The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  Then he pulled away, and she felt as if a light had gone out. She looked up at his profile in the dark. He stepped back and cold rushed in.

  He turned to ruffle Wee Kipper’s hair. “Well done, lad. You were very brave.” His voice was kind enough, but an octave lower, gruff and breathless, as if he’d been running. He didn’t look at her as they made their way across the square. They used the front door this time, and Morag was waiting. Her lined face creased into a smile when she saw Wee Kipper. She hugged him tight. “It’s late and time ye were in bed,” she said, “but ye need a bath, and some decent food—all of ye.”

  “The young cove in the cellar said to tell ye he’s leavin’” Morag said. “He’s signed on with a ship bound for somewhere far away.”

  “Chieftain’s gone?” Hoolet asked.

  “’Tis for the best, “Morag said. “Now upstairs, the lot of ye.”

  Wee Kipper hugged Laire, and she bent to kiss his forehead. Then the others led him upstairs for a bath, to wash the stink of the prison off his wee body.

  Laire stood at the bottom of the stairs with Iain. “What justice could there be in hanging a child?”

  Iain kept his eyes on her, his expression guarded and flat. “It’s late. Will ye stay?”

  A long, hot blush rolled up her body at the idea of bed and Iain. She flicked her tongue over her lips. “Mrs. Groves will worry. I’d best go.”

  “As ye wish. I’ll escort ye to your uncle’s” he said.

  “Your leg. Perhaps Bear could, if he’s not too tired. Or Dux,” she said, fumbling for words.

  “My leg’s fine,” he said sharply. “If you’re afraid I’ll kiss ye again, I won’t. Should I apologize for kissing ye earlier?”

  She wasn’t afraid. She’d liked his kiss . . . In the light, he looked forbidding, distant, untouchable. “No. There’s no need to apologize.”

  He opened the door and led the way, walking beside her. He didn’t offer his arm. He kept his eyes on the doorways and alleys they passed, watching for trouble. He moved along the cobbles of the city with a Highlander’s sure stride, long-limbed and sure of himself. He was all that was familiar to her, yet different from any man she’d ever known. The dark held no terror with him beside her.

  He kissed me, and I kissed him back. She wanted more. Her cheeks burned, and she was hot all over, though the night was cold.

  She walked beside him in silence, matching his long Highland steps with her own. She glanced at the silhouette of his profile, the sharp planes of his cheeks and jaw, the jut of his nose. He had a very manly nose, she thought, large, the bridge crooked where it had been broken. He was handsome enough to steal her breath away.

  He knocked and waited until Mrs. Groves opened the door and let Laire in before nodding crisply and taking his leave.

  Laire peered through the window, watched him walk away. She touched fingertips to her lips.

  He kissed me, and I kissed him back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Laire was waiting in the parlor when her uncle arrived home. “Now this is as fine a surprise as I’ve ever had. How good to see ye, lass.” He enfolded her in a warm hug before he’d even shed his cloak. He smelled of the sea and tobacco and cloves, just the way she remembered. She hugged him back fiercely.

  Mrs. Groves took his cloak and directed the unloading of the cart that carried not just one, but two crates of books. “What, no plants?” she asked.

  Hamish MacEwan laughed. “The plants will come in the spring,” he said, giving her a fond smile. “Now how long has my niece been here? I trust you’ve made her comfortable?”

  “Aye. She’s in the blue room at the top of the stairs—her mother’s old room,” the housekeeper said. “She came without a trunk or even a valise, and I took the liberty of making an appointment with a seamstress for her. No doubt ye’ll want her to accompany you to His Grace’s ball. It’s only a few weeks away.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” Uncle Hamish said, watching the crates come through the door. “Careful now, lads.” He turned back to Laire. “Ye’ll attend my salons as well while you’re here, I hope.” He shook his head. “Och, you’re just like your mother. Let’s have a cup of tea and a chat. I want to know all the news from Glen Iolair. How’s your father?”

  Laire felt her smile slip. She clasped her hands together. “Papa has married again. That’s the reason I came to Edinburgh to see you.”

  Hamish chuckled. “So as not to interrupt the honeymoon, eh? I shall write Donal with my warmest congratulations at once, and you shall help me choose a suitable wedding present.”

  Laire blinked away tears. “Nay, I—I need your help, Uncle. There’s something terribly wrong . . .”

  “Oh?” frowned. He took her hand, patted it. “I cannot bear to see tears in your pretty eyes, my dear. I’ll do all in my power to make ye smile again. Come into the siting room and tell me everything.”

  Sir Hamish McEwan adored his niece, just as he’d adored his sister. Ella had been bereft when her son, Laire’s brother, had died, and less than a year later she’d followed the lad to an early grave. Laire was the only blood kin Hamish had left in all the world. She was like the daughter he’d never had, the sister he’d lost, and the lass he’d once loved with all his heart but neglected to marry.

  He frowned as Laire spoke with tears in her eyes, her hands a-tremble. He had never known her to be flighty or featherbrained before. Now she spoke of a mysterious poison that made her sisters dance all night and sleep all day. They wore feathers plucked from the birds their new stepmother dined upon. Donal’s bride drank blood. Blood! It was a ridiculous, outlandish tale . . .

  And Laire had fled when they tried to make her drink blood and poison as well. Her father was enthralled with his new bride, who was an unsurpassed beauty.

  And there, Hamish decided, lay the problem. His niece did not like her new stepmother, even if she had loved all of Donal’s wives before this one. Sweet Laire was jealous. Her father was obviously in love. In Hamish’s experience, men in love often exhibited the same symptoms as men who’d been poisoned—glassy eyes, rapid pulse, giddiness, and euphoria. It was all perfectly natural.

  He patted Laire’s hand again, soothed her. Her eyes were hollows of grief and worry, and she was too thin, according to Mrs. Groves. “There now. You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you wish, my dear. We’ll have a grand time. I’ll look into your concerns. Now go and rest before supper.” He crossed and rang the bell and asked Mrs. Groves to prepare a soothing cup of chamomile tea for Laire’s nerves.

  He sighed as they left the room, then crossed to his desk to take out a sheet of paper and pen and ink. He’d write to Donal at once and resolve the whole matter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Glen Iolair

  Rafael brought the small package to Bibiana’s chamber. “This just arrived. Someone brought it up from the local inn.”

  “Open it,” Bibiana ordered, turning back to the mirror. She gazed at her flawless reflection, her eternal, undying beauty. She glanced at Rafael, saw the alabaster box under the wrappings, and wondered briefly why Iain had not come himself to lay the prize in her hand. Perhaps he’d gone to Craigmyle to see his kin. Perhaps he was lying drunk in brothel somewhere. He’d be back. He was a man of honor, and he’d done his duty as required.

  She took the box from Rafael with a smile, and ran her thumb over the embossed symbol on the lid—a raven, wings outspread, beak open and cruel. “It’s Laire MacLeod’s heart.”

  She opened the box and gazed down at the poor little heart. Rafael drew back at the sight—and the smell—gagging. He clamped his hand over his mouth and nose. To him it was rot and death. To Bibiana it was life and victory. Laire MacLeod had flown and been snared, her life ended. All was as it should be once more.

  She thought of the girl’s lovely face, her eyes like amethysts, her supple young body. That beauty was all gone now, food for worms . . . her heart was as bronze as dried beef, wizened and small. Bibiana p
oked it lightly with the tip of one perfectly manicured fingertip. Her nail dimpled the flesh, and she put her finger to her lips, tasted the metallic tang of the girl’s blood. She smiled at Rafael as she closed the box. “My sealgair did as he was told after all. I said he would, did I not?” She put the alabaster casket into his hand. “Take it to the kitchen. Have Terza cut it into pieces and feed it to my husband for his supper.”

  Rafael was pale, his expression grim. Bibiana knew he’d let Terza deal with this, and he’d go and drink himself into a stupor. He was bored at Glen Iolair, edgy. They all were. The winter equinox was fast approaching, and long weeks of deep winter would follow. She would sleep then, rest, and when the birds returned in the spring, and her fine, loyal sealgair came back, she’d feast. By summer she’d fly away and find warmer climes and new blood . . .

  She looked into the mirror and smiled radiantly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Edinburgh

  He shouldn’t have kissed her. Laire was in his blood now, a fever, a yearning. But he’d sold his soul, committed sins, and he was unworthy of her. He could not have her.

  When his contract with Bibiana ended in the spring, he planned to leave Scotland, disappear, wander the world with no clear destination. He’d form no attachments.

  He had decided make arrangements for the Clan of Thieves—and for Laire. He would make certain she never wanted for anything and did not suffer privation because of the loss of her family. She’d have a fine dowry. He knew Sir Hamish MacEwan’s niece would marry well, thanks to her uncle’s connections. In a few brief weeks she’d become the toast of Edinburgh. Still, it tore at him to think of her in the arms of another man. But his life had ended seven years ago, and hers was just beginning.

  Iain was a rich man. His grandfather had once been convinced to make an investment in a shipping venture, and his money had been returned twentyfold. Further investments had made the Lindsays wealthy.

  He went to visit his Edinburgh man of affairs, the solicitor who had overseen the investments of the Lindsays for forty years.

  And there was one more matter to see to, the deepest secret of all.

  There was astonishment in the clerk’s eyes when Iain arrived at the offices of Messrs. MacDougall and Crawford, and asked to see William Crawford.

  The solicitor hurried out of an inner office, straightening his wig. “It is you!” he cried. “I mean, it is a pleasure—and a surprise—to see ye, Laird Lindsay. A very great surprise indeed. Come into my office.” He stood aside to let Iain precede him through the door.

  “We thought ye were dead,” the clerk blurted out, following them. “In fact, we were about to declare ye so before the courts.”

  Crawford glowered at his assistant. “Fetch the whisky.” He turned to Iain and indicated a chair. “Please sit down, Laird.”

  He peered at Iain over the cluttered surface of his desk. “Ye look like your grandfather, sir. Very like. I’d have known ye anywhere, though it’s been many years.”

  “I’ve been abroad.”

  The solicitor waited for Iain to supply more details, but when none followed, he folded his hands and continued. “As my clerk so bluntly put it, we were about to declare ye dead. Your half brother has requested . . .” He stopped. “I’m certain he’ll be pleased to hear that ye’ve returned, hale and safe.”

  David would curse his return . . .

  “I have no intention of returning to Craigmyle. I simply came to make certain provisions.”

  Crawford stared at him. “Not returning? But . . . Do you intend to return to the continent, sir? I must inform ye that . . .”

  “I simply wish to make certain—final—arrangements. Is it still my right to do so?”

  “Why, yes, of course. You’re the laird of Clan Lindsay, and your grandfather’s heir. It’s just that your brother—half brother—is coming to Edinburgh to sign the papers. I expect him within the week.”

  “Ye killed her!” Iain heard David’s scream again as he looked at the blood on Iain’s hands, saw Mairi’s pale, dead face . . .

  “Inform him that won’t be necessary.” David would inherit everything, become Laird of Craigmyle in Iain’s place.

  “The private arrangements I made some years ago—are they still in place?”

  Crawford smiled. “They are indeed. And as arranged, that matter is taken care of in the strictest confidence.” He leaned over the desk. “The—investment—is quite safe, and flourishing. I receive regular reports and would be pleased to show them to you—”

  Iain got to his feet abruptly, and Crawford scrambled to rise as well. “There’s no need,” he said. He took a letter from his pocket and glanced briefly at the Lindsay seals before dropping it on the desk. “This contains my wishes,” he said crisply. “Please see they are executed.”

  Crawford peered at the letters. “Aye, of course, but—”

  “Good day, Mr. Crawford,” Iain said, and walked out.

  David wanted him declared dead.

  Iain smiled grimly. He’d have to wait.

  “Of course my dear, there are many more species in the Botanic Garden in St. Anne’s Yards, near Holyrood Palace,” Hamish told Laire as he escorted her through his conservatory and pointed out the exotic plants in his collection.

  She’d been at her uncle’s home nearly three weeks, and he had avoided any discussion of how to aid her family. Instead, she’d had endless dress fittings under the supervision of Mrs. Groves, and had been introduced to most of Edinburgh society. She was not permitted to go out without the chaperonage of Mrs. Groves, Uncle Hamish himself, or the protection of a burly manservant. She visited Lindsay House to help Hoolet with her gown or play with the wee ones, but she’d seen little of Iain.

  “Which plants counteract poison, Uncle?” she asked now, turning to look at a leafy fern. Beyond the priceless glass panes, the world lay under a deep, lace-edged blanket of December snow. But inside the conservatory, it was perpetually spring, and plants flourished, strong and green, bloomed with colorful flowers, and bore luscious fruit.

  “That depends on the poison, of course,” he said, looking around. “Lady’s Thistle is effective if one has ingested poisonous mushrooms. Adderwort assists with some—” He stopped, and wagged his finger at her. “Och, ye don’t still believe that your father’s new wife is poisoning him, do ye, lass?” He chuckled fondly. “When a man is in love, it can seem like he’s been drugged. His heart pounds, he smiles as if he’s gone daft, and he hums to himself and preens like a dandy. And in the lady’s presence, he’s dafter still, pale and sighing, moony as a schoolboy. Donal was that way when he met your mother, Laire. Ye needn’t worry. You’re young, and ye don’t understand such things yet. We’ll say no more about it. Now come and see my lemon tree. We’ll have lemon tarts for supper, and that’s a treat that will make ye smile. We’ll take a cutting when I escort ye home to Glen Iolair in the spring, and ye can grow your own lemons. Won’t that be fun?”

  It will be too late . . . She blinked back frustrated tears. He took out his handkerchief and wiped them away, just as he had done when she was a child crying over her lost twin and her mother’s death.

  “Och, now, there’s nothing to cry over. You’ll understand when you fall in love yourself. When the man you’re destined to love comes along, it will be exactly the same. Your heart will cry out for him, ache with longing, and ye’ll be daft as a hare . . .” His smile faded slightly. “True love is as painful as it is pleasant.”

  She imagined Iain Lindsay, the kiss they’d shared, the way her heart contracted and her body bloomed whenever she thought of him.

  “Did you ever fall in love, Uncle?”

  He sighed. “Aye, once. A bonny lass she was . . .”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She married someone else,” he said, and looked at her soberly. “There is no cure for some of the unkindest ills that plague us, lass, but time heals some of what hurts worst.”

  She put her hand on his.
“I miss Mama and my brother. I’ve seen Papa in love many times. But this time . . .” She struggled for the words. “This isn’t love. My sisters are ill, changed. In the spring—”

  He stepped back, alarmed. “My mother suffered from hysteria. Could it be that it has been passed down, that you are likewise cursed? My friend Dr. Monro believes that there’s something in the blood of women that makes them emotional creatures, incapable of reason. I’ll have him assess you.”

  “I am not irrational, Uncle! They are ill. It isn’t love but hate that has changed them. They are in danger . . .”

  He turned away, shaking his head. “I have work to do, my dear. Perhaps you should rest. I’ll see you at tea.”

  He left her, hurrying away between the marvelous array of plants as if she were the poison, and the truth was the illusion . . .

  Only one person knew she was telling the truth. Only Iain, Bibiana’s sealgair.

  Only he could help her now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  She needed Iain. He could convince her uncle that she was not a silly, jealous child or a hysterical woman. Even if he didn’t know precisely what was in Bibiana’s potion, he knew the effect, could tell her uncle . . .

  She needed to see him alone, without Mrs. Groves to chaperone their conversation.

  She waited until the house fell silent for the night. Her uncle retired to his study after dinner to read and study until the wee hours. Mrs. Groves took to her room to sip sherry by the fire until she dozed off. The manservant did a circuit of the house at ten o’clock, checking the locks and window latches before he went to bed.