The Flame on the Moor

by Fiona Neal

  “Your uncle and I think he is involved and will use your concern for the poor to lure you into the snare.”

  “I think you should forget that theory and concentrate on the facts we know.” Her heart thrashed against her ribs, causing her to struggle for breath as she stood.

  The threat shook her to the very foundation of her being. Not only was she a hunted felon, but she stood at the center of a kidnapping plot! Furthermore, if the rebels took her hostage, the shock would kill her uncle. Yet all her husband could think about was capturing The Flame.

  If she did not leave now, she would burst into tears, and she did not want Ian to see her lose her composure. “Please, excuse me.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Deirdre, promise me you will remain within the castle walls.”

  “I’m not a fool, Ian.” She glared at him.

  He released her, and she made her way across the room, entering her chamber. Tears blurred her vision as she slammed the door and slid the bolt.

  * * * *

  The crash echoed in Ian’s ears. The gesture struck him like a resounding slap in the face. Obviously, Deirdre wanted not only privacy, but also a physical barrier between them as well.

  Except for the one time when he left her on their wedding night, the door between them had stayed unlocked. He had always remained ready to comfort her if she had another nightmare. Ian wanted to lend his support, his protection, but now she had shut him out.

  When he revealed the plot, Ian never expected that Deirdre would faint, as his aunt usually did. His wife seemed made of sterner stuff. But he could have coped with that reaction far better than the biting reserve she erected between them.

  Incredibly, through all her fear, she still maintained her ability to reason. You should concentrate on the facts, not theory. She was right!

  Perhaps he should follow Strathaven’s advice. Maybe he should forget his suspicions and take her to his bed. Furthermore, Ian realized he felt more than passion for Deirdre. Ian had to admit he was growing fonder of his new wife every day.

  Why, then, did doubt tear at his gut like a Scottish wildcat?

  He deliberated about going to her. After all, Deirdre had been dealt a frightening blow. At least he could offer her the comfort of a sympathetic ear and the reassurance of his support.

  Leaning against the mantle, he closed his eyes and ground his teeth, recalling that he had been unable to protect his sister. Guilt and pain assaulted him. Before he could attend to Deirdre, he needed some time to control his emotions.

  Besides, his wife had locked the door between them.

  Ian set down his glass with a crash. He would kill anyone who attempted to hurt Deirdre—or die defending her.

  * * * *

  Deirdre sprawled face down on the bed, quaking with terror. Kidnappers, intent on abducting her roamed the highways and byways. How ironic! The notorious Flame, who had preyed on others, had now become the quarry herself.

  Perhaps Ian would refuse to pay the ransom. After all, he did not love her. He had married her because he felt obligated to do so, and thirty thousand pounds amounted to a princely sum of money—literally—since it equaled the exact price on the head of the Bonnie Prince Charles.

  Deirdre shuddered. Left to the kidnappers, rape and death posed distinct possibilities. Deirdre clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming as she considered her fate at the hands of a band of angry, vindictive brigands.

  Nay, she need not fear. Ian may not care about her, but one thing remained certain above all others. Her uncle dearly loved her. He would never desert her if the shock of her capture did not kill him first.

  Then she would be alone, lost, abandoned.

  She must avoid seizure. But how was that possible? Even the walls of Kilbraeton did not offer complete safety. Servants could be bribed to allow the scoundrels into the castle.

  Deirdre rose and walked to her dressing table. Opening the lowest draw, she retrieved her hidden pistols. She would keep one primed and loaded and hide it on her person at all times. When bathing, she would conceal the weapon in a basket under the linens. At bedtime, the gun would rest on the nightstand. She took up her small sgian dhu, and placed it under her garter. She planned to keep that weapon on her person as well.

  Furthermore, she must remain inside the castle walls—a virtual prisoner—until the authorities brought the knaves to justice. Disheartened by the prospect, Deirdre slipped the pistol through the slit in her skirt into the pocket beneath her panniers while fear chilled her to the bone.

  She hurried to the hearth, throwing a slab of peat on the dying fire. As she straightened, her shoulder struck the underside of the mantle.

  Suddenly, the carved panel flanking the fireplace sprang open with a soft, scraping noise. A dark, cold void gaped before her, as damp cold air engulfed her, and a musty odor tickled her nostrils.

  The fine hairs on her arms stood on end as her flesh erupted in goose bumps. She returned to the hearth. Taking a taper from the mantle, she bent again, lighting it in the fire, and rose. Holding it high, she walked into the tenebrous space, hoping to avoid colliding with a frightened bat or fleeing rodent. The bleak flame revealed a great, wheeled stone stairway spiraling downward into a black abyss.

  Doubtless, this was part of the maze of passages Ian had mentioned.

  Deirdre re-entered her chamber and bolted the other door leading to the corridor so Morag could not wander in. Then she touched her candle to the others in the silver candelabra on the table. Lifting the branched beacon, she began her exploration.

  She stayed close to the cold stone walls, slowly and carefully descending the stairs. One misstep would hurtle her into the dark void, and no one would hear her cries of distress through these thick walls. She cringed, envisioning vermin scurrying over her unconscious body.

  Down and around, the steps circled as they brought her ever lower until she found herself in the bowels of the castle. She prayed a sudden draft would not extinguish her illumination. Deirdre had no wish to grope back up the stairs in pitch-black darkness.

  Holding her tapers high, she looked ahead into a narrow tunnel. Its end remained invisible. She proceeded down the cramped space, feeling the cobwebs brush against her face and hands. She tripped several times, but managed to keep from falling and walked for what seemed like an eternity.

  Dear heavens, she hoped the candles did not burn out before she reached…where?

  Finally, she faced a low door, its great hinges rusted, and a large key jutted from the lock. With difficulty, she turned the key and heard the mechanism spring. She pushed hard, and the barrier scraped the floor, its hinges creaking as she heard what sounded like falling rain.

  A draft hit her, and the tapers flickered. Deirdre quickly set down the candles behind the door so they’d be protected from the breeze, and walked beyond the barrier.

  She found herself inside a shallow cave illuminated by the light coming in from its nearby mouth. She trod carefully to the gap. Outside, the land sloped into a steep drop toward the loch below. She moved farther down the hill and looked over her shoulder. Behind her, far atop the hill, the castle loomed up behind its curtain wall.

  Did Ian know of this section of the tunnel? If so, he had not mentioned it. He had had plenty of time, unless he was still afraid she would use it to conspire with The Flame.

  He was right. This passageway could prove useful. It provided a way to smuggle her jewels out of the castle if she ever found where Ian had hidden them.

  Realizing she had lingered for quite some time, Deirdre returned to the door. Securing it, she retrieved the branch of candles and cautiously wended her way back to her room, greeted by the sound of pounding on her door.

  “Deirdre, please let me in!”

  Dear goodness, Ian! How long had he been calling her? She pressed the lever under the mantle, and the panel slid shut.

  “Deirdre, are you there?”

  The plaintive tone of his entreaty melted any ire she had felt
.

  “Aye, Ian. One moment please.”

  Setting down the candles, she stepped out of her muddy shoes, placing them under the bed, and then hurried to the washstand, quickly rinsing the traces of cobwebs from her face and hands.

  As Deirdre rushed to the door, she hastily shook the dust from her skirt. If Ian asked her why she had not answered sooner, she would say she fell asleep.

  She threw the bolt and opened the door. The concern in his eyes touched her heart.

  Deirdre, you left so suddenly I did not have a chance to finish what I wanted to say.”

  Her stomach lurched. “Do you have more ill tidings?”

  “Nay,” he answered, and then he laced his fingers with hers and frowned. “Your hands feel like ice.” He led her toward the hearth, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Deirdre, I hated to give the bad news.”

  She stared at the flames. “Nay, Ian. I had to know.”

  He turned her to face him. “That did not make it any easier for me to say or for you to hear.”

  His kindness caused tears to well up in her eyes. He drew her into his arms, and she rested her head on his shoulder. The strength of his body, the warmth of his embrace, gave her the comfort and the protection she desperately sought. And his tenderness aroused her ardor so acutely, her heart thundered with anticipation.

  His embrace tightened. Instinctively, she tilted up her chin, seeking the glow of his eyes, the fragrance of his skin, and most of all the taste of his lips.

  His mouth inclined toward hers. It tasted sweet, gentle, consoling. Her lips trembled as she made ready to allow him ingress, needing the heat of his passion and the haven of his body at this moment more than she ever needed anything in her life.

  But he drew back.

  A deluge of disappointment flooded her heart, bursting the damn of her self-control. Even as she prayed not to cry, tears pricked behind her eyes. She blinked them back, but an errant drop escaped to trickle down her cheek.

  “Things will be all right, sweetheart. I promise.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped her face as he would a child’s.

  By St. Columba, she did not want his pity, she wanted his passion, and she intended to have it!

  * * * *

  A week later, Ian leaned against the crenellated battlement high atop the old keep. To the west, the sun setting over the moors wished a farewell to the day like a blushing maiden bidding adieu to a forbidden lover. The loch reflected the pink-gold sky that stretched before him like a sea of molten copper.

  The gentle breeze flapped the letter from Strathaven as he finished reading. Gratified by the news that old Lady Strathaven’s health had improved, Ian folded the missive and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He hoped Strathaven would find a woman to whom he could give his heart again. The man had suffered a terrible loss and needed love, tenderness, and passion.

  But I do, too.

  Ian had called on every iota of willpower to resist Deirdre’s considerable charms when she had clung to him. Even if he had been sure she was not implicated with The Flame, Ian felt he could never have imposed on her when she was so vulnerable. Nay, if he ever made Deirdre his wife, he wanted her to come to him freely and not out of desperation.

  But could he ever dispel the doubts that nagged him? God knew Ian wanted to believe her.

  How much proof do I need? What evidence do I really have she is implicated with the rogue?

  He saw her walking abroad one morning with a groom. If he was perfectly honest, he must admit his jealousy had overtaken his reason. Ian still wondered about the bond between his wife and Fergus. Still, their act constituted no crime. Besides, Deirdre had given plausible testimony. Furthermore, two witnesses had verified her alibi—even if one was a loyal servant.

  Still, he could neither prove nor disprove her guilt or innocence. He had discovered her walking in the corridor the night the highwayman returned the jewels. If he were honest, he must admit that could have been a coincidence. Lastly, Deirdre had sworn on the Bible that she knew no man called The Flame. Would she risk her soul?

  “She would not,” he murmured aloud.

  Perhaps he should have more faith in the beautiful, generous woman he had taken as his bride. His hatred of highwaymen stemmed from his loss of Janet. He realized lately that his vengeance clouded his judgment and cast the shadow of suspicion on everyone.

  Why was he so hesitant to take the risk and make her his own? Never a reckless man, Ian pondered Strathaven’s words.

  There is but one way to love: completely, with no thought to fear or reservation.

  But he had a great deal to lose—his heart. And if his wife played the unwitting dupe of a highwayman, he could also lose his good name, his estates, his title…and possibly his life. The king would show no mercy. His majesty would never believe Ian had no part in the plot.

  The creak of old door hinges alerted Ian to the presence of another. He turned. Deirdre stood in the open doorway, and he lost his breath.

  Something about her seemed different. Her loveliness aside, Deirdre radiated with a new quality. She exuded raw sexuality, exciting him more than ever.

  She smiled and seemed to drift to him like mountain mist as she moved toward him in a billow of sea peach-colored silk. As she drew close, Ian’s gaze focused irresistibly on the low cut neckline of her tight fitting bodice. Her heather-scented perfume permeated the air around him while the breeze blew kisses over Deirdre’s face, causing the fiery ringlets framing her hairline to stir.

  “Good evening, Ian.” She nodded, and the thick fall of curls cascading from her upswept hair blazed even brighter in the light of the setting sun.

  “Good evening, Deirdre.”

  “I have a surprise for you.” She smiled.

  Unable to restrain himself, he reached for her, but she skittered away, a teasing look in her eyes. So, she wanted him to pursue her. Well, he always enjoyed the excitement of the chase—as long as the episode ended in surrender.

  He chuckled. “Are you going to enlighten me?”

  “You will have to come with me to see it.”

  “I am game. It is almost mealtime anyway.” He offered his arm and she accepted it.

  They strolled across the battlement, down the steps of the tower, and through the great hall, entering one of the smaller drawing rooms in the newer part of the castle.

  Through the years, the chamber had remained one of his favorites. The big fireplace threw its warmth into the room, for even though it was May, the temperature at night often became quite chilly. Before the hearth, the servants had placed a tea table set with china, crystal, and candles. The ruddy glow of the flames reflected on the dishware, silver, and glasses, making the room cozier.

  “Since we’ve no guests, and Aunt Barbara wants her meal in her chamber, I thought dining here would be more intimate.” Deirdre’s gaze blazed with seduction.

  “Splendid idea,” he said.

  Ian lifted the silver lid of the serving platter, and a curl of steam offered up the delicious odor of lamb collops with port wine and red currant jelly. Ian’s mouth watered as he noticed the heaping dish of clapshot and could already taste its blend of mashed potatoes and yellow turnips seasoned with butter, cream, nutmeg and pepper. Salmon made up the fish course.

  “I asked cook to prepare all your favorites.” Smiling flirtatiously, she approached the table.

  “So I see. And for dessert?” he asked, arching a brow.

  “You have quite a choice, my lord.” Deirdre inhaled, and her breasts swelled almost to the point of overflowing the low neckline of her frock. If she continued to entice him this way, he would forget about the fare before them and feast on her delectable body instead.

  “And what might those choices be?” He lifted his brows suggestively.

  “Dundee cake, baked custard, and,” she smiled seductively, “whatever else your heart may desire.”

  He desired her here and now. He strode to the door, about to bolt it when it o
pened, and he came face to face with the old wine steward, Andrew, making an entrance.

  “Would you prefer claret or that sack from the Canaries, my lord,” the old man asked, holding up the bottles.

  “Would you like sack?” Ian asked, looking to Deirdre for her approval.

  She nodded.

  Andrew set a bottle of the wine on the table. Opening it, he poured and then left.

  They sat and began to dine. Though the food tasted delicious, Ian hungered to satisfy another appetite. The flavor, the texture of her lips haunted his memory and tantalized his body unmercifully. He had not felt this tense, this driven, since he was a young man of eighteen. Watching her dine proved difficult, especially when her dainty tongue swept a drop of wine from her lush lower lip.

  “Is everything to your liking?” She looked up from her plate.

  “It is wonderful. Thank you.” Though his stomach felt full, his mouth watered at the thought of kissing her breasts. He filled her glass and then topped his own.

  She pushed back her chair. Putting a hand to her mouth, she yawned and stretched. “I suddenly feel so sleepy. I hope you will not be too upset with me if I beg your pardon and say good night.”

  All her enticement amounted to a coquettish ploy. At this stage of the game, he supposed she wanted him to pursue her and beg. Well, he vowed that she would do the begging, and he had not wavered from that resolve. “Of course, I’m not upset.”

  She smiled sweetly and seductively sauntered out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Lust clawing his loins, he walked to his office. Maybe his account books would distract him from this woman who was driving him to the brink of madness.

  * * * *

  Hours later, Ian sat in his bedchamber, still perusing the ledgers he had taken from his office. The candles flickered in a draft and he closed the ledger. Untying the leather thong securing his queue, he set it on the secretary and rubbed his taut scalp.

  The mantle clock struck two, but still, though Ian felt exhausted, his unsatisfied body allowed him no sleep. Beyond the door behind him, his virgin wife lay in slumber. He suspected her coy behavior served to punish him for remaining aloof from her bed. At the moment he suffered such need, all his doubts and reservations seemed irrelevant.