The MacLeans - Sleepless in Scotla

by Karen Hawkins

  Triona went to the desk, dipped a pen into the ink.

  First Triona asked after the family’s health, especially Michael, whose cough was supposedly on the mend. Then she asked if Father was still angry about the London fiasco. Next she told Caitlyn of her efforts these past few days since Hugh had left.

  As she wrote, her homesickness returned. Missing the warmth and camaraderie of Wythburn, suddenly she was writing about Hugh and how she wished with all of her heart that things were different, and how she was at a loss to know how to make them so. She wrote and wrote, the pen scratching swiftly over the paper.

  When she finished she felt drained but focused, ready to have Hugh and the children back home.

  A distant thud made her pause. That sounds like the garden gate. But Hugh wouldn’t come into the house that way.

  Suddenly, she remembered his concerns about the girls’ mother. Could someone have come to the house to do the girls mischief? Triona’s heart sped and she ran to the window. The full moon streamed over the garden, lighting the white stone path. Beyond the path, the gate was securely closed. Movement caught her eye, and Triona saw two figures scurrying up the hill behind the garden. The one in front turned slightly, and Triona saw a dim lamp that had been shielded.

  She gripped the window casement as the light disappeared behind some trees. Blast it, the servants are asleep on the far side of the house. Should I run outside and see what direction they go?

  Triona whirled and raced to the wardrobe. She found her heavy cloak and shoved her bare feet into her boots. Within moments she was running down the back stairs, holding her cloak and night rail up so she didn’t trip.

  When she reached the back door, she threw back the lock and slipped into the garden. Hugging herself against the cold, she quickly went to the gate.

  She peered up the hillside but could see nothing. Which direction did they go? She silently swung the gate open and stealthily began to climb the hill, staying hidden in the brush. When she heard the low murmur of voices, she paused and frowned. The voices sounded feminine—two women? The cloaked strangers had looked small.

  As she neared the small cluster of trees that hid her quarry, Triona could make out the outlines of two people atop their mounts. She slipped in closer.

  “Devon,” came a low voice, “hold that lantern higher.”

  Christina! What is she doing in the woods at night?

  “I can’t.” Devon spoke so quietly that Triona had to strain to hear. “Someone might see it from the house.”

  “No one is awake to see it.”

  “There is a light glowing in Papa’s bedchamber. She might be awake.”

  Christina made an exasperated noise. “Don’t be silly; it’s far too late. She probably fell asleep while writing letters or something. Mrs. Wallis says she’s never seen anyone write so many.”

  “She can write all of the letters she wants tomorrow. It won’t help.” Devon’s voice held unmistakable satisfaction.

  Triona frowned. What did she mean by that?

  “We’d better hurry,” Christina said.

  “We’ll be at Uncle Dougal’s before you know it. There’s a full moon and the horses know the path.”

  The voices grew fainter as the girls walked their horses through the copse. Triona, shivering from the cold, hugged her cloak closer. Should she follow them and demand to know what they were doing? She doubted that Dougal realized the girls were out of their beds. At least they’d had the sense not to bring Aggie.

  The lantern flickered as the girls moved farther down the path. Triona hesitated only a moment, then hurried after them. When the girls reached the edge of the copse they extinguished the lantern, hooked it to Devon’s saddle, and then turned the horses east. In her rides with Ferguson, he’d said the wide road to the west was the way to Dougal’s house. Was this path a shortcut?

  Soon they were out of sight. What on earth had they been doing? They had to have been up to some mischief, but what?

  When Triona got back to the house, she took a lamp from her bedchamber and carried it upstairs to the girls’ room.

  Nothing seemed different. They could have taken something with them, but Triona wouldn’t know.

  She made her way downstairs to the foyer, which was eerily silent and dark. Triona paused at the foot of the stairs. Every door was closed, the lamps neatly hung, the faint scent of wax hanging in the air.

  Everything looked exactly the same.

  She sighed. She didn’t even know what she was looking for, and the girls could have been anywhere—the kitchen, the wine cellar, the library—who knew? All she knew was that the house was cold and she didn’t relish searching it alone in the dark. She would discover whatever ill the girls had planned tomorrow anyway, so she might as well go to bed now. In the morning, she’d search the house from attic to cellar.

  In her bedchamber, Triona placed the lamp beside the bed, hung her damp cloak over a chair, removed her shoes, and grimaced at the damp, dirty hem of her night rail. She removed it and looked fruitlessly for her other one. It must have been collected for laundering.

  Sighing, she dashed across the cold floor to the bed, blew out the lamp, and slipped between the cool sheets, yanking the blankets over her head.

  Slowly, the bed grew warmer. Triona snuggled in deeper, wishing Hugh were here to warm her. Finally, with a yawn, she went to sleep.

  An hour later, Hugh shut the door to the stable, glad to be in its bright warmth. “There. Safe and sound.” He looked at the mare standing in the fresh straw, her foal leaning tiredly against her legs. “We’re going to call this one Trouble.”

  “’Tis a good name.” Ferguson hung the lantern on the wall. “I dinna remember when any mare has hid so well. I’d never have thought o’ lookin’ fer her up on the ridge.”

  “I’m glad we found her when we did. A few more hours and they would have died.” The foal had been breech, and it had taken all of Hugh’s and Ferguson’s knowledge to save them both.

  Hugh found himself looking out of the open barn doors at the house, his gaze seeking out a set of windows. She’ll be asleep. Will she be glad I’m home?

  It had been harder to leave than ever before. While he’d expected to miss the girls, he hadn’t expected to miss Triona so much. Everything reminded him of her: the snow-fresh scent of the wind made him think of her silken hair, the curve of a hill reminded him of how her breast filled his hand so well, the sound of the grass beneath his horse’s hooves echoed the whisper of her skirts about her long legs, tantalizing him to madness.

  He couldn’t see the wild beauty of the hills without wondering what she would think of it. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she smiled, shy and so sexy when he kissed her awake. About the feel of her legs entwined with his in the early mornings. About the lavender scent of her baths. The way she’d determinedly worked with Ferguson every morning to learn how to ride.

  She was a fascinating woman, unlike any he’d ever met. And, when not furious at him, she was steadfast and calm, forthright and plainspoken. There was quality to her, but also a strong, sweet passion.

  Every morning he’d been away, he’d awoken hard and ready, having dreamed of Triona naked beneath him, of the taste of her, the feel of her. It seemed that the more of her he had, the more he wanted. Though they’d parted on the worst of terms, he found that his desire was undiminished, which surprised him. He’d been so angry, but though he hadn’t agreed with Triona, he shouldn’t have lost control of his temper. Even now, he had to fight a twinge of guilt when he thought about the havoc he’d caused.

  Sighing, he turned to help unload the wagon.

  Ferguson waved him off. “Go on wit’ ye, m’lord. I’ll wake one o’ the stable hands to help.”

  Hugh glanced toward the house. She’d be in bed now, smelling of sleep and the sweetness of lavender, her night rail wrapped about her legs, her skin warm and—

  Within moments, Hugh let himself into the house. He undid his coat and tossed
it over a chair in the foyer, rubbing his freezing hands together. Perhaps he should warm up before he went to bed, or his cold feet and hands would wake his wife unpleasantly.

  His body tightened at the thought. Oh, how he wanted to wake his warm, well-rounded, hot-spirited wife. But when he did, he wanted to be warm—very warm, indeed.

  A little port by a crackling fire should do it. In the morning, when things were more settled, he’d fetch the girls and things could get back to normal. Or it would if Triona could forgive him.

  He opened the library door and walked into the darkness toward his desk to light the lamp.

  “Ow!” Hugh tripped over something and staggered forward, reaching for the settee, but his hand whooshed through empty air. With a spectacular crash, he fell against a small table, glass shattering as something fell to the floor.

  For a stunned moment he lay staring up at the ceiling, his ire rising. What in the hell? He gingerly rose to his feet, careful not to touch the broken glass. He managed to find the small table he’d knocked over and righted it, his boots crunching on glass. That was odd; this table used to be by the fireplace. Why was it in the middle of the room?

  Hugh scowled, his toe throbbing, his jaw tight. He could barely make out the outline of the furnishings in the room, but none of them seemed to be where they should. What has that woman done?

  He held his hands out before him and carefully made his way to his desk, bumping into another table and almost falling over a chair. He found the lamp and lit it. The golden glow beamed gently over the room.

  He looked around, unable to believe his eyes. Every piece of furniture had been moved except the desk. The rest had been placed without regard to common sense, almost as if the perpetrator thought to drive him mad. Without another thought, he bellowed for the servants.

  Soon, a noise sounded in the hallway and Mrs. Wallis stood in the doorway, a robe thrown over her night rail, a lamp clutched in one hand and a broom in the other as if they were weapons. Behind her, grasping what appeared to be a chair leg, was Angus.

  Mrs. Wallis clutched at her chest. “Och, ye gave us a scare, m’lord! We dinna know ye’d returned and—” She blinked around the room. “Goodness! What happened in here?”

  “Ask your mistress,” Hugh said grimly.

  “But we didna change the furniture in here. Only the sitting room. And a bonny job we did, if I say so meself.”

  He eyed the housekeeper. “You helped her?”

  “O’ course, m’lord. As did Angus and Liam.”

  Angus nodded.

  Hugh rubbed his neck wearily. “She must have come back later to do this room.”

  Mrs. Wallis began sweeping up the broken glass, looking unconvinced. “I dinna know, m’lord. ’Tis an unlikely arrangement fer a library, and the missus is no fool.” She glanced at Angus. “Fetch a dustpan, and be quick about it.”

  He nodded and left, the chair leg over his shoulder.

  Mrs. Wallis tsked as she swept the floor. “’Twas the candy dish yer sister, Fiona, gave ye fer Christmas. A pity.” She paused, looking around and shaking her head. “’Tis no wonder ye knocked somethin’ over. There’s no rhyme nor reason fer puttin’ the furniture such.”

  Hugh crossed to the sideboard, stepping around two chairs that had been placed back-to-back, and poured himself a drink from the decanter. “It’s a mess. Almost as if—” He frowned, the glass halfway to his mouth.

  “Almost as if what, m’lord?”

  He took a slow sip, then shook his head. “Nothing.” Mrs. Wallis finished sweeping the broken glass into a pile. “Have the girls been here since I left?”

  “No. And tha’ surprised me, fer they usually make a point o’ stoppin’ by when ye’re away.”

  It had to have been the girls. He couldn’t see Triona doing such a thing, especially not to his library. But why would they have moved the furniture? They had to know it would anger him, and—

  Was that it? They wished to make him mad? But at whom? Did they think he’d blame Triona?

  He almost had, he realized with chagrin.

  Angus returned with the dustpan and Mrs. Wallis finished cleaning up the broken glass. “I’ll wake Liam and we’ll get the room back to order, m’lord.”

  “No. Just leave it.”

  She and Angus exchanged a glance. “Leave it?”

  “Yes.” He put down his glass. “Off to bed with you both. It’s late.”

  “But ye just arrived and—”

  “I can put myself to bed. I’m bringing the girls back tomorrow, so we all need to get what rest we can tonight.”

  “Very well, m’lord.”

  Hugh waited until they’d left before he surveyed the dining room, and then the sitting room. The furniture had been moved here, too, except the heavier pieces, although only the sitting room arrangement made any sense. He tried the door to the breakfast room, but it was stuck.

  “Little brats,” he muttered, carrying the lamp up the stairs. He’d have a good talk with the girls in the morning. Meanwhile, he had a wife waiting for him in his bed. The thought urged him on until he found himself hurrying, moving faster until he was almost running.

  He reached the door and paused to calm his racing heart. Then he took a deep breath, extinguished the lamp, and quietly opened the door. The moon’s glow dimly streaked across the carpet to the bed. He placed the lamp by the fireplace, then stripped and made his way to the bed.

  For a moment, he stood looking down at her. Her long hair was a fan of shimmering softness over his pillows. His pillows. He didn’t know why that was important, but it was. She was in his bed, sleeping under his sheets, all because she was his wife.

  He’d never understood the need or desire to marry. His sister was married and seemed happy; Dougal walked about with an annoyingly self-satisfied air since he’d found Sophia; and even his brother Gregor, who’d been a confirmed bachelor until he’d realized he was in love with his longtime friend Venetia, seemed to relish being married. But for Hugh, marriage had always been a distant concept—a place he might visit someday, but never today. Never now.

  When he’d been forced to marry Triona, he hadn’t understood how his life would change. And not just on the outside, though his house and life were livelier with Triona around. He’d changed on the inside, too.

  Things he’d enjoyed before—his home, his work with the horses, even his feelings for his daughters—all seemed to be even more important, because now he wanted to share them with Triona.

  She sighed in her sleep and stirred, curling her hand under her cheek. As she did so, the sheet slipped and her bare shoulder was revealed, the moonlight shimmering on her creamy skin.

  Hugh’s body tightened. With a hand that slightly shook, he lifted the covers. The moonlight caressed the slopes of her full breasts, limned the lines of her rounded hips, and traced along her thighs. She frowned in her sleep and burrowed deeper into the sheets. His heart racing, Hugh slipped between the sheets beside her.

  As he pulled her to him her eyes flew open, dark and fathomless in the moonlight. For a long moment they stared into each other’s eyes; then, with a smile that made his heart skip a beat, she slipped her arms about his neck. “Welcome home,” she whispered. “You found the mare?”

  He lifted up on his elbow and ran a hand down her arm to her waist, then up to cup her breast.

  She gasped.

  He grinned. “Yes, I found the mare. She and the foal are fine.”

  “Good.” She placed her hand on his cheek and he turned to kiss the palm, biting the tip of one of her fingers.

  Her eyes darkened.

  He smiled. “Welcome home, indeed. Someone moved the furnishings in the library, and I almost killed myself stumbling in the dark.”

  “What? But we didn’t change anything in the library!”

  “Someone did.”

  “But who—” Her gaze narrowed in thought. “Oh.”

  “Exactly. We’ll have a talk with them tomorrow. Meanwhile, some
one must tend to my wounds.”

  She lifted up on her elbow, her face even with his. “Are you hurt?”

  He shrugged, rubbing his thumb over her nipple.

  She bit her lip.

  He hid a grin. “I may have bumped my head.”

  She leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on his forehead.

  Hugh closed his eyes at her gentleness.

  “Anywhere else?” she whispered.

  His groin grew heavy with need. He touched his cheek. “Here.”

  She leaned forward to press her lips to his cheek, her silky hair tickling his arm.

  “And here,” he said, touching his bottom lip.

  She slipped her arm about his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

  Hugh’s control slipped, fell, and crashed into pieces. Hot and sweet, urgent and passionate, he took her. Took her until he could no longer breathe. Took her because he wanted her, needed her, desired her. But most of all, he took her because she was his.

  Much later, their skin damp from their exertions, his arms wrapped about her, her legs entangled with his, he gently kissed her brow and closed his eyes.

  He slid into the warm embrace of sleep, realizing how vital she’d become to him, to his life and his happiness. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but at the moment, replete and exhausted, he was just glad to be home.

  For now, that was enough.

  Chapter 18

  “There’s naught tha’ love canna do.”

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

  You told him what?” Sophia looked aghast.

  Dougal sighed. Until a moment ago, his beautiful wife had been all purrs and smiles, delighted to be back where she belonged—in his arms.

  Now she was no longer perched cozily on his lap but was standing before him, hands on her hips, her blue eyes sparkling with outrage.