their land looking for her. What would you do if you found a Maclean on Campbell land?” His gaze riveted on his father’s face. “I did not escape only with the help of Lachlan Maclean. Rory Maclean planned it.”

  “In God’s name, to what end?”

  “To reveal Morneith as a traitor. And to protect Felicia. We needed time. If Felicia was held for ransom at Inverleith, Morneith could not claim her.” He hesitated because he did not know how his next words would be taken.

  He would have to trust that Angus Campbell could stifle his hatred of the Macleans long enough to discover where his own best interest lay.

  “I told you I heard news of Morneith’s treason in London. I did not. Rory Maclean learned of it in France. It came from French spies in the London court. But the Maclean knew you would not believe him. Nor would he have the access to Morneith that I do.”

  His father stared at him in disbelief. “You plotted with the Macleans against one of the king’s favorites? You lied to me?”

  “How long will he be a favorite if he is proved a traitor?” Jamie asked. “And how grateful would the king be if you revealed the plot? As for the lie, it was necessary. You would not have believed a Maclean. But now you’ve heard Cameron. You know someone tried to kill me.”

  He watched his father struggle with decades of hate for Macleans and his loyalty to King James.

  His father sat down heavily and leaned on the cane he now used to offset the gout. His eyes were lined with red streaks from lack of sleep because of the pain. Jamie remembered another man, a robust soldier and rider, and he was struck by the change. He had not noticed how stark it was until now.

  “You risk your heritage by allying yourself with the Macleans.” Angus Campbell still was not quite able to wrap his mind around Jamie’s revelations. “And by lying to me. There is always Neil.” Neil was his father’s nephew, the nearest male relative next to Jamie.

  “Aye, you could,” Jamie said. “But you taught me to honor courage and loyalty. Lachlan Maclean saved my life twice. He will probably lose his arm. He might lose his life. Rory Maclean has risked the wrath of his king, and yourself, to reveal a traitor.”

  His father sighed wearily. “I have a debt then.”

  “Aye, and so do I. To the Macleans and to Felicia. I cannot believe you would sacrifice her to a monster to further your aims. You must have known his last wife died suspiciously.”

  “The king—”

  “You are the closest man to the king. He would have listened to you if you had fought him on this.”

  “One does not fight with his king. He serves him.”

  “Do you serve him by letting a traitor remain in his midst?”

  The fight seemed to fade from his father’s face. Jamie realized again how old he looked, and ill. Fear struck him. Had that been why his father had approved the marriage? He had been too ill to fight?

  Jamie had not seen his father often in the past several years. He had stayed mostly at Dunstaffnage, while his father had taken up residence in Edinburgh, and what few visits Jamie made had been brief. He had been surprised when he had been sent to London to deliver a message of congratulations to King Henry. It had not made sense to him. Now it did. His father had been preparing him to assume a place next to the king in the event he could not. It had not been Felicia at all, though his absence would also have been a convenience.

  “You trust the Macleans?” his father finally said, surrendering.

  “Aye.”

  “You believe you can trap Morneith?”

  “He is frightened, or he would not have tried to have me killed last night. I think he will be even more frightened—and desperate—to learn his villains failed.”

  “What do you plan?” his father said wearily.

  “Another invitation. A threat.”

&nbs
p; “From now on you will be guarded by Campbells,” his father said.

  “The king returns tomorrow. Is there someone you and he trust completely? Someone totally loyal to him. In addition to Cameron? We will need more than one witness, and one unrelated to me.”

  His father thought for several moments. “A Stewart cousin. He is nonpolitical and has few ambitions. He is hunting with him.”

  “He will return with King James?”

  “He is usually at his side.”

  “Will you talk to him?”

  “Aye. I will want you with me.”

  Jamie agreed. He wanted to take his own measure of the man. The penalty for treason was too harsh for him to risk failure. “I think it would be best that no one knows that the man in my rooms is a Maclean.”

  “The men who attacked you?”

  “Dead or badly injured.”

  “Good,” his father said. He hesitated, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “I will see this man … this Maclean.” He struggled to his feet, pain crossing his face with each movement.

  Jamie felt a twinge again. It cut into the victory he’d just won. His father had treated him as an equal. It was the first time in his memory.

  “I will take you to him.”

  “No, I wish to see him alone.”

  Jamie hesitated. He did not think his father would harm a wounded man, particularly one who had just saved his only son. But he also knew how ruthless Angus Campbell could be, and how many times in Scottish history that hospitality laws had been violated, and atrocities committed. Considering the history between the Campbells and Macleans, Jamie truly did not know what to expect of his father.

  “I will not harm him,” his father said, reading his expression.

  “And the other Macleans? You sent word to mount a siege.”

  “Aye, on your words.”

  “It was important that everyone believe—”

  His father glared at him. “Preparations for the siege will continue until my niece is returned.”

  Jamie’s gut tightened. He had won one battle, but he realized the flimsy structure of their plan could tumble down.

  Jamie supped with the king when he returned the next day. He was one of nearly seventy guests. He was seated near the high table, next to Ian Stewart. His father, he suspected, had something to do with that.