“Sometimes it is hard to go back to a place that holds so many memories,” she said carefully. “It helped me to talk to you about Alice. Perhaps if you talked to me—”
“The cases are not the same,” Robert said. His tone was as hard as flint. “I do not want to talk about it, madam. Have I not made that plain?”
With an abrupt jerk of the hand, he stopped the cart and jumped down. His gaze, dark blue and brooding, rested on her. “As you have so many talents, I am sure you can drive the trap down the road to the house.”
Without another word he leaped over the stone dyke and headed off across the fields and left her sitting there, outraged and utterly infuriated. She was so angry she thought she might just explode like a kettle left boiling too long on the hob.
She was even more bedraggled and furious by the time she had coaxed the recalcitrant pony to start moving again. Clearly it knew where it was going, which was far more than she did. The little trap rolled past a series of crofts by the side of the road. Lucy kept her chin up and nodded and smiled at everyone she saw. They passed a kirk and a school, and the clouds lifted sufficiently for her to see the southern end of the island spread out ahead of her—more high cliffs and rocky buttresses with a lighthouse standing tall. Finally the trap clattered through a gate and into a yard, and a groom ran out to the horse’s head. Lucy waited. No one came to help her dismount. By this time if she had had the chance to turn around and head back to the mainland, she would have taken it and damn Robert Methven and his inheritance.
The house was a substantial size, L-shaped and built of stone. It was painted white with the prettiest stepped gables she had ever seen. And now the door had opened and someone was hurrying toward her, a housekeeper, as warm and welcoming as the light that spilled out onto the cobbles behind her. Lucy felt her knees almost buckle with relief.
“Mrs. Stewart,” the woman said, curtseying. “Please to come in, my lady, and welcome to the Auld Haa and to Golden Isle. I hear the master has gone over to the village to see the factor.”
The master, Lucy realized, was Robert. It seemed everyone knew where he was except her.
But at last she did not care, for the house was warm and dry and there was hot food and a bath and a soft bed beckoning to her. Mrs. Stewart offered to act as maid, but Lucy wanted to be on her own for a little. Mairi had promised to send Sheena to her, but until the maid arrived she would manage. For now she wanted some peace and quiet in a room that did not move up and down and she wanted some time to think.
As she washed away the smell of fish and the weariness of the voyage, she reflected that she had learned plenty about her husband today. She had learned that he could be infinitely tender and patient with her and yet not prepared to expose his own feelings and emotions in the same way. She wondered if he ever would.
She was sitting before her mirror, brushing her hair before she retired to bed, when she heard the front door bang and Robert’s voice greeting Mrs. Stewart and then his footsteps on the stairs. Her heart bumped against her ribs. He knocked at the door and came in without waiting for her invitation. Once inside, though, he hesitated, resting his broad shoulders against the frame.
Lucy put the brush down. Otherwise there was a danger she might throw it at him.
“You managed to get the horse to move,” he said, with the ghost of a smile.
“By tomorrow I will have trained it to jump and gallop,” Lucy said, “and next time you walk away from me like that I will run you down.”
His smile grew. “Aye, I do believe you would.” He came across to the table. His eyes met hers in the mirror.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I behaved badly. I apologize.”
It was a start. And she had already learned there was a time to pursue certain issues, and this was not it. If she tried to get him to talk about Gregor’s death and his breach with his family, matters might end badly again. Even so, she was still angry with him and was not prepared to let him off easily. She looked at him straight.
“Thank you.” She intended to sound cold and she did. His smile turned rueful.
She dropped her gaze from his—let him take that as a dismissal—and picked up the brush again. But instead of leaving, he took it from her and started to draw it in long, slow strokes through her hair. It felt delicious. She wanted to tell him to stop out of sheer annoyance with him, but the sensation was too good to resist. She fought the urge to close her eyes and revel in the feeling.
Robert’s lips brushed the side of her neck. Her eyes flew open and she fixed him with another hard stare. He smiled again and resumed his brushing.
“I hope your chambers are comfortable,” Lucy said coolly above the hot beat of her blood.
“I have no idea,” Robert said. “I am staying here with you again tonight.”
“You are too presumptuous,” Lucy said, looking down her nose at him. “I have not invited you to stay with me.”
She saw a flicker of amusement in Robert’s eyes. “So you want to punish me,” he said.
“You deserve it.”
“I apologized—”
“Which was good, but not sufficient.”
The flare of amusement and heat in his eyes grew brilliant. “What else do you want of me?”
“I have not yet decided,” Lucy said.
“Perhaps you could devise something to make me suffer.”
Lucy tried to repress the leap in her blood, but it was too late; he had seen her reaction reflected in her eyes. In a moment he had thrown aside the brush, pulled her to her feet and was kissing her, deep kisses that stole her breath, demanding kisses that made her ache with desire and remembered pleasure.
He tossed her onto the bed and followed her down. It was very soft and yielding and it almost swallowed her up.
“I am still very angry with you,” Lucy said, holding him off, her palms against his chest.
“I know.” Lust flared in his eyes. “So now you have learned that like wine, anger can give lovemaking an edge that is entirely pleasurable.”
He kissed her again and she rolled over so that she was on top of him and he promptly tumbled her beneath him again. Infuriated, she struggled against his dominance and succeeded in climbing on top of him again. Again he tumbled her beneath him. She gave a little squeak of anger and frustration. He kissed her. She bit him. He pinned both her hands above her head and ravaged her mouth.
This time they both shed their clothes urgently, hands bumping. She was trembling inside, eager yet afraid.
“I can’t—”
“I know.” His voice, his hands, both soothed her, stroking. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t even think about it.”
Despite their quarrel she found it was easy to trust him, in this at least, to give herself up entirely to his touch, his hands and his mouth on her. This time she explored him too, the broad muscles of his back, the slope of his shoulders, the fascinating planes of his stomach and the roughness of his thighs, until he groaned and took her hands from his, pressing her back down on the bed and holding her still while he drove her to impossible heights. Once again she trembled on the edge, then fell so quickly and easily into the dark vortex where nothing existed but the sensations of pleasure and desire. She felt dazzled, almost despairing that he could demand so much from her and she was powerless to resist, yet hungry for the bliss he gave her. He took her limp body and kissed her and she felt herself stir and quicken again for him and she cried out as she came.
Afterward they lay facing each other in the darkness. She was panting.
“That was entirely delightful for me, but for you?”
“It gave me pleasure,” Robert said.
She hesitated. “And yet it seemed a little...unfair?”
His laughter was shaken, as though he was in some discomfort. His voice was a harsh whisper. “I admit that I am so hard it would be the work of seconds to please me too.”
“Then it seems cruel to deny you.” She felt strange, as though she had moved beyond he
rself, had become someone extraordinarily voluptuous and sensual. Yet she knew now that she had always been this way until fear had locked down her erotic desires and transformed them into something cold and intellectual. Now that wildness, so long repressed, had been released. She realized it was because she felt safe with him. Here in this hot darkness she could indulge any fantasy she chose, knowing he would never force her to take the step to final consummation unless she chose that too.
“I don’t want to shock you.” His tone was a warning.
“I shock myself.” She reached for him, slid her fingers along his length. She had seen plenty of drawings, of course, in those books in her grandfather’s collection. None could have prepared her for how hot he felt, or how smooth, like the finest silk, or how hard.
She stroked. He groaned. She closed her hand around him.
“Like this?” She was suddenly afraid of hurting him.
“Too gentle.” His voice was strained. His hand closed about hers, showing her. “Harder.”
She tried. It felt alien, frightening and yet wonderful to have so much power. Then, remembering the pictures, she wriggled down the bed and took him in her mouth. His muffled curse, the way his body leaped to the touch of her lips and tongue, made her feel even more wickedly wanton and sensual. Now it was no longer a case of him pleasing her. Now she had seen the extent to which she could please him.
He tangled his hand in her hair and gently drew her up to kiss her, hot openmouthed kisses that were fierce and demanding. She reached for him again, stroking, and felt his body convulse and then he fell back still and spent.
It was a while before he spoke. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell with his harsh breaths. She hoped she had not damaged him. Inexperience and eagerness might be a fatal combination.
“Where did you learn...” He sounded exhausted.
“My grandfather’s collection of French pornography.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Of course.” A smile twitched his lips. “I forgot. All research and no practical application.”
She wriggled down to lie beside him. “Not anymore,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE CHAIR AT Robert’s desk rocked back as he stood up. He strode across the bare wooden floor of the estate office and stood looking out across the rough pasture to the sea. This had been the factor’s office from time immemorial, and when he had stepped into it a week before, it felt as though he had never left: the same battered desk, the same view of the south harbor, the same windows coated in salt carried inland on the sea spray, the same smell of damp books and damper boots. The familiarity was comforting, but it disturbed him, as well. He and Gregor had stored their fishing rods in a corner of the office. They had sat together in the window, bored and restless when the weather was bad; they had run out with high spirits down to the beach when the rain had cleared. He could almost hear Gregor’s voice carried on the wind:
“Come on, Rob! We’ll miss the tide!”
Pulling the little boat into the water and taking the oars together, lying in the springy grass to watch the peregrine falcons hunting above the cliffs, slipping away secretly to join the free traders on their smuggling expeditions... For a moment his chest hurt and he caught his breath. There were ghosts here on Golden Isle and he was still not comfortable with them.
He knew that he had bitten Lucy’s head off the previous week when she tried to get him to talk about how he felt. He was ashamed of it. The truth was he had lost the two things most precious to him on Golden Isle, the brother who was his best friend, and the only life he had known. He had rebuilt his life, but he could never replace the brother he had lost, and being on Golden Isle only exacerbated the ache of loss. It constantly reminded him of the past. He wanted to emulate his younger self and take the first boat leaving the harbor, but this time he had to stay and do his duty. So he buried himself in his work day after day to drive away the memories, and the one thing he certainly was not going to do was to rake over old feelings by talking about how he felt.
Robert’s factor was watching him, his pale eyes keen in his narrow face. The factor was a man perpetually on edge with nervous tension; he had almost fainted when Robert arrived unannounced at his house on his first night on Golden Isle. McTavish had muttered something about tidying the place up for the laird and had kept Robert standing on the doorstep while he hurried off like a frightened rabbit. Following him in uninvited, Robert had seen him putting various papers on the fire, apparently because he had no kindling.
Mindful of McCall’s accusations that the factor was in Cardross’s pay, Robert had taken him page by page through the accounts for the last seven years. They made grim reading. As Robert had suspected, the crops had suffered from successive poor summers so that the island could no longer produce sufficient food to support the population, let alone sell the surplus to passing ships. The war had affected trade badly and the press-gangs had taken almost all the able-bodied men. There was hardly anyone but the women and the children left to work in the fields. It was a dire situation.
Robert was well aware that he had neglected Golden Isle shamefully, but the more he scoured the accounts, the less he could see McTavish doing any useful work to protect the estate even though he was being paid good money to do so. In fact, the reverse was true. McTavish had repeatedly sold island produce at less than its market value. He had failed to import vital raw materials. He had, in fact, allowed the islanders’ condition to deteriorate slowly but inevitably. It made Robert question where his factor’s interests really lay. It seemed that McCall and the other elders’ suspicions of him were indeed correct.
“My lord?” the factor said, clearing his throat nervously.
“I will be taking some of the men and repairing the beacons this afternoon,” Robert said. He turned back to the room in time to see an expression of alarm crossing McTavish’s face.
“The beacons, my lord?” the factor repeated faintly.
“Yes,” Robert snapped. “The beacons that are supposed to be used as a warning of danger in times of war. The beacons that you have allowed to fall into disrepair.”
The factor paled. “There is no one to do the work, my lord—”
“There is me,” Robert said, “and the handful of men whom the press-gang have not yet taken. We will also restore the watchtower on the headland.” He reached for quill and ink and drew a sheet of paper toward him. “I am writing to my cousin to send more men from Methven—”
“M-Methven men, my lord?” McTavish’s voice was shaking now. “There is surely no need.”
“There is every need,” Robert said. He sat back and fixed the factor with a narrow gaze. “You have just said yourself that we are short of hands here. If I bring in Methven men we will soon have the island defenses back in place.”
He could see that the idea did not appeal to McTavish, and the reason was not far to seek. The factor did not wish the island to be defended, quite the reverse, in fact. His attitude reeked of guilt.
“I have heard reports of a French privateer that has been sighted in the waters near here,” Robert continued. “I suspect a raid and in these times of war we need to be vigilant. I am summoning half my clansmen so that we may trap and capture the pirate.” He wrote swiftly, his pen scratching across the paper, dusted the letter with sand, folded it and handed it to the factor. “Take this to the mainland, McTavish, and from there arrange for its safe delivery to Methven.”
He watched, smiling grimly, as McTavish hurried out of the estate office and down the path to the south harbor, the tails of his coat flapping in the wind. He was certain that the factor would either arrange for the letter to be taken directly to Wilfred Cardross or read it and send Cardross word of the contents. It would take the best part of a week for Cardross to hear the news, longer if he had moved south to Edinburgh, but when he did find out, he would come to Golden Isle as fast as a cat with its tail on fire. Cardross could not afford for his French ally to be capt
ured because the pirate would surely sing like a canary to save his own skin and in the process give away Cardross’s treason.
He returned to the desk and wrote a second letter, this one addressed to Jack at Findon.
Start sending the men over as soon as you receive this. I have poked the hornet’s nest and want us to be ready and waiting. He added a few more lines, signed and sealed it. Stuart McCall could take it to the mainland once McTavish was on his way.
Robert threw himself down in his chair. All they had to do now was wait.
* * *
“EVERYONE SAYS THAT Lord Methven hates Golden Isle,” Sheena commented the following morning, as she helped Lucy to dress. “After his brother’s death he never set foot here again and neither did his grandsire. Everyone says that they left the place to rot. It is as though he blames the island for his brother’s death and the people suffer for it.”
Lucy sighed. Sheena had only been on Golden Isle for a week and already she was gathering gossip like a magpie gathering shiny dross. Each morning she repeated to Lucy what she had learned the previous day, and each morning Lucy struggled not to feel cast down by her maid’s words. It was clear to her that Sheena was right. Yet she knew Robert was hurting. She could feel it in him, but he was not willing to share his feelings in order to lessen the pain.
She could not fault Robert’s devotion to the estate since their arrival. He spent the best part of each day with McTavish going over the accounts and discussing payment for this year’s yield of crops, fish and feathers, or walking the island to talk to all the crofters, from the peat cutters on the northern hills to the men who worked the mills on the burn, to the fishermen in the south harbor. Over breakfast he would discuss with Lucy his plans for the day, but he never invited her to join him. Over dinner he would tell her about his work on the estate. Afterward they would sit in the parlor and share a malt whisky, and Lucy would play on the ancient piano. It was pleasant and domesticated, but at the same time Lucy felt excluded.
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