Beloved Impostor

by Patricia Potter

  “Ye are cold, milady,” Robina said. “I will send someone in to stoke the fire.”

  Felicia did not answer. She was not cold from lack of a roaring fire. Fear froze her. Fear for Jamie and Lachlan. For Rory.

  “When did Lord Rory ask you to come to me?” she asked.

  “Just before he rode out,” Robina said.

  “He is gone then?”

  “Aye.”

  She wondered whether he had left when the two Macleans searched her room. The gates had been closed. when she looked out earlier. Were they looking for Jamie both inside and outside the walls?

  She felt as if she would jump out of her skin. She would have to sit and wait as those she cared about were running and being chased by others she cared about.

  Robina pinned a cap to Felicia’s short hair. Felicia stood and went once more to the window. “How many men did Lord Rory take with him?”

  “I am not sure. Many,” Robina replied.

  “What will he do if he finds them?”

  “I do not know, milady. None of us here know him well. He has been gone so long. I have only heard—” She stopped suddenly.

  “Heard what?”

  Robina’s face reddened. “I canna say, milady.”

  Felicia searched her face. Robina’s jaw was stubbornly set, which was unlike the young maid who was so eager to please. Her gaze would not meet Felicia’s.

  Felicia suddenly stilled. She remembered the fright she had when she realized she had been abducted by Macleans. She’d remembered hearing of a raid in which a ruthless Maclean killed women and children. It would have been twelve years ago.

  Rory would have lived here then.

  But then so had his father and older brother. Lachlan as well, though he would have been young. Still …

  Her blood suddenly ran cold.

  Could it have been Rory? Or had he been with his father?

  No. She had seen him with children. She had seen his concern, his kindness.

  A nibble of doubt ate at her. And if he was that Maclean, could she ever look at him in the same way?

  She could not. She knew that with every drop of Campbell blood in her.

  Chapter 21

  “How long do you think your brother will give us?”

  “An hour, perhaps, if that much,” Lachlan said. “Maclean pride will have taken a bitter hit this morning.”

  They had been riding hard for several hours, and slowed only long enough to rest their horses.

  “Why are you doing this?” Jamie asked.

  Lachlan did not answer.

  Jamie had learned in the past few days that Lachlan Maclean kept his own counsel. But he wanted to know more about this Maclean who was willing to feign treason to his clan. He wanted to know whether he could depend on him if the need came.

  He still did not know.

  Jamie knew the Macleans would pursue. The Maclean would have to come after them or lose the confidence of his clan. He could not make obvious mistakes.

  He hoped they would have an hour’s lead. That should give them enough of a lead to reach the border and come under the protection of Janet’s family.

  He glanced again at his companion. Lachlan Maclean was a puzzle to him, and he did not like puzzles. Too much depended on the younger Maclean’s wiliness. And courage.

  And on the older one’s honor.

  He was none too confident of either.

  There were too many tales of Maclean atrocities, and now they had abducted a helpless woman.

  Jamie looked upward. The sun was climbing. Their horses were tired and needed rest despite their superb condition. Though the Maclean keep was not as well kept as Dunstaffnage, their horses were in excellent condition. Still, he and Lachlan had ridden hard.

  Lachlan slowed, obviously recognizing the animals’ need for rest as well.

  He pointed toward a wooded mountain. They left the road and turned toward a heavily forested area. Once there, the Maclean dismounted and started to lead his horse. Jamie did the same and followed as his companion moved farther into the wood.

  The trees and undergrowth were dense, but Lachlan moved with a sureness that impressed Jamie. They soon reached what looked like an overgrown path, and their pace quickened.

  The day warmed. They rested briefly atop the hill where they could see the road they had left. Riders moved swiftly along it, but none turned in their direction.

  Jamie surmised that this trail had been used years earlier for raids into Cameron and Campbell properties. Since it was overgrown and barely visible, Jamie could only guess it had not been used in years and was unknown to those following them.

  Lachlan was probably the most reticent man he’d ever ridden with, but then he had reason. He probably trusted Jamie no more than Jamie trusted him.

  The horses breathed easier when they started again.

  It was midday when he realized they were on Cameron land.

  They had successfully escaped Maclean land. But he knew the test—the real peril—lay ahead. And he was not at all sure that Morneith was the Maclean’s only target.

  Rory divided his men, sending a group to each pass and road being watched. Archibald led one of them, a man named Davie the other.

  He knew they would ride hard. Each one knew the value of the Campbell heir as a hostage.

  He also doubted they would find anyone. Lachlan had placed each of the patrols. He knew the areas to avoid.

  After dark, he led his patrol back to Inverleith. The gates opened, and they entered. Douglas met them.

  Rory dismounted and handed the reins to a stable lad who approached. “Have the horses watered and fed,” he ordered.

  Douglas waited until the lad walked the horse away, then asked, “No sign of them?”

  “Nay. Archibald is still checking the passes and roads. He has seen nothing, and his men are looking hard, but I think they are long gone from Maclean land.”

  Douglas nodded. “Good,” he said in little more than a whisper. He apparently had rid himself of the doubts he’d expressed earlier about the plan. He hesitated, then added, “Perhaps we should tell Archibald.”

  “Nay, he is not a man to keep secrets,” Rory said. “It is not that he would not try, but the righteous anger would be gone. Our people and the Campbells must both be convinced.”

  Douglas did not look completely satisfied, and Rory understood why. The two men had kept the clan safe these past few years with little help from the lairds. Rory knew how difficult it must be for Douglas to keep this secret from his friend.

  He walked with Douglas toward the keep. His wounded arm ached. He was beset with uncertainty about the events he had just put into motion. He could have simply sent Felicia back to Dunstaffnage, and all would go on as it had in recent years.

  Had he risked his entire clan to save her from a horrific marriage?

  Yet an alliance with the Campbell heir could have many more benefits to the Macleans. It could stop a century of warfare.

  Was it worth the gamble?

  Rory looked up at the tower. Lights blazed in the great hall and flickered in rooms above. He saw a glimmer from Felicia’s room.

  “What is the clan saying?” he asked Douglas.

  “There’s confusion, anger. Some believe that Lachlan helped the Campbell. Others believe he was forced in some way.”

  “What would you have thought?” he asked, curious.

  Douglas was silent for several moments, then said thoughtfully, “I would think he had a reason. He has always been one to think too much.”

  A good description of his half brother.

  Lachlan was probably the bravest and most gallant of the three of them. “And about Lady Felicia?”

  “They all know she is a Campbell now. The ones who do not know her grumble. The others defend her.”

  It was the most he could have hoped for.

  He went inside the tower and up the stairs. He hesitated, knowing he should just go to his own chamber.

  Yet
he could not do that. He felt intolerably alone. He knew she must feel the same.

  He went to her room. A guard stood outside. “You may go,” he said.

  Rory knocked lightly after the man left, then opened the door.

  Felicia stood in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed in front of her as if she were cold. The flames from the fire made her cropped hair glow like copper.

  She did not turn and look at him, though by the tightening of her body, he realized she sensed his presence.

  “Is it true?” she asked in a small, uncertain voice.

  The uncertainty was so unlike her, the words pierced his heart.

  “That your cousin has escaped? Aye, it is.”

  “You did not find him?”

  “Nay.”

  “And Lachlan? Did Jamie take him by force?”

  “I think not.”

  She turned then. “You are not certain?” Distrust was in her eyes. Distrust and despair.

  “I am not certain of anything.” Which was probably the first honest words he had spoken. He was startled at her question about Lachlan. She appeared nearly as dismayed about him as her cousin.

  “Jamie gave you his parole,” she said. “He would not have dishonored himself.”

  His silence was a condemnation of the honor of James Campbell. He knew the Campbell had understood that, but it was more than a little difficult to condemn a man who did not deserve it, even by omission.

  “He would not violate it,” she said. “Nor would Lachlan act dishonorably.”

  “Lachlan marches to his own beat,” he said. “I do not know about your cousin.”

  “I do,” she said. “I do not believe it. Not of either of them.” It was a statement of fact.

  He realized she had put trust in Lachlan, far more than she had placed in him.

  She was wiser than she knew.

  He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her that Jamie had not left her, nor had Lachlan betrayed his clan. But he did not trust what she might do.

  So why was he here?

  He told himself it was because he owed it to her. He and Lachlan and James Campbell. All of them had lied to her, at least by omission, and he knew she must feel abandoned and betrayed. Under her bravado, he detected the same uncertainty that deviled him. She so much wanted to believe in her cousin. In Lachlan. Yet there had to be painful doubt.

  He thought he was doing the right thing but was not sure. Sending others into danger while he stayed safely behind stone walls went against everything he valued.

  “You do not, either,” she said suddenly.

  “Do not what?”

  “You do not believe it, either.”

  God’s eyes, but she could see right through him. Although she didn’t know the cause of his uncertainty, she saw something. He had to divert her thoughts before she sensed the truth.

  “It does not matter. They are gone,” he said shortly.

  “Jamie would not have left me,” she protested stubbornly.

  “He is a Campbell,” he said, wincing at the cruelty in his words and tone. But she had to be convinced so that others would be, and underneath that need lay that festering jealousy for a man who was both enemy and ally. And a self-hatred for what he was now doing, making her believe that someone she loved would leave her.

  “And you are a Maclean. Your clan kills children. They chain women to rocks,” she struck out in anger.

  “Aye. Remember that.”

  Tension radiated between them, a tension born of need and betrayal, of trust lost. Of his poor attempt to create a wall that was altogether too flimsy, and he sensed she realized it. Their pure need for each other was like a noose relentlessly drawing them together, no matter how hard they struggled against it.

  Then she was in his arms. He was not sure who made the first step, or whether they made it at the same time. He only knew they needed each other, and that need was explosive.

  He closed his eyes as his arms folded around her. He wondered whether her need was for him, or to assuage her sense of abandonment by someone she trusted with her whole being.

  He wanted it to be for him, even though he knew how unwise it was. Still she warmed his soul, and he only now realized how much he had needed that heat.

  When he opened his eyes again, she was looking at him with surprised wonder, as if she were as confused as he at the fire that continued to rage between them, obliterating every obstacle.

  He muttered an oath.

  Her lips parted in an impish smile. She never ceased to surprise him. When she first arrived, she had displayed a courage that startled him. He was even more surprised now that he knew who she was and the fear she must have had upon entering the walls of Inverleith. Instead of turning away from them, she had nursed Macleans and endeared herself to his family.

  She had brought life to a place that had lost it.

  He traced the lines of her face with his right hand. He had done it before, but each time he found something new there. It was a mobile face, full of feelings.

  She stood on tiptoes and looked up at him with an invitation.

  She was not pledged to a Campbell, but to a man she did not know.

  He knew he was justifying the unjustifiable, as his lips met hers hungrily.

  He had known it when he had taken the steps. He’d known it when he knocked on the door.

  Yet she was alone in an enemy keep. She thought she had been abandoned by those she trusted. She needed … reassurance. Comfort. Or at least that was what he told himself.

  Now he knew it was something altogether different. He could no more stay away from her than he could stop breathing.

  It was a humbling realization. He’d always considered himself an honorable man and, in the past few years, a disciplined one. He had loved and been loved, and thought he had experienced all there was to know.

  He had known nothing.

  When his lips touched Felicia Campbell’s, his world exploded into sensations.

  Rory was torn between tenderness and violence, between the warmth he craved and the bitter harvest he knew his actions would sow. His lips sought hers, invaded her mouth, seduced. Demanded.

  Part of him wanted her to be outraged. Wanted her to pull away, as he could not.

  Instead, her mouth welcomed his with fevered intensity, with a need that was as strong as his own.

  And once that happened, there was no retreat.

  His lips bore deep upon hers, their tongues playing a sensuous and frantic game, as if each sensation would be the last either would have with the other.

  He drew her closer to him, and she fitted into his body until every nerve ached and yearned. The kiss turned fiery, fed by their mutual need. He fumbled with the ties at the back of her dress. It fell, leaving a chemise and yards of petticoats to shield her body.

  In seconds, they were gone as well. He ran his fingers down the soft angles of her body, lingering at her breasts. His lips brushed her breasts, and he felt them respond to his touch.

  His body was on fire. As if sensing that, or feeling the same irresistible need, Felicia’s body melted into his. Her arms went around his neck and played with his hair at its nape.

  He could resist the fire in his groin. He had done it before. What he could not resist was the radiance she brought into his life. He had not realized how dark and bleak it had been these past years.

  Still, he tried. “I do not want to hurt you.”

  “I am already hurt,” she said. “And not by you.”

  He knew that was not true. His lies had hurt her. He saw it in her eyes. “Felicia,” he said. “I …”

  She put a finger to his lips. “I want to know what it is like … to—”

  He touched her lips before she could continue. Her eyes were wide, the sapphire blue deep and riveting. They were, he realized, searching his for a response. For a truth he could not give her.

  Neither could he turn away, nor ignore the wistful, almost desperate plea. He touched his
lips to hers again, lightly at first, relishing the tender sweetness of them, but it was she who demanded more. He deepened the kiss, searing them both with a brand he knew he would carry forever.

  He did not know where this would go, could go, but he did know he needed her. And she needed him.

  Could it be so wrong then?

  His hands moved tenderly along her body, feeling it tremble slightly. His eyes feasted on the slender, firm body that glowed in the flickering light from the fireplace.

  For the first time, he mourned the loss of so much of that glorious hair. In his mind’s eyes, he saw it curling down her back, and he longed to tangle his fingers in it. But even without it, she was irresistible to him, the shorn hair curling around her face in ringlets, her eyes bright with the wonder of the sensations she was feeling.

  He wanted her. “You are sure?” he asked again.

  “Aye. It might be all I ever have.”

  He did not want that to be true. He wanted her to have everything. But he could never give it to her. He could see her to France. He could help her escape Morneith if his plan did not work. He would take care of her. He made himself a promise.

  Her hands went to the large buckle at his waist, but they were too small and too unfamiliar with it. He quickly unbuckled the belt and let the plaid fall to the floor, leaving only the long linen shirt.

  He wrapped her in his arms, holding her tightly, allowing her to grow familiar with his body as he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and finally her lips with infinite tenderness and promise. He felt the sensations building in her, and his body grew taut as he sought to control his own needs.

  Her body moved compulsively closer to his, seeking an even more intimate union. He marveled at her lack of coyness, or fear, or modesty. She was open and honest.

  He was not!

  God’s eyes, but he would not, could not, think of that now.

  His kiss became more violent, even desperate. Somewhere inside he hoped she would back away, that she would solve the moral battle raging inside him.

  There was both innocence and instinctive knowledge in her every response. He realized she probably did not know how her touch aroused him, brought him almost to the point of madness. It took every bit of control he could summon not to throw her on the bed and take her.