Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  To distract his thoughts, he turned on a tape of Celtic folk songs and they passed the rest of the trip in silence.

  It was only much later when he finally pulled up in front of the luxurious old hotel where Martin Carlton-Jones and Nigel Surrey were staying that she opened her eyes.

  “We’re here?”

  “Aye.” He did what he had forbidden himself to do earlier. He turned to watch her. Her cheeks were ivory, as if sleep had robbed them of color, but as she stirred, they deepened to a pale apricot. He could not have prevented his next movement, not with the thought and planning of centuries. He touched her hair, which was a paler gold in the moonlight. Her eyes were slumberous cat’s eyes. She was still not quite awake but far from asleep.

  “Why do we always deny ourselves the things we want most, Andrew?”

  His heart missed a beat. “Do we?”

  “Yes. I think so. We spend all our lives learning to live without what we cherish most, and we call it self-discipline or moderation in all things.”

  “Exactly what are you referring to?”

  “I was thinking of the property you’re going to inherit. You don’t feel worthy of such a large gift, but you want it. I know you do.”

  He leaned closer. “Is that all you meant?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. He could see her come more fully awake. He wondered what it would be like to hold her tightly against him in the mornings as her eyes slowly opened. To listen to the soft sound of her breathing and feel her body respond without inhibition to his.

  “No, that’s not all I meant,” she said softly.

  “What have you denied yourself, Fiona?”

  “I waited too long to fly. I’ve never wanted anything more than to be a normal woman with a normal life. But I let fear strangle me.”

  “And now?”

  She smiled, a sleepy, wanton smile as old as woman. “Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to pursue what I most cherish.”

  He wanted to kiss her. Her mouth was soft and ripe for kissing. He had only to lean closer and take her lips with his. But he forced himself to turn instead to open his door. “Do you want to wait in the lobby? Or do you want to come with me? A bonny scene it will no’ be. Carlton-Jones and Surrey are no’ used to being thwarted.”

  “Oh, I want to be there. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  Her answer surprised him. “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. Carlton-Jones and Surrey are greedy through and through. They don’t cherish Mrs. Gerston’s land, they merely desire it. You cherish it, Andrew. The days are gone when Highland men defended what was theirs with dirk and claymore. I’ll have to be content with this.”

  He turned back to her and gazed on what he cherished most. She believed in him in a way he didn’t believe in himself. And he believed in her. They were held captive by their own bonds, yet they strained toward each other, yearning….

  He knew better than to kiss Fiona again, but when had a MacDougall put reality before his dreams? He gave a harsh sigh and bent his head. She wove her fingers in his hair as his mouth sought hers. Her thumb traced his cheekbone. Her lips were eager and pliant, and she gave him everything he asked for.

  When he finally lifted his head, her eyes were shining. “And with that, I send you into battle,” she whispered. “May the best man win, my brave Highland warrior.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Fiona got up just after dawn, did the exercises she was required to do every day, then dressed for a breakfast picnic beside the loch. She brought her sketchbook and two of Frances Gunn’s famous scones, along with a jug of hot tea flavored with thick, fresh cream. She needed inspiration for a drawing, and now that the loch had been “discovered” it was only quiet during the morning’s earliest hours. She wanted to capture the way that waterbugs skimmed the shallows and gulls spread their wings before they dove to feast on minnows.

  She was discouraged by her lack of progress on the next Stardust book. Her editor was nudging her to submit what she had finished, but Fiona wasn’t satisfied enough with her work to submit anything yet. Images eluded her, images of two water dragons dancing in the water together. The book was for children, yet she knew that she couldn’t tell the story properly without conveying the water dragons’ joy, even exuberance, at finding each other. Until she could, she had no book.

  Primrose followed Fiona to her favorite cove. He was disgruntled that April had left him for the night, and he needed coddling and reassurance. She gave both dutifully, and after she’d spread her blanket on the ground, he spread his long body along one end and closed his eyes, satisfied.

  Fiona stared out at the water. She was still staring an hour later, no closer to putting pencil to paper than she had been before coming. But the loch had changed in that time. There were boats now, just a few, but a harbinger of things to come as the day progressed. It seemed that everyone in the British Isles planned to come and search for Andrew’s darling. On the way back from Fort William last night she and Andrew had passed a farm not far from the village. Overnight it had become a caravan site. Tents and caravans now lined fields that should have been planted with oats or wheat. The wily farmer had found a more lucrative crop.

  Kaye Gerston had decided not to sell, and now that prime piece of property on the loch would be Andrew’s someday. But who else would succumb to the offers of Martin Carlton-Jones and Nigel Surrey or men just like them? How long before Druidheachd became a place to visit instead of a place to live?

  Fiona turned her head in the direction of Andrew’s house. She couldn’t see the little cottage from here, but she thought she could make out the end of his pier. It had been late when they’d left Fort William, and neither of them had said much on the long trip home. The meeting with Carlton-Jones and Surrey had been a different matter. Plenty had been said there. She had disliked the two men on sight and would have disliked them even if she hadn’t known what they were up to.

  Martin Carlton-Jones was overweight and bald. Nigel Surrey was only bald. He had come down to the lobby dressed in a shiny polyester warm-up suit, as if Fiona and Andrew had interrupted his hopeless quest for physical perfection. Both men had been affable at first, as if there were no reason to be on guard against two inconsequential Druidheachd residents.

  “You have Kaye Gerston’s final papers?” Nigel had asked, mopping hard-earned sweat off his forehead as he spoke. “That’s why you’re here?”

  “No. There will be no final papers. Mrs. Gerston’s changed her mind. She’ll no’ be selling to you or anyone.”

  Martin stepped forward. He seemed perplexed. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s decided to keep the property.”

  “But she can’t do that.”

  “Can she no’?” Andrew’s smile was lethal. “That will surprise her, since her solicitor has assured her she’s perfectly within the law.”

  Martin’s expression changed. It was a subtle change, as if he wanted to continue to appear a bit dim-witted. But Fiona suspected that his mind was working at Concorde speed. “Why are you here, MacDougall?” he asked.

  “As a favor to Mrs. Gerston. She’s not well. You’ve preyed on an old, sick woman, and I’m here to be certain it will no’ happen again.”

  “You made the trip all this way just to tell us she changed her mind, when she could have had her solicitor call? There must have been something in it for you,” Nigel said.

  “Aye. The greatest satisfaction in the world.” Andrew took a step closer. He towered over both men in every way. “And I have my own message to deliver. You’ll no’ find it easy to buy up our village, our loch or our countryside. You’ve already had dealings with Duncan Sinclair and Iain Ross. Now you’ll have to deal with me, too. We’ll stand together, with everyone else who feels as we do, and we’ll protect what’s ours. I’d tell you to look elsewhere for your land and your village, but I would no’ wish you or your kind on any community. Go back where you came from and be content with what you have.
Because you will never have what’s ours.”

  Martin Carlton-Jones, obviously taken back, turned to Fiona, as if hoping to find a victim to make him feel better.

  “I’ll be standing beside them,” she said, before he could address her. “And so will every woman in the village who values what she has. I’ll be sure of it.”

  Afterward Andrew had dropped her back at the hotel with a fleeting smile and a squeeze of her hand. He had thanked her for going with him, but now she wondered if her presence had really made any difference to him. She felt immature and foolish. A man like Andrew needed someone who could stand at his side in every instance and in every way. She was nothing but a poor substitute. Her fantasies of a full and satisfying life were persistent but absurd. She hadn’t even been courageous enough to give him one night of pleasure.

  And perhaps, even if she had found the courage, he would have found no pleasure anyway.

  Resigned to another unproductive morning, she started to pack up. There was no inspiration to be found here, only black thoughts and the remnants of dreams. Routed from comfort, Primrose wandered down to the water while she folded the blanket. Then he began to bark.

  She looked out over the water again and saw a boat coming closer. Shading her eyes, she stared into the glare of the sun and saw that the boat was MacDougall’s Darling with Andrew at the helm. He drew closer until he was drifting toward the shore.

  She waved, determined not to flaunt her self-doubts. “Ahoy, Captain!”

  He nosed the boat forward until the bow was touching the bank where the water was deep enough to keep from scraping bottom. He motioned for her to come on board. She was dubious, but he stepped out on the bow and held a hand toward her. She crawled on to the bow and took his hand. In a moment she was on the deck beside him.

  “Out for a morning sail?” she asked.

  “Aye.” The voice that emerged was more nearly a croak.

  “Andrew? Are you all right?”

  He shook his head. His forehead was furrowed in a frown so fierce that his eyebrows were nearly a straight line.

  “You can’t talk?”

  “No.”

  That was now perfectly evident. “You poor thing.” She felt his cheeks. They were cool, and so was his forehead. “Is anything hurting?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t mention his pride, but she suspected it was gravely wounded.

  “Your throat’s not sore? Chest? Head?” She watched him shake his head in answer to each question.

  “Woke feeling fit, then went to call Poppy,” he croaked.

  “Lord, don’t talk anymore. You’ll lose what little voice you have left.”

  “Going to hotel. Got to tell Gow can no’ take him out.”

  Fiona knew that Andrew had agreed to take David Gow out for the afternoon, along with his housekeeper Violet Higgins and her sister Muriel. Last night she had sensed Andrew’s lack of enthusiasm, but now she sensed no satisfaction at canceling the trip.

  “You didn’t really want to take him out anyway, did you?”

  “Want to get rid of the man.”

  She laughed. He scowled.

  “Then why don’t you take him? You can croak a story or two and take his money. You might feel better about everything after that.”

  “You’ve no sympathy.” The croak was fast becoming a whisper.

  She laughed again. “Andrew…” She rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’ve got sympathy coming out my pores. But you’re not sick, you know. You’re just losing your voice.” She rested a finger against his lips. “Shh… It’ll be completely gone if you say much more.”

  He took her hands in his and clasped them to his chest, but he didn’t speak.

  “This is kind of fun,” she said. “You can’t argue with me. A woman could get used to this.” She laughed as he narrowed his eyes. “Look, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you take me with you this afternoon?” She ignored the savage shake of his head. “I’m serious. I’ll tell all the stories David Gow could ever digest. Maybe they won’t be the same ones you’d tell, but I do remember some of your stories, you know. And I can make up what I don’t remember. I’m pretty good at that, after all.”

  He shook his head again, but she ignored it once more. “Why? Are you afraid I’m a better storyteller than you are? Or is it just that you don’t want me on the same boat with David Gow? The man does have a way about him, doesn’t he?”

  He didn’t try to answer; he tried to stare her down. She would not be thwarted. “Come on, Andrew. You’ve been such a good friend to me, and it will be days before your voice is back to normal. Let me do this for you. Then we can kiss David Gow goodbye.” She smiled as his eyes blazed. “Not literally, of course.”

  He sighed. That, at least, was clear. Finally he gave a gruff nod.

  “Good. We’ll meet you at the public launch then?”

  He managed a final croak. “Noon.”

  * * *

  He’d drunk a gallon of hot tea with lemon and honey, and swallowed every medication in his house that related to throats. And still his voice emerged only with the most vicious prodding. Andrew watched Fiona charm his guests, both female and male alike, and wondered—grudgingly—if some good might come from his illness after all. This was one more thing that Fiona was proving she could do.

  “Our creature’s said to live at the very bottom of the loch,” Fiona told the guests, “in a cave so well hidden that even if the loch were dry, she couldn’t be found.”

  “Once there was talk of draining the loch,” Violet said. “When my mum was a wee girlie. A scientist from Edinburgh nearly prodded the village into it. Wanted to find the creature, he did, wanted it so badly he did no’ mind killing her. And where would they have put all that water, I’m thinking?”

  “There was talk once, when we were lassies, of dragging the loch with nets,” Muriel said, peering over the side. “I believe it was tried.”

  “It was,” Fiona said. “With no luck, of course. The loch is so deep in places—deeper than Loch Ness, in fact—that there’s no hope of a net long or large enough. There was also talk of poisoning the water with quick lime and of charging it with electricity, to see what died and floated to the top. Luckily neither was ever tried.”

  Violet straightened with difficulty. She was younger than her sister, who looked to be nearly seventy, but the two women were much alike in appearance, with lively blue eyes just visible under gray Prince Valiant bangs. “Where were you when you saw the creature?” she asked Gow.

  “Over there.” Gow pointed in the direction they were heading.

  “Now that’s unusual,” Fiona said. “Most of the sightings haven’t been on that side of the loch. I wonder why you were so favored?”

  He smiled the engaging smile that set Andrew’s teeth on edge. “I’ve never had a problem with the ladies.”

  Violet snorted. “You’ve had your share of problems, I’m thinking. Is that no’ why you’re in Scotland, lad?”

  Gow laughed. “Tell us about the sightings, Fiona.”

  Fiona launched into one of the most preposterous stories that Andrew had ever heard.

  “Once there was a young man named Alan MacDougall,” she said, in her musical voice, “and he was the very first to see the creature. It happened so long ago that we’ve lost track of the date, of course. Some think it was more than five centuries ago, but still the story lives on.”

  “I’m riveted to the spot,” Gow said. “Tell us more.”

  “Well, poor Alan was dying for love. His sweetheart was betrothed to another, and as far as she was concerned, Alan didn’t even exist. He was a scrawny lad. The dashing, brawny MacDougalls came much later.” She flashed Andrew a smile. “Poor Alan was always getting beaten when the village lads took sides against each other. He was small, and his eyesight was poor. He was pockmarked, and one arm was too short. They even say he walked like a turkey—”

  “Fiona!” Andrew croaked.

  She raised one brow. “Wasn�
��t I supposed to tell them that part?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. Like every MacDougall to come along since, he walked like a man twice his size. Is that better?”

  Andrew glared at her.

  “Anyway, one day Alan saw the woman he loved—her name was Verity—on the road to her castle. Did I mention that she was the daughter of a rich man? Well, Verity turned her head when he passed, and after that he heard her giggling with her maids. Alan realized at last that Verity only saw him as an object of ridicule. So he decided that he would drown himself that night in the loch. He waited until dark so he wouldn’t get caught, then he stole a boat that was tied up on the shore and rowed it out to the middle. I’m afraid he wasn’t a very brave young man. The stalwart, courageous MacDougalls came much later.” This time she winked at Andrew.

  “Was this Alan really one of your ancestors, Andrew?” Gow asked.

  Andrew tried to imagine David Gow with his legs where his arms normally hung. The picture so delighted him that a grin came naturally.

  Gow turned back to Fiona. “Well?”

  “Alan stole the boat instead of merely jumping off a bank. He was afraid he’d chicken out once he was in the water and climb right back on shore. The problem is that our Alan wasn’t very strong.”

  “The strong MacDougalls came much later,” Gow said.

  “You’ve heard this before?” Fiona asked with a straight face.

  “I’m beginning to think I’ll never hear it all.”

  “Well, because Alan wasn’t very strong, it took him most of the night to row the boat to the middle of the loch. I believe I forgot to mention that he had no sense of direction, didn’t I?”

  “The MacDougalls with a sense of direction came much later,” Muriel said with a cackling laugh.

  “No, I don’t believe they ever did. Did they Andrew?”

  Andrew wanted to haul her below deck and kiss the impudent smile off her soft, sweet lips. She was transforming herself before his eyes again. He knew that he was seeing the Fiona she had been destined to become before the fire that had robbed her of her courage.