by Marie Laval
She was right, though. What the hell was he doing? Once again he reminded himself that he had no right to feel that way, no right to want her, but damn it, the woman would tempt a saint. And he was no saint.
He swallowed a deep, hard breath, released her and made himself step back.
‘All right. We’ll stay here a while and wait until McRae and his remaining guests have gone to bed. Where’s your horse?’
‘I left it tied to a post behind the hunting lodge.’
‘What about your bag?’
‘It’s still strapped to the saddle. By the time I spoke to the girls and the musicians, we had to get ready to come here.’
‘How did you manage to get into the hunting lodge without being seen by McRae’s men?’
‘It wasn’t easy. I got stuck as I sneaked in through one of the downstairs windows and ripped my …’
‘You got stuck?’ He would have laughed if he weren’t so angry.
‘The musicians had to pull me in. We had to be quick and very quiet, because Cameron’s men were in the kitchen.’
Damn the woman. Didn’t she care about the danger she put herself in?
‘So, after clambering through a window, you had the brilliant idea of disguising yourself as a dancer and throw yourself into the lion’s den.’
She flinched at the harshness of his tone.
‘I thought I could avoid bumping into Cameron —’
‘You bump into everything and anything you come across, why not McRae?’ he interrupted, taut with temper. ‘He could have recognised you when you were with the others in the music room.’
‘Then I would have confronted him and exposed him for the liar and the debauched rake he is in front of all his guests!’ The baubles on her necklace tinkled like little bells as she shook her head.
‘Weren’t you afraid of all those men ogling you, lusting after you?’ Me included, he remembered, guilt tightening his chest.
‘Well, I … I didn’t think I would have to dance. My plan was to get into the castle and hide until I could speak to Lady Sophia. Unfortunately, Cameron’s manservant was watching us like a hawk and I had no choice but to go into the music room with the others. The girls promised to create a diversion so that I could sneak out unnoticed.’
‘A diversion? That’s a mild way of putting it,’ he sneered. ‘The girls’ dancing was … ahem … striking, to say the least. Ask that poor old man who collapsed.’
He drew in a deep breath. ‘Anyway, where did you learn to dance like that?’
She lowered her eyes, snapped a leaf from a nearby bush and tore it into tiny pieces that spiralled to the ground.
‘Malika taught me, in secret. She always said I was good enough to be one of them.’
She was right, her dancing had been entrancing, mesmerising, but he wasn’t going to tell her.
‘I still can’t believe you took such risks tonight, just to talk to McRae’s fiancée. It was stupid and foolhardy.’
And damned brave, too, even though he would never admit it. Gripped by conflicting urges, he towered above her, his fists clenched and his jaw set.
If only he could shake some sense into her. He swallowed hard. Shaking some sense into her wasn’t all he wanted to do. He longed to kiss her, make love to her, right here, right now. To take her back to Wrath and keep her safe there with him, always.
‘Surely you understand I must warn Lady Sophia about Cameron,’ she insisted as she started picking small bell-shaped flowers.
‘Because you think she’ll believe you? Anyway, why do you care so much about her? Maybe she deserves to wed a rake like McRae. From what I hear she’s a spoilt brat, a harpy – a younger version of Lady Patricia, with whom I suspect she gets on very well.’
‘You don’t understand. There are things she must know, and not just about Cameron tricking me into a fake wedding. He is a rake, a depraved scoundrel. You saw how he behaved tonight. Well, the girls told me that’s what he does almost every night. He takes his friends to the hunting lodge for private soirées, he forces them to dance then he … you know. Morven sometimes comes too. They say he’s the worst.’
She paused.
‘They’re all so scared, but they are trapped here until Cameron decides to send them back to Algiers.’
Sighing deeply, she added, ‘They told me something else. About Malika. It’s my fault she’s dead.’ And she buried her face into her hands.
‘What is it, Rose?’
She lifted tear-filled eyes towards him.
‘Malika did travel on the Sea Lady but she was kept in a separate cabin for the whole journey, and later in the hunting lodge she was locked away in an upstairs room. The girls tried to talk to her through the door but she was asleep – drugged probably – most of the time, and when they did manage to exchange a few words, she didn’t make much sense. She told them there was another girl in the room with her, a young girl, but they didn’t know whether it was true or not because they never saw or heard anyone else.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘That she followed Cameron the night we argued in Algiers – the night before my … wedding. She saw him take the woman dancer – the one who was later found dead in the harbour – to the Sea Lady so she sneaked on board to spy on them. She said Cameron hurt the girl in a fit of drunken rage, and that she was caught as she tried to help her. So you see, I am the one to blame if Malika was on Cameron’s clipper and came over to Scotland. She only wanted to protect me from making a terrible mistake.’
‘What happened to Malika and that other girl at the hunting lodge?’
‘The Ouled Nails don’t really know. Late one night they heard some shouting and crying inside Malika’s room. The following morning her door was wide open, and the room was empty. Both Malika and the girl – whoever she was – were gone.’
She paused, plucked a few more tiny flowers from the bush next to her, then let them fall to the ground like snowflakes. Tears burned her eyes, and her throat was now so tight she could hardly speak.
‘According to McRae, Malika boarded the Sea Lady because she was upset that you two had argued and she wanted to make it up to you. Then one day she left without warning.’
‘You think it’s possible she ran away with that other girl?’
‘It’s possible, of course. Maybe they managed to escape and met some unsavoury characters on the way to Wick, Thurso … or Inverness.’
His eyes clouded over. He remained silent for a moment.
‘It must have been a terrible shock for you to hear about McRae’s sordid behaviour,’ he remarked at last.
Embarrassed, almost ashamed, she bent her head and drew in a shaky breath.
‘That’s the thing. It wasn’t a shock, not really. Malika warned me about Cameron in Algiers. She said that he visited girls in dockside taverns and sometimes took them back to the Sea Lady, but I didn’t want to believe her. I told her she was mean and jealous. When she said she’d bring me the proof, I pushed her out of my hotel room.’
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. ‘That was the last time I saw her.’
She bowed her head as tears pearled at the corners of her eyes. Bruce put his hands on her shoulders once again. Their warmth seeped through the thin fabric of her dress.
‘I don’t understand why Cameron was so eager to go through with this fake wedding,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not as if he really wanted me. He didn’t even seem to enjoy … ahem … his conjugal duties that much.’
‘Then he’s not only a liar and a rake, but the biggest fool I’ve ever known,’ Bruce said in a soft voice. He inhaled deeply and added, ‘Anyway, it was because of the diary. It was always about the diary.’
‘You mean about you and Donald Robertson, your father?’
‘Aye. It’s all about me and my father indeed.’
He seemed about to add something, but he stepped back and pointed towards the glass windows.
‘I think we can leave now. I don’t care
if you didn’t have the chance to talk to Lady Sophia, I’m taking you away from here.’
He led her through the maze of moonlit alleys, his shoulders brushing against thick, waxy leaves and fragrant petals which reminded him so much of the Punjab; he only had to close his eyes to imagine he was back there. There were mango and pipal trees, karnkar and white sandalwood, further along were simmal trees with their hundreds of red blooms. He even spotted a couple of saraka bushes with their fluffy orange pompoms.
Further down, one scent dominated – the heady, potent fragrance of night-blooming datura flowers, the plant some had named ‘Moon Flower’ because of its white colouring and distinctive shape, but others called ‘Devil’s Weed’ because of its deadly powers. True enough, the white flowers drooping from the bush in front of him let out a ghostly, almost malevolent glow in the moonlight.
His head started spinning. He stopped. That scent. He had smelled it recently …
‘What’s wrong?’ Rose put her hand on his forearm and looked up. ‘Are you feeling ill again?’
‘No … no, I’m fine.’
He caught his breath, regained his balance.
‘Be careful not to touch these bushes, they are poisonous.’ He pointed to the datura plants. ‘They’re used as a narcotic but they’re extremely dangerous. Even simple skin contact with the leaves induces hallucinations and heart failure, and ingestion can be fatal. I saw men become raving lunatics after drinking datura tea when I was stationed in the Punjab, and a few die from taking too much of the stuff.’
Rose stared at the tall, thick bushes. ‘Why would Cameron grow datura here?’
‘I have no idea, but these plants look well established, as if they’ve been here for decades. Perhaps Niall McRae brought some seeds back from Egypt.’
Niall McRae, again. He didn’t seem to be able to keep the man out of his mind.
They reached the entrance to the orangery.
‘Put your veil back on, keep your eyes down and don’t say a word,’ he instructed as he tried a couple of doors, found an unlocked one and stepped onto the terrace.
He needn’t have worried. The sudden and untimely illness of Cameron’s guest had spelled the end of the festivities at Westmore, and the courtyard was empty and quiet.
‘For such a big place, the security in the stables is surprisingly lax,’ he remarked as they walked into the stable block. Most boxes were occupied but he soon found Shadow. He unhooked the tack from the wall, worked fast to get the horse ready and led it outside.
Once in the courtyard, he lifted Rose into the saddle, climbed on behind her and they rode in the direction of the hunting lodge. Her body shook with cold so he enclosed her tightly in his arms. Although a few lanes and parterres were still lit up with torches, the further from the castle they rode, the darker it became, and by the time they reached the woods the moon was hidden by the tall trees and it was pitch-black.
‘I’ll get your horse, and then we’re out of here,’ he said as they arrived in sight of the hunting lodge. A single light glowed in one of the downstairs windows.
‘Wait.’
He jumped down then helped her to the ground.
‘Can I not tell my friends I’m all right? They’ll worry about me.’
‘No. There must be guards inside and I don’t want to take any risks.’
She looked so small and frail next to Shadow that his chest tightened. Even though she didn’t complain about the cold he knew she must be freezing in her flimsy dress. He quickly took his jacket off, wrapped it around her shoulders and started down the lane.
Rose’s mare was still there, right where she said she’d left it. He patted its neck and side to quieten it, untied the reins and led it back towards the wood.
He now had to find a place for Rose to spend the night and the next few days. He needed her out of the way and safe so that he could focus on playing his cards right.
So much depended on it: his life; the future of Wrath and his people. Right now, however, he couldn’t think beyond the next few hours.
Chapter Twenty-five
‘This way, my lord, and … er … miss.’
‘Thank you, lass.’ Bruce slipped a coin into the girl’s hand.
The tousle-haired maid curtsied and stared wide-eyed at Rose as she walked into the small bedroom. And it was no wonder. Bruce’s black jacket didn’t hide much of her sheer, colourful dancing costume. Her face and hair were still veiled, and after over an hour riding in the cold night, her kohl eye make-up had run all over her face. Like the landlord who’d finally opened the inn’s front door after Bruce pounded on it for over five minutes, the girl probably wondered if she was dreaming.
Or more likely, perhaps she believed her to be a woman of loose morals.
Right now, it didn’t matter what they thought. They had been lucky to find the Kirkhouse Inn on the road to Wick, and luckier still that the landlord had given them a room, despite Rose’s bizarre clothing and the unusual timing of their arrival.
‘It’s surprisingly nice, isn’t it?’ Bruce remarked as he dropped Rose’s bag on the floor and walked across the room, bending down to avoid a low ceiling beam.
Rose looked around the room. If the inn looked shabby from the outside, with its courtyard littered with straw and horse manure, and a broken wooden sign creaking above the front door, the bedroom was warm and welcoming. A thick red counterpane covered the bed, and matching curtains were drawn against the night. For once, Rose had no intention of pulling them open. All she wanted was to keep the cold, the night, and the whole world outside.
Her face numb with the chill, and shivering despite Bruce’s thick jacket, she walked to the fireplace and rubbed her hands over the flames.
‘I know you don’t care much for whisky but this will warm you up.’
Bruce handed her a tumbler and came to stand next to her. He didn’t drink but swirled the amber liquid in his glass. With shadows dancing on his face, flames reflecting in his eyes and his mouth set in a hard line, he seemed remote, unapproachable.
Her chest tightened with love and longing.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he turned to look at her. Embarrassed, she lifted the glass to her lips, gulped down some liquor, and choked.
‘That bad, is it? I thought you’d be used to it by now.’ A faint smile touched his lips.
‘I told you before,’ she replied between fits of coughing, ‘I don’t like it, and I don’t think I’ll ever like it.’
He finished his glass and put it down on top of the mantelpiece.
‘Well, I must go back to Westmore now that you’re safe. You’ll be all right here, but don’t go out of the room until I return.’
He was leaving, already?
Her eyes filled with tears but she forced a smile.
‘I must give you back your jacket.’
Her fingers shook so much she could hardly unfasten the buttons. Finally she managed to slip the jacket off. As she stepped closer to hand it to him, the room seemed to tilt and spin around her, and she felt as weak and wobbly as a leaf caught in a ‘dust devil’, those unpredictable Saharan whirlwinds that lifted sand and debris across the desert.
She staggered and the jacket slipped from her fingers into a heap on the floor.
He caught her in his arms and looked down into her face.
‘Rose! What’s wrong? Are you ill?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she hiccupped. ‘I am just being clumsy, as usual.’
She drew in a deep breath, pressed the palm of her hands flat against his chest to push him away. ‘There. I’m better now. You can put me down. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.’
His grip grew tight and his gaze was almost fierce.
‘No, I am sorry. I always forget how scary and upsetting this whole sorry mess must be for you. You miss your home, your family and the people you care about, of course, but don’t worry, I promise you’ll soon be back in Algiers. As soon as my business here is done, I’ll buy a passage for
you on a ship sailing to North Africa. We’ll find something, even if I have to take you to Glasgow, Inverness or Liverpool myself.’
Pain stabbed her straight through the heart, and once again she could do nothing to stop the tears. He wanted her gone. Worse than that, it sounded as if he couldn’t wait for to get her out of his life.
She should wipe her tears, muster what little pride she had left and apologise for making a scene, blaming the whole thing on shock and exhaustion. Instead she nestled closer, rubbed her wet cheeks on the fabric of his waistcoat and breathed in his strong, male scent. She loved him so much that pride didn’t matter at all. There was only love, and the insane desire to be in arms a while longer, to be his.
If only she had more time with him. If only she could hold him, erase the sadness, the anger, the torment that so often clouded his eyes. Show him how much she loved him.
Walk out. Now. Before it’s too late. She’s safe here, nothing will happen to her.
Instead of releasing her, Bruce held her more tightly. He could have fought the burning need to carry her to the bed, lay her on the covers and remove the dress that barely covered her slender body. He could – just about – have conquered the maddening urge to kiss, touch and taste her, but he couldn’t ignore her tears.
‘I thought you’d be glad to know you’ll soon go home.’
She only cried harder, her chest heaving with deep, long, heart-rending sobs that touched a raw nerve inside him, and made him feel he’d failed her miserably. He should protect her, not make her cry.
Her fragrance rose, potent, summery, intoxicating. Her silky dress slid and rustled under his fingers. Heavens. Had he ever wanted a woman as much as he wanted her? Probably not. He remembered the feel of her under his touch, the taste of her. He’d be damned but he wanted to taste her again.
‘Don’t cry, mó gràidheag,’ he whispered as he bent down to kiss her.
Her lips were wet and salty from her tears. He brushed his mouth over them in a light, gentle caress. As soon as it was over, he wanted more. He let out a low groan, pressed her closer and kissed her again, and again, each time with more heat, more urgency. He could feel the softness of her round breasts through her flimsy costume, the hard bud of her nipples pressing against his chest.