by Anita Mills
He awakened hours later to find her sitting on his sea chest, her shoulders draped in a MacDonnel tartan.
“You despicable pirate.”
Shaking off sleep, he searched for a reasonable reply. “Lily, I can explain.”
“Explain what? How you tricked me into lov—” She gasped. “Into believing you.”
The hurt in her eyes mirrored a soul of deep pain, and Hugh felt his insides twist with grief for her, for them both. “I’m sorry.”
“You miserable snake.”
She’d misunderstood his apology. “I meant that I’m—”
“A dung-eating MacDonnel.”
That did it. “I see you couldn’t wait to pick my pockets for the key to that wardrobe.”
Her brown eyes turned dark with scorn, and her knuckles were white from clutching the tartan. “I grew cold because you took all of the blankets. I couldn’t find my new sleeping gown, so I thought to borrow something of yours.”
“An interesting selection, Lily. Admit that you were snooping in my belongings.”
“Belongings! Don’t you try to make the plaid of my enemy sound like an everyday cloak. A Douglas you said.”
“You said it, not I.”
“How could you deceive me so?”
“You wanted me, Lily.”
Her throat worked and her eyes snapped fire. “You’re a monster to bring that up.”
“Bring what up? The fact that you love me?”
“Ha!” With her free hand, she swept her hair back and over her shoulders. “’Twas lust and no more.”
Ironically, he thought the colorful MacDonnel tartan a perfect foil for her country-fresh beauty. “’Twas love, Lily.”
“I’d sooner mate with a swineherd.”
Quick as a cat, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her beneath him. “You gifted me with your innocence…after I gallantly gave you the opportunity to keep it. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘Aye,’ you purred.”
She fought like a wildcat, but her strength was no match for his. Panting, she spat, “’Twas after you kissed me senseless.” Twisting and straining, she tried to free herself. “And you probably drugged my wine.”
“You were as sober as a saint when you yielded your maidenhead.”
“You took it.”
“You enjoyed our loving.”
“I loathed every moment of your pawing.”
The jibe hit home, but he ignored his smarting pride. “Now you’re sorry.”
She quivered with rage. “You’re a bloody MacDonnel.”
“Not,” he ground out, “a practicing one.”
“Liar. You practiced your roguish ways on me, and fool that I am, I believed you sincere—gallant even.” She laughed. “I hate you, Hugh MacDonnel.”
“Nay, Lily, you don’t. You’re just angry because I didn’t tell you.”
Through her teeth, she hissed, “How astute of you. Get off me.”
“Not yet.”
Looking away, she closed her eyes. Hugh was desperate to make her see the truth and understand. “Did I ask you to board this ship?”
“I wanted to save the rose.”
He pressed on. “Did I drag you to the May Fair in Wexford?”
“Nay.”
“Did I turn a deaf ear when I heard that your cousin had beaten you?”
“Don’t.” Her voice was thick with misery, her eyes squeezed tight against the agony of betrayal.
Plagued by regrets, he searched for a way to get through to her. “Don’t what, Lily? Don’t fall prey to clan loyalties? Don’t take joy in your company simply because my family and your family make war on each other? God, Lily, ’tis why I left Scotland.” The admission drained him.
Her breathing slowed. “You don’t know what the MacDonnels have done.”
“Probably not, but remember what you said after Randolph abused you?”
He felt her relax, but only a little. “What?”
“You said you knew how the MacDonnels felt. We’re people, too, Lily, and not all of us thrive on enmity.” He thought of dear Fiona. “Some have suffered greatly at your father’s hand.”
She turned toward him, and his heart ached at the pain she could not disguise. “Is that why you seduced me—out of revenge?”
The accusation in her words kindled his ire anew. “You did a damn fine job of seduction yourself, Lily Hamilton.”
“Don’t you dare blame me for your rakish ways.”
“Nay? Then let me refresh your memory. Before I made love to you the third time, you said your breasts ached for the touch of my tongue. You begged me to suckle you. You said your stomach floated like a cork every time I came into you. You said I made you feel like—”
“Enough!” She looked away. “I was besotted.”
He saw the small love bruise he’d left on her neck. Nibbling her skin had been his first mistake. Pray God he’d made his last. Drawn again to her sweetness and eager to end the strain between them, he leaned close and touched his lips to the mark.
She bucked beneath him. “No.”
Bracing himself above her, he looked into her eyes, then lower. Her nipples were stiff with desire, her skin flushed with wanting. Her teeth closed over the bottom lip and her nostrils flared.
“Don’t you see what we’re doing to each other, Lily? Forgive me for not telling you, but I swear in the beginning I did it to protect my crew. Later, I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
“Easy words to speak now.”
She had a right to doubt him. He was bound to change her mind. “Look at me.”
Slowly she turned toward him and the yearning he saw in her eyes rocketed to his loins. Only a MacDonnel tartan and Hamilton pride separated them. Desperate to possess her, he moved the cloth aside and settled between her legs.
“What are you—Oh!”
He found her moist and ready, and his head spun with desire.
“Our destiny is here, sweetheart. Since that morning eleven years ago when you saw me drop that torch into Brodick Bay.”
She grew attentive. “You admit you came there every year?”
“Aye. Now admit you love me.”
Minx that she was, she took her time. “I don’t forgive you.”
It was the best he would get from her now, but given time Hugh would hear her say the words. At the moment, though, his body craved a different commitment from her. “Open for me, Lily. I love you. ’Twas meant to be.”
“What did you say?”
“I love you.”
On a groan, she yielded, and he made them one.
“Sweet Saint Margaret,” she whispered.
“Amen,” he rasped.
When Hugh awakened, he was alone in bed. Fearing Lily had fled, he yanked off the covers and started to rise, but stopped, for he felt her presence and relaxed. Sitting on the windowseat, she wore a new gown of yellow linen. Her hair trailed over her shoulder and pooled in her lap. Had he selected a woman to grace his cabin and warm his life, he could not have chosen better than Lily Hamilton.
She looked up, and her winsome smile pleased him anew.
Oddly, he was reminded of his sister. “Good morning,” he said.
As he expected, a maidenly blush colored her cheeks. “Good morning to you.”
He patted the mattress. “Come. Sit with me.”
Rising gracefully, she came to him with strength of purpose and excitement and, to his great relief, the promise of forgiveness. She sat beside him, and he pulled her into his arms. As his lips settled on her, it was as if he were seeing inside her. He instinctively knew that he’d only scratched the surface of her character. Next year, five years, ten, twenty years from now, she’d grow and polish and shine like a treasured keepsake.
When he drew back, she studied him.
He basked in her attention. “You’ve much to recommend you, Lily Hamilton.”
Shyly, she said, “You know little about me.”
“Precisely my point.”
She opened her mouth
, then closed it. After a moment’s consideration, a smile blossomed on her face. “Thank you.”
He thought his heart would burst with love. Before he could voice his feelings, she cleared her throat. “Now that…that we’ve…we’ve come to…to know each other better…”
“I love you. Will you marry me?”
She looked much too serious, her hands folded in her lap, her expression pensive. “Yes, if you will tell me two things.”
A cold fist of dread knotted in his belly, for he knew what she would ask, and he hadn’t the right to answer.
“Is this—was this ship once mine?”
It was the last thing he expected and the easiest to address. “Aye, ’twas the Valiant Lily.” He couldn’t help adding, “A fitting name. I’ll have the carpenter change it back.”
She pointed to the wardrobe. “I carved my initials there—in the bulkhead.”
She’d imprinted herself on his soul, too, but he’d wait to tell her that. Anxious to see her handiwork, he pulled on his breeches and crossed the room. Putting his shoulder to the task, he swung the large piece of furniture away from the wall. There, in the bulkhead were the initials LMH.
He waved her over, and when she stood beside him, he draped an arm over her shoulder. “The ‘M’ is for…?”
“Margaret, although I’ve never done it justice, particularly of late.”
“You’re too exciting for so common a name.” Margaret was the patron saint of Scotland and often bestowed at christening. His sister Fiona and many of his cousins carried the name.
Lily knelt and touched the carving.
“How old were you?” he asked.
“Eight.” Giving the symbol a final pat, she stood and faced him solemnly. “When I was ten years old, your family took this ship. The day I learned of it, I was so devastated, I ran away from home. That’s when I found the grave.” She placed her hands on his and, with her eyes, beseeched him to understand. “Who is buried there, and what is the significance of the rose?”
He pictured her young and heartbroken and bravely seeking solace. She’d found it in a grave he knew nothing about and a rosebush he knew very well. “On my soul, Lily, I do not know. I’ve never stepped foot on Arran. But I’ll take you to the person who has.”
She gave him a smile that filled him with love. “When?”
“As soon as I dress and speak with Bonaventure.”
Moving around him, she opened the wardrobe. “Here.” She handed him a shirt.
Laughing at her eagerness, he kissed her cheek, then dressed and went on deck.
Once the Valiant Lily was secured at Wigtown, in the Scottish Lowlands, Lily waited on the quay while Hugh hired a carriage. Excitement coursed through her. Soon her quest would come to an end. She would hear the name of the one who lay buried in the grave she had tended for so long. Then her future would begin. She would marry Hugh MacDonnel and travel to her new home in the Virginia Colony.
During the voyage from Liverpool, she had phrased a dozen letters to her father, telling him of her plans and describing the depths of her feelings both for Hugh MacDonnel and for her own clan. An apology for running away always crept into her thoughts, but Lily refused to ask forgiveness for following her heart. Her father would be angry, of that she was certain, for her cousin Randolph was surely home by now, spreading ghastly tales.
Bother them, and the devil take their anger. They probably wouldn’t miss her anyway, so why write?
At the sound of approaching horses, she turned to see Hugh seated in an open carriage. Elegantly dressed in a blue velvet jacket and knee breeches, he handled the team with the same skill that he governed his crew. And her heart, she added, smiling at her own romantic musing.
Pulling back on the reins, he doffed his cockaded hat, then helped her up. She felt a burst of pride, for his towering height and dark good looks drew appreciative glances from the females they passed.
“If one more fellow tips his hat to you,” Hugh grumbled. “I’ll run him down.”
Lily laughed. “Odd, for I was just thinking that the women cannot seem to stop batting their eyelashes at you and fiddling with their fans.”
He leaned close. “Ah, ’tis well then.”
They traveled through the busy town in companionable silence. When they had exited the city and turned west on the road that would lead to his property, Lily breathed in the fresh summer air.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. But why did you tell me you were a Douglas?”
“Because my mother was their kinswoman. ’Tis from her that I gained this estate.” He pointed to a stand of birch. “See? There’s Blackburn Keep, beyond the trees.”
Peering through the forest, Lily spied a modest, vine-covered castle with only one tower and a large stable off to the right. The perfectly straight drive was lined with double rows of newly planted cedars. Their spicy scent blended with the rich aroma of heather and gorse. Butterflies and dandelion dust floated on the air. Spring lambs frolicked in a field, and a cow lowed in protest when the lambkins came too close.
“You cannot see the garden from here, but ’tis a glorious sight. Almost as lovely as you.”
“You flatter me well, Hugh MacDonnel.”
“I had an excellent tutor in”—he kissed her nose—“you.”
Fighting back embarrassment, Lily again surveyed the beautiful landscape, lush with the promise of summer. “Stop that, Hugh. I have no intention of blushing like a maid when I meet Fiona.” She still loved the sound of the name and anticipated meeting his sister.
“She’ll love you as much as I do.”
“But I’m a Hamilton.”
At the entrance he slowed the team. “Fiona carries no grudges against the Hamiltons, even though she has more cause than most.”
Lily grew nervous. “What do you mean?”
“Whoa.” When the horses stopped, he secured the reins and stepped down. “Come, sweetheart.” He extended a hand. “’Tis for Fiona to tell you.”
A flustered housemaid let them in, fussing that his lordship should have sent word.
“Leave off, Polly,” he chided the woman. “And tell me where I can find my sister.”
“In the garden, my lord.”
As Hugh led Lily through the castle, she was surprised to find no clan regalia or battle shields. Even the tapestries depicted peaceful scenes of animals in the forest and children at play. To her relief, she saw no captured unicorns or felled and bloodied boars. Even the portrait gallery was devoid of stern-faced MacDonnel chieftains. The prerequisite portrait of the king peeked from behind an overly prosperous potted plant. The family paintings were all of children. One in particular caught her eye, for the subjects seemed eerily familiar. A red-haired woman was seated on a bench in a garden of primroses, a strapping lad of about twelve sat at her feet.
“Wait,” Lily said, wanting to get a better look. “That’s you in this painting.”
“And Fiona.” He pulled her onward. “You should meet her in person first.”
“I wanted to look at you.”
He jiggled his brows. “You had quite a good look at all of me this morning.”
“You were bathing.”
“And you were helpful—deliciously so. ’Twas a thoroughly unforgettable experience.”
“You’re wicked.”
“I’m besotted.”
She was still laughing at his naughtiness when they stepped into the garden. Lily sucked in her breath, for the smell of roses was almost intoxicating. The ten-foot-high stone walls were blanketed in pink blossoms, as were the tunnel-like trellises that framed a sunny pond. Like the fountainhead of a trickling stream, this garden was the source of the sickly rose she’d tended for so many years.
“Fiona!” Hugh called out.
“Over here!” A gloved hand appeared above a half-trimmed boxwood hedge.
Heading for the shrub, Hugh lengthened his strides. Lily quickened her steps to keep up.
The woman wor
e a straw hat with a wide floppy brim that shielded her nose and eyes. Her mouth broadened into a smile and she rose, drawing off her gloves and fluffing out the skirt of her pale pink dress.
She looks at home, Lily thought, studying the woman who was slightly taller than herself. But why did she send roses to Arran?
Hugh’s hand slipped from Lily’s, and he scooped his sister into his arms and swung her around. Her pealing laughter sounded like that of a girl, not a woman who was ten years older than Hugh.
He whispered something to her. “Then put me down,” she said. “So I can greet the lass.”
He did as she asked, then took Lily’s hand and pulled her forward. Her stomach tightened in anticipation, for although she did not know Fiona MacDonnel, she felt bound to her because of the grave and the roses.
Elbows in the air, head bowed, the overly slender Fiona MacDonnel worked at pulling the pins from her hat. “Had I known Hugh was bringing a special guest, I would have—” She stopped and stared at Lily.
Fiona’s eyes were brown, and her nose quaintly turned up at the tip. Pretty did not suit her, for she possessed an uncommon elegance of form. Her upswept hair was straight and red, but shot through with strands of honey gold.
And the color was draining from her face.
“Who are you?” she asked in a fearful whisper.
Hugh moved immediately to her side. “What’s wrong, Fiona? Are you ill? Have you labored out here all morning?”
She never took her eyes from Lily. With a wave of her hand, she said, “I’m fine, Hugh. Please, tell me your name.”
Lily felt the old hurt rise. Hugh’s sister wasn’t as neutral in the feud as he thought, for she was obviously discomfited by Lily’s presence. But wait, Lily didn’t favor her clan. Hugh must have revealed her name during that whispered exchange.
Gathering her gumption, Lily curtsied. “I’m Lily Hamilton.”
“Soon to be my wife,” Hugh said.
Fiona seemed to shake off her confusion. “Forgive me, Lily. It’s just that you remind me of someone. Who are your parents?”
Lily hesitated, fearful of the reaction. Put it behind you, her conscience said. Standing taller, she swallowed back her fears. “My father is Edward Hamilton, and my mother is dead. Her name was Margaret. She was a MacLean from the Isle of Mull.”
