by C. J. Bahr
“But, I am a gentleman, so I’d never take advantage.”
“Ha.”
“It’s getting late, let me walk you back.” He escorted her from the gazebo, and in a short while they were on the path to the kitchen garden. He stopped under the rose trellis.
“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”
“Well, at some point, I need to go to Inverness and get a costume.”
“I can’t wait to see you dressed in historic garb. You’ll be perfect.” He grinned at her. “It’ll take a good portion of the day, but if you make it back by late afternoon and aren’t too tired, why don’t you come over for a late tea?”
“No promises. With Beth in charge of the schedule, God knows what will happen.”
“We’ll keep it open, then. You’re on holiday after all, and should be enjoying yourself. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.” He leaned in and gave her a brief kiss, before walking away.
Laurel watched him leave. She was tingling from her head down to her toes. How had this happened? She’d traveled half way around the globe to forget a handsome traitorous man, and now seemed to be getting entangled with another guy. What was wrong with her?
She sighed as she turned and entered the kitchen. Nothing. Nothing was wrong with her. With new determination, she took a deep breath. It was time to step up and live her life.
Chapter Nine
Simon MacKay tried the door. Locked. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the barrier. Was the room actually occupied? Hadn’t they learned their lesson? They would now. He had little patience left.
His eyes closed as he concentrated. He hated this, but he’d use whatever tricks granted him—if it meant ending his personal hell, no matter how uncomfortable it might be—he needed in that room. Grimacing, he felt his body contort and then thin. He stepped forward and pushed his way through the solid wood door. Each strand of wood fiber pierced his being like hot knives, but he ignored the pain, shoving it into a corner of his mind that lived in constant torment. This pain was just another acquaintance introduced to an already crowded gallery.
He stepped into the room. On a silent exhaled breath, he solidified expending some of his stored energy and opened his eyes. Home once more. The furniture and decorations may have changed throughout the years, resembling little of his past, yet each time he entered his room, it gave a tiny bit of peace. Something to hold and cherish in his cursed life. Little had changed during the past year. But what was a year? Nothing. Not compared to the partial half-life he lived, one month out of every twelve, for the last two hundred years. The other eleven months a black void of limbo, where his self-awareness was lost in a hazy fog only half remembered.
He was close to being free, to finishing it, so very close. Yet, with every piece of the puzzle he found, Fate deemed it not enough. She was a harsh mistress, demanding and not to be cheated of her game. But what were the rules? Bloody hell, what was the game? The one hope he clung to, valued the most, the one keeping him sane over these hellish years, was he might find death. He wanted release from his unending prison. Heaven or Hell, he didn’t care, just so long as there was an end.
He had been lost when he had first awakened, oh so long ago. No one had greeted him, given him instructions or a guidebook. He was left alone, not dead, but most definitely not alive. Left a ghost to haunt the land where he had lived with no reason why.
Simon had never thought much about spirits or the afterlife when he’d been alive. He had been superstitious like most Highlanders, but it had been more by rote than belief. His best guess was Fate had decided he still had unfinished business, and he wouldn’t find his peace until his task was completed.
But it was almost done now. He would find it this time, the treasure his family had guarded through the years, the one his stupidity, while he’d been alive, was now left unguarded and in danger. He would fulfill his family’s oath. Nothing would stop him. With grim determination, he strode through the room to the next. First, he’d scare the bloody hell out of whoever was staying in his rooms. He needed the privacy and couldn’t be dodging tourists in the short time he was allowed to roam—a little more than a month, the length of the Primrose Festival. He’d be damned if he’d find himself chained in that hellhole of a cave again to drown.
He stopped at the foot of the bed and glared, preparing to do his worst, but froze. By God, it was her, the feisty lass from the cliffs. He frowned down at the woman in his bed. Moonlight sliced through the curtains to spill across the room and highlight her as she slept unaware of his scrutiny.
She lay curled on her side, facing the bank of windows with the covers tucked under her chin. The moonlight made her face glow, ethereal, like a spirit. His gut twisted. She was no ghost. He had held her warm body in his arms, smelled her scent, and had felt desire.
Damn. He wasn’t human anymore. He didn’t need to eat. So why did he still have his feelings? Urges? Simon continued to stare at the sleeping woman.
If he hadn’t been there she would have died. Foolish, lass. He frowned and his hand rose to grip one of the bed’s poster columns. He gave it a hard shove, causing the bed to shake. The woman didn’t move, not even to blink. He released his hold and bent over, placing both hands on the soft sprung mattress. Never taking an eye off the slumbering girl, he jarred the mattress several times. Still nothing. He sighed and straightened, but then as idea struck him, a devilish grin curled his lips.
He reached and grabbed the blanket and sheet that covered her and yanked. It slid away, down her side, past her hips, across her curled legs, to come to rest at her ankles. The smile fled his face.
Moonlight bathed her naked skin. She was pure glowing white, yet stood out easily from the cotton sheets. No nightrail covered her. She was as bare as the time of her birth. A sigh passed her lips.
She slowly rolled onto her back, straightening her long, well-toned legs. On a second sigh, she raised her arms above her head and stretched in her sleep. Simon’s mouth went dry, and his eyes were riveted on the lass. Her movements flattened her stomach, concaving it and accentuating a pair of well-formed large breasts. The dusky nipples taunted him, peaking in the cool early morning air. As he continued to watch, she bent one knee, drawing his attention downward to the thatch of hair so tantalizingly near.
He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed as her leg drew upwards, brushing the soft inner thigh of the opposite leg. On a third sigh, she rolled onto her other side. Moonlight caressed her smooth hip and highlighted her taut derriere as she trailed one hand down her side, finally to rest on one ivory thigh. Sweat broke out across his brow.
He glowered down at the vision in his bed. Damn. He choked off a startled laugh. As if he wasn’t in hell already. His fingers pierced through his hair. Not once, in over two hundred years had a woman bothered him. Was she a taunt from God? A punishment? Simon had forsaken his family for selfish reasons, and now in death was doing everything to rectify it, so God chose to test his will at this point?
He shook his head and walked to the side of the bed. Reaching for the comforter, he pulled it up over legs and hips, but drew short when he noticed the dark smudge on her upper arm. A blackened bruise marked her porcelain skin. A mark left when he had grabbed her arm as she’d fallen from the cliff. His mark. Simon’s stomach did an odd tumble. He had affected a human. In a way, it proved he still existed. He stilled lived. Simon was drawn to her.
He carefully finished covering her, draping the downy blanket around her shoulders. She smiled in her sleep and snuggled deeper into the folds, oblivious to the torment she had created.
Damn, her. He didn’t need any more distractions. The last two hundred years were hell enough. Simon turned his back and strode out of the bedroom into the main room. Without hesitation he crossed to the fireplace. Kneeling, he felt for a loose brick on the inside lower left of the firebox. He found it and pressed. On the left side of the hearth a crease appeared in the seams of the flowered wallpaper, undiscovered through the years. Smiling, he r
ose. He walked to the wall and placed both hands flat against the paneling and pushed. A door formed and swung inward exposing a hidden chamber.
Simon stepped through and found the candle and matches he’d left on the shelf located immediately right of the opening. He struck the match and lit the candle. The deep passage was illuminated in the feeble glow revealing a jumble of items.
Papers and books lay strewn about the hardwood floor. Clothes, crossing the centuries, rumpled and mixed, were on shelves. He stepped into the room and closed the door, concealing it from outside view. Not even the dim light of the candle leaked through to hint of the hidden chamber.
His eyes adjusted to the muted light and searched the area noting the dust that had accumulated in the past year. Nothing had been disturbed. Nodding in satisfaction, he placed the candle on the shelf.
He walked in the dark gloom to the lone wooden stool at the end of the chamber and sat. His shoulders slumped, and his head bowed. Oh, he was tired. Eternal peace was within his grasp, and he yearned for nothing more. He would not die cold and alone again. He was owed his peace.
With slow and deliberate movement, he pulled off his boots and tossed them aside. He stood and pulled his shirt over his head. Without thought, he unbuttoned his breeches and peeled them down and off. Standing nude, unselfconscious, he crossed to the nearest shelf. He grabbed a pair of well-worn faded jeans and pulled them on. Next, he snatched a black T-shirt, all clothes he had picked up from prior occupants of the manor and slipped it over his head.
He padded barefoot to the opening where he paused. He stopped and reached out, lightly tracing a framed miniature portrait depicting his parents, his wee sister, Jean, held in his mother’s arms and himself as a small lad. A sad smile of remembrance drifted across his face. Simon wished he could turn back the hands of time and become the man his family had needed. Regret washed through him when he thought of his da. He’d never be able to heal the rift between them. Watching through the years of his limbo-death, he witnessed the passing of his mother, Jean’s deportment, and the loss of the Cleitmuir, while being powerless to intervene.
His finger trailed off the worn gilt-edge frame as his gaze drifted to the tattered book next to his family’s portrait. It held his journey since death. Every ounce of hard earned knowledge of the MacKay’s legacy. He had the location, identified the treasure, and now all he lacked was the key. A key he would find during this cycle of half-life. There was only one last place it could be.
Sinclair House. He picked up another miniature and cupped it in his palm. This portrait was of a red-haired woman with a slight smile curling her lips. Her green eyes stared back at him in the ill-flickering light of the candle. Fiona Sinclair, his betrothed. An arranged marriage from the cradle, friendship had bloomed, and he had admired and respected her. Simon had hoped love would come. But that wasn’t to be. Only betrayal.
Chapter Ten
Cleitmuir Manor
June 1809
The smell of leather, ink, and books closed in around Simon as he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Another headache loomed, and he hoped by force of will he’d keep it at bay. There was work that must get done, regardless how his life might be spinning out of control. He dropped his hand and stared down at the pile of papers and the open account journal on the study’s desk.
A harsh exhaled breath pushed past his frown. He sorely missed his father. Simon had thought there would always be time to heal the rift that had torn them apart. Now his Da was dead and running the manor and surrounding lands were Simon’s responsibility. Murdoc MacKay, the late Earl of Cleitmuir, lived for the details of running a large estate. Budgeting the income from Cleitmuir’s lands was an easy task for his Da. Money allotted so the manor thrived, crops grew, sheep and cattle fed, tenants cared for, all easily planned and executed by his skilled hand. His son, however, thought paperwork was a whole new level of war, one he wasn’t skilled to handle. Give him an enemy line to sneak past, a traitor to dispatch, or just a horse and a wide open plain. He lived for action, not numbers.
Simon would rather be out tracking down his father’s killer. His mother was correct, it was murder. It hadn’t taken any investigation on Simon’s part at all, only a mysterious letter appearing one week after his arrival at Cleitmuir. The note was burned into his memory.
Give me what I want, or you will share your father’s fate. Know this, if you don’t fear for yourself, remember you have family that can suffer as well. The treasure is mine.
Shock came first. Then anger. How dare this cur threaten his mother and sister? Simon vowed afterwards no mercy would be shown the villain. He’d rip his guts out.
More mysterious notes appeared over the next months, each more menacing and yet vague. After ruling out his obvious inheritance he still had no idea what this treasure was. No matter how he had searched, it still eluded him. As time passed, little things began to happen around the estate. First, a small barn fire, then shattered windowpanes, and the latest was flour bags sliced in the pantry and seeded with weevils. With each attack, his frustration mounted. These occurrences were no plain accidents because the notes followed each one.
His hand slammed down on the desk. The stinging blow did nothing to curb his frustration. He had no name, no way to contact the blackguard, no way to fight. The soldier in him yelled. There had to be a way.
“My lord Earl, you wear such a scowl. Is it safe to enter?”
He conjured a half-hearted smile as he looked to the study’s entrance. A beauty with fiery sunset hair, piercing green eyes, and a figure most men would be driven to distraction by, stood in the doorway with her face tilted in query. Fiona Sinclair smiled at him.
“You’re always safe with me, lass. There’s no need to fear.”
“That I know,” her smiled broadened. “Do you have a moment?”
“For you, always.”
He watched his once again betrothed walk gracefully into the room and stop by his side. Simon stood and reached for her hand, pressing a brief kiss to her fingers. “And to what do I afford this pleasure?”
“The festival of course,” his petite bride-to-be replied.
“Ah,” Simon pushed his hair from his face. “Well then, have a seat.”
She rested her hip against the big desk and gestured to his chair.
He shook his head. “You’re country roots are showing, Fi. You’re not exactly sitting.”
Her light laughter filled the quiet study. “And when have you stood on ceremony, my lord? We both know you’re not a proper gentleman, even if you currently hold the title of Earl.” Fiona laughed again. “I won’t be but a moment.”
He sat. It was hard getting used to his new address. Fi was right, he did feel like a fraud. But soon Simon would have his Countess by his side and perhaps he wouldn’t feel so awkward. If anyone deserved the titled address of My Lady, it was Fi, her beauty put most upper class to shame. He had known Fiona most of his life. The Sinclair family lived on the property next to Cleitmuir. The pairing between them had been set in the cradle when she was born and him just turned seven. Both the MacKay’s and Sinclair’s thought it an ideal match. Then he’d left to join the army,
Upon his return from the Continent, his jilting of Fiona seemed to have been forgiven by all parties, though he had a problem with reconciling his guilt and selfishness. He had been so young and stupid. His mother had gained new health with thoughts of the wedding to come. He would do his duty and honor the contract. Simon liked the lass well enough, but he had hoped for more. It was hard when he thought of how very much in love his parents had been and he wished for something like that for himself. Though he had spent a great deal of time with Fiona, and called her a friend, Simon was actually closer to her older twin brothers. He respected and even admired Fiona, but it wasn’t right. He tried to push away the wrong feelings, but Fi felt more like a sister, than a lover to be. He hoped after they were wedded and bedded, more might come, though he held little
optimism. The few kisses he had stolen hadn’t pointed in that direction. Still marriages had been built on much less than friendship.
“How may I help you?”
“Everything is well in hand, which is good since the garden party is just one short week away,” Fiona hesitated, and the smile slipped from her face. “I have only one concern.”
“Which is?”
“Well, you, Simon.”
He raised a single eyebrow. “I don’t understand.”
Fiona sighed. “You’ve been distracted. You’ve canceled on many of our outings. I know something is wrong, though you deny it. I just...” she pursed her lips then fidgeted. Her hand swung out and connected with the ink well shooting it forward, directly toward his lap.
Simon’s reflexes saved him. He pushed his chair back and leapt sideways as Fiona let out a cry of dismay and shot to her feet.
“Oh!” She reached for some papers on the desk to help blot the spreading stain, but realized her mistake just as Simon reached out to stop her.
“Not the papers! No worries, I’ll just ring for Colin,” he took her arm. “Here, step away. You wouldn’t want ink on your dress.” He led Fiona to a nearby chair and made her sit.
“Simon, I’m so sorry.”
“It will be fine, don’t fash yourself.” He strode past her, signaling to a maid outside the room. “I’ve spilt ink.”
The lass bobbed a quick curtsey and darted off. He turned back and crossed the room to Fiona.
“Now, what were you concerned about? That is, other than the ink?” He smiled down at her hoping to ease her worries.
“Oh, it seems silly now, but I wanted your word you’d be attending the garden party. I,” she looked away before meeting his eyes. “I don’t want to attend alone.”
Again. That was the unspoken word Fiona didn’t say. Simon pushed his fingers through his hair. He had a manor to run, a murderer to track down, his family to protect and when things got too much, it was Fiona who was slighted. He was a poor fiancé.