by Susan King
She had wanted to keep those memories safe and private to nourish her for the rest of her lonely life at Glenachan. Now they had been taken from her, open to discussion and judgement.
But he was not the dear Mr. Mackenzie who had held her in his arms so tenderly. He was the son of the hated Earl of Kildonan and even more a stranger to her now. She could not trust him any longer. She had been a fool, drawn in by his charm.
Grant had said that Evan truly intended to sell off much of the land, leaving Kildonan Castle and the glen in the hands of others. Marrying him would mean leaving the glen with her husband—she could not do that, nor could she support his decision to sell.
"No," she said suddenly, pulling her hand out of his. "No!"
"Hear me out," he said fervently, quietly.
"No," she hissed. "I cannot marry you!" She whirled away, but he caught her arm and held her in place. That hard grip reminded her of struggling with Kenneth Grant only minutes before, and she twisted more desperately.
"Catriona, stop," Evan said. His hand was firm, but not violent, and strangely calming. She drew a breath, stilled.
"Catriona, whatever is the matter?" Judith Rennie rose from her seat. "Behave yourself."
"Lass, this is the best thing," her father said, his voice a powerful rumble where he sat at his great desk. "I am glad to have you safe, of course—my lass, I feared for your life on that mountain. You know that. But I cannot condone the rest of it, and I will not have my youngest daughter behaving in such a wild manner. Lord Kildonan has offered to marry you. I want you to accept."
"It is the only way to make up for this shameful situation," Judith Rennie said.
"No." She probably sounded like a child, and she certainly felt like a fool, controlled and forced into a loveless marriage. She wrenched her arm again, and this time Evan released his hold.
Spinning, she gathered her skirts and ran down the hallway. At the stairs, she streamed upward, skirts floating, feet flying.
Footsteps thudded behind her, and she looked back to see Evan striding down the hallway, his face creased—not in anger so much as utter determination.
"Catriona!" he called, his deep voice reverberating throughout the house as his steps pounded toward the stairs.
Chapter 9
The sound of more pounding feet told her that the others followed Evan. Reaching the top of the steps, Catriona hurried down the corridor to her bedroom, opening the door and spinning to close it quickly. As she did, she glimpsed Evan, Aunt Judith, and her father coming up the stairs.
She slammed the door and leaned against it, breath heaving. Behaving like a spoiled girl was completely unlike her—generally she was always outwardly calm and kept her feelings to herself—yet she had done this almost compulsively, reacting out of temper and heart-pounding fear. Now she closed her eyes and waited.
She could hide in the solitude of her room and reason out what she should do next before facing them again with her decision. Clearly she had to refuse Evan—she felt betrayed and hurt by the truth he had withheld from her. Though her heart yearned for Mr. Mackenzie, she could not marry the Earl of Kildonan. As for Kenneth Grant's blackmail—she simply did not know what to do about that and felt powerless and angered.
Once she came out of her room, she knew she could reason in private with her father, but she did not expect mercy from her aunt. Judith's heart had turned into a hard kernel years ago when life had embittered her somehow. She had a habit of squelching happiness in herself and others before it could blossom. Ever since the death of her mother, Catriona had lived in her aunt's harsh shadow. Judith had felt duty bound to play stern surrogate mother to her brother's six children.
Catriona's five brothers and sisters were older, and as they moved away one by one, she had lost their sheltering influence like protective layers peeling away. She and Finlay were left as the subjects of Aunt Judith's determination to mother them through control and correction. She had cowed her own brother, Thomas, years before, and he still did all her will. Finlay was an easygoing sort and had simply ignored his aunt's demands.
But Catriona had tried to please her, earning herself constant small criticisms and the label of Plain Girl. She was to have no life outside her father's home and no family of her own. Judith's plan for her ensured Thomas's and Judith's comfort and stole away Catriona's own cherished dreams.
Loving her father, she had tried to accept it, hoping to act as the buffering influence in the household, protecting him from Judith's sharp-edged nature.
And now Judith, who always wanted the upper hand at the manse, would convince the reverend to either send his daughter away—or force her to marry the Earl of Kildonan.
Catriona would rather leave her beloved glen than become what she most resented—the aristocratic authority in Glen Shee. The marriage would separate her from the people and heritage of Glen Shee as much as if she had been sent into exile.
A knock on the door startled her, rattled through the wood and shook her shoulders as she leaned there.
"Open the door," Evan said, pounding.
She put her mouth to the crack of the door. "Go away!"
"I need to speak with you," he said quietly and sternly.
"Well, I do not need to speak with you. Go away!"
"Open this door!" He smacked his hand against it.
"A young lady does not open her door to a gentleman," she said. "A gentleman does not ask to be admitted to an unmarried girl's room. Nor does he beat on her door."
Hearing silence, she thought he had gone. She rested her brow against the wood and fought tears.
"If the young lady spends the night in the gentleman's arms," he whispered, his voice floating through the crack in the door so that only she could hear him, "and if the gentleman asks her to marry him, then the rules have changed."
"Only if the young lady accepts. You do not want to marry me. And you do not have to!" The last she shouted loud enough for the benefit of her father and aunt.
Silence again. Then she heard a creaking as if he leaned a shoulder against the wood. "Catriona, open this damned door."
"No."
"There are several people with me in the hallway who would love to hear our entire conversation. I will conduct my business with you one way or another. Open the door or share this with everyone."
Muttering that they should all go away and leave her be, she turned the handle and yanked the door open so fast that Evan nearly fell through the gap. He caught the doorjamb and glared at her, and she returned his glare boldly.
Behind him, she saw her father; her aunt; Finlay; Peggy, the little housemaid, who stood with an armful of linens, her mouth agape; and Mrs. MacAuley, standing with Glenachan's chubby cook, Jessie, peering up from the lower landing.
"You can talk to me from where you stand—and all of you can go downstairs," she told the others.
"Now I have no doubt that you must marry the earl," Judith said. "Obviously you two are on very familiar terms. You will be a countess—why refuse that? Either marry the man or leave Glenachan House. Tell her, Thomas!" She elbowed her brother.
"Papa?" Catriona looked past Evan toward her father. "Will you send me away if I do not marry him?" She phrased that plaintively in Gaelic.
Thomas MacConn sighed heavily. "Catriona, it is not proper for you to stay here now. The sin of this outweighs... all the rest of it. Though I know you saved the man's life—he has compromised you. Let him make that up to you. To all of us." He looked away, and suddenly he looked old to her, grayed and sagging, weak where he had always seemed strong.
"Think of your father's position in the kirk," Judith said, "and what he has worked for all these years. He could lose the living of this manse, and we would all have to leave."
Evan sighed, his hand on the doorframe. Catriona glanced at him. While the others had spoken, she had felt his presence beside her, strong and protective, like a rock in a storm.
"Mrs. Rennie," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "I am
attempting to resolve the matter. Please go downstairs and give us privacy—all of you." He drummed his fingers expectantly on the wood.
Judith Rennie huffed and whispered to the minister, who shook his head, took her elbow, and guided her toward the stairs. One by one, the others filed down the steps after them.
Evan turned back to her, his tall form filling the doorway, his long arm in the same tweed jacket he had worn yesterday, his bulk blocking her from escaping past him. His hand on the doorframe prevented her from shutting the door.
"Now," he said, "hear me out."
She looked up at him and nodded, her heart pounding so hard she thought he would see its bounce under her bodice. Part of her was angry with him—yet part of her wanted desperately to accept his offer, on the remote chance that last night had meant as much to him as it had meant to her.
He kept his hand raised just beside her head. "I... admit that I have made a dreadful mistake."
Her heart sank a little. "By asking me to marry you? I agree." She lifted her chin.
"I mean I made a mistake last night when I... took advantage of our situation. And I apologize." He spoke so softly that any eavesdroppers in the stairwell could not have heard. His intimate tone and his closeness took her breath away, stirred her heart unwillingly. "Let me make it up to you."
"We were both distressed," she whispered fiercely. "You do not need to make up anything." She felt a blush in her cheeks. Last night she had desperately wanted to be loved, and she had pushed for it to happen—yet Evan was the one offering apologies and recompense. "I would rather this be forgotten. I would rather no one ever knew."
"My dear lass," he drawled, "it is too late for that." He reached out to trace his fingertips along her jaw, tilted up her chin with a knuckle. "And now we must deal with the consequences of our... adventure."
"Only because you told them too much," she snapped, angling away from the thrill of his touch. "I thought what happened was for us alone," she finished in a whisper.
He leaned even closer. "Their imaginations did the work. Your aunt has a naughty turn of mind. As for what happened last night, that remains our secret." His gaze searched hers. He stood so close, with only the span of the doorframe separating them, that she could feel the warmth of his breath, could see his thick eyelashes, and noticed the honey-gold and moss-green colors in his irises. "I promise."
"Perhaps it is better if we forget this... Lord Kildonan."
"Ah, so that is the troublesome point."
"You could have told me," she said between her teeth.
"I intended to tell you, but when you ranted on about my father and earls in general, it seemed awkward. And I did not expect visitors to our little mountain chalet first thing in the morning. I thought we had time yet."
"Time for what? More deception? Or more... adventure?"
"Time for honesty. There is no doubt that I wronged you. And I should have told you immediately who I was."
"If I had known who you were, there would have been no opportunity to wrong me," she snapped.
"Obviously you are not in a forgiving mood. But the only solution now is for you to marry me."
The deep, mellow register of his voice was so compelling to her, by its nature, that he could have said anything, recited a rhyme or read an advertisement, and she would have felt a fillip of pleasure. But what he murmured was the stuff of her most precious dreams—a handsome man offering her a romantic escape from a dull life of drudgery and loneliness.
Yet the dream was offered without love, the most essential element of the fantasy. She looked away, shook her head. "You would not marry me otherwise, Lord Kildonan, so you do not need to marry me now. They have forced you into this."
"No one forced me," he said sharply. "I suggested it. I owe you a rescue."
"That is no reason for marriage."
He leaned near. "What if there is a child?" he murmured.
She drew a breath. That thought had occurred to her, too, when she had let go of reason to experience rare passion last night. "Then that would be my consequence and my concern."
"I disagree," he growled.
Shaking her head, she stepped back and pushed the door shut, stopping short of mashing his fingers. "Please go," she said.
In answer, he pushed on the door so firmly that she could no longer hold it closed. As it gave way, he crossed the threshold. She stepped back into the room with the force of his entry.
* * *
Evan strode inside, kicked the door shut, and took her by the shoulders. "Listen to me, you stubborn lass. I compromised you, but I will honor my obligation. We both know a child is a possibility. Marriage seems to me to be the only reasonable solution."
"Bearing an out-of-wedlock child is not the catastrophe in the Highlands that it is in the Lowlands and elsewhere," she said. "Such offspring are often welcome in Highland homes."
"Perhaps so, but not in this Highland home, I would guess," he said in an intense tone. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice so that no one, even standing outside the door, could hear him. "You'll find no forgiveness for that here. If they send you south, you could end up doing factory work while your child grows up on the streets. I've seen such children," he went on. "Have you?"
She glanced away. "I have."
"Aye. Bowed legs, swollen bellies, wandering the streets half-naked while their parents slave for a pauper's wage. Highland children are straight and strong and beautiful, walking the hills with their families. The child of an earl would have all the advantages without the suffering. Now which should ours be, do you think?"
The images he evoked tugged at her heart, but she shook her head. "The question is pointless. There will be no child."
"How do you know? Did you use methods against it? I did not," Evan said. "I could not think—you were so..." He paused, glanced away. "The situation got away from me. And you will not know if you are with child for several weeks."
"Women know their... phases, sir. If you are so adamant about this, we need only wait a little while," Catriona said, cheeks blazing. "Then you will know there is no need for marriage."
"And if you are wrong?"
She glanced away, knew she must relent. "If so... then we would have to marry, if you are still willing."
"I am willing now. Waiting is out of the question, since I had not planned to stay in the glen for long. And I will not have a child of mine born after a six-month marriage, I assure you."
Something turned, needful and poignant, deep inside. Every instinct told her he was a good man, a man of integrity and kindness, and that they could make a marriage, even from this accursed start. Yet she privately knew that she had cajoled him into loving her and that he felt obligated. Nor could she easily forgive him for concealing his identity.
She had wanted only to be loved last night, just once. But she had fallen too deep, too far. Now she did not know what to do. Tears stung her eyes, and she shook her head in silence.
"Listen to me. That heartless raven of a woman," he ground out, "will send you away. Let me take you out of here."
"So you can pack me off somewhere far away from you once you decide I am not truly fit to be a countess? No." If she ever married, she wanted love, devotion, partnership.
"Catriona—what is it that bothers you so about this?"
She stood in silence, unable and unwilling to tell him all her doubts and fears—and she could not tell him what Grant had threatened and what he had told her about Evan's intentions in Glen Shee. She turned her head and did not answer.
"Do not make this so blasted difficult."
"We have no basis for a real marriage," she finally said.
"We had the makings of one last night," he murmured. "Shall I remind you?" He reached out and pulled her to him, dipping his head to kiss her with such tender richness that her head spun and her knees gave way. He held her up with his easy strength, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and let him kiss her again.
Dazed, she felt herself r
esponding to the powerful desire that had overtaken her last night. When he pulled away, she stood with her eyes closed, her breath quickening.
"Well?" he asked. "Do you remember now? We have the makings of a marriage—you cannot deny it."
She looked at him then. He towered over her, the only man she knew who was taller—and stronger willed—than she was. Her heart surged, and passion tugged at her, intimately, hopefully. He possessed some sort of magic in his hands, his lips, his voice, that sank easily into her and untied the knots, weakened her resolve.
"I know," she whispered. She felt her knees trembling, felt her body, her soul, hurtle forward, when she tried to resist. "I will... marry you." She looked up. "And your debt will be paid."
His hands tightened on her arms. "Catriona, my girl," he murmured, "somehow I wonder if I can ever make it up to you."
She gazed at him in silence, suddenly wanting to be kissed again, as if that could erase the strife and doubt.
He let go of her and turned away. "Come downstairs—we'll inform your family." He opened the door.
Catriona saw her aunt standing in the hallway outside her room as if she had been eavesdropping through the oaken door.
"So," Judith said. "I see you have made your decision. A good thing—you two were alone far too long. Lord Kildonan, I came up to tell you that your sister, Lady Jean, and her husband, Lord... Lord Henry..."
"Sir Harry Gray, madam," Evan supplied tersely.
"Aye. Lady Jean and Sir Harry have arrived and are anxious to see you." She frowned. "I do not have the stamina to inform them of this awful scandal, so I will leave that to you. Come along, Catriona." She whirled away and headed for the stairs, then spoke over her shoulder. "Your father wants this deed done tonight."
Glancing frantically at Evan, Catriona pushed past him. "Tonight?" she said as her aunt trounced down the stairs.
"The reverend insists," Mrs. Rennie answered, pausing on the landing to look up. "We have begun the arrangements."
Catriona gasped and stepped forward, but Evan grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Let it go. What difference tonight, next week, next month? The sooner we are married, the sooner you are free of this so-called disgrace. And the sooner you are out of this house," he murmured.