Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  Then the noise died. She ceased struggling and looked out into the crowd.

  Torches and candles lit the great hall. Long tables lined the walls, and comfortable seats were placed in clusters around the two huge fireplaces. The men held claymores and shields. The women held rifles and powder horns. The weapons drooped in their hands as they stood silent and open-mouthed, gawking at their laird—and at Enid.

  The only sound came when one of the dogs, a great, leggy beast, laid eyes on MacLean and, with a yelp, ran forward, tail wagging.

  A tiny, toothless, birdlike woman broke the silence. In the thickest Scottish accent Enid had yet heard, she said, “Ohh, look what th’ master carried in. She’s a pretty thing, m’lord. May we keep her?”

  Everyone in the crowd nudged each other, exchanging grins and nods.

  Enid wanted to hide her head in MacLean’s shoulder, do anything to shut out the staring eyes. Dear heavens, she recognized some of them—about a dozen of Throckmorton’s men, and that added to the humiliation.

  Instead she lifted her chin, “For the love of God, MacLean, put me down.”

  He did, but slowly. Keeping his arm around her, he swept the room with a gaze filled with menacing possession.

  He might as well have put a sign on her forehead—Property of the laird of the MacLeans. She had hoped to survive this stay with a modicum of dignity intact. MacLean had made that impossible.

  MacLean turned to the old woman. “She’s hungry. She wants a bath and a bed.” To Enid, he said, “Go with Donaldina. She’ll tend you.”

  The old woman curtsied. “Aye, m’lord, she’ll ha’e th’ best.”

  “I need to look after Graeme,” Enid said stubbornly.

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” MacLean said. “You’re starving.”

  She was, and dazed by a rather odd light-headedness. Something seemed very different here.

  “This way, miss,” Donaldina said kindly.

  Enid didn’t move. Very different indeed.

  Mr. Kinman caught MacLean’s shoulder. “We’ve been worried. My God, what has happened?”

  “Later. For now, find out who did the shooting.” MacLean leaned down to scratch the ecstatic dog.

  “Your men are after him.” Mr. Kinman looked five years older and ten pounds thinner than two weeks before. “We need to know where you’ve been!”

  MacLean viewed him sternly. “Later. We’ll talk later.”

  Mr. Kinman almost danced with impatience, but MacLean ignored him without compunction. Ah, that was the difference Enid had noted. She had never seen MacLean as laird. He danced to no man’s tune but his own. He looked taller, grimmer, stronger, with an aura of authority that would have frightened her had it not appealed so strongly to her every feminine sense. Dear heavens, she’d slept with this man! And when his gaze met hers, she knew he wanted her still. Without moving a muscle, he summoned her to his side, drawing her with a dark enchantment that made nothing of disagreements and difficulties. He was laird. She was an English bastard. But the difference in their stations did not matter when weighed against the desire that burned between them.

  She had taken a first, helpless step toward him when shouting woke Enid from her trance. Two men supporting Graeme burst through the door, trailed by Jackson and one of the guards from England. Tearing her gaze away from MacLean’s, she said, “Graeme needs my help.”

  “He’s fine.” Lady Bess’s smoky voice sounded in the doorway. “ ‘Twas only his head, which he doesn’t employ for much.”

  Loud laughter broke out.

  “Ye’re ungrateful, my lady.” Graeme staggered as they escorted him to a chair.

  Oh, dear. The Scotsmen wore skirts. What had Stephen called them? Kilts. In the dark and confusion, Enid hadn’t noticed. Now she averted her eyes from their bony, hairy knees.

  “ ‘Tis yer own son’s neck I saved,” Graeme said.

  “By getting in the way!” MacLean said.

  “But a neck worth saving.” Lady Bess gestured to a manservant, who thrust a tankard into Graeme’s hand. “I thank you.”

  Enid blinked as she got her first good look at MacLean’s mother. Like him, she was tall, but there the resemblance ended. Eccentricity would have explained the cigar burning between her fingers. Nothing could explain the clothing, the cosmetics, the sheer outrageous appearance of a woman of . . . what? Forty-five years?

  Obviously, she scorned both corset and petticoats, wearing a garment more fitting to the days of her youth than to current fashion and bespeaking more scandal than good taste. The sheer fabric gathered beneath her breasts and dropped straight to the floor, unhampered by anything so proper as an undergarment. Indeed, as Lady Bess passed in front of the light, Enid could see the silhouette of her legs, and the fabric clung in places it absolutely should not. At least . . . not for propriety’s sake.

  The lady moved to her son’s side and asked, “After such an absence and all this excitement, will you give your poor, worried mother a hug?”

  “Of course, madam.” MacLean hugged her, but with what Enid considered an abominable lack of affection.

  So she ignored the nasty beast and went to examine Graeme.

  A serving boy held a branch of candles high to give her light.

  She thanked him with a smile.

  Pungent whisky wafted up at her when Graeme said, “I’m fine, ma’am. ‘Tis nothing but a scratch.”

  “The scratch is bleeding all over your clothing.” Enid brushed back his hair and examined the gash that cut through his scalp. “You’ll heal better if I stitch it.”

  Graeme looked alarmed until MacLean moved to his other side.

  “Let her do it, man,” MacLean said. “She’ll make you look good.”

  One of the kilt-clad Scotsmen brayed, “Is she a miracle worker, then?”

  Another boisterous burst of laughter greeted this sally.

  “She won’t rest until she’s satisfied you are cared for.” MacLean stood at Enid’s shoulder, bolstering her authority. “So sit still, Graeme, and take the discomfort like a man.”

  A man dressed in the rough garments of a woodsman said, “If he takes it like a man, we’ll know she’s a miracle-worker!”

  The laughter was louder this time, but Enid now realized what had happened. Tables and benches were overturned all over the hall. Some of the men still held their claymores. They’d been warned of an attack on their laird, so they’d grabbed weapons and prepared for a fight. Before they could race into action, though, they’d been called back. Now all of them, servants, gentlemen and ladies, were restless and overexcited. If she needed proof she was no longer in England, this convivial, close-knit, mixed group of folk convinced her.

  “Ma’am, here’s a needle and catgut.” Donaldina stood at her elbow and presented the professional-looking instruments on a silver tray. “Lady Bess usually does th’ stitching, but she’s none too mindful o’ th’ pain, so wee Graeme will be pleased o’ yer services.”

  Obediently, Graeme said, “Aye, ma’am, that I will.”

  From her massive chair at the head of a long table, Lady Bess puffed on her cigar. “I’ll remember that when next I’m called on to tend you, young Graeme.”

  He scootched down in the chair and looked so apprehensive that Enid asked him, “Are you hurt often?”

  “If there’s a stray arrow shot or a piece of broken glass to be had, our Graeme will find it, but this is your first bullet, isn’t it, my lad?”

  “First.” Graeme grimaced. “And last.”

  “Make sure of that.” MacLean laid his hand on the back of Enid’s neck and massaged the stiff muscles. A small gesture, but everyone observed with bright eyes.

  They observed, too, when Enid knocked his hand away and glared up at him. He didn’t need to think he could pull his beguiling tricks on her.

  MacLean smiled down at her with such open affection, she stood on her toes and whispered fiercely, “Would you stop that?”

  “What?”

&nb
sp; “Acting as if we have some kind of bond.” She glanced around. Everyone in the great hall observed them avidly.

  MacLean didn’t seem to care. He didn’t lower his voice. “But, lass, we do. Ye’re my lover.”

  All around them, she could hear the whispers start, and she hissed, “You called me a mercenary bastard who slept with you for money. Did you think I would forget?”

  He gathered her hands in his. He lifted them to his lips. He kissed first the backs, then the palms, then when she curled them into fists, he kissed the backs again. Looking into her eyes, he murmured, “That was wrong. Will you forgive me?”

  She stood flat on her feet and tugged at her fingers. “No.” Forgive him? She intended to cherish her grudges. That was the only defense she had against a pair of soulful green eyes and a winsome smile.

  “Please. Enid. I was wrong to say those things.”

  “Why? They’re true.”

  He lifted his brows in mocking astonishment. “You slept with me for money?”

  “No, not that, but I’m a mercenary bastard and an Englishwoman to boot.”

  “Ah, we all have our faults.” He started kissing her fingers one by one. “Forgive me?”

  She had ten fingers. He had all night. “All right. I forgive you!”

  He stopped kissing and allowed her to pull her hands from his. “I thank you.”

  She pushed her hair back from her hot forehead. Never before had she blushed so hard as to break a sweat.

  MacLean gestured to Graeme, and in a respectful tone, asked, “Will you sew him now?”

  “Could I have some of your whisky?” she asked Graeme.

  With a grin, Graeme offered it up. “Aye, I knew when I first heard ye speak to His Lordship that ye were a bonny lass.”

  “Ye can have yer own,” Donaldina said. “Although th’ liquor’s usually a bit much fer our English visitors.”

  “I’ll just use a little of his.” So saying, Enid poured an ample amount over the wound, bringing a howling Graeme to his feet.

  Laughter broke out again, and it took MacLean’s heavy hand on Graeme’s shoulder to push him back into the chair.

  “That’s the worst of it,” Enid told Graeme and proceeded to stitch him up regardless of his squirming.

  MacLean turned to Donaldina. “She’ll eat as soon as she’s done.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” Donaldina curtsied. “Will ye ha’e a piece o’ bread yerself?”

  “When she’s done.” Followed by the dog, who nosed his hand at every opportunity, he moved among the crowd.

  In between stitches, Enid watched him surreptitiously. He smiled and shook hands. More important, people waited in line to clap him on the shoulder, smile at him, have a word.

  “Ah, ‘tis fine t’ ha’e him back.” Donaldina still stood at Enid’s elbow, ready with an extra strand of catgut. “We’ve missed th’ lad. He’s a good man t’ help when there’s trooble afoot, an’ on an estate o’ this size, there’s always trooble somewhere.”

  Enid had been right when she’d told MacLean he shouldn’t have believed the claims Stephen had made about her; now she realized she shouldn’t have believed the claims Stephen had made about him. MacLean’s people adored him.

  She hated that. So much better to believe the cruel letter she’d received from Stephen’s lord had been part and parcel of MacLean’s general malice, and not specifically directed at her.

  Yet tonight, in the woods, he’d called her a bastard. He might have apologized. He might even have really meant it, for he was not a cruel man. Yet it was true. She was an impoverished English bastard, and bastards did not wed noblemen. She needed to remember that.

  “From th’ look o’ that face, the master’s seen trooble aplenty since he left,” Donaldina continued. “Did ye stitch him up, too?”

  “No, that was done before they sent for me.”

  Donaldina stood on her toes and craned her neck to look at Enid’s work. “Weel, that explains his scars. Ye—ye’re a wonder wi’ that needle.”

  “Thank you.” Enid finished up and patted Graeme on the shoulder. “All done.”

  Standing, Graeme bowed to her. “Thank ye, miss, for yer kindness. If I can ever do anything for ye, ye’ve only to call on me.”

  “Thank you, Graeme.” She curtsied in return. “I’ll remember that.” Indeed, she had reason to believe she would need all the friends she could find on MacLean’s godforsaken island.

  Seeing Enid was free, Lady Bess commanded, “Miss, come and sit by me. We’ll talk.”

  Enid really wanted to eat, but she was a guest, one who had roused everyone’s curiosity. So she made her way to the head of the table, followed by her serving maid with a tray of food, the lad with the candles, and Donaldina.

  Lady Bess looked over the procession. “You’ve acquired quite a following.”

  Enid refused to let MacLean’s mother rattle her. After all, worse things had happened than being interrogated by the lady of the manor, and those events had happened this very night. “Set the tray down, please,” she instructed the serving girl. To the lad, she said, “You’ve done well, I thank you.” Donaldina sat herself on the bench on the right side of Lady Bess, which Enid found an odd sort of accommodation for a housekeeper. But since Lady Bess found nothing unusual about it, Enid seated herself on the bench on the left side.

  At first, Enid applied herself exclusively to her meal, discovering that when she finished one item, three more appeared on her tray, each more appetizing than the last. It had indeed been a very long time since breakfast. Finally, replete, she had to lean back and wave away any further offerings.

  Lady Bess had been observing her closely. “You’ve got a good appetite, I’ll say that for you. Glad to see you’re not one of those modern damsels who’ll sacrifice a rib to possess a tiny waist.”

  “After the week I’ve had, my waist is as tiny as it’s going to get,” Enid said.

  “Hm.” Lady Bess tapped her cigar into an ashtray and smirked. “Aye, my son cares not for a tiny waist.”

  Irritated by the unwarranted assumptions everyone seemed to be making, Enid said, “I don’t care what MacLean cares for.”

  “Don’t you?” Lady Bess gestured toward him.

  MacLean looked relaxed as never before. He stood among a group of men, waving a strawberry as he spoke. The men guffawed, even Jackson, whom Enid had thought a proper stick of a valet. Apparently Scotland had loosened him up . . . and frightened Mr. Kinman, who followed MacLean as if they were sewn together with a fancy stitch. When the outer door opened, two men walked in and went to MacLean, shaking their heads.

  “Ah, too bad, they found nothing.” Lady Bess sighed. “Still, it’s grand to see Kiernan back. I’m a fair manager until the men fight, and then I want to knock their heads together until they ring. Kiernan can listen to their silly arguments and make good judgments, and they’ll not grumble.”

  “They don’t grumble aboot ye, either, m’lady.” Donaldina drank a swig from the cup set before her and smacked her gums together.

  “They’re afraid of me. They respect MacLean.” Lady Bess lounged in her chair. “Look. The MacQuarrie must have roused himself from bed to hustle over here and pay his respects to Kiernan.”

  “Th’ auld fool,” Donaldina said affectionately. “He’ll be wanting t’ spend th’ night in my bed, I expect.”

  “I expect you’ll let him, too.” Lady Bess turned to Enid and pointed her cigar at the man who shook MacLean’s hand. “See the elderly man with the hair that looks like seaweed? That’s the laird of the MacQuarries. They didn’t survive the troubles nearly as well as the MacLeans, so Kiernan has helped them with a loan or two.”

  Donaldina snorted into her mug. “I ha’e half a mind t’ tell the MacLean where th’ money came from.”

  “Never you mind that, Donaldina,” Lady Bess said firmly. “Now look, Catriona has come down.”

  Donaldina turned to watch as the crowd around MacLean gave way for a lady older than La
dy Bess and dressed in the finest and most modern fashion. “Do ye opine she’ll ha’e one o’ her fits?” Donaldina asked with interest.

  “He’s bearing bad news, so aye.” Lady Bess told Enid, “That lady with the gray hair is Lady Catriona MacLean, Kiernan’s aunt and my husband’s sister-in-law.”

  Enid frankly stared. So that was Stephen’s mother—a sweet face, round, dimpled cheeks, a button nose. Yet a perpetual frown puckered her brows.

  Lady Bess continued, “She has seen great sorrow in her life. Her husband died before the birth of their son, and that son disappeared over a year ago. We all knew Stephen had found trouble when he didn’t come home even to borrow money.”

  “Amen.” Donaldina sank further into her drink.

  Lady Catriona approached MacLean timidly, as if she were afraid he would reject her. Her trepidation surprised Enid; everyone respected MacLean, but no one else seemed the least intimidated by him.

  Lady Bess watched her sister-in-law without fondness. “Kiernan, who suffers from an overdeveloped sense of familial duty, went to find Stephen.”

  “I wonder where he got th’ overdeveloped sense o’ duty, m’lady,” Donaldina interjected.

  “I said we weren’t going to talk about it anymore, Donaldina.”

  “Aye, m’lady.” Donaldina turned to Enid. “But we know, don’t we?”

  No, Enid didn’t know, but she was curious. Curious about Lady Bess, and intent on watching Stephen’s mother to see how she would respond to the news of her son’s death. Stephen had spoken of his mother with open contempt. How did Lady Catriona think of her son?

  “Kiernan disappeared for over ten months,” Lady Bess said. “I assume from Kiernan’s scars he found Stephen, eh?”

  Enid nodded her assent.

  “Too late to save him, I’d deduce, and Kiernan got injured trying to get that feckless boy out of trouble. Eh?”

  Enid nodded again, her gaze glued to the drama taking place in the middle of the great hall.

  When MacLean realized his aunt stood there, he gestured her over. She hugged him with what appeared to be coy affection, hung on his arm like ivy, and spoke.

  Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he escorted her to a chair. Kneeling beside her, he shook his head, and said only a few words before she burst into tears, knocked him away, leaped up and fled the room.