His discomfort with her thanks charmed her. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d found a male charming. The admiration glowing in his eyes made her blood flow with lazy warmth. She knew he wanted her, but at this precise moment, even that didn’t seem too frightening.
Be careful, Fiona.
She stiffened in consternation, as she realized how a couple of days of kindness had weakened her resolve. It was time to go.
Today, she’d see Colin buried and name him to God, if only in her heart. Then she’d start planning her escape. While she was still woefully unsteady on her feet, two days of rest and good food had already restored some of her strength.
How strange to realize that when she ran away from Invertavey House, she’d be sorry to leave. She’d come to like blunt, good-hearted Mags and chatty, giggly Peggy and the other maids. Dr. Higgins had looked after her with stalwart dedication.
She wouldn’t miss Invertavey’s master, despite him being a man any woman would admire. Why wouldn’t a woman admire him? He was clever, strong, good-hearted, generous, kind, and protective.
But poor Fiona could commend none of those qualities. Because if he turned that intelligence and strength against her, he’d ruin her every scheme.
Those perceptive dark eyes rested on her now, and black brows drew together over that arrogant blade of a nose. How she wished he wasn’t so handsome. It was so difficult to remember that while he might look like a prince from a legend, he was just another man. And men were the enemy.
“I wish ye wouldn’t do that.” He started to reach for her, then curtailed the gesture and curled his long fingers over the side of the open carriage.
“Do what?” she asked, startled.
He shook his head, as if the question was asinine. “Close yourself away like that.”
“I don’t…”
His lips tightened in impatience. “Ye look so frightened. I loathe it.”
To her dismay, he caught the hand that curled in the fur rug. He’d touched her plenty of times. When he’d found her. On that first night when she’d realized he wanted her. Since, to help her to stand, or move about when her strength failed.
But something about this deliberate clasp of his hand on hers made her shiver. For once, not with fear of a dominant, bullying masculinity. Instead more warmth stole through her veins. Not lazy this time, but urgent and beckoning and alluring.
“I wish you’d trust me, Nita. I wish you’d share what makes ye so afraid and troubled. I wish you’d let me help ye.”
For a moment, she stared into his intent dark eyes and wondered if he might be someone she could rely on, someone who would hear her story and understand why she must act. Someone who would place his strength and his resources at her service, like a knight in an old story who dedicated himself to a fair damsel.
More stories again! Just the thought reminded her that outside books, perfect, chivalrous knights didn’t exist.
Disentangling her hand from his required more effort than it should. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said in a shaky voice.
Disappointment dulled his eyes, and his lips turned down. “As ye wish.”
The problem was that nothing was as she wished. Nothing had been as she wished since she was fifteen and her father died, consigning her to a living hell. But she’d long ago learned the futility of feeling sorry for herself.
When Fiona put her glove on again, her hands were shaking, and she knew the laird noticed that she was far from composed. She stared straight ahead over the horses’ backs to where the drive curved down to the road. That was the route she must follow—and soon. Before the sanctuary she’d found here in this lovely house sapped the last of her will from her.
To think, she’d spent years longing for some touch of kindness. Now she’d found it, and it turned out to be more dangerous to her purpose than years of brutality had ever been.
The carriage lurched as Mr. Mactavish stepped up and sat opposite her, his back to the horses. The coachman took his place, and the vehicle rolled away under the line of elms, carrying her to the funeral of her only friend in Bancavan.
Chapter 6
Fiona was surprised to see how crowded the church was. After all, she was the only person here who knew Colin, and even she couldn’t give him a name, not without betraying herself.
“Tears?” Mr. Mactavish asked softly, as six brawny Highlanders stepped forward to lift the plain wooden coffin and carry it from the church after the short, moving service. The congregation stood as a mark of respect. “Does that mean ye remember who he was?”
With one shaking hand, she fished a handkerchief out of her pocket. “No, of course not.”
She grew to hate the way every second word out of her mouth was false, especially when the people at Invertavey had been so kind. Kind and curious. She hadn’t missed the lingering glances and the whispering, when she tottered into the small stone church on the laird’s arm.
She swallowed to shift the knot of sorrow that blocked her throat and silently promised Colin that one day she’d see right done by him. One day when she was safe, when Christina was safe.
But that day wasn’t today, so she straightened her shoulders and set a steadying hand on the edge of the pew. Her legs felt rubbery, and exhaustion gnawed at the edges of her vision. She was appalled at how little stamina she had, when right now she needed her strength more than ever.
“Is it wrong to weep for a man lost to the sea?” she asked.
When Mr. Mactavish shook his head, a ray of color from the stained glass window above him glanced across the glossy raven-black hair. Gothic letters under a mealy-mouthed Jesus spelled out “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”
Fiona didn’t ask God to watch over her child. Over the last years, she’d lost any faith in the power of prayer.
God wouldn’t help Christina. Only her mother could do that.
“No, especially if he’s known to ye.”
She dragged her attention back to Mr. Mactavish. He looked spectacular in his somber black. But then, he always looked spectacular, curse him.
“I told you, I don’t remember who he is. But I must have known him once, or we wouldn’t have been on that boat together.” The fact that she deserved the laird’s suspicions didn’t make those suspicions any less annoying. “No more absurd to weep for him than for half the village to turn out to bury a stranger.”
Mr. Mactavish offered his arm. She wished she could refuse it, but she didn’t trust her wobbly knees to hold her up.
“People here respect the sea. If ye visit the churchyard, you’ll see that many an Invertavey man has lost his life to drowning. Your friend isnae the only unknown sailor buried here either.”
He unlatched the gate to the pew and helped her down the wooden step to the church’s flag-stoned floor. Up in the loft, the organ was playing something soft and sad. Fiona and the laird proceeded down the aisle, while the rest of the villagers filed out behind them.
By the time they reached the church door, Fiona was feeling seriously shaky. All she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears, and every step she took felt like a mile. As she struggled to remain upright, her fingers formed claws against the fine black wool of Mr. Mactavish’s coat.
The world tilted and reeled as she found herself swept up in Mr. Mactavish’s powerful arms. “Ye really shouldnae have come,” he said.
She drew a breath to clear the fuzziness from her head and sent him a disgusted look, even as her arm curved around his neck. “If you say I told you so, I’ll bite you.”
He stifled a laugh inappropriate to the solemn occasion. Fascinating creases deepened around his eyes as he smiled.
Spectacular she’d called him? The word didn’t do him justice.
“Och, I might like that.”
Before she could muster a reply to that taunting remark, Dr. Higgins had come up to them. She’d smiled at him in the church, but he’d been too far back from the Mactavish family pew at the f
ront for her to speak to him. “Is Miss Nita all right?”
“She wasnae ready to come out in public.” Mr. Mactavish’s grip on her was firm yet gentle. “Will ye take her back up to the house, John? I should go to the graveside.”
“With pleasure.”
“I can speak for myself.” She winced at how childish she sounded.
Mr. Mactavish stopped and directed a mocking lift of a dark eyebrow at her. “Would ye like to go back to the house, lassie? I could carry ye into the churchyard, but we’re causing enough talk as it is.”
She looked around and saw that everyone was staring at her in the laird’s arms. Uncomfortable heat prickled her cheeks.
“No, I’ll…I’ll go back to the house.” She mustered a stronger tone. “You know, you don’t need to haul me about like a bag of flour all the time.”
He gave a sardonic grunt. “I do, when you turn as white as that flour. I cannae have strange women fainting at my feet and littering the church. People might trip over ye and do themselves a mischief.”
Fiona didn’t want to laugh, but she couldn’t help it. She was annoyed with him. And she was genuinely sad that they buried old Colin Smith today. If he hadn’t agreed to help her, he’d be tucked up safely beside his fireside in Bancavan.
Mr. Mactavish’s efficient care belied his sardonic manner. She soon found herself in the open carriage with the luxurious rug wrapped around her once again.
As Dr. Higgins took the seat opposite, Mr. Mactavish tipped his hat to her, then turned to his friend. “Stay on for a wee dram, if you’re no’ in a hurry to be elsewhere.”
“Aye, I will. Thank you.”
As the driver clicked his tongue to the horses and the carriage rolled away, Fiona couldn’t help turning her head to watch Mr. Mactavish stride after the coffin.
I’m sorry, Colin. I’m sorry I got you into this. I’m sorry you died. And I’m sorry I’m too feeble to see you safely placed in your grave.
“The service didn’t spark any memories for you?” Dr. Higgins asked.
She’d forgotten he was there, she was so busy staring after the laird, who towered above everyone around him. There was no reason to blush. She didn’t harbor wicked intentions toward Mr. Mactavish, however handsome he was. But blush she did, even as she brushed a tear from her eye and said a silent farewell to Colin.
“No.” She avoided his gaze and stared down to where she ripped at her damp handkerchief. “I’d tell you if it did.”
“I’m starting to agree with Diarmid. We need to do something to locate your family. This is the third day after the wreck. They must be frantic for news of you.”
“No…” She raised horrified eyes to meet the doctor’s kind but perceptive gaze. She gulped in some air and struggled to steady her voice, although she feared he’d recognized her panic. “I’m sure in time my memory will come back. I don’t want to put you or Mr. Mactavish to any inconvenience.”
As if he spoke the words, she saw the thought run through the doctor’s mind that she could hardly disrupt Mr. Mactavish’s household more than she did right now. But he was too polite to point that out, even if they both knew it was true.
Staring out at the small village, she swallowed to shift the bitter taste of all her lies. Invertavey was neat and prosperous and well managed. The laird was a good master. Compared to rough, rundown Bancavan, Invertavey was Eden.
She hadn’t paid attention to the scenery on the way to the church. When Mr. Mactavish was with her, she never noticed much else. Dr. Higgins was more restful company, or at least he had been until he mentioned taking measures to discover her identity.
As they trundled along the cobbled street, people turned to watch her. She supposed her dramatic arrival set tongues wagging, especially as she’d taken up residence in the manor with a bachelor. Another reason for going sooner rather than later. Mr. Mactavish didn’t deserve to be the target of gossip as repayment for his generosity. A woman in dire straits could spend a couple of days under his roof without raising too many eyebrows. But if that turned into an extended convalescence, questions would be asked.
Nor would her presence remain a secret outside Invertavey if she lingered. News had a way of spreading like rings of water in a pond after someone threw in a stone. She couldn’t take the risk of word reaching the Grants that an unknown woman had washed up miles down the coast from Bancavan.
“Miss Nita?”
How she hated that stupid name, too. Every time she heard it, it reminded her that she was a foul liar.
“Yes, Dr. Higgins?” She didn’t look away from the road. They’d turned onto the long drive leading up to the house.
“Diarmid Mactavish is the finest man I know. There’s no better friend in adversity. If you’re in trouble, tell him. You can trust him.”
Dr. Higgins’s quiet, sincere words had tears pricking at her eyes, tears too revealing to shed. How she wished she could ask for her host’s help, but she couldn’t take the risk that he might decide to tell the Grants where she was.
Fiona wasn’t lost to the irony of her situation. All her life, she’d been taught to loathe the Mactavish name, yet now the only man she came close to trusting was a Mactavish.
Blinking away her tears, she braced to tell more lies. She sucked in an unsteady breath and faced the doctor, seeing his concern and his integrity, and knowing she could rely on neither. She even managed to muster a brief smile.
“Once my memory comes back, I’ll be able to answer all your questions. Right now, that’s my only trouble—and regaining my strength. Mr. Mactavish has been so good to me, and so have you, Doctor. Whatever happens, I’ll always cherish the welcome I received at Invertavey. No lady in distress could have found a better sanctuary.”
That at least was true, although it didn’t ease the doctor’s frown as he studied her. Mr. Mactavish had never believed that she’d lost her memory. She had a sinking feeling that Dr. Higgins became more skeptical by the hour.
It was time she went, before these kind people realized they’d sheltered a deceiver. One more night at Invertavey to gather her strength, one more day. Tomorrow night, once the household was abed, she’d brave the open hills and make her way to her daughter.
Chapter 7
Shielding her candle with one hand, Fiona crept down the imposing oak staircase to Invertavey House’s ground floor. Her other hand clung to the carved banister, with its fanciful dolphins and mermaids and tritons, more reminders that the house was beside the sea, if the view out the window wasn’t enough to convince a visitor.
She’d returned from Colin’s funeral exhausted and heartsick, not just with grief for the loss of a good man. Her quest had forced her to make some hard decisions, and none harder than this. What she intended to do now broke every law of hospitality and was a betrayal of all the generosity she’d received here.
After the funeral, she’d slept for hours and managed a good dinner. This was the first time since the shipwreck that she started to feel more like herself. For days, she’d felt like she was made of wet string, scarcely able to stand on her own two feet. Now her legs hardly trembled as she inched her way downstairs.
This morning on the way out, she’d caught a quick glimpse of the rooms leading off the hall. She made for the one that seemed to be a study or library. What she wanted might be there. If not, she’d search for an office, or down in the kitchens.
At the doorway, she paused, loathing what necessity made of her. Then as so often before, she set aside her qualms and stepped into the dark room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Nothing mattered beyond Christina’s safety.
In grim, loveless Bancavan, everything was locked away, including the women. So when she put her candle on the large leather-topped desk before a tall window, Fiona expected what she wanted to be out of immediate reach.
Picking simple locks was a skill she’d learned over the last wretched years. But when she tried the top drawer, it opened at her first touch. A sigh of relief
escaped her. Here in happy, well-managed Invertavey, the laird didn’t secure his valuables. He trusted the people around him. Shame tasted rusty in her mouth as she realized she was about to prove him wrong.
Flickering candlelight revealed a jumble of bits and pieces. A silver compass. A gold watch on a chain. Pens. Pencils. Notebooks. Bent nails. Bird feathers. Seashells. And a scatter of what she sought—cold, hard cash.
Instead of reaching for the money, Fiona paused to fight a wave of poignant tenderness. She couldn’t afford to give in to weakness, but the mess in the drawer was so unexpected. She’d imagined Diarmid Mactavish would be orderly in his habits. He always seemed so in command of himself.
This untidy drawer revealed a boyish tendency to collect odds and ends and pile them together in a chaotic heap. Her powerful response to this surprising side to her host’s character took her unawares. Somewhere in the last days, she’d developed a genuine respect and liking for the master here.
Fiona stared down at the tangle. More than likely he didn’t know how much money was here. She could take a little, without him noticing the robbery the moment he opened the drawer.
Her conscience stabbed her. Theft shouldn’t be so easy.
Without hesitation, she picked out some notes and a handful of coins and wrapped them in a handkerchief. Her hands were shaking so hard that it took several attempts to tie everything up in a tight bundle.
***
“Two gentlemen to see ye, Mactavish,” Mags said from the library door.
Diarmid looked up from the plans to drain a low-lying field where he wanted to graze his cattle. “Two gentlemen?”
Obviously whoever his visitors were, they weren’t from the estate. Mags knew everyone on Invertavey as well as he did. “Did they give their names?”
“Aye, they did.” Her tone was uncharacteristically cool. “Allan and Thomas Grant of Bancavan.”
Diarmid stifled a sigh. Over past centuries, the Grants and the Mactavishes had been mortal enemies. Rivers of blood had been spilled on both sides, and clan lore was rife with tales of raids and battles and kidnappings. But in this modern era, with the Highlands at peace, he had no patience with feuds extending back into the mists of history.
The Highlander’s Lost Lady: The Lairds Most Likely Book 3 Page 6