Chapter 3

Chapter Three

T his is a mistake, Brian had said.

"A mistake?" Bella repeated, tucking her hair behind her ear. There was a sick feeling in her stomach, just as there always was at the beginning of one of their arguments, but this time it was mixed with a flicker of flame.

"We should have taken a place in Edinburgh, somewhere closer to civilization."

"But we decided," she said. "We decided that this was the best place for me to write my book. You know how important it is for me to get close to my . . . my subject. And anyway, I thought you said we needed a holiday together. Just you and me."

Brian pulled a face as if she had said something particularly ridiculous. He was good at making her feel ridiculous.

The flame flared up a notch.

"Well, I've changed my mind. We only have six weeks left on the lease, and I'm sick and tired of roughing it in this hovel with nothing to do. Hamish says I can help him with his antique export business—he says I'd make an excellent front man."

"But you said you wanted a holiday! That you'd take a break from work so that we could spend time together." Not that Brian ever worked at any job for very long; he was always trying to "find" himself and so far the perfect profession had proved elusive. "You said you hated antiques."

"Did I?" Brian's voice was doubtful, as if she were making the mistake, not him.

"Brian, how can you change your mind like this?"

"I'm bored."

The silence was painful. Everything was falling apart and she couldn't seem to find the words to make it right—she didn't know if she wanted to.

"Let's pack now." He was smiling again, pretending it was just a minor hiccup. The liar. "We can be in Edinburgh by—"

"No."

The word surprised her as much as Brian, but as soon as she said it she knew it was the right one. For the first time Brian appeared uncertain, as if he might not get his way.

"No," she repeated it, and it felt even better. "I like it here. My writing is going well. I actually feel as if I'm in touch with my muse again. I'm not leaving now, Brian."

That look again, as if he could hardly believe his ears. "Your muse?" he repeated, and shook his head. Bella could hear his thoughts; he didn't have to say them aloud. We both know you're wasting your time. You're just a poor little rich girl playing at being a writer. When will you face reality?

"You know how hard it's been for me over the past year," she tried again. "I hadn't been able to write since I finished Martin's Journey , but being here . . . it's as if . . ." she struggled to make him understand. To understand herself. "As if I've found myself again. This book is important to me, Brian. I need these six weeks."

"You can write just as well in Edinburgh," he said sulkily.

"No, I can't. There's something about this place—"

"You mean apart from the plumbing?"

Had he made a joke? For a moment Bella thought it would be all right, and then Brian reached out and clasped her hands and she knew he hadn't given in. He wouldn't give in. He never did. It was always Bella who gave in, because it was not in her nature to confront, and she hated arguments.

Lassie, that's just pathetic , said a voice in her head, and it sounded like the Black Maclean's. Or how she imagined he would sound, if he were not two and a half centuries dead.

"Come on, Bella," Brian said, smiling, earnest. "I've known you for years. Your father asked me to look after you when he died, he always said we were meant for each other. I understand you."

Her cheeks felt hot. "You don't understand me any more than he did, Brian."

Her father had never believed in her, either, although he had dutifully loved her, and left her a sizable legacy when he died.

"I need to get out of here, Bella," Brian was saying. "It's driving me mad. I want to give the antiques thing a try, and Hamish and Georgiana will put us up until we can find our own place. Someplace where I won't be ashamed to bring my friends."

"Or is it me you're ashamed of?" She cut angrily through his words.

He laughed uncomfortably, but the truth was in his eyes. Once he had found pleasure in her rather quaint, old-fashioned manner, but no more. Now he wanted someone like Georgiana, svelte and sophisticated. Out with the old, in with the new.

"We can explore the city," he was saying. "We can eat out, party. Live it up. You'll love it, Bella, really."

"I'll hate it," she said quietly, and knew it for the truth. This time she was not going to take the road of least resistance.

His mouth twisted. "I didn't want to tell you this, Bella. God knows I've tried to be supportive, to steer you in the right direction, but it's too late for subtleties now. You're turning into a selfish bore. Frankly, I don't give a damn about your silly little books, and neither does anyone else. That's why no one reads 'em. Look at you! You used to take care of yourself, but lately you just don't care. Couldn't you find something to make you look less fat? I mean, in God's name, what is that you're wearing?"

"Is my robe not Gucci enough for you, Brian?" she asked bitterly, and now the flames were in her eyes, because he took a step back. "And as for fat, well, this is the body I was born with. Marilyn Monroe would be called fat these days, too. And for your information, if I don't take care of myself—and I'm not saying that's true—it's because I'm unhappy. You make me unhappy."

" I make you unhappy!"

"Yes. Yes! You're a mean-spirited, egotistical bully. Go to Edinburgh. I hope you and Hamish and Georgiana will be very happy together."

He stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

"Good," he said in a flat, cold voice. "I didn't want you to come with me anyway. I'm tired of playing second fiddle to a dead man. I'll just leave you to your pathetic delusions."

He walked over to the wall and ripped down the copy of Maclean's portrait and crumpled it into a ball.

She gave a cry of distress. "For God's sake, are you really jealous of a painting?"

He didn't bother to answer her, his face filled with vicious satisfaction. "When you decide to rejoin the human race you know where to find me," he said, and flung the paper into the corner as he turned to the stairs, making certain he got the last word.

Bella listened to him opening and closing doors, and throwing his cases around up in the bedroom, and then the ominous clatter of his shoes on the stairs. Brian was leaving again and this time it was for good.

She was glad. She was, she really . . .

The front door slammed.

. . . was.

Bella felt her shoulders sag a little as the flames died. It was over. Brian was gone and she was all alone in an isolated cottage in the Highlands of Scotland.

Bella and her muse.

* * *

Maclean stood listening to the receding monster. He hadn't liked the man. He hadn't liked the way he had spoken to the woman. Maclean felt strangely indignant on her behalf, almost . . . protective. As for the wee cottage . . . Maclean looked at it with distain. He was Chief of the Macleans of Fasail, the Black Maclean, and this was no place for him.

He had drawn himself up in his pride, but now his shoulders slumped. What was the point of such arrogance if no one knew he was here? If no one could see him to obey his every word? If his people were all gone and his lands empty apart from the rain and the wind?

The Highlander stood outside in the night, gazing in through the window, his emotions twisting and turning inside him like serpents' tails. A night bird called out, the eerie sound echoing across the loch. He felt more alone than ever.

There was nowhere else for him to go. He knew it. The knowledge was a bitter bubble in his throat. But if the Fiosaiche had meant such a realization to humble him, then she was mistaken. Maclean did not bow to man or woman.

He almost, in his pride, turned away again, but at the last moment his gaze was drawn back to the woman. She was cutting vegetables on a board, behaving as if the argument with the man had never happened. As if she had never driven her man away , he corrected himself, pushing aside his earlier indignation. Betrayal, deception, mistrust. The words hammered his brain, and he knew that something very similar had happened to him, if only he could remember what it was. . .

He breathed hard, and then stilled. She tugged at him. Was she some sort of witch? His gaze slid over her soft cheek and full mouth, and the way her lashes lay long and dark against her pale skin. Aye, maybe she was a witch, for as he stared he felt his ghostly self begin to ache for her in a manner that was all too mortal.

And then he saw a tear roll down her cheek, followed by another.

She was crying while she worked, and her lips were moving. Talking to herself? Or, could it be, singing, to try and lift her spirits? Whatever it was, it wasn't working.

She was not so hard-hearted after all, he realized. She was hurting. And alone. Maclean was stunned to think that there was a fellow creature in this strange new world who suffered.

Instinctively he stepped forward and splayed his hand against the glass, as if to touch her, to give comfort to her.

And just like that he was inside the cottage, inside the warm comfortable room, with the darkness behind him.