“Ye’ll not bring them here at all. Ye can send whatever lasses Mary’s dragging out here straight back to Edinburgh.”
Jamie took a mouthful of sausage. “Be reasonable, Uncle,” he said around it. “Ye need to marry and quick before ye grow too old. A rich lady will give us money to fix the leaking roof, and we’ll make sure she’s young enough to give ye a dozen children.”
“Enough!” Egan’s voice thundered through the room. “’Tis a mad scheme, and I’ll have none of it, do ye hear me?”
“And I’ll have none of being laird,” Jamie shot back, Egan’s stubbornness reflected in his young eyes. “Ye only want me to be laird so you’ll pass me the curse of the MacDonalds.”
Egan climbed to his feet. “For the last time, lad, there is no bloody curse!”
A sharp tearing sound cut through his words. Zarabeth looked up to see a piece of the beam over her chair come loose and plummet straight toward her.
Chapter 4
The Gentle Art of Fishing
Zarabeth screamed and dove from her chair. At the same instant Egan leapt from his seat, caught her around the waist, and yanked her out of the way and halfway across the room. Jamie scrambled frantically aside as the beam smashed through the table in a splinter of wood and crash of porcelain.
Zarabeth ended up with her back to the wall and Egan hard against her, facing her. The wool of his kilt was warm through the fabric of her borrowed gown, his hands on her waist steadying her.
The pressure of his body, his closeness, his breath on her cheek stirred Zarabeth’s already maddening feelings for him. If they’d been alone, she’d have slid her arms around his neck and coaxed his mouth to hers.
She almost did it anyway. Zarabeth’s hands rested on his chest, and she rubbed her thumb across the bare skin revealed by his loose collar. Egan looked down at her, a muscle in his throat moving under her touch.
“You all right, lass?” he asked, his eyes as gentle as his voice.
She nodded, keeping her tone light. “I am used to dodging attempts on my life. I am Nvengarian after all.”
She could not stop herself caressing him again, couldn’t cease enjoying the hot smoothness of his skin. Egan’s chest lifted in a long breath, his fingers on her shoulders easing, his touch becoming kinder.
Zarabeth ached for him as much as she ever had. Time, distance, and an unwise marriage had not changed the fact that she’d fallen in love with him long ago, and hadn’t fallen out of love with him since.
Jamie had his hands on his hips, surveying the damage to the ceiling and the table. Ivan and Constanz studied it with him, but they made signs against the evil eye, their thoughts telling Zarabeth they were certain demons had been responsible.
“No assassin, Zarabeth,” Jamie said reassuringly. “Naught but a loosened beam, and pegs worn out after several hundred years.”
Egan abruptly released Zarabeth and turned away, his kilt brushing her gown. The sudden absence of his warmth made her shiver.
“Aye,” Egan said. “Castle MacDonald is a ruined heap of stone, held together with a wish and a prayer.”
“’Tis the curse,” Jamie put in decidedly. Catching Egan’s eye, he gestured toward the wreckage of the table and added, “Aye, well, I suppose it’s porridge for us all now. Williams,” he said to the man who’d come rushing in at the sound of the crash. “Please tell your wife to boil some up.”
* * *
The rain had become a fine mist by the time Zarabeth tramped along the path toward the river following Egan and Jamie. Egan looked splendid in his linen shirt, dark kilt, and boots, his hair bound into a queue. Jamie wore the same sort of clothing—he was a younger, smaller version of his uncle. Jamie kept up a muttered monologue as they went along, saying only a madman would drag them out to fish in the rain.
Gemma had loaned Zarabeth sturdy boots and a warm cloak, all the while admonishing Egan to not wear her out. Gemma told them she’d sent for the village seamstress to work on new gowns to replace Zarabeth’s lost clothing—Zarabeth would have to stand for many fittings later that day, so she must not be too tired.
Egan had merely shrugged and said, “Aye, she has enough stamina to do both.”
Zarabeth ground her teeth and promised herself she’d show him just how much stamina she had.
Conscious of the danger to Zarabeth, Egan had sent a contingency of his own men and Baron Valentin to fan out into the hills and woods and patrol as he led her and Jamie to the river.
Ivan and Constanz accompanied Zarabeth, walking close behind her. Zarabeth, having been married to a controversial duke in Nvengaria, not to mention having to be protected from that same duke once she’d left him, was used to bodyguards and had learned to quietly accept their presence. Egan ignored them as well, but Jamie didn’t like it—he continued to mumble that the men would scare away all the fish and he’d have caught a cold in the wet for nothing.
They crested a low ridge and trudged down the other side to a river flowing through a cut in the hills. Mountains rose around them, some with snow already dusting their peaks, their tops lost in the mist. The path ended at the river, here rushing through shallows and burbling in pools that cut into the banks.
Turning, Egan led them straight through wet grass and mud along the riverbank, moving at the same speed he’d used along the dryer, level hill path. Zarabeth lifted her skirts and determinedly followed him.
He halted at the edge of a rock that jutted about six feet into the river, scrubby trees overhanging the bank. To their left, the water sent up cold spray as it hit the black rock. On the right, downstream, eddies slid into a quiet pool that was thick with fish darting in and out, silver scales catching the light.
Egan rested one booted foot on the rock, his kilt hanging modestly. The wind pulled at his hair and his coat, making him look very much the rugged Highlander of old. If he’d had a sword instead of a fishing pole, he might be saying a prayer to the old gods before he joined his fellows in battle.
He turned his head and regarded Zarabeth, dark eyes enigmatic. “Just right for it.”
“Lovely,” Zarabeth returned. “A bit cold, but I dare say the fish find it lively.”
Now that he had arrived, Jamie stopped sulking. He took in the abundance of fish, tested the wind with his finger, moved along the bank to the pool, and began to string and bait his pole. Ivan lifted a worm to bait Zarabeth’s hook for her until she took hook, pole, and bait away from him.
“I can do this,” she told him in Nvengarian—she’d show Egan she wasn’t a spoiled duke’s wife, afraid to get her fingers dirty. “You and Constanz go patrol, there’s a good lad. I will be fine. Egan and Jamie will look after me.”
Ivan’s eyes welled with hurt. She knew that he and Constanz blamed themselves for the shipwreck as well as for the fallen beam this morning, as though they could have held the ship together and the beam against the ceiling with their bare hands.
Zarabeth patted Ivan’s shoulder, giving him a kind smile. “You have done very well, Ivan. I thank you and Constanz for all your help so far on this journey.”
Ivan looked morose, his thoughts conveying guilt. “But we failed you. You might have died twice, and we did nothing to prevent it. You must put us into the dungeon and feed us scraps the pigs do not want.”
“Nonsense, Egan doesn’t have a dungeon,” Zarabeth said briskly. She’d learned she had to take a no-nonsense stance with Constanz and Ivan, who were very young, worried, and had wild imaginations. “Besides, I need you and your brother looking out for me, outside the dungeon.”
“We will never fail you again,” Ivan said, lifting his chin. “We will never, ever let you come to harm—I swear this on my mother’s tomb.”
“Your mother is still alive, Ivan,” Zarabeth said with patience. “Please, go and patrol now. I will shout if I need you.”
Ivan flushed and then bowed deeply. “As Your Grace wishes.” He spun on one booted heel and marched off to join his brother and Egan’s guards.
“What was that about?” Jamie asked her in curiosity. “I don’t speak Nvengarian.”
Zarabeth set her worm on the hook and leaned to wipe her glove on a rock. “Ivan believes he should be shut in a dungeon because he did not prevent the shipwreck. I told him Egan did not have a dungeon.”
“But he does,” Jamie said, eyes lighting. “We store the whisky and ale down there now, but it used to be a dungeon. Still has bits of manacles on the walls. Mrs. Williams says there’s ghosts in there—she’s afraid to go down. She hears the poor souls moaning and wailing, she does, those who were tortured to death.”
“That’s nae but invention,” Egan retorted, raising his voice over the rush of the river. “It was used as a holding place for prisoners captured in war, who were let go as soon as they were ransomed. There was no torture at Castle MacDonald.”
Jamie winked at Zarabeth and moved from her to cast his line.
“Insolent pup.” Egan shook his head. “Stand just here, Zarabeth.” He positioned her on the bank where the pool was deepest. “This is always a fine spot.”
“I know how to fish, remember?” Zarabeth stepped away from him, knowing she’d never be able to concentrate on fishing with his warm body next to hers. She wanted to lie down with him on the riverbank, despite the mud, and have him wrap them both in his plaid. Wouldn’t that look fine—a highborn lady of Nvengaria rolling in the grass with a Highlander?
She suppressed a hot shiver. She didn’t care how it would look—she could only imagine how glorious it would feel.
Egan finally moved off, giving Zarabeth a moment to catch her breath. She must cease coming too near him, or she’d never be anything but a melting wreck.
She stepped to the very edge of the bank and cast the line into the water with a gentle flick of her wrist, earning an admiring look from Jamie.
Egan planted himself a foot or so forward on the rock, his line falling into the quiet pool near hers. Fortunately he was far enough away that Zarabeth wouldn’t shake too much.
They fished without conversation, the only sound the rushing water and the wind in the trees that lined the hills. The cool scents of pine, rain, and water flowed over them, soothing.
It was quiet here, no people about that she could see—though she knew Baron Valentin and others patrolled nearby. Zarabeth was finally out from under the scrutiny of her husband’s retainers, who’d watched to make certain she did nothing to disgrace Sebastian, of aristocrat’s wives ready to spread gossip about her smallest transgression, of Sebastian’s closest friends who watched to make sure she was not a threat to her husband.
Now, no one was watching Zarabeth at all. She was far, far way, and this might be the very edge of the world.
She hadn’t fished in years but the simple joy of it came back to her—the plop of the lure going into the water, the quiet waiting, the mild excitement of a tug on the line, disappointment when the fish flipped away. After a while, Jamie moved farther down the stream, stopping now and again to test a new spot.
Egan and Zarabeth remained where they were until they’d caught several fish. Egan dumped them into a net that bobbed in the river and the fish zoomed about the small space, desperately seeking a way out.
They are like me, Zarabeth thought. Searching for freedom.
Egan planted his pole in the bank and stretched himself out on the flat-topped rock. The sun was trying to poke through the clouds, the mist easing.
Zarabeth kept her pole in the water but glanced at Egan’s strong body in muddy boots and worn kilt, his linen shirt stretching across his chest under his loose coat. He was a powerful man, latent strength in his body. Some might mistake Egan’s languor for laziness, but they’d be deceived. Egan was like a feral animal, taking his ease in the sun but ready to spring up with wild energy when needed.
After a time, Zarabeth stuck her pole next to his and sat down on the rock near him, drawing her knees to her chest. “I see through you, Egan,” she observed.
His dark gaze flicked to her. “Do ye, now?” he asked, voice mild, but his eyes sharp.
“I know why you brought me out here,” she said. “You believe I have become such a refined lady of society that I’ve forgotten how to get my feet muddy. Well, I’ve not become so lofty that I cannot tramp about in the rain.” It was important for her to tell him that, for some reason.
Egan raised himself on both elbows. “You’re wrong about that. I never thought ye’d grow too genteel to fish.”
Zarabeth frowned. “But you goaded me until I came out here today—making me want to prove I could. Why, for heaven’s sake?”
Egan shrugged, muscles moving beneath his shirt. “I thought ye might enjoy it.”
Zarabeth grew exasperated. “Why must you be so maddening?”
He grinned. “I thought ye might enjoy it.”
Zarabeth suppressed a sudden laugh—he shouldn’t win, drat him. Egan regarded her with half-closed eyes but there was an alert gleam beneath his lashes.
“What do you wish me to say?” Zarabeth asked, confounded.
“Mmm.” Egan shifted his body as though looking for a more comfortable position on the hard rock. “Do ye remember, lass, what ye asked me on a day like this, long ago in Nvengaria? You gave me a sly glance with those blue eyes and dared me to tell ye what a Scotsman wore under his kilt.”
Zarabeth’s face heated, wishing he’d forget how childish she’d been.
Egan had already been a grown man, five-and-twenty years old, when she’d found him in the ditch the spring of 1809. He’d been an officer in a Highland regiment and was wandering Europe to console himself about the death of his brother. He’d stayed with them some time, fishing with Zarabeth during his recovery, before returning to his regiment, rejuvenated. He’d come back to visit Zarabeth and her father in 1815, fresh from Waterloo and more handsome than ever. Zarabeth had been a naïve eighteen.
If anything, Egan had grown more appealing since then. He’d lost the extreme handsomeness of his twenties, life and battle having etched lines into his face, but Zarabeth liked him better now. She wanted to trace the lines around his eyes and mouth, to feather kisses over them.
“I was only a girl when I said that,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t truly know what I meant.”
Egan shrugged. “’Twas a fair question. I never did tell ye, did I?”
“No, you laughed so hard, you couldn’t speak.”
Egan chuckled. “I remember that.”
He had roared with laughter, falling back on the grassy bank under the warm sunshine with his arms over his stomach. Zarabeth had looked down at him and realized she loved him.
Egan scrambled to his feet with a suddenness that startled her. Zarabeth froze in place while Egan unfolded himself to his full height, right next to her. She looked directly at the hem of his kilt, which was frayed with wear, his powerful knee showing beneath it.
“Well, lass,” Egan said, voice rumbling and soft. “I think ’tis time your long patience was rewarded.”
Chapter 5
Under a Scotsman’s Kilt
“Egan!” Zarabeth sprang to her feet, her heart beating swiftly, her face burning.
Egan gave her a look of mock astonishment. “What do ye believe I’m about? Do ye think I have no modesty, woman?” He turned and shouted, “Jamie!”
Jamie looked around from downstream. “Wha’?”
“What are ye wearing under your kilt?”
Jamie stared as though not certain he’d heard aright. “Wha’?”
Egan cupped his hands around his mouth. “I said, what ye be wearing under your kilt, lad?”
Jamie gave him an amazed look. “Leather britches, what d’ye think? It’s mother-loving cold out here.”
Egan waved his thanks and Jamie turned away, shaking his head.
Zarabeth put her hands on her hips. “What on earth did you do that for, Egan MacDonald?”
He gave her an innocent shrug. “Ye wanted to know.”
“
You are ridiculous,” Zarabeth said, trying to sound frosty.
Egan looked suddenly enlightened. “Ah, now I have measure of ye. Ye wanted to know what I wore, not just any Scotsman. Well, I’ll tell ye, lass.” He took a step closer to her, standing as near to her as he had when he’d pulled her out of the way of the falling beam. “I’ll tell ye. Someday. I promise ye that.”
He swung away and leaned to grab his fishing pole, his kilt moving to reveal the strong backs of his thighs, which were not covered by anything at all.
Egan straightened up, noticed her perusal, and roared with laughter. “Are ye trying to look now?”
Zarabeth took a swift step backward. “Certainly not.”
Her words were torn away as she lost her footing on the rock and plummeted downward. Egan caught her in his strong arms, and for a moment she hung in his embrace.
Egan’s large and powerful hands splayed across the small of Zarabeth’s back. He gazed down at her, his eyes glinting, the V of his open shirt letting her see his hard chest dusted with dark curls.
He was going to kiss her—she knew it. His gaze slid to her lips, his dark eyes flicking across the top one, then the bottom. Zarabeth waited for the kiss, her heart squeezing hard, knowing she wouldn’t stop him.
Shameless. She was still married in name, though Sebastian had destroyed her trust, and had hurt her so much. Zarabeth was empty and paralyzed, and here was her Highlander to soothe her heart.
She couldn’t stop her tongue touching her lower lip. Egan’s chest rose and fell with his swift breath, and he leaned a fraction nearer, his gaze riveted to her mouth.
Zarabeth wanted him with a savagery she hadn’t thought herself capable of. If he chose to lay her down in the mud and take her body, or throw her over his shoulder and rush to the castle, she wouldn’t stop him.
“Egan,” she whispered.
His gaze moved to her eyes, and the moment broke.
Highlander Ever After Page 5