Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

M aclean stared at the glow in the Aga. It had been a mistake kissing Bella Ryan. Even a ghost-man such as himself could feel desire. Lust. It throbbed in his blood, in his sinews and muscles, until his whole body burned. Two hundred and fifty years without a woman was a long time for a man like Maclean, but there was more to it than that. Bella was the sort of woman he had always dreamed of in his secret heart, that soft part of him he kept locked away from his father's sharp eyes. He had kept those emotions hidden for so long he had forgotten they existed, until he was compelled to be kind to Ishbel. And look where that had gotten him.

And now here was Bella, who wasn't afraid of him, who burned beneath his hands and mouth like a bright flame. What he had said to her tonight was true—he wanted her, but he was beginning to think he did not deserve her.

He remembered the terrible gaze of the Fiosaiche with a shudder. The images in her eyes. And the unsettling possibility that Ishbel was loose in the present with vengeance on her mind. Such things had nothing to do with sweet Bella, and although she had been generous enough to help him in his quest so far, it would be wrong of him to put her in the path of danger. Bella belonged to this world and Maclean wasn't at all certain where he belonged.

There was a strange ache in his belly and he rubbed at it as he stood in the shadows. It felt oddly familiar, but he couldn't work out what it was. He grimaced as his stomach made a loud rumble and the ache intensified. He found himself thinking of roasting beef over a crackling fire, of salmon, and fresh baked bannocks, and whiskey that warmed him from the inside out.

And that's when he realized he was hungry .

Upstairs, Bella was curled under her quilt and blankets, only the top of her dark head showing. Maclean felt other parts of him ache, remembering the swell of her breast beneath the tight nightshirt, and the warmth of her woman's body as she arched against his hand. He wanted to crawl into her bed and wrap his arms about her and show her what she had been missing with her ruddy-faced Brian. She had kissed him tonight as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her, but he knew he mustn't force her. Aye, she had a heat and passion to match his, but she had told him she did not want him to touch her and he had agreed to abide by that, and Maclean was a man who did not break his word lightly.

Maclean gave the bed a shake, to try and wake her, but she didn't move. Glancing around, he could see the pile of books on the bedside table. Was she researching the past so energetically for the sake of her book? Or was it possible she cared about him?

His stomach grumbled.

Impatiently, Maclean shook the bed again. Bella moaned, ducking her head even farther under the covers. "Go away," she said, her voice muffled. "I don't want your magic bridle."

"Bella?"

"Maclean? What's wrong?"

"Bella, I'm hungry."

There was a pause, and then she lifted her head and squinted in his general direction. Her hair was messy and her face was crumpled with sleep. Maclean thought she was gorgeous, and he was enjoying the sight of her when his stomach gave an extra-large rumble.

Bella laughed. "You are hungry. Is this another good sign?"

"Mabbe I am becoming a whole man again."

"Maybe you are."

"Will you cook me something to eat?"

Bella pushed her hair out of her eyes. Maclean was asking her to cook for him? She had the feeling that he would consider cooking to be a woman's work. She hoped he wasn't expecting her to take over the role of his personal servant—that would never do—but neither could she let him starve.

"I'll cook for you this time, and I'll teach you to cook, Maclean, so that you can look after yourself. In this world men need to learn to cook and clean and wash, unless they can pay someone else to do it. And you are currently unemployed. All right?"

He was silent as if mulling over what she had said. "Aye, all right," he sighed. "It seems verra strange, but if that is how men behave now, then I will learn to cook, Bella."

She threw the covers back and swung her legs out of the bed. The floor was cold and she flinched, quickly huddling into her robe and slippers. Maclean thumped after her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where it was much warmer. Bella set about preparing scrambled eggs on toast, and then Maclean set about eating them.

Watching the food vanish from the plate into nothing was very disconcerting, so she tried not to watch.

"I'll need more," he said, a few minutes after she gave him a second helping.

Bella turned to stare over her shoulder. "More?"

"Aye, I'm as hungry as a stag in the winter, Bella."

He sounded so mournful that she set about frying some sausages and bacon, with tomato and mushrooms, and toast. He ate that, too, so she heated up some soup and rolls. He finished that off with a slice of carrot cake with lemon icing, and the bottle of Australian wine.

"At the rate you're eating, Maclean," she said, peering into the cupboard, "there'll be nothing left in a couple of days. Not that I mind. It must mean you're returning to normal. Maybe you're making up for two hundred and fifty years of hunger."

Maclean gave a sigh of repletion. "It does feel good."

"I'm glad." She smiled. It was a good sign, this hunger of Maclean's. Did this mean that very soon he would be completely visible again? She imagined having the Maclean in the portrait on the wall striding about the cottage. He was so domineering and handsome—altogether rather overwhelming. Before he arrived she had already been attracted to the image of him, so when he was whole again would she lose it completely, or would she be able to hang on to her self-control?

There was a thought. Maclean as her lover. Waking up in the morning with Maclean, and going to bed at night with his arms about her. The images made her feel hot all over.

"Well"—she took a breath, and tried to distract herself by glancing about at the mess—"I think I'll leave this and go back to bed . . . eh, sleep."

"Goodnight, Bella."

She hesitated in the doorway. "I was reading one of the books I found in the library today. It's a history of the Macleods of Mhairi, cobbled together by someone who's related to them. It isn't very well written, but it made me realize something I should have known. The origin of the Black Maclean legend must have been Auchry Macleod. There's no other explanation."

"Ishbel's father?"

"Yes. When the authorities eventually got around to investigating the massacre, it was him they spoke to. He seems to be the starting point in all of this. Didn't he like you very much, Maclean?"

"He was a sly weasel of a man," he said coldly. "It doesna surprise me he would do something underhanded to hurt me when I was dead and couldn't accuse him of the lie. That would be Auchry's way."

"He must have been very fond of his daughter if he'd forgive her for abandoning her useful marriage to you and running off with Iain. I would have thought most fathers in your day would have given the girl a sound beating and dragged her back to her future husband."

"Auchry was always weak when it came to Ishbel. Once she got home she would turn her sweet smile on him and he'd do anything she asked."

"So do you think he . . . killed you?" Cut your body into pieces and threw it to the four winds. She shuddered at such barbarity.

"No, not Auchry."

Bella waited. It sounded as if he had more to tell her, but when he remained silent, she said lightly, "Then it doesn't surprise me that Ishbel's father would use your death to blacken your memory. If he could turn you into such a villain that she had no option but to leave, then there's no stain on her character, or his."

Maclean pondered a moment. "Aye, you're right. Blackening my name would suit him. But I dinna understand how he overcame me and my men. He was a thief, a man to sneak up in the dark and rob his neighbors, no' a soldier."

"He wouldn't have gone to Loch Fasail afterwards, then?"

"Even Auchry would hesitate when it came to the murder of innocent women and children, even if they were Maclean women and children. No, there is more to it, Bella."

"Then I'll have to dig further." Again she hesitated. She had a feeling that Maclean was remembering something, but he was keeping it to himself. Bella wished he would tell her, but she could hardly force it out of him; she didn't think Maclean was a man who could be forced to do anything against his will. He would open up to her when he was good and ready.

"Goodnight, Maclean."

"Goodnight, Arabella."

Bella closed the door. She was tired and longing for her bed, but still she took a moment to stand in the cold hallway and think of Maclean. To try and make sense of what was happening to her. And to wonder why, in the midst of all this craziness, she was so happy.

"Take care, Bella." She whispered the warning. "Remember, he could vanish again as quickly as he appeared."

It was better to shield herself from being hurt, she had learned that much from Brian. She would be a fool to trust Maclean implicitly. The unfortunate thing was, she wanted to. Despite all her precautions he had slipped beneath her guard, and was dangerously close to making a captive of her heart.

* * *

When Bella woke it was to the smell of cooking. Surprised, she made her way downstairs, realizing she had slept far longer than usual. The flush of dawn had come and gone, and now there was a soft misty rain falling over the loch. When she opened the door into the kitchen she was immediately enveloped by a haze of smoke and steam and the smell of meat sizzling.

Maclean was busy playing chef.

"There you are!" he said when she came through the door. "I couldna wait any longer, woman. My belly was pressing against my backbone."

Bella cast an eye over the scene and decided he didn't need any immediate help. She sat down at the table, trying not to notice how pans and pots were moved by his invisible hands.

"You really are becoming a man again, Maclean. The Fiosaiche must be very pleased with you."

"I want to please her. And you, Bella. I want to be a man again, so that I can please you."

Bella cleared her throat, an image of Maclean and herself flashing into her mind with hot, sharp clarity.

He seemed to read her thoughts because he chuckled, and for a moment, just a moment, she could see a man-shaped cloud. Not black, like his silhouette against bright light, but bluish and green. Perhaps the color of his plaid? A pan crashed into the sink, he cursed, and now she could definitely see him. All of him. Enveloped in a fuzzy white mist.

"Maclean," she breathed, afraid that saying it aloud might make it go away. "I can see you…I think. I can see something."

He froze. As she stared he moved toward her, becoming bigger, and then part of the hazy shape reached out and she felt Maclean's fingers wrap around her wrist. Staring down, she could see the vague outline of his arm and hand, but no detail; he was very poorly defined.

"I can see you," she said. "Not clearly yet, but I can see you."

His fingers trembled. "I really am becoming a man again," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Behind him a pot boiled over with a violent splutter.

With a curse he turned back to the mess he was making. But nothing was damaged and a moment later he had served up two plates of bacon and eggs with half-burnt toast. Bella thanked him, finding it touching that he had not just cooked for himself, but had gone to the trouble of thinking of her, too.

"This cooking business is simple," Maclean announced around a mouthful of food. "I dinna know why women fuss about it so."

Bella narrowed her eyes at him. "So you're an expert now, are you, Maclean?"

"I'm a man."

"Your point being?"

"A man is naturally better at everything, apart from bearing babies."

Bella itched to throw something at him. Instead she said, "You're medieval, Maclean. A medieval despot. A feudal lord."

He munched a moment in silence. "Do you know, Bella, I've been to the homes of some of the nobles of Scotland, and I tell you that just because they dress in lace and wear wigs and have people to wait on them doesna make them good landlords and chiefs. 'Tis my opinion that the more money a man has, the more he wants. He forgets his people and the reason he was born to be a leader of them, and thinks only of having as much fine furniture and gold plate about him as he can get hold of, and wearing as many jewels on his fingers as he can bear."

"Hmm, very Calvinist of you, Maclean." But he impressed her with his thoughts, and the depth of frank feeling behind them.

"I never wanted to prance about Edinburgh in high heels," he retorted crossly. "I liked it fine here in Fasail. This was my place and my people, and I was born to protect them from harm." He stopped. After a moment he pushed his plate away, food still on it. "Aye, and look what a mess I made of it," he said bitterly.

Bella spoke gently. "Maclean, when you returned from Culloden and Ishbel was gone, did you ever have any doubts about going after her?"

"No," he said stiffly.

Bella leaned forward. "Why not? I mean, if you didn't love her and she was desperate to go, and you were certain of your authority over her father, what did it matter if she left? Was the land that important to you that you'd forgo your own happiness and hers for the sake of it?"

" I am the Maclean. Do you think my people would respect me if I allowed my future wife to run off with a scrawny wee laddie?"

His voice dripped ice and an arrogance that chilled her blood. He didn't sound like the Maclean she had come to know. He sounded like the man in the legend, and capable of anything.

Bella swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. "I don't know, Maclean. Perhaps in hindsight your people would have preferred to forgo the respect and keep their lives. What value do you place on their ‘respect' for you after all?"

"I am a man, and I have my pride, woman!" He shouted it, making her jump and the plates rattle. "You canna put a price on a man's pride!"

"Pride!" Bella's own voice rose several decibels. She hesitated, not because she was shouting at a Highlander who did not exist, but because she was shouting. Bella didn't shout. She brooded. She stayed silent and mulled over the injustices in her life, and thought of all the things she wished she had said at the time. Now Maclean, with his blustering bullheadedness, was infecting her with that same need to express herself. Loudly.

"What has your pride done for you, Maclean? Look at yourself. You should have humbled your pride that day, not chewed upon it like a sour bone."

"What would a woman know about pride?" he roared back, and now the whole kitchen shook. "Women have no pride. They are devious sluts, their tongues saying one thing when they mean the opposite, their smiles luring an honest man into making a fool of himself and believing in them, when all the time they are plotting to run off with another. Ishbel didna deserve to be happy!"

He stopped, breathing hard, his bitter betrayal a heavy weight between them.

Bella felt sick with the new suspicion engulfing her. "So it was love that sent you to fetch Ishbel back," she insisted. "You loved her and she betrayed you and you couldn't forgive her. Couldn't forgive the fact that she chose another man over you, the great Maclean. You went after her, full of jealous fury, and killed that man. My God, did you love her that much, Maclean?"

"I've told you," he growled, "I didna love her at all! But she was my future wife. A man doesna let his wife run off if he has any pride. He fetches her back, and that is what I went to do."

Abruptly Bella stood up. "Let me get this right, Maclean. You are the Chief of the Macleans of Fasail, and they mean everything to you. In fact, you decided not to fight at Culloden because you realized your men would die, and you thought more of them than any lost cause. I understand that. Where was your pride then? If you were as puffed up with it as you've just led me to think, then you would have fought, whatever the consequences, because to fail to do so would lower you in the eyes of your betters."

"M'betters!" he snorted. "I am my own man, I make up my own mind, and I dinna bow and scrape to anyone."

"Exactly! You put the interests of your people before anyone else. You did that. So why did you go after Ishbel? Fetching her back was of no advantage to you, surely? An unwilling wife and all that. Unless you were afraid of what her father would do once your hostage to his good behavior was free?" Bella paused. "But no, you've already said you did not fear Auchry, you despised him. So why did you do it, Maclean? There has to be a better reason than you've given me so far. Why?"

He stood up, his chair crashing backward onto the floor and catching the handle of a pan and a plate as it went. Maclean's roar of anger drowned out the ensuing din.

"Because I was tired of listening to the bleating of women!"

Bella stared back at him, or where she thought he was—he seemed to have vanished altogether again now. "What women? Ishbel?"

"The women of Loch Fasail, my mother, all begging me not to go, all wringing their hands at me. They didna understand, none of them."

"The women didn't want you to go," Bella said slowly, finally understanding. "But you didn't listen to them, did you? It was beneath you to listen to women."

So Maclean had chased after Ishbel, and that was when everything had gone wrong. If he had listened to them like the clever and reasonable man she knew he was capable of being, if he had been a truly great and wise man, then history would have been changed. The massacre would still probably have occurred—they did not know the details yet—but Maclean and his men would have been there to fight, not lying dead at Auchry Macleod's feet.

And suddenly Bella realized that Maclean knew it, too. The guilt was eating him alive, but he'd never admit it. He had far too much pride to lose.

"Maybe you were right," she said quietly. "Maybe you can't change. Maybe all of this is a waste of the Fiosaiche 's time."

He didn't reply, but then, she hadn't expected him to.