Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  None of those were reasons he could articulate.

  “Do you believe it’s real?” she asked.

  He shrugged. He believed that George thought it was real, enough to abandon his marriage and his new bride. But how did he tell her that?

  “It makes sense that it would be,” he said. “When my ancestors abandoned the old castle, the MacKinnon family was a great deal more prosperous than now. Perhaps there was a treasure chest that they thought should be relocated as well.”

  “And in the move, it was lost?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Either that, or it was saved so securely that it couldn’t be found again.” He glanced at her to find her smiling at him. “Did Nan ever repeat the poem to you?”

  She shook her head. “Nan limited the times she absolutely had to communicate with me to the barest of necessities. If Balfurin was on fire, I think she would have only grudgingly informed me.”

  From his pocket he pulled out the sheet of paper on which he’d written the poem and recited it to her.

  “So, you’ve been looking for these clues?” she said when he’d finished.

  “I’ve spent the last week investigating the caves along the river. My cousin and I played there as boys.”

  “But you didn’t see anything like the three marks.” She recited the stanza perfectly.

  “Three times he’ll score his mark

  Three times a mark of grace

  A father, son, and holy ghost

  To show the sacred place.”

  “It would have to be marked in a way that would make it obvious to someone looking for it.”

  “But ignored by anyone else,” she added.

  He nodded, unsurprised by her quick understanding.

  “Perhaps it isn’t a mark at all,” she said, walking beside him.

  He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps it’s something natural that your ancestors just took advantage of, like three stones together, or three hills. That sort of thing.”

  “I hadn’t considered that. This area is riddled with caves, however, and it just seemed more reasonable to investigate them.”

  “We’ve passed two or three of them already,” she said, surprising him.

  “I didn’t realize you knew the topography so well.”

  “When I first came to Balfurin, there was little occupation but daily walks. I found myself exploring every inch of these hills.”

  “Did you find anything of interest?”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing but loneliness.”

  “You miss your students, don’t you?”

  She looked surprised at the question. “My students? Normally, by this time of year, I am so heartily tired of the noise and confusion that I don’t miss them at all. But when the spring comes, I’ll be eager for a new year to start.”

  “If you weren’t occupied with the school, what would you do?”

  He found he very much wanted to know. In fact, he wanted to know everything there was to know about her. What she thought, what she felt, what stirred her to tears, or admiration. What made her laugh? Did she sing when she was happy? Could she even carry a tune? What made her sad?

  “If I could do anything in the world?” She considered the question for a moment. “I’d be loved,” she said simply. “I have never had enough of that.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her directness, to the anguish of her honesty. For a few moments an awkward silence stretched between them. Finally, he spoke again. “Love is not like betel nuts, Charlotte. It’s not a commodity.”

  She smiled. “I know my parents loved me, at least I hope they did. My father never said the words to me, not once. And neither did my mother. But they were good to me and to my sisters. Still, I would’ve hoped for a little greater fondness from them, some more affection.”

  The question wasn’t a wise one, but he asked it nevertheless. “Do you not have enough love in your life now?”

  She looked directly at him. “I thought there was a chance of it,” she said. “Now, I’m not so certain.”

  There was an odd confusion in her eyes, an emotion he couldn’t decipher but that pained him to see. He began to walk, striding down the hill and through the glen, wondering if she’d keep up. She did, and without a word of protest for his pace.

  Charlotte didn’t speak again, but followed him like a disciple. If she were angry, she didn’t mention it, and if she were hurt, she didn’t punish him for it. She remained a ghost at his side, close enough that he was always intently conscious of her presence.

  Against his better judgment, he offered her his free hand. Neither of them wore gloves, and the touch of their palms was surprisingly intimate. She linked her fingers with his, and he wanted to pull back and away. The act of either a coward or a wise man. He did neither, only squeezed her hand lightly and smiled at her. She smiled back, the gesture making her face appear luminous. He wanted to caution her that such a look was dangerous near him. He was so captured by her soul and her mind that it was just one step closer to be enthralled by a smile.

  There was no future for them.

  He really shouldn’t have gotten closer to her. She smelled of roses, or some other garden flower. He wanted to ask if she’d preserved the petals herself or had purchased the scent in London. Did she sprinkle it on her underclothing, or only dab it behind her ears and at her breast? Questions he had no business asking.

  Questions that were better asked by a husband.

  “Will you leave Balfurin once you find the treasure?” she asked.

  He stopped and faced her. “I expected the question earlier,” he said. “I congratulate you on your restraint.”

  “If you knew I was going to ask, have you formulated an answer?”

  “Part of one,” he said. This moment was coming for weeks, from the exact second he’d seen her marching across the ballroom, fire in her eyes. He needed to tell her the truth, but it came hesitantly to his lips. His conscience warred with his honor, but amazingly his honor won.

  “Charlotte,” he began, reaching out and touching the edge of her jaw with his bare hand. She didn’t use her beauty like a number of women did, as a weapon in her arsenal. She was simply who she was, Charlotte MacKinnon, capable, determined, talented, and intelligent. “I’m not the man you think I am,” he said. The words stuck in his throat.

  “I know. I’ve sensed from the first that you’ve changed, George, and I thank God for it.”

  They were on the crest of a small hill with a flat, almost concave, top. She walked a few feet away, her back to him. He hoped she didn’t turn. It would be so much easier to tell her the truth with her back to him.

  “Can we not have a true marriage between us?” She examined the horizon, as if the words were written on the sky above the mountains in the distance. “I’m tired of loneliness. I would have laughter in my life and contentment. I want to waken in the morning knowing I was loved, and spend the day smiling. I think you and I could have that, if we tried.”

  Her words ate at the boundaries of its restraint, tempted him to lie when he should speak the truth. Once again he cursed George, wanting to punish his cousin for every tear she’d shed in the last five years. But the pain Charlotte would feel at his departure would be his burden alone. George had no part of that.

  The time had come for honesty, and it was nearly killing him.

  She turned and faced him. “I’ve waited in my bed this last week, thinking you would come to me. But you haven’t.”

  He glanced at her, wondering why he was surprised at her frontal assault. Being direct was so much a part of Charlotte.

  “I am not very practiced at seduction, but I am more than willing to attempt it.” She began to unbutton her cloak. He was struck dumb as one button after another fell open. She was not wearing her serviceable blue dress. Nor was she attired in any of her more fashionable gowns.

  “You’re naked,” he said, somewhat stupidly.

  “No,” she correct
ed, “I have my cloak on.”

  “Your cloak,” he repeated.

  He was Dixon Robert MacKinnon, of the Balfurin MacKinnons, a long line of Scots stretching back at least six centuries. They had been reivers once upon a time, and barbarians.

  They were men to be reckoned with.

  Then why did he feel like such an innocent at the moment? As if he’d never seen a naked woman? Because he’d certainly never seen one standing on the edge of a moor, in the middle of a Scottish winter, with the remnants of snow dotting the hills, and a brisk wind whistling up his greatcoat. Because he’d never seen one smiling exactly like that at him, and crooking her finger at him.

  “Why?” It seemed a reasonable request, and the only word he could utter at the moment. His hands gripped her shoulders still cloaked in a heavy wool, and he dared not think that only inches away was her unclothed body. He concentrated on the green of her eyes, instead, and the very mischievous smile playing around her lips. Except that beneath his hands, she trembled.

  “Why?” he asked again. She moved her hands to place them on his chest, unbuttoning the buttons of his greatcoat, sliding her palms to rest against his vest. How strange that he could feel the imprint of her fingers against his skin.

  “You wouldn’t come to my bed. And if you will not come to me, then I simply must coax you.”

  “Must you?”

  “I must,” she said, nodding.

  “Why?”

  “I liked our lovemaking,” she said softly. “Didn’t you?”

  “Above all things.”

  “Then why didn’t you want to repeat it?”

  “I did. But it wouldn’t be wise. You don’t know how many nights I wanted to come to you, how many times I stopped myself. Once was dishonor enough, but it would have to last me for the rest of my life.”

  She pressed both hands against his chest as if trying to push him away. “You’re leaving, aren’t you? And you don’t want me burdened with a child. At least this time be honest enough to tell me before you go. Or write me a note. Don’t make me wait like I did before, wondering which one of the maids you took with you.”

  “I would never leave with one of the maids,” he said, smiling down at her.

  She startled him by dropping to her knees before him and reaching for him.

  “Charlotte.”

  “Don’t leave me, George. Because if you leave me and Balfurin one more time, you can never come home again.”

  She never let her gaze drift from his face. Her eyes were intent, her mouth smiling. If he’d truly been George, he would have been the most idiotic man alive to think of abandoning her.

  But he wasn’t George and there was no future for them. And any moment his cousin could come home. What would he find? An adulterous wife and a man who coveted her.

  He would no doubt be damned in the future for his actions of the past. In the afterlife, if there was one, and he was summoned to stand before Satan himself, he would answer for his sins. To Satan’s question: what do you have to say to save your immortal soul, he would have only one answer. I loved. Not wisely, but well.

  She parted his greatcoat, undoing his trousers with a speed that shocked him. Or perhaps she was not as quick as he had imagined and he was just too slow to comprehend. He was being well and truly seduced, and his libido reared up in great delight and marked this day as something he would forever recall.

  She withdrew him from his trousers with fingers that were not adept at the task, but she made up in enthusiasm what she lacked in skill. And damn him, he was more than willing to assist her, but she slapped his hands away and then put her mouth on him. In this task, she was not skilled, either, but he allowed himself to be used for practice.

  One last time. He’d touch her one last time before leaving.

  Wisps of her hair had come loose. He reached down and spread his fingers through it, dislodging the last of her hairpins and scattering them on the ground.

  “Charlotte,” he softly said, and it was both an entreaty and praise.

  She was intent on her task, her hands on either thigh, the nails of each hand digging into his buttocks as if to punish him if he moved. As if he would. He was transfixed, amazed, and utterly delighted.

  He was growing harder with each touch of her tongue along his length. When she mouthed him, pulling her lips completely around him and flicking her tongue back and forth over the tip, he almost exploded there and then.

  “Is your quest to unman me, then, Charlotte?” He fingered her cheek. “I’d much rather spend myself in you.”

  She pulled back and looked up at him, gently cupping his testicles with one hand as she smoothed her other hand down his shaft. All the world like he was a recalcitrant puppy that she soothed with a gentle petting.

  His skin was flushed and he was hot and needy and not in the mood to be toyed or trifled with. She stood, her mouth reddened, her nipples tight. She grabbed his hand and put it between her legs. “Feel how wet I am for you.”

  He was neither a god nor a saint.

  He stripped off his greatcoat and tossed it to one side. He divested himself of his garments, throwing them out of the way. Later, he would worry about grass stains and other telltale signs that he’d indulged in a tryst. For the moment, his most important task was wiping that smile from Charlotte’s face and changing the sharpness of her gaze to something more satisfied.

  Once more. One more time of loving her and then he would leave Balfurin.

  Finally, he was naked and he pinned her to the ground with a kiss. He nuzzled her neck, following an invisible path down to one impudent breast half shielded by the burgundy cloak.

  “What are you saying?” Charlotte murmured between kisses.

  “It’s a prayer,” he confessed. “That I might last long enough to give you satisfaction.”

  Her laughter was warm, inciting his own smile.

  The world abruptly changed, the ground buckling beneath them. He only had time to roll her on top of him and wrap his legs and arms around her before they were falling. When he hit the ground it was with such force that the breath was knocked out of him. For a moment, he thought he’d lost consciousness. An eternity later, he heard Charlotte calling his name.

  “Are you hurt?”

  He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I think my arm is broken,” he said, feeling a spear of pain travel from his forearm to his shoulder. “No, not my arm, my shoulder.” If he was right, his shoulder was dislocated.

  “And you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. You broke my fall.”

  He sat up with her help and looked around them. They were in what appeared to be the ruins of a cave. The hill on which they’d rested only minutes earlier had been the ceiling, now collapsed and lying in chunks on the cave floor.

  “It wasn’t a hill at all, was it?” Charlotte said. “We were walking on top of a cave.”

  He nodded.

  “The weight of all the snow must have weakened it.”

  “And we did the rest,” she said.

  “Thank God it’s a sunny day,” he said, “or we wouldn’t be able to see a thing.”

  Charlotte knelt beside him, brushing off bits of rock and dirt and grass from his shoulders.

  “You realize that your clothes are up there, and you’re down here.”

  “At least one of us is dressed,” he said. “Well, half dressed,” he amended, grateful that she was still wearing her cloak. “Still, we’re not exactly attired for exploring a cave,” he said.

  He stood and extended his good hand to help her. It was not a moment to feel amusement, but he couldn’t restrain his smile.

  The cave was hollowed out of the side of a hill. The portion where they stood was nothing but earth, but farther in, it was rock, and the tool marks on the stone indicated that while the cave might have been created by nature, man had amended it.

  The top of the ceiling was shaped like an inverted bowl, the part where they had fallen at the very top. But the sides, cur
ving down to the ground didn’t look any more stable.

  “There must be a way out,” he said, looking into the darkness. He had no torch with him, nothing to light and no way to light it. His lantern was in the pack and the pack was above them. All he had was the staff that he’d fashioned earlier from a sturdy twig. He picked it up, wondering if he looked as foolish as he felt, exploring like the first man, naked and without even a loincloth.

  What was that biblical quotation? The wages of sin are death? He had no intention of dying in this place. He didn’t believe in a vengeful Almighty. If God was of that temperament, Dixon would not have survived a dozen or so disasters in the last year alone.

  There were two corridors stretching off into the darkness. Even the bright afternoon sun could not illuminate the pockets of shadows. He glanced at Charlotte. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I detest being commanded, George.”

  “Please. I may become lost and the sound of your voice will lure me back.” In actuality, he didn’t want to take a chance with her safety.

  “Very well,” she said, giving him a look that left no doubt in his mind what she thought of his plan.

  As he walked away, he had the distinct notion that she was watching him. An odd feeling but not an uncomfortable one, to know that a woman was watching him walk, no doubt studying every inch of his body.

  He left the light with great reluctance, descending deeper into the cave, following a corridor hewn out of the rock itself. It narrowed and then abruptly ended in a stone wall. There would be no escape here.

  He turned and followed the second corridor, expecting to find the entrance to the cave. Instead, there was only a mound of dirt and boulders and a smell of something vaguely unpleasant.

  “George!”

  “I’ll be there in a moment,” he called.

  “Now, please,” Charlotte said, her voice quavering.

  He turned and retraced his path, returning to where she stood, the dust stirred by the cave-in settling in a nimbus of sunlight around her.

  “What is it?” He came to her side, realizing she was trembling violently.