“Can we go inside now?” inquired Margaret happily. She beamed up at Imogen. Imogen stood helpless against their good humor. She looked from father to daughter and then back again. In light of both their faces, she knew she would never win.
Dougal’s smile widened. Looking Imogen directly in the eyes, he answered, “Yes, we most certainly can go inside. It is our home.”
And without another word to Imogen, he turned. Swinging his daughter easily into his arms, he carried her joyfully towards the house.
“Will she be my new mother then?” Imogen heard Margaret ask her father. The child certainly had a one-track mind. Margaret’s happy laughter rang over the yard.
Although Imogen’s ears strained, she could not hear Dougal’s reply. She held still, watching silently until they disappeared. Looking around, she saw the vicar was gone. She turned her head to Josiah and sighed wearily.
“‘Twas a good thing you did this eve, m’lady,” said Josiah. “A very good thing, indeed.”
“What now?” she asked. “They are still here. Your brother still looks for them.”
Josiah shook his head. “I know naught, m’lady. Methought it would work to bring them together. But, mayhap, their work is not done.”
“Vengeance,” determined Imogen darkly. “It must be that they seek vengeance. It is the only reasonable answer.”
“Perchance,” answered Josiah carefully. When Imogen frowned suspiciously at him, he regally bowed before fading into the night, leaving her to wonder at his ominous mood.
Chapter Thirteen
The night passed too quickly, but with more happiness and joy than either Dougal or Margaret could have imagined. They did not rest. Their bodies did not need to. Margaret chattered incessantly about all she had seen—only frowning when she told her father of her death, but the dark mood did not last long as she again turned to happier things.
Dougal was amazed at the changes in his daughter. The years had not aged her sweet, innocent face, but they had wizened her mind beyond her years. Except for the occasional wish for her mother, she did not seem to be the girl he had lost.
Dougal noticed that many of her tales concerned Sir Josiah. And, although he knew he owed the man much for rescuing and caring for his daughter, the Marquis could not help the jealousy that seethed every time Margaret mentioned her hero. Worse than the jealousy was the self-loathing knowledge that it should have been he who had saved and protected her all those years.
Imogen stayed away, going to bed although she was not tired. Her mind raced, trying to find ways to make Dougal and Margaret understand that they must leave. All the time, she knew that they would not listen to her. No, the only way was to make Dougal understand that he mustn’t wait for her. She was living, he was dead and there was no hope of it being otherwise. She would not kill herself to join him. Suicide was not an option, for if she committed that gravest of sins her soul would be lost forever.
And, if the demon knight did not consume his soul, she would not have him wait until she was an old woman. It would be torture to look at his eternally youthful face and see her reflection wrinkling and decaying next to it. She could not bear to see his admiration fade with her beauty.
As the morning dawned, Imogen was still awake. Wearily, she pulled herself from the bed, dragging her feet as she dressed slowly. Absently, she chose an empire waist gown of light blue linen with a dark sash and a matching stole of cream lace.
Her hair took more time, the dark locks not readily obeying the will of her fingers. Finally, she managed to get the unruly tresses into a suitable coiffure adorned with a silver clip her sister had given her. Only when she felt she portrayed the very model of untouchable feminine perfection did she deem herself ready to see Dougal.
She found him easily in the library. Margaret was no longer with him. As she opened the door, he smiled happily at her before turning to look out the window. Imogen came up beside him, placing her arm naturally next to his as she leaned on the windowsill to look out into the garden. Margaret was picking flowers, stopping to wave at her father to make sure he was watching her.
“She appears well,” said Imogen. Realizing she was close to Dougal, she leaned away to put distance between them.
“Yes,” he agreed, keeping an eye on the child who was no longer a child. Glancing sidelong at her, Dougal swallowed nervously. He could feel the tension between them.
Imogen felt his steady gaze. Her mouth became dry. “I think you should go.”
Dougal didn’t answer her at first. She trembled under his gaze. It felt so right with her next to him, watching his daughter playing in the yard. He refused to let go of his feelings. Sighing, he told her flatly, “No.”
“Do not stay out of misguided gratitude or duty,” she whispered. “You owe me nothing. I expect nothing.”
“How can you say that after what I did to you?” he asked.
“You did nothing.”
“I took your...” Dougal paused, frowning, only to finish weakly, “your maidenhead.”
But I wanted your heart, he added silently.
“Yes, you did,” Imogen said. Stepping away, she added, “But I gave it to you freely. The loss of it is my own doing, my lord.”
“My lord,” he growled bitterly under his breath.
“What?” she gasped, turning to face him.
“Then if you care nothing for you reputation—” Dougal stopped, realizing how ridiculous he was being. Things like reputation didn’t pertain here.
Imogen realized it too. “What would you do to redeem mine? Marry me?”
His gaze narrowed at the biting tone of her voice. She watched him skeptically.
“Dougal, I am fine. Aside from your sense of honor—”
His scowl of anger stopped her words. She had never seen him this enraged. All his honor and pride shone in his expression, mixed with a helpless next to his death. She saw the good breeding of his life, the dignity and nobility he still carried. He took a deep breath before trusting himself to speak.
“Yes,” he said. “I have honor. I may be dead, but I have honor. It is one of the few things I still possess in this world. Do not scoff at it.”
“I—”
“What is stopping you from admitting you care for me?”
“Edward—”
“No! Do not say you love Edward. We both know it is a lie. Edward married your sister. He is just an excuse to hide your feelings behind!” seethed Dougal. His fingers curled. He did not trust himself to touch her.
Imogen froze in mortification. It had never occurred to her that he would know.
“So I ask again. What is keeping you from caring for me?” Dougal snarled. He began to stalk her, coming around the desk as she backed away.
“I am alive,” she whimpered, frightened by his dangerous face. This man before her was not what she was used to. Never had Dougal acted so forcefully agressive. She could see it in his eyes, feel it jumping off his skin like sparks of fire. His body was tense, inches away from pouncing upon her. His hands worked as if eager to test her throat if she lied. So, honestly, she finished, “And you are not. What other reason is there?”
“And yet here we are.”
“Would you have me declared insane when I am discovered speaking with you? Would you have me kill myself to be with you?” she demanded. The torment of her world poured out of her expression. Weakly, she lifted her hand to him. She wanted him. She couldn’t deny it, couldn’t hide her feelings.
“No,” he whispered softly. “I would never ask it.”
“You were married once,” she said, desperate to change the subject. She was digressing from her purpose. He was not supposed to convince her that he should stay. She was to get him to leave. “Don’t you want to join her? Do you not think of your wife?”
“Marianna is not my wife. The vows I swore ended with death,” he grimaced.
“And what of love? Does it end with death?” she asked.
“You surely know that marriage an
d love rarely have aught to do with each other. My marriage was arranged. I met with her for the first time a week before the vows were spoken. She was a terrible mother, an unfaithful wife and an untrustworthy friend. She was vulgar and vain. There is nothing I miss about that woman. Margaret was the only thing of worth that came from her and leaving us was her only kind act.”
“Oh,” Imogen said. His wife had been one of her best defenses and he easily pushed it aside. “Why are we even discussing this? You have completed that which you were meant to do. You found Margaret. You found your daughter. And now it is time for you to move on. You have to go. If you stay here you will be killed again. The knight is after you. Don’t you understand?” As his face softened before her impassioned speech, she dared to venture forward. Laying a hand on his taut cheek, she said, “Don’t you realize you have to go on?”
“I won’t leave you to face him alone. I am not a coward,” he returned stiffly, jerking back from the softness of her touch.
“I know you are not. It has taken bravery to be as you have—alone for so long,” insisted Imogen. She let her hand fall from him to her side, but she did not back away.
“One does what one must,” he said in return. “Do not ask me to be a coward.”
“It is not cowardice, but prudence that I ask of you,” she said beseechingly. “What of your duty to Margaret?”
“Margaret is now a grown woman,” Dougal said thickly, the words sounding strange and shaking in his ears. Imogen’s brow furrowed in doubt, so he explained, “She is still my daughter, but not as I knew her. I have truly lost my little girl and have gained a young woman. The years have passed knowledge to her. She knows what is out there. It was also her decision to stay and it is her decision that I must also respect. Out of anyone, her life was cut the shortest. She has lost the most.”
But, how do you—?” Imogen voice trailed off weakly and Dougal quickly took the opportunity of her hesitance.
“Have you been to the forest?” he asked pointedly, already knowing she had not. At Imogen’s start of surprise, Dougal nodded. “I thought not. I will make you a deal, Imogen. If you go now, right now, straightway to the forest and try to remember what has happened to you—”
“But—”
“No, listen.” Dougal lowered his face close to hers. As he spoke, his words brushed in whispers across her cheek to her neck. Imogen shivered. In a low tone, he continued as if she hadn’t stopped him. “If you go, I will leave if you ask me to. But you must try to remember what happened to you.”
“It may be nothing,” she protested, not wanting to admit she was scared. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She could feel her body weakening to him. She could feel the pulse in her throat quicken. Her knees became like water, urging her body to spill forth onto him. Swaying, she looked away. “I don’t see why you all fuss about the forest.”
“It may very well be nothing,” he admitted. His lips brushed the side of her cheek in a soft caress. Imogen’s head snapped back around. Despite what he said, she could see in his eyes that he knew. Bringing his lips to hers, he whispered, “Something happened to you. You must discover what it was.”
“You know, don’t you?” she said in amazement. She jerked her head back when he would have kissed her. Dougal grimaced in disappointment. “You know what I saw that day. You know why I have forgotten it. Tell me.”
“No,” he said sharply. He was not happy in having his kiss denied. His lips burned with the need.
“But you know what happened,” she declared. “Tell me.”
“You must see for yourself.”
“Are you trying to hurt me?” she inquired in growing apprehension. “Am I to be punished?”
“How can you even ask that?” he snapped. His fingers pushed through his hair in frustration. He was about to grab her and drag her out to the forest. Seeing her mounting fear, he quieted his voice to a whisper, “No. I do not send you to get hurt, merely to remember what you have forgotten.”
Imogen believed him. “All right,” she said at length. “I will go. But as soon as I tell you what happened to me, you have to leave Rothfield Park. Forever.”
“If you ask me to go from you, then I will go,” he acknowledged, shielding his expression under a hard mask.
Imogen studied him for a moment. Her heart broke looking at him. She didn’t want him to go. She thought that it would get easier for her as she grew used to the idea. It wasn’t. It was harder.
“And no protesting,” she quipped. Imogen pointed a finger of warning in his direction before turning to the door. Dougal smiled sheepishly.
“I will do my best,” he allowed in reluctance with a mockingly polite bow, “but I could never promise that.”
Imogen eyed him warily before bowing her head slightly in return. She turned to leave. His hand on her arm stopped her.
“Oh, and Imogen…” he began.
“Wha—” Imogen gasped. Dougal swung her around on her heels to face him. Instantly, his lips sought her mouth in a tenderly passionate kiss. His hands found hold on her jaw, the fingers spilling roughly over her neck and ears.
Imogen moaned, her hands crawling unbidden to his neck to explore. Dougal pulled her head brusquely away. She gasped in protest, her hands forced into the clothes on his chest. Her fingers centered over the beat of his heart. When he was with her he felt so real and Imogen could almost forget. She could see the passion in his eyes, the longing he did not try to hide from her.
“Now, go,” he murmured hoarsely. She couldn’t even nod to acknowledge his husky words as he let her go. He backed away from her, turning stiffly to the window to look at Margaret. She studied the line of his proud back, the tilt of his head. How could she have ever mistaken him for a tutor?
Turning on shaking legs, she left him in the library. Dougal sighed as he heard the door close behind him. Margaret had moved on to skipping the garden paths. He didn’t want her out of his sight for too long. He couldn’t endure losing her again. But, just as he knew he would protect her, he knew she was a young woman who knew the garden paths and the night mist better than he. She did not need his protection, no matter how reverently he would give it to her.
Dougal wearily dropped his head to the glass, leaning to look out over the distance. He could not see Imogen, but knew she finally went. He hoped he was doing the right thing in making her go. He knew it was something she needed to face. All of their futures depended on it.
* * * *
Margaret made her way happily over the garden paths. She smiled with dreamlike abandonment as she again looked up at the window. Giving her father a jaunty wave, she skipped around a shrub out of his view. Skidding to a stop, her smile faltered. A change came over her features, the innocence of play fading from her eyes to be replaced by wisdom.
“Josiah,” she whispered tragically. Her bright eyes watched him in somber disquiet. “I am so glad you have come back.”
“Yea, child, I told you I would never leave you,” he whispered. A cheerless smile fanned over his features. His dark eyes were sad as he watched her. “How fares your father?”
“He is well,” she acknowledged. Margaret saw a pain flicker over him. She had noticed the sadness in him over the years as he watched her play. But recently, his sorrow had become more intense and more frequent. Crossing over to him, she lifted her hand up to him. Josiah sank to his knees. Margaret’s fingers went to his cheek. Her small hand barely covered the side of his jaw as she patted him lightly. Sighing, she whispered, “I am nearly fifty-nine years of age and I would that I looked a mere twenty.”
Josiah studied her childish face with features rounded in girlhood. But her eyes held more knowledge than the lines of her complexion should have allowed. She was right. She was an old woman trapped within the spirit of a child. Only sometimes did the child she had been emerge to take over her spirit, forcing her to laugh and run. It was the only time the girl found any peace. At other times, she would cry—wretched tears of frustration at being thus
ly ensnared. He had once caught her trying to tear out her gentle locks and mar her beautiful face to no avail.
Josiah patted her hand in a loving caress. If he closed his eyes and listened to her wizened voice, he could imagine her older. However, he knew she was a child and the image he carried could never be. Opening his eyes, he managed a smile for her. But he did not kiss her, he never kissed her—not since the day he had found her spirit wandering the garden alone and scared. Then she had been a girl and he had kissed her forehead in comfort.
Margaret breathed slowly before nodding in understanding. They never spoke of what they felt. For in a small part of them, they knew it wasn’t right—that it wasn’t meant to be. She dropped her hand, stepping away from him.
Over the long and twisted years they had been companions. They knew each other, understood each other. They discussed books, read plays, and sang songs—old ballads he remembered from his youth. When they were together, alone and buried from the world, they were happy. But then the happiness would fade to be replaced by Margaret’s frustrated tears and Josiah would let her go—bidding her to run and play in the garden, to forget her torment for awhile even if he could not.
“Why hast thou not moved on?” he asked at last.
“I couldn’t,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. She turned away from him. Pressing her small childlike hands to her chest she seethed in anger. She hated her hands, hated her body. She hated being caged in a prison of innocence and undeveloped features. If she could rip her limbs from her body, she would have. “I couldn’t leave you to face—”
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