But her dreamweaver would have none of that. She had moved, and cried out, and behaved like a woman in the thrall of desire. Like every ancestor before her, she had given everything.
Like her mother, she had embraced disaster.
In a fury, she tossed the cover aside. “Fool.” She leaped from the mattress and stumbled, grabbing the bed frame as her ankle gave way. The joint throbbed and flecks of light danced before her eyes, but she steadied herself and limped to her herb shelf. Selecting the bag containing the bitter sleeping potion, she hobbled back to the window, threw open the shutters, and with a long sweep of the arm, scattered the mixture in the grass. Whirling to face the room, she spied the goblet. The dregs at the bottom went out the window, then for added measure, she threw the goblet, too. It clattered against a bench, but not even that grandiose gesture made her happy.
“No more potions,” she lectured herself. “No more apparitions who make love to you. You’re sore and bleeding because you tumbled down the mountain. You’re dreaming because you know you’re going to take Fionnaway back. Then you must choose a husband, but not one such as Ian. Find yourself a meek man, one who knows his place.” Leaning heavily on the sill, she faced into the room again and lifted her chin. “One who doesn’t make you dream dreams.”
Her gaze wandered from bed to bench to table to chest—and back to the table. A frown puckered her brows. One trembling hand reached up to touch her hair. “I would have sworn I lost my towel…” Her voice faltered. “Lost it in the wood…”
She shut her eyes, then opened them again. It was still there.
Limping to the towel, she picked it up and ran it through her hands. It was dry. It had been hung off the end of the table sometime in the night.
She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe it. “I was so frightened last night I didn’t know what I did. I had it with me all along. Unless this towel sprouted legs and walked, and while it was a very odd night, I doubt…” She weighed the towel in her hand, then shook her head at her own credulity. “You’ve been alone too long, lass. You’re going crazy. You’re talking to the cat, you’re talking to yourself, you’ve got an imaginary lover…”
The stripes of sunlight blinked out abruptly. Turning to the window, she observed a storm sweeping across the sky.
A darkening cloud. A rain-spattered ground. Lightning to burn the skies, thunder to convulse the earth. She knew what that meant, and she took heed.
Hurrying, she fixed herself in her disguise, stuffing the straw-filled hump on her back, flinging ash into her hair and coughing when she breathed the fine powder. “It isn’t him. It can’t be him. No man can command a tempest,” she chanted as though words could keep him away.
When she heard the warning clatter of a horse’s hooves, she ran to the door, opened it, and peered straight into the brown eyes of her nemesis.
Ian. He was here, dressed in a gentleman’s riding outfit of black superfine cloth. He really seemed to bring the storms—and there had been a storm last night. But she’d better not think of that now. She’d be better off if she never thought of it.
She knew how she looked, with her gray hair hanging about her cheeks. She knew that ash covered her face, and she worried about the sharp lines of charcoal she’d had no time to blend in. Unanchored lumps of cloth shifted beneath her robe when she moved, so she moved cautiously. To the casual eye, she was the witch—but she never made the mistake of believing Ian’s eye was casual.
Ian swept her from head to toe with a disappointed glance. “Well, well. The witch of Fionnaway in all her regalia.”
“The interloper of Fionnaway in all his splendor. What a surprise. Come in; the weatherworkers are busy again.” As if to confirm her words, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed its beacon over the rapidly darkening morning. She added, “Bring your horse—he’s too fine a beast to be left out.”
Surveying the sky, Ian agreed. “He is too fine a beast to be left out, but I can tether him in your shed. The rain will hold off for a few more minutes.”
As if to confirm his words, the wind died and the storm paused in its march from the sea. Disgruntled, Alanna stood in the doorway as Ian tended his horse. She’d hoped the horse would enter her home and distract them with his nerves and his demands. Any diversion would serve her until she had control of her nerves and the demands of her body.
Striding toward her, Ian seemed part of the elements. His unbuttoned jacket billowed open, the renewed wind ruffled his beautifully tied cravat. The muscles of his thighs bulged as he fought to maintain his balance, and his feet trod firmly through the shallow puddles. His ring gleamed with a light all its own. His short hair whipped and his teeth bared in an exultant grin as he struggled to her door. He looked, she noticed with chagrin, like a lone wolf facing a twelve-course banquet.
In a futile moment of bravado, she wanted to stand before him and refuse him entrance, but sanity prevailed. She shuffled aside, her stoop more pronounced than usual, her limp a painful reality. She turned and Ian walked right on her heels, observing her with unnerving intensity. His huge hand reached out and squeezed her unpadded shoulder—hard—and as she winced he caught the bench with his toe and dragged it toward them. That same ungentle hand thrust her onto the seat. He lifted one of his legs over and sat astraddle, leaning toward her with well-communicated aggression.
“Well.” He peered under her straggling hair to stare directly into her eyes. “How do you feel this radiant morning?”
A blush dyed her face beneath the ash. The tips of her ears and her nose and the skin of her chest burned. She knew he couldn’t see it, for the caliginous clouds enhanced the dark in the cottage, but that secretive smile split his face as if he were well pleased.
“Radiant morning?” she croaked, and for once she didn’t fake the quaver in her voice. “Summer storms aren’t radiant.”
“I think they are. I was born in a storm. Storms attract me—or I attract storms.” The clouds above the cottage rumbled in agreement, and he glanced up to acknowledge their statement.
“Too much rain in the summer is bad for the crops.”
“It’ll stop by noon,” he assured her.
Discomfited by his confidence, she bent away from him, turned her eyes from him, and noticed her hands. In her hurry, she’d failed to complete her disguise. She hadn’t rubbed grease and ash into the nail beds and over the skin, and they glowed with the sheen of a healthy young woman. Self-consciously she tucked her hands into her sweeping sleeves.
He continued, “I want to talk to you. I feel close to you—”
Her gaze flew back to him.
“—in a way no one else in Fionnaway can claim.”
A shiver of dismay ran up her spine. What did he mean? Could this man command dreams, too?
“What do you hear from Alanna?” he asked.
“Alanna?” she choked. “They say…she’s dead. They say the selkies—”
“The selkies stole her away, the selkies can return her,” he rejoined callously. “Lady Alanna is alive, you know it, and she’ll return as soon as Leslie dies. She’ll claim the lands and I’ll be dispossessed.”
The suddenness of his attack left her stunned and uncomprehending, and she had to think carefully before she replied. “You have custody of Fionnaway; how would Lady Alanna gain possession?”
“She is the heir. If she chose to go to the courts, they would throw me out without a pence.”
Anger flashed through her. “In return for an ample portion of her inheritance.”
“Are the courts so corrupt in Scotland?” he asked with feigned innocence.
“Courts are corrupt always,” she said bitterly. “The courts made me take—” She barely stopped in time. The courts had made her take Leslie as her guardian because her father, as foolish a man as ever lived, thought Leslie a rollicking good friend and had given him jurisdiction in his will. The courts hadn’t agreed or disagreed, they’d only said her father had the right to name who he would as guardi
an to his minor daughter. When she had protested she had virtually run the estate since her mother’s death, they had chuckled indulgently and held out their hands for the inheritance tax.
Now she said, “The courts are run by men, and men always favor men.”
“Surely she has no need to worry,” he said coolly. “She’ll celebrate her majority on her birthday, the twenty-first of July.”
“Not long now,” she said faintly. How had he learned her birth date? And how had he fathomed her plan?
“On that day Fionnaway will legally be hers. But as you just said, the courts are run by men. Men do not easily believe that a woman is capable of handling so large a trust as Fionnaway.”
He spoke aloud one of the fears she dared not admit.
“Just yesterday relatives of Lady Alanna’s arrived at Fionnaway, drawn by the reports Leslie was dying,” he said. “The eldest gave me to understand he was the heir to Fionnaway after Lady Alanna.”
“Brice.” She barely breathed the name. Brice, ever smiling, ever fashionable, ever willing to give his wee cousin the benefit of his advice. She didn’t like him, but that was probably because, as Leslie had repeatedly pointed out, she didn’t respond well to direction. Certainly most men seemed to think Brice a good fellow and a sportsman, and most women thought him bonny.
“Yes. I believe his name is Brice MacLeod. He claims to be the head of the clan.”
“Not claims. He is the laird.”
“Well.” Ian spread his hands out, palm up. “There you have it. I had thought when my father died, Fionnaway would pass to me, and I was happy. I’ve always dreamed of having a place. Judging by the state of the stables and the fields, and the problems some of the crofters face, it needs a man’s hand.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Fionnaway!”
“Nothing a little tending can’t cure.” With a tap on his chest, he nominated himself. “Yet the fate of Fionnaway pivots on Lady Alanna. If she doesn’t return, Brice will have me forcibly removed. If she does return and seeks to dispossess me, I will fight her.”
“How could you do that?”
“I would inquire where she has been these years. I would imply that a young woman who has survived on her own has undoubtedly earned her living in a disreputable fashion. I would say such a woman was inadequate to inherit Fionnaway, and at the very least I would push to have myself made her guardian.”
He would, too. He was ruthless enough to ruin her reputation without a blink. She rubbed her forehead, then remembered she hadn’t disguised her hand and hastily tucked it back into her sleeve. “Brice could do that, too.”
“Yes, indeed he could, and it would be him and me, fighting it out in the courts over the guardianship of Fionnaway and Lady Alanna. Fionnaway would be the sacrifice, of course, for the courts move slowly, and until the matter was resolved, Fionnaway would be without leadership.”
She wavered, afraid to ask the question that dangled between them until a flash of lightning lent her fire. “What other choice does Lady Alanna have? You say if she doesn’t return, Fionnaway is a battlefield. Yet if she does return, you will fight her for her lands.”
“No, I only said I would fight if she sought to dispossess me. There is another way.” He searched her eyes again. “She can return and take her place…at my side.”
“Marriage? To a Fairchild?” Shock rippled through her. Shock, horror, and…oh, nay, it couldn’t be anticipation. “To you?”
He nodded. “It’s a gruesome thought, I know, but she’s already been betrothed to my father, and I flatter myself I’m the better choice.”
Better? Better how? With Leslie, she had been repulsed, but she had always known she could remain in control of the servants, and of herself. With Ian, she had no such assurance. She clutched the bench until her knuckles cracked. “You flatter yourself.”
“Do I? Yet I guarantee that after our wedding night, Lady Alanna would not think me conceited.” His voice lowered to a husky purr.
The skin around her lips tingled, as if the kiss she’d dreamed of the previous night had been given by a man with a beard. A black beard, soft yet clipped to disciplined perfection. Oh, why had her dreams of the night before chosen this moment to haunt her? She felt uncomfortably hot, unwillingly soft, reluctantly shy.
“The people in the village, the fishermen, and even the servants have told me stories of Alanna’s pride in Fionnaway, and I believe that. When she thought me unfit, she sneaked into my bedchamber with a knife and tried to cut my throat.” His voice coaxed her. “What a woman! She will be my lady. I will sing songs to her, I will clothe her in the finest apparel and—”
“Beat her if your dinner’s burned,” she said, to break the spell he wove.
“Not for such a paltry cause as that.” His smile had returned, but changed, softened. “I would only beat her if her loyalty to me proves less than mine to her. Or if she willingly gives her body to another.”
“And can she beat you if you stray?”
“My own fidelity will be unwavering.” He touched her arm and looked into her eyes. “A marriage vow binds me forever.”
“Pretty words,” she scoffed.
“You have no reason to doubt my honor. You must not judge all men by your—by Leslie Fairchild.”
“Perhaps not. Still I wonder…why do you tell me what you’ll do for Lady Alanna?”
“Are you not the witch? Reach her with my message.” He glanced around at the hut that had been her home for so many years. “You have a crystal ball hidden here somewhere.”
He spoke so impudently, her hand itched to slap him. “You haven’t told me whether you would be strong enough to retain her lands.”
“A good question.” He sounded approving. “I’m glad you asked. From the age of nine, I was raised at Fairchild Manor, and naturally I became as corrupt as the rest of that family is renowned to be. However, seven years ago I had an epiphany involving a young woman.”
“A young woman?” That jolted her.
“Actually, the young woman’s brother brought me to my senses. He used”—his gaze warmed with inviting laughter—“several sharp blows to the head. Since then I have traveled the world over, working as a merchant. There I found the knowledge of human nature which the Fairchilds taught me to be useful, and certainly pertinent. I don’t like to brag”—he leaned forward and whispered—“but I can spot a liar anywhere.”
She tried to swallow the guilt in her throat. “Really?”
“Really. And I have the capital to treat Fionnaway as it deserves.” His face lost all traces of amusement. “But I’m tired, Mab. Tired of seeing ancient splendors, of meeting people who will always be strangers, of living in houses that are not homes. I’ve earned a fortune, yes, but money is nothing to a man without a place where he feels at home. Nowhere else in the world makes me feel as if I belong; Fionnaway is my only refuge, and I would die if I couldn’t live here.”
She tried to persuade herself he was being melodramatic. But he sounded passionate, and when a flash of lightning illuminated his body in stark shades of black and white, he resembled the stone carving in the hills. The image dissipated with the next flash, and she shook off her uneasiness. She was too hardheaded for superstition.
Wasn’t she?
Then she considered the facts. She had been raised to handle the day-to-day responsibilities of the manor. That was nothing more than the right and duty of every well-bred maiden. It was the night-to-night demands of the man sitting in front of her that frightened her. He was strong, he was young, he was virile. He controlled his horse with the muscles of his thighs and he controlled people with the power of his mind—and she was afraid. It seemed when she gazed at him, she no longer thought of cruelty, but of two naked bodies wrestling on the bed until the female gave up her sweetness and her passion and her cry. The female surrendered everything: the male would never be satisfied with less.
Eyes blank with trepidation, she nodded at him. “I’ll convey your message, sh
ould Lady Alanna call me from above.”
He watched her as if he could read her every thought, and when he saw she had truly rejected him and his appeal, he said, “You’ll call her, I promise you.”
The hut seemed suddenly warm and close, and she fought for a breath of air.
“You know all the people who work in this village and in the manor,” he said. “Who is worth keeping?”
She didn’t understand. “Worth keeping?”
“Who in the village should be allowed to keep his fields? Who in the manor should be allowed to remain in their positions?”
“The peasants inherit their lands, and the manor folk retain their employment according to their abilities and their needs.”
“Their abilities, aye,” he agreed. “But their needs? Their needs are nothing. It’s my needs that matter. Old Mary can’t do more than sit in the corner and spin. She’s in the way.”
“What do you propose to do with her?” Alanna asked, incredulous and then furious.
He shrugged. “She’s not my responsibility. She can go wherever she wants.”
“Go…?” She had trouble articulating clearly. “Go wherever she wants? She wants to stay at Fionnaway. She’s lived here her whole life. If she left, she’d die.”
“She’s going to die soon, anyway. Why, the old crone must be sixty. And Robbie—he farms some of the prime strips in the village, but he’s crippled and has no sons. The land would produce better under someone else’s tending.”
“He was crippled in Lady Alanna’s service!”
“But not mine.”
“You accept the land, you must accept the responsibility.”
He spread his hands out, palm up. “But I don’t know which responsibilities are important. I don’t know if the servants are taking advantage of me. If I only had someone to guide me—”
Her fingers caught his wrists in a strong grip and she leaned forward, scrutinizing him through diminished light. “I’ll guide you.”
His wrists twisted beneath hers and he wrestled free to grasp her hands in his. “You? What would an old witch know about managing an estate? If only…”
A Well Favored Gentleman Page 9