by L. L. Muir
“It won’t make much difference, though, will it?” He barely heard her whisper, but he’d followed her lips well enough.
“I doona understand, lass. Love makes all the difference in the world, surely.”
She sat up, away from him. She was preparing to run from him again, but he couldn’t let her. They would finish with all this foolishness and set things right between them. He refused to suffer through another silent day.
He sat up and placed his feet on the floor. She breathed slow and steady, like a cornered rabbit. Then she gave a little laugh.
“All the difference in whose world? Yours? Mine? How we feel about each other won’t matter if we’re 200 years apart, will it? What happens when I go back?”
“Go back?” His body rose with his frustration, but once on his feet, his frustration went on without him, exploding out his mouth. “Go back to the year 2012? You’re out of your beautiful mind, lass. Ye’ve had some accident, had some unhappy experience that made ye believe such nonsense. Of course yer not from the future. I’m sorry, lass, but yer no’. ‘Tis impossible!”
She was strangely calm in the face of his ranting.
“So you were just playing along this morning, when you wanted to talk about the year I came from? Nice. You were sucking up so you could what? Earn another kiss?”
The memory of his grandmother tapped him on the shoulder to remind him that nothing was impossible, but he ignored it. There was too much at stake.
He dove to his knees before her and brought his hands together in supplication.
“Please, Brianna. Please believe that ye’d be happy here, with me. Stay with me. Let me love ye. Doona think to leave me, lass.” He opened his hands. “Me hearts just here, in these to hands. Take it. Take it.”
She shook her head. “You really don’t believe me.”
“My love—”
“Don’t!” She jumped to her feet. Her eyes were filling with tears. “Don’t you dare say that. You don’t know me. You don’t trust me, so you sure as hell can’t love me.”
With his empty hands still raised, he stepped toward her. She recoiled, so he stopped. If he took another step, she would run. He had to hold her attention.
“Am I obsessed by the thought of ye? Aye, I am. Intimidated? That too. But my heart was not racing in my chest because I fear ye, Brianna. I only fear ye mightn’t feel the same for me.” He lowered his hands. “I shouldn’t have teased ye, this morn. It was a poor jest to goad ye into breakin’ yer silence. Forgive me. Forgive me and offer me but a wisp of hope to take with me to my bed. Tell me you feel something for me, that if... If we must part on the morrow, that you will miss me, at the very least. Mm?”
She blinked and tears poured from her eyes. She shook her head, but he knew it was a lie. Her feelings for him ran as deep as did his. She would miss him if they parted. And she’d share the same regrets if he allowed her to run away now.
He gave her a sad smile. She slipped sideways and bolted. He’d reached for her hand, but she’d been to quick. He ran after her. When she realized he was on her heels, she squealed, but did not falter. She took the steps two at a time. He took them three. He dared not reach for her, lest she stumble. He allowed her the lead only until they were out of danger, then he headed her off when she turned toward the child’s bedchamber.
He grasped her by the shoulders and in one fluid movement, as when they’d danced, he spun her further down the hall and up against the wall. The light from a sconce lit the top of her head. Her blond tresses tumbled from their nest at the back of her head while they both caught their breath. It took all his effort to keep from stealing that breath away again with a kiss, especially when she continued to look at his lips, then his eyes, then back again.
Eventually, he released one shoulder and held his palm to her cheek, demanding her complete attention.
“Does it matter?” he whispered. “Does any of it truly matter? Whatever I was but a week ago, I am no longer, lass. I will not be content to watch life from my tower window and remain apart from it, not when you could be that life.”
She dropped her chin and sobbed as he wrapped his arms carefully around her. He was happy to hold her straight through the New Year if need be and ignore anyone who came to his door. But something was wrong; she was shaking her head.
“Your life? Your Nineteenth Century life?” she whispered, though she would not look at him. “You’re out of your mind. You can’t want a wife you can’t believe. A wife you think is crazy.” She wiped her tears on her shoulder, but she didn’t push him away. “So, yes, it matters.” Finally, she looked up at his face. “But if you want to pretend, for one more day, for the sake of Angeline, I’ll pretend too. You can keep pretending you love me. I’ll pretend I believe you.”
She had no need to push him away then, the distance between them stretched without him taking a step. His chest burned as if she’d branded the words across it, I’ll pretend I believe you.
When he’d given her that same promise, had she suffered the same pain?
Impossible. I gave the promise days ago—a lifetime ago. She had no tender feelings for me then. Then the pain delved deeper. Likely, she has no such feelings for me now.
What a fool. He’d wanted so badly for her to feel as he did that he’d convinced himself of the truth of it. The pain in her eyes had only been from his lack of trust, not because her heart was breaking...as his was.
He reached for her face again and when she did not resist, he held it a moment, then another still, but the futility of reaching for her soul became bittersweet. Finally, he could stand no more of it. After brushing the wetness from the still wet cheek, he dropped his hand to his side and smiled.
“Go, now. Sleep. We shall pretend tomorrow will be a fine day, aye?”
The candle he left with her. He needed no light to guide him down the dark hall. The door to his sanctuary opened without thought. As he closed it behind him, the chill air moved against his skin. Silently, he willed it to sink through his heart.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bree watched the shine on the backs of Heathcliff’s boots as he moved away from her into the shadows. When he turned at the end of the hall, he didn’t glance back.
If he hurt half as bad as she did, she was no better than that other Catherine and she deserved her pain. What she didn’t deserve was her Heathcliff. And what had he said? If Catherine had just married Heathcliff, as she was supposed to, she might not have died in childbed. If she’d have just taken what was offered...
But she couldn’t take what was offered because someone was going to pull the rug out from under her little fantasy here.
Yes, she loved him. Yes, she could jump into his arms and tell him it was all going to be all right. And maybe no one would come at midnight. Maybe she could just bide her time until the day he finally believed she couldn’t possibly be from his century. They could work it out later.
But they weren’t the only people in the world. Out there, somewhere, were her parents and her friends who were probably already freaking out because they hadn’t heard from her. If she chose to live the fairytale, they’d be the ones to pay for it. Besides the fact she’d never see them again.
She laughed. What a joke. There was no telling if she even had a choice. Going back might not be an option anyhow.
The coachman would come. He had to come. He had to be the key to all this insanity.
* * *
The smell of morning made her sick to her stomach. Whatever was going to happen at midnight, she almost wished would happen right away, so it would at least be over with. Instead of enjoying his company for one last day, or even pretending to, she dreaded facing him. It was all going to be just too painful, and she wouldn’t be able to keep from falling apart.
She led Angeline down the stairs as usual, but she planned to go right back to the room as soon as the girl had her breakfast and her would-be father could worry about entertaining her. Bree needed to put a little distance b
etween Angeline and her anyway, so when Bree wasn’t there for her the next morning, it wouldn’t be a complete shock. As for herself, she dreaded that cold turkey affect and wondered if she would have a hard time from now on teaching little blond girls with braids.
Of course she would.
Tears were already shimmering in her eyes by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“In here!” Heathcliff’s voice called from the parlor. “Come. Break yer fast,” he said cheerfully.
Three chairs sat around a small table in the middle of the room. The fire was giving off a lot of heat making Bree wish she hadn’t put a sweater on. She’d dressed in her own clothes, prepared for travel. She wore her ragged jeans, her red rain boots. Her coat was draped across her suitcase just inside the bedroom, ready to go at a moment’s notice.
But speaking of notice, Heathcliff acted like he barely noticed her at all. He fussed over Angeline, pulled out her chair and showed her how to place her napkin across her lap. Then he pulled out Bree’s chair and left it for her, returning to his own side of the table so he could serve the child. If he had any comment on how she was dressed, he kept it to himself, but she doubted he’d even glanced her way.
“I forgot something upstairs,” she murmured as she turned and headed for the door.
“Coward,” he said, then started chattering to Angeline about why she needed to eat all the different things he’d prepared for her breakfast.
Bree’s feet slowed while she swallowed a pain in her throat, then she realized that all her crying the night before was what made her throat sore in the first place.
Why was he goading her? Was he aching to pay her back for embarrassing him the night before? Or was he just trying to keep up the pretense for Angeline? Either way, it didn’t matter. She didn’t care what she’d promised; she couldn’t bear to make small talk, and she was already headed up the stairs.
A few minutes later, there was a firm knock at the door. She stared out the window. The snow had stopped.
“I’ll just leave your meal out here then, shall I?” Something slid along the floor near the door, then his footsteps moved away.
An hour later, he knocked again.
“Brianna? Miss Colby, will you not eat something at least?”
She rolled over and pulled the blankets over her. Napping was an excellent way to make the time pass faster. Too bad she couldn’t get to sleep. She had no idea how long he lingered before leaving her alone again.
The third time he came, she heard his first stomp at the bottom of the stairs and every step he took after that.
He pounded only once. “Brianna Colby, ‘tis time you stopped your pouting and came out. Think of the example you’re setting for my daughter.” He breathed on the door for a minute, then lowered his voice. “Come out, my Catherine. Let’s not waste what’s left of the day. Come. Play on the frozen moors with me.”
She bawled for an hour.
* * *
The swelling had just left her face, thanks to the snow on the windowsill, when someone small knocked weakly on the door. Of course, it could have been Heathcliff, but Bree also detected the sound of little shoes. He had apparently found reinforcements he knew she could not ignore.
She was headed for the door when a note slid beneath it. In very elegant handwriting she had a hard time believing could belong to a man, it read,
Come see.
She opened the door to find Angeline grinning up at her as if they’d been playing hide and seek and Angeline had finally found her. The child clapped and jumped up and down, then took Bree by the finger and led her down the stairs. When they stepped into the parlor, Bree was confused. White sheets were draped over everything.
Was he packing up the house and going away?
She suddenly remembered a scene from Brigadoon. Gene Kelly’s character sees the error of his ways and comes back, looking for the bridge, for the woman he left behind. Bree imagined herself changing her mind one day, not being able to stay away, but when she returns to Scotland, Heathcliff might not be waiting.
Something screamed and Bree nearly peed her pants. It sounded like a cross between a dying sheep and music. The girl squatted down and ducked under one of the sheets, headed toward the sound. Bree had no choice but to follow. When she lifted the edge of the sheet over her head, she saw Heathcliff sitting cross-legged on a pillow with a turban wrapped around his head. His robe was white and looked terribly authentic.
“That is not what a bagpipe is supposed to sound like,” she told him.
He pointed the end of his pipe at a pillow and nodded for her to take a seat. The sound, caught and concentrated under the sheets, was excruciating. She found Angeline sitting against the back of the covered chaise with her hands over her ears, still grinning. The middle of the giant sheet was being propped up by a man-sized candelabra, the cups of which would hold enormous pillar candles—a chunky looking thing covered with rust and candle drippings that might have come from some ancient attic.
The outer edges of the tent were held up by a half dozen chairs and the only other interruptions in the four-foot high ceiling were Heathcliff’s tall bagpipes.
He stopped blowing on the mouthpiece, but the instrument continued to groan.
“It’s not supposed to sound like a bagpipe,” he yelled. “I’m charming snakes!” He started blowing again, since the bag of the bagpipe was quickly running out of air. Then he raised his eyebrows and nodded to a pile of gold cords and tassels that had probably been stripped off the green plaid curtains. When his servants came back after New Year’s, they would have to put the whole room back together again.
Finally, he glared at the tassels as if they’d failed to perform as expected, and gave up blowing.
“We’ll be needin’ new snakes,” he told Angeline.
The girl forced a frown and nodded, then she grinned.
Bree couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry to break it to you, Mr. McKinnon, but whatever snakes might have been lurking around here have fled into the snow to save themselves from your music.”
He smiled, but he wasn’t amused. He looked a little sad, probably because she hadn’t called him by name.
Seeking for something that might lighten the mood, she shook his little note of truce and pointed to Angeline.
“Cheat,” she said.
Angeline grinned.
“Thief,” he said.
Before she could take offense, she realized his hand was on his heart.
“Unfair.” She started to get off the pillow.
“Wait. I’m sorry. Dinna go. We’ve quite run out of games to play, Miss Colby. We were just about to start a goose chase.”
“With a real goose?” She hoped not. He’d probably kill he poor thing and cook it for supper.
“Poor choice of words. We were merely about to go to the kitchens to rummage up a wee picnic.”
“Food, I could do,” she said.
When given the option, Angeline chose to bring their meals back under the tent to eat. Bree helped her get situated, then headed back out of Arabia to get her own food. Heathcliff was there, at the edge, to help her to her feet. Then he helped her into his arms and spun her out into the hallway.
“Stop,” she said firmly, but the rest of her wasn’t really resisting. She’d been in his arms enough to feel comfortable there. Far too comfortable.
“I just want to visit for a moment, while the child is occupied.”
“Your mouth doesn’t work unless you’re holding me?”
He rolled his eyes. Okay, so it was another poor choice of words.
“Let us agree that we willna worry about midnight until it is but a quarter of. What say you? We can enjoy the day, enjoy the evening, and at 11:45, and not a moment before, we can worry about who might appear at the bloody door.”
“Maybe no one will come,” she said, trying to draw out the conversation just a little longer.
He raised a finger to the side of her nose. “No, Brianna. We w
ill speculate not a moment more. If ye find yer mind wandering there, ye must kiss me—to distract yerself, of course. And I shall—”
She clamped a hand over his mouth, then realized what she’d done. She sucked in a breath and held deathly still. Her fingers wanted to move, but she wouldn’t let them. She stared at her hand, dreading what he might do with his lips, wanting them to press against her skin so badly she could scream. But they didn’t move. And he wasn’t smiling.
She didn’t want to look up at his eyes, but her gaze was pulled there, like he was a vampire who might be able to compel her to do anything he wanted. Maybe he was some kind of witch after all.
It was too bad the gold fire she found in those couldn’t be bottled and sold. She’d make millions.
His nostrils flared, but she couldn’t run. She didn’t want to run. But she didn’t want him to know just how close she was to melting, so she struggled to remember what they’d been talking about. Oh, yeah. Kissing.
“You shall do no such thing,” she said and pulled her hand away. “You twiddle your thumbs or something.”
“Coward,” he whispered, staring at her lips. “Agreed, so long as you make use of the diversion I’ve assigned to ye each and every time ye worry over the other side of midnight.”
“Fine.” But he’d just made sure that she thought about midnight every time she looked at his lips. And he knew it too. She wasn’t going to point that out, though, or the fact that his brogue was getting more drastic.
As she ate her lunch, she realized he’d kind of given her a gift, in that she had to stop worrying about what she would tell her mother. Today was simply their last day to play house.
Looking across the tent, she noticed shadows under his eyes, and in them.
“What are ye contemplating, Brianna?” His tone implied she owed him a kiss.
“I was thinking you must not have slept well. There are dark circles under your eyes.”
Angeline frowned his way, but he laughed away her concern. “I slept.” There was an odd tone to his voice, though, that gave him away. He was lying.