The congregation quieted as Mr. Hedderwick began his discourse.
Enid didn’t want to look at MacLean stretched out in his coffin. To see him would recall last night and all its wickedness, all its pleasure. All the anger, the lust . . . her own betrayal of herself.
In that madness of delight, she’d told him, “I love you.” Her fingers trembled as she wiped her damp palms on her skirt. If she thought about her impetuous confession right now she would faint. If she thought about MacLean and how his sporran rested on his body, an enticement to a ruthless killer, her head would burst.
Instead, surreptitiously, she looked about her.
The chapel had been built so long ago that the stone steps onto the altar were worn. Fine stained glass windows rose toward heaven. Tall iron candle stands stood on either side of the podium, a podium so old it had heard centuries of sermons.
And MacLean’s coffin had been placed right in the middle, where morning’s light could shine onto his still form.
He looked amazingly . . . dead.
“I covered his face with powder again this morning,” Lady Bess murmured in Enid’s ear.
Enid glanced away. She had resolved not to think about MacLean right now. Even though she knew the truth, she didn’t like to see MacLean in these circumstances. False though this funeral was, it nevertheless reminded her of all the funerals she had missed.
Less than a month ago, Lady Halifax had died, and Enid had sincerely mourned her . . . for a few hours. Until she had sought comfort in MacLean’s arms, and been chased out by a fire, and been sent to Scotland. Enid had scarcely thought about the old lady since that first night, yet . . . she had loved Lady Halifax. At one time, she had imagined she would have the chance to attend Lady Halifax’s funeral, to listen to the hymns and say a prayer. She could almost hear Lady Halifax’s acerbic voice saying, “Enid, the Lord will listen wherever you choose to pray, so don’t make excuses.”
Bending her head, clasping her hands, Enid said a prayer for Lady Halifax and tried to ignore the tightness that clutched at her throat.
Tears. The memory of Lady Halifax had brought her close to tears.
Swallowing, she glanced at MacLean, dressed in his crisp white shirt and lacy cravat, draped in a length of his family plaid and clad in a kilt. Oh, Kiernan, how can you conceal your vibrancy in this deathlike pose?
Hastily, before a sob could escape, she turned her thoughts elsewhere.
To her husband. Of course, to Stephen. The minister reminisced about Stephen now, of his bravery and sacrifice for his cousin at the moment of the explosion. The minister remembered that Stephen had been a charming lad who had brought happiness and solace to his widowed mother.
Lady Catriona sobbed aloud.
Stephen had been mischievous, full of laughter, always quick to join in games and lead his team to victory. He had joked about his big ears and had always been a favorite of the ladies, young and old.
As the minister spoke, a portrait of Stephen rose in Enid’s mind. When she’d met him, he had been charming. So charming. He’d taken an orphan, a girl living a never-ending nightmare, and taught her to laugh.
That was why she had married him. Because with him, she had learned to laugh.
Ah, the laughter hadn’t lasted long, but for a few brief, glorious weeks, she had lived for the moment and loved with all her heart. Now he could never return. After nine years of loneliness, of days when she’d cursed his name, of nights when she’d refused to remember that there had indeed been good times . . . he was truly gone forever from this earth. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
“. . . Survived by his beloved mother, Lady Catriona MacLean,” the minister droned in his tremulous voice, “and his faithful wife, Enid MacLean.”
How strange to discover that the death of a delinquent husband was almost as devastating as the death of a beloved mentor.
Enid sniffed, trying to control her errant emotions, but a tear escaped her control and trickled down her cheek. Furtively, she slid her handkerchief under her veil and swiped it away.
Beside her, Lady Catriona elbowed her, and when Enid glanced at her, Lady Catriona shot her such a venomous stare that Enid sidled closer to Lady Bess.
Why was Lady Catriona angry? This was the funeral she had wanted for her son. Enid wore black, she cried for Stephen . . . but of course, Stephen shared this service with MacLean.
MacLean . . . the coffin swam in a blur of tears. She wanted MacLean to rise, to prove he was alive!
In a voice so quiet it scarcely reached Enid, Lady Bess said, “Catriona always wanted all of Stephen. She can’t bear that you had him even for a moment.”
The minister lifted his hands toward the heavens. “Let us pray. We beg that our Father take Stephen to His bosom . . .”
Our father.
Enid’s father.
Another funeral not attended. Another grave never visited. Her father. Ah, now there was a man who deserved nothing in the way of respect or affection. Yes, he had supported and educated her when he could have left her to the workhouse. She would have died there, of course. Most children did. Instead he had thrust her into a school and abandoned her. The other girls had gone home for Christmas, for months in the summer, but Enid had stayed, month after month, year after year. And although, as she grew, she understood why she was condemned to a life lived in empty, echoing corridors and lonely dormitories, she could never forgive her father for being so weak as to leave his daughter bleakly forlorn when his had been the sin.
She would never be as weak as he had been . . . but she had. As the full horror of that truth sank in, she covered her face with her black gloved hands. The day in the mountains she had slept with MacLean and never considered the consequences. Worse than that . . . last night, although she knew well many babes had their start at the wrong time of the month, she still had succumbed to his allurement. Last night, she had lain with him in debauchery and pleasure not once, but three times.
She released a quivering sob. So the faceless man who had been her father was only a creature like herself, driven by passions beyond control. And she wanted to tell him so, tell him she understood . . . but she couldn’t. He was dead. He was dead, and she’d never even met him.
Enid’s knees gave way, and she collapsed onto the pew. Her hands trembled as she searched for the handkerchief in her sleeve.
The minister’s words intruded on her fumblings. “To speak of our laird, Kiernan MacLean, is to speak of a man driven by honor.”
Enid caught her breath on a pain so razor-sharp it cut at her lungs. MacLean rested in his coffin.
But he wasn’t dead. She knew he wasn’t dead.
“Our laird cared for us, each and every one, with a deep and abiding sense of duty and, more than that, a love that went bone-deep.”
Love. Enid shook her head. Not love. Not from him.
“Kiernan MacLean never gave his trust, his friendship or his love easily, but once given he could be depended upon forever.”
Forever. I am a part of you. You are a part of me. We are forever.
She sobbed again, louder this time, and pressed the handkerchief to her lips to subdue the wailing that threatened to escape in a massive flood of sorrow.
Lady Bess rubbed Enid’s back, leaned over and whispered, “Very good.”
“Beloved son. Beloved of our sister Enid . . .” The minister glared at Enid as if he knew she had spent hours in MacLean’s arms, kissing him, loving him.
Loving him.
Enid’s chest hurt, her throat ached, her eyes burned, and painful tears dripped, one at a time, down her heated cheeks.
Love. She loved him, and she knew better. She knew that all that could follow such a love would be anguish. In all her life, no one had ever loved her enough to be with her. If she loved MacLean, if she married him, if she lived with him, someday she would be facing this moment in truth. Someday they would be separated by quarreling, by abandonment, by death, because no one ever stayed with her.
“Enid?” Lady Bess put her hand on Enid’s shaking shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Enid was not all right. She was in agony, weeping for the relationships that had never been, that would never be . . . weeping for herself. She loved MacLean. If she didn’t get away soon, this love that trapped her would deepen and flourish. She would give her whole heart and everything that was in her to MacLean. Then she would spend her life waiting for him to die or leave her. Never had she seen a love that was worth the pain at the end.
Never.
She had to get away.
MacLean reclined in the coffin, unmoving, on guard, waiting for the assassin to make his move . . . and livid with Enid. With nothing to do but wait, her defiance preyed on his mind..
Last night, for the first time since he had arrived back home, he had slept a deep and peaceful sleep. He had staked his claim on his woman. Enid understood her place was at his side. She would quarrel with him no more. She would settle down and behave. Or so he had thought.
In the chapel, he could hear the sobbing of the women, the snuffling of the men. One female, especially, cried as if each breath hurt her lungs, and for a sweet moment, he imagined it was Enid, coming to her senses. She had to come to her senses.
When he thought of her, he didn’t think of her background or her faults. He remembered only how she’d pulled him back from the brink of death, of her bravery in the face of danger, of her kindness to his family and her pleasure in simple things. Everything about her character would bring honor to the MacLeans. The thought of her living far away, moving from one sickroom to another, always at the beck and call of some invalid, made him furious. Enid deserved the best. And she would get it, because she was going to get him.
She’d finally admitted she loved him. He had forced the issue, yes, but she’d needed to confess, to understand her own emotions before she could settle into her life here.
Yet then she had run. If he had not had this part to play, he would have gone and dragged her back.
The minister stopped preaching. MacLean concentrated as the congregation queued up to pass by the coffin. He couldn’t see, but he allowed his other senses to roam, listening for a guilty cough, sniffing for the scent of nervous sweat.
Feet shuffled past. At the head of the coffin, a woman stopped and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.
No. It couldn’t really be Enid. Why would she cry with such passion?
He wanted to stand up, to see, but the line snaked by him interminably. He was especially aware of his sporran, attached around his waist with a leather strap. If Enid and Harry had done their job correctly, the spy would believe that any information passed from Stephen to MacLean would be contained therein.
Hands reached out to touch him. Some people mentioned that he still felt warm. Some exclaimed that he looked like he was sleeping. Some pitied his mother and that poor lass who so loved him and who wept so terribly.
So it was Enid who was crying. Why? Did she imagine he would let her go? He had carried her over the threshold of Castle MacLean. She was his bride.
As the chapel emptied, nothing happened. In a secret part of him, he almost hoped the funeral would fail to flush out the traitor. Then he would have an excuse to keep Enid at his side, to keep her safe.
Yet he knew the danger would remain and they could never be free to fight and love as they should.
He waited and waited. Most of the line passed. The chapel grew quieter as people proceeded toward the lawn where the funeral feast had been set up. Only Enid’s crying continued unabated. His mother whispered comfort, and MacLean could only imagine Lady Bess’s incredulity. Even he couldn’t believe Enid mourned for him, for a man not dead . . . but if not for him, what did she mourn for? He feared he wouldn’t like the answer.
Then fingers slid across his belly, grasped his sporran, sliced his leather belt.
Opening his eyes, he seized the arm.
For one incredulous moment, Jackson stood looking down at him, wide-eyed with horror. Then he screeched in fear.
MacLean grabbed at Jackson’s throat.
Jackson threw himself backward, toppling the coffin from its stand, spilling MacLean onto the stone floor . . . rebreaking one of his ribs. For one essential moment, MacLean doubled over in pain.
In the swiftest recovery MacLean had ever seen, Jackson realized the ruse and threw himself into the fight. On his knees, he slashed with the razor, his blue eyes cold with determination.
He had the reflexes of a killer.
Lady Bess dragged Enid away from the coffin. The minister exhorted the men to peace. Of the two remaining mourners, one was a footman who ran shrieking from the chapel, calling for help. The other, a maid, plastered herself against the wall.
Holding his ribs, MacLean dodged backward, then lunged at Jackson from the side. Swift as a snake, Jackson sliced the air just above MacLean’s throat. MacLean seized Jackson’s arm again, but he couldn’t win using only one hand. So although it hurt to move, to breathe, MacLean let go of his ribs and punched Jackson in the face with his free hand.
Jackson’s nose broke beneath his fist.
Jackson punched back, aiming right at MacLean’s broken rib. MacLean danced backward, loosing his grip on Jackson’s arm. Jackson slashed again. MacLean kicked out, tripping Jackson. Grabbing the razor arm again, he held Jackson, knowing that if he didn’t win this contest, he would be back in the coffin for good.
They swayed, trying each other in a brief test of strength. Jackson leaned his whole weight toward MacLean. MacLean pressed against Jackson. White powder flaked off MacLean’s face in a shower. Their arms shook from the strain, but MacLean narrowed his eyes at Jackson and smiled. A confident little smile, one to shake his opponent’s confidence. “You’re on my land. You can’t get away.”
Jackson answered with a lunge at MacLean’s throat.
Enid screamed.
But MacLean clutched him still, and that lunge was Jackson’s last big effort.
“You can’t win. Give up,” MacLean said to him. He had just begun to inch Jackson’s arm back, forcing the razor toward Jackson’s throat, when Enid, red-eyed and wild, appeared behind Jackson. Lifting the tall iron candle stand from the altar, she smacked Jackson in the back of the head. The force compelled Jackson forward. The razor sliced MacLean’s throat.
Unconscious, Jackson slithered to the ground.
Wrapping his arm around his middle once more, MacLean stared at Jackson, face bloodied by his nose, the back of his head split.
MacLean touched his own neck, and his fingers came away crimson and sticky with blood. Taking a huge breath, he shouted, “Damn, woman, I was doing fine. Now, thanks to you, I’ve got my throat cut.”
Chapter 27
“You’re welcome!” Enid shouted back. The man was an ungrateful wretch. She didn’t know why she had ever cried for MacLean. She didn’t like him at all. “Why are you holding your chest? You broke your ribs, didn’t you?”
“Not many!”
Pointing to the front pew, she said, “Sit down so I can wrap them.”
Still holding his side, he limped over and eased himself down. “I was winning the fight.”
“None too quickly,” Enid snapped.
Harry looked into the chapel, and hearing the shouting, vanished again.
Turning to the open-mouthed Lady Bess, Enid asked, “Could you get me a long roll of bandages?”
Lady Bess nodded silently.
“And Mother, get someone to pick that piece of trash off the floor.” MacLean pointed to the inert Jackson.
“Right away,” Lady Bess said.
“Fighting in the chapel. In God’s house.” Mr. Hedderwick shook his white-wigged head. “You were always such a good lad, Lord MacLean. What’s happened to you?”
Enid tossed back her veil and considered the old minister. He had seen a man rise from his coffin, and all he could say was that he shouldn’t have fought?
“Mr. Hedderwick, won’t you com
e with me?” Lady Bess tucked her hand in his arm. “We’ll get bandages for Kiernan’s ribs.” She looked at the gaping serving girl. “We’ll all go get bandages for Kiernan’s ribs.”
The serving girl curtsied and scurried down the aisle, racing to tell the others that the MacLean was alive.
“I’ll keep everyone out,” Lady Bess said to MacLean.
“Thank you, Mother.” He bit off the words.
“He wouldn’t be hurt if he hadn’t been scrapping.” Enid heard Mr. Hedderwick’s querulous voice fade as Lady Bess led him from the chapel.
Hands on hips, Enid stood over MacLean. White powder smeared his clothing and unevenly dusted his face. He glared at her and grimaced in pain at the same time. And he was alive. Thank God he was alive. “You weren’t supposed to fight!”
“How the hell else did you think this would end?” MacLean dabbled his fingers at the oozing cut on his throat. “How bad is this?”
She glanced at it. “It’s just a scratch, but I can put a tourniquet on it if you like.” She grinned evilly at the idea of tying a bandage tightly around his neck.
“Funny.”
She handed him her handkerchief. “Press it on the wound.” Without drawing breath, she returned to their argument. “I thought Harry would get him.”
“Because Harry is well enough to fight?”
MacLean’s logic infuriated her. “Then Mr. Kinman.”
“May I remind you, we didn’t know if Kinman was the blackguard and we didn’t tell him I was alive.”
“All right. You’re right! You’re always right.”
Her sarcasm went right over his head. “I wish you’d remember that.”
The serving girl came scurrying back up the aisle, a roll of bandages in her hand. She viewed MacLean as she might view a phantom, handed the bandages to Enid, and backed up the aisle as fast as she could go.
“You could have been hurt,” Enid said.
Lost in Your Arms Page 28