Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

M aclean was in a good mood, too. He had gotten the mug to sail off the desk very satisfactorily; it had caught Bella's attention nicely. And now she had a picture of him she had placed upon the wall. He grinned in pleased amazement. It was the portrait he'd had painted in 1744, though Bella's copy was far smaller and of poorer quality than the original, but it was definitely the same painting. Maclean remembered how the wee artist shook in his boots while it amused Maclean to play the savage bloodthirsty Highlander.

"Boo," he'd longed to say, just to see the wee man wet himself, but he was the chief so he showed some restraint. But the artist had his revenge by making Maclean look as if he were about to reach out of the canvas and throttle someone.

And now he was on Bella's wall.

Maclean was flattered that after two hundred and fifty years dead he could still occupy a woman's thoughts so fully. What he didn't understand was the why of it; what connection she had to his current predicament.

Bella had settled in front of the machine and was munching on a piece of toast while she flicked through her pieces of paper. Maclean came up behind her and stood waiting for her to begin talking to herself. Every morning Bella sat at the machine that clacked beneath her busy fingers and made words and sentences appear upon a square flat surface that rested upright in front of her. The words themselves danced like fireflies before his eyes, so he didn't try to read them. It wasn't that he couldn't read—he had been educated well. As was the way with his memory that gave up insignificant details so easily and yet refused him the important ones, he could remember his first tutor. An enlightened man, he taught the young Maclean that there was a world that extended far beyond his borders. He introduced him to poetry and prose and ideas, but his father called such things a waste of time and the tutor had left, and another, far more "suitable," was found.

Maclean found he enjoyed watching Bella's face and the thoughts that flitted over it—her eyes changed with every emotion so that he did not need to guess what she was feeling or thinking. In any case she was one of those women who frequently spoke aloud to herself, even when she was alone, or maybe because of it. Maclean found a guilty pleasure in closing his eyes and pretending she was speaking to him.

"Why can't I get it right?" she said with a sigh, and pressed the button that took away all the words again. She did that a lot.

He leaned forward, eager to answer. "What have you done now, woman?"

"I've never had this much trouble before."

"Why do you no' find a priest or a scribe? In my day, women found a man to do their writing for them."

"It's not as if this is my first book."

"So you are a scribe yourself?" He was impressed. He had known of women who were well taught, but not many came to Fasail. Bella seemed exceptional. "Do you write down the works of learned men? Is that what you're doing, lass?"

"My last book sold . . . well, at least five thousand copies."

Maclean heard the ironic smile in her voice but did not understand it. "Five thousand? That's an awful lot of books."

"Then why is this story so hard to tell? Am I being true to history? Or am I writing it the way I want it to be? My fantasy Scottish warrior." She groaned and buried her face in her hands.

He peered down at her, frowning in his attempt to see into her mind. But she was off again, lurching forward to begin her furious tapping, the words lighting up the screen. If he had been a living man they would have butted heads, but as it was she passed right through him, leaving him with an odd dizzy feeling and the lingering scent of her perfume.

" 'Tis a beautiful morning," he said, glancing longingly at the window. "We could go for a walk?"

She sighed. "Work, Bella, work."

Work? Did she call her tapping on the machine work? He smiled indulgently. Women's work was cleaning and cooking and raising babies. And pleasing a man. Maclean thought Bella could please him very well. She was perfect, her skin creamy and smooth, her curves lush and womanly. Any guilt he might have felt watching her wash and dress was soon overcome by the pleasure it gave him. But there was something odd about the speed with which she covered herself. Almost as if she knew he was there, or . . . was it possible she was ashamed of her beauty?

He pondered on it now, turning the question over in his head. Was physical attractiveness something to be kept hidden in this new world?

He could not accept it.

Unless . . . Did Bella not know she was beautiful? Had someone convinced her she was ugly—not fit to be seen? This seemed a far more likely explanation for Bella's strange behavior. Words could be cruel. They could continue to cause pain and suffering long after the person who had spoken them was gone.

Maclean's own father had a vicious temper, and would strike out at those around him with words that slashed and cut and maimed as efficiently as a sword. The memory came out of the void in his mind.

His mother's face, tear-streaked and unhappy, the bruise growing on her cheek, and Maclean, his voice quavering, "She dinna mean it, Father, please, forgive her," and his father, raging, "I'll no'put up with ye taking sides against me, laddie! She has betrayed me, betrayed us both. There can be no forgiveness. Tell him, woman! Tell him how you meant to abandon your child!"

And his mother, bleak, wooden. "I did plan to leave Loch Fasail, Morven. I didna want to abandon you and I would not have done so, only . . . your father would never let me take you with me. He would kill me first. Now it does not matter. My lover is dead."

Her lips wobbled. Tears spilled from her eyes.

But he did not see her anguish, he was not old enough to understand her conflict. Only one thing had relevance for him.

"You meant to leave me?"

Maclean could still remember the incredible sense of betrayal as his mother's silence confirmed the worst he could imagine.

From that moment on, Maclean was his father's son, turning his back on his mother as she had turned hers on him. And now that he was a grown man, he did not feel as if he knew her at all. Women were a mystery to him.

Maclean frowned.

Women are no' important. A man must look to his lands, his clan and his enemies. Women are nothing but a distraction.

There was his father's voice, ringing in his head. Maclean knew it was a fundamental truth that distractions could kill a man.

The ironical thing was that now he had nothing to do but be distracted by a woman.

He glanced down at Bella, and the familiar warmth spread through his ghostly body. She had dressed in a white overshirt today, so tight he was amazed that she had got it on. He'd noticed before that some of her clothes seemed to stretch out as she tugged them over her head or hips, and then reshape themselves lovingly to her curves.

One strand of her long dark hair had fallen out of its pins, caressing her cheek. Maclean clenched his hands into fists to stop himself from trying to brush it back, knowing it would spoil the illusion that he was a real man.

Would his father be pleased with him now? If he knew his warrior son's one ambition was to take a woman's lock of hair between his finger and thumb and experience the feel of it? The scent of it? No, Maclean knew his father would not be pleased about that.

He wondered abruptly if his brutal father ever felt love for a woman, for his wife? As he stood, breathing in Bella's scent, it occurred to Maclean that part of his father's savage bitterness toward women may well have been because of his own hurt and betrayal. In his own way, he had loved Maclean's mother, and her planning on leaving him for another man had curdled that love and blackened his heart forever.

It did not excuse his treatment of her—the blows, the curses—but it made sense. Maclean's father had blamed all women for the faults of one. And he had taught Maclean to feel the same, and to protect himself from the hurt that loving could cause. But at what cost?

Distractedly, he glanced at the screen as the lit letters flashed upon it. And froze. The letters were no longer dancing in front of his eyes like fireflies. He could read them!

Intrigued, Maclean shuffled closer, ignoring the disconcerting way in which parts of Bella's body merged with his. He read the first line aloud. "Morven Maclean was named for his grandfather—"

His name was on the screen. She was writing about him! Maclean gave her a bewildered look. Why would she be writing a book about him ? It was not as if he were a king or a prince—he could understand if she was writing about Charles Stuart or King George, but Maclean? What had he ever done, that Bella would want to write it down in a book? Though important to him, his life was private, his alone, and the idea of it being scrutinized by others made him very uncomfortable.

"You've written that I was called Morven after my grandfather," he said irritably. "That's wrong."

She couldn't hear him.

He gave an impatient sigh and tried again. "You see, Morven was a sea warrior from the old days. He had the strength of many men and he performed heroic feats and was thought to be invincible against his enemies. My mother was fanciful and thought the name would make me a better man, and in those days my father loved her enough to let her have her way."

Bella kept clacking.

Maclean restrained his frustration and moved closer to the machine, reading the new words as they appeared there.

"No, no, lass, I wasna an only child! I had a sister, but she died when she was a wee thing. Her name was . . . was . . . Bloody hell!" His memory failed him again.

Maclean's unease and impatience only grew as he read through Bella's version of his childhood. He couldn't turn the pages of her book to peruse them at his own pace, nor could he push the buttons that removed or added the words. He tried, but his fingers slipped through into nothingness. All he could do was stand and peer over her shoulder, and try not to grind his teeth.

He was angry, aye, but even angry as he was, she had the ability to distract him. First her perfume tickled his nose, and then he found himself fascinated by her hair and how the darkness of it was lit by strands that had been touched by the summer sun. If he was a man of flesh and blood he would stoop and nuzzle her neck, tasting her skin, before slipping his hands around her waist and lifting them to stroke the underside of her breasts in that tight white cloth.

Perhaps she felt his invisible gaze, because she folded her arms over her breasts. Maclean smiled and concentrated harder, imagining himself lifting her tight white shirt and revealing her skin inch by inch, and then using his tongue to explore and tease her until she . . .

"Where is that draft coming from?"

She was looking around, a frown wrinkling her brow.

"I'm no draft!" Maclean said in disgust.

Bella shivered again. "There's something wrong with this house," she muttered. Then, reluctantly, as if she didn't really want to believe it: "Maclean?"

Just then the talking box began to sing its song. Again.

As usual, Bella rushed to answer it. Only this time she jumped up and walked right through him.

"Bloody hell, woman, dinna do that!"

She started and looked back over her shoulder, her eyes wide, and for a moment he thought for sure she had heard him. Or seen him. Heart beating hard, he waited, but she was already grabbing up the box and holding it to her ear.

"Hello?"

Maclean sat down on the chair she had just vacated and tried to think. Bella was writing about him in her book; he was fairly certain the whole book was about him. Why else would she have his portrait on her wall?

Why else would she be here, in Fasail, where he used to live? When he first arrived he hadn't thought much about the significance of her being here, but this changed things. This meant that it wasn't just chance. He had attached himself to Bella because it was meant to be. The Fiosaiche had chosen this moment to bring them together, and they were both playing a part in her plan.

But if that was so, then why couldn't he show himself to Bella in the flesh?

"Yes, of course it'll be ready on deadline." Bella was still speaking into the box. She gave a little laugh, but she was pretending. Her eyes had a worried expression. "I didn't realize you were so keen on this one, Elaine. You said you couldn't even promise you'd take it on until you had read—" She paused, a frown wrinkling her brow. "Oh, I see. Is that . . . good?" The frown cleared and she smiled, a proper smile this time, wide and beautiful.

Caught up in that smile, forgetting his own problems, Maclean leaned forward. The chair creaked ominously.

Bella stopped smiling. Her gaze was fixed on the chair.

Maclean held his breath and moved again. The chair gave another creak.

Bella's eyes widened. "Yes, yes, I see," she was saying, but it was obvious she wasn't really concentrating. "Thanks for calling, Elaine."

* * *

Bella finished the call from her agent. Her empty chair had creaked and when she looked at it she could have sworn it . . . it moved .

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. Nothing. The chair was perfectly still. The room was completely empty. What did she expect? Maclean sitting there writing her book for her?

But she didn't laugh. She'd remembered that when the phone rang and she'd gone to answer it she had felt a small, intense electric shock. That was the only way she could describe it. As if she had passed through some living . . . force.

Bella narrowed her eyes and gave the room another minute inspection. However much she might fantasize about Maclean, it was really just that, a fantasy. He wasn't real. Then why did she have this intense awareness of someone else sharing her cottage? Was it the man on the horse with his hate-filled face? Bella shuddered. She'd much rather have Maclean; black-hearted villain or not, he was the man for her.

"Maybe you can help me with the book," she said aloud, wildly, to try and jolt herself out of the creepiness of the situation. "Do you hear me, Maclean? Come on, give me some clues. What were you feeling as you marched to Culloden? What went through your mind? An Interview with a Dead Highland Chief. Mmm. I wonder if Reading England would want to review that."

At least it made her laugh.

The smile stayed. That was what her agent had rung to tell her. Bella's last book had just been reviewed on the prestigious television show Reading England . A five-star review. It was unheard-of. And since then it had sold out and the publisher was reprinting.

It was unbelievable. Her books never sold out, they never went into reprint. Not once in twelve long years of writing had this ever happened to her.

"Five stars," she whispered, and laughed.

Not that the book didn't deserve it. Martin's Journey was the story of an obscure village in England whose inhabitants had struggled to survive the Black Plague in the fourteenth century. Bella had thoroughly researched the villagers who had lived and died there, putting together the story with a combination of parish and other existing records—the priest had written a heartrending account. Several villagers had stood out as heroes, but Martin in particular. She had written his story with verve and poignancy, lifting him from seven centuries of obscurity and giving him the respect she felt he deserved.

And now everyone was reading about him.

"Maybe this time," she whispered. She'd been waiting for the rest of the world to catch on to her work. The minor figures of history who fascinated her had a strong appeal, but until now no one but her agent and publisher had seemed to recognize that. Martin's Journey deserved to be a bestseller, but even moderate sales would help to get The Black Maclean onto bookshelves around the country.

Her heart sank as she realized she had just faithfully promised to deliver the book on deadline when she was already way behind schedule. Why hadn't she used Elaine's good mood to her advantage and insisted she needed more time?

The kettle began to boil, and Bella tipped the steaming water into her cup and jiggled the tea bag. Another thought occurred to her that was not so amusing.

"I wonder if Brian knows about the five-star review."

Dear God, she hoped not. With luck, Brian was too busy with Hamish's antiques, and her brief brush with fame would be over by the time he knew about it. He would still be livid that after all these years she actually had some recognition and he wasn't here to bask in it.

And Bella wasn't the least bit sorry he wasn't here. She could just imagine it: He'd be pestering her to get a complete makeover. She'd end up not recognizing herself. Bella Ryan, the new and glamorous version.

Only it would still be the old her underneath, looking out.

Her tea was ready, and she took out the bag and added milk and sugar. She glanced through the window at the sunshine outside. The loch was awash with gentle light, more of Gregor's sheep cropped the moorland grass, and an eagle soared in the cloudless blue.

She had another four weeks on the lease of the cottage. Where would she go then? To Edinburgh and Brian? No, that was over, whatever Georgiana believed. Perhaps it was better not to think too far ahead. Get the book finished first and then deal with what came after.

Bella sipped her tea and forced herself not to turn and look over her shoulder. There's no one there, there's no one there . . .

Maybe if she repeated it to herself often enough she might believe it.