The Flame on the Moor

by Fiona Neal

  “You didn’t even read it,” Strathaven protested as he took a chair by the hearth. “What about your rule of never signing anything unless you read it?”

  “Compose yourself, Strathaven.” Ian re-rolled the contract and resumed his seat. “I helped Robert’s solicitor draft the instrument. If MacLeod or the countess had wanted changes, they would have said so. They never revised a word.”

  “You disappoint me.” Strathaven pulled a wry face. “For a moment, I thought the lady had you so besotted that you signed without a second thought.”

  “Strathaven, I’m not only a lawyer, I’m a judge. I must exercise caution and good judgment at all time.”

  Ian’s friend shook his hand. “That is a pity. Just once, I want to see you let go of your icy logic and fall madly in love.”

  Perhaps Strathaven was reminiscing about his own life. His romance had ended tragically when his betrothed died of smallpox. Ian had believed his friend had begun to heal. Now, he was not so sure.

  “There are many ways to love, Strathaven.”

  “Nay,” Strathaven contradicted emphatically. “There is but one way, and that is to give your heart totally, unconditionally, and without any reservations.”

  “Perhaps,” Ian added, but that caution-to-the-wind philosophy seemed alien to him. Careful planning and slow deliberation had always served him well. Besides, the one time he behaved impetuously, his sister died as a result.

  Banishing the dark memory, Ian rose and walked to the bell-lever. Pulling the slender rope, he summoned Padraig to help him change into his dinner clothes.

  “What will you do while I give Lady Ballanross the betrothal ring this evening?”

  Strathaven grinned impishly. “Perhaps I can engage your future uncle in a game of Lanterloo.”

  “Good grief, if you trounce him, as you do your other opponents, he will be angry with me for bringing you here, and I’ll be an outlaw before I am an in-law.”

  * * * *

  Changed into formal attire for dinner, Deirdre peered in the looking glass. The split skirt of the sky blue satin gown floated over the cream silk and lace of her outer petticoat. Triple flounces of matching cream lace frothed from the sleeves below her elbows. Teardrop pearl earrings and a simple string of pearls, the only jewelry her uncle allowed her until her marriage, completed the outfit.

  Morag, her lady’s maid, had wanted to powder her hair, rouge her cheeks, and place patches near her lips and eyes, but Deirdre refused all such artifice, sending the maid away in a state of dejection.

  Turning from the mirror, Deirdre made her way down the main staircase. The portraits of her ancestors lined the steps, and their eyes seemed to look out at her with censure. She felt sure they would disapprove of her intentions as she stealthily trod along the corridor to the library.

  Deirdre stationed herself by the back entrance of the room, hoping to hear what her uncle would tell Lord Kilbraeton. She felt guilty about eavesdropping, but she had to know the content of their discussion. After all, the matter likely involved her.

  Praying that the oaken door would not creak on its hinges, she held her breath and turned the knob. She eased it open a crack and listened.

  “In view of the facts, Sir Robert, I think you should tell Deirdre,” she heard Lord Kilbraeton say.

  The matter did concern her!

  “Nay, Lord Kilbraeton. If you marry as soon as possible, there will be no need. We do not wish to frighten her needlessly.”

  “But she should know,” Ian insisted. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Forearmed? Frightened? Deirdre felt her stomach muscles clench with apprehension.

  “There will be no need for her to be forearmed once you are married,” her uncle continued.

  Oh, how she wished they would come to the point. By St. Columba! They were talking in circles!

  “Good evening,” someone said from behind her.

  “Oh,” Deirdre cried out.

  Chapter Four

  Hands over her heart, Deirdre started and whirled around.

  Lord Strathaven frowned. “I am sorry. I did not wish to frighten you.”

  She had concentrated on the private conversation so intently she had not heard him approach. Furthermore, the runner of carpet in the corridor prevented the sound of his footsteps from alerting her. To make matters worse, Strathaven would probably tell Lord Kilbraeton he had seen her eavesdropping. She planned to be more careful in the future, although she hated the deception and intrigue that now shadowed her life.

  “I-I was about to join Lord Kilbraeton and my uncle.” She smiled nervously.

  Strathaven stepped to the door, opened it wider and bowed. “After you, my lady,” he announced loudly.

  Her uncle and Ian turned, surprise on their faces.

  “Strathaven, Deirdre. Do join us,” her uncle urged.

  Despite his words, Deirdre saw that Uncle Robert did not appreciate the intrusion. Perhaps he thought she and Strathaven had overheard his conversation with Lord Kilbraeton. No such good luck!

  Lord Kilbraeton stepped forward and took her hand. “My lady,” he said and kissed the back of it.

  His polite tone belied the anxiety that stole into his glorious green eyes. Whatever her uncle revealed had undoubtedly worried the man.

  “Your betrothed has a surprise for you,” her uncle said, his voice holding a note of forced cheer.

  No doubt, he and Lord Kilbraeton planned to divert her attention and prevent her from asking questions. She ignored their flummery.

  “Show him to the library, my lady,” her uncle urged. “I am sure you will both appreciate a little privacy while Strathaven and I indulge in a wee dram before dinner.”

  Deirdre’s gaze traveled from her uncle to her betrothed. Just what scheme had they hatched to cover their tracks? Instead of a direct confrontation, she decided to play their game, at least for the moment. Later, she would wheedle the information from her betrothed. After all, she had heard him say she should be informed.

  She turned to Lord Kilbraeton. “I believe we are being summarily dismissed, my lord,” she answered, wondering what he intended to give her.

  Ian smiled. “Your uncle is just showing us some consideration.” He took her arm. “Shall I let you lead the way?”

  They strolled along the corridor and entered the library. Bookcases lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and the chamber’s atmosphere radiated comfortable warmth, especially now with the glowing fireplace.

  A massive cherry desk stood in the center of the room atop a Turkish carpet. Armchairs, upholstered in a Jacobean crewel design, flanked the hearth, and the pleasant scent of tobacco mingled with the fragrance of the peat fire.

  She faced him. “Well, my lord, did my uncle’s conversation enlighten you?”

  “Enlighten?” He looked somewhat disconcerted. “Well, uh, I can honestly say that his comments proved edifying.”

  So he wanted to play the evasion game. Fine! She decided to launch a direct hit. “Share your edification with me.”

  He opened his mouth, and Deirdre tingled with anticipation. Unfortunately, he clamped his jaws shut, looking as if he was debating with himself. “Permit me to do that later, my lady. Right now, there is something I wish to give you.”

  Drat, Deirdre thought.

  “I suppose you have wondered when I should give you your betrothal ring.”

  She had not. Busy with the robbery, the revelation about her uncle’s health, the mission of getting to Effie’s cottage with a cache of stolen money, and now this new mystery between Ian and Uncle Robert, the question of a betrothal ring never entered her mind. “I-I assumed you would proceed with the quintessence of rectitude in that matter, my lord.”

  “The way you say that, I get the impression that I strike you as being a proper bore.”

  Deirdre stared into the depths of his green compelling eyes. In truth, Ian excited her in ways she never imagined. He emanated an animal energy that she found almost impossible to re
sist. “Boring is not a word I’d ever use to describe you, my lord.”

  “Then just how would you described me?” Ian raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  As handsome as Apollo and as seductive as sin, she thought. Nevertheless, Lord Kilbraeton was also a man who would deliver his own wife to the hangman if he discovered she had broken the law. She must get hold of herself and grasp a coherent answer from her whirling thoughts.

  “Well, let me see. We’ve been acquainted for just a short time, my lord, but you impress me as a person of impeccable manners and unimpeachable morals.”

  “You flatter me.” Looking pleased, Ian took her hand and smiled.

  Deirdre felt his warmth spread like a ray of sunlight as it traveled up her arm and across her breasts to settle in a powerful spasm low in her abdomen. His raw sensuality made it difficult to keep her mind on discovering the secret he shared with her uncle. In fact, Lord Kilbraeton caused all rational thought to flee from her mind.

  “I try to act according to the dictates of my conscience, but sometimes I am not always successful,” he murmured, as he slipped his arms about her waist.

  His confession surprised her. She had difficulty imagining that he ever compromised his integrity. Right now, so close to him, Deirdre’s mind seemed to turn to porridge. “S-So your flesh is as weak as that of the next person, my lord?” She disengaged from him and walked to the hearth, desperately grappling with her runaway emotions.

  He came up behind her. Twining his arms around her waist again, he drew her close, placing his cheek against hers. “Aye,” he whispered, “very weak. In fact, I find some things absolutely irresistible.”

  Knees trembling, Deirdre closed her eyes and grasped the mantel, trying to resist the kisses he dropped on the back of her neck. He turned her round, and she felt the warm, silken tingle of his lips on her forehead, her cheeks, and the tip of her nose. Deirdre lost herself in the swirling vortex of his thrall.

  All of a sudden, his mouth possessed hers in a searing kiss that brought to mind the ravening bonfires of Hogmanay. She wished the enchantment of his touch would continue forever, but he broke away.

  “If we continue on this course, I shall never get on with the purpose of our business,” he said.

  Nor would she discover the secret he shared with her uncle, and she was most eager to know it.

  Kilbraeton stepped back and pulled a small leather pouch from his coat pocket. Loosening its thongs, he dipped his long fingers inside, fishing out a small box. He opened the lid and offered it to her.

  Struck mute, Deirdre just stared, transfixed. The huge emerald surrounded by round diamonds entranced her.

  “It is the Kilbraeton betrothal ring,” he stated proudly.

  The ring appeared to be worth thousands of pounds, and Deirdre calculated that the bauble would feed and clothe half the poor crofters on Skye for a year. However, the jewel rested for years in a chest for each successive Kilbraeton bride to wear occasionally. Her practical, frugal nature rebelled at the flagrant waste.

  “What is wrong, my lady?”

  She looked up, her gaze fusing with his.

  He frowned. “It does not please you? Perhaps you’d like another color stone.”

  “It is the most exquisite gem I have ever seen, my lord.”

  “It weighs thirty carats!” He lifted her hand and slipped the ring onto her finger. “It is all the lovelier for being on your hand.” He placed a soft kiss in the palm of her hand, and her mine went blank with desire.

  The ring fit perfectly, but for a moment, she remained speechless. Then remembering her manners, she stammered, “T-Thank you, my lord. I-I am quite overwhelmed.” Flabbergasted more aptly described her emotions.

  “I’m glad you’re pleased, and since we are betrothed, I think it would be proper to address each other by our Christian names when we are in private, Deirdre.”

  “Yes, my lord…I mean, Ian.”

  He swept her into his embrace and kissed her fiercely. The dismal problems of the world disappeared like stars at dawn, and time stood still as Deirdre reveled in the shelter of his embrace. Only as he moved back, did Deirdre hear the rap on the door.

  Ian left her and opened it.

  Morag curtsied on the threshold. “My lady, Mrs. MacNeill has arrived. Una is preparing the room that the lady usually occupies when she visits, but I thought you would like to greet her.”

  Jarred back to reality, Deirdre answered. “Tell her I shall be with her presently, Morag.” She moved toward Ian. “Excuse me, my lord. I must see to my guest.”

  Deirdre left him, realizing that for the second time today, he had successfully distracted her from her mission. She had failed to postpone the wedding and had also been unsuccessful in her attempt to discover the secret he shared with her uncle. Then remembering the occasion of her bethrothal and Ian’s generous gesture, a lump clogged her throat.

  This should be one of the happiest moments of her life, but the sinister shadow of deceit fell on her and her handsome betrothed. Ian and she would never enjoy true intimacy while The Flame stood between them.

  * * * *

  A half-hour later, Ian watched Deirdre enter the library. His Aunt Barbara, now recovered, followed, swathed in yards of yellow satin as a green ostrich plume bobbed in her ornate, white wig. Following his aunt, the blonde Lady Mary MacNeill, arrayed in black lace sprinkled with silver sequins, reminded him of a starry sky on a clear autumn night.

  But the colorful feminine parade failed to lighten his heavy concern. His wedding imminent, he should feel carefree. Yet, his beautiful bride remained oblivious to the horrendous danger threatening her.

  Should he tell her? Perhaps her uncle assumed correctly that once Deirdre took up residence at Kilbraeton, she’d bide safely and there would be no need to distress her. Right now, Ian felt too confused by the memory of her soft curves to make a rational decision.

  Sir Robert MacLeod smiled as the women entered. “My dear Lady Glenmuir, how delighted I am you could join us. I thought you had retired to your room until tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Sir Robert, I should be abed this very moment. We suffered an unspeakable experience at hands of that rogue, The Flame.” Her plume quivered. “But when I heard you were serving haggis for supper, I thought the nourishment would do me good.”

  “We could have sent a tray to your room,” Deirdre gently assured her.

  Ian smiled. His aunt probably assumed she would be served the chicken broth reserved for the sick. Haggis remained her favorite, and he suspected she also wanted the customary dram accompanying the dish. If the dear old girl ever missed a meal, he would forget the doctor and send for the mortician, for her death would be imminent.

  “I thank you for your solicitude, Sir Robert.” His aunt batted her eyelashes and fluttered her white lace fan. “You have always been so considerate of my dreadful spells.”

  Sir Robert bowed and kissed her hand. “You are a favorite of mine, Lady Glenmuir.”

  His aunt giggled like a smitten ingénue. “Oh, Sir Robert, you are such a dear man.”

  Strathaven smiled at their antics, but unbelievably, Lady Mary’s fine dark eyes cast darts of unadulterated jealousy toward his aunt.

  The butler appeared at the door. “My lords and ladies, supper is served.”

  They left the library and filed into the dining room, taking their places at the table.

  As they ate their first course of cock-a-leekie soup, Ian noticed that Deirdre remained uncommonly quite. She had sparkled so at tea, he had expected the same sharp wit at dinner. Was something troubling her?

  Something definitely bothered him. Ian dreaded sharing Robert’s information with Deirdre because it would undoubtedly terrify her.

  Suddenly, the haggis arrived on a platter, born in by a liveried servant. Behind him another man entered, balancing a tray with glasses and a bottle of whisky. Two maids followed with vegetable dishes full of the traditional tatties and bashed neeps.

  “Oh,” his
aunt sighed with delight. “All that is missing is the skirl of the pipes and the wearing of the plaid. How dashing the men used to look! You were especially handsome, Sir Robert, in your plaid of blue and green.”

  Everyone in the room froze.

  “My lady,” Lord Kilbraeton said and shot her a look of warning.

  “Fiddlesticks, my dear!” his aunt scoffed. “I cannot understand why the government forbids the playing of the bagpipes and the wearing of the plaid.”

  “Because, Lady Glenmuir,” Deirdre commented, a sharp edge on her voice, “the Sassenachs wish to impose their ways on us. The Wee German Lairdie who sits on the English throne cares not a whit that a whole way of life is being destroyed and people are being displaced from the land to make way for sheep.”

  Deirdre’s vehemence stunned Ian. Everyone at the table stared at her.

  Her uncle’s eyes registered alarm. “Noble lady, were you not among friends, your words could be misconstrued, and some may think that you are harboring Jacobite sympathies.”

  “Nonsense, Uncle Robert. Everyone knows I do not care a jot for politics. It is the poor crofters who concern me. The government behaves with careless disregard toward the Highlands and all who live here. We cannot even legally own a firearm to hunt. Should we not petition Parliament to rescind these harsh laws?”

  “My lady, as I have explained, your words can be misunderstood,” Sir Robert MacLeod cautioned.

  Ian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Deirdre’s sentiments could be misunderstood if the king did not clap her in irons first. Unease settled over him like a pall.

  “But Lady Ballanross has a point, Sir Robert,” Lady Mary added. “Before the so-called union of our two countries, we had no need to wait for the government in London to protect us from scoundrels like this Flame. We took care of ourselves and settled our own affairs.”

  “You have expressed some radical ideas since you returned from Calais, Lady Mary.” Sir Robert frowned.

  “Oh, please,” Lady Barbara wailed, scraping up the last bit of her haggis onto her fork. “All this talk about that rogue will upset my digestion.”