His snort was scornful. “Aye, they did. Until my father died, a bitter man, six years ago, they must have paraded every suitable girl in the Highlands before me. My mother is still alive. She has a house in Edinburgh. At last, she’s given up trying to interest me in marriage. I think she’s come to regret tearing the two of us apart, although she’d never admit it. She’ll love Patrick when she meets him.”
Until her brutal banishment, Rhona had liked and admired Malcolm’s mother. Everyone in the glen had. The Lady of Dun Carron had been closely concerned in the clan’s welfare.
Malcolm’s father had been a good and fair laird, too. No wonder his reaction had taken Malcolm and Rhona by surprise, although looking back, she also recalled the laird’s oft-stated pride in his Innes bloodlines. When he’d sent her away, he’d been frank about not allowing a lowly Macleod to pollute the family escutcheon. She still cringed to recall his unconcealed disdain for her pretensions to marry the heir.
“You should have settled down with one of those girls,” she said. “I can’t bear to think that you’ve found no joy or affection in all this time.”
Although looking at him, impossible as it seemed, she could reach no other conclusion. He was thin and wary and ready to bare his teeth at a kind gesture. He reminded her of a starving wolf. Perhaps she should be afraid. After all, wolves could kill. But all she could think was how heartbreakingly lonely Malcolm’s life had been.
Yet despite how close he looked to the limits of endurance, he was still beautiful. Anguish had pared him down to his essence and left him powerful and true.
Bleak black eyes shot her a burning glance. When she’d known him, those eyes had shone with laughter and sheer pleasure in living. She knew now that he hadn’t experienced either of those things in close to two decades.
“How could I marry someone else?” His voice was different, too. Deeper and with a somber note foreign to her ardent suitor. “I’d known love, real love. I couldn’t accept its counterfeit.”
She shifted in discomfort, hearing the hay rustle beneath her. After what he’d just told her, she was painfully aware that she’d wronged him by not believing in him, despite persuasive evidence that he’d deceived her. He’d kept faith. He’d kept faith, even when every sign had pointed to both Rhona and her son dying.
She struggled to imagine how he must feel, now he’d discovered that not only his child but his first love had survived. Not just survived but thrived.
Learning that he’d never given up on her left her reeling, not sure how she should react. One hand made a helpless gesture. “I feel…”
His lips turned down in what she came to realize counted as a smile in his world. “Overwhelmed?”
She ventured a shaky smile back. “Flabbergasted. Like a giant hand has picked me up from the everyday world I know so well and plopped me down in the middle of a magical new land. It’s all too much to comprehend, let alone for me to summon any coherent response.”
His gaze softened and for a fleeting moment, she glimpsed the ghost of her Malcolm. And that ghost was damnably alluring. For years, seething resentment had stolen her first love from her. What she believed to be his perfidy had turned everything they’d shared into a lie. Whatever happened now – and she had no idea what that might be – at least she knew the truth and she knew she hadn’t been a fool to love him.
“I’m sure,” he said. “I’ve had years to prepare for this moment, and I feel turned inside out. I think you can take a day or two to come to terms with meeting me again.”
“I doubt if a day or two will be long enough for me to feel like my feet are touching the ground again.”
He spread his hands in appeal. “Won’t you tell me what happened to you? I’ve spent all these years picturing horrors. I kept imagining what a young girl might come to, lost in London.”
It was her turn for a crooked smile. “Not what you’ve been thinking, at least.”
She was well aware of how lucky she’d been. It was one of the reasons she’d always be grateful to the people who had saved her. What anguish Malcolm must have endured, not knowing what had become of her. The compassion that wrung her soul was too ferocious to be called pity.
“Fearing what might have happened to you has kept me from a decent night’s sleep since you left.”
That might sound like an overstatement, except that this man was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. And not just with a couple of days of hard riding in winter weather. Some trace of her earlier love must linger, because Rhona ached to take him in her arms and press his silvered head to her bosom. She longed to offer him some surcease from his troubles.
She couldn’t do that. More than half her life had passed since she last saw him, and she’d spent all that time resenting him. She had to keep reminding herself that they were strangers, united only by the son he didn’t know and those golden days when she was young and innocent and unaware of how much pain the world could inflict. She certainly had no right to touch him.
That fierce pity still speared through her. How she hungered to offer him a shred of comfort. The visceral power of that craving to ease his troubles surprised her. She’d imagined her affection for him was dead, just as dead as he’d once believed her to be. Now it was clear that her heart wasn’t as closed to Malcolm Innes as she’d assumed.
When she stood up, she caught a flash of sharp disappointment in those dark eyes. He must think she meant to leave him, although his confession of how he’d devoted all these years to searching for her had set her world turning in a different direction.
Rhona needed time to take everything in, to match what she’d discovered with what had happened to her. But years of rage had melted away to nothing the moment she’d accepted that he’d never betrayed her, never forgotten her. She’d let go of her rancor as if it had never been.
Oh, Malcolm.
Once more, she thought of that lonely wolf ranging the forests, so sure he’d find no place in the pack. Expecting his brethren to snap and snarl until he disappeared back into the shadows where he belonged.
More of that painful pity cramped her heart. She told herself that meant nothing. She’d pity any creature who had braved such wretchedness. But she had a disturbing feeling that there was more to her reaction than that.
Her voice emerged as a husky murmur. “You’ll get a better night’s sleep in the house than you will in the stables.”
“You’re asking me inside?” He spoke as if the idea was beyond comprehension.
She packed the remains of his meal back into the basket. He’d eaten like he was famished. He was too thin. As a youth, Malcolm had been lean, but this man was whittled down to absolute essentials.
“If you’d like that.” With every moment they spent together, she became more aware of what their separation had cost him. She was enough of a mother to be glad that he’d eaten every scrap of the stew. Patrick was built like his father, tall and possessed of whipcord strength, and her son ate like a horse.
“We’re not wed,” he said in a neutral voice.
A mocking smile twisted her lips, even as the poignant truth struck her that if matters had proceeded according to her naïve hopes all those years ago, they’d be looking forward to a twentieth wedding anniversary in eighteen months.
“Patrick’s here to lend us some propriety, and I’ve sent all the servants home for Christmas. The nearest neighbors are far enough away not to notice an extra body inside the house in the middle of a snowstorm. I think my reputation will weather any gossip, that is if there’s any gossip at all.”
Another of those bleak almost-smiles that threatened to break her heart. A heart that proved much more vulnerable to her first love than she wanted to admit. “Are you sure?”
She didn’t smile back. He was so unsure of his welcome. She supposed that given the greeting she’d offered him, that wasn’t surprising. But he must know she’d forgiven him.
No, more than that. She’d discovered that there was nothing t
o forgive, although to her sorrow, there was still a universe of pain to regret.
She struggled to sound like the practical farmer she’d become over the last five years. “Malcolm, I’m offering you a bed in the house where you can sleep like a Christian. You can skulk out here in the stables if you like, but it makes no sense if you do.”
“A stable is a suitable place to seek shelter at Christmas, though,” he said in an expressionless voice.
Surprise made her blink. That was almost a joke. Perhaps he was easing into her company. “Because it’s Christmas and I have room, I’ll do the charitable thing and invite you into the inn.”
He rose and reached to take the basket from her. She’d forgotten that instinctive chivalry, although it had been such a large part of the boy she’d known.
Rhona had a sudden agonizingly poignant memory of how gentle and courteous he’d been with her girlish self, although he was the laird’s son and she was a humble crofter’s daughter. He’d always made her feel like the finest lady in the land.
He still did, it turned out.
“Well, in that case, I accept with pleasure. Thank you.”
She’d forgotten, too, how tall he was. For a charged moment, she stood in his shadow. She’d managed her own life for years and wasn’t used to feeling fragile and feminine, but something about Malcolm towering over her made her heart flip over in a way that hadn’t happened since…
Since the last time she’d been with Malcolm.
How absurd. How unacceptable. Disquiet knotted her stomach. It seemed she was still susceptible to him, despite the gulf of years gaping between them. At thirty-five, she’d imagined she was well past the stage of going all fluttery over a man.
She’d imagined wrongly.
Chapter 4
Malcolm put on his greatcoat, his hat, and his gloves, and picked up his small valise and the empty basket. Rhona extinguished the lanterns, apart from the one she’d carried over with his dinner, a meal she’d delivered with such grudging resentment. At least she no longer looked likely to hit him with the nearest shovel.
Small concessions, all of them, but enough to set the blood singing in his veins. Hell, her mere presence was enough to make him feel like life was worth living.
She wrapped the thick shawl around her head. “Ready?”
“Aye.”
Although when they left the barn, the force of wind-driven snow stole his breath and made him stagger. Dun Carron was much further north, and he’d assumed the weather here in the south would be kinder. How wrong he’d been. Patrick’s talk of him getting lost in a snowdrift on the way to the inn turned out to be no exaggeration.
Rhona stumbled and before Malcolm remembered that he no longer had any right to touch her, he transferred the basket to the hand holding the valise and caught her arm.
“Hold onto me,” he shouted above the howling wind.
He waited for her to argue. An hour ago, she would have cursed him to Hades for remaining on the property, let alone daring to touch her. But when he curled his gloved hand around hers, she returned his grasp.
An ember of warmth he hadn’t felt in eighteen years sparked in his heart. Warmth that defied their frigid surroundings and a life that had taught him that while happiness was brief, suffering could last forever. He battled to remind himself that he’d already fulfilled so many hopes today. It was greedy to want more.
But Malcolm did want more.
Although until he heard her story and discovered her present circumstances, he didn’t know how much he could in good conscience ask for.
The yard wasn’t huge, but crossing it felt like swimming the Atlantic. By the time he slammed the farmhouse door closed behind him, he was more aware than ever of the hard days of riding he’d done lately. He’d been on horseback since Fergus had come galloping up to Dun Carron.
Malcolm groaned and sagged against the door as comparative silence settled around them. “I’m damned glad Patrick took pity on me and didn’t send me back onto the road,” he said, fighting for breath.
Rhona watched him with a concentrated attention that he felt like a physical force. Her wariness hadn’t entirely disappeared, although the hatred had faded, thank God. He still needed to come to terms with her spending all these years believing he was a faithless cad. Although his father in full flight as laird could be both convincing and terrifying, he supposed. If she’d swallowed that pack of lies his father had spun, it made sense that she hated Malcolm.
But in his heart, he couldn’t contain his bruising disappointment. She should have trusted him.
At least she still held his hand. And to his surprise that lovely, lilting voice was warm when she spoke. “So am I.”
Astonishment made him straighten. “Rhona…”
For a searing moment, wide green eyes met his and he could swear that he caught a trace of her old trust in those mossy depths. His grip tightened, and he started to draw her closer before he could remind himself of the dangers of wishful thinking.
She blinked and stiffened. What he thought he’d seen in her expression faded away – if it had ever been there at all. Worse, she tugged her hand free.
“Will you come through to the kitchen?” A quiver in the question told him she’d noticed his interest and it made her uncomfortable. “Patrick and I spend most of our time in there in the winter. There’s a parlor for visitors, but I’d have to light the fire and even if I did, it’s always cold. Although that’s where we set up Christmas dinner.”
He really had shaken her up. She was close to babbling with nerves.
“The kitchen is fine.” He told himself to be careful about rushing his fences. If today achieved no more than it already had, that should be enough after all these desolate years.
But that was the problem with hope. Once stirred into life, it started weaving dreams that he longed to make reality.
Counseling himself to patience, however difficult, he put down the valise and basket. He took off his snow-covered hat and coat and hung them on one of the pegs near the door. He noted the damp overcoat that Patrick had worn earlier. There wasn’t another greatcoat.
Did that mean no other man lived here? Or did that indicate that the man who lived here was somewhere else and wearing his coat? In this violent weather, that lowering possibility was the more likely.
As Malcolm followed Rhona down a long black-and-white tiled hallway, he kept checking for evidence of a masculine presence, other than Patrick. All he saw was a cozy old house decorated with boughs of lush greenery for the season. The interior spoke of the same prosperity he’d noticed in the barn. With every step, the specter of Rhona starving on the streets of London receded.
That was something else he should be grateful to discover. His beloved didn’t appear to be in any want. In fact, if what she’d said in the barn was true, she’d never been destitute and cold and alone. If the man who shared this house was responsible for that, Malcolm had no justification for hating the bastard.
The kitchen turned out to be a large, warm room redolent with baking. A rich fruitcake sat on the stone workbench and rows of golden shortbread were arrayed on cooling racks across a huge old oak table, scarred with decades of use. Malcolm glanced around in pleasure, taking a deep breath of the pine scent rising from the greenery bedecking the room. He set the basket on the bench and the valise near the wall. “This is a home indeed.”
Rhona took off the shawl and draped it over a wooden chair near the blazing fire. Her ruffled hair was beguiling, making her look less severe than she had when she’d first greeted him. “Thank you. I always thought Dun Carron had a warm atmosphere, too. Not that I saw much more of the big house than the servants’ quarters and the great hall where your parents put on the estate Christmas parties.”
He’d danced with Rhona at those parties, often enough to bring down his mother’s censure on his head. As the heir, he was meant to partner all the estate’s womenfolk, not just the winsome lass he fancied.
“You w
ere always the belle of Dun Carron.”
She was. Being the laird’s son hadn’t saved him from coming to fisticuffs with the local lads, who resented that bonny Rhona Macleod was so obviously smitten. It wasn’t just his parents who had objected to his partiality for the prettiest girl in the glen. It wasn’t just his parents who had predicted trouble ahead for the laird’s son and the crofter’s daughter.
At the time, neither that jealousy nor those predictions of doom had seemed to matter.
Malcolm should have paid more attention.
Rhona gave a dismissive wave and avoided his eyes. “You were always a flatterer.”
Back then, he had been, in part because he loved to watch her get into a flutter at his extravagant compliments. Now so many years later, that lighthearted lad and lass seemed like characters in a play. Pretty dolls lined up in a nursery.
“Where’s Patrick?” A few gaps in the rows of shortbread indicated the lad had sneaked in to sample his mother’s baking.
“I’m guessing he’s made himself scarce, in case I mean to box his ears for going behind my back and smuggling you into the barn.” Such love weighted her tone that Malcolm suspected ear boxing was a rare occurrence. Whatever other suffering his son may have undergone, it was clear he’d never lacked a mother’s affection.
“You’d have trouble reaching his ears. He must be a foot taller than you.”
It felt strange to tease Rhona. He hadn’t teased anyone since that appalling day when they’d been ripped apart.
“He takes after his father.” She didn’t smile, although he noticed that she, unlike him, had preserved some lightness of spirit. “Please sit down. Are you still hungry?”
To his surprise, he was. For too long, eating had been a habit rather than a pleasure. “That shortbread looks good.”
“Would you like tea? Or there’s brandy in the cupboard if you’d prefer that. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
He hid a wince at that description. Visitor! It needled that he couldn’t claim a more permanent place in her life. He was determined to change that. At the very least, if Malcolm established a relationship with Patrick, Rhona would see a lot more of him.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 17