Emerald Embrace

by Drake, Shannon

  Clarissa was missing …

  And Martise had a very uneasy feeling deep inside and not even the rise of the wind and the rush of the surf could sweep it away.

  She wanted to run after him. She wanted to stop him and beat against him and cry out, “Swear! Swear to me that you did not see Clarissa!”

  But he was gone, and she could not reach him, and if she could, he would surely stare at her with fury.

  He wanted her belief, she thought, her trust. He demanded it, in fact, and when he did not receive it, he was angry.

  But she could not give him her trust! she told herself firmly.

  And then, even as she turned toward the house, she realized that he already had much, much more of her. With each new encounter, he was beguiling her ever more beneath the simple but shattering power of his will.

  And his desire.

  6

  It was late when Bruce Creeghan returned for her. And Clarissa Cunningham had still not come home.

  The men came into the cottage tired and drenched. Peggy was quick to pour tea to warm them.

  Martise, aware that Peggy would tend to her “dear Laird Creeghan” before seeing to her elderly husband, took to tending Bruce herself. If she had begun the task of bringing him his stew and tea with a trace of resentment, that feeling quickly faded, and for the time they remained within the cottage, she was convinced that Creeghan was a man of honor, deeply concerned about the events of the day.

  His eyes touched hers with a weary thanks as she set down the hot stew, and she almost felt his exhaustion. Henry was quick to tell them that Creeghan had dived into the frosty northern waters when necessary, frantic to save lives. But it was too late. The bodies they discovered were long past life.

  “She went down under a full moon,” Bruce commented broodingly. “I canna understand it, Peggy, I canna,” he murmured, his accent growing stronger with his weariness.

  Peggy sighed. “There’s none can do anything, Laird Creeghan. The ships, they will smash up on the Dragon’s Teeth.”

  “Aye, but it seems they fall upon the rock too oft in recent years,” he said. He finished his tea and set down his cup. “Did your girl make it home?” he demanded of Peggy.

  Peggy cast a glance at her husband. “No, she dinna.”

  Henry looked up, anger and worry contorting his weathered features. “I’ll have me a switch to her, I will,” he muttered.

  Peggy said nothing.

  “We’ll have a search for her tomorrow if she doesn’t make it home soon, Peggy. You mustn’t worry. The young will be young,” he said reassuringly.

  Peggy nodded. They came outside. The moon was still nearly full. Peggy’s son Michael brought their horses, and Bruce helped Martise up into the saddle.

  He did not head home with his customary breakneck pace. His sluggish journey seemed to match his mood. He was quiet, barely speaking.

  When they reached the castle, he lifted her down and told her to go to bed, he would tend to the horses himself. She turned, wishing she could say something, and yet she could not. As she headed for the door he called her back. “Bolt your doors.”

  “I always do.”

  “Be sure. Be doubly sure. Do you hear me, girl?”

  She nodded, irritated, but his attention was no longer upon her, and he was already leading the horses away.

  Martise hurried through the empty hall. A fire still burned in the hearth, she noted, and realized that Hogarth probably never turned in for the night until the master had done so himself.

  She did not tarry in the hall, but hurriedly ran up the steps to her room. She was cold, very cold, and she shed her night-dampened clothing and donned a gown. She was ready to dive into her bed when she paused and went back to try the bolts once again.

  The doors were definitely locked.

  The events of the day played over and over in her mind when she went to bed.

  But then she fell asleep, and if she dreamed, she knew nothing of it.

  She awoke once, with a start. She sat up in bed, hugging her pillow and looking about.

  She had thought that someone was with her. There was no one. She was alone.

  And yet …

  It seemed that the masculine, alluring scent of the lord of the castle lingered on the air, haunting her heart and her mind.

  She turned back into her covers, and it was a long, long time before she slept again.

  In the morning, Martise discovered that the men were preparing to ride out and search the forests and the cliffs.

  Clarissa Cunningham had not come home with the dawn, and her parents were frantic.

  Bruce was already outside when Martise heard the news from Ian. She ran out herself, catching him before he could mount the great bay.

  “I’d like to come. Perhaps I can help!” she told him.

  “You’d be in the way, lass. Stay home,” he told her.

  “I’m an excellent rider, you know that. I can help.”

  He leaned forward, exasperated. “And what do you ken of this land, lass, eh? Do you know the cliffs, or the beaches, or the forests? Or the rocks, by God, the rocks are deadly. Above the water and below. You’ve been told what they do to the unwary.”

  “I don’t want to take a ship out. I want to ride with you.”

  He threw up his hands and called out to one of the stable boys. It was Jemie; it seemed that Creeghan liked the lad and called him most frequently.

  “Bring out Desdemona for Lady St. James, lad.” His eyes fell upon Martise. “She’ll be ready to ride within ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes. She gazed at him for a single second, then spun around and raced for the stairs.

  She did not wear Mary’s habit that day, but chose one of her own. It was a cobalt blue, and severely tailored, lightened only by the white ruffles of the blouse she wore beneath it.

  When she came running back downstairs, she found that Conar and Ian and Peter were already mounting, as well as Bruce, and that they all waited for her.

  She hurried toward the mare, and Jemie helped her mount. She turned to Bruce.

  “Nine minutes,” he said with a trace of amusement. “Very good, Lady St. James.”

  They rode first for the village. Bruce was ahead with his uncle, Peter, and Martise found herself riding beyond them, between Ian and Conar.

  “Do you think we’ll find her?” Martise asked anxiously. She couldn’t bear thinking of Peggy having to deal with the disappearance of her daughter. “She could be lying hurt somewhere—”

  Ian interrupted her with a scornful snort. “Clarissa? No, I think not. The girl is as wild as the weeds that grow upon the cliffs. Mark my words. She’s run off—she’s found some man, and she’s run off, and we’ll not hear from her again until she comes running with a brat in her belly—”

  “Ian,” Conar said sharply.

  “My apologies, Martise. That was crude.”

  “It was incredibly crude,” Conar said flatly. He grinned at Martise. “Do forgive him. It’s a small world we live in.”

  “What did Bruce say?” Ian asked his brother. “I had thought that he intended to talk to her yesterday morning. He rode out to see her, I know that he did.”

  Martise felt a ripple of unease sweep along her spine as she waited for Conar to answer.

  Conar lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “Bruce says he never spoke with her. She was not about.”

  Bruce had been angry, Martise thought. Angry about the crypts he had warned her about so constantly.

  Clarissa had really disappeared on the night of the full moon. On the night the ship had evidently wrecked upon the rocks.

  On the night she had awakened because of the noises far below her on the cliffs. When the wind had been high and cold, and she had seen the lights running along the cliffs.

  On the night she backed into the arms of Bruce Creeghan, and he had carried her into her room to promise that if she stayed, he would have her …

  She shivered. “Let’s pray that
she did run away with some man, a sailor briefly into the village or some other.”

  Ian’s hand rested upon hers on the saddle. “I’m sure of it, Martise. You needn’t fear discovering her twisted and torn body upon the rocks.”

  “Well, now, that was a wonderful and thoughtful comment, too,” Conar told his brother with exasperation.

  “Sorry!” Ian said, and grinned at Martise. “I meant to make you feel better, honest, milady, I did.”

  She smiled. “It’s all right, Ian. And thank you, Conar.” She smiled at them both and urged her horse forward. Peter was commenting to Bruce that they should take the cliffs, since they knew them best.

  “Father Martin was making the arrangements for the search, so I was told,” Bruce said. His gaze fell upon Martise as she rode beside him, but he made no comment to her.

  “Aye, and ye know that they’ll all be waitin’ until ye make yer appearance, Bruce, and that ye’ll be leading the party. ’Tis the way that it is, and that’s a fact, and that’s that.”

  “Then we’ll take the cliffs,” Bruce said, and Martise realized that he was watching her again. “And ye’ll stay by my side, my lady, do ye ken? The cliffs are dangerous.”

  She smiled sweetly. “As you wish.”

  Bruce nodded and nudged the bay, and the horse broke into a smooth canter. The mare leapt to life behind him, and she and Peter followed his pace.

  Within moments they reached the village, Bruce leading the way through the winding paths to the church, where it seemed that all the men and older boys had gathered.

  Father Martin and Dr. MacTeague appeared to be organizing some kind of effort, and, watching them, Martise understood the social structure of the village. Things had not changed so much from ancient times. There were the simple folk, the fishermen, the farmers. And there were merchants, and the shopkeepers, and some of the larger landholders. Above them in status were the doctor and Father Martin, and at the very top of the pinnacle was Laird Creeghan—supreme, she thought, beneath only God Himself.

  The villagers, it seemed, were becoming more accustomed to her. Grave but respectful and perhaps even friendly nods came her way as she quietly waited astride Desdemona. She returned them all, surprised at how fond she was already becoming of the villagers and of their quaint and charming lives.

  As Peter had said, the men had awaited Bruce to make definite decisions. And the master of Creeghan was quick to take charge, leaping atop the stone fence that surrounded the church to map out a plan of action. He sent some men forth to the forests, some along the trail, some to the beaches, and himself and his family to the cliffs.

  Bruce mounted his bay once again and trotted around by her side, murmuring to her, “At my side, milady. At my side.”

  “Aye, Lord Creeghan,” she said humbly, only her excellent adaptation of the Highland accent giving a hint of her sarcasm.

  He cast her a fiery glare, but continued on, and she followed closely, Ian, Peter, and Conar behind her. They left the village and rode along the beach. The path gradually became littered with rocks, and then with boulders, and then they came to a high rise of sheer cliff that Martise could not imagine scaling.

  But there was a trail. They all dismounted and Bruce led the way, and they wound between the gray rises of jagged rock. The trail beneath Desdemona’s feet was dirt and sand and scraggly grass, and yet, as they climbed, more foliage began to take tenacious root until they reached a plateau area with more rock rising ruggedly to the sky beyond them. From here, Martise could clearly see Castle Creeghan, still in the distance, so high above them that it seemed to sit in the clouds, and yet at the same time, it was all part of the landscape: harsh, challenging, and somehow as supremely confident as its master.

  “We’ll split here,” Bruce was saying as they dismounted. “I’ll take Martise along the lower levels.”

  “Aye, fine,” Peter muttered. “And I’ll—”

  “Da, you’ll take the left pass. You’re a wee bit too old to be playing mountain goat. Ian and I’ll take the rock trail to the right.”

  “A wee bit too old—” Peter began with a bluster.

  “Da, behave now,” Ian said with a grin. “All of the paths must be taken, right, Bruce?”

  “Right. We’ll meet back here. There’s brandy in my saddlebag if you make it back first.”

  They split. Bruce started for a narrow, overgrown trail and then paused, looking back to Martise. He reached out a hand, and she scampered over the pebble-strewn earth to take it.

  His fingers closed around hers. Their eyes met and clashed, and Martise allowed hers to fall. He did not say anything. Martise thought that perhaps there was nothing left to be said. She could feel the vibrant heat and pulse of him through the touch of his fingers, and she meekly followed behind.

  It was not an easy trail. It seemed that they had only gone a few feet before Bruce released her to leap about four feet to the slab of rock beneath him. He turned back to her, his arms up. She hesitated, then stepped forward and reached toward him. His hands slipped around her waist and he lifted her down.

  Her body touched his. Slid against it. And then her feet were on the ground but his hands were still upon her and she felt the ripple of muscle beneath his clothing as her body pressed hard against his.

  And then there were his eyes …

  Emerald and fire as they tore into hers. The sun was high overhead and a bird called out and the sea breeze picked up, swirling around them. She wanted to close her eyes but she could not; she could not take them from his. And she thought that he must truly be some devil, demon, or satyr, for had he touched her then, had he chosen to kiss her, strip her, have her, there upon the rock beneath the hot sun, she could not have spoken, she could not have protested.

  “Come on. We’ll take the caves below first,” he told her. His eyes hadn’t left hers. But then they did. He had turned, and he was dragging her along, and it seemed that he was furious all over again.

  They came to a second jump, and though he helped her down, he released her as soon as he could, caught her fingers once more, and hurried still downward. As they rushed along the path, Martise cried out in pain when her ankle twisted, caught in a crevice. She tugged her hand free and sat back upon a slab, fighting the scissors of pain that slashed from her ankle to her thigh.

  “Martise, will you—?” he began angrily, then spun around. He caught sight of the pain in her eyes, then knelt before her, lifting up her foot. He ran a hand along the length of her calf beneath her skirt, and even as a sound of protest escaped her lips, he was untying her boot and removing it. He swore softly, and offered no apology, and then looked up into her eyes.

  “’Tis sprained, at least, not broken,” he said irritably. “I told you that you should not have come!”

  “What?” she snapped, and her eyes narrowed. “If you were not so damned all hell-bent on leaving me behind—”

  “I’m hell-bent on hurrying. We’ve a great deal of land to cover while we’ve got the light.”

  “It was your fault, Laird Creeghan, and that’s a fact!”

  He rose, her boot in his hand, and he pointed it at her as he opposed her flatly. “You’d not be hurt if you’d stayed behind, and that’s a fact. But you’ve always got your wee nose into things, haven’t you?”

  She gasped in fury and rose, and the pressure on her ankle caused her to cry out.

  Then she was swept up into his arms, and his eyes softened somewhat as he stared down at her. “You haven’t the good sense you were born with, lass,” he told her.

  “Set me down,” she commanded him.

  “I canna do that, lass. You’ll come a little farther with me, to the caves, and there I can see you and reach you quickly if there’s a need.”

  He was walking again. Involuntarily, she wound her arms around his neck. She closed her eyes against the sight of his clean-shaven jaw.

  He was surprisingly agile, holding her as he scampered ever downward until they came to the sea again. Fro
m here, arms of the cliffs stretched out into the water, and Martise could easily understand why they hadn’t been able to ride here: the beach itself was totally blocked by the rise of the rock.

  She saw, too, why the rocks were called the Dragon’s Teeth, for they rose before her, and far out into the water, like huge, monstrous canines, jagged and sharp and dangerous.

  Bruce set her down upon a water-worn slab where she could see the waves as they lashed in.

  “At high tides, the beach floods here,” he warned her. “But we’ve hours yet. I’ll be in the caves, not too far. If you need me, call for me.”

  She said nothing, but stared out at the deep blue sea.

  “Martise!”

  Startled, she looked into his eyes.

  “Do you ken? Call me if you need me.”

  “Aye!” she heard herself saying. Then something about his eyes touched her deeply and she promised, “Yes, Bruce, I hear you, and I will. But what … could happen?” she asked.

  He shook his head, and she realized that he didn’t know.

  Still he was reluctant to leave her. Suddenly, he was walking back toward her, and then balanced down upon one knee, smoothing back a soft, wayward strand of hair. His fingers brushed her cheek, and she wanted to catch his hand and stop him. But her eyes were locked with his once again, and the sizzling amber mystique was filling her with longing, with the golden edge of his fire …

  Her hand fell upon his shoulder, and she feathered her fingers through the raven wings of his hair, and she closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the fascination. She felt the salt ocean breeze against her cheeks and then the touch of his lips, caressing, soft, against hers. And she felt the heat of the sun again, too, against the damp chill of the day, for he pressed her back against the rock, and its warmth seeped into her.

  “By all that’s holy,” he murmured, his lips poised above her eyes as he gently brushed them both with his kiss. “I should play the demon indeed this moment. The waves and sea become a part of it, coursing through the blood, demanding the rhythms of Eden.” His whisper was seductive, lulling.

  But then his hands were upon her, pulling her up, and a taunting gleam was in his eyes as she opened her own to them. “Indeed, milady, I’ve warned that I shall have you, and that I shall. If you do not have me first.”