Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  “I was hurt.”

  He was so stupid. “Badly hurt,” she explained. “Killed!”

  “Would you have cried for me again?”

  She didn’t want to answer that.

  With gentle insistence, he asked, “Enid, why were you crying? You knew I wasn’t dead.”

  Enid untied his blood-stained cravat. “Ease your shirt off your shoulder.”

  “You’re going to have to answer me someday.”

  Steadfastly, she ignored him. “Which ribs?”

  He must have been in real pain, because he gave up and answered, “I don’t know. It hurts enough to be all of them.”

  His bare chest too easily recalled the night before, and the criss-cross of scars reminded her how close he’d been to death not so long ago—and today. She had to get out of here. Before she cried again. Before she gave in to temptation. Before she ruined her life.

  But first . . . kneeling before him, she stroked her fingers over his skin, probing for breaks. She knew she’d found one when he sucked in his breath harshly. He didn’t complain, but she hated to see him so hurt.

  In sharp, jerky movements, she searched for the end of the roll of bandages. “At least two are broken. They’ll not hurt so much once you’re bound.”

  He put his hands over hers. “I’ve been bound for quite a while, lass, and by you. You just don’t seem to realize it.”

  She stilled and muttered, “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” His voice rose again.

  Good. It was easier to deal with his anger than his hurt.

  He continued, “I spend the night convincing you you belong in my arms, and you say, ‘Don’t’?”

  She had reached the end of the roll. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Aye! I want you to say aye.”

  “To anything you propose?” Leaning into him, she placed the bandage flat on his rib. “Hold that.”

  He placed his hand on it. “I’m proposing marriage.”

  So he’d said it at last. “Marriage.”

  “Marriage. The institution of holy wedlock, wherein our two souls are united for all time.”

  Dear God. He spoke words of extravagant passion, words that could have mocked and hurt—and he meant them! He wanted her for his wife, and he saw no shame in declaring himself in all seriousness. But she . . . she couldn’t marry him. He might pretend to forget her circumstances, now, but no man ever truly forgot.

  The strip went over his fingers, holding the end in place. “You called me a bastard.”

  “I was angry. I apologized.”

  “Let go now.” When he did, she wrapped her arms around him, bandage in hand, and wound the broad strip of cotton around his rib cage. “You asked if I slept with you for money. You called me a whore.”

  “I was very angry—and I apologized.”

  Her fingers trembled. “So every time you’re angry, you’ll call me a whoring bastard?”

  “When I’m angry, I’ll shout and rage, and you’ll shout and rage in return, but I know you’re not a whore, and I don’t care that your parents weren’t married.” He tried to lift her chin so he could look in her eyes.

  She jerked away. She would have run, but she was tied to him by a bandage and by words spoken in passion. I love you.

  “I was hurt. For the first time in months, I knew who I was, and I realized the woman who had guided me through the darkness wasn’t my wife. I feared you’d misled me on purpose. And I couldn’t bear that.” He stroked the side of her neck. “Enid, I was a fool.”

  “Yes, you were.” Her lips trembled. She was ready to cry again. Cry over a bit of name-calling done days ago. But MacLean had done the name-calling, and the ache subsided only to rise again.

  “I’ll never hurt you like that again. Enid—” He shifted, slid off the seat.

  Alarmed, she tried to shove him back into place. “What are you doing?”

  “When I apologized, you said you forgave me, but you didn’t forget.” He faced her on the hardwood floor. “So I’ll kneel to beg your pardon.”

  “What? No!” Oh, she didn’t want his face so close to hers! “I’m wrapping your ribs.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re crying.” With a grimace of pain, he bent to peer into her face.

  She whisked the tears away with her free hand.

  “I apologize for making such hurtful accusations. In this holy place, in the presence of God, I vow I will never make them again, nor even think them.”

  She avoided his gaze.

  “To me you are everything that is courageous, compassionate and loving.”

  “All right. All right!” Just stop talking like that. Stop sounding sincere. Stop using words like vow. “Now sit back on the pew so I can finish your ribs.”

  He didn’t stir. “Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you. You always tell the truth.” It was almost a failing, the way he always told the truth.

  “Do you forgive me?”

  Forgive him? Ah, now that . . . that was not easy. But he wasn’t going to give up. Not until she had forgiven him, really forgiven him. And could she? He’d wounded her with his malevolence, driving a stake into a heart made tender with caring. Yet . . . yet when she thought about it, she understood how a man who discovered he’d been lied to about his very identity could lash out in rage. He would never hurt her so again. He had made a vow, and she trusted him to keep it.

  She had to take a few breaths before she could answer. “I forgive you.”

  “Truly this time?”

  “Truly.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Sit up on the pew. I can’t wrap your ribs until you do.”

  In a deep, vibrant tone that reminded her of love-making and love-having, he asked again, “Will you marry me?”

  And he would ask again and again until she convinced him she would not. She needed to get done and get out of here. “Why me, when you can marry a proper Scottish girl with lots of money and become a proper Scottish laird with proper Scottish children?”

  “Because I wouldn’t be happy.”

  She waited. At last she realized that that was it. He had decided he would be happy with her. He accepted her as she was, and the doubts and fears that plagued her didn’t exist for him.

  She had to get out of here. “Sit up on the pew. Please. My knees ache from this floor.”

  He did, but he moved carefully like a man in pain.

  Pulling the bandage to drive his ribs back in place, she wound with greater briskness. When she got to the end she pulled it tight and tucked it in. “Is that better?”

  “So much better.” Before she could rise, he slid his fingers under the veil that drooped down the back of her neck. Lifting her chin with his other hand, he looked into her eyes. “You’re trying so hard to escape me. A normal man might think it was him, but you shout at me, you stand up to me, you cleave to me in glorious passion.”

  He gazed at her so solemnly, his beautiful eyes alight with not just possession but some deeper emotion as well. She felt she could sink into his soul and rest there, safe and at one with him, forever. Forever. He’d promised forever. She could almost believe him.

  On the floor behind them, Jackson groaned.

  Enid wrenched herself away from MacLean.

  “No!” MacLean tried to catch her but stopped. The moment was gone, and he knew it.

  Saved. Enid could scarcely breathe for relief. Jackson’s return to consciousness had saved her from the most frightening, impetuous step she could ever imagine.

  “Damn him for a blackguard!” MacLean half-rose. “There’s a coil of rope in the coffin. Hand it to me and I’ll tie him.”

  “I can tie a knot,” she said in irritation. The rope had spilled out of the overturned coffin, and without hesitation she tied Jackson’s wrists behind his back, then his wrists to his ankles.

  A reluctant smile played about MacLean’s mouth. “Where did you learn that?”

  “From Dr. Gerritson.
We used to castrate calves.”

  When Jackson opened his eyes, MacLean chuckled. “From that look of panic, I’d say Jackson heard you.”

  “Good. When I saw that razor in his hand . . .” Her voice shook as she recalled that moment of terror.

  MacLean took her hand and stroked it. “A razor is a good choice of weapon for a valet. No one seeing him with it would be suspicious.”

  From the floor, Jackson spoke. “I was after the sporran.”

  “And you would have slit my throat if you’d known I was still alive,” MacLean said.

  Jackson twisted to look up at MacLean. “So the sporran was a trap. There was nothing in there after all.”

  With a smile, MacLean said, “But there was.”

  Enid’s head snapped up. “What? No!”

  “After you suggested we hold the funeral, I began to think. Stephen knew the sporran was my dearest possession, and that I would never let it out of my custody. If he wanted to pass a message to me, he would surely use that sporran somehow.” MacLean smiled grimly. “The blast sealed the clasp, so I slit the seam and turned the sporran inside out.”

  Enid understood at once. “The badger skin is tanned leather on the inside.”

  “On it, Stephen had written the names of all the spies in England.” MacLean’s smile faded. “Including Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh, the nobles who recommended Jackson for this position.”

  Enid remembered the old couple who had been such gossips—who had been such trusted friends of Throckmorton. “Are you saying they’re spies?”

  “Very important ones.”

  “Have you sent a message to Throckmorton?”

  “Last night. He should know by now.” MacLean rose to his feet and strolled over to Jackson. “You tried to kill me, and more important, you tried to kill my lady.”

  Instantly, Jackson said, “I didn’t shoot at you in the gallery.”

  “Do you really think we’re going to believe that?” Enid exclaimed.

  “I set the fire, I stopped the train, I shot at you when you ran to the castle, but I didn’t shoot at you in the gallery.” Jackson wiggled in indignation. “I don’t know who shot at you, but he was a fool.”

  With her fingers worrying the black cravat at her throat, Enid said, “Jackson, you had to be the one who fired that shot.” For if he had not, the assassin remained at large, and she—and MacLean—were still in danger.

  “If all had remained quiet, you would have dropped your guard, and I”—Jackson glanced up at the narrow-eyed MacLean—“I would have discovered the list.”

  “You would have killed me.” MacLean nudged him with his toe. “If you didn’t shoot at us, who did?”

  From the door at the side of the altar, a woman’s voice spoke. “You were a stupid lad, and you’ve grown to be a stupid man.”

  MacLean and Enid swiveled to face Lady Catriona—and the rifle she held against her shoulder.

  Enid took a useless step backward.

  “My God,” MacLean said hoarsely. “Aunt Catriona, what are you doing?”

  “Getting justice for my lad.”

  Catriona was daft as a hatter, Lady Bess had said. It appeared she was right, and Enid’s heart thundered as she faced the ugly black eye at the end of the barrel.

  “Neither one of you deserved to have my Stephen wipe his feet on you.” The muzzle roamed between MacLean and Enid. “He was a good lad, and neither of you appreciated how lucky you were to have him.”

  She was far too steady in her aim.

  Moving slowly, MacLean took Enid’s hand and led her to the pew. They sank down together to present a smaller target.

  “Does she shoot?” Enid whispered.

  “Every season she bags a hart,” MacLean answered quietly.

  Jackson wiggled like a worm as he tried to get out of the way.

  “She shot at us in the gallery?” Enid could scarcely believe the petite woman could deal death so callously.

  “I would have hit you, but that Harry creature stepped in the way.” Lady Catriona hated with profound malice.

  “Harry never harmed you, Aunt Catriona.” Mac-Lean spoke in a soothing voice.

  “He was a friend of yours, and besides, I had to shoot him, or he would have revealed me.” Lady Catriona took a few steps into the chapel, and the barrel moved toward MacLean. “And I want to kill you so badly. You were with Stephen when he died, Kiernan. You probably killed him.”

  MacLean was clearly shocked. “How can you think such a thing?”

  Lady Catriona’s pointed the rifle toward Enid. “But you . . . you’re the one who truly betrayed Stephen. You were his wife. You rutted with his murderer.”

  It was a useless protest, but Enid had to try. “Lady Catriona, Kiernan didn’t kill Stephen.”

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps he only failed to save him. But you did fornicate with Kiernan, and Stephen barely cold in his grave. I hate you both so much, I don’t know which one of you to shoot—but I know whoever is left will be miserable.” Catriona’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  MacLean shoved Enid to the floor. He landed on top of her with a grunt of pain.

  The rifle roared, and before the echo died away, Lady Catriona screeched. The rifle clattered to the floor.

  Harry said, “Got you, you bitch.”

  Harry. Thank God for Harry.

  MacLean stared at Enid. She looked all right, and although his ribs ached, he was all right. Together, the two of them lifted themselves cautiously to peer over the pew.

  Harry held Lady Catriona’s arm twisted behind her back, and she made little squealing noises as she struggled against his grip. “She shot me in cold blood,” he said. “It’s time to put her away.”

  “Yes,” MacLean said. It was time she went back to her family. Her family was used to dealing with people like her; there were enough of them. “Take her to the north tower and lock her up. We’ll send her away tomorrow.”

  Turning to the crowd gathering behind him, Harry said, “Kinman! Take her.” He shoved Lady Catriona away. “And get Graeme and Rab and carry Jackson out of the chapel.” In answer to an inaudible question, he said, “No, you can’t stop to talk to MacLean. Can’t you see he’s busy?”

  While MacLean and Enid rose to their feet and dusted themselves off the two Scots and a grinning but silent Mr. Kinman hauled Jackson away.

  Enid would have escaped with them, but MacLean wasn’t about to let her go. Not after so unsatisfactory a conversation. Catching her arm, he brought her to a halt. “Last night, you said you loved me.”

  She flinched, as if he had hit her. “But I don’t want to love you.” Her voice got higher, a sure sign she was nervous. “Love is nothing but an ambush, a trap, and you can’t run far enough to get away from the pain and the heartache.”

  “But there’s joy, too. There’s having someone for your own. There are whispers in the night and raising a bairn and love that stretches to eternity—”

  “It doesn’t stretch into eternity. That’s the trouble. We’d argue. You’d leave me because of who I am.”

  Enunciating each word clearly, he said, “I . . . would . . . not.”

  “Or you’d . . . you’d die!”

  Her outburst surprised him. He glanced at the coffin and looked back at her. “I’m in reasonable good health, my dearling, and any man who survived what I have has proved his hardiness.”

  “Or used up his luck!” She clenched her fists. “I’m so angry at everything that has happened.”

  “It seems as if you’re always angry.” He was beginning to understand. “But you’re not. You’re scared.”

  The color bleached from her face. “No.”

  “Scared to death.” He studied her, seeing for the first time the truth behind her defiance, her self-defensive wit, her sarcasm. “Of having a man, and expectations, when life is uncertain at best. You’ve been trained to expect the worst of love.”

  “The worst is the truth,” she snapped and backed away from him.r />
  He followed. “No. From the first moment I saw you, I wanted you desperately. I couldn’t even lift my head from the pillow, and I managed to kiss you. There can never be another woman like that for me.”

  She moved more quickly. She stumbled on the carpet.

  “You want me, too.” He knew it. “You came to me last night. You said you loved me.”

  “I do love you. But I can’t stay. I won’t stay.”

  He didn’t even know he could say the words, but when she turned and walked up the aisle, he blurted, “Enid, I love you.”

  She never slowed. She disappeared out the door.

  “I love you!” She must not have heard him. He hurried after her.

  Lady Bess stepped into his path and grasped his arm. “Let her go.”

  “I can’t.” Enid was leaving him. She was all he wanted. She loved him, and he loved her, and she was leaving him!

  “If you force Enid to stay, you’ll have only ashes in your hands. Let her go.”

  MacLean could scarcely bear to listen to his mother, but so far nothing he had done had succeeded. He dragged Lady Bess along until he could see Enid’s fleeing form. Then, although it killed him, he stood still and watched her take flight, thinking she tore out his heart as she went. His breath was harsh and deep, and his voice was guttural when he asked, “Mother, is it true you wed the Englishman to save me from having to wed an heiress?”

  “Well, yes, dear.”

  He looked down at her, his beautiful, eccentric mother, still clinging to his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re a smart lad. I knew you’d figure it out sooner or later.”

  Taking her head in his hands, he kissed her hair. “Thank you, Mother.”

  With a smile, she dug a cigar out from between her breasts. “Enid’s a smart lass, too. She’ll figure out that she loves you sooner or later.”

  “Sooner?” he asked, needing comfort, no matter how indeterminate.

  “Or later,” she confirmed.

  Chapter 28

  The London solicitor bowed in a most respectful manner as Enid left his office, but Enid scarcely noticed. She was in shock. In her hands she held a letter from Lady Halifax, written in the last days before her death, and in a velvet-lined box was the silver-backed brush she had used to brush Lady Halifax’s hair.