The clock ticked on, and she did not move from her chair for a full ten minutes, though it seemed like an eternity. An eternity of stillness.
Final y, she heard footsteps in the hall and stood. The door opened, and a gentleman entered. He was of medium height and slender build, wore a green brocade morning coat with lace cuffs, black knee breeches, shiny buckled shoes—and upon his head a curly brown wig. He, too, was just as she’d envisioned from her father’s descriptions, although she did imagine the earl to be taller.
If this was, in fact, the earl.
He looked very … English.
She curtsied.
“You are Lady Amelia Templeton?” he asked, and his Scottish brogue reminded her that she was still in the Highlands.
She noted with immense relief that the gentleman’s voice was friendly and kind. There was nothing threatening or intimidating about him.
“Yes, and I am grateful to you, Lord Moncrieffe, for receiving me at such an early hour.”
“Oh no,” he said, strolling into the room, appearing rather concerned. “I am not the earl. I am Iain MacLean. His brother.”
She shifted on stinging feet while struggling to hide her disappointment. “Is the earl not in residence?”
“Aye, he is here. But he is not yet out of bed. He’ll need some time to at least put on a coat.” Iain smiled apologetically.
“Oh yes, of course.” She glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes past seven, certainly not the proper time for a call .
This was all very strange. She had been running for over an hour, having escaped an abduction. Her hair had not been combed, her skirts were soiled with mud—she could only imagine what she smelled like—and this man seemed to be wondering if he should ring for tea. What she real y wanted to do was run to him and shake him and demand to know if he understood what she had been through.
“May I inquire,” she calmly asked, “if Richard Bennett is here? He is lieutenant-colonel of the Ninth Dragoons, and I was told he was heading in this direction.”
This felt utterly ridiculous.
“Aye, he was here,” Iain replied, gesturing for her to sit down again. “He stayed only one night, however, for he was determined to find you, Lady Amelia. You should know there is a considerable search taking place on your behalf, even as we speak. Your uncle, the Duke of Winslowe, has offered five hundred pounds to anyone who delivers you safely back to Fort William. He’s been most distressed by what has happened. As we all are.”
Ah, sensible talk, at last, about the reality of the situation.
This wasn’t a dream after all . She had found sanctuary.
She exhaled sharply. “Thank you, sir. You have no idea how relieved I am to hear all of this. It is comforting to know I was not forgotten. I rather felt like I was in danger of disappearing forever.”
Although she still feared that a part of her soul was lost in another place and would never be recovered.
He sat down on the sofa beside her and squeezed her hand. “You are safe now, Lady Amelia. No harm will come to you.”
She took a moment to collect herself and hold back the tears that threatened to spil from her eyes. Her belly flooded with misery.
But no—it was not misery. She could not let herself believe that she was unhappy. She was safe now. The terror was past. She was no longer a captive in the mountains, or in danger of losing herself to that strange madness that had taken over her body. She had escaped successful y, before it was too late, and she would probably never see Duncan again. She should be happy. She was happy. She was.
“I must look a fright,” she said shakily, managing a small smile.
There was compassion in Iain’s eyes. “You look very tired, Lady Amelia. Perhaps you would like some breakfast and a warm bath. I can summon the housekeeper, and my wife, Josephine, would be happy, I’m sure, to offer her maid’s services and lend you a clean gown. You look to be about the same size.”
“That would be most kind of you, Mr. MacLean. I have long wanted to meet the earl, as my father spoke highly of him.
Perhaps I could present myself to him in a more respectable fashion.”
Iain smiled gently. “I understand. Please, let me show you to a guest chamber.”
* * *
Amelia could have wept tears of joy after she enjoyed a private breakfast and was then shown to the bathing room, where she undressed leisurely and eased herself into a warm copper tub. The wall s of the room were hung with green damask, and a rush mat covered the floor. White linen curtains, hung from a circular canopy above, surrounded the tub, while a strong, hot fire blazed in the hearth. Mrs. MacLean’s maid stood by to assist Amelia in bathing and dressing. She lathered her hair with herb-scented soap, massaged her scalp, then poured a gentle stream of water from a shiny brass pitcher to rinse it clean. She rubbed her skin with a soft cloth and washed her back, and afterward the maid dressed Amelia in a blue and pink gown of rich floral silk brocade, generously on loan from Mrs. MacLean.
The dress had a scoop neckline trimmed with lace. Its sleeves were tight, with deep cuffs below the elbow, and it boasted a boned stomacher of matching silk brocade. The buckled shoes, also of blue silk damask, were one size too large, but two extra pairs of stockings helped fil them out.
Amelia felt as if she were dreaming all of this.
The maid piled her hair into an elaborate, towering construction and shook the powder generously until she blinked with burning eyes and sputtered and held up a hand to stop the assault.
It felt strange moving about in such a confining display of extravagance after a week of wearing nothing but coarse wool and loose linen, but when she viewed herself in the looking glass, glittering in silk and satin, and recognized what was familiar, she began to weep. The tears were strange, however. Her emotions were disjointed and rambling.
She longed desperately to see her uncle again and wondered when that blessed moment would occur. Perhaps then she would feel normal again.
A short time later, a liveried footman knocked at her door and said, “His Lairdship will see you now.”
She followed the young Scot into the wide corridor, which took them to the main staircase, then downstairs toward the rear of the castle. They crossed over a bridge corridor with arched windows looking out onto the lake, which led out of the castle to the keep—a separate tower at the back, surrounded entirely by water.
Amelia wondered what questions the earl would ask. How much would he wish to know about her abduction? Would he ask the details of her capture, the specifics about Duncan’s weapons, or his name and the names of all the rebels who followed him?
Would the earl force her to give an account of where she and Duncan had camped each night and who they encountered along the way? If she revealed that information, would the earl send an army into the forest immediately to hunt for Duncan and drag him to the Tolbooth?
Something raw and agonizing seized up inside her. She did not want to be responsible for his capture. Where was he at that moment? He must have known she would come here.
Was he outside the castle wall s, watching her pass by these very windows? Or had he escaped in the other direction, knowing that once she arrived at Moncrieffe, she would reveal all she knew and he would be pursued?
She hoped he realized the gravity of his predicament and had fled the other way. It would be best for both of them. She also hoped Moncrieffe would be as fair as her father believed him to be and that he would take all of Duncan’s conduct into account. She was still in possession of her virtue, after all . Duncan could have deprived her of that, but he had not done so, and for that she would be forever grateful.
Amelia and the footman crossed a long narrow banqueting hall , then reached an arched door at the end with wrought-iron fittings. He knocked, then pushed the door open and stepped aside. Amelia entered a gallery with a polished oak floor, wall s of gray stone, and a wide fireplace adorned with heraldic images in the spandrels. She moved full y into the room, and the door
closed behind her.
The earl stood elegantly at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the lake and park beyond. He wore a lavish full -skirted blue coat of French silk, heavily embroidered in silver, with frilled shirtsleeves extending from the cuffs. The tight knee breeches were gray, worn with knee-high riding boots, polished to a fine black sheen. Unlike his brother, he wore no wig. His hair was lightly powdered and tied back, the long queue spiral y bound with black ribbon. She noted the decorative saber at his waist, encased in a glossy black sheath.
“My lord.” She waited for him to turn around so that she could award him a proper curtsy.
When at last he did face her, she bowed her head, but the shock of familiarity shot into her stomach like a cannonball.
Her gaze flew up as the urge to honor him with the customary curtsy fell to the wayside.
“You?”
Were her eyes deceiving her?
No, they were not.
It was Duncan. Butcher of the Highlands.
Or his identical twin.…
Her body shuddered as if she’d been punched, and she stood, breath held, fighting shock and disbelief. This was not real. It could not be!
Hands still clasped behind his back, Duncan—or the earl—strode ominously toward her, shaking his head. “Tsk-tsk, Lady Amelia. I am very disappointed to discover that Fergus was right in the end. ‘Can you trust the word of the English?’he always said. I should have listened to him.”
Feeling dazed and frazzled and still not entirely sure this was not Duncan’s twin, she turned for the door, but he followed and pressed the flats of his hands against it before she could reach the handle. He stood behind her with his arms braced on either side of her while she tried in vain to tug, rattle, and shake the door open.
She called for a servant, but no one came to her aid. She might as well have been shouting into a void. When she final y gave up the struggle and tipped her head forward in defeat, Duncan nuzzled the back of her ear, as he had done so many times before, and she knew in that moment that this was the man she had come to desire so desperately. She had not gotten away at all .
“I would expect no less from you, lass. You were always a fighter.”
His body brushed up against hers. Were it not for the memory of all too recent sensations and desires, she might have been able to keep her head, but this was impossible.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “How can this be?”
She felt as if she were back in that field in the rain on the first morning of her abduction—not knowing what kind of man she was dealing with, feeling powerless to escape. She had no idea what he meant to do with her now that she had run from him.
He pulled her away from the door, then circled around her and blocked the exit with his large, muscular form.
“I knew this was where you would come,” he said, “so I rode hard from the camp. Did you enjoy your breakfast and bath? Is the gown fashionable enough for your sophisticated tastes?”
There was something diabolical in his eyes, and there was a hard edge to his voice that cut her to the quick.
“You are truly the earl? This is not a hoax?”
Al at once, a hot and seething anger burned in her core.
How could she have been so blind? And all that talk about her learning to trust her own judgment and see a man for who he truly was on the inside—how could he have said all that to her while he was masquerading as two different men, intentional y misleading and manipulating all who came into his sphere? Who was this man deep down? She had no idea.
“I am the great Laird of Moncrieffe,” he said, spreading his arms wide, a gesture that flaunted the extravagance of lace at his cuffs. As he lowered his hands, a blue gemstone on his forefinger reflected the sunlight beaming in through the window. “But I am the Butcher, too.”
“You lied to me.”
Al that had passed between them—the intimacy and tenderness she had felt in his arms, the trust that had begun to grow—it was all gone now, and she had never felt more foolish. With a sweep of her hand, she indicated his fashionable clothing. “What is all of this? I cannot believe you spent five days with my father negotiating for Scottish freedom, leading him to believe you wanted peace, while at the same time you were riding up and down the Scottish Highlands killing English soldiers?” She looked around the room, at the paintings on the wall s. “Who else knows of this?
You certainly pulled the wool over my father’s eyes, as well as my own. Who else have you tricked besides me? Does your housekeeper know? The footman who just escorted me to this door? Is this a vast and bottomless conspiracy of treason?”
She thought of Richard spending the night here at Moncrieffe, enjoying the earl’s food and whisky and his so called hospitality. On the way to the guest chamber, Iain had told her that Richard had employed the earl’s militia to ride out in search of the infamous Butcher. Richard was probably being lured on a wild-goose chase by now, on his way to the Orkney Islands or some other far-off place.
And was any of what Duncan told her about Richard true?
She had no idea what to believe.
“No one at the castle knows,” Duncan replied, “except my brother and his wife.”
“Your brother, who was so kind, and arranged for my breakfast and a bath … He is a charlatan, too?”
Duncan frowned. “He’s a good man and a loyal Scot.”
She tried again to reach the door. “You are insane. You and your brother both.”
Duncan seized her wrist. His big warrior hand gripped her like a steel vice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
She didn’t bother trying to free herself. “Why not? Are you afraid I’ll walk out of here and reveal your true identity to the world?”
It was a clear threat, uttered without subtlety or reservation.
His eyes narrowed, and he dipped his head to speak close in her ear. “I fear nothing at the moment, lass, because Angus is standing outside that door and he’s been itching to slit your throat from the beginning. You’d be wise not to give him a reason to do it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Amelia tugged her arm free and adjusted the fabric of her sleeve. “I despise you.”
“It’s your right to think of me however you choose, but I suggest you hear me out first.”
She strode away from him, across the gallery toward the window. “Hear you out? What is there to possibly explain?
You are a fraud. One week ago, you were a savage in a kilt, wielding an axe over my bed—the most sought-after enemy of England. This morning you are a gentleman, dressed in silks and ruffles and lace. You negotiated with my father, an English duke, who thought so highly of you and sang your praises to the King.” She turned and faced him. “I will never forgive you for this. You have made a fool of me. When I think of the past few nights, and how you seduced me—”
“Seduced you?” He laughed. “You wanted it as much as I did, lass. If I remember correctly, you did mention that you enjoyed it.” His eyes simmered with desire. “Don’t lie to yourself. You need a real man inside you, instead of that polite English fop you think to call a gentleman, and do not insult me, or yourself, by trying to deny it.”
She crossed to him and slapped his face. “You may be dressed impeccably. You may even be of noble blood, but clearly, you are no gentleman.”
He stood motionless, barely reacting to the strike. Clearly this ruthless man was made of steel or stone.
She returned to the window and looked out at the lake.
The light sound of his footsteps crossing the room sent sparks of awareness to all her nerve endings.
“I am more a gentleman than your betrothed, lass. You just haven’t seen that side of him.”
“Do all men have two sides?” she asked, feeling more lost and alone than ever. “Do you all have secrets? If so, how is it possible to ever know someone? Or to trust? Or love?”
She watched a duck fly lo
w and skim the surface of the water in a smooth landing and fought ardently against the urge to weep and fall to this man’s knees and beg for an explanation, so that she could understand what she was feeling. She was frustrated to the point of dizziness. Part of her still desired him, but she felt so confused over who he real y was.
His hand came to rest on her shoulder. He stroked the back of her neck with his thumb, and all her defenses began to crumble.
“Are you not afraid I’ll turn you in to the King?” she asked, retreating back to the war that still existed between them, because she was afraid to let herself give in to the passion.
“You won’t do that, lass,” he replied.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know you care for me,” he said, and her body grew warm with unease. “I felt it last night when I held you in my arms. A man learns much about a woman during such a moment.”
Something compelled her to deny it. “That is not true.”
Yet this morning, when she left him, she’d wanted to cry her eyes out.
He circled around her to block her view of the water and gazed down at her sagely. “And you call me a liar.”
His voice was oddly hushed, and his eyes glimmered with shadows of desire that caused everything inside her to melt.
Amelia lifted her face to his, and for a moment she stood apart, struggling to bury the memory of what had passed between them the night before, but the attempt was futile.
He pulled her toward him, her body flush against his, and pressed his mouth to hers. For a shuddering moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Arousal swell ed within her, and she needed to touch and hold him, to beg him to make everything better, to deliver her from this torment.
Then a sudden, raw hurt reared up inside her and she pressed her hands to his chest.
“Please don’t kiss me like that,” she pleaded. “I may be your captive, but I am not your woman. I do not want to love you. So please, just let me go.”
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