Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

T he remainder of the journey home was uneventful. Bella was weary and hardly spoke; she needed all her concentration to negotiate the narrow and winding road in the increasing darkness. Beside her Maclean was also silent, deep in his own thoughts. Finally they reached the cottage, the headlights sweeping over the front of it and reflecting back from the kitchen window.

Inside, she felt the chill. No heating, despite this morning's effort, and the Aga had gone out. Rather than start up the generator, Bella found a few candles to light. She glanced at the spot on her desk where her laptop had been and sighed. She was relying on that smart-ass at the electronics shop to save her work for her.

She should have stood up for herself. Maclean was right. She should have told him to stop eyeing her boobs and show some respect to a woman old enough to be his . . . older sister? Instead she'd huddled into her jacket and herself, letting him intimidate her. Bella lifted her chin. Time to turn over a new leaf. From now on she wouldn't take crap from anybody, no matter who they were.

Maclean was still outside, so Bella rid herself of her jacket, hung it on the hook by the door, and climbed the stairs to slip on a comfortable pair of jeans and an old favorite sweater. Both were baggy and faded, but who cared? She needed comfort clothing. Brian had never understood that. He thought she was a slob when it came to fashion, but Bella could never relax in the sort of clothing Georgiana wore. Or Brian, for that matter. When they had decided to come and live here in the Highlands he had busily gone out and bought all the gear he thought a laird would lounge in.

Bella had thought it ridiculous then and she still did. Who cared what she wore? No one could see her. And Maclean . . . well, he probably thought what she had on was haute couture for the twenty-first century.

Beautiful Bella.

Bella smiled, remembering his arms around her, his warm sexy voice. He was attracted to her, he liked her, he thought she was beautiful. Maclean might be only half man, but he was a definite improvement on Brian.

When she came downstairs she saw to her surprise that Maclean had stacked peats in the stove and used some slivers of wood as kindling, and already there was a wave of warmth coming from it. He'd also set the kettle on the hot plate on top and placed her mug—complete with tea bag—nearby.

"Oh," she said, pleased surprise in her voice. "Thank you."

Of course, he had spent the last two weeks watching everything she did, and Maclean was no fool. She wasn't astonished by the fact that he had quickly learned how to do these things, but she was surprised that he had been so thoughtful. This was a man who had probably never lifted a hand to help a woman in his life—not in the kitchen, anyway. Clearly her becoming ticked off had borne fruit, and she appreciated the effort he was making for her.

"I am no' so good at cooking," he said with an offhandedness that didn't deceive her. This was a big deal for Maclean.

"Never mind, I'm not very hungry. Perhaps I'll just have some soup."

Maclean hovered as she prepared it. "I dinna feel hunger or thirst; I exist without either."

"That's a shame, because I bought you some wine at the supermarket. They didn't have any whiskey, but the wine looked nice. It's Australian."

"Australian?"

"Oh." She gave him a sideways look. "Maybe they hadn't heard of Australia when you were here before. It's way down in the south, an island continent, kangaroos and kookaburras and . . . and . . ." She cleared her throat as his silence grew.

After a moment he said tentatively, "Can you see me still, Bella?"

She shook her head. "No, not now. It was only when you were standing against the sun. I saw the shape of you like a dark mist, and perhaps . . . your eyes."

He didn't answer her and she heard him move away, wandering aimlessly about the room, picking up objects and putting them down again. She finished heating her soup, and then carried it to the table. After a moment she heard him sit down opposite her.

"Maclean," she said, "I wish you wouldn't watch me. It's unsettling."

"I like to watch you."

"I feel self-conscious."

"Aye, I know," he teased.

Bella set down her spoon. "I'm aware that this is all new and strange to you, but—"

"If you were in my time," he went on, "I'd have watched you, too."

"Why would you have done that?"

"I canna help it," he said in surprise. "Everything about you draws me to you."

"Everything?" she asked, suddenly breathless.

"Aye. Your eyes are so dark and expressive, they tell me all that you are feeling, even when you're trying to hide it. And when you're pleased with yourself, your mouth tilts up at the edges, just a wee bit, just enough to make me want to kiss you."

"You want to kiss me, Maclean?"

"Aye." His voice dropped into the low husky tone that gave her goose bumps. "And when your hair is falling around you, like now, I want to twist it up in my fingers and rub it against my skin. You smell of blossom, so sweet and delicious, I canna get enough of it. Did you know that, Bella? I want to taste you. I want to hold your breasts in my hands and stroke them until you canna think anymore, until you ache for me, ache for my body atop yours. Until you open your legs to me and want me inside you as much as I want to be there."

Bella's fingers were shaking.

"You talk of men and women being equal, being the same, but that is not so in my world, Bella. Except in bed. If you and I were in bed, then it would no' matter what century we were in."

She told her heart to stop flipping over and over. Maclean was trapped here in this cottage with her; it was only natural he would be thinking about her a lot, even obsessing about her. She mustn't read too much into what he was saying. But apart from that caveat, the honest appreciation in his voice overcame any insult or embarrassment Bella might have felt. This man was from an age when plain speaking was far more fashionable than it was today and political correctness was unheard-of. He truly made her feel beautiful, and Bella refused to blush or simper; she gave herself permission to enjoy this moment to the full.

She took a breath and tried for a matter-of-fact tone. "Do you think about sex a lot, Maclean?"

"Sex?"

"You know, men and women," oh God, she was blushing, "doing it. Having it off. Bonking. Making love."

He was laughing at her. "Aye, all the time," he said at last. "Don't you?"

"Of course not."

"You say it as if there's something wrong with ‘bonking,' " he retorted. "Mabbe you just haven't had a man who knows what he's doing."

It was Bella's turn to snort. "You're very sure of yourself."

Maclean did not answer her, and somehow that made it even more infuriating.

"I suppose," she said curiously, taking a sip of her soup, "you've had lots of women."

"There were many," he agreed thoughtfully, as if it weren't a thing that had occupied his mind before. "Once when I was in Edinburgh I went to a whorehouse by the Lawnmarket. There were French tarts there, and they were verra good, but . . . there is something about a willing woman I much prefer. When she wants me and no one else will do, aye, that stirs my blood in a way I canna explain."

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 good night. 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 appealing.

Bella did the only sensible thing under the circumstances.

She fled upstairs.