by Marie Laval
‘You’re not on your own, Bruce, I’m here. I’ll help.’
‘You? And what exactly can you do? Remember that big brute of a guard last night. Do you think you could take him down, knock him out? Or maybe you are planning to dance for him too?’
The colour on her cheeks deepened, she bit her lip.
‘I could create a diversion, make a fire in the woods or …’
‘You’re talking nonsense.’
Her blue eyes filled with tears at his sharp rebuke.
Cursing himself, he took a long, deep, steadying breath. ‘All right … if you really want me to, I will help the Ouled Nails, but I will do it my way and when my business with McRae is concluded.’
Anger now coloured her cheeks, ignited sparks in her eyes.
‘Nothing matters more than your business, does it? All you care about, all you’ve ever cared about, is Wrath and, of course, scoring points against the McRaes.’ She shook free of his grasp and stepped back. ‘And what exactly is your way? Is it kidnapping poor Doctor Kilroy after getting him drunk instead of appointing a physician the normal way? Keeping me and the Sea Eagle hostage like your ancestor used to do, back in the dark ages, instead of trying to reach an agreement with Cameron and the bankers? Or working yourself to a premature death because you insist on overseeing everything on your estate and refuse any offer of help? Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, you know – quite the opposite, in fact.’
How the hell had the conversation slipped from the exotic dancers to an examination of his life and character flaws?
She paused to catch her breath, but he was too stunned by her outburst to speak.
‘You know what your problem is? You believe that you are responsible for everything. It isn’t your fault your father was a villain, or that your mother died when you were a baby. It’s not your fault your grandfather was a harsh, bitter old man who riddled the estate with debts. And it wasn’t your fault your men died at Ferozeshah either.’
‘Rose …’ he warned between clenched teeth.
Ignoring him, she gestured to his chest.
‘You think everything is down to you. Perhaps the tattoo artist was right after all. You are too proud. Too proud to accept help … and love.’
They stood facing each other in silence. Her words struck home. Never had anyone spoken to him in this way, but then again never had anyone sought to understand him – or claimed they loved him. He just couldn’t deal with it right now.
‘I’ll think about a way of helping the dancers out of Westmore,’ he said at last in a hard, cold voice. ‘In the meantime, do not move from this room. I have enough to do today without worrying about you running off somewhere and putting yourself in danger. Am I making myself clear?’
She nodded and let out a bitter ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Very well. I will see you later.’ He walked to the door, and was about to open it when her voice stopped him.
‘Bruce, please wait.’
He turned, narrowed his eyes. ‘What is it now?’
Her lips quivered and stretched into a tentative smile. ‘I don’t want us to argue and part in this way.’
She started to run, but her feet caught in the sheet and she stumbled forward, straight into his arms. He held her tight, cradled her against him. Her heart beat fast. And his own all but melted into a squishy mess.
‘Sweetheart, tripping into my arms is fast becoming a habit of yours,’ he said, burying his face in her hair. His anger, his hurt, his wounded pride, everything vanished.
‘I’m sorry, so sorry. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that … about …’ Her voice wavered. She sighed and lifted a hand to his heart.
The contact gave him a jolt and he bent down to kiss her.
‘I’m the one who should apologise,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘I am a grumpy fool and I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you called me McGorilla or any other monkey name of your choosing. You are right, my love – about everything.’
He raked his fingers into her hair, stroked the length of it along her spine, trailed kisses along her throat, her jawline, her mouth. She held onto his shoulders, moulded her body against his. The sheet slid down to the floor and she stood naked in his arms.
He looked down and they locked eyes. The silence between them stretched, swelled and filled with the sounds of their breathing, of fast, thudding heartbeats and unspoken words.
‘I really should go,’ he said at last, his voice hoarse.
‘If you say so,’ she replied. Her finger traced a path down his chest, slid into his jacket and circled over his heart on the fine linen fabric of his shirt.
His body tensed, tightened. With a deep, almost desperate growl, he cupped her hips, and lifted her off the ground.
Was it possible that he wanted her again?
The feel of her naked body moving against him drove him wild. Time stopped. There was no more Westmore, no more McRae. No more Wrath even. There was just him and the woman he loved.
He carried her to the bed and let her down gently on the counterpane. Her eyes dark, her breathing short, she helped him shrug his jacket and waistcoat off. Somehow he managed to unfasten his shirt, pull it off and cast it aside. He wanted to feel her skin against his, her breasts against his bare chest.
Then, one knee resting on the bed between her thighs, he leaned over her and kissed her mouth. He kissed her as if it was the first and the last time, his heart drumming so hard it felt it was bursting.
She arched upward and murmured his name. He lifted her arms over her head, pinned them down on the bed, left them there. Still leaning over her, his hands slid down the length of her body, from the tip of her fingers, along her arms, to the sides of her breasts and waist, and lower, between her thighs. And back up again. She shivered and moved against his touch. Her lips parted onto breathless sighs and delicious moans.
Taking care of the rest of his clothing only took a minute. When he was ready he stood over her in a moment of intense, silent male domination. He took in the perfection of her female curves, the way her hair glimmered like a halo of sunshine, the deep blue of her eyes.
And when he couldn’t wait any longer, he bent down, covered her body with his and claimed her.
The day dragged on with excruciating slowness.
After nibbling on a slice of bread and sipping a mug of strong tea, Rose asked for a bath, hoping that soaking in hot water would give her something to do and help soothe her nerves.
It didn’t, not in the slightest. As she dipped a cloth in the water and rubbed it hard over her skin, her thoughts kept returning to Bruce. Could it only be a few hours since he last kissed her and held her in his arms? Only thinking of the way their bodies slid against each other, their hearts beat in unison, and the hot shivery sensations his hands and mouth awakened inside her was enough to make her tremble with longing.
She gripped the cloth and wrung it hard. Was it possible to love a man with such intensity – to love him so much it hurt? And yet she was under no illusion. Bruce may enjoy making love to her but he didn’t love her. He found her stupid, too stupid to confide in her what was troubling him.
She let out a shuddering sigh. No, he didn’t love her. He would probably insist on sending her back to Algiers as soon as they returned to Wrath, if not sooner, and she would never see him again …
She blinked the tears back. She would not think about that now. There was still the day to come. And the night.
She ducked under the water to wet her hair, then grabbed hold of the soap to give it a good wash. After her bath she dressed in her blue gown, brushed her hair in front of the fire, and experimented with new ways of plaiting and styling it into a complicated chignon – anything to pass the time. She glanced at the mantel clock and let out a dismayed sigh. It was only mid-morning. What else could she do to keep busy?
The dancing costume she had worn the night before caught her eye. She picked it up, her face burning again as she recalled how Bruce had t
orn it open and sent the buttons flying all over the room. There was something she could do, something mind-numbing that would keep her occupied. She managed to hunt most of the buttons down, then she rang the service bell to ask for a needle and some thread, and spent a tedious couple of hours fixing the dress.
Midday came and went. A servant girl brought her some soup and bread but she wasn’t hungry. The day turned greyer and darker, with flurries of snowflakes blowing in the cold wind. The clock rang one, then two. And still Bruce did not return.
Rose put the costume aside, rubbed her weary eyes and laid down on the bed. If only she could rest a while, perhaps Bruce would be back by the time she woke up. She curled into a ball, but too many anxious thoughts swirled inside her mind and it felt like a long time before she drifted off to sleep.
She wasn’t in her room at the Kirkhouse Inn any longer but on the cliff top near Wrath. Ribbons of mist coiled and floated around her, leaving beads of freezing, salty dew on her skin and hair. Something wasn’t right. Wrath Lodge stood dark and forbidding in the distance. No light glowed at the windows, no smoke rose from the tall chimneys. It was empty, abandoned, filled with shadows and death.
The sound of a galloping horse resounded in the distance. As it got closer she felt the ground beat like a heart under her feet, and she recognised it. Tall, black, magnificent and wild. It was Shadow and it was heading straight for the cliff edge. Help him, dancing girl, or he’ll die. The voice she’d heard before spoke her warning once more, and terror squeezed Rose’s heart into a tight ball. She called Bruce’s name but he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down. He merely glanced at her before urging Shadow into the void and being swallowed up by stormy, dark waves.
Rose woke with a start and sat up, her hand pressed against her pounding heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She glanced around the room, filled with the grey shadows of dusk. It was a nightmare. She hadn’t really touched the cold layers of mist on the cliff, heard the crunch of frozen snow under Shadow’s hooves or seen the quiet resignation in Bruce’s eyes before he jumped to his death.
And yet it felt so real …
An impulse pushed her to get up and search her bag for the gold chain to which she had clasped Bruce’s medallion. She almost cried with relief when she slipped it around her neck, tucked it under her dress and felt its cool weight against her overheated skin. As long as she wore it, nothing bad would happen to Bruce.
The thunder of horses’ hooves on the cobbles and men’s voices shouting at one another resounded outside. She rushed to the window to see a handful of riders dismount in the courtyard. One of them, a stoutly built man in a dark grey coat turned towards his companions and barked an order. Even though it was getting dark and she had only seen him once before, she had no problem recognising his brutish features.
It was Morven.
The man next to him attracted her attention. Dressed in a long brown coat, he had dark hair and a mean scowl on his face. She’d seen him before, but where? It could have been at the Nag’s Head at the ceilidh, or in Porthaven during the riots.
Then she remembered. She had seen him at Wrath Lodge. His name was – she frowned…– Mc-Something or other. McNeil, yes, that was it, and he worked for Bruce. But what was he doing here with Morven and his gang? Hiding behind the curtains she tried to catch what the men were saying, but their accent was too thick and they spoke too fast, and she didn’t understand a word.
As they walked towards the stables, McNeil said something which made Morven laugh out loud. He gave him a slap in the back, the way men do when they are friendly with one another.
She couldn’t imagine why Bruce would tolerate one of his men being a friend of Cameron’s factor, nor could she understand why a friend of Morven’s would work at Wrath Lodge. It didn’t make sense, not with the way things stood between the McGunns and McRaes. Unless …
Her eyes grew wider, her hand flew to her mouth. The only plausible explanation was that McNeil was Morven’s spy at Wrath.
She had to know, and that meant sneaking downstairs to try and listen to the men’s conversation. She tiptoed down the stairs, lifted a brown cloak hanging from a peg in the corridor and slipped it on, making sure her hair was covered and her face partially hidden by the hood. Thankfully, the staff were too busy ferrying tankards of ale from the taproom and plates of steaming mutton stew from the kitchen to Morven’s men who had taken over the dining room to pay her any attention.
It was almost dark outside and a bitter wind blew a mix of icy rain and snow. Her boots squelched horse muck and mud as she walked across the yard. Once outside the entrance to the stable block, she pressed herself against the wall and listened.
‘Where the hell can she be?’ Morven shouted.
‘I lost her trace in Porthaven,’ McNeil answered. ‘I had her in my sights when she left the Nag’s Head. Then she was separated from McGunn’s man, and by the time I managed to get out of the mob on the square, she had vanished.’
‘She’s only a woman, for Pete’s sake, and from North Africa! How can she survive on her own around here? We need to get hold of that damned journal. Lady Patricia’s health is declining with every passing day.’
‘I sent more men out scouting the area around Porthaven. Hopefully they’ll find her soon.’
‘Pity I didn’t ask those two idiots to get her bag when they had the chance at Sith Coille.’
‘You weren’t to know that McGunn would get to her before you did,’ McNeil objected. ‘The man never ceases to amaze me. I lace his food, his tea and whisky with enough datura to kill an ox, and he’s still standing. He should be dead by now.’
Rose drew in a sharp breath. Bruce was being poisoned! The nightmares, the migraines and the terrifying chest pains were all down to the datura McNeil mixed in his drinks.
‘Much as I’ve enjoyed seeing McGunn suffer agonising pains and terror of tipping over the edge into madness, a shot in the back while he was out riding on the moors would have been quicker.’
There was the sound of a man spitting on the floor.
‘There’s a reason why we want his death to look natural – like his mother’s,’ Morven started. ‘You see …’
‘Can I help you, miss?’ A man’s voice behind her made her jump.
She turned to face a stable lad.
‘No, thank you. I’m just … taking a walk.’
Gathering the folds of the cloak in her hands, she hurried across the yard. She had to be fast and get into the inn before Morven or McNeil saw her.
‘Hey you! Stop right now!’ McNeil called.
Her heart beating in her throat, she started running, slipped on horse muck and barely managed to keep her balance. She was almost at the inn’s front door when a man’s hand slammed against her shoulder and spun her around.
‘Well I’ll be damned!’ McNeil flicked her hood off and pulled her against him.
His lips stretched into a smile, his bushy black eyebrows lifted into perfect V-shapes, which made him look sardonic, almost devilish.
‘Miss Saintclair. Now that’s an unexpected turn of events.’
She tried to yank free of his grasp.
‘Take you dirty paw off me or I scream.’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Go on then, and see if anyone cares.’
With a panicked whimper, she realised he was right. Even if they were prepared to help her, there wasn’t much the innkeeper and a bunch of stable boys and servants could do against Morven’s thugs.
‘So this is where you’ve been hiding,’ he added. ‘Lucky for us we stopped here for a bite to eat. And even luckier for us you were snooping around. What did you hear?’
‘Everything! I know what you’ve done to Bru … I mean Lord McGunn. I know you’re poisoning him. You were probably Morven’s spy all along. You’re nothing but a coward and a traitor.
She stared into his dark brown eyes, and saw only hatred.
‘I did what I had to do. He took my woman away from me, turn
ed her head and seduced her than threw her out of Wrath Lodge as if she was a dirty rag. Anyway, why should you care so much about him? He didn’t exactly treat you well, did he? He only wanted to trade you as a pawn.’
His eyebrows gathered in a frown and he let out a sneer.
‘Oh I understand. You’ve fallen for the laird of Wrath Lodge, and now you’re hoping for some fairy-tale happy ending to your romance. Well that’s too bad, miss, because it ain’t going to end well for him. Or for you.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
McNeil hooked his lantern on a peg and pushed her against the wall.
‘Stay here.’
Rose glanced back at the narrow, slippery stone staircase they’d just climbed down, then at the solid door in front of her. She’d never been inside a prison before but this place definitely felt like one with its cavernous stone walls and the massive door with chunky chains and thick metal bars.
‘Where are we? Why did you bring me here?’
‘Be quiet.’
While McNeil unlocked the door she glanced at the staircase again. Perhaps she could slip past him, run up the stairs, and …
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘My men are up there. You wouldn’t stand a chance.’
He unfastened the chains and slid the metal bars off. The door squeaked open onto a dark room.
‘In you go.’
He grabbed hold of her arm and pushed her in front of him, so hard she flew forward and stumbled to her knees. Her fingernails scraped the rough surface of a cold, wet stone floor as she pushed herself back to her feet. The frigid dampness of the room immediately seeped through her clothing. And the smell! A foul mixture of seaweed, brine and mould, it seemed to cling to her hair and skin. She wrinkled her nose and almost choked in disgust.
She turned round and stared at McNeil’s bulky figure outlined in the doorway.
‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘You’ll find out in good time, miss.’
