The Highlander Who Loved Me (MacCallan Clan, #2)

by Wilde, Tanya

  She smiled, recalling how he had always snuck into her room to place a single poppy on her pillow before leaving after a visit. For the past eighteen months, a whimsical part of her had hoped for a poppy on her bed every time she entered her chamber. Always she’d been disappointed.

  Isla knew, beyond a doubt, that she would love Drew Murray for all her life. But the love that clung to her heart was the sweet love of a girl for a boy—complete with innocence and unfulfilled dreams. A forgotten ember, but never wholly extinguished.

  But the past was no place to hold court.

  However, for a moment . . .

  Isla shook her head to clear the silly thought.

  It must be the effects of the magic ale.

  There hadn’t been a day that passed that she hadn’t spared Drew even the smallest of thoughts. But that was how it had always been. That Mr. Ross should remind her of him was truly odd. But then, Drew always had a way of bossing her around too.

  And Mr. Ross seemed quite put out with her. Isla could not bring herself to dredge up even an ounce of sympathy for the man. What a mood dampener, that Mr. Ross. Isla couldn’t recall when last she had so much fun.

  A creak of a floorboard made her whip around. What on earth had that been? Her gaze swept the room carefully.

  A spirit?

  Do not be ridiculous, Isla.

  Ghosts. Do. Not. Exist.

  “It’s from all the talk of being haunted,” she said aloud, reassuring herself. “’Tis all.” She gave a single nod. “Aye, ghosts do not exist. Only haunted people do.”

  Sudden scratching in the wall to her left suggested otherwise.

  Isla swiveled, searching for a weapon for protection. A parasol. A walking stick. Anything. She refused to be felled by a ghost or whatever else lived in these walls. Rationally, ghosts did not exist. Logically, other, debatably scarier things did.

  Holding her breath, heart thumping in her chest, she listened with uneasiness, fingers spread out over her breast.

  Another, louder creak.

  She spun about in a circle, eyes flicking over every surface in the chamber. “Where on earth is it coming from?”

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

  Isla jerked.

  Ye, gods! Her heart would not survive a night in this eerie room.

  Pivoting, she dashed for the door, yanked it open, and stopped dead in her tracks. Before her, in the hallway, stood the most frightening monster Isla had ever laid eyes upon. A halo of light illuminated beady eyes and rough, scratchy fur. Arms outstretched, it appeared ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Isla’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs. The beast opened its mouth to reveal sharp, deadly fangs.

  A scream lodged in her throat.

  Chapter 10

  A hand clasped over her mouth, and a strong body ushered Isla back into the room. The blazing eyes of the beast reshaped into the familiar set of Mr. Ross’s steely blue crystals; the halo that had cast his face in an unholy light reformed into the glow from a candle he held.

  Ye gods, he had shaved years off her life!

  “What is the matter with you?” Mr. Ross demanded, shutting the door with his stocking foot. “Do you want to wake the dead?”

  “I thought the dead were already awake,” Isla hissed, clutching at her racing heart, her lungs laboring for breath. “What are you doing standing all ghostlike in the hallway? You scared the wits out of me!”

  “Why were you rushing from your room as though you’d seen a ghost?”

  “Aye, well, nay, but . . .” She inhaled a shaky breath. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “And you thought me a monster?” He sounded mightily offended.

  “A trick of the candlelight; it cast your face in a beastlike glow.” She perused him up and down. “What were you doing loitering outside my room, in any case?”

  “There were noises . . .” He cleared his throat, his eyes examining her chamber. “What were you running from?”

  “Scratching.” Isla turned to point at the wall in question. “Inside.”

  “Scratching in the walls? Is that all?” He nodded, inspecting the walls anew. “No tapping against the window?”

  “Tapping? Nay.” She threw him an accusing glare. “There were creaks outside my room, but I suppose that was merely you sneaking about in the hallway.” A moment’s pause. “Och, hold on, there was tapping against your window?”

  “More like scraping, but more sinister.” His eyes bore into hers for a solemn moment before glancing away. “Were you planning on sleeping elsewhere?”

  “I’m not sure I had anything more in mind than leaving the room.”

  He nodded as if he understood. “There is nowhere else, but I can stay with you if you wish.”

  “Here?” Her eyes rounded in surprise. With her? Her tipsy body thrummed at the idea of spending the night in such close proximity to Mr. Ross. It would be the most wicked thing that had ever happened to her, second only to running away from home.

  That is not why fire spreads through your belly, a small voice slurred in her head.

  Aye, but at that particular moment, Isla did not rightly care why she felt all bothered and hot, her knees weak and fingers trembling. Any warning of why it might be dangerous was buried under a wave of fatigue. Exhaustion took precedence over the effects Mr. Drummond’s magic ale produced. And Isla could not sleep alone in this room.

  Mr. Ross seemed to realize that what he had suggested lacked in propriety, for he suddenly apologized, but he hadn’t yet caught on that she did not care. “Forget what I said, lass. It’s an ill-conceived notion. I should leave—”

  “Nay!” Isla cut him off with a cry, then blinked. “What I mean to say is, I, too, feel . . .”

  “The danger that seems to lurk around every corner in this strange place?” Mr. Ross offered, hope infused in his tone.

  “Aye,” Isla agreed with an eager nod. “We must protect each other and keep the danger at bay.”

  She nodded. “Sleeping together is better than sleeping alone.”

  Mr. Ross made a choking sound in the back in his throat but nodded. “I’ll stay and protect you.”

  Isla’s relief was so great that her shoulders sagged. “Good. That way, you will be close by if a real phantom appears in the dead of night.”

  “Perhaps we should rid our vocabulary of all words relating to death,” Mr. Ross muttered.

  “Agreed,” Isla gave a firm nod, but immediately thereafter shook her head. “Though that might be hard—Mr. Drummond does kind of resemble the Grim Reaper, does he not?”

  Mr. Ross frowned and, a moment later, chuckled. “Now that you mention it, he does. What do you propose that makes Mrs. Drummond?”

  “I cannot say,” Isla murmured, thinking about the two of them, so different yet so perfect for each other. “Perhaps a romantic version of Persephone had Persephone not been tricked by Hades.”

  Isla watched surprise flash across Mr. Ross’s features. “What? You don’t think so?”

  “Nay, it’s not that,” he murmured, lips curving upward. “It’s just that I was thinking earlier that Mr. Drummond might have added pomegranate seeds to his ale—it would explain why no one leaves.”

  Isla grinned. “Great minds—”

  “—think alike,” they finished in unison.

  Her startled gaze lifted to his, and again a sense of familiarity flooded her.

  He suddenly coughed, turning away from her, and the feeling vanished.

  “So then . . .” His voice trailed off as they both turned to stare at the lumpy bed.

  “It does not look comfortable at all, does it?”

  “Nay,” Mr. Ross agreed. “It does not.”

  DREW’S EXPRESSION WAS grim.

  They reclined next to each other, stiff as boards, straight as arrows. Each cocooned beneath a separate sheet, their arms above the covers and pinned alongside their bodies. Drew stared up at the canopy overhead. Only their heads were close together, each resting on
a corner of the single pillow.

  All very proper.

  All very breathlessly improper.

  More than anything in the world, Drew wanted to roll onto his side and claim her forever—kiss her senseless, lift her skirts, and fire up the passion he knew lay hidden beneath all that sweetness.

  But he couldn’t.

  This was Isla. His Isla. He could never be with her in an intimate fashion. Never kiss her. Never make love to her. Not then, as Patrick Moray. Not now, as Neill Ross. He could never do that to her. There were certain lines not even he dared cross. Because if Drew seduced Isla as anyone but Drew Murray, he would be the worst sort of lecher that walked the earth.

  “Do you know what is confounding, Mr. Ross?”

  He turned his head to meet her gaze. “Nay,” he murmured gruffly, wishing he could trace the soft arch of her lower lip with his tongue.

  “I have only been acquainted with you for three months, and though we have hardly spoken a word in that time, I do not care for your bossiness, and I’m not even certain I like you all that much. Yet somehow, against all these odds, I feel as though I’ve known you all my life. Is that not strange?”

  You have known me all your life, lass. The words burned on the tip of his tongue, but instead of confessing, instead of risking his heart, he murmured, “Not strange at all.”

  She glanced away, lips twitching. “I suppose you feel like a brother to me.”

  Drew choked on his breath. “Brother?”

  Her golden gaze, filled with humor, flicked to him again. “Not a brother?”

  “Not. A. Brother.”

  The little wench chuckled and glanced up to the canopy again. “Do you know, Mr. Ross? I don’t know your name.”

  “You don’t?” he asked, surprised. Everyone at MacCallan Castle knew him as Neill Ross.

  “I’ve been preoccupied.”

  “Do you wish to know my name?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I shall give you three chances to guess.”

  She frowned. “That’s just silly; I can easily learn your name from anyone at the castle.”

  He raised a brow.

  “All right, you have me there,” she muttered, then pouted. “I am dying of curiosity. You do not wish me to die, do you, Mr. Ross?”

  “Three guesses.”

  “What if I guess all of them wrong?”

  “Then you shall owe me a boon.”

  “But I will still not know your name.”

  “Nay, you won’t.”

  She eyed him incredulously. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “Then you’d better guess right.”

  “If I do, what do I get?”

  He shrugged. “I shall owe you a boon.”

  “You are overly exasperating tonight,” she said dryly. “Is your name a curse? Is that why you do not wish to reveal it? Are you, perhaps, a wanted criminal?”

  Drew grimaced. She had no idea how close she ventured to the truth.

  “Nay,” he drawled and sent her a level look. “My name is not a curse but a thorn. It draws blood from those who know it best. Do you still wish to learn it?”

  “More than ever.”

  “Then perhaps you will be pricked by its steel by this journey’s end.”

  “Such arrogance.”

  Drew smiled. “You said I reminded you of someone in your past. May I ask who?”

  “His name does not bear repeating.” She shot him a waggish look out of the corner of her eye. “But I shall make an exception for you. I shall give you one chance to guess his name.”

  “Only one?” Drew scowled. “I gave you three.”

  “On nearly impossible odds,” she pointed out. “You’ve lived with my family for three months; I am well aware of how servants gossip. If you ruminate, you might very well guess right.”

  Drew’s mouth tightened. “You said one moment he was there, the next he was not. Did he abandon you?”

  “He . . .”

  Drew held his breath. The soft flicker of candlelight cast her in a heavenly glow. Ethereal. He could not look away from her. Wished with all his heart he could make the pain of the last eighteen months disappear.

  “That is cheating, Mr. Ross. But it does seem I am ill-fated, always abandoned by the men I come to care for.”

  Sadness tightened in his chest. Drew had never heard her sound so defeated. “I will never abandon you, lass.”

  That brought a smile to her face. “You haven’t yet.”

  “Perhaps this man had a good reason,” Drew murmured. “Perhaps he will come back to you.”

  “Ours is not a happily-ever-after story.” She thought for a moment. “It’s more of a passing season, though the bite of that one winter has never quite left my memory.”

  “You truly believe that?”

  “That life passes in seasons?”

  “That anyone can spend a second in your company and not want to spend each season of his life at your side.” His tone turned bitter. “Just look at that pompous count. The man is fraying my nerves.”

  She laughed. “He is just haunted like everyone else here.”

  “There you go again, saying things that send chills to my spine.

  What the devil did you mean by asking the guests how long they have been here?”

  Isla’s lips curled, but she answered. “Of all the guests, Mrs. Cooper and Miss Walker have been here the shortest—two full moons.”

  Drew’s incredulous gaze swung to hers. “You jest?”

  Isla shook her head. “Nay, that is what Mrs. Cooper said. She told me everyone at the inn is haunted, one way or another, by their past.”

  “Just what we need—a haunted inn with doomed, haunted guests roaming the halls. No wonder I cannot sleep in that decrepit old room.” Drew shook his head, his thoughts drawn back to their talk of Persephone, and an absurd theory occurred to him. “Nay, it cannot be.”

  Isla shot him a questioning glance. “What cannot be?”

  “Persephone ate six pomegranate seeds.”

  “So?”

  “How much ale did you drink?” Drew demanded brusquely, eyes burning into hers.

  “Och, I don’t care for that tone.”

  “How much?” he insisted. Drew watched her nibble her lower lip. “Six,” he muttered. “You drank six tankards, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not certain,” she murmured, brows scrunching together. “It might have been less.”

  “Christ, we are never leaving this place.”

  “Do you mean to say I am Persephone?”

  “Nay, I’m saying that Mr. Drummond is keeping us all here with his ale.”

  “Och, well, if I am doomed to be rooted here, you, Mr. Ross, are at least free to leave. You did not drink much. You mostly just glared at us.”

  “There is no leaving without you. If you are stuck, then so am I.”

  “Aren’t you taking your role as my guardian a bit too seriously?”

  “Since it’s my head your brothers will demand, I think I’m taking it just the right amount of seriously. But no more talk of haunted people and doomed futures, I beg you.”

  “Och, very well, we can talk about the opposite.” She thought a moment. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Ross?”

  Drew stiffened. “On second thought, about this haunted theory of Mrs. Cooper’s—”

  “Nay! You wished to change the subject, and I obliged. Courtesy demands you now appease my curiosity, Mr. Ross, and courtesy is the glue of our civilization.”

  “The effects of the ale must not have worn off yet,” Drew muttered to himself and sighed in resignation. “Fine, I have been in love, once,” he admitted. “Love at first sight.”

  “How envious I am,” she murmured on a dreamy sigh. “I wonder what sort of woman would catch the attention of a bossy man like you.”

  “A bossy woman.”

  “Of course.” Her eyes sparkled brighter than Drew had ever seen. “How does it feel,” she asked in a whisper, �
��to fall in love at first sight?”

  “I’m not certain it can be described.” Drew furrowed his brows. “You exist in a time before her, and then you suddenly exist in another.”

  “Your life before ceased to exist?” she asked.

  Drew inclined his head. “It’s like drawing your first breath. Affection comes to life, and you can’t recall even a second that you did not feel it.”

  “Like magic,” she breathed.

  His eyes fell on her. “Aye, like magic.”

  “What happened to the woman? Did she not reciprocate your feelings?”

  Drew looked away. “I lost her when I lost myself.”

  “You don’t seem so lost to me.”

  “I’m slowly finding my way back,” Drew confessed in a softly spoken whisper.

  “Do you think, if we ever meet the people from our past again, it would be the same as before?”

  He turned to her. “Would you want it to be the same?”

  “Nay,” she said, peering at him before she went on. “I suppose I would not.”

  “Did you ever inquire after the man in your past?”

  “Aye, I wrote him eighteen letters. He never replied once.”

  “Perhaps he did not receive them?”

  “I’d have known if he had perished, and that is the only excuse I’d accept for blatantly ignoring me.” She sighed. “But I do hope, wherever he is, that he is happy.”

  Drew shut his eyes. He wanted to reach out and pull her closer, never let her go. He tightened his jaw, fighting back the desire. He had not received her letters. Not one. Hadn’t been in residence to receive them. One more sin to add to his list of many. Drew never left a forwarding address, afraid his brother would haul his ass back home should he discover his whereabouts. He did, however, every few weeks send a letter to his mother. Short and sweet: Alive and well. Happy.

  And Drew was.

  He wanted to tell Isla that. Because no matter his persona, he was at her side. But he didn’t. Because things were complicated. Instead, he said, “Perhaps Mrs. Cooper is right. We are all haunted, after all.”