Twenty-five

Michael wouldn't have believed that things could get any worse, but after Caitlin found him drinking whisky in the serving room, they did.

Life at Glenoch House had proved interminable. Endless hours of nothing. But that wasn't the problem, not really. He'd spent most of his childhood bored stiff in a great, empty house. No, it was the constant gnawing dread that had become unbearable. The unease trimmed with panic that ate away at him, the knowledge of just how bloody close he was to Darnalay. And if that hadn't been enough, now Mrs. Flemming's letter had cheerfully informed them that she'd written the Earl of Banton to tell him of his new neighbor. It was only a matter of time until Cameron came to call.

Michael couldn't shake the agitation, couldn't even find the will to try. Instead he jumped at shadows and snapped at Caitlin for no reason. The nightmares were worse than they'd ever been, so bad that he'd started making excuses to leave Caitlin's bed after their brief and dispassionate encounters. She clearly got no pleasure from them anyway, and Michael found himself wondering more and more what the devil he was doing here. Why would she even want him to stay?

But then again, perhaps it had been the boredom that had driven him to drink. Perhaps if he'd had something to do , something to distract himself with, he might have been able to forget.

Caitlin had found distraction—in routine, in her walks, in her long conversations with the old steward. But Michael couldn't bring himself to care about either. He'd developed a routine of his own. A game: hide yourself away and drink just enough to quell the dread, but not enough for her to notice.

And it had worked.

Until she'd found him in that damn serving room.

After that, she scoured the house for spirits and made Jinny dump them all out. She wouldn't leave him alone for more than ten minutes, and she was constantly thinking of things for them to do: go for a walk, visit the village, learn to play whist, read from the poetry books she ordered from Inverness. She even half-heartedly suggested they go to the nearby kirk on Sundays—though on that he put his foot down, and she didn't argue. It would have been a disaster. She'd been born a Catholic, he was Church of England, and neither of them had darkened a church door in years.

And so it was with some feeling of freedom that Michael set off alone over the moor on a sunny Monday morning in early June. Caitlin had turned her ankle on their walk the day before, but the weekly mail collection from the small village of Croachafearn would happen on Tuesday, and she wanted to be sure her reply to Mrs. Flemming's letter went out. She'd entrusted Michael with the task reluctantly, admonishing him to deliver the missive and come right home.

As if he were a child.

The two-hour walk passed more pleasantly than he'd imagined. Something about the wild landscape and the exercise seemed to quiet his mind. Spring had turned to summer, and the heather was blooming on the rocky slopes, bringing some warmth and beauty to the craggy, inhospitable hills. Croachafearn was a tiny little hamlet, just a few buildings teetering on the bank of a wide, rushing river. Part of the walk brought him along that torrent and through a forest of scrubby pines. Colorful wildflowers dotted the slopes above, and moss covered the path.

There had been a time when he'd detested the remoteness of the Highlands, but now he found it almost comforting.

If only Darnalay were not so near.

He delivered the letter to the shop where it would be collected on the morrow. As he'd expected, the old woman behind the counter sent him a scornful look. It seemed either Mrs. Buchanan or the girl, Jinny, had spread rumors about his and Caitlin's sleeping arrangements. Either that, or the woman didn't approve of them missing kirk. Michael glowered back at her, daring her to say something. She didn't.

Then he turned back up the road toward Glenoch.

He entered the house the way he'd left—through the front door—and began peeling off his gloves.

A woman's voice he didn't recognize drifted out of the sitting room. "Mrs. Flemming's letter . . . only a half day's ride . . . beautiful country . . ."

He stilled his breath, which was loud from exertion.

"I've brought some fresh scones for ye. Mayhap ye have yer own cook here, but just in case." Another woman's voice, this one a thick brogue. "I can send somethin' for that ankle too. A comfrey salve. I'll have one of the lads bring it up for ye."

"Thank you. That's very kind." Caitlin's voice, polite, yet strained.

Michael crept closer to the half-open door. His lungs felt tight, urging him to draw more air, but he daren't be too loud.

Caitlin continued, "Me steward tells me that your husband has sold land to his tenants. Their farms, I mean. That's very good of him. We passed through the glen on our way. ‘Twas beautiful."

A prickling started at the base of Michael's neck, and his head felt light. What was she talking about? Whose husband? What glen? She'd never spoken to him of this.

"They're no longer his tenants," the first woman said, her tone surprisingly stern. He couldn't place her accent. Neither Scottish nor English . . . nor American either. "They're landholders in their own right." There was a pause, and Michael imagined them all uncomfortably sipping their tea. "Are you a farmer, Mrs. Blackwell?"

"I was," Caitlin answered wistfully. "I was born on a farm in County Cork, a dairy, but we—left when I was a girl."

"Evicted?" the other woman asked softly.

"Just so. Enclosing the common lands wasn't enough. The landlord wanted all the pastures for himself. Then . . . in New South Wales I had a farm. For twenty years."

There was another pause. Michael drew in a breath. Slow. Controlled. Silent.

"You should come to Darnalay." The exhale caught in his throat, and he nearly choked. It was the woman with the odd accent who'd spoken, and forcefully, as if it were a command. "That's why we've come, to invite you. The whole family is there. My husband Cameron and I, his sister Jane and her family, and a few others. You could meet Will—Mr. Flemming's friend from Glasgow. I'm sure you've heard of him."

Michael's pulse was pounding so hard it was a wonder they didn't hear it through the walls.

This was Cameron's wife?

"I have." Caitlin's tone was tight.

He had to go. Hide. But he'd have to pass by the half-open door to get further into the house—

"Anyway, I do hope you'll call at the castle." Lady Banton again. "We are neighbors, after all."

He could run past. Hope they didn't see—

"I . . . I'm afraid I can not. Me ankle, you see . . ."

Or go back out the front door and around. Yes, that was it.

"Well, if you change your mind, you're always welcome. We'll be there through the end of the month. Oh no, don't get up. We'll see ourselves out."

It was too late. The visitors had risen and started toward the door. There was no time. They'd see him.

They didn't know him, though. Did they?

Without stopping to think, he clasped his shaking hands behind his back and acted as if he'd just arrived at the door. "Mrs. Blackwell"—he raised his voice, willing it to the smooth deference of a servant—"I've delivered the letter— oh ." He feigned surprise as the visitors came into view. "I apologize. I didn't know you had guests."

The countess was slim and pretty, with dark hair and tanned skin. She was dressed modestly for her station, and there was a sternness to her look, as if she'd examined the world and found it to be wanting. Indeed, she examined him now and most certainly found him wanting. Michael's heart raced as her dark eyes bored into him. His ears grew hot. It made no sense, but he was sure as anything that this woman could see right through him. She knew—

"Michael." Caitlin's strained voice came from inside the room. "This is the Countess of Banton. And Mrs. Brodie, the cook from Darnalay Castle."

The cook? All thoughts of the countess flew from his mind. Was it the same—? His gaze darted to the older woman, who was tying on a bonnet. The dark hair, the creased face.

Shit.

"Ladies," Caitlin continued, "this is—" She stopped, clearly thinking better of using Michael's name. "Me secretary."

The old woman's eyes settled on Michael for a moment. She nodded politely, then looked away.

The rush of relief nearly knocked him over. She hadn't recognized him.

Not daring to breathe, he turned away from Mrs. Brodie and bowed stiffly to the countess. "An honor, my lady," he choked out. Then he stepped aside, praying they would leave.

Not giving him a second glance, the countess strode past him. The cook followed.

The door closed behind them, and Michael slumped against the wall, closing his eyes and gasping for breath.

It shouldn't be a surprise that the cook hadn't placed him. They'd known each other years ago, and Lord knew Michael had changed since then. He wouldn't have known her if he hadn't learned who she was, but now he remembered only too clearly. That day in the library at Darnalay. The older woman and a younger one, the girl she'd introduced as her niece Janie—in truth, his cousin Jane come to rescue Sommerbell. The girl with the dark blue eyes, staring right through him . . . He pressed a hand to his face, trying to force the scene from his mind, trying to forget what had come after, but it wouldn't go . . .

"Michael." Caitlin's hand brushed his cheek. She must have hobbled over to him. "They're gone. It's all right." He opened his eyes just as she rested her palm on his cheek. "You needn't worry. I won't go there." She lifted her chin. "I don't even want to."

She'd schooled her voice to sound sure, but he could see in her eyes that she very much wanted to go. And why wouldn't she? Those people could be friends to her. Something to break up the monotony of her days.

If he were a good man, he'd tell her to go. Or better still, he'd leave this place and allow her to build a life of her own, free of the burden of him. And yet . . . the feel of her hand on his cheek . . . He leaned into it as a painful lump formed in his throat. He wasn't a good man. Or a strong one.

"There now," she murmured. Then she shifted toward him, only to draw back quickly, stumbling and yelping with pain.

Damn it. Her ankle. How had he forgotten?

Still unable to speak, and perhaps with more force than was necessary, he scooped her up and carried her back into the sitting room.