Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  He had no idea what had been done to the fortress during his twenty-year absence, or if its English masters had made any mark upon it at all. The Metcalfs may have completely changed its appearance. He prayed that financial problems might have stayed Edward Metcalf’s hand at least. In the distance, Ramsay could just make out the silhouette of the towers rising from the granite cliff above the lake. From what he could see, the outward lines had not been altered.

  A half hour later, reluctant to show himself to anyone at Highclyffe until he had time to inquire at the village as to whom might be occupying the place, he took the back path, so overgrown as to be almost invisible. He walked his horse through the ankle-deep snow and matted grass, his gaze never leaving the dark stones of Highclyffe, his thoughts never straying from the last black hours he had spent here. He could still hear the screams, still hear the roar of the fire and smell the stench of burning flesh.

  He tried to shut off the memory by inspecting the outer walls of the fortress. Not much had changed about the place, except for a general state of disrepair which shrouded Highclyffe like a tattered garment. Many of the stones needed dressed, windows were broken, casements were cracked and covered with moss, and the grounds appeared forlorn and unkempt—or maybe they appeared so only to a troubled man who had arrived in the dead of winter.

  Heart heavy, Ramsay decided to continue down the path to the shore of the lake, to a spot he’d always loved. There he would watch the sun go down on his beloved Highclyffe, the home for which he planned to barter a woman’s soul. He turned his mount’s head for the lake.

  After meeting the caretakers of Highclyffe, John and Jessie MacEwan, Sophie ate a small afternoon meal of cold pullet and buttered bread while Edward dressed and left for the village. Sophie wandered through the chilly deserted rooms of Highclyffe, haunted by the solemn echo of her own footsteps. Ancient tapestries, likely centuries old, hung from the walls in the great hall, but other than that the few pieces of furniture in the fortress seemed like recent afterthoughts, and were woefully out of place.

  Sadness permeated the shadowy halls, and Sophie caught herself looking over her shoulder, certain she had felt something or had seen something move, only to find herself alone. One grand stairway rose in the main hall, while other narrow steps curved up into darkness to the floor above. She took one of the corner stairs, only to be frightened nearly out of her wits when Mr. MacEwan pulled open the door of the second level, just as she reached for it.

  “Good heavens!” she gasped, collapsing against the cold wall behind her. “You gave me a fright!”

  “Sorry, lass.” He held open the door and motioned her through.

  “Thank you,” she commented, stepping through the doorway. “This place has quite unnerved me.”

  “You’d best be careful.” He glanced over his shoulder and held up the brace of candles he carried to throw more light on the stairs. “There’s spirits about. And not all bonny ones.”

  “Spirits?” The flesh on the back of her neck and arms prickled.

  “Aye.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Of the Clan MacMarrie.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The rightful owners of the place. Had they lived.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Hanged or burned. The whole lot of ‘em.”

  “How awful!” She felt her hands go cold. “Everyone? Even the women and children?”

  “Well, the rumor flew for a while that the laird’s son had escaped. But nothin’ was ever seen of the lad after the fire. He either died, or had sense enough to go into hidin.’”

  Sophie could think of nothing to say in reply. The story was too grim for further comment.

  John MacEwan nodded, his gaze trailing upward toward the ceiling. “Sometimes I see the laird of the place walkin’ on the battlements, his black hair a-blowin’ in the wind off the lake, and him looking south t’ England, bidin’ his time, just bidin’ his time.”

  “You mean to say you see the dead lord—a ghost?”

  “Aye. His shade haunts the place. He can’t sleep for the injustice of it, ye see.”

  Sophie hugged her arms, suddenly and uncomfortably cold. “Who killed him? The English?”

  “Aye. Durin’ the rebellion. Highclyffe’s sorriest hour.”

  “And now they own his castle.”

  “And are letting it go to ruin as well.” MacEwan frowned. “I gave Lord Metcalf a whole list of things that must be repaired and replaced the last time he was here, and he just threw it in the fire. Laughed in my face, he did. The whole place is going to crumble to mold one of these days, if they don’t take care!”

  Sophie could feel his frustration. “Why don’t you give me the list, Mr. MacEwan, and I’ll do my best to see to the repairs.”

  “You’ll get money out of the Metcalfs?” He laughed mirthlessly. “That’ll be the day!”

  “Just let me know what needs to be done.”

  MacEwan peered at her, his small dark eyes searching her face as if judging whether to take her seriously or not.

  “Highclyffe is full of history,” she remarked. “It would be a shame to see it fall into ruin.”

  “Aye, a damn shame.” He nodded. “I’ll make you a list then.”

  “Good.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m going to follow you back down the stairs. I don’t want to meet up with your ghost when I’m all by myself!”

  He chuckled and turned to make the descent.

  Later, Sophie searched out the elderly Mrs. MacEwan to tell her she was going to take some exercise after the long journey north, when in truth she didn’t want to spend any more time alone in the fortress.

  The housekeeper showed her out the back gate which was guarded by a heavy portcullis rusted open.

  “Don’t go too far, Miss,” Mrs. MacEwan warned. “There are still wild beasts about, and the sun goes down quick in these parts.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie lifted her skirts, “I’ll be careful.”

  She walked through the back gate, through a wall of granite twelve feet thick, toward an overgrown lane that led down the slope to the lake—a much less frightening and seldom-used path than the main road.

  A flock of grouse rose out of the gorse as she passed, and they flapped noisily into the silver-blue sky. She watched them take wing, and wondered what it would be like to be a bird, able to soar from danger and land unremarked in another place and resume their lives unmolested.

  Sophie knew she could not complain about the life into which she’d landed on her jump from the burning London inn. Lady Auliffe had been everything a grandmother should be and more. She couldn’t complain about her future in-laws, either. Barring their mind-numbing stuffiness, the Metcalfs were a respectable family. She was no longer starving, cold, and alone. She should count her blessings instead of succumbing to despair. Still, she could not shake a feeling of doom at the prospect of her upcoming life.

  Sophie looked across the lake and drew in a deep breath of the crisp winter air, pulling back her shoulders with renewed resolve. She was to marry Edward in the morning. Let her sadness begin then. But this one last afternoon of freedom belonged solely to her.

  With each step, Sophie’s heart grew lighter. The spicy fragrance of the pines and the clean scent of the water soothed her. Since her arrival in London, she had almost forgotten what fresh air smelled like. London air was heavy with coal smoke, and rank with the stench of garbage and night soil. Even the Thames carried a thick fishy smell along its sluggish path to the sea. But here at Lake Lemond, there was no hint of human habitation, and the air smelled wondrously sweet.

  The lake was large enough to produce slight waves that sighed across the gravel and sand along the shore. Sophie walked close to the water’s edge, listening as the water sang a soothing lullaby to her. Late afternoon light slanted in through the trees, throwing long shadows in her path, and warming the side of her face. There on the lake shore, Highclyffe took on a different light, one of
wild tranquility, one that she would not soon forget.

  At first she thought the shape ahead was an odd rock formation perched atop a jumble of boulders, until it moved and Sophie heard the jangle of a horse’s bridle. She paused, unwilling to have her idyll cut short by the presence of another human being, as well as worried that she had walked too long a distance alone and might have placed herself in danger.

  Then she saw the figure bend, pick up something, and throw it out to the lake. She watched the thrown rock skip a score of times before dropping through the mirror of the water. The man reached for another stone, and then another.

  Sophie could tell his movements were fired by frustration, and that the toss of the rock was no playful activity but an exercise fraught with anger. She took her time in studying the man, and guessed that he was above average in height, though it was hard to judge at a distance, and that he was broad in the shoulders and slender in the hips. His figure reminded her of Ian Ramsay, and at the thought of her former friend, Sophie crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the pain his memory provoked in her.

  The movement must have caught the man’s eye, for he glanced in her direction. She could see the lighter triangle of his face beneath his black tricorne hat. Sophie nodded, not wishing to be rude to a neighbor, but decided it was high time she returned to the castle, and safer if she did not confront the disturbed man. She turned and deftly picked her way back to Highclyffe over the stony beach.

  “Miss!” she heard him call behind her.

  Her stomach squeezed together sickeningly, and she glanced ahead, wondering how long it would take her to run back to Highclyffe. She had ventured at least a mile from the fortress. Could she even run in the loose rocks? And if she ran, would the man chase her?

  “Miss!”

  She kept to a quick but steady pace, pretending not to hear the man calling to her. His voice was strident with alarm or anger, she couldn’t tell which, and didn’t wish to find out. The shore looked different to her as she hurried along, and she was certain the strip of beach had been a bit wider when she had passed before.

  Behind her she heard footsteps quickly approaching, as man and horse followed her and soon would overtake her. Sophie’s heart pounded in her chest and she glanced into the dark woods to the right, wondering if she would stand a better chance of escape if she plunged into the thicket where a horse could not go. She knew, however, if she strayed from the path, she would get hopelessly lost as night fell around her.

  Sure that she was about to be accosted by a ruffian, Sophie snatched up a long piece of driftwood and whirled to face the man. She wasn’t about to be taken from behind, pushed into the sand face down, and raped by a savage Scotsman. Not without a fight.

  The man stopped a healthy distance from her and dropped the reins of his horse. It stood beside him on the beach, gazing at Sophie, its ears pitched forward, its large luminous eyes full of curiosity.

  Sophie held up the sturdy gray branch and dug her boots into the sand.

  “Don’t come any closer, sir!” she warned.

  The man paused and then tilted his head, as if trying to see her face from a clearer vantage point.

  “Miss Hinds?” he inquired.

  Chapter 17

  “Do I know you?” she shot back, straining to see the man’s features in the shadow of his hat. Something in the set of the man’s shoulders and the turn of his leg was oddly familiar to her.

  He swept off the tricorne, revealing dark hair and dark swooping brows, stark cheekbones and sharp jawline—all overwhelmingly familiar to Sophie. She nearly fainted in shock to see Captain Ramsay standing in front of her on a beach in Scotland.

  “Ian?” she choked, vastly relieved.

  “Good Lord!” He swept forward. “It is you! What are you doing here?”

  “Me?” she retorted, “What are you doing here?”

  She allowed him to disarm her, and he pitched the weapon into the lake, while his left hand gripped her elbow. He stared at her face, and she wasn’t sure if he gripped her to keep her from dashing away, or if he was overcome by the sight of her, as she was dangerously close to being overcome by the sight of him. Her breath came in quick short gasps that she could not control, and she had to remind herself that she was angry at him.

  “I had to get out of London for a while,” he finally replied.

  “But why here?”

  He glanced at the lake as if weighing his reply and then looked back at her. “I grew up close by.”

  “In Scotland?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that’s the connection.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With the Molly MacRells of the world.”

  “Yes, in a fashion.” He allowed his gaze to run down the front of her, and then having assured himself that she was all right, his gaze rose to her eyes. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

  “Well, you did.” She pulled away and brushed off his touch.

  “I meant to help.”

  “In what way? By chasing me?”

  “I had to stop you.” He nodded toward the path behind her. “The beach will soon be impassable up ahead, as will the beach behind us. I was concerned you might get caught by the tide.”

  “Tide?” She glanced at the lake, knowing enough about bodies of water to be sure that only the ocean and some rivers were pulled by the moon. What falsehoods was he telling her this time? “What tide? This is a lake!”

  “With underground channels to the sea. Loch Lemond rises and falls each day. ‘Tis a well known fact.”

  A connection to the sea and its tides accounted for the way the beach seemed to have shrunk on her return. She glanced at Ramsay’s face. “Well, then, I suppose thanks are in order.”

  “I believe they are.”

  She saw a small smile in his eyes and the sight of it pierced through her cool resolve to remain angry with him. When she was with him, he seemed so warm and so caring, always concerned about her, always appearing to be on the verge of leaning down to kiss her mouth, but at the same time struggling within himself not to succumb to the urge. He could make her dizzy with his seemingly genuine charm and his obvious attraction to her, and then turn his back on her with chilling swiftness that defied explanation. His hot and cold antics had broken her heart, and she knew she was better off not looking at him any more than necessary. His eyes had always been her undoing.

  Sophie picked up her skirts. “Then I thank you, sir.”

  “There is a path just behind those rocks that will take you around the beach and up to the high meadow.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In this light, you might have trouble finding it, though.”

  “I’ll manage.” She turned toward the path.

  “Sophie—”

  She froze, and then slowly twisted around to stare at him over her shoulder. “What did you just call me?”

  “Sophie.” He took a step toward her, and his boots crunched loudly in the gravel, thundering in her ears. “I’ve wanted to call you that for weeks.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it suits you. And because I cannot play this game a moment longer.”

  “What game? What are you talking about?”

  “You know full well what I’m talking about.”

  He strode up to her until his boots pushed into the folds of her cloak and skirts. She shrank back, pressing against the cold granite boulder behind her, knowing she had nowhere to run, and not certain how to play her part this time.

  “Sophie.” He reached out and clutched the tops of her arms in his hands. “We must talk.”

  “No!” she cried. “Let me go!”

  “I know who you are. I know all about you.”

  “You know nothing!”

  “Puckett has been investigating you.”

  “You’re mad.” She tried to yank out of his grip, but he held her tightly. “Leave me alone!”

  “Sophie!” His gaze locked with hers and she knew she wa
s in trouble. She could feel the earth slipping out from under her feet. “We need to—”

  “Ian, n—”

  He silenced them both with a sudden kiss, pinning her against the rock, kissing her and holding her until she lost the will to protest. She melted in his arms, giving in to this last moment of passion, knowing she deserved it as a condemned prisoner deserved a last meal.

  Since the moment she had laid eyes on Ian Ramsay, she had felt the flaring heat of desire between them, and now the flood of her attraction for him, mingled with his long, aroused sighs, poured over her. No matter what they were to each other, no matter how coldly he might walk away afterward, she would allow herself this one last pleasure before her dream of true love was packed away on her wedding night.

  Sophie let her head loll back on her neck as his mouth trailed down her throat. His hat fell off to the stones at their feet, and she slipped her fingers into his raven hair, which was as silky and soft as she had imagined it would be. His hair tickled her neck, sending shimmering thrills of delight all the way to her toes and igniting a fire of want deep in her womb. Though they were barred from each other by layers of wool and silk, she felt each stroke of his fingers, each warm breath of his mouth, each press of his hips against her own far more acutely than any touch of Edward Metcalf.

  Then his hands slipped inside her cloak, pushing upward and over her breasts as if to stoke the flames that were already roaring inside her. She kissed the taut flesh stretched over his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, and the tendons of his neck above his snowy white cravat. He strained to pull her tighter, and she felt herself being lifted off her feet.

  “To come upon you like this,” he breathed near her ear. “’Tis like a miracle!”

  She wrapped her arms about his neck and gloried in the touch of their torsos merging with a shattering embrace. She had never clung to anyone as tightly as this, and still it did not seem close enough to satisfy either of them.