The MacLeans: Sleepless in Scotland

by Karen Hawkins

  Her gaze suddenly focused on the lamp and she turned toward him, looking eager. “Now you can see my face!”

  He raised his brows. Was she looking for compliments? “So?”

  She said impatiently, “Now you can see I’m not Caitlyn!”

  His gaze raked over her honey-gold hair, mussed into curls about a distinctively heart-shaped face. “Still playing me for a fool, Hurst?”

  She fisted her hands. “Blast it! You, my lord, have made a mistake.”

  “Not as much of one as you.” The coach slowed and he turned to lift the corner of the curtain. As he did so, she gasped.

  He glanced back at her and found her gaze locked on his hair. She stammered, “Y-y-you’re not Alexander MacLean! You’re his brother, Hugh!”

  She’d seen the streak of white hair that brushed back from one brow, a relic of a dark time that he never dwelled on. “Stop playing the fool; it doesn’t become you. You knew damned well who I am.”

  “Oh!” She fisted her hands and pressed them to her eyes for a moment before she dropped them back to her lap. “You are going to drive me mad! You don’t believe a word I say and—”

  Her lips thinned, her gaze narrowed, and he could almost see the thoughts flickering through her mind. By Zeus, I’ve never seen such an expressive face before.

  Her lips relaxed, and then a faint smile curved them as her gaze traced the white hair at his temple.

  “There is nothing humorous in this situation.”

  She lifted her brows, a genuine twinkle in her fine eyes. “Ah, but there is. I thought you were someone else while you now think I’m someone else—” She chuckled, the sound rich as cream. “The situation may be untenable, but the irony is delicious.”

  But not as delicious as you. He scowled, startled at his own thoughts.

  “Stop this nonsense,” he said impatiently. “I refuse to—” The coach slowed, then turned a corner. “Ah, the inn. It’s about time.”

  Her eyes, large and dark in the dim light, sparkled with amusement. “Once we’re in the stronger light, you’ll see your error.” A chuckle broke free, and she regarded him with such lively humor that Hugh was tempted to grin back.

  Almost.

  Finally he understood why Alexander had pursued her, even though he knew the dangers. There was something incredibly taking about the curve of her cheek, the way her thick lashes shadowed her large eyes, and the fascinating display of emotions across her expressive face.

  It was a damned shame she was layered in two cloaks, for he couldn’t see her figure. He knew what to expect, yet she seemed more rounded now, and oddly…taller, perhaps?

  A chill rippled through Hugh.

  Good God, had he seen what he wanted to see? What he’d expected to see? Surely he hadn’t been so—

  The coach rocked to a halt, but Hugh was only distantly aware of the cry of his coachman, the sound of another carriage drawing up beside his.

  Then the door flew open and Hugh turned, only to meet a fist as it plowed into his chin.

  The blow did little more than stun him for a second. He rubbed his chin and glared at his attacker, a smallish older man wearing a fashionable multicaped coat. “Lord Galloway,” he said curtly.

  “You cur!” Galloway’s face was a mask of fury.

  Hugh’s companion lurched into the man’s arms. “Uncle Bedford!” she cried. “I am so glad to see you!”

  “There, there, my dear,” Lord Galloway said, fixing a very stern gaze on Hugh. “This ordeal is over, Caitriona.”

  Caitriona—not Caitlyn. Hugh’s heart thudded sickly as he closed his eyes and faced the truth. God help him—he had the wrong woman.

  Chapter 5

  “Every once’t in a while comes a moment that hits ye so hard it instantly changes yer direction. When one o’ these come, ye can duck all ye wish, but it’ll hit ye just the same. And usually right betwixt yer eyes.”

  OLD WOMAN NORA TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ON A COLD WINTER’S NIGHT

  Over Triona’s head, Lord Galloway’s gaze suddenly widened. “Good God! You…you’re not Lord MacLean! You’re his brother, Lord Hugh!”

  Hugh rubbed his chin. “So I’ve been told.”

  Galloway glowered. “Whoever you are, how dare you abduct my niece!”

  “I did nothing of the sort! She was in my carriage of her own free will. God knows I didn’t put her there myself.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Galloway said in a testy voice. “She caught up with you when you stopped to change the horses. In a vain attempt to rescue her sister, she slipped into your carriage, hoping to convince Caitlyn to give up her folly. Of course, Caitlyn wasn’t there, but poor Triona had no way of knowing that.” Galloway’s mouth tightened. “You know what happened after that.”

  Hugh’s chest ached as if someone were sitting upon it. He did know; she’d told him the truth and he’d dismissed her. Worse, he’d treated her as if she were a common woman of the street. God, what a wretched, horrid mess.

  Lord Galloway seemed to follow Hugh’s line of thought. “Triona’s nurse returned to London post haste to tell us how the carriage drove off with my niece caught inside. Fortunately for Triona, I knew of a shorter route and was able to intercept you.”

  Fortunate for Triona, perhaps, but not for Hugh. There was nothing fortunate about this happenstance, not one bloody thing.

  The door to Galloway’s carriage flew open and two women climbed out. The first was short, round, and dressed in twelve shades of lavender, and he instantly recognized Lady Galloway. A second woman followed, heavily cloaked, her movements lithe and graceful.

  The wind fluttered the hood of her cloak so that the bright light from the inn revealed her fully—a delicate heart-shaped face of breathtaking beauty framed in bright gold curls. Caitlyn Hurst.

  Hugh turned his gaze back to the woman he’d captured. While her face was the exact shape as her sister’s, her cheeks were fuller, her hair a honey blond and not gold, her thickly fringed eyes as large but lighter.

  Lord Galloway slipped his free hand into his pocket and withdrew it. “Triona, we found your spectacles.” He glared at Hugh. “It’s a wonder they weren’t trampled.”

  Triona took a neatly folded pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from her uncle, snapped them open, and slipped them on. Through the frames, her hazel eyes regarded him condemningly. The prim spectacles sat in striking contrast to the sensuality of her rich coloring and silken hair.

  Memory of the kiss flooded back, of her shock, uncertainty, and then resistance. The kiss of an innocent. Bloody hell, what have I done?

  The older man’s arm visibly tightened around his niece. “This is untenable. I’ll have you know that Triona’s father is a vicar!”

  Despite the weight growing in his chest, Hugh gave a bark of sardonic laughter. “Of course. I suppose I should be glad she’s not a nun, too.”

  Galloway’s face turned deeper red. “This is not a time for levity.”

  “No,” Hugh agreed heavily. “It’s not. I just don’t understand how—” He broke off, catching sight of the interested gazes of several footmen. Jaw taut, he said, “We should have this conversation somewhere more private.”

  Lord Galloway’s gaze followed Hugh’s. “I’ll bespeak a parlor.” He turned to give some orders to a footman, who took Triona’s arm and escorted her away. She resisted, looking ready to speak, but before she could say a word she was swarmed by her aunt, sister, and another woman who’d just climbed from the coach. Hook-nosed and dragonlike, she glared angrily at Hugh.

  So that was the nurse. It was a relief when the lot of them disappeared into the inn, Galloway herding them like a protective sheepdog.

  Bloody hell, how did I make such an error? And yet she looked so much like Caitlyn Hurst, especially when I saw her peering out the coach window.

  Hugh paused at the door to take one last, deep breath of the cold night air, trying to calm the sickening pound of his heart. His intentions had been so good, his purpose
so clear—how could things have gone so wrong? Perhaps that had been his sin…the pride of certainty. And now he faced the bitter consequences.

  “Och, m’lord!” Ferguson hurried up. “Should we stable the horses?”

  “No, just walk them. I won’t be long.” Hugh’s chest felt as if an iron band were slowly tightening about it.

  “Aye, m’lord.” Ferguson glanced about the busy innyard before leaning in to say, “If ye’d like, I can have the coach ready to move on a second’s notice. We could be gone afore they even know it.”

  That was tempting. Hugh reluctantly shook his head. “Ferguson,” he said in a heavy voice, “it appears the wrong lass ended up in our carriage.”

  Ferguson’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but no sound came out.

  “That’s pretty much what I have to say, too.” Hugh rubbed his neck.

  “But—I dinna understand, m’lord!”

  “Apparently Miss Caitlyn Hurst has a twin sister.”

  “And that’s who—” At Hugh’s curt nod, Ferguson’s eyes widened. He clapped a hand to his cheek, his mouth ajar. “No!”

  “Oh, yes. And it’s a damned shame for all of us.”

  Hugh glanced toward the front window. Wide and deep, it was now aglow with lamplight, shadowy figures crossing this way and that. Inside that room, a drama awaited. And if there was one thing Hugh MacLean disliked, it was drama. Worse, this particular scenario came complete with outraged guardians, a damsel in perceived distress, and promised histrionics of the caliber usually reserved for Drury Lane.

  From inside the inn, Lady Galloway shrilly demanded something—probably Hugh’s head on a platter.

  He sighed. “There’s nothing to be done but face it. Keep the horses ready, Ferguson. Once this meeting is over, I wish to return to London as fast as possible.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” Ferguson eyed the window with a dark glance. “Are ye sure ye dinna wish to have someone with ye, m’lord? There’s five o’ them and only one o’ ye.”

  “I can handle them. It’s their morals that may overwhelm me.” Hugh straightened his shoulders, and entered the inn.

  A bowing and scraping innkeeper with a round figure and thinning brown hair rushed forward to take his coat and hat, handing them to a serving boy who reverently took them to the kitchen to warm them before the fire.

  “This way, m’lord!” the innkeeper said in what he probably thought was a grand manner. “Yer friends are in the front parlor. I’ve laid them a nice fire and it’ll soon be cozy and warm.”

  “Thank you.” Hugh paused by the door. “You don’t happen to have anything to drink, do you?”

  “I brought the ladies some sherry, as requested, and the gent asked fer a pint of me best ale. Would you like some as well, m’lord?”

  “I was hoping for something stronger.”

  The portly man’s eyes twinkled and he looked over his shoulder before leaning forward to say in a loud whisper, “I might have a little something in me cellars that the tariff men don’t know nuffin’ about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Port. The best ye’ve ever had!”

  “Bring a bottle.” Hugh paused. “No, bring two. One for here and one for the road. I fear I shall need them both.”

  The landlord beamed. “Aye, m’lord.”

  There was no more loitering; Hugh walked into the parlor.

  As he’d expected, Lady Galloway, Caitlyn, and the forbidding old nurse were gathered around Triona, who sat upon the settee. Lady Galloway was beside her, patting her hand and saying in an angry tone, “—what a horrid thing to have happened! I vow, when Caitlyn walked into the room, I could not believe my eyes! And then Nurse came in, positively squalling that you’d been abducted! Fortunately, your uncle arrived home from White’s at just that precise moment. I was never so glad to see him in my life! He immediately knew what to do and decided that we would all set out after you and—”

  “I wasna squallin’,” the nurse said indignantly. She caught sight of Hugh and moved protectively to block Triona from his sight. “Och, dinna even look at her, ye rogue!”

  “Your charge is safe from me.” Hugh removed his gloves and went to stand at the far side of the fireplace, which was putting out nice heat. Observing Caitlyn and Triona so close together, he saw that Caitlyn was by far the more beautiful; her features were perfection, her eyes a deep brown, her hair golden, her movements graceful.

  But it was Triona who held his gaze. Her face was fuller and more mature. Her eyes, a light hazel fringed with ridiculously long lashes and framed by those damned impudent spectacles, held intelligence and wit; her mouth was a plump plum that begged to be tasted. Whereas Caitlyn was pure beauty, Triona had an earthy sensuality that belied the prim way she sat and the stern line of the wire-framed spectacles.

  She quirked a brow, as if asking why he was staring. She deserved a good stare, though he doubted she knew it.

  He sent her a mocking bow, which made her color and look away. Now that she was finally out of that damned cloak, he was oddly pleased to see that he’d been right; she had a lushly curved figure. Just looking at her full, rounded breasts pressed against her prim gown made his mouth water appreciatively. He’d always liked women who were shaped like women, not broomsticks, and Triona Hurst had more than her share of curves. In fact, she—

  Lord Galloway walked forward to stand between Hugh and Triona. “My lord,” the older man snapped, his color even higher than before, “we must speak about this unfortunate incident and what must be done to correct it.” He glanced back at the women. “We cannot speak here. Join me by the window.” Without looking to see if Hugh followed, Galloway marched to the far side of the room.

  Hugh’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to people speaking to him as if he were an eight-year-old caught stealing pies from the kitchen.

  “MacLean?” Galloway’s voice rose imperiously.

  Hugh clenched his hands, his anger rising. Outside the snug inn, a sudden wind rattled the doors and shutters. The horses in the innyard began to prance and whinny.

  “Lawks!” Nurse screeched, looking up as blown snow struck the windows and the pine roof shingles clattered overhead.

  “Good heavens! What’s happening?” Lady Galloway’s frightened voice warbled.

  Caitlyn hugged her aunt, her eyes wide with fear.

  Only Triona remained calm, looking at him with an accusing stare that made his thoughts stutter.

  Calm yourself, MacLean! This will only make matters worse. Left unabated, his temper would feed the winds and they would grow. They would shudder the house and rip trees from their roots. They would make the rivers and streams flood roads and fields and villages. They would lift barns and houses from their stone foundations and toss them like toys.

  Once the winds reached a certain level they became a force of their own, powerful enough to kill. That was why every MacLean struggled to maintain his temper. Legend said that if every member of a generation performed a deed of great good, the curse would end. So far, no generation had managed to perform deeds significant enough. Hugh wondered if there really was a way to end it. That was the problem with attempting to understand an ancient curse supposedly set upon the family by a mysterious white witch; after a few centuries there was no way to separate truth from myth.

  The wind pounded against the windows. Lord Galloway sent a startled glance at Hugh, who clenched his jaw tighter. In all his life, only once had he allowed his temper to unleash completely—when his brother Callum had died. Seeing the devastation afterward, he’d vowed never to let it loose again, especially once he’d realized that his use of the curse was different from his brothers’—a secret known to only one other person.

  Hugh closed his eyes and took deep breaths, letting them hiss through his teeth as he exhaled. In his mind, he imagined a small whirl of wind. He opened his hand and closed it tightly about the swirl and squeezed with all of his might, all of his concentration.

  His heart
beat slowed, a dull pressure mounting behind his eyes. He squeezed tighter. Then tighter still.

  His head pounded fiercely yet he continued past the pain.

  His muscles ached with tension, sweat beading on his brow.

  Slowly, the winds outside abated. When he could no longer hear more than a faint breeze, Hugh uncoiled his fist and allowed his muscles to relax. His head pounded sickly, a wave of nausea replacing the fierce power that left him as limp as a rag.

  “It’s going away, praise be!” Lady Galloway breathed.

  “Of course it is,” Lord Galloway stated. “It’s a typical storm burst, nothing more.” He glared at Hugh. “Come, MacLean! We have things to discuss.”

  Hugh swallowed a hot retort. He couldn’t allow his temper to slip again; he didn’t have the strength to control the winds a second time. He sent Triona a quick glance, but her gaze was fixed out the window. A faint breeze swirled about the carriages, stirring the snow with a weak finger. Triona’s hazel gaze turned to Hugh, sure knowledge in her expression.

  She believes in the curse. The knowledge surprised him and, for a moment, calmed him. She believes and yet she isn’t afraid.

  If he hadn’t felt as weak and ill as a kitten, he might even have smiled. But his knees were shaking and he had to sit down soon or make a fool of himself. He turned on his heel and joined Galloway by the window, then dropped gratefully into a seat, his knees buckling and tossing him against the cushions.

  Lord Galloway scowled, no doubt thinking it would have been polite of Hugh to offer a seat to the older man first.

  Hugh gestured to the chair opposite. “My lord?” He rubbed his temples, where a low, thundering roar seemed to have lodged.

  Lord Galloway sat and turned a stern glare on Hugh. “You have much to answer for. Thanks to you, my niece has been compromised.”

  “I thought she was her sister or I would have returned her.” Hugh wished the arse would speak more quietly.

  “As you can see, she is not. Triona is an innocent. Though her actions may have been impetuous, they were completely innocuous.” Galloway seemed to think Hugh would argue, for he waited, his mouth pressed in a challenging line.