by Karen Ranney
“I’m not a very good baker,” she explained. “It isn’t that I don’t measure everything correctly, because I do. But something always seems to go wrong. There is either not enough salt or there’s too much honey. I would much prefer to gather the branches and leave the baking to someone else.”
“When does this monumental chore need to be done?”
“Which one, the branches or the cake?”
“The branches,” he said, one corner of his lip turning up.
“Next week.”
“I’ll help you with the branches.”
“Are you certain you won’t help with the cake? I truly need more assistance with that task,” she teased.
She bent, picking up a twig lying across the path, and began swishing it back and forth in front of her.
The sky was darkening to the west, but he didn’t urge her back to Tyemorn, being as complicit in this truancy as she. They followed a ridge surrounding the village like the lip of an overturned bowl. The wind increased, marking its presence through the tall grass and carrying with it the scent of rain.
Each was content to remain silent. Not once did Riona look over at him, lost as she was in her thoughts, and he in consideration of her.
“This is it,” she said a little while later, pointing to a small brick outcropping emerging from the side of the hill. “The villagers say that the wall used to surround Ayleshire hundreds of years ago. Now there’s not much left.” She led the way through the bracken, glancing over at him to ensure he was following. “We’ve had visitors from as far away as France come to look at the wall, take measurements and ask questions, but they also take a few stones home to remind them of their journey. A pity, since it is so old.”
The wall came barely to his knees, and was constructed of bricks rounded by age and weather.
“I realize it doesn’t look like much.” She brushed a few bricks clean of thickly growing moss.
“On the contrary,” he said. “It reminds me of walls I’ve seen before. Ancient ruins in Italy.”
She laid her hand on the top of the wall. “It must have been taller at one time and more impressive. But I don’t know where it begins or why it was built.”
“Or what it was meant to keep out? Or keep in?”
“Exactly,” she said, smiling at him.
A moment of perfect accord as each looked at the other.
She leaned against the wall as storm clouds raced above them, blowing gusts of heated wind and dust. Impatiently, she tugged at her hair, making him want to grab it between his hands and hold it away from her face to give her some respite for a moment.
“We should go back,” Riona said, but she turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes. At that moment, she appeared part of the elements herself. An errant gust billowed her skirt behind her. She smiled, pressing her hands against the fabric to keep it in place. Her hair, loosed of its restraint, flew about her head, tendrils brushing against her cheeks.
He didn’t want to leave her, James realized abruptly. Until she wed he wanted every moment she could spare, every instant in which to learn what she thought or believed. What amused her? What saddened her?
“We should go back,” he repeated. Her words, but his thoughts hiding behind them.
She turned her head and looked at him, her glance even and steady.
Rain began, falling so lightly that they remained motionless beside the ancient wall. What had it witnessed in all that time? More than one couple standing here, surely. Had a woman tempted a man here a century ago? Two? Had a man ever fought a battle with his honor as he did now?
She was silent, and he wanted to warn her that she was so at her peril. He might begin to believe all manner of things if she did not refute them. That her conscience warred as his did. That her mind was fixed not so much on Harold as on him.
For her safety and his sense of decency, he should encourage her to speech.
Talk to me of Harold. Or Edinburgh. But do not, I beseech you, continue to look at me with those eyes that mirror the sky above us. Do not look as if you might weep at any moment.
The rain began to fall more heavily. Reaching out, he gripped her hand, pulling her to the outcrop of rock and earth that formed a natural shelter.
Lightning flashed on a nearby hill and thunder rolled, echoing on itself until it sounded as if two storms raged above them. The ground trembled in response, as if nature’s fury was a lover and the earth itself a receptive partner.
She was to be married. Worse, she guarded the image of her beloved as if he were sacred, refusing to talk of Harold, as if, in doing so, she might sully his name.
“How many days until your wedding?” he asked her abruptly.
Riona glanced up, her smile fading as she stared at him. She shouldn’t have been so lovely in her threadbare dress. The sun had pinked her cheeks, and health sparkled in her eyes.
“Does it matter?” she asked instantly.
“Perhaps not,” he said, wishing he had not asked.
“It isn’t a love match, James,” she said. Words that made him glance at her again, hold her gaze with his. “Rather, it’s one of obligation.”
What sort of man was he to be pleased to see regret in a soft, gray-eyed gaze, or feel his heart leap at the mournful tone of her announcement.
“What sort of obligation?” His voice sounded relaxed, betraying none of his inner thoughts. He’d learned the trait in the midst of biting gales and deadly ice storms. When everything around him solicited his fear he grew the calmest.
Riona’s words had been as powerful as a typhoon. It isn’t a love match.
She turned away, facing toward the woods in the distance. “Is it important? I must marry him.”
“Why?” he said, taking a few steps closer to her. “Is it a familial duty? A betrothal from childhood?”
She shook her head. But still, she would not look at him.
“Why, Riona?”
Finally, she turned and faced him. The two of them stood sheltered beneath an outcropping of shale, an isolated place. Almost an island for as much as anyone could see them. They were together, and dangerously close.
His conscience bid him move back, away. But he didn’t, only stretched out his hands to her, gripping her sleeves.
“Please do not ask me, James.” Her voice was thick with emotion, and he was startled to see her eyes swimming with tears.
“What is it?”
She shook her head, and one errant tear fell. But instead of taking a leisurely path down her cheek it was swiped away quickly by her hand. An angry gesture, as revealing of her irritation as the thinning of her lips.
He wanted to kiss them until they were full again. Soft and pillowy, slightly parted in wonder. He studied her mouth for long moments as if witnessing the deed, both participant and voyeur.
Slowly, James lowered his head, too close for propriety, too dangerous a position for decency’s sake. His honor shouted at him, and he ignored the warning. He flirted with disaster, sailing on the edge of the wind, full-bellied sails unfurled.
Say my name, he commanded her silently. Summon me with a sound. Just a word, that’s all, and I’ll cover your lips with mine. I’ll give in to the temptation that has dogged my steps all these interminable days.
But she remained silent, but for a deep sigh.
He pulled her closer, until the tips of her shoes bumped against his boots. A gentle nudge of feet until her hands pressed against his arms. Her head tilted back to see him.
“James,” she said softly. A warning.
Where was his honor? His decency? Buried, numbed, hidden beneath an almost paralyzing wonder. Who was she, to do this to him?
He turned her hand in his, marveling at both the differences and the similarities. Each of their fingers was callused, but her hand was small in comparison to his.
The sky above them flashed like lanterns signaling at sea. The storm was above them now. The wind blew his hair about his face, as if in gentle chastisem
ent.
He draped himself over her to protect her from the worst of the weather. She braced her hand against the placket of his shirt, and he wanted to ask her if she did so to keep him at bay. She was safe with him. His thoughts, inappropriate and sinful, would never be translated into action.
But, God, he was tempted.
There were some things, James reasoned, that could not be explained. The source of the wind, the narrow escapes he’d had at sea, the feeling of the Almighty being at his elbow in treacherous conditions. The longing he had for Riona McKinsey.
He’d never felt anything like it before, this absurd desire to be in her company. His lips twitched into a smile just looking at her, and his heart seemed to lighten in his chest at her answering glance. He’d never before considered himself an irrational man, but he was acting the fool. Lovesick and besotted.
How could he feel so much so quickly? A matter of days only. His life, once charted, most certainly planned, seemed adrift now. Vague. Amorphous, like the clouds above them.
Why her? Why not a woman of Inverness? He’d been to the town numerous times in the year he’d been at Gilmuir. Why not a woman he spied in the street? An innkeeper’s daughter, an inhabitant of a coach, a woman encountered by chance at the market?
Because as lovely as she was, Riona’s attraction wasn’t her appearance. She was simply herself, intransigent at times, questioning at others, willful and malleable, simple and complicated.
They had blurred the boundaries between them from the moment they had met. Now, he didn’t know where she belonged. More than an acquaintance. Friend? What did he call a woman he wanted but could never have?
A wish unfulfilled.
He took one step closer to her, pressing his hands against the base of her neck and trailing his fingers up to rest at her nape. She shivered, and he almost congratulated her for the freedom and honesty of her response.
Tremble for me. Words he wanted to whisper against her closed lips. And she would gasp and open them, inviting a kiss.
“We should leave,” she said, lowering her head a little. If he moved just so, his lips would rest against her forehead. A benediction of touch, a sweetly innocent kiss that was only a prelude to what he really craved.
But he was civilized, wasn’t he? There were no more clan raids, no more stealing of women. Instead, they were paraded before men in their pretty frocks, wearing demure looks. Men were sent to bid on them surreptitiously with genteel words like dowries and annual income.
He’d lost her before he ever knew her.
Something in him, old and ancient, surprised him with its atavism. He was no longer James McRae, ship’s captain, man of letters and learning, as much as he was the great grandson of the old laird who could ride like a banshee and plunder with the best of them.
He placed his fingers firmly against her mouth, a guard against his wayward lips. Lightning flashed nearby, startling them both. In the bright flash she looked too pale, almost frightened of him. He pulled her gently toward him, curving his body over hers in protection. Only he knew the desperate desire that surged within him at the moment.
Nature had stripped itself of all decorum, and he was following suit, changing the longer he stood here with Riona only a breath away. What separated them, what protected her, was his will, now whisper-thin and flagging.
His imagination furnished thoughts he shouldn’t have, visions of laying her down on the grass and loving her there. He would put his hands on her until she grew accustomed to the touch of his palms and fingers on her skin. Then, only then, would he allow himself the luxury of feeling all her separate curves, the swell of her breasts, the enticing sweep of waist to hips, the long line of her legs.
Giving in to the temptation, he jerked her toward him and tilted his head so that his lips slanted over hers. Her lips were warm and full, falling open beneath his tender coaxing. Then his tongue traced a delicate path across her bottom lip. She gasped, and he was inhaling the sound of it.
She clung to him, her fingers clutching his shirt as he bent her backward even farther. There wasn’t any room between them for thoughts or even regrets.
Damned, he was going to be damned. The last conscious thought he had for long moments.
Finally, they parted, his breath coming so fast that he felt as if he’d run a race. She was as breathless, laying her forehead against his chest.
“Dear God,” he said, the guttural voice unlike his own, the two words uttered in wonder and disbelief. He’d never before been carried away by a simple kiss.
She looked up at him then, her eyes large and wide. Silver in the afternoon sunlight, they sought his gaze and held it.
He should ask her forgiveness. Or explain. But any further words were impossible. He was still reeling from what had just happened.
Riona pulled back finally, her hands trembling where they rested on his arms. She nodded to him as if he’d spoken, or perhaps it was simply an acknowledgment of the power of that kiss.
He caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, slowly kissing her fingertips, feeling her tremble.
“You will make a lovely bride,” he said, forcing himself to step back and away from her.
For a long moment, neither said a word. Finally, she pulled her hand free, gripped her skirts in both fists, and began to run. Either toward sanctuary or simply away from him.
Chapter 15
D inner that night was tasteless, and endless. Riona’s behavior garnered several approving glances from Mrs. Parker, who had finally recovered from her bout of illness, and more than one curious look from her mother and Maureen.
Yearning after James MacRae had rendered her silent. Her fingers itched to curve around his. Or to press themselves against his waistcoat. She wanted so desperately to touch him that it was almost a craving.
Every time she glanced up he was staring at her, so intensely that she shivered. She stared at her plate or her lap rather than return his look.
After dinner was done and the dishes washed and put away, Riona knocked on Susanna’s door and entered at her response.
Instead of being occupied with her needlework, her mother was simply sitting, hands folded on her lap, head resting on the back of the chair, a pose Riona had not often seen. Her chair was turned toward the window, and Susanna was gazing at the night sky. When Riona entered, she turned her head and smiled.
“What is it, Riona?” Susanna asked gently. “Are you feeling well?”
Riona nodded.
She went to sit on the footstool beside her mother’s chair. She wrapped her arms around her knees and sat staring out the window. Susanna smiled at her and contentedly resumed her study of the stars. For a few moments, they were simply content to be silent with each other.
“Do you ever miss Father?” Riona asked.
“Sometimes,” Susanna said to her surprise. “On misty nights especially. He used to tease me then, telling details of brownies and elves and strange creatures that dwelled in the fog. Every time I see an overcast morning I think of your father. And at night, too.”
She’d never thought that Susanna might be filled with a sense of grief or loss. Her mother had always seemed so capable, so confident. But she hadn’t always been that way, Riona realized. At one point in her life, she had been half of a couple, part of a whole.
“How did you do it?” she asked. “How did you learn to live without him?”
“I had no other choice,” Susanna said simply. “I had you and Maureen, and the world doesn’t stop because I was stricken by grief. I had rent to pay and food to buy and all those necessities that two growing girls required. I simply had to put one foot in front of the other until it became natural to live without him.”
Riona thought it had to be a great deal more difficult than that, but she only smiled in response.
“Polly tells me you’ve received another letter from Harold.”
Riona nodded. “He has purchased some furniture for our house,” she said. More expenditures, and
before they’d even wed. The creditors of Edinburgh must be counting on their marriage even more than Harold. As it was, it seemed to her that he was doing everything in his power to spend Great Aunt Mary’s legacy.
Susanna patted her hand, a way of commiserating without saying anything critical.
“I’ve invited the McDermotts to dinner,” her mother said.
“Why?” Riona asked, frowning.
“I am hoping to interest Mrs. Parker in another commission,” her mother said candidly. “The McDermott girls are of an age to be introduced to society.”
She wondered if her mother’s wish to help Mrs. Parker had anything to do with the fact that Susanna was also a widow, once responsible for making her own way in the world.
“Besides,” her mother continued, “the presence of Gorman McDermott will be a welcome change for James. All this female company must be tedious for him.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
Susanna nodded. “I do. At first because of Fergus, but now because I’ve become acquainted with him. And you, Riona? Do you like him?”
“He’s very charming,” she said cautiously. Devastatingly so. Nor could she forget their kiss. How could she?
“If things were different, I wouldn’t mind having him as a son-in-law.”
But things weren’t different, weren’t they?
For a long moment, they continued to gaze at each other. Finally, Riona stood, bending forward to kiss her mother on the forehead. She hadn’t said the words, but they were there between them, nonetheless.
Is there no way I can escape this marriage?
She knew the answer as well as Susanna.
Harold glanced up, frowning, as his brother entered the room. The sun had been up for nearly two hours, and Peter had not yet been to bed. Morning, in his brother’s world, was when he returned from his debauchery, not a time to rise to greet the world.
Ordinarily, Harold would have joined him, but he was being prudent so close to his nuptials.
