The Seduction of Miss Amelia Bell

by Paula Quinn

  “I cannot make ye pay fer what ye’ve already received absolution fer,” she said, “so that was fer kidnapping me and turning my world wrong side up.”

  Edmund brought his hand to his face and watched her leave the garden with his dog under her palm. When she disappeared inside he closed his eyes and tossed back his head.

  Hell. She was trouble.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ravenglade wasn’t the largest castle Amelia had ever been in; at least, it didn’t appear to be on the outside. The interior was another matter. When they brought Lucan inside earlier, she had neither the time nor the inclination to look around. Now, left alone with Grendel close at her heels while Edmund and Malcolm were off speaking with the Buchanan chief, Amelia took in the grandeur of Ravenglade’s Great Hall and tapestry-covered walls.

  A single wooden table, long enough to seat at least fifty souls, sat in the center of the Hall. The table was bare now, save for two short candle stands placed at both ends and years’ worth of nicks and gouges in the wooden surface. Amelia imagined it in its earlier days, surrounded by rowdy men slamming their daggers into the wood while they told stories of bravery and menace.

  An enormous wrought iron candle chandelier hung directly above the table from the ceiling, ready to illuminate the cavernous interior when the sun went down. For now, though, sunlight puddled in from ten long, tapered mullioned windows set with clear glass. She guessed Malcolm’s family must be quite wealthy to be able to afford such extravagance as glass.

  Oddly, there were no drafts seeping in through the walls, thanks largely to the thick, colorful tapestries covering most of the walls. The simplicity of the scenes depicted in the art only served to accentuate the exquisite craftsmanship of the stitches, the consideration of every color and hue.

  “The work of m’ grandmother’s fingers.”

  Amelia spun on her heel and found Darach leaning his back against the table, watching her. She smiled.

  He smiled back. This time though, Amelia noticed the spark of flint within his emerald gaze. It made the backs of her knees tickle. She looked away, unwilling to succumb to his raw allure. She pitied the ladies who crossed this one’s path.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said, turning to admire the tapestries again. “Yer grandmother is a master embroiderer.”

  “Mayhap.” He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the table, his bare, booted legs dangling over the side. “But she prefers to be known as a master swordswoman.”

  Amelia shot him a skeptical glance over her shoulder. “Does every Highlander in Skye make the same boast? Even the women?”

  “They might. But none of them are as convincin’ in their claim as Claire Stuart is.”

  “Claire Stuart, Lady Huntley”—Amelia blinked at him—“cousin to the late kings Charles and James Stuart, family to the queen, is yer grandmother?”

  He nodded, then hopped to the floor and joined her in her stroll around the Great Hall. “M’ grandsire Graham Grant aided her and the great General Monck in restorin’ King Charles to the throne.”

  “He is a patriot, like ye and the others then,” Amelia said, noting the measure of pride in his voice when he spoke.

  “He didna’ give a flea-bitten rat’s arse aboot what was best fer the country. He was in love with his woman. He still is.”

  Amelia stopped and turned to him. “Still?” she asked him. Did men continue to love their wives after a long marriage? Was her father still in love with her mother? She didn’t think he was. She didn’t want that kind of life for herself. Her dear father. She missed him. Was he worried about her?

  “Aye, still.” The subtle change in the quirk of his lips when he nodded revealed that this proud, prowling young beast possessed a soft, romantic core.

  She had judged both Darach and Grendel too hastily.

  “What of yer parents?” she asked him on the way toward the stairs to relieve Sarah of watching over Lucan’s bed. “Is yer father a warrior, too?”

  “Nae, he’s a bard. He’s penned many odes to m’ mother.”

  Amelia smiled to herself. Darach made better sense to her now. “Their love still burns strong, as well?”

  “It does.”

  Lord, just what kind of men did they grow in those mountains of Skye, she thought as she reached for the door to Lucan’s room. These Highlanders were different from the men she met at her uncle’s balls. They didn’t only dress differently, they seemed stronger, bigger, and more confident, but less arrogant. They were rough and hard on the outside, but deeper and more intense about what they were passionate about.

  Sarah looked up from the wet rag she was twisting in her hands and glanced at the two people entering. She should have looked tired after having spent her entire afternoon at the wounded Highlander’s side, but her eyes still shone like sunlit fields behind strands of ginger waves that had come loose from her plait.

  “How is he?” Amelia asked, coming toward the bed. “Thank God, his color is returning.”

  “Aye.” Sarah leaned over Lucan and gently dabbed the rag over his forehead. “He’s strong.”

  He certainly was, Amelia thought, scanning her vision over Lucan’s long, lithe form on the bed. She folded back the blanket that was covering him and sucked in a gulp of air so hard it gave her the hiccups. He was naked! She tossed the cover back over him, then stepped back and looked over the bed.

  “Sarah, where is his plaid?”

  “’Tis there.” Her friend pointed to the wool thrown across his hips, not fully concealing his loins. “I had to undrape most of him to make certain he was not cut anywhere else.”

  Amelia glanced at her beneath her lashes. “And was he?”

  Her friend shook her head and then shot Darach a dark look when he smiled. “Come over here and have a look under them covers. Ye won’t be smilin’ long after that.”

  “I’ve seen gruesome gashes before, woman,” Darach informed her.

  “I wasn’t speakin’ of his wound.”

  Amelia smiled into her hand and looked down to find that Lucan had opened his eyes and was aiming a soft, intoxicatingly sweet smile at Sarah.

  Her friend turned away from Darach in time to catch Lucan’s appraisal. “Welcome back,” Sarah greeted softly. “Ye had us worried.”

  “Fergive me,” he whispered, his throat hoarse. He turned to grant his smile on Amelia next. His extraordinary eyes burned with residue from his fever, or anticipated dread to the reply of his next question. “Have my cousins minded themselves with ye both while I was away?”

  “If they hadn’t,” Amelia told him with a wink, “they would be lying beside ye in that bed.”

  “’Tis aboot time ye opened yer eyes.” Darach moseyed to the bed and sat at its edge. “I was beginnin’ to think yer mettle wasna’ as strong as mine.”

  “Och.” Sarah swatted Darach with her damp cloth. “I suppose yer leg has been sliced down the middle before and ye almost bled out then?”

  Amelia smiled; if anyone could give Darach a run for his coin, it was Sarah.

  When Darach didn’t answer her, she shooed him away. “Malcolm mentioned a cook. Go find her please and ask her to prepare something befittin’ a celebration. Go on then,” she added when Darach didn’t move quickly enough.

  They all watched him go, then Lucan’s warm topaz gaze drifted back to Sarah. He licked his lips to moisten them, which prompted Sarah to pour him a cup of water. He accepted the offering and took a sip. When his hand trembled, Sarah reached for the cup before Amelia and held it to his lips.

  “And Malcolm?” he asked Sarah directly once his thirst was quenched. “Has he treated ye with honor?”

  Sarah stopped what she was doing and looked at Amelia first, then at Lucan. She laughed, but Amelia knew her well enough to know her humor was not sincere. When she spoke again, she proved Amelia to be correct.

  “What is honor and what do I care of it?” She shrugged her shoulders and plunged her rag back into the bowl of water. “Ye need
n’t concern yerself with me, Mr. MacGregor. As ye just saw fer yerself, I can take care of m’self.”

  “I would prefer—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish. “Now that I see ye’re well”—Sarah abandoned the rag in the bowl, snatched up a dry cloth, and dried her hands—“I will leave ye to Amelia’s care.” She smiled, offered him a subtle bow befitting her station, then hurried out of the room.

  Amelia looked after her, wondering what in blazes had come over her friend. This was the first time in Amelia’s memory that Sarah actually ran from a handsome man. Could it be that she was losing her heart to Malcolm Grant? She would speak to her friend about it later and remind her that they could not have relationships with these men. She remembered with a regretful smile that Sarah was under no bounds. She could wed whom she wished.

  She smiled at Lucan, pushing her thoughts aside. This man deserved her attention. She gave it to him, her smile wide with genuine happiness that he had recovered.

  “She’s correct. Worrying over everyone else will not aid in yer healing. I will prepare something fer ye later to help ye sleep.”

  “Ye have my gratitude,” he told her. “I dinna’ care fer being so helpless.”

  “Ye’ll be up and about in no time at all,” she assured him. She wanted to check his wound but she wasn’t about to go under that blanket again.

  “Would ye mind just adjusting yer plaid a bit so that I can have a look at yer thigh?”

  He obliged and Amelia pulled back the covering again. Thankfully, everything was hidden, save fer his wound. Still, that didn’t help her nerves when she touched him. Heavens, but the man was big. His thighs, dusted with black hair, were long and lean with muscle. His belly was flat and carved into small squares that rattled Amelia’s nerves. However did Sarah work on him all day without being affected by his dark good looks?

  “Sarah will need some protecting against Malcolm. She fancies him, but I fear he will leave her in a pool of tears and—”

  “What’s this?” Malcolm called from the door, about to enter with Edmund and Grendel behind him. “I give ye m’ own bed to recover in and here ye are spreadin’ heinous tales aboot me while restin’ yer head on m’ favored pillow?”

  “I’d rather recover in yer barn than in yer bed,” Lucan muttered.

  “I could arrange it,” Malcolm told him, then grinned and strode toward the bed.

  Amelia watched Edmund make his way to the bed next.

  Every assessment she’d made regarding the men here, and any other man in God’s creation, seemed folly now. She filled her vision with Edmund, basking in the height of him, the easy rhythm of his gait and the confidence it exuded. He was everything she found magnificent in a man, from the leisure of his smile and the slow, steady gaze he spread over her to his anything-but-casual attention to her. Did he favor her? If he did, could she resist him? She had to. For so many reasons, the most important being her father. What would her uncle do to him if she ruined his treaty? She couldn’t think about it. Her father would lose everything, including his wife, his home, all his coin. It was one thing to get swept away on silly, fanciful thoughts, but this was real. England’s enemy was holding her captive. The betrayal of caring for him would destroy her family. And she could never forget that because of her misfortune, it could destroy Edmund, too.

  “I never would have forgiven ye if ye left me with nothing but him”—Edmund motioned with his shoulder to Malcolm—“and his lazy-tongued cousin.” He leaned down and took Lucan by the shoulders. They shared a smile. “I’m glad ye decided to stay with us.”

  He stepped away and made room for Grendel to rest his massive head on the bed and stare at Lucan.

  “Ye were supposed to have my back, Grendel,” Lucan told him. His voice was growing fainter. He needed to rest.

  The dog whined.

  “Lucan needs to rest.” Amelia shooed them all to the door. “Ye can see him later.”

  She almost had them all out when Edmund stopped and turned so quickly Amelia nearly landed in his arms.

  He caught her and set her on her feet. “I don’t know about the past,” he said quietly, standing over her and looking into her eyes, “but ye’ve brought good fortune here, Amelia Bell.”

  Thankfully he didn’t wait around for her to reply—since nothing at all came to her mind save to thank him and perhaps cry like a blithering fool. He left her wearing a worried smile, which prompted a grin from Lucan that was so resplendent it made her trip over the leg of a chair and crash into the table holding the bowl of water and wet rags.

  Instinctively, Lucan moved to catch her and also to avoid the cooled water seeping into the mattress. He lost his balance and tumbled off the bed with a loud groan.

  Fortunately, he landed on a thick plaited rug instead of a hard floor. She would need to call the men back to help her get him into the bed, but at least his stitchings hadn’t come open.

  Perhaps, she thought with a hopeful heart, Edmund was correct about her ill fortune.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When should we attack?”

  “Who are we attacking?” Edmund asked Darach as he slipped into his seat in the Great Hall with Grendel at his feet.

  “The Buchanans,” Darach informed him and then looked at Malcolm, who was sitting next to him, for confirmation.

  None came.

  “Their burgh is but a few leagues away!” he insisted. “We could annihilate the entire clan and be back here in time to break fast.”

  “We spoke to William Buchanan.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “The Buchanans’ newest chief,” Edmund told him. “His father, the previous chief, drowned in the Tay last month. William vows he knew nothing of the attack on Ravenglade and himself wants peace.”

  Darach laughed but there was no humor in the sound. “Of course he made such assurances, Edmund! He’s the same as the rest. He doesna’ want peace. They almost killed Luke! Such an offense canna’ go unanswered.”

  “Fer now it must, Darach,” Edmund told him. “Fighting between ourselves is foolish when we all have a bigger enemy out there.”

  “The duke didna’ try to kill our cousin.”

  “Nae, he would only see us forbidden to practice what we believe. Right now, we should all have a common purpose and stand together.”

  Darach said nothing more and Edmund looked toward the entrance and wondered what the hell was taking the women so long to dress for supper. Malcolm had shown them a handful of gowns belonging to his mother and then led them to the private solar to dress. That was more than an hour ago. He’d never grown impatient to see a lass and he wondered if he should have Amelia check him for a fever.

  He remembered Malcolm and Darach and blinked his gaze away from the entrance.

  “What d’ye think would become of Amelia and Sarah if the four of us went to war with the Buchanans and they got their hands on them?”

  “What the hell do I care what becomes of them?” Darach argued.

  Malcolm finally looked up from his plate, prepared by his favorite cook. “How in blazes will ye ever be able to sing aboot duty and honor when ye dinna’ possess a single strand of either?”

  “Who said anythin’ aboot singin’, Malcolm?” Darach asked him with a murderous undercurrent deepening his voice. “Those lasses shouldna’ even be here and they wouldna’ be if not fer ye and Edmund.”

  Edmund stopped listening when he spotted the women standing beneath the entrance. Sarah saw them, smiled, then started over to the table. Amelia remained, hands folded in front of her, her gaze scanning the table, finally resting on him.

  Edmund rose from his seat and went to her. Each step that brought him closer sapped him of his good senses. He didn’t think she could captivate him any more than she already had, looking like a forest nymph in her nightdress and bare feet. But he was wrong. She’d chosen to wear one of Mairi MacGregor’s slightly outdated corseted gowns. Edmund preferred the low neckline and dropped shoulders to
the current style of mantuas and petticoats. This gown, cut from delicate coral fabric, accentuated Amelia’s long waist. Her luxurious curls were pulled up and arrayed atop her head like an empress’s crown. She wore no adornment on her neck. She needed nothing to add to her elegant lines and milky complexion.

  “Ye look…” He paused, unable to find the right words to pay her the homage she was due. At his heels, Grendel barked as if to prompt him to speak. He obeyed. “…radiant.”

  “Thank ye.” She accepted the arm he offered and rested her other hand on top of Grendel’s head. “It smells wonderful in here.”

  “’Tis Henrietta’s cooking. ’Tis French.”

  “My, no wonder the Buchanans want this place.” She looked around, tilting her face to take in the high walls and carved ceiling. “Ravenglade is lovely, despite being uncared for. I can feel the medieval breath of it, and yet it fits perfectly in our era with its rugs and glass windows. Malcolm says ’twas his father’s doing. ’Tis a pity his parents left it.”

  “The Grants have remained at the MacGregors’ sides since the first proscription. Also, Malcolm’s mother is a MacGregor and extremely devoted to her heritage and to Skye.”

  She paused her steps and looked up at him. “Perhaps ye’ll tell me about Skye and the other MacGregors after supper—in the garden?”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “And ye will tell me of yer affinity fer gardens.”

  “Gardens with statues,” she corrected with an arched brow aimed at him.

  They reached the table and Edmund was pleased that both Malcolm and Darach rose briefly from their chairs to welcome her. He winked at Sarah, who was already seated. She winked back.

  “Oh, Darach.” Amelia eyed the dessert he was bringing to his mouth. “Is that a tart?”

  He nodded and much to Edmund’s—and Malcolm’s—shock, he broke off a piece of the pastry and handed it to her, then smiled at her when she bit into it.