Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

A rattle of stones as someone jumped from the lower part of the ruins. A whisper of clothing as someone brushed through the thick grass nearby. The sounds caught Maclean by surprise. In an instant he was on his feet, Bella pushed to safety behind the bulk of his body, and reaching for his claidheamh mor . She tumbled off him, still limp and replete, but the rasp of the metal blade sliding from the scabbard made her cry out in fright.

Maclean glanced at Bella to be certain she was all right, before he turned once more to face any possible danger.

"Show yoursel'!" he demanded.

The rain had stopped and so had the wind. A mist was creeping in, covering the hilltop and its scattering of stones with opaque fingers of white. It meant Maclean and Bella couldn't be so easily seen, but it also meant Maclean couldn't see whoever was out there. Watching them.

Something appeared briefly in the mist, a red and green plaid, and a wisp of long golden hair. An echo of laughter, fading. Maclean felt his heart thudding so hard it made him feel sick. He knew that laughter.

Another rattle of stone, this time in the direction of the path, and a hissing curse as someone slipped. And then running steps, fading into silence. He waited, watching, listening, until he was certain that whoever had been up here with them was gone.

Maclean tried to tell himself that he had been mistaken. How could Ishbel be here? And how could she have been in Ardloch yesterday? She had been a sweet girl, maybe somewhat manipulative like her father, but she had changed before he left for Culloden, grown sullen and secretive, with a bitter edge. And now she was back and she was no longer Ishbel.

She was something else.

"Maclean?"

At the sound of Bella's voice he turned and two things happened. He felt a wave of happiness and relief, that she was here with him. And he felt a terrible fear that Ishbel would take her away from him. Was she capable of it? Aye, the creature that was Ishbel was capable of anything.

"I'm here," he called back.

She was still standing in the archway, and although she had returned her clothing to order and zipped up her jacket, her hair was tangled and her eyes wide. There was a loving mark on her pale throat where he had been too enthusiastic.

"What was it?" she whispered, looking past him into the mist, then back again. Her eyes fixed upon the broadsword, and he could tell she was frightened at the violence it represented. Quickly he sheathed the blade as he closed the distance between them.

He bent his head until his face was level with hers, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"You're safe with me, Bella," he said softly. "My oath on it."

She swallowed, her eyes searching his as if she were looking for the lie. And then she seemed to slump, her face relaxing into a smile. "I can see you again, Maclean."

"I guessed mabbe you could," he said, and grinned back. His gaze dropped down, over her body. She'd covered herself up, but he remembered the sight of all those lush, voluptuous curves, and he felt himself growing hard again.

Was this part of the Fiosaiche 's plan? That he and Bella should be bound together by passion and desire? That his feelings for her would make a better man of him?

In truth, right now Maclean didn't care.

He caught her hand in his, and found to his surprise that her fingers were cold and trembling. When he looked at her face more closely, he discovered her nose was pink and her teeth were chattering. Maclean cursed softly and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her in tight against his body.

"What am I thinking?" he said gruffly. "You're cold and I'm keeping you here blathering. This time we'll use the bed."

Bella gave a muffled chuckle, her face pressed to his chest. "Maybe that would be best," she teased.

Maclean led her back toward the cottage, glancing about him in a manner that to Bella would look casual but wasn't. There was something not right here in Loch Fasail. He felt it in the air, a heavy oppressiveness, as if a storm were building. He must be ready for whatever came. This time, Maclean swore to himself, he would not make the mistake of leaving what belonged to him undefended.

* * *

Bella sat on the edge of the bed in the twilit room, trying not to wake Maclean, watching him as he slept. She couldn't help looking at him. Maclean was almost entirely visible. Maybe a very slight fuzziness about the edges, but otherwise . . .

He was perfect.

She pushed her hair over one shoulder and grimaced as the movement caused her muscles to protest. Maclean was not a man to stop when he was roused. Not that she'd wanted him to; far from it. She'd been more than willing to meet him halfway. In fact she'd surprised herself with just how uninhibited she could be, given half a chance. It had never been like this with Brian; the very thought of making love with him as she had with Maclean made her cringe in embarrassment.

Brian would be horrified by such lack of cool finesse.

Bella had relished every moment of it.

Maclean moved, and in the half-light she let her gaze drift over him. He was taking up most of her bed, one leg dangling off the side, the other sticking well off the end of the mattress. His arms were flung outward, his chest bare, the covers twisted about his hips but not hiding much. His face was turned to one side, his hair spread behind him.

There were few words she could think of that described him adequately. Desirable was one, magnificent was another, heart-stopping, spellbinding . . . frightening. He had changed her, or perhaps he had simply set her free. She trusted him. She could say and do anything with him and not feel as though he would judge her for it. Bella had never had that experience with a man before.

He was like no other man she had ever come across, and although her life had been sheltered, Bella did not think there was another Maclean out there somewhere. He was as unique in the twenty-first century as he had been in the eighteenth century.

No wonder the Fiosaiche wanted to save him.

"You're looking at me again, Arabella," he teased, and opened one eye to peer at her. "What time is it?"

"Late. Nearly dark. Are you hungry?"

He made a growling noise and pounced on her, making her shriek as he rubbed his face against her neck.

"Stop it, Maclean, you have whiskers!"

"I know. Isn't it wonderful, Bella?"

She laughed and rubbed her knuckles over his jaw, feeling the rough scratch of the shadow that was getting darker by the minute. He really was returning to manhood, in every way. She leaned forward and licked the tip of her tongue over his chin, and then began to nibble his lips, little kisses that turned into longer, hotter ones.

He caught her to him, sliding his palms up under the skirt she was wearing and murmuring his appreciation at her lack of underwear. He caressed her with bold, knowing fingers and her kisses grew drugged and burning.

She slid her thigh over him, poising herself above his erection and sinking down. "So good," she whispered, pleased that she could say her secret thoughts aloud for him to hear.

"Aye," he groaned, lying still and letting her do the work.

She used his chest for leverage, feeling the broad expanse beneath her fingers, the rough hair and powerful muscles. He caught her hips in his palms, thrusting into her body eagerly, meeting her passion with a passion of his own. The climax took them by surprise, Bella's gaze tangling with his, caught and held in that moment of intense pleasure.

"We are well matched, me and you," Maclean said, tucking her against his side. He had spoken the words before, but she didn't mind. It was true.

The room was dark now, just the faintest light in the sky outside the window.

He stroked her hip and she waited, because it seemed to her that he had something more to say.

"You were right, Bella. I should have listened to the women. To my mother. When I was a wee lad she planned to run away. Leave me and my father for another man. My father found out and the man . . . died. I canna say who or what was to blame, but after that my mother didna try and run away again. But he never forgave her. I didna forgive her, either. I never trusted myself to love her again, nor any woman. My father's bitterness infected me. He was no' an easy man, I know, but he loved her . . . in his way."

"So Ishbel—"

"I gave more of myself to Ishbel than any other woman since my mother turned her back on me. Ishbel was afraid of me and what a man does with a woman, and her fear worked on me. I promised her that if she and I wed I wouldna take her in that way until she was ready. I tried to be kind and gentle with her, everything my father abhorred, but still she left me. Abandoned me like my mother for another man . . . no, a boy! I had given her everything, I had bared my heart and soul, and she'd paid me back with lies and deceit. I knew then that nothing else would do for me but to force her back to Loch Fasail and show her I was no' such a weakling as she imagined. But I know now it wasna to show her , not really. It was to show mysel'."

"She hurt you, Maclean—"

"I was in a rage. My father was in my head. It seemed to me then that he must be right when he told me a man's rage must be hot and his heart cold, and because I had gone against his words I had become a weak fool. I was angry with mysel' and my father and Ishbel. And I was angry with my mother when she came to me, for not understanding my feelings."

He ended on a rush, breathless, hurting. Bella considered what he had said. It made sense. A man like Maclean, brought up by a brutal and angry father in his image, and at the same time he was his mother's son, longing for something more. For the first time, with Ishbel, he had dared to show the part of himself that longed for love, for a normal happy life, but he chose the wrong woman. It must have seemed like a divine lesson. Maclean would have determined to return immediately to his father's ways and punish Ishbel. The hurt little boy inside him overruled the older, wiser man.

Bella sighed. "I see it all now," she said. "And you promised not to touch Ishbel?" she added, feeling her face coloring that this part of all he had said should be so important to her. "You never . . . um . . ."

"Never." He said it grimly.

Bella sat up, her face shadowy above him, but he could see the soft gleam in her eyes. "I know it is very wrong of me, Maclean, but I can't help feeling glad about that."

He smiled, and reached up to rub his thumb back and forth over her lips. "Neither can I."

"Do you think you'd take another chance, with another woman?"

She was holding her breath, dreading the answer. Bella knew all about hurt feelings and the effort involved in exposing your most vulnerable emotions. One could only do it so many times before it just didn't seem worth the pain.

"Aye," he said, his voice low and husky. "I wouldna have said so once, but now . . . I think I would, if I found the right one."

"And . . . do you think you will? Find the right one, I mean?"

He slid his palm to her cheek and drew her slowly, inexorably down to him.

"Aye," he whispered, just before his mouth closed on hers.