Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Carlton was sitting in the corner, reading. Every few minutes he would lick his forefinger and turn the page. Any other day Virginia would have cautioned him that doing such a thing would damage the book, but she was so grateful he was occupied she didn’t say a word.

His tutor had gone off to Kinloch village on his half day off, but even if he was still at Drumvagen, it was doubtful Carlton would have left her side. Whatever Macrath told him had made an indelible impression on her son. He rarely let her out of his sight.

A sharp tap on the door frame drew her attention, and she turned to see Ceana standing there.

Carlton looked up as well, then evidently reassured by Ceana’s presence, went back to his reading.

He was guarding her.

She was going to have to talk to Macrath, and Bruce, for that matter. This couldn’t continue. She had to feel safe in her own home. Even more importantly, her children did not have to guard her.

“Come in,” she said to Ceana before turning to Carlton. “Go and tell Brianag we need tea and biscuits.” Her son’s eyes lit up. Carlton had a well--developed love of Brianag’s honey biscuits. She held up one finger. “No more than two, Carlton.”

He reluctantly nodded, but escaped from the room.

“You’ve rescued me from my knight,” she said, closing the door and turning to Ceana. “For some reason, Carlton has decided to protect me.”

Ceana looked away.

“You know about Henderson,” Virginia said, returning to her chair.

“I do,” Ceana confessed. “I think it’s horrible. I didn’t know anything about what he’d done. Nor can I remember him from London.”

“I wish I could forget him,” Virginia said. “He seems to have formed some type of fixation on me. Come and sit down and we’ll talk of other things until Carlton returns.”

“I’ve have a favor to ask,” Ceana said, her voice halting.

Virginia put her knitting aside and motioned to the adjoining chair.

After seating herself, Ceana stared down at the black silk of her skirt. “I’ve not worn anything but black since Peter died.”

“And you’re tired of it, aren’t you?”

“Is it terrible to want to wear something else?”

“No. I can remember feeling the same. Besides, black is only to let other -people know you’re in mourning. Your emotions aren’t tied to the color of the dress you wear. I suspect you’ll always miss Peter in your heart.”

Ceana nodded. “He was such a good man,” she said.

“If you had been the one to die, would he have kept mourning for the rest of his life?”

The question evidently surprised Ceana, because she stared wide--eyed at her.

“I’ve never considered that. I hope he wouldn’t have. I hate to think of him being sad all the time. Besides, my darling girls would need a mother.”

“Don’t they need a father?”

Ceana smiled. “My brothers--in--law would say they have enough uncles to make up for the lack of a father.”

“Do you have enough brothers--in--law to make up for the lack of a husband?”

Ceana’s cheeks grew rosy. “They would say love isn’t important for me. That I should be happy with the memory of love and want nothing more for myself.”

“What do you say?” Virginia asked.

“Can you ever imagine yourself without Macrath and marrying again?”

The thought sent a spike of fear into her heart.

“I don’t even like to think of being without Macrath for a day,” she said. “But I think he would want me to be happy, whatever that entails. Just as I think Peter would want the same for you.”

Ceana nodded, her gaze on the view outside the window.

Virginia stood. “But right now we’ll address your wardrobe. I’ve nothing in mauve, I’m afraid. The shade doesn’t suit me. But I have a lovely pale green dress that would look wonderful with your coloring. For a while, at least, you can put your black aside.”

Ceana might want to put her mourning aside as well, a thought she didn’t voice.

His house was ready for her.

He was ready for her.

Paul looked around the sitting room one last time, gratified his servants had been able to find so many roses. She loved roses. Whenever he thought of Virginia, he remembered her perfume, a soft powdery rose scent.

The rest of the house was sparsely furnished, but it would do. He didn’t plan on being here long. Just a week, maybe less time than that.

Perhaps once Virginia was here she’d fall into his arms in relief and joy.

He could almost imagine her words. She’d be so grateful to see him, she’d tell him of her prayers. “All those nights,” she might say, “I dreamed you would come back for me.”

They might be able to leave for America in a few days. This time he wasn’t going to Kinloch harbor. No, he’d arranged for a large cabin aboard a luxurious vessel. They’d board her in London.

“I’m leaving, sir.”

He turned to find Connor standing there, filling the doorway.

“You’ve memorized the map?”

The giant nodded.

“Take care with her. I’ll not have her injured or hurt in any way.”

“No, sir.”

“She has the most beautiful eyes,” he said, then caught himself smiling. He shook his head. “Bring her to me safely.”

“Yes, sir.”

He watched as Connor left the room. A matter of an hour or two at the most and Virginia would be here with him.

What was she doing here in the grotto again? Hoping for another tryst? Hoping to catch Bruce naked again? Hoping for another kiss?

She’d almost gone to his room again last night, halted only by the memory of his honor. Somehow, she had to regain her sanity.

She would leave in a few days and return to Ireland. Peter’s family would not understand why she was choosing to move home to Scotland. Something Virginia said the other day had stuck with her. Peter would want her to be happy, and happiness was no longer possible living in Ireland.

She had loved Peter with all her heart and he had loved her, enough to push her away from death and toward life. Enough she could almost imagine him whispering in her ear, “Go, my darling. Seek out your life and live it fully and with joy.”

She hadn’t done that until coming to Scotland. Once here, she’d forgotten she was a widow and become enthralled with a man.

Moving to stand at the window, she stared out at the beach and beyond to the ocean. The wind was whipping the waves to white caps. Above, the sky was turning gray, the clouds blowing across the sun. She’d missed a Highland storm. Ireland’s rains seemed gentle in comparison.

Where was he?

Was he still swimming? He hadn’t left a pile of his clothing neatly folded by the door.

He wouldn’t be looking for her. He wouldn’t be thinking of her, wondering what she was doing.

He would have no idea she’d borrowed a gown from Virginia and done her hair in a different way. Vanity, that’s all it was. Foolishness. Could she be so lonely that any man would attract her attention?

He wasn’t any man, though, was he?

Passion had erupted between them, shocking her. Passion was heated air and being barely able to breathe, your heart beating so fast it felt like it was galloping in your chest. Passion wasn’t one single thing; it was excitement and joy and fear and surprise and delight and disbelief. Passion changed you, made you a different person.

She wasn’t the Widow Mead any longer. She was Ceana Sinclair, a woman from a proud Scottish heritage.

Bruce could have been her Highland lover, warrior, leader of men. Gone for weeks or months or years, he would have greeted her the same, marking her as his, so hungry for her he didn’t care where they were or who might be watching.

She’d wanted him to take her on the beach, the secluded cove as their chamber. The long grass above them and the earth curving behind them would be their bed. They had no need of perfumed potpourri, not with the scent of the sea and the roses from Drumvagen. With the bright sunlight, there was no necessity for candles or lamps.

Instead, he’d held her close, shielding her from the wind, comforting her without a word spoken. In those moments in his arms she felt herself healing, all the hurts and pains of the past three years fading away.

He’d walked with her to the grotto, bent his head to kiss her one last time. She could see his eyes darkening, the pupils becoming wider. His face was bronzed as he kissed her. Then there was only him and the stars and sparkles behind her closed eyelids.

She hadn’t seen him for a whole day. He hadn’t been at dinner the night before or at breakfast this morning. Had he left for Edinburgh again or gone farther, to Inverness?

She missed him. When she heard a footfall, she turned with a smile to greet him, only to have a cloth dropped over her head.

Seconds later she was upended.

“Put me down this instant!”

Who on earth was manhandling her this way? Bruce would have had more care. Wouldn’t he?

She kicked out, but he only grunted in response. In the next moment he grabbed her legs. She screamed.

“I should have muzzled you,” he said.

That wasn’t Bruce’s voice.

Whoever her abductor was, he was carrying her somewhere. She tried to kick again, but he was holding her so tightly she couldn’t. She beat at his back with her fists and he retaliated by slapping her on the bottom, hard enough that she cried out.

“Let me go!”

She could hear his shoes crunching on the sand and felt the sudden bright warmth on her legs. Where was he taking her? Who was he?

Her brothers--in--law were not adverse to force when necessary, even though she’d never known them to use it on a woman. Had they been so upset at her leaving Ireland they’d come after her? Was she being kidnapped in order to force her to return to Iverclaire?

“I don’t care how much they paid you. I will not return to Ireland under duress.”

Her abductor only grunted in response.

“How much did they pay you? I’ll double it.”

He struck her again.

Silence was probably a better recourse, at least until she saw her brothers--in--law.

Suddenly, she was flying through the air, landing hard on soft grass. The breath left her in a whoosh. She jerked the covering off her head, and seeing a giant a few feet away, scooted backward on the hill overlooking the beach..

She’d never seen him around Iverclaire. She would have noted such a large man with a pelt of black hair on his head matched by a salt and pepper beard.

Poor man, he really was quite ugly. He had a porcine face, one lined with plump wrinkles. His nose was shorter than it should have been, adding to the piggish look, and his mouth was a little pink rosebud. His eyes, however, were quite spectacular. Green and intent, they sparkled at her like emeralds.

“Whatever they paid you, I’ll double it.”

He narrowed his eyes, staring at her. Finally, he shook his head, bent down and grabbed her arm. She jerked away.

“I’ll walk,” she said. “If you put me over your shoulder again, I’ll get sick.”

He grabbed her arm, propelling her along and forcing her to nearly run to catch up with him. A carriage was parked on the curve of road just out of sight of Drumvagen. After nearly throwing her inside, he closed the door, mounted the driver’s seat, and slapped the reins over the backs of the two horses.

Her Irish relatives had a good deal to answer for when she saw them again. If she hadn’t been determined to return to Scotland before, she certainly was now.