by Candace Camp
“Ow!”
“That’s the worst of it. You were lucky not to slice them to ribbons. The pine needles cushioned the path, though I’ll warrant you met a few pebbles.”
“I did once or twice.” Violet shifted in her seat. She was having trouble focusing on his words. His actions were simple and impersonal, and she knew she should not interpret them as anything but kindness. But each stroke of the cloth sent tendrils of heat through her, and the curve of his palm around her heel made her nerves dance.
She should object. Tell him that she would do this task herself. But she could not force out the words. However wrong it was, however unknown and startling to her, she did not want to stop the sensations coursing through her. The tenderness and strength of his fingers, the focus in his face as he worked over her skin, the caress of the cloth, and the heat of his hand—all stirred her beyond measure.
Violet wanted him to continue. Indeed, in some dark, secret place, she wanted him to go farther, to slide his hand up her ankle to her calf. She wanted him to rise onto his knees, positioning his large body between her legs as he glided his hands up under her gown. Her skin tingled at the imagined touch, anticipating his fingers awakening flesh that had never known a man’s touch.
She would not have guessed she could feel as she did now, the heat pooling low in her abdomen, the ache blossoming between her legs. Heat flooded her face; it was all she could do to keep her breathing steady. She could not let him see what he did to her. If he realized the wanton direction of her thoughts, it would be even more humiliating than his rejection of her the other night. At least then she had had the excuse of being inebriated.
Coll had gone as silent as she. Wordlessly he moved his attentions to her other foot. Did she imagine that his fingers trembled slightly on her skin? Could it be that he felt the same thing she did? Perhaps he, too, imagined caressing her, moving his hand under her skirts and discovering the texture of her skin.
She swallowed, looking at him. His eyes were turned down, watching his fingers with an intense concentration. The light of the lamp gave a golden glow to his skin; his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his mouth . . . ah, but his mouth was tempting, his lips darkly colored and full. He would taste intoxicating.
The memory of their kiss filled her head, swamping her senses with the remembered scent and taste and feel of him. The smooth pressure of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, his hands sliding beneath her cloak and spreading out over her body. She remembered the blazing heat of his arms encircling her, his body pressing into hers, fiery even amidst the chill of the autumn night. She remembered, too, the wild, exultant feeling rising up in her, threatening to sweep her away from all reason and sense.
Coll lifted his head and the full force of his gaze pierced her. His hands tightened on her foot. She was certain he was about to surge up and take her in his arms, envelop her with his heat and power. She leaned toward him.
He turned away and rose lithely to his feet.
9
Violet’s stomach dropped in bitter disappointment. Whatever she might feel, Coll did not feel the same. Not looking at her, he emptied the water bowl, then busied himself with washing and tidying up his supplies. Violet clasped her hands in her lap and studied them as she tried to shove her wayward thoughts back under control. When he returned, she had managed to school the turmoil from her face. She could only hope that he had not seen the desperate desire in her eyes earlier.
They sipped their tea, silence stretching between them awkwardly. Coll shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat. “I wonder who would break into Duncally. What was he after?”
Violet was relieved to have something innocuous to discuss. “I would think it is an ideal place to rob. Almost deserted. Full of expensive things.”
“True. But it’s an enormous risk to take, stealing from the earl. He’d be facing transportation—if he was lucky.”
“You said there were a number of people dispossessed around here. No doubt that makes people desperate.”
“True. But Mardoun stopped the clearances. He has compensated several of those who lost their homes. I have given jobs to as many men as I could.”
“It didn’t keep Will Ross from taking to highway robbery.”
“Aye.” Coll nodded. “That was where my first thought went. But there were others with Will that night. Dennis MacLeod has bairns to feed, and that can make a man desperate. Rob Grant was there as well. I dinna see Dougal, but he has run with them in the past. I was sure he had settled down with the baby on the way, but . . .” Coll stiffened. “Or perhaps—I told him to leave, and I thought he had. But what if he did not?”
“Who? Dougal? Did not leave where? What are you talking about?” Given the look on Coll’s face, Violet would not have wanted to be whomever Coll was considering.
“Donald MacRae.”
She looked at him blankly for a moment before she recalled the name. “The former estate manager? The man you told me about?”
“Aye,” Coll agreed grimly. “He would know Duncally better than the others. And he has a powerful grudge against Mardoun. And against me, as well.”
“Breaking into houses doesn’t seem the sort of thing estate managers would do, even angry ones.”
“You don’t know MacRae. He has the soul of a criminal. I’d believe far worse than that of him. He was in the village recently. I warned him off, and I thought he had gone. But I’ll have to check more thoroughly. What size was the intruder? Tall? Thin? Medium? Heavy?”
Violet shook her head regretfully. “I’m not sure. I saw him so briefly, and there was little light. He was in the shadows.” She closed her eyes, thinking back. “He was not tall. Nor thin—though that is hard to tell, for he wore a jacket. And there was something odd about his head—I think perhaps he had on a soft cap. Oh!” She sat up straight. “He wore one of those mufflers, like the highwaymen did the night they stopped my carriage. I watched him running away into the fog, and it was floating behind him.” She sighed. “But I suppose that description could fit any number of men around here.”
Coll nodded, setting aside his cup and rising to his feet. “I’d better look over the house, see if I can tell what he might have taken.” He eyed her doubtfully. “Do you feel up to walking back? You could stay here by the fire if you like. Or go to sleep.” He gestured toward the other room.
Violet went still, blood rushing up into her face.
Coll stopped, looking disconcerted. “I mean—that is—’twould be no problem—I’ll be gone and . . .”
He had meant nothing by his words, but now all Violet could think of was the image of his bed, softly rumpled, and of her slipping beneath the covers that had so recently wrapped around him.
She tried to speak, but nothing came out. Violet cleared her throat and began again. “No. It is kind of you, but I would rather return to the house. I’m fine; it is no distance, really.”
“Of course. I’ll, um—” He swung away, then back. “I’ll get you a jacket. Or perhaps you’d rather keep the blanket.” His voice was rushed, distracted.
Coll did not wait for a response, but headed for his bedroom. When he returned, he carried a heavy, dark plaid cloth.
“Here. ’Tis a tartan; it’ll be easier than a coat.” He began to unfold it.
Violet looked at the length of material doubtfully. “There’s a great deal of it.”
“Aye, but, unlike a coat, it can be wrapped snug around you, and there are no sleeves to swallow your arms.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I dinna think my coat would fit you.”
She would have looked absurd in it, but she was not about to give him the satisfaction of smiling at the picture he’d called up. Violet slipped off her blanket, embarrassingly aware that her nightgown was still damp and far too revealing. She reached for the tartan.
“Nae, just stand there. I’ll do it for you.” He laid one end of the cloth against her side. “Put your hand there, now, to hold it.” He brought the cloth
behind her back and around her once more, winding up by pulling the remainder up from her back and over her shoulder. His scent clung to the cloth, teasing her nostrils. “Rightly, I should have had you lie down and wrap yourself up in it, but this is easier. There now.”
He smoothed the tartan over her shoulder, his hand perilously close to her breast. Violet hoped he could not feel the tremor that ran through her at his touch. She dared not look into his eyes. His hand fell away.
“It’s still against the law to wear it, I suppose, but as you’re a Sassenach, it doesna matter.” His words were light, but a thick underlying tone to his voice twined like warm honey through her abdomen.
“I feel like an Egyptian mummy.” Violet kept her voice tart. “Or perhaps a sausage. I don’t know how I shall walk in this.”
“It falls more loosely around your legs, but it doesna matter since you are not going to walk.”
She stared at him.
“I will carry you. You canna walk with your feet like that.”
“I managed it coming here.”
“And you’ll regret it tomorrow.” He shrugged into his heavy jacket and reached for her.
Violet took a quick step back. “Don’t be absurd. You cannot mean to carry me all the way to Duncally.”
“I do.”
“ ’Tis too far. I’m too heavy.”
He laughed. “You? You’re just a wee thing.”
Violet gave him the glare she reserved for anyone who referred to her diminutive size. “I’ll not be carried like a baby. I am not a child.”
“Aye. I know.” His eyes glinted.
“Perhaps I could borrow something of yours.”
He sent her a wry look. “You mean to wear my boots?”
“Of course not, but . . . oh, I don’t know; I could wrap something around my feet.”
He heaved a sigh. “Do you think you could deign to be carried if I dinna hold you like a baby? You could ride pickaback instead.”
She stared at him blankly.
“You know, as you did when you were a child and your father would carry you on his back.”
Violet’s jaw dropped. “Clearly you don’t know my father.”
“You mean to say you don’t remember being carried like that?”
“I am certain I was not.”
“Och, well . . . we’ll have to rectify that, then, won’t we?” He grinned and led her to a stool. “Stand on this.” He lifted her onto the stool, then turned his back to her. Taking her hands and pulling them over his shoulders, he said, “Go ahead. Climb on.”
It was ludicrous. Ridiculous. Violet leaned forward, and her arms went so easily around his neck that she could not resist. Coll reached back, hooking his arms beneath her legs and pulling her forward. She went with him instinctively, her grip tightening around his neck and her legs wrapping around his waist. She was flush against his back, her breasts pressing into him, her cheek against his hair. It was thoroughly indecent and terribly exciting. Violet clung to him like a limpet as he blew out the light and started forward.
“Now duck,” he warned as he bent and went through the doorway. He started off, not taking the driveway but cutting through the trees. Now and then he reached up to hold back a low branch so it did not hit her. “How do you like the view from there?”
“It’s wonderful!” To see the world from this perspective, to not feel the ground beneath her feet, was heady, altogether silly and childish and amazingly freeing. Violet could not hold back a giggle any more than she could cease clinging to Coll. Yet as young and giddy as she felt, the contact also aroused something strong and sensual. It was impossible not to be aware of his muscles moving beneath his clothes, of the breadth of his chest, the strength that carried her so effortlessly. She delighted at the feel of Coll’s body beneath her, his thick hair tickling her face. She yearned to rub her cheek against his hair and feel it glide, smooth and silken, across her skin.
As they neared the house, Coll pretended to sag, exclaiming, “Och, lass, you’ve broken my back. I shall never be the same.”
“I like that!” Violet playfully slapped his shoulder. “ ’Twas you who insisted”—she lowered her voice and infused it with as much Scots burr as she could—“ ‘Och, you’re just a wee thing.’ ”
He laughed. “That isna how I sound.” Coll dipped his shoulder, as if to toss her off, and Violet let out a shriek and clutched his jacket. He opened the door and went inside. There was no danger here of her knocking her head as they passed through.
Reluctantly Violet slid from his back, and he turned as she did so, his hands going to her waist to steady her. His eyes were dark and unreadable. His hands slid slowly down to rest on her hips. He leaned forward, his voice low. “Violet—”
“Coll Munro!” They both jumped as if struck and whirled around to see Mrs. Ferguson crossing the entry hall, a candle flickering in her hand. “What is the meaning of this? First all that shouting and now this. What is going on?” Her disapproving gaze fell on Violet, and her jaw dropped. “My lady! What are you—is that a tartan?”
Violet lifted her chin. With this woman, it was best to brazen it out. “Yes, it is. His Highness the Prince, you know, was quite taken with Highland dress when he visited Scotland. ’Tis all the rage in London.” Coll’s eyes widened almost comically, but Violet ignored him. “And it is quite warm.”
Seemingly unable to respond to this, the housekeeper swung back to Coll.
“There has been an intruder,” Coll told her. “Lady Violet came to apprise me of the situation.”
“An intruder!” Mrs. Ferguson was successfully diverted from the subject of Violet’s attire. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. He struck Lady Violet.”
“Struck her!” another voice joined in, and they looked over to see the cook bustling in. Sally’s head was covered in a puffy nightcap that resembled a giant mushroom, and her sturdy figure was wrapped in a red flannel dressing gown. In one hand she carried a small kerosene lamp and in the other a rolling pin. “Who? A robber? I knew it. Dinna I tell you, Mrs. Ferguson, someone’s been in here?”
“You had no way of knowing that,” the housekeeper replied stiffly. “Just because there were a few papers lying on the floor—”
“It wasna a clumsy maid,” Sally interrupted.
“Wait. Stop.” Coll raised his hands, and the two women fell quiet. “What are you talking about, Sally? What papers? Where? When?”
“In his lordship’s study, that’s where. Just now.”
“We were awakened by noises.” Mrs. Ferguson hastened to take command of the narrative.
“We heard shouting and doors slamming,” Sally amplified.
“We came to see what had happened. All we could find were a few papers strewn about the floor of Lord Mardoun’s study. They could have easily been knocked off by a careless maid.” The housekeeper turned to Violet. “But if he tried to harm you . . .”
“I do not think he particularly meant to hurt me, just to stop my pursuing him. However, I did not see him near the study. He was upstairs.”
“Let’s look there first.” Coll took Sally’s lamp from her and started up the staircase, the others following. By now, two maids and a footman had joined them, all wide-eyed and whispering among themselves.
“Which room did you see him leaving?” Coll asked Violet, and she pointed down the hallway.
“That one.”
“His lordship’s chamber!” gasped one of the maids.
Coll strode down the corridor and opened the door, lighting the interior of the room. The furniture inside was covered with dust sheets, but the one covering the dresser was pushed awry, and several of the drawers were open. The door of the wardrobe stood ajar, and two paintings had been removed from the wall and stood leaning against it.
“Obviously someone has been here.” Coll looked toward Mrs. Ferguson. “I presume those paintings were not taken down by the staff.”
“No, of course not.”
“Was he looking for a wall safe?” Violet asked.
“It seems likely. Is there a safe in here, Mrs. Ferguson?”
The housekeeper drew herself up primly. “I am not privy to where his lordship keeps his valuables.”
Coll looked over at Violet. “Where would it be?”
“How would I know? I’ve never been inside this room before.”
“Because you come from the same kind of people. The same kind of home.”
“Believe me, there are few homes like Duncally,” Violet retorted. It annoyed her that he insisted on setting her among the aristocracy, separating her as if she were a different sort of person from normal people. “However, my father had a safe in his dressing room.”
Coll entered the small anteroom. It smelled of cedar and was filled with neat shelves and drawers, boots and shoes lined up beneath them. Behind the footwear, flush with the wall, was a small, square metal door, locked. Coll squatted down to inspect the door.
“It’s still locked, so I presume he either did not find it or was unable to open it.” Coll returned to the bedroom and glanced around. “I don’t know how we could tell if something was missing. Would you know?” He turned to Mrs. Ferguson. “Or the maids?”
“Of course not!” Mrs. Ferguson replied, shocked. “No one pokes about in here. Only Lord Mardoun’s valet handles his things.”
Coll suppressed a sigh and stepped out into the hall. “Where were you when you saw him?” He looked toward Violet.
“My bedroom is down there.” She strode along the corridor, the others on her heels, and stopped in the doorway, suddenly self-conscious. Her gaze went to her bed, rumpled, the covers thrown back, her dressing gown flung across the chair beside it. It seemed too intimate to be standing here with Coll, even with everyone else there as well. She stepped back and came up against Coll. He jerked away. Violet hastily shifted forward and cleared her throat. “As I said, he didn’t come in here.”