It sounded as if MacLean had just had a revelation, but Bella refused to be distracted.
"Was Ishbel willing, MacLean?"
The chair creaked and MacLean cleared his throat. "I didna touch Ishbel."
"What, no bundling? Isn't that what it's called, when a couple have a trial marriage before it's official?"
"There was no love between Ishbel and I. She was young and timid and looked at me as if I were an animal rather than a lusty man. She said the marriage bed was unseemly. Mind you, that was before she ran off into the arms of Iain Og, my piper's son."
"Ishbel doesn't sound like the sort of woman you should ever have considered marrying. What were you thinking, MacLean?"
She could almost see him draw himself up indignantly. "Our marriage would have helped bring peace to our two clans, and Ishbel would have had the Macleod lands at Mhairi when her father died. Auchry was in favor of it, too. He wanted to see his grandchildren rule over my lands as much as his. Just because a girl dinna like the look o' me, dinna mean I should put her feelings first."
Of course, Bella knew marriage in the eighteenth century had nothing to do with love. It was all about power and money and blood ties. Unless you were a peasant, but even then a girl might choose an ugly man who could give her the best loaf of bread and the best feather mattress over a handsome one who had barely two shillings to rub together. Though not always. Sometimes love did still conquer all, and Ishbel must have truly believed that when she fled with Iain Og… or she must truly have loathed MacLean.
Had he been he cruel to her? Bella thought that perhaps he could be cruel. MacLean the chief, the tyrant, could not afford to worry about trampling on the feelings of others. And yet he had lit the fire for her and made her tea. Still she mustn't allow that to get in the way of the truth.
"How long did you take Ishbel hostage?"
"A year. At first she was content, but then she became restless. She wanted to go home before I made the march to Culloden Moor, but I told her she could no' go. My mother spoke for her, but I would no' listen, I had my mind set on it. I thought Ishbel was resolved to the matter, but when I came back she was gone, and Iain Og with her."
Ishbel must have been desperate. Didn't she realize MacLean would go after her? Or had she hoped his mother would persuade him against it? Bella tried to be sympathetic and fair-minded, but she couldn't help but think MacLean deserved better.
"What of this… this Brian?" MacLean demanded. "Were you and he well matched?"
"I… sometimes," she answered. "At first. I met him through my father. My father was an American diplomat, a man who traveled the world. My mother was born in England, but I've lived in Europe and America, we seemed to be always moving. I never really felt as if I belonged anywhere."
Until I came here to Loch Fasail, she thought.
"My mother divorced my father when I was quite young—they never got along. She is very fashionable, very stylish. She married again, and I never see her. I was a disappointment to her. She wanted a daughter in her own image, and I wasn't. I lived with my father, when I wasn't at boarding school. He treated me like an invalid, because I preferred to bury my head in a book, and later on to write books, rather than socialize with him. He didn't understand me at all. He married a couple more times, but there were no more children. When he died five years ago he left me plenty of money—enough to pay the bills while I kept writing—and a broad hint that I couldn't do much better than spend my life with Brian. Brian is the son of one of his friends, and my father likes to tie up any loose ends, and to him I was always a loose end."
"Are you wed to this Brian?"
He had answered her questions, so it seemed only fair that she should now answer his. "No, I've never been married. Brian is gone now and I don't expect him to come back. He says he's bored with me."
MacLean snorted. The chair was pushed back and his big hand was on her face, cupping her cheek. "The man's a fool," he muttered, and then… dear God, his mouth was on hers.
Warm and strong.
There was nothing subtle in it, he kissed like he did everything else, with confidence and enthusiasm. Bella closed her eyes, finding that staring at nothing was disconcerting. His fingers slid up into her hair, holding her still so that he could plunder her mouth as he willed.
No wonder a timid girl like Ishbel had feared him. He was fire and flame, and by the time he drew away from her, Bella's heart was pounding and she was struggling to breathe. But she wasn't frightened. MacLean, the bold, strong warrior, was someone she responded to as she never had to Brian. The Bella who never felt comfortable with herself around Brian changed and grew and gained confidence when MacLean touched her. It was a marvelous feeling.
But this wasn't the moment to tell MacLean.
"I thought we said you wouldn't touch me unless I asked!"
"Dinna you like it?" he demanded, surprised.
"That's not the point."
"Aye, it is the point."
"MacLean—"
"Aye, all right, then! You're nagging me, woman, and I'm weary of it. To bed with you, you've circles under your eyes."
She considered refusing, but then decided it was a waste of breath arguing when she was tired anyway. With a shrug of her shoulders Bella wished him goodnight. She was halfway up the stairs when he spoke again.
"Your name," he said suddenly. "Bella. Is it a pet name?"
Puzzled, Bella looked over her shoulder. And blinked. He was standing in the doorway below her, the light behind him, and she could see him. A dark shadow with blurred edges. He had one hand against the door-jamb, his head lowered because he was too tall to stand beneath the lintel. Her heart quickened.
"What is it?" he asked sharply. He was reaching for something and when he straightened again he had a weapon in his hand.
"What are you going to do with that?" she demanded, pointing.
MacLean looked down at the broadsword and then up again as quickly. "You can see me!" he bellowed.
"Just against the light. Yes, I can see you, MacLean. Put the sword down."
He lifted it up, admiring the weight of it, swinging it in a brief controlled arc in the narrow space in front of the stairs. " 'Tis a fine weapon."
"I don't think you'll be needing it, MacLean."
He gave a scornful laugh, as if she didn't know what she was talking about. "When you were walking by the loch the other day this sword saved your life, woman."
Saved her life? For a moment an image of the hag and its scaly companion flashed into her mind.
"There was a man riding a horse, or the ghost o' one, I'm no' sure. He rode at you, but I struck him down with my claidheamh mor before he could harm you."
She knew she was staring at him, she couldn't help it. "You saw him?"
"Aye, I cut him down, but then he was gone. Has such a thing happened to you before?"
"Never. Not until you came. I thought I must have imagined it, but he was so real. And then…" The pale brown pony, watching from the hilltop.
"Mabbe the door isn't closed as it should be," MacLean murmured. "The between-worlds is a dangerous place, Bella."
"Is that where that man came from, the between-worlds?"
" 'Tis something I must find out. Dinna fear, though, woman, from now on I will stay verra close."
She smiled.
The dark shape of him seemed suddenly alert. There was a tension in the air that had nothing to do with talk of ghosts and everything to do with physical attraction.
"You asked about my name," Bella said, a little breathlessly. "It is a—a pet name. My real name is Arabella. Arabella Ryan."
"Arabella." She heard the smile in his voice as he said it, rolling the r, turning it into a thing of beauty. "Do you want me to tuck you in, Arabella Ryan?"
She bit her lip, composing her expression. "No, thank you, MacLean."
He laughed, and for a moment she was certain she could see his face through the dark mist, wild and handsome and dangerously appealin
g.
Bella did the only sensible thing under the circumstances.
She fled upstairs.
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
MacLean stared at the glow in the Aga. It had been a mistake kissing Bella Ryan. Even a ghost-man such as himself could feel desire. Lust. It throbbed in his blood, in his sinews and muscles, until his whole body burned. Two hundred and fifty years without a woman was a long time for a man like MacLean, but there was more to it than that. Bella was the sort of woman he had always dreamed of in his secret heart, that soft part of him he kept locked away from his father's sharp eyes. He had kept those emotions hidden for so long he had forgotten they existed, until he was compelled to be kind to Ishbel. And look where that had gotten him.
And now here was Bella, who wasn't afraid of him, who burned beneath his hands and mouth like a bright flame. What he had said to her tonight was true—he wanted her, but he was beginning to think he did not deserve her.
He remembered the terrible gaze of the Fiosaiche with a shudder. The images in her eyes. And the unsettling possibility that Ishbel was loose in the present with vengeance on her mind. Such things had nothing to do with sweet Bella, and although she had been generous enough to help him in his quest so far, it would be wrong of him to put her in the path of danger. Bella belonged to this world and MacLean wasn't at all certain where he belonged.
There was a strange ache in his belly and he rubbed at it as he stood in the shadows. It felt oddly familiar, but he couldn't work out what it was. He grimaced as his stomach made a loud rumble and the ache intensified. He found himself thinking of roasting beef over a crackling fire, of salmon, and fresh baked bannocks, and whiskey that warmed him from the inside out.
And that's when he realized he was hungry.
Upstairs, Bella was curled under her quilt and blankets, only the top of her dark head showing. MacLean felt other parts of him ache, remembering the swell of her breast beneath the tight nightshirt, and the warmth of her woman's body as she arched against his hand. He wanted to crawl into her bed and wrap his arms about her and show her what she had been missing with her ruddy-faced Brian. She had kissed him tonight as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her, but he knew he mustn't force her. Aye, she had a heat and passion to match his, but she had told him she did not want him to touch her and he had agreed to abide by that, and MacLean was a man who did not break his word lightly.
MacLean gave the bed a shake, to try and wake her, but she didn't move. Glancing around, he could see the pile of books on the bedside table. Was she researching the past so energetically for the sake of her book? Or was it possible she cared about him?
His stomach grumbled.
Impatiently, MacLean shook the bed again. Bella moaned, ducking her head even farther under the covers. "Go away," she said, her voice muffled. "I don't want your magic bridle."
"Bella?"
"MacLean? What's wrong?"
"Bella, I'm hungry."
There was a pause, and then she lifted her head and squinted in his general direction. Her hair was messy and her face was crumpled with sleep. MacLean thought she was gorgeous, and he was enjoying the sight of her when his stomach gave an extra-large rumble.
Bella laughed. "You are hungry. Is this another good sign?"
"Mabbe I am becoming a whole man again."
"Maybe you are."
"Will you cook me something to eat?"
Bella pushed her hair out of her eyes. MacLean was asking her to cook for him? She had the feeling that he would consider cooking to be a woman's work. She hoped he wasn't expecting her to take over the role of his personal servant—that would never do—but neither could she let him starve.
"I'll cook for you this time, and I'll teach you to cook, MacLean, so that you can look after yourself. In this world men need to learn to cook and clean and wash, unless they can pay someone else to do it. And you are currently unemployed. All right?"
He was silent as if mulling over what she had said. "Aye, all right," he sighed. "It seems verra strange, but if that is how men behave now, then I will learn to cook, Bella."
She threw the covers back and swung her legs out of the bed. The floor was cold and she flinched, quickly huddling into her robe and slippers. MacLean thumped after her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where it was much warmer. Bella set about preparing scrambled eggs on toast, and then MacLean set about eating them.
Watching the food vanish from the plate into nothing was very disconcerting, so she tried not to watch.
"I'll need more," he said, a few minutes after she gave him a second helping.
Bella turned to stare over her shoulder. "More?"
"Aye, I'm as hungry as a stag in the winter, Bella."
He sounded so mournful that she set about frying some sausages and bacon, with tomato and mushrooms, and toast. He ate that, too, so she heated up some soup and rolls. He finished that off with a slice of carrot cake with lemon icing, and the bottle of Australian wine.
"At the rate you're eating, MacLean," she said, peering into the cupboard, "there'll be nothing left in a couple of days. Not that I mind. It must mean you're returning to normal. Maybe you're making up for two hundred and fifty years of hunger."
MacLean gave a sigh of repletion. "It does feel good."
"I'm glad." She smiled. It was a good sign, this hunger of MacLean’s. Did this mean that very soon he would be completely visible again? She imagined having the MacLean in the portrait on the wall striding about the cottage. He was so domineering and handsome—altogether rather overwhelming. Before he arrived she had already been attracted to the image of him, so when he was whole again would she lose it completely, or would she be able to hang on to her self-control?
There was a thought. MacLean as her lover. Waking up in the morning with MacLean, and going to bed at night with his arms about her. The images made her feel hot all over.
"Well"—she took a breath, and tried to distract herself by glancing about at the mess—"I think I'll leave this and go back to bed… eh, sleep."
"Goodnight, Bella."
She hesitated in the doorway. "I was reading one of the books I found in the library today. It's a history of the Macleods of Mhairi, cobbled together by someone who's related to them. It isn't very well written, but it made me realize something I should have known. The origin of the Black MacLean legend must have been Auchry Macleod. There's no other explanation."
"Ishbel's father?"
"Yes. When the authorities eventually got around to investigating the massacre, it was him they spoke to. He seems to be the starting point in all of this. Didn't he like you very much, MacLean?"
"He was a sly weasel of a man," he said coldly. "It doesna surprise me he would do something underhanded to hurt me when I was dead and couldn't accuse him of the lie. That would be Auchry's way."
"He must have been very fond of his daughter if he'd forgive her for abandoning her useful marriage to you and running off with Iain. I would have thought most fathers in your day would have given the girl a sound beating and dragged her back to her future husband."
"Auchry was always weak when it came to Ishbel. Once she got home she would turn her sweet smile on him and he'd do anything she asked."
"So do you think he… killed you?" Cut your body into pieces and threw it to the four winds. She shuddered at such barbarity.
"No, not Auchry."
Bella waited. It sounded as if he had more to tell her, but when he remained silent, she said lightly, "Then it doesn't surprise me that Ishbel's father would use your death to blacken your memory. If he could turn you into such a villain that she had no option but to leave, then there's no stain on her character, or his."
MacLean pondered a moment. "Aye, you're right. Blackening my name would suit him. But I dinna understand how he overcame me and my men. He was a thief, a man to sneak up in the dark and rob his neighbors, no' a soldier."
"He wouldn't have gone to Loch Fasail afterwards, then?"<
br />
"Even Auchry would hesitate when it came to the murder of innocent women and children, even if they were MacLean women and children. No, there is more to it, Bella."
"Then I'll have to dig further." Again she hesitated. She had a feeling that MacLean was remembering something, but he was keeping it to himself. Bella wished he would tell her, but she could hardly force it out of him; she didn't think MacLean was a man who could be forced to do anything against his will. He would open up to her when he was good and ready.
"Goodnight, MacLean."
"Goodnight, Arabella."
Bella closed the door. She was tired and longing for her bed, but still she took a moment to stand in the cold hallway and think of MacLean. To try and make sense of what was happening to her. And to wonder why, in the midst of all this craziness, she was so happy.
"Take care, Bella." She whispered the warning. "Remember, he could vanish again as quickly as he appeared."
It was better to shield herself from being hurt, she had learned that much from Brian. She would be a fool to trust MacLean implicitly. The unfortunate thing was, she wanted to. Despite all her precautions he had slipped beneath her guard, and was dangerously close to making a captive of her heart.
When Bella woke it was to the smell of cooking. Surprised, she made her way downstairs, realizing she had slept far longer than usual. The flush of dawn had come and gone, and now there was a soft misty rain falling over the loch. When she opened the door into the kitchen she was immediately enveloped by a haze of smoke and steam and the smell of meat sizzling.
MacLean was busy playing chef.
"There you are!" he said when she came through the door. "I couldna wait any longer, woman. My belly was pressing against my backbone."
Bella cast an eye over the scene and decided he didn't need any immediate help. She sat down at the table, trying not to notice how pans and pots were moved by his invisible hands.
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