No matter what he said, no matter how hard everyone tried to make Enid feel as if this flurry of leaving was natural and wonderful, the rush of events battered at her. If only she could stop for a moment, think and reason, and decide the right thing to do. But Mr. Throckmorton wanted them out of here. Someone had attempted to kill MacLean.
She ought to send MacLean on his way, by himself, but if she did she would give up any right to know his fate. And perhaps, just perhaps, she acted as camouflage for him. After all, she appeared to be devoted to her husband. To Stephen MacLean.
Oh, why lie to herself? She was devoted to him.
Just . . . so frightened about what would happen if someone tried to hurt him again. And so appalled when she considered his justifiable rage when he realized he had lain with his cousin’s despised wife.
His cousin, who was dead.
Stephen MacLean was—had to be—the man who had died in the explosion. She was truly a widow now, free to do as she wished. Except . . . she wasn’t, because she was going to Scotland. She wanted to cover her face and cry in desolation and confusion, but she had sworn she wouldn’t cry again.
She had one question. One question that desperately needed to be answered. In painfully polite tones, she said, “Mr. Throckmorton, I feel . . . peculiar about going to the Isle of Mull. As if I don’t belong there.”
Reading her confusion, Throckmorton examined her intently. “Mrs. MacLean, do you understand why I’ve wanted MacLean to recall, by himself, who he is and the events leading to his accident?”
“I . . . yes, I suppose so. You want him to remember without any prompting.”
“That’s right. I fear that if we tell him what to think, our influence will taint his memories.”
She knew he had issued a plea—and a warning. Don’t tell MacLean about his past . . . but what could she tell MacLean, except that he was not the man she had told him he was? That she was not the wife he believed? She didn’t relish that conversation, and it would have to come, for sooner or later he would remember. If he didn’t remember before they reached the Isle of Mull, she would face a highly uncomfortable situation. She would meet his family, and they would know the truth. They would tell the truth. More important, she might meet . . . She clasped her hands together, so hard her fingers tingled. “Tell me about the MacLeans. Who they are? What they do?”
Throckmorton answered readily enough. “They’re a large family on an immense estate, with cousins and retainers galore.”
Delicately, she angled toward the knowledge she wanted. “Is Stephen MacLean’s mother alive?”
“Yes, she is. As I understand it, she’s a beautiful woman who adores her son and thinks he can do no wrong.” Mr. Throckmorton’s face remained impassive. “Her name is Lady Catriona MacLean.”
“Lady Catriona MacLean.” Enid committed the name to memory. “But I know Stephen’s father is dead.” She found herself watching MacLean as she spoke.
MacLean caught her eye and grinned at her, a big, hairy man who thought her breasts brought him back to life, who had kissed her into ecstasy and made her his own.
She tore her gaze away. “What about . . . oh, his aunt?”
“That would be Lady Bess Hamilton. I met her once years ago. She’s quite eccentric. She wears turbans and smokes cigars. When I met her I thought her charming.” Throckmorton smiled. “Her son does not.”
Enid’s heart began a hard, steady thumping, as for the first time, knowing what she knew, she said his name. “Her son is Kiernan MacLean, the current laird?”
“Yes. There’s a daughter, too, Kiernan’s sister. Her name is Caitlin.”
A light sweat dabbled Enid’s forehead, and she leaned forward. “The laird himself? Is he . . . married?”
Throckmorton leaned back in his chair and looked hard at her. Slowly, drawing out the words, he said, “No. No, he’s quite the ladies’ man. He’s never been married.”
She sat back and let out a long, pent-up breath. “Good. That’s very good.”
* * *
The coach stood at ready with four matched horses to pull it. The trunks were loaded. MacLean stood on the broad steps, breathed in the fresh air and experienced the familiar sting of excitement. Then he laughed aloud. He didn’t remember why that sting was familiar, but it was, and he loved it. He felt grand, in control of his destiny once more. He would mold events as he wished; soon the mysteries would be all solved, he’d have his memory back, and everything would be right in the world.
Then he caught sight of Enid, dressed in a traveling costume of a sturdy bottle green wool, a bonnet, a black worsted skirt with a bottle green velvet jacket, a glorious, brick red cravat, and a serene expression. She carried a capable air about her, and a smooth concern for him. She had gone away from him; before the fire, she’d been flustered, warm, a wife who’d been well pleasured. Now she smiled at him with impersonal kindness, acted like the kind of female who allowed herself to be hired rather than one who gave from the goodness of her heart.
She had even asked him if he felt married.
He had leered with exaggerated lust when he’d answered, “I do now.”
She hadn’t laughed.
Indeed, she’d indulged in no honest emotion at all, yet he saw the signs of tension; she had draped a handsome matching green wool cape, trimmed with fur, over her arm, and she clutched a large reticule so tightly that he was willing to wager that, beneath her black leather gloves, her knuckles were white.
Enid. Last night she had been everything he’d imagined. She had been wanton in her giving, generous in her caresses, and so heated in her loving that he had almost ignited with the pleasure. Of course, she had resisted his demand that she cleave to him, and even afterward she had not been convinced of the rightness of their union.
He was convinced enough for the both of them. While he knew on some level that she was not the most striking female in the world, when he looked at her, he saw perfection. She was his woman, and he would overcome her doubts. He only wished that when she looked at him she would manage a little affection. Her haunted blue eyes troubled him. It was almost as if she was saying good-bye.
In truth, he watched her closely, for he feared she would bolt.
Throckmorton strode up to him. “Ready?”
MacLean laughed a little. “Past ready.”
“The items you asked for have been placed where you can get them. More than one stash, just as you requested.” Observing him without a hint of amusement, Throckmorton said, “You’re acting suspicious and wary, just as you always have. Are you sure you don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember, but yes, this feels natural to me. And my wariness saved my life last night, and my wife’s.”
Throckmorton lowered his voice. “Sally has disappeared.”
“Sally?” MacLean remembered the girl who had waited on him, who seemed so eager to please. “The maid?”
“She came into the cottage last night to talk to the guard. Harry found him unconscious, and the coals from the fireplace were spread across the wooden floor.”
Thinking out loud, MacLean said, “Someone paid her. Someone wanted me eliminated.”
“If they had known that you could walk, there would have been a more direct action.”
“No wonder you’re in such a hurry to get us out of here.”
Throckmorton stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at the step. “I’d go with you if I wasn’t getting married.”
“You must show up for the ceremony.” MacLean rubbed his palm across the scars on his cheek. “You have no idea who is after me?”
Throckmorton lowered his voice yet again. “Not yet, but we’re placing you in this carriage in full sight of anyone who might be watching. In a few hours, you’ll stop at an inn to change the team. You’ll remain there while another couple re-boards the carriage to go on. You—”
“And Enid.”
Throckmorton nodded. “—And Enid will be left behind, there to transfer to a private
train and go on to Edinburgh. After that we’ll move you back to a carriage, and you’ll go to Oban. Then a ferry to Mull. We’ve got men with you every step of the way. I can’t promise nothing will happen—obviously, after last night, I cannot—but I’ve spread my protection as thickly as possible.”
“Will my family know we’re coming?”
“No one must know.”
“So we’re going to outrun trouble.”
“Retreat is our first line of defense.”
Belligerent with the need to know, MacLean said, “It’s time you told me the truth.”
Throckmorton hesitated, as if he were tempted. “You know most of the truth. You know what happened to you. You know that someone wants you dead. I harbor a great fear that if I tell you everything before you remember on your own, your memories will be confused. We need those memories. Whoever set the trap for you and killed the other fellow is very nervous, and if we could just find out his name—”
“I will tell you as soon as I know, but I like not that you are withholding information from me.”
“If I told you now, you would just shout at me, and we can’t afford a scene of that proportion.” Throckmorton held out his hand. “Trust me a little longer. What I know can’t hurt you.”
MacLean clasped it. No other man here had his complete trust. Not Harry, black-clad and dangerous. Not Kinman, a sharp-eyed fellow who hid his intelligence behind a bumbling exterior. Not Jackson, the supercilious valet who wielded the razor so expertly. Someone was trying to kill him, and with him, his wife.
“So ye’re going, sir?” Mrs. Brown stood behind them on the steps.
“I am.” MacLean surveyed the woman whose wisdom he had come to cherish. “Will you miss me?”
“You and Mrs. MacLean.” Mrs. Brown surveyed him with satisfaction. “I knew ye were holding out on us, sir. I knew ye’d been walking about the room.”
“And how did you know that?”
“Calluses on yer feet.”
“There’s no fooling Mrs. Brown,” Throckmorton grinned. “She’s taken care of too many children.”
“So she has told me.” MacLean took her hand and kissed it, and in a spirit of mischief said, “I thank you, Mrs. Brown, for wiping my bare bottom.”
Hand to her bosom, Mrs. Brown laughed and blushed.
Enid watched them as if she longed to come up and join in. He curved his hand to her invitingly, but she pretended she hadn’t seen.
Mrs. Brown frowned at him. “Mr. MacLean, I thought I told you to have a care for your marriage.”
“I have.”
“Then why is she upset with ye?”
Irascibly, he said, “Why do you think her behavior is my fault?”
“Because ye’re a man. It’s always yer fault,” Mrs. Brown answered roundly.
Throckmorton elbowed him. “You can’t win with Mrs. Brown. I don’t know why you try.”
A familiar, faintly accented voice called from the top of the stairs.
Throckmorton’s head snapped around, and at the sight of Celeste, he smiled a smile so fond and foolish that MacLean almost laughed aloud. She had the man wrapped around her delicate little finger.
With a smile and a wave, she bustled past them, a dynamo of energy and affection, and went right to Enid’s side. Clasping her friend’s hand, she said, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Oh.” Enid kissed her cheek. “I wish I didn’t, either. I’ll miss you so much!”
MacLean watched the women, wanting them to be friends, yet jealous of the smile that lit Enid’s face at the sight of Celeste. She had never looked at him that way, and ever since last night, she had acted as if he were bound to wound her.
“And I you. You must promise you’ll return to visit me”—Celeste lowered her voice, but MacLean heard her—“no matter what happens.”
“I don’t know if you’ll want me when you discover . . .” Enid’s voice trailed off. She glanced at MacLean, and seeing him staring at her, she flushed scarlet.
She didn’t glare. She didn’t snap out a comment. She turned away as if humiliated by the sight of him.
He wanted to roar at her, to tell her not to be ashamed of what they’d done. He wanted to talk to her, to explain that they were husband and wife and they would be together always. He wanted to kiss her until she relaxed against him. Most of all, he wanted to tease her until his sharp-tongued wife retorted smartly and he knew, he knew, she belonged to him.
“Everything’s ready.” Throckmorton slapped him on the back. “It’s time to go.”
Chapter 17
Enid woke to hear the racket of the metal wheels on the track, to feel the jostling of the train. It had been daylight when she had finally succumbed to slumber in the specially built sleeping compartment. Now, a single candle burned in the sconce on the wall. When she parted the velvet curtains to look outside, she could see nothing but black night, without a star or a glimpse of the moon. They—she, MacLean, and their entourage—must be crossing a desolate region indeed; the northlands, she supposed, or they might even have crossed the border into Scotland. She didn’t know how long it took to travel so far; she had never traveled by train before.
Blinking, she sat up in her bed. A light blanket had been pulled over her, by Kiernan MacLean, she supposed. She wondered where he’d wandered off to, then cursed herself for her curiosity. He had been with her when she’d gone to sleep; he had spent every moment with her since they’d left Blythe Hall, talking to her, stroking her hair, acting so much like a loving husband that she wanted to cry or shriek or cling to him and beg him to tell her everything would be fine.
She had not. She had maintained a serene façade—which she feared had not fooled him at all.
Sliding out of the bunk, she quietly performed her ablutions.
She couldn’t nag him. She couldn’t sob on him. She most certainly couldn’t make love with him again. He was not her husband. She couldn’t treat him like one.
Although—she faced the little mirror set above the table in the corner—he acted like a husband. He had untied the red wood cravat at her neck and loosened the buttons on her green velvet jacket, opening them and baring her neck down to the vee of her breasts. Perhaps he had done so to make her comfortable, but she knew he had taken delight in the sight of her bare skin, and in his right to make free with her clothing.
With a sniff, she brushed at her skirt, pulled on her sturdy black traveling boots, and arranged her garments to respectability again.
At least he hadn’t tried to make love to her. She couldn’t allow that. True, they had already taken a bite from the apple, but now she knew the facts. She knew right from wrong. She had clung to her morals through dreadful times when abandoning them would have made her life much easier. She could never make love with MacLean again—and she hated the pang that went through her.
She almost wished she could tell him, but Mr. Throckmorton had been quite specific in his instructions, and Enid feared he was right. Perhaps if they interfered with the return of MacLean’s memories he would never find the truth that lurked beneath the surface of his mind.
She heard the murmur of men’s voices in the compartment beyond the sleeping room, and she cautiously peered out the door.
MacLean sat with his legs propped up on the facing seat, talking to Harry.
Harry struck a similar pose, yet both men, for all their apparent repose, emitted an air of vigilance at odds with their postures.
They both wore black and brown, monotonous colors that gave them the appearance of morticians. Black jackets, black trousers, black boots that did not shine with polish, but rather were dulled as if the leather had been deliberately scuffed. Their waistcoats were dull brown, their cravats matched.
A small table sat between them, with five candles stuck in an affixed candelabra, an open bottle of wine, and two half-full glasses. They were speaking earnestly, and neither of them noticed her.
Enid sidled back toward her bunk, sat down and stared
at the floor. She still didn’t understand how MacLean had managed to change so quickly from invalid to man of action. He would be so much easier to handle if he remained trapped in a bed.
What was she to do in these next few days as they were whisked hither and yon by Mr. Throckmorton’s men and MacLean came ever closer to his home? The knot in her stomach tightened. She considered herself a woman of good reason and logic, with a surfeit of etiquette and a healthy dollop of self-preservation, but she was allowing herself to be carried along by events because she didn’t know what else to do.
Well, really, no precedent existed for her to follow. He needn’t think that she lied to him. Either there had been a horrible mistake, or they both had been lied to, and MacLean would just have to listen to her explanations before he blistered her with his contempt.
Contempt she did not deserve and would not accept.
“I’ll wake her.” MacLean’s voice sounded from right outside her door. In a humorous tone and in reply to Harry’s murmured comment he said, “No, thank you, Harry, I can handle my own wife.”
She stood up so quickly that her ankle boots struck the floor with a thud.
Pushing the door open, he considered her raised chin. “You heard that, did you?” His gaze ran over her too warmly. “You’re looking beautiful as always.” Before she could snap out a reply, he continued, “In a little more than an hour, we’ll be coming into Edinburgh. We’ll need to leave in a hurry.”
She might have been surprised, except that she’d already been so buffeted by surprise that nothing could take her unawares again. “I’m ready.”
He reached out his long arm and dragged her stumbling into his embrace. “There’s my plucky girl.”
Behind him, Harry chortled.
Harry. She still didn’t like him, although for no more reason than the fact he made judgments where he shouldn’t and carried caginess like a shield.
Lost in Your Arms Page 16