To know that it was all his was empowering. Ian felt his chest expand with that knowledge as he waited for the marchioness. The way she had looked at him during the carriage ride home was just as empowering, he realized. The attraction between them had been instantaneous and intense. He couldn’t remember ever feeling anything like it.
The urge to touch her, to hold her hand or caress her cheek, had been almost overwhelming. It had been difficult not to act on that attraction, to assume the familiarity he felt. Instead he had settled for watching her. Watching her expression as she’d looked out the window of the carriage as Cuilean had come into view had enthralled him. Her anticipation and excitement had been palpable, rousing an answering anticipation in him. But it was her expression when she looked at him that enthralled Ian the most. She looked at him as if he were godlike, like something she’d never seen before, and Ian felt the same when he looked at her. It was intoxicating.
It was magical.
So magical that he wanted to grasp it in his hands and never let it go. He wanted her to stay at Dùn Cuilean, wanted to share it with her. Wanted to share more than he cared to consider just yet.
Not the least of those things was her bed. The attraction he had felt for the woman in the portrait in his chambers for the last month had become undeniable lust since seeing Hero in the flesh. Ian shook off the arousal that gripped him at the mere thought of her and seized again on the puzzle that was Hero Conagham.
Though it pleased him that she loved the castle as much as he and considered it home, Ian had to wonder again what prompted her return to this place. The castle, despite its vast beauty, was certainly far removed from society. Indeed, it was almost removed from civilization itself in its remote locale on the coast of the Firth of Clyde, miles from anything or anyone, with just Ian in residence, if one didn’t count the bevy of servants it took to run the castle.
Why would she return?
All of those questions fled his mind the moment Hero appeared on the landing above him, and Ian’s breath caught. Only one question remained and, for a bachelor of long standing, it was an uncomfortable one that boggled the mind.
How could he convince her to stay?
The rustling of silk caught his attention and Ian turned.
She was so incredibly lovely, Ian thought again as he awaited Hero at the foot of the steps as she swept down the curved staircase toward him. Her evening gown was a widely striped rose and bronze silk. The broad hooped skirt was nearly as wide as the staircase as she descended, and at its center, her tiny cinched waist was encircled by a band of bronze silk that trailed in lace-edged streamers over the belled skirts. The bodice clung tightly to her every curve. The notched collar—for lack of a better word—was edged with lace and hung low across her bosom and arms, leaving her shoulders bare. The tops of her breasts nearly spilled over the low neckline with every breath. Her arms were bare as well, as she eschewed gloves. Only the long ribbons trailing from the silken rosettes on lacy trim that served as the arms of the gown made any attempt to cover her bare flesh. Hero wore no jewelry, either, only gold and rose silk flowers in her hair.
His fingers itched to encircle that tiny waist, to caress that ivory skin. Ian had never seen a more breathtaking sight … that is, until she looked down at him with a brilliant smile.
Ian felt as if the bare-knuckled prizefighter, Tom Sayers, had just hit him below the belt. The wind was nearly taken from him but Ian stood tall and welcomed his guest with a broad smile and a gentlemanly bow. Surely the marchioness would expect her husband’s heir to treat her with detached respect, not tethered lust.
Reaching the foot of the stair, Hero returned the marquis’s bow with a reflective curtsey of her own, marveling at how wonderful he looked in his evening attire. His white shirt and cravat contrasted sharply with his dark complexion, his brilliant blue waistcoat doing the same against the shirtfront. Over it, Ian wore a navy coat so dark it almost appeared black. She loved the peppery darkness of his hair with just enough salt to soften his dark coloring. Hero held out her hand and allowed him to kiss it formally. The feel of his warm lips against her bare skin, however, was beyond cordial. Tingling tendrils of electricity set her fingers curling around his.
If he objected to her tight grip, Lord Ayr said nothing of it, merely tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and offering polite conversation as he escorted her out of the hall. “I must apologize for the meal beforehand,” he offered as they paced slowly through the Library to the Eating Room beyond. “Being alone here, I have instructed Cook to prepare only the simplest fare these past weeks. I hope you will not be disappointed.”
“I’m sure I won’t be,” Hero answered in her cultured tones. “Cook is a joy and makes everything taste wonderful. Besides, like you, I don’t tend to favor elaborate meals when I am not entertaining, and I am only family here, right?”
Hero cringed as the words escaped her, and Mikah did a mental face-palm as well. Neither of them considered this virile man to be part of her family. The last thing Mikah wanted was any requirement for a platonic relationship. Appearances, Hero reasoned more primly, must be kept lest he misinterpret her intention and begin to feel her presence as an uncomfortable burden. Ian’s eyes narrowed at her words, however, and Hero liked to think that perhaps he didn’t care for the familial connection either.
Still, the marquis said nothing except to ask, “Won’t your father be joining us?”
“No. Papa is tired from the journey and will take a meal in his rooms.” Hero’s brow creased momentarily. “I apologize. He doesn’t intend any rudeness.”
“None taken,” Ayr assured her, and Hero could hear the uncertainty in his voice as he asked, “I hesitate to mention it lest I offend you in turn, but your father seems an interesting character.”
“That is the kindest interpretation I’ve yet to hear of his condition,” Hero said, smiling, and squeezed his arm. “It is easy to see that Papa is a gentleman out of sorts with the world as it were. Since Mama’s death a couple of years ago, my father has, in some people’s opinion, gone quite mad. I’m sorry if he disturbs you. I can keep him from …”
“No, no,” Ayr interrupted. “I meant nothing beyond curiosity. I confess I find him a somewhat amusing fellow.”
“It has been a good day for him, my lord,” Hero told him. “It will not always be so. Papa wavers between his old self, forgetfulness, and distraction.”
“It must make him quite unpredictable.”
Hero nodded. “It does. My brother, Arthur, has taken over the business of running the dukedom.”
“And left you to watching after your father?” he asked.
“It is not a difficult burden, my lord,” Hero said, shrugging away the implication of Ian’s question. “I have a pair of nurses to assist me and, I have to admit, I quite prefer Papa this way. He was as stern a father as he was a duke before. While there are moments these days that are quite heartbreaking, I find him more engaging most of the time.”
“Heartbreaking?” Ayr queried. “In what way?”
“Can you imagine your father looking at you and having no idea who you are?”
The marquis’s steady stride paused for a moment before he drew her into the Eating Room. “I cannot. It must be quite painful to experience. Surely there are other moments to compensate?”
Hero could hear the sincere sympathy in his voice when he spoke and felt it touch her heart. She considered his query, thinking of the moments of childlike enthusiasm her father displayed for life these days, the interest he paid her and affection he felt toward her that he’d never had time for in years past. In many ways, she was closer to him now than she’d ever been. “There are indeed, my lord.”
“Enough of that, now.”
Hero looked up to find his brow furrowed. “My lord?”
“Aye, that. I am Ian, my lady, if you would,” he insisted. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten used to being ‘my lord’-ed as yet.”
“You will, my lord.�
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“But not yet.”
Hero met his dark gaze. Nothing would please her more than to say aloud the name that had been pounding in her mind since she had discovered it. “Very well, Ian.”
Ian watched Hero as she left his arm and greeted his butler, Boyle, warmly hugging the old man and pecking him on the cheek. It was a display entirely improper for a marchioness, yet that impropriety charmed Ian thoroughly.
“Welcome home, my lady. I am so pleased to see you much recovered since your arrival,” the starchy old butler offered in an affectionate voice that Ian had not been privy to since taking over the marquisate. “The others and I were quite worried for you.”
“Thank you, Boyle,” she answered graciously. “Please let everyone know how much I appreciate their concern. I’m sure I will get around to seeing them all on the morrow, if they are all still here. I am so glad to see that Lord Ayr kept you on when he arrived. I had wondered.”
“My lord made nary a change, my lady, since his arrival,” the butler returned as he stepped forward and pulled out a chair for her at the foot of the long dining table. “Everyone will be glad to greet you on the morn.”
“Please move Lady Ayr’s setting to join me at the head of the table, Boyle,” Ian suddenly commanded, startling the pair as well as himself. At Hero’s inquiring look, he offered only a shrug. “It makes no sense to sit so far away if there are only the two of us here.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she smiled in return and journeyed up the long table to wait beside the chair that would be to his right. Boyle hastened to please her, pulling out her chair and seating her before doing the same for the new marquis.
Once they were seated, a pair of footmen poured their wine and Ian lifted his in toast. “Welcome home, Lady Ayr.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Hero tilted her glass and took a sip, her bright eyes questioning his over the rim. “No changes?”
“Who am I to change anything?” Ian responded lightly. In truth, he hadn’t even considered dismissing the existing staff or engaging new ones an option. He still had much to learn about being the marquis.
Hero’s eyes danced in amusement then, and Ian wondered if she might be able to read his thoughts.
Chapter Six
At the back of Hero’s mind, Mikah was thinking that this was simply the craziest dream she’d ever had in her life and she mustn’t break character by bursting out in laughter over the absurdity of it all. She’d never dreamed like this before, being another person with thoughts of her own, and her dreams had never before featured a scenario filled with characters so real, with memories and emotions attached to each one. She thought of Mandy, Boyle, and her chambermaid, Nancy. Each was as familiar to her as if she had known them for years. And she had a hundred, a thousand, memories of the Duke of Beaumont as well, each as vivid as her memories of her own dad.
The conflicting memories had renewed her aching head over the course of the afternoon as she had tried once again to sort it out. The fogginess had returned until Mikah reminded herself that if she simply relaxed and let Hero drive—so to speak—everything became much simpler. The remainder of the day had been much easier. Hero was a pretty conservative girl, Mikah thought, recalling how she had spent the afternoon following their arrival at the castle. The hours would have been labeled “tame” by anyone’s standards, past or present. Hero had read awhile, napped, taken tea, done some needlepoint—Mikah thought she might have mentally dozed off for a while there—then Mandy and Nancy had returned and prepared a bath for her in the attached dressing room before helping her to dress for the evening.
All Mikah knew was that she’d had more exciting moments sitting through Professor Hickman’s History 101 class in college. Those quiet moments, however, had given her time to sort through all the new recollections that were gathering in her brain, examining the new memories. If this truly was but a dream, it was certainly a vivid one, and already it was longer than any other she could recall.
It had become even more vibrant since she’d met Ian’s appreciative gaze while descending the stairs that evening. Just the sight of him standing tall and proud, his bearing straight from years in the military had sent her heart racing. The intensity she saw in his eyes held her focus, sharpened everything around her, making it all the more real. Mikah almost felt as if she might live Hero’s life with her with happy acceptance if Ian were part of her future. A pleasurable thought … if a tad voyeuristic.
Such a bizarre dream!
A more sobering thought struck her then and Mikah was surprised that she hadn’t considered it before. What if it weren’t a dream at all? Perhaps, when that car in front of the museum had smacked her, she had been seriously injured. Even now, she could be in the hospital, unconscious, or even in a coma! Perhaps that was why all of this was so different from what she had previously experienced and why it was lasting so long.
She was comatose.
She had heard that people in comas would sometimes awaken describing different experiences during their unconscious periods.
Other notions popped into her head then, one after another. Perhaps she was dead and this was some sort of life-transference thing. Or perhaps this was a step on the road to Nirvana and some Dharman traffic controller had mistakenly put her into a life already in progress. Or a past life perhaps. Mikah wasn’t much for the paranormal, but she knew that many people and religions believed in such things, including Hinduism. Given the similarity in their appearances, perhaps Mikah was a reincarnation of Hero and had slipped back into this life when she was injured. It was plausible, if illogical.
All she knew now was that she knew nothing for certain.
Mikah was Hero now, with her and in her. What had happened or was happening to Mikah’s own body was a mystery.
“You look very serious all of a sudden,” Ian said, his whiskey-smooth brogue breaking through her woolgathering, and Mikah shook her head, forcing the ghostly thoughts away.
“Not at all,” Hero denied smoothly. “I suppose I’ve not quite recovered from the accident. It may take a few more days before I’m back to normal.”
“You seem to have survived well enough,” he assured her. “Nary a scratch to be seen. Though I understand head injuries often carry unseen consequences. Should we have another doctor called in for you?”
Thinking of all the things a doctor in the mid-nineteenth century might do to her, Mikah just shook her head. Rather than face another encounter with an outdated doctor, she thought it might best if she took her chances playing a wait-and-see game.
Mikah faded into the background, lured by dread and worry, while Hero chatted with Ian. ‘What ifs’ abounded in Mikah’s mind. What if she was seriously injured? How long would this go on? What if she was dead and she’d been thrown into a past life? What if this was her life now? Should she hang on to her old life or seize the moments before her? Should she fret and worry or relax, letting life take its course? Would it help or change anything?
Probably not.
There was no way for her to know. Mikah felt suddenly ill, and Hero knocked her wine glass over, sending the glass clattering into the silver and recalling Mikah to the present moment.
“I’m so sorry, my lord,” Hero mumbled. “How clumsy of me.”
“Not at all,” Ian answered as a pair of footmen rushed forward to deal with the spill.
Mikah stilled in awareness. Could Hero feel Mikah’s presence now when she hadn’t given any indication of it before? Was she as aware of Mikah as Mikah was of her?
That was an interesting concept. So far Mikah didn’t get the vibe that Hero knew she was there. She didn’t feel worry or fear from Hero, and surely a woman as tame as Hero would totally freak out if she started hearing voices in her head. In a pre-Freudian world like this, such madness would probably get a girl shuttled off to the nearest loony bin before she could blink.
Still, how to test it?
Mikah hadn’t really voiced any thoughts or questions yet
that Hero might not have initiated. A blow to the head from the accident might have disoriented her enough that she might ask the same things that Mikah was thinking. She might have had some moments of memory loss, leading to the same questions Mikah had asked. The injury could have left her as lost in thought and reflection as Mikah was. The afternoon had certainly belonged to Hero.
But she had said her name. Hadn’t she?
Hmmm, Mikah thought as she sipped from the freshly poured glass of wine while she considered her role in this bizarre world. Was she merely a bystander, or was she to be a player? Suddenly, she wanted to test the idea. Wanted to see if she was to have any control. But what to do? If she wanted to get up or move, there would be no way to tell if it were she or Hero who had started it, so the test would have to be done with words. Something, Hero would never say. Like Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
Mikah opened her mouth …
Chapter Seven
“Ahh, here’s our dinner. Thank you!” Ian greeted the arrival of their meal. “Again I must apologize for the informality of the dinner. I find it tedious for both myself and the men to have them wait on me course by course, so I’ve had them just bring it all at once so that I might serve myself.”
“Not at all, I find it very charming,” Hero replied, taking the wind out of Mikah at her lost chance for validation as their meal was laid out on the table before them, dish after dish. The food looked familiar and more elaborate than Mikah considered “simple fare.” It would take some getting used to, she supposed, this clashing and melding of what they both knew and didn’t know, what they liked and didn’t like. She wondered again if Hero were there like a reflection on the other side of a mirror, having these same musings, and was determined to find an opening to test her theory, but for the moment her stomach took over at the sight of the tempting meal.
My Heart's in the Highlands Page 4
