Morning, and Roderick awoke from imagery still crystal clear in his reoccurring dreams: his father galloping through the portcullis holding a limp, lifeless, blood-soaked body. Roderick’s mother. A farewell kiss to her cold forehead. The lowering of a wooden coffin into the sodden earth.
The heat of hatred still burned in his heart. Hatred for his father. The death of the beloved Lady of Clan MacLeod was on her husband’s head. If only the man had exercised an ounce of diplomacy instead of engaging in rival clan aggression, then Elizabeth MacLeod would perhaps still be alive today.
Roderick sat up, flung the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rested his elbows on his naked thighs, face buried in his hands.
His chest expanded on a deep, grief-induced breath, heart thumping beneath his ribs. He hated that nightmares had that effect on him. His shoulders slumped with the laboured breath he expelled.
It took concentrated effort to move to the window and push aside heavy drapes. He squinted and turned away from the light, allowing his eyes to adjust to the illuminated room. At the washbasin, he splashed cold water on his face and made use of the razor, soap and comb. Once cleanly shaven and presentable, he towelled his skin dry.
It seemed an eternity since he’d last occupied his old bedchamber. Time had stood still in this room. He looked around. Nothing had changed.
He had.
A promising career alongside his grandfather in the government’s diplomatic corps awaited him back in London. He would return as soon as he’d delivered the strong-willed redhead, and her phantom maid, back to the MacDonald clan. And when he’d secured someone to take his place as laird.
Roderick pulled on his breeches and pondered his alleged marriage. Wife! She was a fool to believe it. Angus was mad to support it. The late laird must have been touched in the head to draw up and execute a proxy marriage. It was null and void. The proud laird had lived as his forefathers and resisted change with the first sniff of it. Now his father was gone, and the old ways with him.
Roderick swiped a clean shirt from the drawer. He drew his arms through each sleeve before slipping it over his head. He still failed to understand the need for such a foolhardy union. Any expectation others held for him to fall in with this marriage plan was like asking the sun to never rise over Finvreck again.
The more he dwelled on his situation, the more curious he became. Who had masterminded the manipulative ploy? What did they have to gain? How was he, Roderick MacLeod, to benefit from it, if at all? And why this particular woman?
He donned woollen socks and bent to pick up his boots from beside the door. He sat on the edge of the red velvet armchair beside the hearth and its dying embers and slipped one boot on. Questions and motives shouldn’t bother him. And yet—he shoved his foot into the second boot—they did. Not quite enough to alter his plans.
He rose from the chair and stepped over to the window. Last night’s storm had moved on, leaving the new day to catch its breath. Gorse blanketed areas of the heath and coastline in a shade of yellow lurid and bright. It shimmered under the morning sun in the same way snow cover does. Roderick’s skin tingled from numerous memories of having fallen into the painfully prickly shrub as a child.
His gaze travelled further, to the craggy coastline. Beyond that, an expansive ocean of slate-blue stretched to the horizon. A force of nature that could present as hypnotically tranquil one day, and turbulently explosive the next.
The distant sound of sea and surf, as he heard it now, was just as soothing as if he stood amidst the calm of ancient woodlands. His journey here on horseback, among birch, hazel, pine and oak, was an assault on the senses he’d long forgotten. And missed.
London paled by comparison and lost some of its appeal. Streets were crowded with people and noisy with shouts, laughter and chatter. Carriage wheels clattered over cobbled stones. The slightest breeze did not discriminate between the elite and poorer areas of London and carried with it the stench of raw and rotting refuse.
One could barely escape the din of conversation at court, society gatherings, or amidst lively debate in government chambers. He would leave each of these venues with his ears ringing.
Such revelations were like a tap on his shoulder. A reminder of the price he’d paid, or rather what he’d sacrificed, for having left Scotland for England.
Movement caught his eye. Someone ran, as if pursued by demons, away from the clifftops, across the moorland and in the direction of the keep.
Roderick’s fingers gripped the windowsill, every muscle tensed. He thought of the innocent boy lying abed, how he’d been hunted and wounded like an animal.
Redcoats!
Concern for the individual on the run had Roderick swing open the window, lean over the sill and crane his neck to better see who or what the person ran from.
There was no obvious evidence of danger in sight. He continued to watch, waiting until the runner was within shouting distance. ‘You there!’
The youth skidded to a halt amongst the gorse, head turning in all directions.
‘Up here,’ bellowed Roderick.
The youth swivelled towards the tower. He tipped his head up, too far away for Roderick to discern anything more of his face than nose and chin beneath the brim of his hat.
‘Is all well, lad?’ he called.
The youth shuffled his feet on the spot. One hand raised with a wave. ‘Aye,’ he yelled back in a weak voice that had yet to break.
‘Then why is it you run as if the devil wants your soul?’ Roderick’s authoritative voice shattered the peaceful morn.
The lad kept his gaze down, and shrugged.
‘Do you seek to enter Finvreck?’
The lad nodded without looking up, and tugged down on his hat as if a sudden gust of wind might dislodge it.
‘Then I suggest you turn in that direction and enter through the outer gatehouse.’
The lad lifted the brim of his hat with his hand to gauge the direction in which Roderick pointed. That same hand raised in a show of thanks. His walk broke into a run.
An odd encounter by any accounts, one worth following up on. Roderick suspected the lad already knew where to locate the castle’s main entrance, so why run in the direction of the postern gate?
First things first. Rouse the MacDonald lass from her bed. He closed the chamber door behind him, rolled the tension out of his shoulders, and walked the narrow, torchlit stone passageways.
Voices and the hustle and bustle of castle life drifted up the circular stairwell, along with the scent of freshly baked bread. Roderick’s stomach grumbled. His mouth salivated remembering how well Morag’s delicate butter pastries melted in his mouth.
He stopped outside the master bedchamber and listened. All seemed quiet. If Annabel wasn’t already awake then his sharp rap on the door would have done the job.
No answer.
He knocked again. Harder.
‘Who is it?’ The quiet, timorous voice was not Annabel’s. The maid’s, perhaps?
‘Roderick MacLeod. I wish to confirm that Annabel MacDonald is awake. We must prepare to leave Finvreck.’
There was a pause.
‘My mistress still sleeps.’
Roderick heard the flutter of nerves in the woman’s voice but he could ill afford another personal setback. ‘Then wake her. We are soon to be on our way.’
‘I’m afraid I cannae do that, my lord.’ Her voice shook.
He’d yet to meet this maid face-to-face, but it seemed his uncle proved right. She sounded shy, almost in fear of conversing with him, even with the division of a solid oak door between them. Locked from the inside, no doubt.
He tempered his approach. ‘What’s stopping you from waking the woman?’
‘She barely slept a wink last night. My lady is unwell. Unfit for travel.’
Roderick’s fingers curled around the handle, ready to turn it if granted access. His other hand flattened against the door. ‘What’s wrong with her? How might I help?’
‘Yer … yer nae angry, my lord?’
‘Angry? No. Inconvenienced? Aye. What ails her?’ Roderick could have sworn he heard the maid gulp.
‘’Tis women’s business, my lord.’
‘Women’s business?’ She tested his patience.
‘What I mean to say is … My lady has … er … severe stomach pains.’
‘Food poisoning, perhaps. Let me in at once.’ He turned the handle to discover the door was indeed locked. Vibration and a dull thud sounding like body weight thrown against it.
‘Nae! Nae, my lord! ’Tis nae food poisoning.’
‘Then what? Out with it, woman.’
‘’Tis her monthly flow.’
Roderick’s hands fell away from the door. The unexpected reply had him take a step back. And think. To do what? He’d dressed and stitched deep gash and flesh wounds. Had sighted horrific injuries and severed limbs in clan warfare. He’d stomached tales told of atrocities on the Culloden battlefield. Heard those tales repeated time and time again among the English who saw fit to gloat about and champion Cumberland’s overthrow of the Scots. But never had he cause to assist a woman suffering from her menses.
‘Is it so bad that she cannot ride a horse?’ he asked.
The woman made a sound as if clearing her throat. ‘Think if ye will of having yer stomach slowly sliced with a blunt blade, a fist reaching in to squeeze yer innards, and then being gutted and scraped clean to the bone. Repeat that process minute after minute, hour after hour, and then ye tell me, Laird, if ye’d have the strength to sit and ride a horse.’
The gruesome description made fighting on the battlefield seem a far easier feat. Did all women suffer in this way on a monthly basis? He fell into awkward silence. ‘Tell me what your mistress requires.’
‘Patience and understanding.’ There was a tone of relief in her instruction.
‘I’ll send for Morag. She’ll know how to assist.’
‘Thank ye, Laird, but ’tis sleep and rest my mistress requires. Ye need nae bother the housekeeper.’
‘Very well. I’ll have a tray of food delivered to you both. I’ll return later to enquire how the lady fares. Should you require anything at all, you only need ask.’
‘My thanks, Laird.’
Roderick continued along the passageway. He played over in his mind the moment when, last night, Annabel’s hands had come to rest on her stomach, and he’d thought himself clever to interpret her expression. So it was a grimace after all, and not a grin.
How insensitive of him to accuse her of carrying another man’s child, of thinking she’d used devious means to snare a husband. He’d been quick to judge her without having knowledge of her condition, her pain. He sensed it wasn’t the only secret she suffered in silence.
Nevertheless, it didn’t explain her sharp reaction when he’d reached out to touch her cheek. She’d fled his side the instant he’d set her free and yet she was a strong advocate for their marriage.
Why? The question ate at him like a rat gnawing through rope.
How long before she’d be fit to travel? He reassessed his plans, thinking it best to first seek his replacement among his next of kin. There had to be someone, a cousin, no matter how distant, who’d step up as laird. Angus would know where to begin.
He stopped again outside another bedchamber door. With hand on latch, he inched it open wide enough to peer inside. There, on his back, head turned towards the door, lay the young lad Annabel had attended to yester eve. In slumber, the boy looked a picture of angelic innocence.
Roderick took pity on him. What terror the child must have endured at the hands of the trigger-happy Redcoats. Let them try that again and … he curled one hand into a tight fist.
He closed the door, careful not to disturb his young guest. Morag would have a second patient to watch over today.
At the base of the stairwell, he summoned a manservant to firstly inform Morag that Annabel and the young boy required her close attention, and that secondly, he was to send word to the stables, cancelling his journey. He doubted Annabel would make a swift recovery.
He pressed on in the direction of the great hall, thinking to find his uncle there. Lost in thought, he paid little heed to a huddle of men and women who passed him by. He nodded in reply to their respectful and cheery greeting.
His hand brushed another. Soft. Cold to the touch. At the same time, he caught the scent of salty sea air. Here? In these draughty communal passageways?
Roderick stopped and turned in time to catch the hat-wearing youth cast a surreptitious glance his way, then disappear around the corner from which he’d walked.
And still the scent of brine lingered. The same distinct scent that had accompanied his first encounter with Annabel last night.
A grain of suspicion and natural curiosity had him take his first step to follow the tall, thinly built person. To see more clearly his face. To discover his identity.
Any further thought on the anomaly was overthrown when a hefty shove to his shoulderblade sent him stumbling forwards. He caught his balance and spun around to see a man wearing a grin from ear to ear, arms spread wide. A mop of hair, the colour of a red fox, and a matching thick beard, gave him the appearance of a cave-dwelling hermit. He had an unwashed stench to match it.
Roderick’s scowl relaxed into a smile as he stared into a familiar pair of mischievous clay-coloured eyes. ‘Gillis!’ He dashed forwards and threw his arms around the man in a fierce embrace.
Roderick pulled back to look his friend up and down. ‘Did the fires of hell reject you, or what? I thought never to see you again.’
‘And I thought ne’er to see ye again set foot on Scottish soil!’
Their laughter echoed along the dimly-lit passageway. Laughter that resonated with the joy of old friends reuniting, drawing the attention of those close by.
Roderick’s laughter died into silent, stoic relief. ‘I thought you dead. At Culloden.’
‘Aye. Came verra close to meeting my maker.’
‘What happened?’
‘Wounded. Here.’ Gillis indicated his left side. ‘Lost a lot of blood but ’tis a battle scar I’m proud of.’ He held out his left hand. ‘Lost three fingers too. They got in the way of an English sword.’ He wiggled his surviving thumb and index finger before lifting his other hand. ‘Just as well I’m right-handed, eh? Used my claymore to cleave the Sassenach between head and shoulder. Fair’s fair, dinnae ye think?’
Roderick had no answer other than to say, ‘How in God’s name did you manage to escape that bloody battlefield?’
‘Darach tossed me over his shoulder and made off with me like I were the last pretty lass left on earth.’ His smile faded and his eyes became a window into the horror of what he’d witnessed that day. ‘’Twas a struggle, my friend, but I mended. We both escaped to the hills and eventually made it back here to Finvreck. Darach saved my life.’
‘Where is he now?’
An arm came swiftly around Roderick’s neck to grip him in a headlock and pull him hard against a solid mass of muscle. Gillis watched him with a smirk, legs apart and arms akimbo. He laughed, seemingly entertained by the cowardly attack from behind, and with no intention to intervene.
Roderick had fully expected to be treated like a traitor. That moment, it seemed, was now.
He reacted, turning his head to the left to relieve the pressure against his windpipe; to prevent being choked. He swung his right arm down with force, using his fist to hit his attacker fair square in the groin. The man grunted, distracted.
Roderick raised his left hand and shoved his middle fingers beneath the attacker’s nose. He then pushed up and back to open up the headlock.
With a twist and a duck, he freed himself from his attacker’s hold and rounded on the man. He drew his arm back, his hand a tight fist, and followed through with a punch that would have knocked any man out cold.
Except this man caught Roderick’s fist in his own massive hand, denying Roderick the opportunity to take his attacker down.
The man’s free hand nursed his crotch. ‘Och!’ He groaned between rasping gasps. ‘Ye dinnae have to ruin my hopes of one day siring a child!’
‘Darach!’ Swift recognition had Roderick withdraw his fist and laugh in relief. ‘If you’d just shook my hand instead of jumping me unawares, I’d have no cause to compromise your manhood.’
Darach grinned. ‘I wanted to see if living with the Sassenachs had softened ye.’ He gasped again. ‘’Tis pleasing to see ye’ve kept yer wits about ye.’
‘Aye. Best I do. And ’tis heartening to see you still rival the size and strength of last night’s storm.’
Darach slowly unfolded and threw his arms about Roderick. Both men slapped the other’s back in a show of affectionate camaraderie, before standing eye to eye.
‘’Tis good to have ye home, Roderick. I’m sorry about yer father going to the dearly departed …’ Darach crossed himself, ‘... but I’m glad ye’d the sense to return to yer roots as the new Laird of Clan MacLeod.’
Roderick had thought his two closest friends long dead. Even had he known they were alive, he’d have expected they’d consider him a traitor, a deserter of the clan. Surprisingly, they’d greeted and welcomed him home with open arms.
He hadn’t the heart, nor courage, to reveal there and then that he had no intention to stay on as laird. His betrayal made him feel lower than the grime beneath their boots.
‘What a blessing,’ said Roderick, looking from one friend to the other, ‘that you both survived what too many didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘Nonetheless, if you’d both listened to—’
Gillis cut him off with another shove to the shoulder. ‘We’ll be having none of yer lectures.’ He leaned in close. ‘’Twas our decision to go and fight for our Bonnie Prince, despite ye and yer father trying to convince us otherwise.’
‘Is there a price on your heads?’ Roderick asked. ‘Do the English search for you both?’
Darach shook his head. ‘They ken nothing about us. But suffice to say we do our best to stay out of their way and there’s none among our clan who’d betray us to the English.’
Roderick pointed to the blue-black bruise on Gillis’s forehead. ‘And what did you do to deserve that?’
Gillis looked sheepish. ‘Weel, I might have still been a wee bit drunk early this morn when I mistook a lad for a lassie. He clobbered me with a tankard. I’ve been looking for him, and when I find the snot-nosed loon, I’ll crack his skull as he near did mine.’
Roderick threw his head back and laughed. ‘There’ll be no fighting under Finvreck’s roof or you two will answer to me.’
‘That goes without saying.’ Gillis nodded in the direction of the great hall. ‘Do ye hear it?’
Roderick cocked his head to one side. ‘Sounds like drones in a beehive.’
Gillis rolled his eyes. ‘Weel, ’tis nae a woman’s waulking song, that’s for sure! It be the murmurs of people eager to greet their new laird. Word of yer arrival is spreading and they come to see if the rumours are true. To see ye with their own eyes.’
Darach patted his stomach. ‘And now that we can confirm those rumours, let’s go eat. I’m so hungry I could eat a nest full of rabid rats! Join us, Roderick. We’ve much to catch up on.’
It was flattery at its best hearing that already, at this hour of the morning, so many of the converging clan were eager to meet and greet Roderick. At the same time, he didn’t welcome the expectations and ever-increasing pressure placed upon him to stay at Finvreck as its leader. Why build their hopes, only to then disappoint and let them down?
He glanced in the direction he’d already come. ‘You both go ahead. I’ll join you soon enough. I need to check on … a certain someone.’
‘We heard,’ said Darach. He thrust his hips back and forth in a crude manner and nudged Roderick. ‘Yer wife, eh?’
‘She’s not my wife.’
‘But ye still …’ Gillis winked and thrust his hips again. ‘Ye ken?’
‘No! I slept alone last night. In my old chamber. I’m not married, and nor do I intend to be. Annabel MacDonald will soon return to her own clan.’
Both men stared at him with the same disappointment as had Angus. ‘It’s a matter I’m yet to resolve and I forbid you discuss it with anyone else. Do you hear? Not another word about it.’
‘Suit yersel,’ said Darach. ‘We’ll be seeing ye in a wee bit then?’
‘Aye.’ He watched the two men walk on. Something niggled at him. Something Gillis had said. That he’d mistaken a lad for a lassie. Roderick pictured the youth he’d spied running across the moor this morning. Upon reflection, there’d been an uncommon grace to his athletic gait instead of a gangly lope for a lad so tall.
Why had the castle passageway carried the scent of a fresh ocean breeze? Suspicion and Annabel MacDonald occupied the same thought.
Her maid had successfully turned him away earlier this morning. Without opening the door.
Roderick spun on his heel. If the maid didn’t open the door for him under orders, he’d rip it clear off its hinges. He picked up the pace, climbing the stone stairwell with long-practiced skill, and negotiated the upper passageways until he stood outside the master chamber.
He rapped on the door. Scurrying sounds carried to his ears.
‘Who is it?’ There was an element of fear in the tremor of the maid’s voice.
‘Roderick MacLeod.’
‘Oh! Back so soon, Laird? Please, quieten yer voice.’
He mimicked her sharp whisper. ‘Open the door.’
‘My mistress still sleeps.’
Roderick only need sight her, not speak with her. ‘Open this door.’
‘But, my lord, I—’
‘Open the door. Now!’
* * *
The laird barked an order to gain entry into her chamber, leaving Annabel no time to dash across the room to retrieve the cotton nightshift from the dresser. She had little choice but to dive onto the bed and beneath the feather-filled blanket.
Naked.
Jessie sent her a panic-stricken look from where she stood beside the door. A nod from Annabel, and the maid turned the handle. Annabel rolled onto her side, knees bent, facing the wall with its open window, her back to the door.
The only exposed part of her body was her head and unbound long tresses spilling over the pillow and blanket. The scrape of the door being tugged open signalled her cue to close her eyes naturally, not scrunch them tight, to then lie still, wait, and listen.
Seconds stretched into what seemed like a day before she heard the quiet tread of boots cross the wood-floored threshold and slowly pad over the thick woven rug. Ironic really, given the laird’s loud knock on the door and his order to have it opened. Still, he demonstrated consideration for her, thinking her fast asleep.
‘Good morning to ye, Laird. I be Jessie, maid to the mistress.’
There was a quiver in Jessie’s whisper. Annabel didn’t have to see her to know she’d be wringing her hands, her heart thumping beneath her chest. Much like her own heart. It rattled so hard beneath her breast that it took every ounce of self-control to keep each breath slow, calm and even. Feigning sleep required more concerted effort than protecting her anonymity dressed as a man.
Roderick MacLeod had seen her this morning. Twice. Did mistrust bring him to her room?
Careless fool. She should have known better than to have returned to Finvreck directly beneath his nose. She didn’t think he’d gaze out that window at precisely the same time as she’d be dashing towards the postern gate. She didn’t think she’d run the risk of passing him by in a castle corridor. She didn’t think to receive what felt like a lightning strike when their hands made physical contact.
She just didn’t think.
‘Good morning,’ he whispered. ‘Is your mistress any better?’ He sounded cordial, but wary.
‘The longer she is left alone to sleep, the better.’ It was a less than subtle plea to not wake and disturb Annabel.
‘Hmm.’
His voice came from the foot of the bed. Surely he’d leave, having now sighted her convincingly asleep beneath the blanket?
Slow, measured footsteps rounded the bedpost and stopped by her side. Annabel’s heart clogged her throat. She stopped breathing. Stomach muscles bunched. She understood what it must be like for an animal hunted by its prey, playing dead to survive being noticed.
‘Ye’ll wake her, Laird. Please, I must ask ye to leave.’
Roderick MacLeod would have to be an insensitive sod not to hear the desperation in Jessie’s strained whisper.
Annabel sensed something on her head, at her temple. A feather-light touch like that of a tiny winged insect caught in the strands of her hair.
‘A small purple petal,’ said Roderick in hushed tones. ‘Primula scotica. Like those found on the storm-ravaged edge of yonder clifftops.’
Annabel twitched beneath the blanket. Did he notice her move? He’d picked evidence of her morning’s escapade from her hair. What other clues carelessly remained?
She’d had scant precious time to blend in and navigate her way through the corridors without drawing the attention of castle staff. She’d wanted to sprint up the stairwell instead of having to think and walk as a young man would. And inside her bedchamber, Jessie had been quick to help her disrobe and remove the cap from her head.
There’d been no time to talk or to learn what had happened in her absence. The laird had asked Jessie if her mistress was feeling better. So he had paid an earlier visit to her door. Hopefully, Jessie had used the excuse of a woman’s monthly cycle to explain Annabel’s confinement.
‘A primrose?’ Jessie sounded surprised. ‘Are ye sure?’
‘Aye.’
Annabel heard him take a whiff and whisper, ‘It reminds me of the invigorating smell of sand and sea air. In fact, when I walked the lower corridor not ten minutes ago, I could have sworn I breathed the same air in which this flower thrives. Here. See for yourself.’
‘Weel, so it is. I can only imagine that maybe last night’s storm carried it through that window there.’
‘You didn’t close it?’ There was scepticism in his voice.
‘Of course I closed it. And reopened it this morning. My mistress enjoys nothing better than to feel fresh air on her face.’
‘Is that right?’ Spoken as if he’d uncovered a well-kept secret.
‘Oh, aye.’ Jessie’s voice trembled with every word, as though in fear of having said the wrong thing. Had she?
If Annabel held her breath any longer, she’d turn blue. She relaxed her jaw, parted her lips, and sucked in a breath under the pretence of being startled out of a deep sleep. Her body jerked when she gazed up to see Roderick MacLeod standing so close, and under his watchful eye.
‘Jessie?’ Annabel pulled the blanket tight under her chin and let her gaze flick back and forth between the laird and her maid. She prayed the alarm in her voice sounded convincing enough.
‘’Tis all right,’ soothed Jessie. ‘The laird is aware of yer … delicate condition. That ye’ve had a fitful night’s sleep. I begged him nae to wake ye.’
So Jessie had stuck to their plan. Annabel rolled onto her back, careful not to expose her nakedness beneath the blanket. She looked up at the laird and caught her breath.
Something in his stare unsettled her. He looked at her in a way no man had. A look she could only interpret as him having seen right through her cunning ruse. ‘Laird?’
He ignored her question and walked over to the window. There he stood, hands clasped behind his back. Silent.
Annabel exchanged a harried look with her maid. Jessie shrugged and wrung her hands, a picture of helpless despair.
Annabel’s eyes returned to Roderick. To collar-length hair the colour of a raven. Her gaze took in the breadth of his back, lean hips and strong-looking thighs.
The sight of him left her mouth drier than the ocean breeze when she’d run headlong into it along the beach.
‘Laird, is something wrong?’ she croaked.
His head turned to one side, gaze downcast. She studied his handsome profile in silhouette against the morning light. Proud. Perfect. Serious.
The silence sent her nerves into a frenzy.
He made a slow turn, his features indiscernible with the light at his back.
‘What is it you hide, Annabel MacDonald?’ His voice was flat. The question direct.
‘Hide?’ repeated Annabel, at the same time as Jessie insisted, ‘She hides nothing!’
Roderick looked from one woman to the other.
Annabel screamed a thousand curses in her head. She and Jessie had reacted too quickly to his question. That alone would raise his suspicions. Did it show on her face how effortlessly he’d unnerved her?
Jessie leaped to her defence. ‘Laird, please! Yer questions can wait. My mistress—’
‘Will answer the question.’ A slow, terse, matter-of-fact command.
Think, Annabel. She rolled onto her side again and drew her knees to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second or two, pretending to weather a sharp pain. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
Liar! May the good Lord forgive her. For one thing, she was desperate to hide her nakedness from him. It rendered her utterly vulnerable in the presence of any man. This man.
How would she explain the men’s clothes, kicked in haste under her bed, if he were to look there? Through slitted lids, she saw Jessie inch closer to the armchair by the fire and discreetly push the hat—part of Annabel’s disguise—onto the floor. Jessie stepped on it so that her long skirts hid it from view.
When Annabel fully opened her eyes, she stared at Roderick. He stepped intimidatingly closer.
‘No? You’ve nothing to hide?’ His dry tone said he didn’t believe her.
‘Nae,’ she confirmed. She snapped shut her eyes again in fear of him reading in them another blatant lie. Her empty stomach growled with rising panic and her fingers scrunched the blanket beneath her chin.
‘Give me your hand.’ Another command. This time gently spoken.
Annabel’s gut contracted a fraction more. She peeked through slitted lids. He held out his open palm. She opened her eyes to stare at it. Large. Strong. Most likely firm when shaken.
Her guard shot up. ‘Why do ye want to hold my hand?’
‘I value trust, Annabel. I ask that you trust … me.’
It pained Annabel to deceive this man. From what she’d observed, he appeared to be a good, genuinely kind person. But she would not, could not, enlist his confidence in the cause she wholeheartedly believed and participated in.
She was guilty of sedition. How could she be sure he wouldn’t betray her to the same men who’d shot at poor defenceless Thomas? For that reason, she justified her lies. So too, her mistrust of Roderick MacLeod.
‘There are few people I trust,’ she said. Let him read into that what he will.
‘Then I should like to join your inner circle. You shall learn to trust me, and I, you. Let’s start with your hand in mine.’
He’d spoken in earnest. Annabel wanted desperately to believe him. She almost did when she looked up into those summer-sky eyes and his lips lifted into a heart-stopping, genteel smile. She would grant him this one small request, if only to allay any misgivings he had of her.
She rolled onto her back once more, ensuring the blanket concealed her modesty. And yet she couldn’t show her hand without exposing her entire arm, her neck and one shoulder.
Her cheeks heated. He was gentleman enough not to leer at her inappropriately, but rather held her gaze like his very life depended on it.
With slow caution, her hand reached for his, only to snatch it back, thinking his fingers were like sharp teeth, at the ready to bite and betray her. He stood unmoved, patient; his kind expression didn’t waver. Nor did his hand.
A second attempt had her slide her palm flat against his. His skin was warm, smooth. The hand of a gentleman adept with words, parchment and a quill. Not the calloused palms of a cottar who worked the land.
Long fingers enfolded hers as if touching a newborn, then firmed with an assurance of safety and strength. A feeling of ease and security accompanied the flare of awareness. She looked up to catch his subtle nod, as if he’d said, There now, that wasn’t so bad.
Her heart tripped ten times worse than her stumble on the moor, and then thudded against her ribs, rendering her helpless and immobile. Just as well she was already lying down, for had she been standing she’d have crumpled in a worthless heap at his feet.
She didn’t ever remember being so uncommonly shy and as delicate as the petal he’d plucked from her hair. She’d never had a man bend over her hand, as he did now, and press his lips to her skin. A warm, tingly sensation sent her lashes aflutter, close, and re-open to stare at his head. Soap-scented hair shone like a dark loch reflecting light from a full moon.
Removing his lips from her hand was akin to stripping the warm blanket free of her body. It left her bereft and wanting … more. And when, still bowed over her, his gaze settled on her mouth, she could have sworn he inched closer in the hope of her extending him her trust to claim a kiss. She licked her lips, ready with anticipation, an involuntary reaction, only to then weather the disappointment of his slow withdrawal.
Roderick MacLeod had teased from her something she hadn’t realised she possessed. Something to tempt her. Something deserving of further exploration.
Desire.
Some … other time. Perhaps.
He lowered her hand gently onto the bed by her side. Her skin tingled from his touch. The intense sensation of pins and needles ran from shoulder to fingertips.
‘I wish you a speedy recovery, Annabel. We’ll postpone your journey home until you’re well enough to travel.’ He bowed respectfully and started towards the door.
The lingering reaction to the impression of his warm mouth on her hand, together with the possible promise of his lips on hers, and the soft seduction in his voice, gave Annabel three more reasons why she would not allow him to send her home.
Even more to the point, he’d given her valid reason to delay his return to England. To make him stay.
Stay?
Reason whipped and redirected her selfish train of thought back into focus. ‘Laird,’ she called, breathless. ‘Please, would ye look in on Thomas?’
‘I already have. He’ll be well taken care of. Sleep now.’ He opened the door and stepped into the passageway. As he pulled the door closed, he said, ‘My apologies for disturbing you.’
He’d done more than disturb her. He’d left her enlightened, and in fear. What she’d always believed she hadn’t needed, she now wanted. And it had everything to do with Roderick MacLeod.