by Marie Laval
She gasped, the plaid dropped down from her shoulders onto the floor but this time she didn’t seem to notice. The fire behind her outlined the contours of her body, the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. Her blonde hair fell in tight curls and ringlets down to the small of her back, her lips parted, her breasts stretched the thin fabric of the nightdress with every breath she took. She looked as innocent as an angel, as tempting as sin.
He clenched his jaw and stepped closer. Some angel she was. She would damn well explain herself even if he had to pull the truth out of her the hard way.
‘Are you even called Rose Saintclair? You may have invented the whole story about your father being a French cuirassier colonel and your mother running an estate in North Africa.’
The post guard’s words suddenly came back to him. The man had claimed that Morven wanted to stop Rose from making trouble for McRae. What kind of trouble was he talking about? Was she planning to stop his wedding to Sophia Fairbanks?
‘I have told no lies.’ She tilted her head high and they stared at each other in silence.
Tension sizzled, so potent his body tightened, hardened, ached. His breath hitched in his throat. Blood pulsed inside him. Wife, mistress, impostor, heiress or courtesan, what did it matter? Right now he wanted her so much he didn’t care who, or what, she was.
‘The McKenzies made a mistake,’ she added. ‘Cameron can’t marry this Lady Fairbanks, or anyone else, because he married me in Algiers. You must believe me. Please. I told the truth.’
Her voice broke, her shoulders rose in a helpless shrug, and tears slid down her cheek. Something shifted, softened inside him. She sounded sincere, or she was a damned good actress.
‘Let’s say I believe you for a minute,’ he started in a gruff voice. ‘Tell me about the wedding.’
‘A Reverend Thompson performed the ceremony. I’d never met him before, and neither had I met the witnesses. Cameron told me they were clerks at the Embassy.’
‘Where and when did the ceremony take place?’
‘In the chapel at the back of the Embassy, the evening before Cameron sailed back.’
‘Hmm … do you have the marriage certificate, the proof that you’re legally Lady McRae?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Cameron kept it.’
‘What about your friends, can any of them vouch that the ceremony took place?’
She closed her eyes, briefly. ‘Nobody came.’
‘You were on your own?’ He couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘You said Malika left after you two had an argument, but what about Akhtar, the man who escorted you to Algiers. Didn’t he give you away?’
‘He didn’t approve of my marrying Cameron without my mother’s consent – even if I was old enough to make my own decisions. He too left the day before the wedding.’
He didn’t say anything but he didn’t think much of this Akhtar. The man was supposed to look out for Rose, not leave alone to fend for herself and make what was surely the biggest mistake of her life.
‘So for all we know McRae could have asked someone to impersonate a minister and paid a couple of witnesses to sign a fake certificate.’
‘Are you implying that my wedding was a charade?’
He shrugged. ‘It seems obvious, doesn’t it?’
‘No, no you’re wrong.’ She rushed to her bag, and after a frantic search produced a small velvet pouch she opened carefully.
‘Look. Cameron gave me a ring.’ She held out a shiny gold wedding band.
‘Anyone can buy a ring, it doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘But he wouldn’t stoop so low as to fake a wedding.
The McKenzies must have misunderstood when the banns were read.’
‘The thing is, there has been talk of a wedding to Lady Fairbanks for months. That’s why I was so taken aback when you arrived at Wrath and announced that you were McRae’s wife.’
He softened his voice. ‘The man conned you, and the sooner you accept it the better.’
‘But why? Why would he do that?’
‘I have no idea.’ He shrugged. ‘To get you into bed, perhaps.’
She let out a small whimper and fresh tears wet her cheeks. As she lifted her hand to rub her eyes, the fabric of her nightdress brushed over her breasts again, outlining their full, soft, round shape. He took a deep breath and made himself look away. A man would sorely be tempted to make up a whole heap of lies for just one night with her.
‘No, it can’t be, you’re all wrong,’ she whispered. ‘Oh … what am I going to do?’
‘Don’t worry, things may not be so bad. I can arrange your return journey to Algiers. No one need ever know McRae took advantage of you. You could always tell Akhtar and your family that you changed your mind and did not marry McRae after all …’
When she sobbed more loudly, he clenched his fists. What an idiot. Of course! She might be pregnant and not have the luxury of pretending nothing had happened. What hadn’t he thought about it before?
‘Is there any chance you might be with child?’ he asked.
She flung her head back as if he’d slapped her, buried her face in her hands and carried on crying without answering.
He sighed. He may have been too brusque and not have handled that the way he should have, but he hoped for her sake and that of any child that she wasn’t pregnant. If she was, she would suffer the shame of being an unmarried mother, and the child would be taunted and sneered at – an outcast. Every taunt, every sneer would hurt like hell, like salt rubbed into a raw wound.
Bruce knew exactly what that felt like. Not only was he born out of wedlock, but he had no idea who his father was. His mother had taken her secret with her. All he knew was that his father was a thug and a rogue. His grandfather had said so many times – the night he announced he was enrolling him in the 92nd Gordon Highlanders for example. ‘I doubt the army will make a man out of you. You’re a bad seed, always were. You’ll never be any good, just like your father – may Black Donald roast his balls in hell.’
As usual the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth. He pushed it to the back of his mind, looked at the woman crying in front of him, and before he realised what he was doing, strode across the room and pulled her to him in a clumsy attempt to soothe and comfort her.
‘Here. Please don’t cry,’ he said in a hoarse voice.
She nestled closer, and it felt like she was melting, warm and pliant in his arms. Heat shot throughout his body and suddenly he didn’t want to comfort her at all, but kiss those lips and breathe in her sweet female scent until he was drunk on it.
She rubbed her wet cheek against his shirt, nestled closer and he gave up the struggle. His hands slid along her spine, rested on her waist. He bent down until his lips brushed the wet, salty velvet of her cheek, trailed down slowly towards her mouth. He felt her tremble in his arms but she didn’t move away. His hands glided further down, settled on the swell of her hips, and moulded her to him.
The feel of her smooth, naked body under the flimsy nightdress set his blood on fire. His heart drummed fast, hard. All he wanted to do was pull the gown up until he touched her bare skin, lost himself inside her and fill his darkness with her light, her warmth, her sunshine.
His fingers travelled up and down, traced feverish patterns along her spine. Her eyes still closed, she let out a helpless moan of surrender which burned through him like a firebrand. She tilted her head back, her lips parted in an irresistible offering.
No.
The word rang in his mind, loud and clear. He wouldn’t take advantage of her when she was distressed and confused. Stepping away felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done.
‘That’s quite enough crying,’ he growled. ‘Pull yourself together, damn it.’
She opened her eyes and looked at him as if she’d just awakened from a dream and had no idea who he was. A fierce blush spread on her face, her throat, down to the opening of her nightdress. She took a hurried step back, picked up the plaid from the floor a
nd covered herself with it.
‘I’m s-sorry.’
‘It sounds as if the worst of the storm has passed. We’ll set off for Westmore tomorrow.’
‘I thought you were taking me back to Wrath.’
‘I changed my mind.’
She gasped. ‘I see. Now you believe I’m not married to Cameron, I’m no use to you any more. And since you can’t blackmail him, you might as well take me with you and get rid of me, is that right?’
‘Aye,’ he answered, even it is wasn’t exactly true. How could he explain his sudden, irrational and overwhelming reluctance at the thought of parting from her, even for a few days? Whether she was married to McRae or not, his instincts, his whole being, screamed at him not to let her out of his sight and to keep her close.
Silence hung heavy between them. Then she said it was late, she was tired and was going to bed, and he pulled a chair close to the fire, sat down and prepared himself for a long vigil – and another attack of his illness.
Damn. He hadn’t even thanked her for looking after him the night before. Her gentle voice, the feel of her hand on his face had soothed him, and eventually made the nightmares go away – even the dream-like vision of Malika’s face, her eyes wide with blind terror and her mouth opened onto a silent scream. The same question that had haunted him for the past few days tormented him once more. Where had he seen her before? Why did she look so scared? Had he done anything to hurt the girl?
He clenched his fists on his thighs. Perhaps he would find the answers he sought at Westmore.
Rose paused at the edge of the forest. No wonder they called this place Fairy Wood. It was truly an enchanted place in an enchanted dawn which, in a strange way, reminded her of early morning at Bou Saada, even if snow covered the ground instead of golden sand. The sky glowed with delicate shades of violet, mauve and pinks mixed with translucent greys and blues. Further down the valley, two mountains covered with pine forests and tipped with snow rose like sleepy giants standing guard. At the edge of the woods a stream sang a pure, crystalline song as it cascaded over rocks. Perhaps fairies hid behind the tall, dark firs, or behind those rocks shiny with frost and ice.
She left the path and walked across the field, her boots sinking into the pristine, thick and fluffy snow. She dropped the tin pot and dirty cups she’d brought from the cottage for washing down on the river bank, knelt down and stared into her distorted reflection.
What a sorry sight she was, with her matted hair, her eyes gritty and swollen from the lack of sleep, her face pale and blotchy. It was no wonder really, considering she had spent yet another sleepless night. This time, it wasn’t Lord McGunn’s illness which had kept her awake but the maddening questions swirling inside her head, over and over again. Did Cameron deceive her, and if so, why?
As she lay on the grimy straw mattress, she had replayed every moment of their three-week whirlwind courtship, culminating in Cameron proposing to her in the Jardin d’Essai one balmy evening as stars reflected in the dark surface of the sea and a silver moon watched over them. She had dissected their wedding day hour by hour, minute by minute, to find any clues indicating that it had been a clever deception. She found none.
The evening ceremony in the chapel at the back of the British Embassy had been a little rushed because Reverend Thompson had been at the bedside of a dying British merchant all day and needed to return to the grieving family for the wake. After the ceremony, they had gone to The Excelsior Hotel, but instead of going to her room, she had sneaked into Cameron’s suite in secret since nobody was to know about the wedding. After uncorking a bottle of champagne, they’d toasted their union. He’d taken her in his arms and they’d waltzed across the room. How happy, giddy and excited she had felt!
After that everything had gone terribly wrong, which had all been her fault …
With a heavy sigh, she grabbed hold of a pebble and threw it as hard as she could into the stream. It hit a rock, bounced off and landed with a loud ‘plop’. Half a dozen ravens flew off from a nearby tree, making hoarse crowing calls.
Why would Cameron have played such a cruel trick on her? Lord McGunn was wrong. He had to be.
She swallowed. Bruce McGunn. He was the other reason she had been awake all night.
She whispered his name and her chest tightened so much it hurt. What was it about him that made her angry and weak all at once, that filled her with longing, heat and need in a way no other man, even Cameron, ever had? He was a harsh, brutal, unpleasant man – the exact opposite of Cameron in everything – and she disliked him with a frightening intensity.
Yet she’d all but melted in his arms the evening before. Her body craved his touch, his caresses. Her heart ached and swelled up for him every time she recalled the anguished, haunted look in his eyes when he spoke of Ferozeshah and what he called his ‘curse’. Nothing made sense any more, least of all her own feelings.
Her fingers scooped a little snow and moulded it into a ball she threw into the stream. Dipping her fingers in the water, she cupped icy water into her hands and washed her face until her cheeks tingled and her mind felt sharper. She rinsed out the cups, filled the tin pot with fresh water and started back toward the village just as the winter sun, a huge ball of blood-red fire, rose between the mountains, turning the sky into a riot of fiery colours that painted the snow red and orange.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the beast until it was too late. It stood a few feet away only, magnificent and tall with its huge antlers and thick brownish coat. By Old Ibrahim’s Beard, what was that? She’d never seen such an animal before. It was huge, and looked deadly.
For a second it seemed as unsure as herself as to what to do. Then it shook its antlers, beat the ground with its foreleg, let out a series of grunts which echoed in the silence, and poised to charge.
A squeal of terror echoed behind her and she swirled round. The youngest McKenzie girl stood still, her eyes opened wide in fright, her face as pale as snow.
‘Don’t make a sound, don’t move, until I tell you.’ Rose willed her voice to remain calm, all the time glancing around for something she would use to make the beast go away. There was nothing which could serve as a weapon – nothing but snow. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do …
Dropping the pots to the ground, barely aware of the cold water splashing all over her skirt and boots, she bent down to scoop a handful of snow. She shaped a ball and threw it at the stag’s chest. The animal jumped back in surprise.
‘Go back to the cottage. Now!’ she told the girl before bending down to make more snowballs and throw them in rapid succession at the animal.
The stag let out a loud snort, breathed out a cloud of steam and pawed at the snowy ground. It took a couple more minutes and several more snowballs for it to turn and run away in the woods.
‘Snowballs against a stag? Now that was a bloody daft idea.’ A man’s deep voice scolded behind her.
Annoyed, she swung round to face Bruce McGunn. His face was hard, his grey eyes almost blue in the bright morning light. Like every time he was close, her heart drummed so fast and loud she found it hard to breathe.
‘I had to think of something to give the little girl time to run away.’
‘It was completely irresponsible. Did you see the size of its antlers? It could have killed you both, had it charged.’
There he was again, telling her off like a stupid, naughty child. Anger and hurt flooded inside her – a wild, mad torrent that made her voice shake and her face burn. She stamped her foot on the ground, grabbed hold of one of her remaining snowballs and pressed it hard between her hands until it was hard and compact.
‘Well, it didn’t charge, did it? What would you rather I had done? Climbed up a tree with the little girl on my back, or grabbed a stick and chased after it, or just stood there and screamed for help?’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Calm down, sweetheart, I was just …’
She stomped her foot on the ground again.
‘Don’t tell me to calm down, and don’t tell me I am making a scene. And above all, don’t call me “sweetheart”! I wish you’d stop talking to me as if I was five years old. I wish you’d leave me alone and I’d never see you again. But most of all I wish I’d never met you.’
‘You said that before,’ he remarked coolly. ‘Now, if you’ve finished your little tantrum, it’s time we went back to the cottage …’
That did it. She didn’t remember raising her arm and taking aim but the next thing she knew she threw the snowball at him. It hit his chin with a soft thud.
She let out a squeak, put her hand in front of her mouth and stepped back.
‘You need to improve your aim,’ he said, deadly calm as he brushed the white powder off his dark beard. ‘It was off target if you meant to get me on the nose,’
‘I – I didn’t mean to hit you.’
‘Yes, you did. Let me show you how it’s done.’
He bent down to scoop some snow and threw a snowball at her. She was so surprised she didn’t move and it caught her on the shoulder.
He tossed another snowball. This time she ducked and it landed behind her.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I thought it was obvious. We’re having a snowball fight, aren’t we?’
He gathered a handful of snow, and shaped it between his hands.
‘Come on, what are you waiting for?’ he called, a wide smile on his face.
It took her a split second to make up her mind. If Lord McGunn challenged her to a snowball fight, then she would show him what she was capable of. She bent down, packed some snow between her hands and threw a ball but he dodged it and it landed on the ground.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ The sunlight caught his eyes again, made them shine with silver sparkles.
She hurled the next ball straight at his head.
‘I got you! I got you!’ She cried out, jumping up and down when she caught him on the nose.
‘Not bad, but a little weak.’
‘Weak, you said? Then how do you find this one?’