She closed her eyes, casting a hand against her forehead. "I really can't talk about this right now...."
His laughter infuriated her. She sat up, staring at him. "I shall throw something at you in a minute!" she cried, aggravated.
"You really do a wonderful Southern belle, but I can't begin to imagine you with the vapors, Sabrina."
"What vapors! I was cruelly kept a prisoner in a tomb."
He sobered. "Indeed, you were. You can't seem to stay out of trouble."
"I certainly didn't ask for this trouble—"
"You did, if I remember your words correctly, go wandering off into a cemetery alone in the dead of night?"
The way he put it, she felt like a fool.
"I heard a child's voice," she reminded him with defensive anger.
"How encouraging. You're going to make a wonderful mother."
She looked down at her hands again. "Sloan, I want you to realize, you are not obligated in any way," she told him, still looking at her hands and not meeting his eyes. "I don't blame you for anything—"
"Blame me?" he queried, a brow arched very high. "Since you didn't speak a word of truth the night we met, you most assuredly should not."
Sabrina gritted her teeth, fighting the rise of her temper.
"You're not obligated to me!"
"But you are obligated to me," he told her very softly. "I know that you need sleep, and I intend for you to have it, after you've listened to what I have to say. You won't be having my child without me, despite the fact that your journey here implies that you meant to disappear."
"That's not true—" she gasped. Was that what he believed?
"Nor, Sabrina, will I allow you to endanger your own life in any attempts to rid yourself of an infant with Indian blood."
She gasped, staring at him at last with incredulous anger. "I—I never suggested such a thing, you—bastard!" she breathed.
"In the white man's eyes, that is probably exactly what I am, no matter my grandfather's standing in the States. No matter, Sabrina, you may marry a bastard, but you'll not have one."
She broke off. She was shaking, completely unnerved by not just his appearance here, but the fact that...
He knew! Oh, God, he knew. And she couldn't deny what was happening to her, the life taking root inside of her, any longer.
She probably had wished at first that she might lose the child, and she was afraid of the fact that Sloan was Sioux. She had wished that until she had so nearly died herself, and then the life inside her had become everything. Yet she remained unnerved not just by what Sloan was, but who he was, the man that he was with the power both to infuriate her... and seduce her.
"Sloan, you don't have to marry me. I—I don't want to marry you."
"You intend to hand over the child to me?"
One look in the dark mahogany of his eyes and she knew that he was in deadly earnest.
"No! You—can't take my child."
"My child."
She moistened her lips, thinking that she might try a new tactic. "You—you don't know that. You can't possibly—"
"Indeed, I know."
The heat in his words silenced her. He turned away, walking back to the door. Leaning against it, he slid down the length of it to take a seat upon the floor. He lowered his plumed slouch hat over his eyes.
"Sloan, what are you doing?" she asked frantically. "Please go away! I—won't marry you. I won't."
He lifted the brim of his hat, watching her. "You won't marry me? Or you won't marry a savage?" he asked her quietly.
"I—" she began, and broke off. For her brother-in-law was a very unusual man, and he was married to her sister. She couldn't help how she felt toward the Indians in the West. She couldn't help the fear at the pit of her stomach. Sloan was one of them. Despite his charm, there was underlying fire with him. His exceptional good looks were...
Savage good looks. Good looks that seduced any number of women. He would always have a life she could never touch. He was amused by her, entertained by her. Frequently, she angered him. And he had wanted her...
But he would never love her.
"I—can't—" she began.
"Finish what you're trying to say."
"I—can't—"
"Marry a savage," he suggested.
Her cheeks flamed.
Only the visible tick of the pulse at his throat betrayed his anger. He spoke quietly to her. "Actually, our marriage isn't the primary focus at the moment."
"Then you'll—leave?"
He smiled, a curl of amusement in his lip. "I'm taking up position to guard you should any cloaked figures come your way."
"Oh!" she gasped, and she was amazed to realize that she would sleep, and feel safe, because he would be at her door.
"And I'm sorry, Sabrina, but circumstances being what they are, you will marry a savage. Me."
"Sloan, you can't make me marry you unless I want to," she whispered somewhat desperately.
He was silent a moment, then pulled his hat lower over his face.
"It seems, then, that I will have to make you want to," he said.
And despite herself, a feeling of heat seemed to sweep through her, and though she could sleep safely...
It seemed that she lay awake for hours before she did so, she was so very aware of his being very close....
* * *
Fergus Anderson, filled, as was his custom, with plenty of whiskey, snored at his wife's side when he was suddenly and rudely awakened by the sound of his flimsy door breaking in. He groaned, thinking one of the boys had got drunk and forgotten that they did not lock the door.
He sat up in his sweaty nightshirt, stroking his grizzled chin, and he shouted out, "I'll beat the tar out of the lad who did such damage, I'll beat y'to within an inch of your scurvy life, that I—will."
He faltered in his speech, for he was suddenly aware of a massive presence filling his doorway. The chill November wind was blowing through the main room of his house and straight into the bedroom where he lay.
A man walked in.
Fergus gasped. "Nay, it canna' be!" he cried.
But it was.
"Da?"
His children were awakening. Mary and Hamell crawled out of their mats in the main room; his sons Daryl and Cedric did the same. But though they came behind the towering dark man who had burst so violently into their home, they didn't attempt to touch him.
He was dressed all in black, and he looked like the devil. He wore a sword in a scabbard at his left side; twin pistols sat in holsters at his hip.
The devil indeed.
He was spawn up from hell.
"Get your stinking carcass out of bed, Fergus Anderson."
"No!" Fergus gasped. "David Douglas—it cannot be."
"Laird Douglas it is, you lying, scurvy rot of humanity."
Fergus didn't move fast enough. His wife jumped up and shrieked, flying across the room to stand with her back glued to the wall as David Douglas wrenched Fergus from his bed by his nightshirt, dragging him to his feet and all but strangling him now.
"Me lads—" Fergus cried, seeking help from his sons.
"For once in your rotten life, Anderson, do something decent, and don't get your boys killed."
The lads, however, didn't seem to wish to be killed in any fight for their father's life and honor. They stood still, gaping.
"By all the Saints! It is you, Laird David!" Hamell said.
"Aye," David said, turning his attention back fully to Fergus. "There's only one thing I want from you, but I swear, if I don't get it, I'll leave your entrails draped across this room."
"Aye, aye, what—"
"The boy. Where did you get the boy, Danny?"
"Why, 'twas my daughter, Gena—"
"You lie!"
The sword was out; its point at Fergus's throat.
Gena let out a cry, racing forward. "The girl from the castle brought him to us. We were told that it must appear that he was one of ours, and that
it would be deeply appreciated if we were to keep the secret."
"What girl from the castle?" David demanded.
"The girl—woman—who has worked for Lady MacGinnis forever. The lady's maid. She brought the child, brought him while Lady MacGinnis was still away, and it seemed all of the place was in mourning. He came with gold coins, Laird Douglas," Fergus sputtered out at last. "And when he come so, we knew that we must keep the secret, as we were told. We knew who it was who really wanted the secret kept, of course."
"Who?"
Fergus, though terrified, was honestly puzzled. He cringed, very afraid that David Douglas's sword might well rend him in two at any minute.
"Why—why, Lady Shawna, of course."
* * *
Stretched out in the master's chamber of the castle, arms folded behind his head, Hawk watched as his wife paced back and forth before the door. Though he had eaten fairly heartily of the fine venison stew Anne-Marie had brought on a tray from the kitchen, Skylar hadn't touched their food.
He watched another few minutes, then grew impatient. "Skylar, come to bed."
She kept pacing. He might have been no more than a bee buzzing on a spring day.
"Skylar! Quit that, and come to bed."
She turned to him at last, silver eyes wide, blond hair streaming brushed and beautiful down the length of her back.
"Hawk, your brother is in grave trouble-—"
"And is seeing to things in his own way. Skylar, I would do anything for David, my God, I risked your life today, which I never intended, but what lies between him and Shawna now, I cannot solve. And you should quit bringing it up. I'm incensed each time I think of you assuming that I was spilling children about the world without a care."
Skylar flushed. "I didn't really think—"
"Then you spoke with careless haste."
She arched a brow, nearly replied, then thought better of it.
"So—is it my brother's fertility we're discussing here—or your sister's?"
"Well, she is my sister. Hawk, there is such friction between them! What I can't fathom," she said, "is how it could have possibly happened."
Hawk patted the bedsheet. "Come on over. I'll show you."
"You know what I mean."
"Neither of us knows what happened. And for tonight, Sloan has asked to speak with Sabrina himself."
"We should be demanding to know—"
"Skylar, we need to be grateful tonight that Sabrina is alive and well and with us again!"
"Oh, sweet Jesu, yes, but this on top of the other—"
"Skylar, if Sabrina claims that she carried Sloan's child and he denied it and all responsibility, I'd have to take a shotgun to a very good friend. He has denied nothing; she has denied nothing. He has said that he will marry her. What would you have me do?"
"Nothing."
"You want Sabrina to tell you what happened. Not how it happened, of course, you do know that. But you're eaten alive with curiosity to discover when, and under just what circumstances."
"Aren't you?"
"No. I'm sure you'll tell me when you find out."
Skylar cast him a murderous glare and began pacing the floor once again.
"What about that precious little child? Hawk, you've a nephew! They have a little boy, Hawk, and they didn't even know it. And now your brother..."
"My brother what?"
"Has taken the child away."
"Skylar, there is some group within Craig Rock apparently trying to kill off the Douglases—and Shawna as well. That boy is the child of David Douglas, and if David were in truth dead, he would be Laird Douglas. And if his mother were to die, he would be laird of the MacGinnis holdings as well. He is only safe away from the castle."
"But where is he?"
"James McGregor saw to it that he was taken safely south."
"How can he be certain that the child is safe?"
Hawk arched a brow. "Do you doubt me again, my love?"
Skylar flushed. "Hawk—"
"The lad was taken to McGregor's mother."
"Oh!"
"Now, come to bed. We're all going to have to be alert tomorrow, even though I will cease to play at being Laird Douglas."
Skylar came to their bed, slipping between the covers. She sighed, laying her head upon the pillow, and closing her eyes.
Hawk rose on an elbow, watching her. "It's your last night to sleep with a laird," he reminded her. "My brother will take back his wretched title come tomorrow. And then again, you did ask me how Sabrina might have come about being with child."
She opened her silver eyes to his. "I know how she did it. But you may feel free to refresh my memory."
Smiling, he did so.
And later, when he lay with his arm around her, holding her against his chest and trying again in his mind to solve the strange puzzles plaguing his brother's life, she suddenly snuggled more closely against him.
"Hawk? You know, we really do know how to do it."
"It what, my love?"
"What it is my sister has been about."
"Skylar, what—"
"I believe that our Douglas heir will arrive before the end of June."
"Skylar..." he began, then jerked up, bracing his arms around her to stare into her eyes. "Our..."
"Child, Hawk, child. We're going to have one ourselves."
He smiled slowly. "You're certain."
She nodded gravely. "I didn't particularly want to say anything to anyone else here—I didn't want to encourage anyone in the belief that there would be more Douglases, since it's dangerous enough around here not being an actual target."
"My love, that makes good sense. But you can share the secret with me."
She smiled. "I've done so. Are you happy?"
"Well, other than the fact that we are surrounded by danger, my brother is in grave difficulty, and my world in America is falling apart—yes. I am blissful."
"Oh, Hawk."
"I am blissful," he said softly. "For the core of my world is you. And now, you and our babe."
* * *
When David returned to the castle, he went straight to the great hall, heedless now of who might come upon him.
David, Laird Douglas, was back. He had learned what he could in disguise and as a dead man.
And now, it was time to take his rightful place. And to deal with those who had deceived him.
Shawna...
He poured a large tumbler of whiskey from a tray on the long table, then stood before the fire.
Shawna.
He slammed a fist against the stone of the mantel, seeking to rid himself of the visions of her face that plagued him. Her eyes, blue in the extreme, her hair, silken skeins of blue-black, entangling him, when he knew far better than to seek her, then to want her. Have her.
And every time he left her, he wanted her more.
He had believed her. He had believed her! But the fear inside him allowed him to doubt her. Damn Fergus Anderson!
He trembled, thinking of the boy. He had a son. Daniel. The boy was brave, resilient, intelligent. A handsome child. With the very strange Douglas hairline...
And his mother's eyes. And hair.
He'd believed in her again tonight. Her shock at being told that Danny was hers had seemed so very real. She had passed out quite cold; she had been deadweight in his arms.
Had she deceived him again? Even now, he didn't want to believe it. But Fergus, at sword's point, had spoken desperately. Shawna's maid had brought him the child, and, according to Fergus, Shawna was the one who wanted the secret kept.
He inhaled deeply. He'd certainly not take Fergus Anderson's word over Shawna's. And come the morning, he meant to have a very long talk with Mary Jane.
Yet, still, perhaps...
God, he was tired.
And he had learned through great torment that love could weaken a man and make him vulnerable.
Even if he were to trust Shawna completely, she was still dragging him down dangerously ev
ery time he tried to find the truth. She kept trying to protect the MacGinnis family. He had to be firm with Shawna, cold if need be. Her loyalty to others could be their very death now. It was her maid—who had been with her and the MacGinnis clan for years!—who had brought the child to Fergus. God! Shawna gave him so little of her faith, yet...
He was in love with sky blue eyes, silken hair, and a lithe form that awakened and renewed him; with a voice that was soft and sensual, stroking him like the gentle touch of a finger, with a promise... yet he could never quite capture the truth. It evaded 'him like a dark, winding trail.
She hadn't told him about having the bairn. If she had done so, he could rid himself of the doubts that tormented him now.
He heard a slight sound behind him and spun around, ready to draw a sword or pistol at a second's notice.
Alistair, tall, head high, a handsome young man. He was dressed in his own tartan, a variation of the Douglas pattern and colors, since the MacGinnises of Craig Rock were considered a Douglas of Craig Rock sept.
"Alistair," he said warily.
"Would you drink with me, David?" Alistair asked.
"Aye, that I will," David agreed carefully.
Alistair came forward, pouring himself a glass full of fiery whiskey from the decanter on the table. Alistair swallowed down all the whiskey, shuddered, and set his glass back down. He looked at David.
"I need to talk to you."
"And you seek courage to do so, so it seems."
"Aye, that's true."
"Talk to me, then, Alistair."
"I should have told you the truth—that truth which I know—when I came upon you and your brother in the tunnel."
"Any truth you have to tell me now, I'll be glad to hear."
Alistair hesitated only a moment longer. "Well, I was not surprised to discover that you weren't dead."
"Why was that?"
"Because," Alistair said, and he held his gaze steady with David's, "I've known since the morning that charred corpse was discovered that it was not yours, and that somewhere, you were alive."
"How could you have known that?" David demanded.
"Because I was the one who switched your body with that of the convict. I was the one who carried Shawna from the stables before the flames could consume her, and I was the one who saw to it that the convict's body was charred beyond recognition before placing it there beside her."
No Other Woman (No Other Series) Page 30