by Candace Camp
“No doubt they would find us doing the same thing, expected or not. But thank you for the warning.”
Coll nodded and glanced toward the men, who ostentatiously turned and went back to work. He came closer, and Violet moved to the side.
“Vio—I mean, my lady.” Coll followed her. “I wanted to speak with you.”
“Indeed?” She could see his expression clearly now. He was frowning.
“Yes. About the other night . . .”
“It was an enjoyable party.” She smiled brightly. “Thank you for suggesting it to me.”
“I am glad you enjoyed it, but that wasn’t what I meant. I was talking about afterward, at the dock.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I wanted to apologize.”
“There is no need. ’Twas I who was at fault.”
“You!” He stared.
“Yes. My actions were inappropriate. As you said, I had been drinking, and—”
“Inappropriate?”
“Yes. I am aware my actions were unwelcome and . . . and forward.”
“Forward!”
“Really, Mr. Munro, are you going to parrot everything I say?”
“But you—I was not saying that you were—”
“There is no need to soften the blow.” Was he being purposely difficult? “Clearly you cannot make yourself want to—well, engage in, um . . .”
“Are you daft? What are you saying?”
Violet bristled. “I am saying that I acted out of character. I assure you, it will not happen again. And it is time this conversation ended. Good day, sir.”
“Wait. Why are you the one to decide if this conversation is over?”
“Mr. Munro! Lower your voice!” Violet hissed, glancing toward the workers.
Coll clenched his teeth, casting a glance over his shoulder at the three men, who had given up all pretense of work and stood watching them. “The devil!” His eyes moved past the men. “Bloody hell. They would show up now.” Violet followed his gaze. Isobel and her aunt were walking toward the ruins. Coll swung back, scowling. “This conversation is not over.”
“Indeed?” Violet raised her eyebrows and swept past him. “Lady Elizabeth, Mrs. Kensington, I am so glad to see you.”
Despite the way it began, Violet enjoyed the afternoon. Coll took his leave almost immediately. Violet guided the two women around the site, explaining where she and the men were digging and why, and showing them the pieces of pierced bone they had found. It was gratifying to share the discovery and even more so to see the real interest in their faces.
“You think these were part of some jewelry?” Isobel asked, turning the larger piece of bone over in her fingers.
“Yes, I believe the holes drilled in them would indicate so. We found these other two small pieces yesterday, very near the location of the larger piece.”
“They must be very old.” The awe in Isobel’s voice was so similar to Violet’s own feelings that she warmed to the other woman.
After all, Isobel could not help being the ideal of beauty that Violet could never hope to attain. Nor was it Isobel’s fault that Coll’s face had lit up when he saw her at the dance—which was an absurd reason to resent a person, anyway. If Coll nursed an unrequited love for Mrs. Kensington, it was no business of Violet’s.
They chatted at length about the possible origins of the site and how Violet planned to proceed. Rarely was she able to converse with another female who had the same eagerness to learn as her, and Violet enjoyed the conversation so much that she persuaded Isobel and Elizabeth to have tea with her at Duncally after they finished at the site.
For the first time since the dance at Baillannan, Violet went to bed that evening in a happy mood—which made it even odder when she awoke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, filled with a vague sense of unease. She pushed back the bed curtains and looked out over the room. The coals in the fireplace lent a dim reddish glow to the darkness of the chamber, against which the furniture made even blacker shapes. Just as she was about to close the heavy draperies and go back to sleep, a low metallic clank was followed by a muffled exclamation. Someone was in the house.
It had to be Coll, visiting the library again. Violet slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the clock on the mantel. Two o’clock. Coll would not be in Duncally looking for a book in the middle of the night. Perhaps one of the servants. But the servants’ hall and bedrooms were on the floor below. There was no reason for any of them to be in this wing now.
Violet opened the door into the hall and peered out. The corridor was not completely dark; a sconce or two high on the walls burned dimly, leaving pools of shadows up and down the way. The house loomed around her, dark and silent, the long stretch of corridor with its closed doors on either side whispering of hidden things.
She watched, nerves stretching. Suddenly a shape moved out of a door down the hallway, dark and silent, heading toward the stairs. Violet jumped, her nerves zinging through her. Without thinking, she flung her door wide. “Stop! Who is that!”
The figure took off at a run. Violet pelted after him, grabbing up a heavy candlestick from one of the tables as she ran. As she reached the top of the staircase, she saw the figure turn the corner of the landing and race downward. Violet followed, gripping the empty candleholder like a club.
A dim light was on the floor below, and it moved away as footsteps clattered across the marble floor. When Violet reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned toward the light and saw a dark figure carrying a lantern slip through the front door. Violet ran after him, bursting out into the night. Something crashed down on the back of her head, and she pitched forward onto the steps.
The blow stunned Violet, but it did not knock her out, and instinctively she broke the fall with her hands. For a moment she lay there, stunned, then lifted her head. It was drizzling, she realized, and cold. Patches of fog drifted across the drive, but she caught sight of the lantern light, diffused by the fog. A figure ran down the driveway and into the mist, the lantern bobbing at the level of his knees.
Violet pushed herself up and ran after him. She was vaguely aware of the sting of her palms and the throbbing in her head, but they did not slow her as she tore along the driveway. The moving light drew farther and farther away until at last it disappeared altogether, swallowed up by the night. She slowed and finally stopped, her chest heaving. She shivered, realizing all at once how cold and wet she was.
Ahead of her was the dark bulk of a cottage. The gatehouse. “Coll!”
She ran forward. A light appeared in the window as she reached the house. Violet pounded her fist against the door. “Coll!”
She braced one hand against the doorframe, her head whirling, gasping for air. The door jerked open, and Coll stood in the doorway. He had obviously been pulled from his bed by her cries, for he was barefoot and shirtless and his hair fell messily around his face. Behind him a candle flickered on the table.
“Violet! Good Lord!” He reached out to take her arm. Violet tried to take a step, but her limbs seemed strangely disconnected from her. Her stomach pitched. She saw Coll’s lips moving, but she could not hear his words. Her knees began to buckle.
Coll caught her as she crumpled to the floor.
8
Coll swept Violet up in his arms and carried her across the room to the fireplace. She leaned her head against him, closing her eyes on the suddenly tilting room. His chest was warm and solid, reassuring, and it was tempting to let go, to slide into the darkness, held by him. Safe.
He knelt, setting Violet on the floor before the fire, his arms still around her, and laid a hand against her cheek. “What happened? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
She realized that she was, indeed, shivering, and she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.
“It’s all right.” Coll’s voice was low and soothing. “You’re safe now.” He shifted so that he was sitting on the floor, and he cradled her against his chest.
In the back of her m
ind, Violet knew she should pull away, not allow herself to be weak and dependent, but she could not move. It was too nice here, enveloped in his warmth. The sensation of his bare skin against her cheek was odd, but pleasurable as well, smooth skin and the prickle of hair. She thought of the way he’d looked standing in the doorway—the wide expanse of bare chest with the overlying V of curling, red-brown hair, the hard, straight line of his collarbone and broad shoulders, the curve of muscle beneath the skin.
Her cheeks warmed. “I’m sorry. I’m getting you all wet.”
“Dinna fret about that.”
With her cheek against his chest, she felt the rumble of his voice as well as heard it, and it turned her soft and achy inside. The surge of feeling alarmed her, giving her the strength to pull away. Coll leaned back, his eyes dropping from her face to her chest. Red flared along his cheekbones, and his eyes went dark. Violet realized that the rain had soaked her nightgown. The wet material clung to her body, almost transparent, her full breasts and darker nipples, prickling from the cold, clearly visible.
She could not move. In the silence, she could hear the breath in Coll’s throat turn harsh and fast. His face softened, eyelids drooping down over the sudden heat in his eyes. Finally, by force of will, Violet turned her face away, wrapping her arms around herself. As if her movement had released him, too, Coll surged to his feet. “I’ll, um, get you a . . .”
He grabbed a colorful, knitted afghan from the back of the armchair beside the fireplace. Violet rose and took it, wrapping it tightly around her. She felt stronger, less vulnerable now, but she was aware of an odd twinge of loss as well.
Coll picked up a poker and prodded the fire into life, tossing in another brick of peat. The flare of light tinged his skin red and gold. Violet watched the movement of muscles across his back, the sharp outthrust of shoulder blades. He was a powerful man; it was even more obvious without the covering of his clothes. She should, she thought, be intimidated by his size and strength. Instead she was . . . excited.
Coll turned back to her, and Violet glanced away, embarrassed at being caught staring. He set the poker in its stand with a clang and strode from the room. When he returned, he had donned a shirt and carried a folded blanket. Draping the blanket around Violet’s shoulders, he went to pour water into a kettle and hang it over the fire.
“What happened? Why did you come running out without anything—um, I mean, dressed in—” He did not look at her as he pulled out cups and the tea tin.
“Someone broke into the house.” Violet avoided the subject of her attire.
“What?” Coll whipped around. “Into Duncally? Who? Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him—though I doubt I would have recognized him anyway.”
“A thief. Bold, to steal from Mardoun.” His eyes narrowed, and he stiffened. “Or was he—did he come into your room? Did he hurt you?”
“No—I mean, he did hit me, but that was later.”
“He hit you?”
“Yes. Don’t shout. I ran after him out of the house, and he must have hidden behind the door. He popped out and knocked me on the head.” Her hand went up, searching for the soreness.
“Where?” Coll grasped her shoulders and dragged her closer to the candle on the table, his eyes running over her face and hair.
“On the back of my head.” Violet gingerly laid her fingers on the spot.
Coll let out a low curse and planted her on a chair beside the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.”
Coll made a disgusted noise and strode off, returning with a bottle and a cloth, as well as a kerosene lamp, which he set down beside her on the table. Turning up the wick, he examined her. “Aye, you’ll have a bump, all right. ’Tis fortunate your head is so hard.” He poured a dark liquid from the bottle onto the cloth and began to dab at the wound.
“Ow!” Violet shot him a dark look.
Coll slanted back an amused glance and continued to treat her. “I dinna see any blood.” His big hands were surprisingly gentle. When he finished working, he slid one hand down over her hair before pulling it away. The touch sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with either the cold or the pain in her head. “I don’t think there’s a cut, but just in case, that will help heal it.”
He turned away to pour hot water over the tea leaves. “Now.” He set the pot on the table beside Violet, then put a stool directly in front of her and sat down on it, staring into her face. “Tell me exactly what happened. Why were you chasing this fellow about the house?”
“I woke up. I must have heard a noise. Then I heard a clang. He must have dropped something or knocked it over.”
“In your bedchamber?” Coll kept his voice level but his face was hard as stone.
“No, no. It was nothing to do with me. The noise was down the hall. I got up and looked out. At first I didn’t see anything, but then a man came out of one of the rooms closer to the stairs.” She shivered involuntarily at the memory of that shadow slipping silently along the hall. “It scared me.”
“Scared you so much you gave chase to him.”
“I couldn’t just let him get away, could I?”
“Aye, you could. A sensible woman would have. He could have hurt you—worse than he did.”
“I didn’t have time to think. I yelled at him and he ran, so I went after him. He ran down the stairs and out the front door.”
“So you took off into the night after an intruder? Unarmed? Wearing naught but your night rail?”
“I told you, I didn’t stop to think about it! Would you have sat there twiddling your thumbs and let him get away?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“I know, I know, you’re twice the size I am and you’re a man, so it’s all right for you to want to thwart a thief, but not a weak woman like me.”
“I would never call you weak.”
“Anyway, I wasn’t unarmed. I grabbed a candlestick from one of the tables.”
A short bark of laughter escaped Coll. “A candlestick!” He sat back, crossing his arms, and regarded her with a blend of amusement and exasperation. “All right, so you ran after the fellow, wielding your fearsome candlestick . . .”
“And when I stepped out the door, he hit me from behind.” Violet sighed. “I should have thought of that.”
“Ah, but your blood was up.”
“I realize that you derive a great deal of amusement from my mistakes,” Violet began tartly. “But I fail to—”
“Nae, not that!” Coll took her hands. “I have no joy at seeing you injured. You must know that. It is your spirit I enjoy.” He glanced down as if surprised to see her hands in his. He frowned. “You dinna tell me he hurt your hands as well.”
“Oh, that. I fell down when he knocked me on the head, and the stone scraped my palms.”
Frowning, he poured more of the brown liquid on the cloth and began to wash her palms. His head was bent over his task, and Violet was free to watch him. His hair glistened in the glow of the lamp, a mingling of gold and silver that fell carelessly across his forehead. She wondered what it would feel like beneath her fingers. The medicine stung, but she scarcely noticed, too aware of Coll’s nearness and his warm, work-roughened palm beneath her hand.
He set the rag aside, his hands sliding slowly from hers, and as he leaned back, his eyes dropped down her. He drew in a sharp breath. “Dinna tell me you ran all that way in your bare feet.”
Self-consciously Violet tucked her unshod feet beneath her chair. “Well . . . yes.”
“You’re a madwoman.” Coll dropped to one knee and shocked her by taking her heel in his hand to examine the sole of her foot.
“I doubt the intruder would have waited for me to put on my stockings and shoes.” Violet jerked her foot away, feeling at once foolish and jittery and surging with heat. “I’m fine.”
“Naturally.” Coll walked away.
Violet contemplated her feet. They looked obsc
enely naked. She had never really thought about her feet before, but she realized now that they were too bony and white. Altogether unpleasing. Not only were they ugly, they were dirty. And scratched. And Coll had touched them. No other man had ever touched her feet. Indeed, no other man had ever seen her feet. He must think her an awful heathen. What sort of woman would go running out as she had, clad in only her nightgown, pursuing a thief, paying no attention that it was raining and she wore no shoes? A madwoman, as he had said.
The feel of his fingers had set everything inside her churning, just as it had the other night. Violet closed her eyes. She could not let him see how he affected her. She must not embarrass herself again. She heard Coll returning and cut her eyes toward him. He placed a large bowl on the table and poured water into it. Picking up the brown bottle, he added a dollop of medicine to the water.
“What are you doing?”
“Someone has to tend to you.” He poured the remainder of the water from the teakettle into the bowl. “Since clearly you dinna have any care for yourself.”
He knelt, setting the large bowl on the floor in front of her, then lifted her feet and put them in it, astonishing Violet so much that she could not get out even a squeak of protest. The water was blissfully warm on her feet, and unconsciously Violet sighed with satisfaction. Coll cast an amused glance up at her, but said nothing as he picked up a cloth, wet it, and, holding her heel in his hand, began to wipe the cloth gently across the sole of one of her feet.
A sizzle of shock ran through Violet, and her foot jerked in his hand. Her heart began to hammer. “What are you doing?”
“Shh. Dinna fret, lass. I’m only cleaning your cuts and scrapes. You must have been a sore trial to your nurse.”
“I was not. I was a perfectly proper child.” When Coll cocked one eyebrow in disbelief, Violet laughed. “Oh, very well. You are right; I was utterly horrid and messy and always sticking my nose into everything. My aprons were dirty and my ribbons untied, and I did not possess a pair of stockings without ladders.”
He chuckled. “Just as I thought.” Coll’s hand was gentle as he worked, and though the cuts stung, his touch was soothing. “Och, your poor feet. You’ll have more than a few bruises tomorrow. Hold still.” He gripped her heel tightly and plucked out a thorn.