“Oh, yes.”
“What about Lachlan?”
Morven’s smile faded. The quiet happiness that had begun to glow inside her made a hasty retreat. The truth was, she did not know at all what Lachlan felt about her. Though he gave no sign of tiring of her, he never discussed the future, nor asked her anymore where she had come from, making it easy for Morven to stop asking herself the same question. A child would raise all these issues once more, and once more she was afraid. “Do I have to tell him?” she asked Ishbel rather desperately, wanting only to buy some time.
Ishbel looked displeased. “Not yet awhile, it will be weeks before you show, but–Lachlan’s a perceptive man. He’ll find out, and it’s best you tell him before he does. Unless you’re not going to tell him at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“’Tis the way with your people, I’ve heard.”
“My people. That’s the second time you’ve said that. Who are my people? What is it you won’t tell me?”
Ishbel was silent, absent-mindedly stroking the grey cat, which now perched on her lap. The animal’s deep purr filled the room. “Will you take her home?” she asked eventually.
“Her?”
“The bairn. I have the second sight, as they say around here. It’s a girl. Will you take her home?”
Morven looked bewildered. “How can I take her home when I don’t know what–oh!” Cold clamminess broke out on her brow again. Lights seemed to spark inside her head. A glimpse of herself with a babe, swimming. Her sisters’ voices. That is when you must return. We will come for you.
“No!” Morven pushed back her chair. “No,” she said frantically, clutching at the table as the faintness threatened to overcome her. “I don’t want to. I don’t have to, do I? Please, Mrs Macfarlane, you have to tell me. Do I have a choice?”
Ishbel tipped the cat to the floor and got to her feet. She handed Morven a packet of raspberry leaf tea. “Take some of this every morning before you eat.”
“Ishbel! You have to tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“So I don’t have a choice?”
Ishbel looked immensely sad. “I have never heard of any other way.”
Morven clutched at the old woman’s gnarled hands. “Will you at least keep the child a secret for now?”
“I will, if it is what you truly wish, but you would be wise to remember what I said. Lachlan Sinclair is a very perceptive man. One who cares much more for you than you see.”
Morven managed a weak smile. “Thank you. And for the tea, thank you for that, too.” She had a blinding headache and could think of nothing beyond lying down in the dark and cool of their bedchamber. Lachlan’s bedchamber. If only she could forget what she had almost seen. All she wanted was to hug to herself the secret bliss of her child. For now, at least
“Take care of yourself,” Ishbel shouted after her as she made her way quickly down the path, but Morven did not hear her. The burden of knowledge weighed heavily upon Ishbel. She liked Morven, and she held Lachlan in high esteem. They were as well-matched a couple as she had seen, and deserved happiness. But as sure as the sun would rise, only sorrow lay ahead. And a lonely path for each to tread.
Morven made her way back to the cottage she wished she could call home. The future, which her daughter–for she had complete faith in Ishbel’s prediction–had made so bright, now loomed over her like the swell of the ocean in the depths of winter. A trough of darkness in the dip, a hint of light at the crest. Dip and swell, dip and swell, went both her emotions and her reason until she wanted to scream, just to shut it all out.
Lachlan was putting the finishing touches to Hamish Dodds’s boat, which was due to be launched the next day. She could hear his contented humming coming from the shed, and fought the urge to run to him, to have him hold her. He made her feel safe. Right now, she desperately needed that, but she also desperately needed some time to think, and so crept into the cottage, wearily divested herself of her clothes and crawled into bed.
Lachlan found her an hour later, soundly asleep, her hands resting on her stomach. Something had upset her. There were no traces of tears, but he could see from the frown that puckered her brow that she was distressed. She sensed his presence and stirred. “Something’s worrying you,” he said gently, sitting down on the bed beside her.
Morven shook her head. Time was what she needed. As much of it as she could have. Until she was forced to do otherwise, she would live for the moment. She intended to make every moment with Lachlan count.
She smiled at him and stretched her hand out, pushing the sheet away so that he could look at her. She loved to have him look at her, as she loved to look at him. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, pulling him down on top of her. “I missed you, that’s all.”
He was already forgetting everything save his desire for her, hers for him. He captured her breast in his hand, feeling her nipple burgeon in his palm, leaning over to put his lips to the other one. He knew she was not telling him the truth. It saddened him, but instinctively he knew he could do nothing about it, save mask sadness with passion. So that is what he did.
She sought him out more and more, spending hours watching him in the boatyard. The care and consummate skill of his workmanship enthralled her. She loved to listen to him talking, the deep timbre of his voice resonating inside her, filling her with light and something she learned to call happiness. Often, she would find him watching her going about some mundane household task. On occasion he appeared upon the verge of asking her something, but whatever it was, he never formed the question.
At night Morven dreamed. Always she was searching for something. Every time she was about to uncover it–in a chest, buried in the garden, under the floorboards, once in Hamish Dodds’s new boat–she woke up. The sense of loss and pending doom swamped her. At those times, she crept out of bed to swim secretly, compulsively, until dawn. Sometimes, when Lachlan awoke in the morning, her hair was still damp, her skin salty, but he said nothing. Perhaps he did not notice.
It took her time to find a name for her feelings. The desire always to be with him. The breathless feeling of anticipation whenever she saw him afresh after a parting, no matter how slight. The feeling of not being complete without him. The wanting to tell him every little thing that happened to her, the guilt at being unable to share her deepest fears. The need to know everything about him. She yearned to ask him about his past, his family, how he came to Port of Ness, but feared that such interest would be reciprocated. Of her own past, she was afraid.
It burst in on her about three months into her pregnancy that all of this added up to love. Though she was already with child, her hunger for him did not diminish. Rather, as time passed and her daughter grew inside her, she desired him more. Unable to declare her love for him, she showed him. Kissing until their lips were frayed, making love to him with increasing urgency, and afterward, increasingly, too, the burning sensation at the back of her eyes where her feelings pooled but could not spill. For each time brought her closer to the last.
In October Lachlan began work on a new boat. He called Morven into the boatyard and showed her the plans. She often spent time with him there, fascinated by the way that his skilled hands seemed almost to tease and coax the wood into place. As with everything he did, he did it with consummate care and attention.
He had been quiet for some days now, almost distant, so she was pleased to answer his summons, poring eagerly over the detailed drawing pinned to his board, nestling close against the reassuring bulk of his body. A strand of hair was stuck to his cheek. She brushed it away, planting a kiss in its place.
Lachlan began to lay the ribs out. “I learned to build boats at my grandfather’s yard. I used to go there every holiday I could, having no interest in accompanying my parents and my brother to Deauville in France, where they went for three weeks every summer. The same hotel. The same people. It bored me stiff, as did the family business–my father is a merchant.”
; “Where did you live?”
“Glasgow, though I went to boarding school and later university, in Edinburgh.” He saw her blank look. “South of here, in the city, where it is full of people and noise and smoke. I realised from a very early age that I didn’t want to follow my father into trade, and Neil, my younger brother, was only too happy to take my place, for which I’m very grateful, since it left me free to do what I really wanted. To build boats.”
“Like this one?”
Lachlan smiled. “No. Much, much bigger. I took over my grandfather’s yard. We built luxury yachts. The Prince of Wales bought one–he is a famous yachtsman–and suddenly everyone wanted one like it. Soon, I was spending less time designing and building the boats, and more looking after the business while other men did the real work. But most of the people who bought our yachts didn’t really care about them. They sailed them, maybe three months of the year–and actually, they didn’t really sail them, they employed other people to do that for them. I wasn’t happy, though I was very rich. So rich that I had no shortage of women, which was a distraction for a while, though they were as much interested in my money as they were in me.”
Morven wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. “There is no finer man than you, I knew that the moment I met you, and it has nothing to do with money.”
Lachlan laughed. “It’s one of the lovely things about you, that you don’t care at all for the trappings of wealth. But most women–most women I met in my old life, at any rate–are not at all like that. They want grand houses and fine clothes and jewels, and whatever else they can see their friends have, only bigger and better,” he said a little bitterly.
“You knew someone like that.”
“Yes, I did. Her name was Elizabeth Ingles, and we were engaged to be married.”
“Oh.” Jealousy reared up in Morven like a sea serpent. “You were in love with her?”
“I thought I was. I thought she was with me, too, but when I told her my plans, she gave me back my ring and told me she had mistaken her feelings. She married my brother Neil. They are very happy.”
“And you, were you very unhappy?”
Lachlan shook his head. “No. I was angry, but contrary to what the poets tell us, I did not feel as if the world would stop turning. Had we married, my intentions were to settle in a small house near where my grandparents used to live, and to build fishing boats. Without the need to consider Elizabeth, I decided to escape even further from the world, and I came here.”
“And you don’t regret it.”
“Not for a second,” Lachlan said adamantly.” I love it here. I can’t imagine ever leaving. Though if there was a reason…”
“Such as?”
“Well, if I took a wife and she was not happy here.”
“Why would she not be? It’s perfect.”
“You would stay here?”
Morven did not meet his gaze. “If I could.” She pointed to the plan for the new boat in an effort to turn the conversation away from herself. “Who is this for?” she asked.
“Us.”
She looked up in surprise. “But you already have the Sheila.”
“Aye, but she’s an open skiff, I want something with a bit of shelter. See, this one is going to have a little cabin here. That way it won’t matter if the seas are a bit high, or if it’s raining.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her, such a strange expression in his eyes as she had never seen before. Sorrow. And hope. And yearning. “For you and the bairn. We’re going to need to go to Stornaway more often for supplies. And be in reach of a doctor, too. I’m perfectly able to support a wife and family in comfort. In riches, if it’s what you want. When were you going to tell me?”
Morven’s legs began to shake. She pulled out a wooden chair from under the workbench and sat down. “How long have you known?”
“Long enough.”
“You said nothing.” Lachlan did not reply. “You wanted me to tell you myself?”
“Why didn’t you?”
She had not seen him angry before, but she recognised he had the right to be so now. She was terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified of not knowing what the right one was. The idea of telling him the truth flitted through her head, but she dismissed it instantly. She did not yet know what the full truth was.
“Well,” Lachlan said impatiently, “I want to know. Why did you keep the baby a secret?”
“I didn’t want this to end.”
“To end! You think I’d send you away!”
“No, but I thought–I can’t explain,” Morven said, panic making her voice shaky. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. Ishbel warned me that you would know, but I did not heed her.”
“So you told Ishbel Macfarlane, and not me.”
“She guessed. It was she who told me what was wrong with me. Lachlan, don’t be angry. I’m sorry. I was wrong. Are you–are you pleased–about the child, I mean?”
His temper left him as suddenly at it had arrived. Such a look of tenderness there was in his gaze that she felt faint. “Of course I’m pleased. It’s wonderful news. When will it be?”
“Not for a while yet. Next spring.” He had said nothing about his feelings for her. Morven tried to tell herself that his wanting the child was enough, but it was not. She bit down on the urge to ask him, knowing she had not the right.
“Next spring. Plenty time to build the boat, and add to the cottage, too. We should have at least one other room.” Lachlan gazed at his plan, but he was not really focused on it. “Morven, have you remembered nothing?” he asked her abruptly.
She blushed under the directness of his gaze. How to explain the hazy pictures in her mind? She did not even understand them herself. “No.”
Lachlan’s expression gentled. “You can trust me. You should know that by now. If there is something…”
“No. Just–dreams. Bad dreams, where I am looking for something. They mean nothing. I don’t understand them.”
“That is why you swim.”
“You knew.”
“Of course I knew. I watch out for you. I am always there, on the beach, just a few steps behind you. I wish you’d let me come with you. I’m a good swimmer.”
“I thought the people here did not swim.”
“Only the fishermen. And I’m not from here.”
“Nor am I.”
“May I come with you next time?”
“Yes.” Morven kissed him tentatively on the cheek. “I’d like that.”
“You must trust me,” Lachlan repeated, taking her hands between his own, work-roughened and capable. “There is nothing I would not do for you, Morven. I thought you would have realised that by now. I hoped you had come to care for me as I do you. I hoped you would trust me by now.”
“I do. I do. I love you.” The words were wrenched from her, the only truth she knew to be incontrovertible. “I love you. You must believe me. I love you, Lachlan. Let me show you.” She kissed him, his brow, his lids, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth.
He wanted to believe her, but something made him hold back. He had no doubt of his own feelings, but that same something made him keep them to himself. It had grown on him slowly, his love, a little every day, until it filled his heart. He wanted nothing more than to take her to wife. The thought of their child growing inside her made him want to weep with joy. But he was afraid. It was too much to lose. And he felt it, even now, as she pressed herself against him, that fatal certainty, that he would lose her.
“Lachlan, I love you. If you don’t believe me, let me show you,” Morven said, tearing at the buttons on his shirt, kissing him feverishly.
“No, wait,” He laid her down on the ground beside the ribs of the boat that was to be theirs. “Let me show you.”
Chapter 5
He undressed her carefully, as if he were unwrapping a gift, looking upon her as if seeing her for the first time, kissing every part of her skin as it was revealed to him in the dapp
led light of the barn. Tender kisses that soothed, becoming knowing kisses that roused.
“Touch, smell, taste,” he whispered. “I remember what you said. I remember everything. I won’t ever forget. Not ever.”
The words made her shiver. When she would have touched him he put her hands gently away. “I want to show you. Let me show you.” He did not take his own clothes off. There was something rousing in the contrast of his fully clad body ministering to her increasing nakedness. He kissed her mouth, coaxing a response from her so gently she hardly knew that was what he was doing, until it was lit inside her. His hands traced patterns over her skin, stoking the fires of her desire–but slowly. He kissed his way down her throat to her breasts. Taking each nipple in turn, gently tugging, then sucking harder. He kissed down, along the line of her ribs, across the soft flesh of her stomach, lingering there, reverent, careful, stroking and kissing every part of the almost undetectable mound that was their child.
Her thighs now, his hands cupping her bottom, stroking and kneading, his tongue working its way slowly, painfully slowly, to the centre of her. Her climax built inexorably. She wrested with the urge to give in to it and the contrasting urge to prolong it. She burned under his touch, longing for more, longing for it to end, relishing the feel of him, the touch of him, and the sight of him. The perfection of his profile. The certainty of his hands. The fall of his hair. So familiar, and yet she could never tire of him, could never prevent the kick of excitement every time she saw him, as if it were the first.
He pushed her legs apart. She moaned as his tongue eased its way into her. A judder of feeling. She clenched onto it. He stopped, held her still for agonising seconds before he licked into her again. She was unbearably sensitive. He seemed to know this, lapping around the edges, licking, then waiting, then licking again. Closer, farther away, closer. Morven clutched at his shoulders, arching up as he licked, anxious now for his concluding touch. She needed him. She was desperate for him. Her hoarse little cries urged him on.
The Highlander and the Sea Siren Page 4
