What the Scot Hears

by Amy Quinton

  He turned to face Amelia who was still lying on the ground, watching, a wary frown upon her face.

  After quickly ascertaining she was in perfect health, he saw red as he reached down to help her up. “What in the hell do you think you are doing, Mrs. Chase?”

  His voice was raw as feelings of rage and fear warred for prominence.

  Of course, she wasn’t cowed by his roar. No, of course, not. Not his Mel. She stood toe to toe with him, fists on her hips and anger sparking from her eyes.

  “It should be obvious what I was doing; I was helping your brother to walk.”

  “Aye, I could see that much. But once more, you demonstrate your inability to make sound decisions. Are you mad? Alain is far larger than you. This ground is uneven. How could you even think to do something so reckless, so careless?” His fear and anger had him lashing out, his normal reticence lost to emotional warfare.

  She crossed her arms. “Well, someone had to see to it.”

  He was taken aback by the accusation coloring her tone. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  She jabbed her finger in his chest. “It means I think that if you had honestly tried, if you’d honestly allowed it, your brother would be walking now, completely on his own. He has the strength for it.”

  She couldn’t have stunned him more completely if she’d punched him with one of her balled up fists. Still, fury won. “First, it takes more than physical strength to manage walking.”

  “Sure, but do you even let him try?”

  For a moment, no one spoke. Her accusations hung in the air, a dark cloud stinging him with truth.

  Unfortunately, anger made a mess of a man’s reason, and he refused to acknowledge her direct hit. Instead, he leaned forward, they were nose to nose now, and in a voice that vibrated with rage, he dared her, “What are you implying, Mrs. Chase?”

  She took a moment to consider her response; she seemed far more sensible than he at the moment, though he shied away from acknowledging the truth of it.

  Eventually, she said, “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you that you need to quit trying so damn hard to keep him safe.” He must have expressed his shock at her intuition for she added, “Aye, I’ve been watching you two for days now and talking with the staff, which I know you don’t like. And before you get all bent out of shape, they respect you and love you, which at the moment I can scarcely understand why. Still, it didn’t take a genius to figure it all out.”

  Her insight did nothing to calm his rage, yet all he could manage was, “You doona know what in the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?”

  The stared at each other in silence, each one holding on to their ire with a stubbornness more unshakeable than an ornery mule.

  Out of nowhere she blurted out, “I want you to take me to my brother.”

  He jerked as if she’d slapped him. It almost felt like she had. At the very least, it felt like a punch to his gut; he nearly doubled over in pain. He held his ground while his mind raced through all manner of irrational thoughts. She wants to leave me? She doesn’t feel safe here?

  Ultimately, one word, one thought, rose above all the melee and refused to be ignored.

  No.

  It didn’t matter why, just, no.

  He said it aloud as well. “No. I won’t allow it.” He crossed his arms to signal his immovable conviction.

  “You…you won’t allow it?” her eyes rounded with surprise and disbelief.

  He might’ve been in the wrong with his outright refusal, but the tickle of fear, the irrational sense of loss that accompanied the thought of her leaving, stayed his tongue like a vise, despite how angry he was with her at the moment. He refused to admit he’d erred, even to himself.

  Now he’d decreed his command, his anger subsided somewhat, yet in its place was something he hadn’t felt in years: heart-stopping fear. Fear for the safety of those he held dearest. Fear for Alain.

  Fear for her.

  It made him unreasonable. He knew it.

  He didn’t care.

  “Aye, I forbid you to contact him. You are not allowed to step one foot outside of this castle until I deem it safe.”

  He might have gone too far. Still, he refused to rescind his decree.

  She glared at him, a frightening mix of anger and sadness. She stormed off, taking his heart, his pride, and perhaps all his good sense with her.

  He watched her walk away, too stubborn, too ornery, too prideful—and too resolved—to call her back.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder.

  Surprised, he turned around to see his brother standing on his own.

  Even more astonishing was the sight of Alain, the one person he held closest to his heart, as he drew back his fist…

  …and punched him right in the face.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Later that Day: In the Kitchens

  “MacLeod is a nobcock. An artless, hasty-witted, scut.”

  Whack.

  Mrs. Mac laughed as Amelia devoted herself to the task of chopping carrots for dinner. They were supposed to be having beef stew…if Amelia didn’t ruin the vegetables, of course.

  Whack.

  By all appearances, Mel was preparing root vegetables for the stew, but in her mind, she was hacking away at one ornery Highlander.

  Unfortunately, in her manic enthusiasm, she was making an utter mess of said vegetables; they’d end up with mashed carrots and mushy potatoes at this rate.

  Regardless, Mrs. Mac did not chastise her for her zeal, and instead, commiserated with the sentiment. “Och, he can be at that, lass. He can be at that.”

  Amelia looked up, gripping her knife and brandishing it about as she spoke. “Sometimes, I want nothing more than to punch him in the nose.” She punctuated her threat with a jab of her fist, then a mighty whack as she returned to her task.

  Mrs. Mac chuckled with a smile. “Aye, lass, I’m sure ye do.”

  Whack.

  “Who does he think he is? He’s effectively holding me captive against my will.”

  Whack. Whack.

  “Och, lass…ye ken he wouldn’t do such a thing if he didnae have reason?”

  Whack.

  “No, Mrs. Mac. I don’t. Because he doesn’t confide in me about anything.” Whack. “Besides, I’m a woman grown. I have been on my own for many, many years and lived to tell about it. I don’t need his brand of protection.” Did she?

  Whack. Whack. Whack.

  In her state of anger? No, she didn’t.

  Mrs. Mac put her hands to her hips, her stirring spoon still in one hand, and stared at her. “If ye truly believed that, then why are you still here?”

  Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

  Amelia threw down her knife after that last attack on the vegetables. Then sat back and considered the cook’s pointed question. Why didn’t she leave? Because she was afraid? Yes and no. This was as good a place as any to hide from her troubles, but she was a survivor. She would survive on her own. She could also go to Viscount Sharpe or Dansbury, if she so desired. She could find a way.

  So if that wasn’t it, why?

  Because she didn’t truly believe her own accusations. Because he was hurting, inside, and she understood that pain; she’d been there before. Because he didn’t trust easily, and she understood that, too. Because they had kindred souls, both having faced hardships many would never in their life experience and couldn’t fully comprehend—and because of that, until she explored this connection between them fully, she would stay.

  But she couldn’t explain all that to the cook. So Amelia ignored the pointed question.

  One look at Mrs. Mac, and she suspected she didn’t need to answer her anyway. Cook already suspected the truth. Instead, she returned to discussing MacLeod’s faults.

  She picked up her cleaver. “Doesn’t he realize I might be more understanding if he would simply learn to trust me, to tell me what is going on? No, don’t answer that. But doesn’
t he realize that over-protecting—not only me, but his brother, too—is wrong? It’s stifling. It makes one feel like a child. It’s practically asking for us to rebel. I don’t take too kindly to a man who feels he has the right to tell me what to do, to deny me access to my family.”

  Whack.

  Mrs. Mac simply mmm’d in response, a telling remark despite the lack of specific words to define her thoughts on the matter. Amelia had to hold still so as not to squirm in her seat with guilt.

  She had no reason to fear her own culpability.

  Fed up, Amelia threw her knife down on the table once again and turned on her stool to face the cook. “But why, Mrs. Mac? I mean, why is he this way?” She thought she understood, but she wanted to hear confirmation from someone who knew him better and who loved him anyway.

  The cook sighed, and answered her, all the while continuing to stir the stew. “Och, lass. Alaistair is an intensely private man. Ye must ken that by now.”

  Amelia snorted. “Oh, I know it, I do. And funnily enough, I even understand. To a point.” That was a little disingenuous. She understood it, a lot.

  Mrs. Mac ceased stirring the pot and turned to stare at her, really stare. “Do ye lass? Do ye truly?”

  Undeterred, Amelia responded honestly. She waved her hands as she spoke, as she was wont to do when she was passionate about something. “Yes, I do. He is the most remarkable man I’ve ever met. I can see this, even though he likes to keep that side of him buried deep. Even though he likes to posture and command—all to keep us safe, mind, and too overprotected for our own good.”

  Mrs. Mac turned back to her pot and let loose another chuckle. “Aye, ye’ve the right of it, lassie. The man puts everyone else before his own needs, too.”

  And like that it fully clicked for her. MacLeod was afraid. Afraid if he didn’t protect everyone he loved, he would lose them. Like he almost lost Alain.

  Amelia stood and joined Mrs. Mac at the fireplace, leaning against the brick surround and rubbing her arms for comfort. “The truth is, I find myself wanting nothing more than to reveal that side of him, the man few people have the good fortune to see. Strangely enough, at the same time, I want it all to myself, which is not…me. Does that make any sense?”

  Mrs. Mac threw her a knowing smile. “Aye, it does.” Then her face dropped, her kind eyes turned serious, “But lass, ye must be careful. Alaistair is not an easy man to care for. Not since…the accident. He—”

  Amelia held up her hand. “Mrs. Mac…don’t. I don’t think…I mean…” Amelia sighed, her thoughts confused and chaotic, her emotions fighting with her head over this stubborn, ridiculous man. “Am I right? Isn’t this all a façade? A cover for a deeply caring man?” Never mind she was now back-stepping, contrary to her rant against him.

  Mrs. Mac shook her head. “Aye. I know the truth of what ye speak. I’ve known the lad for a long time now. When he loves, it is profound. Unfortunately, he has a streak of stubbornness worse than an old ass to go along with it. But know this, if you betray him, he will never, ever forgive you.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  “But…” and Mrs. Mac smiled, a pleased, hopeful twist of her lips, “…I’m thinking ye may be exactly what he needs.”

  But was she? She had plenty of her own secrets. Would MacLeod find her past a betrayal?

  Unfortunately, Mel already knew the answer.

  MacLeod stepped back into the darkened corridor outside the kitchen, ashamed of himself for eavesdropping, and for the truth they spoke of his faults. He even understood their feelings on the matter.

  Regardless, he could not let go. He couldn’t put them at risk, vulnerable to his enemies. In his line of work, the people he cared for were at risk. Always there was risk. Alain’s disability was living proof of that. It was why he was so secretive; it was just to protect his own selfish heart from betrayal.

  And if anything were to happen to either of them, he wouldn’t survive it this time. He knew this. He couldn’t bear the pain again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Two Days Later

  Amelia walked the first floor of MacLeod’s castle with a spring in her step despite her apparent captivity and her unreserved frustration with the master of this magnificent abode. Today, she was pushing Alain in a wheeled chair. He was a charming, enjoyable companion, much more so than his moody, churlish brother. Alain gestured magnanimously to every tapestry, painting, odd nook, or statue they passed as if to regale her with the history and its purpose here—without words, of course.

  There wasn’t a lot to see, in truth. All the walls were stone, as were the crooked and uneven floors making up the meandering halls. Every room was cool and drafty apart from the plush, red carpeted runner that flowed down the center of every hall.

  She joined in Alain’s impromptu fun, remarking with astonishment as she pretended to ‘hear’ him tell her all about whatever artifact or architectural feature was in view at the moment.

  They laughed and laughed.

  Bemused, she realized she was likely his perfect companion, for she had no trouble carrying on both sides of their conversation, requiring minimal input from him. It certainly seemed to suit them both just fine.

  And it was quickly becoming clear Alain was fully aware of everything going on around him. Perhaps more so than any of the rest of them, with his watchful eyes and astute listening. She supposed one became more attuned to their surroundings when one’s mind wasn’t occupied by thinking of what to say next.

  Certainly, Alain paid attention.

  They came upon a particularly boring stretch of the hall, devoid of anything in the way of ornamentation save for the torches lining the walls for light. With nothing to remark upon, Amelia introduced another question that had been circling in her mind since they met. “Alain. I do apologize for being so nosy, but your brother…well, he’s not much for opening up about his life and the people in it.” They both laughed at this. “But I must ask…have you always been chair bound and unable to speak?”

  “Yes,” Alain shook his head no. Obviously, he meant no, though he was unable to say the right words.

  If he weren’t such a lively man, her heart would break right open for him. What must it feel like to know the words you want to say but not be able to say them? It must be frustrating, indeed. God, that had to be an understatement. She tried to imagine it and failed; it was too much.

  And per Mr. Stubbs, Alain’s nurse, Alain suffered the same problem with writing.

  It was a testament to Alain’s character that he maintained such a jovial disposition in the face of his challenges.

  “I wish there was a way for you to tell me what happened.”

  Alain pointed to his head in an unmistakable sign of a gun at his temple.

  “You were shot?”

  “Yes.” Alain nodded in confirmation.

  Amelia walked on in stunned silence a moment, a thousand questions coming to mind. She reached the end of the hall and made to turn left, but Alain reached back and brushed her hand, before pointing to the right.

  “All right, if that’s what you want, then.” She chuckled as she changed course.

  “So I presume you were shot in the head and ever since you have been bound to your chair and unable to speak what is on your mind?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  “So, let’s see, what happened to get you shot, then? Hmmm…were you fighting a duel over a lady’s honor?”

  Alain chuckled. “Yes.” He shook his head no.

  “No? Well, then…I know! You were captaining a ship…a pirate ship…and you were hit by a stray bullet while plundering another merchant ship for its bounty.” She giggled between words, his good nature contagious.

  Alain laughed harder. “Y-Yes…” he said, but shook his head no and wiped at his eyes.

  “Not that either, eh? Well, then. Let’s see… You were rescuing a damsel in distress who was captured by a pirate king!”

  They both were laughing in
fits and giggles now. Well, at least she was. Alain’s laugh, while good natured, was still heartier. Healthy and full. “Yes.” Again, he shook his head no.

  “Well, phooey. Ooh! It was a spy mission gone terribly wrong.”

  This time Alain did not laugh. He spoke, though his tone was the most subdued she’d heard from him since they met. “Yes.”

  Of course.

  All of the sudden she knew, or at least she could imagine. MacLeod was involved. He had to be, for hadn’t Lord Sharpe told her MacLeod was a spy?

  Did he carry some measure of guilt in his heart? Is that what tempered his demeanor and weighted his words?

  Oh God, what a burden to carry upon one’s shoulders!

  She walked on in silence, her and Alain both content to tend to their own thoughts for the moment. Her steps echoed against the stone walls, while his chair squeaked a chorus of mousy chirps with each rotation of the wheels. Theirs were the only sounds now, a solemn tune for their thoughtful qualms.

  She was brought back to the present when Alain’s hand brushed hers once more. He pointed to a closed door to the right.

  “You want to go in here?”

  “Yes?” This time his tone was different, as if he were asking a question and not confirming her statement. She gathered this must mean she was half right.

  “You want me to go in, but without you?” she hedged.

  Alain smiled then, and said “Yes,” with absolute conviction.

  “I see.” And just as she began to wonder about how she would ever find her way back here through this maze of a castle, because she certainly wasn’t going to go in and just leave Alain sitting out in the hall, Alain’s nurse came walking around the corner with suspiciously perfect timing.

  “Mr. Stubbs, hello.” She smiled as he neared.

  He was a tall and broad, dark man, who hailed from Manchester, though his family was originally from Africa. He still spoke with a harsh Northern accent, but he wore a genuine smile and had the brightest teeth one might ever see; a full set appeared in a magnificent pearlescent display whenever he opened his mouth. He had a kind demeanor which put her immediately at ease, the kind of soothing presence that was the hallmark of all the best nurses.