The Highlander's Woman (The Reckless Rockwoods #3)

by Monica Burns

  “Have you ever been to Brentwood Park?” He clenched his teeth. Why the hell had he asked her that?

  “Brentwood Park?” She shook her head in puzzlement.

  “It’s an estate a little southeast of the city. The cottage in the painting still sits on the grounds.” He nodded toward the canvas on the wall, but kept his eyes on her.

  “I’ve never heard of it. If I have time next week, I might be able to check it out,” she murmured as she turned back to the painting and reached out to touch the frame. Uttering a small noise of decision, she turned her head toward the sales clerk. “Well, I guess I can’t leave without it.”

  “Very good, madam. If you will come this way, I shall be happy to arrange the sale.”

  “Robert, I’ll take care of the sale,” Nick said quietly as he reached out to grasp her arm and hold her in place.

  He never heard the sales clerk’s response as electricity shot up his arm. The strength of the sensation barreling through him made him feel like someone was pummeling his entire body until he had no breath left in his lungs. Images flashed through his head like a carousel of pictures careening out of control.

  Of all the faces dancing through his brain, she was always there. She was like the North Star, guiding him to a place he didn’t know existed. He couldn’t explain it, but it was as if this moment had happened before. As he stared down into her blue eyes, she shook her head slightly, and he was certain she was experiencing the same sensation.

  “What’s your name?” His voice was hoarse as he struggled not to say something bizarre that would frighten her or worse make her dart out of the shop.

  “Victoria Ashton,” she breathed as she reached up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead. In the next instant, she jerked her hand away, clearly horrified by her action.

  “Oh Lord, I’m sorry…that was incredibly rude of me.”

  “No. It felt right.” He didn’t have the slightest idea why her touch seemed so natural and perfect, but then nothing about the last couple of minutes made any sense to him.

  “I…have we met somewhere before?”

  “That’s my pickup line, I think,” he said with a grin.

  “Yeah, I suppose it was.”

  Her laugh was as full-bodied as he remembered. Remembered? Nick pushed the absurd notion aside as he watched a flush of pink rise in her cheeks. Without thinking, he brushed his fingertips across her face. The moment he touched her, her hand came up to cup his, and she turned her mouth into his palm. The visceral emotion the action stirred in him made him pull in a sharp, deep breath.

  “I don’t know what the hell is happening,” he rasped. “But you better tell me to stop now if you don’t want me to kiss you.”

  Her sapphire eyes widened, before she closed the distance between them and there was only a hair’s breadth of space between. Her hand reached up to touch his brow and she smiled.

  “I won’t stop you,” she whispered.

  Locked in the grip of something he didn’t understand, Nick bent his head toward her. God, all he wanted was to taste her again. He needed to know if she tasted as sweet as he remembered. His mouth never touched hers as the explosion roared through the shop like a freight train.

  The force of the blast threw him backward, and he fought to stay on his feet. A screech of metal tugged his gaze upward. Before he could react, the ceiling’s track lighting crashed downward then slammed into Victoria’s head and chest. He heard her grunt with pain as the blow sent her staggering backwards. In an involuntary effort to remain standing, she flung her arm outward to grab hold of something to save herself from falling.

  Before he could leap forward or shout a warning, she grasped the black wire dangling from the ceiling. Agony contorted her features as electricity flowed through her then sent her flying backward to hit the wall like a rag doll. The unframed landscape of the cottage fell from the wall to the floor and landed beside her limp hand, the painting brushing against her fingers. Screams of pain and fear from inside and outside of the shop filled the air.

  Leaping past the live wire, he crouched down beside Victoria’s still form. His hands shook as he gently rolled her onto her back sliding the painting away from her. She wasn’t breathing, and he couldn’t find a pulse in her neck or on her wrist. A wave of helplessness rolled over him. It had been like this the last time. He’d not been able to do anything to save her.

  A growl of rage erupted from his throat. No. Not this time. He’d lost her in the past, and he refused to lose her now. Without thinking, he began to administer CPR. He didn’t know if he was doing it right, but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. He’d failed the last time. He couldn’t let it end like that again. Quick chest compressions then two strong puffs of air into her mouth. Repeat.

  Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of an ambulance. Panic set in as his efforts to revive her received no response. In a voice he didn’t recognize as his own, he called out her name then blew two hard breaths into her before increasing the strength of his compressions against her chest.

  “Fight, Victoria, fight,” he commanded in a savage tone. “Do you hear me? I said fight.”

  His command was harsh and inflexible, and he sensed a stranger slipping into his head. Relentlessly, he alternated between breathing into her mouth and returning to the sharp cadence of chest compressions. Deep within his memory, he recalled the pain and agony of a similar experience long ago. The indefinable connection to her that he’d experienced moments ago had become something even more tangible. A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

  “Nick, she’s gone.” His sister’s words ripped a roar from him throat.

  “No. You’re wrong,” he snarled as he knocked his sister’s hand aside.

  With renewed force he pounded on Victoria’s chest then breathed air into her lungs. Logic disappeared to become raw, agonizing desperation. Unfamiliar images from a distant past merged with the present to fill him with dread. The savageness of his anguish choked him and threatened to push him over the edge as he worked to breathe and pound life back into her.

  “God damn it, Victoria. Fight, damn you. Come back to me.”

  The savage command went unanswered, and his anguish was an unbearable vise engulfing his body. A wounded howl of grief ripped out of his throat. She was gone. He’d lost her again. Life had lost its meaning.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  October 1897

  The darkness of the dream enveloped Victoria as she spiraled downward to land on her bed with a jerk as pain rippled through her. Thousands of razor sharp needles stabbed at every inch of her. God, it was as if someone had doused her in gasoline then set her on fire.

  The dream had become a nightmare of agony, and she ordered herself to wake up. She forced her eyes open to see nothing but a white mist filled with gray shadows. Oh God, she was blind. Panic flooded her veins as she tried to reassure herself it was a nightmare. Her eyes fluttered closed for a fleeting second. When she opened her eyes again, there was nothing except the fog cluttered with dark shapes. Voices echoed nearby, but a loud ringing in her ears made it difficult to make out what they were saying. Yet out of all the indistinguishable voices there was one she recognized. It was demanding. Arrogant. But she couldn’t remember where she’d heard it before.

  Victoria tried to turn her head toward the voice, but the movement sent a stabbing pain through her temple. She cried out. A dark shape suddenly blotted out the cloudy landscape of her vision. A warm hand touched her forehead before the shape abruptly disappeared. Slowly, the voices and ringing in her ears ebbed away. Victoria blinked several times in an attempt to clear her vision then sat up.

  The instant she moved, she uttered a cry of misery at the explosion of pain in her head. The heel of her palm pressed against her forehead, she bit back the bile threatening to rise in her throat. After several long moments of anguish, the pain and nausea eased.

  This had to be the worst fricking hangover she’d ever had. Not t
hat she’d had that many. She winced. Had she gone to a bar last night? She didn’t remember going to one. Hell, she didn’t remember much of anything over the last several weeks. The one thing she did remember was her argument with her father a year ago and what had happened a few hours later. She pushed back the tears. Images whirled and flitted through her brain. She was on vacation. She remembered that much at least. But there was one thing she was certain of. This was not her hotel room. Her gaze swept over the simplicity of the stark room. Despite the brilliant stream of sunlight flooding through the window it was cold. She shivered. Someone had set the AC way too low.

  If it weren’t for the fire in the hearth the room would be even colder. It didn’t make any sense why someone would have a fire with the AC going. Her gaze swept across the room’s meager furnishings. Planks of rough-hewn wood served as the floor, while a white plaster covered the walls. It looked like something out of a Jane Austen movie. Oh God, had she decided to do one of those reality vacations? No, she couldn’t afford something like that, even if she’d wanted too. What was the last thing she’d been doing? She breathed in a quiet breath as she tried to ignore the hot needles that assaulted the back of her head. Where was she, and exactly how had she gotten to wherever here was? She groaned as the headache spread to her temples.

  Victoria tossed her blanket off to one side and swung her legs out of bed. Fire streaked across her skin once more, while her chest hurt like someone had kicked her repeatedly. Had she been mugged? Even though she was in pain, self-preservation had her on her feet the minute a woman scurried into the room.

  “Good heavens, my lady. You shouldn’t be out of bed just yet.”

  “Who are you?”

  Her words sounded hoarse, stiff, and stilted. Laryngitis. Could you get that from a hangover? If you were shouting over loud music all night long? Maybe she’d been mugged and choked in the process. It would explain her voice, the pounding in her head, and the way her body ached. It would also account for not knowing where the hell she was.

  “I’m Bessie, my lady. Thomas Goodman’s wife. He found you near the pond this morning. You were like death warmed over when my Thomas brought you in.”

  “Pond?” The hoarseness in her voice had disappeared, but it still sounded funny to her.

  “Yes, my lady. Soaked through and through. If my Thomas hadn’t found you I fear the worst might have happened.”

  Victoria shook her head in denial and winced as she pressed her hand against her forehead. She hadn’t been anywhere near a pond. She’d been in an art gallery. The sudden sliver of a memory tantalized her before it evaporated and pain took its place.

  “Where am I?”

  “Why Brentwood Park, my lady.” Bessie patted Victoria’s arm in a comforting manner.

  “Brentwood Park,” she murmured. Where had she heard that name before? Another stab of pain erupted in her head, and she groaned softly. God, jackhammers were going off inside her head. She looked down at the white cotton gown she wore. She never wore nightgowns. Normally, she chose to sleep in the nude, although she would occasionally sleep in a pair of pajamas. Nightgowns? Never. They were little more than straight-jackets, and she never got a good night’s sleep with one on. Beside the bed, her hostess poured water from a beige earthen pitcher into a matching bowl. Wringing out a cloth in the basin, the woman turned her head to Victoria and smiled.

  “Now then, my lady, let me see if I can clean that cut of yours.”

  “Cut?” Victoria blinked with confusion.

  “I don’t believe it will need stitching.” Bessie’s weathered features wrinkled up into a reassuring look as she dabbed gently at Victoria’s forehead. “Lucky is what you were. Another inch lower and you could have lost an eye.”

  Baffled, Victoria gasped as cold water stung a tender spot just above her right eye. She lightly touched the wound and drew in a breath of surprise as Bessie gently pulled her hand away. When had she cut her head? Questions. Every time she answered one, half a dozen more sprang to life. She pulled away from the woman who was clucking over her like a worrisome mother hen.

  “You said I’m at Brentwood Park. Is this a hospital of some kind?”

  “Heavens, no, my lady. This is Goodman Cottage. Thomas and I are tenants of his lordship.”

  “His lordship?”

  “Lord Guildford, my lady. Don’t you remember?” The woman stared at her with a worried frown.

  “I don’t know any Lord Guildford.” Victoria wanted to shake her head, but was afraid to for fear of pain.

  “Oh dear…you must have hit your head much harder than we thought.” Bessie clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Now don’t you fret, I’ve seen this happen before. Your memory will come back right enough when you’re ready.”

  “I haven’t lost my memory,” Victoria muttered stubbornly.

  She remembered her name, her childhood, the night her father had died. She shoved that particular memory into a separate compartment. Right now she had to focus on figuring out where the hell she was. England. She was in England on vacation, by herself. It was impossible to know how long she’d been out, and right now all she wanted was to get back to her hotel. She frowned. Why didn’t she hear traffic outside? The quiet reminded her of the woods near Kerrigan Stables where she rode twice a week. A chill ran down her spine. If it were quiet outside, it meant she was in the country. She’d been in the city. How in the hell had she gotten from London to wherever this was?

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like my clothes back so I can return to my hotel.”

  “But, my lady, you just can’t—”

  “Can’t what?” she snapped, more out of fear than anger. “Please bring me my clothes. I want—”

  The door swung open with a loud screech. Instantly, she turned toward the sound and inhaled a sharp breath. Everything receded into the background as she met the hard, green-eyed gaze of the man entering the room. Before his arrival, the room had been comfortable in size, but now it closed in on her.

  Power. Sheer power was the first thing that came to mind as her gaze ran over him. He was dressed for riding, but he wasn’t wearing jeans as one might expect. His apparel seemed more appropriate for a horse show. Fawn-colored breeches hugged sleek, muscular thighs. The snug fitting pants were tucked into a pair of shiny black boots with a dark brown cuff at the top. A starched collar jutted upward to part slightly at his throat, while a narrow, black tie encircled his neck. Dark wavy hair and those piercing green eyes of his completed the image of a man born to command. She swallowed hard. The man didn’t just ooze sex appeal, he defined it.

  Deliberate and unhurried, he removed his black riding gloves and slapped them into his hand with a vicious crack. She jumped. Like an animal fascinated with its predator, she met his narrowed eyes warily. His barely restrained anger saturated the room with its raw heat.

  Okay, now she was worried. Had she wrecked her rental car and damaged his property? Wait, did she even have a rental car? Damn it, how could she remember things from months ago, while the past couple of days and weeks were hazy at best?

  “That will be all for now, Bessie. You may bring the countess her clothes shortly.” Despite her apprehension, the deep timbre of his voice turned her inside out. The man could easily give a woman an orgasm with that voice. Wait. Countess? What countess?

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Bessie quickly left the room as the stranger’s gaze remained locked with hers. The door closed behind the older woman, and something flashed in the man’s eyes as he moved forward. Victoria instinctively jumped backward as he brushed past her. He walked with a distinct limp as he crossed the room to the small window beneath an eave. Had he been in an accident or was the handicap from birth? The vague whisper of a memory teased her as she studied the back of his dark head. She tried to catch the thought, but it winked out of her grasp. Frustrated, she grimaced then started as the man turned and directed a harsh look in her direction.

  “Do you want to tell me where the dev
il you’ve been for the last three weeks, Vickie?”

  “I’m sorry?” She scowled at him. She’d never liked people calling her by that nickname. For some unknown reason, it had always had a negative connotation to it, and she hated the way it made her feel when someone called her by the name.

  “Three weeks, Vickie.” The sharp words cracked through the air and made her flinch. “I’ve had private investigators looking for you for the past three weeks.”

  “Look, you’ve obviously got me confused with someone else.” Bewildered, she shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know you. My name is Victoria Ashton, and I don’t know this Vickie person.”

  “Memory loss? Your creativity astounds me, my dear.” The condescension in his voice made the hair on the back of neck stand upright. Sex appeal or not, the man was an arrogant bastard. Victoria narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I didn’t say I’d lost my memory. I said I don’t know you.” She silently dismissed her inability to remember the past couple of days or weeks. That didn’t count. She knew who she was.

  His eyes were shards of green ice as he stared at her for a long moment. Then with an indifferent air he took a seat in the room’s only chair. Sitting sideways, he draped an arm over the wooden chair’s spindled back and crossed his bad leg over one knee. His relaxed posture only enhanced his commanding presence. Sexy or not, she was certain he’d be a dangerous man to cross.

  “So you think I’ve confused you with someone else.” He surveyed her from head to toe with an insolent gleam before looking at the ring on his finger. “An odd statement considering I’d be hard pressed not to recognize my wife.”

  The soft words sent her reeling back two steps. Frantically, she tried to recall what she’d been doing before she woke up in this nightmare. There was no way in hell she could be married. Was there?

  She squeezed her eyes shut as if that would help her remember. The image of a large room with paintings flitted through her head. An art gallery. She’d been debating whether to buy a landscape. Hadn’t she? Images flew through her head so fast she couldn’t recognize most of them. An explosion. Had there been an explosion? It would explain the cut on her head if she’d been near glass.