“That breeze on the water will chill you to the bone,” he said, hoping she’d heed this last warning to return inside. However, she’d already scurried toward the shallow wooden boat. He shook his head. She was a determined one, that Miss Starke. Turning toward the inevitable, he followed. At least pulling the oars would provide the physical release he sorely needed.
***
With Peat huddled at her side, Claire sat in the wide end of the rowboat, transfixed by the man opposite, who expertly launched the vessel into the loch. The kilt sprawled across his hips did little to hide the powerful legs bracing the wooden floorboards. With each masterful pull on the partially submerged oars, she could see the combined strength of his legs, arms, and chest all working in tandem, competently propelling the boat forward.
A hint of whiskers stretched across his chin and circled his mouth, emphasizing his masculinity and calling attention to . . . his lips. As if that one feature didn’t already cause her sleepless nights. If she were brave and daring, she’d reach over and rub her fingers over the side of his chin. But right now she was neither.
Macpherson had been wrong about a chill on the water. Just watching him pull on the oars caused an ebullience to spread through her veins. Sitting in the small boat with a muscle-bound Scotsman was proving uncomfortably warm and awkward as the silence between them deepened.
“How did it happen?” she finally asked, squinting at his face. “Those scars on your back?”
He winced. “You don’t scare easily, English. I thought proper ladies avoided personal questions.”
“I’ve been told I’m not very proper at times,” she said quietly. Hadn’t Faith laughed about this very thing?
His face twisted in annoyance. “Is this truly what you so desperately wished to discuss?”
“No . . . I had a different purpose when I approached.” Her cheeks warmed, not from embarrassment at her social faux pas, but rather from a yearning to reach around him and soothe the angry scars. She knew how it felt to be marked, to be different. “I wasn’t aware of your injuries until I saw your back.”
Suddenly self-conscious, she looked to the water, avoiding his gaze. “The way you lifted and carried Miss Huddleston so effortlessly up the stairs after her sprain . . .” She almost sighed, but caught herself in time. “You didn’t appear injured then.”
“What you mean to say is that I was fully clothed at the time,” he scolded lightly. “What you can’t see, you can’t ken.”
“Aye,” she replied, still remembering his competency in rescuing Faith. Too late, she realized some of her admiration had slipped into her voice. She brought her gaze back to the laird and noticed he was shifting uncomfortably on the bench.
“What—” His voice rasped. He cleared his throat. “Why were you looking for me this morning?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, stalling, suddenly feeling awkward about her mission.
Peat took that moment to lay his head in her lap, pinning her to the seat. She stroked the dog’s blue-gray head. At least the laird’s dog cared for her, even if his master didn’t. She took a breath.
“I wanted to apologize for any offense I caused by assuming the clothes in the chest were available for my use. I realize I’m a guest, and an uninvited one at that, and I should have—”
“Och, lass. It’s I that should be apologizing,” he interrupted. He shipped the oars to let the boat drift in the middle of the loch, then rubbed his hand around his chin as if debating what to say. Crossing his forearms on his thighs, he leaned forward. “I’d planned to find you after my swim. You had no way of knowing—”
“The photograph.” It was her turn to interrupt. “I found a photograph of you as a young boy with . . . someone else.” She paused a moment, watching for his response. “The clothes belonged to him, didn’t they?”
Macpherson hung his head. Apparently, this wasn’t a topic he spoke of lightly.
“Adam.” She had to strain to hear him. The name was spoken as a prayer. “His name was Adam.”
A man, in particular a strong, arrogant Scotsman, wouldn’t adopt that reverent tone unless the subject was one with whom he had a close relationship. She sat quietly a moment, the lapping water and the call of distant birds the only sounds.
“He was your brother,” she said, remembering the physical similarities.
His face twisted in torment. “He was my twin.”
Chapter 11
The laird’s wide shoulders slumped with his immense sorrow.
If she wasn’t sitting in a softly rocking boat with a massive dog inching his way onto her lap, she’d have offered Macpherson a sympathetic touch, just to let him know someone cared. But she was rooted to the bench, so she could only observe his anguish.
All her life, she’d longed for a sibling. Someone with whom to share, someone to abate the constant loneliness. She often thought she’d be a different sort of person if she’d had the companionship of another in childhood. It was one of the reasons she held so tightly to the friendship of her Rake Patrol sisters. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing them.
But a twin? That would have provided a special sort of bond, more than she could have hoped for. They would have been two halves of a whole, sharing secrets, close in every way. Then to lose that confidant? For surely such sorrow could only come from a loss. Along with the visible scars, he must carry deeper ones impossible to see.
“I’m so sorry.” She poured all her compassion into those three simple words, yet it wasn’t enough. “Sometimes it helps to talk about it,” she offered.
“Sometimes it doesn’t.” His face tightened. Shifting on the wooden bench, he gazed at the water as if at any moment he might jump in. She wouldn’t be surprised. She was accustomed to men trying to escape her in the pubs and taverns. She should learn from Faith and not ask such personal questions. No wonder she was such a social albatross.
His gaze swung back to her with a frown. “If you make a slogan out of what I tell you or lessen it in any way, I swear I will toss you into the loch and let you sink to a cold, watery grave.”
“I would never,” she protested, insulted that he would think such a thing. But then, she supposed her recent behavior gave him grounds. Still she grabbed hold of the side of the boat with one hand and held tightly, just in case he thought to follow through with the threat.
“Just as well,” he muttered. “That damn dog would probably jump in and save you anyway.”
Peat yawned in response and nuzzled deeper into her lap.
“There was a fire,” he said after a moment. Painful memories played across his brow. “Lightning struck a warehouse at the distillery and ignited casks of whisky.”
Her eyes widened. A fire was the worst sort of tragedy in London. Flames licked up the wooden structures, jumping from building to nearby building. The choking smoke could be so dense it could kill by itself, even without the flames. Flammable whisky would only stoke the hellish fury.
“You were caught in the fire,” she said, surprised that one could survive such an inferno.
“No. I wasn’t there.” He studied his hands. “Not initially, at least . . . ”—he looked away—“I was somewhere I shouldna have been.”
“But your shoulder . . . ?”
“By the time I arrived, the warehouse was lost. My grandfather disappeared in the flames but dinna come out. Adam followed to save him. He was a brave lad, a brave, fearless lad. And now he’s gone.”
His calm voice belied the nightmare in his words. He’d relived this memory too many times. She knew well how one helplessly revisited pain, time and time again, always hoping the outcome would change, always wishing. While this explained the sadness in his eyes, it didn’t explain the burns on his back. There was more to the story. “And you?” she asked.
“When I heard he ran into the warehouse, I went in to save him, but it was too late. My c
lothes caught fire just as I found his body. I pulled him out and tried to save him, but I failed.”
He thought admitting his failure to this English-bred termagant would be insignificant. Unique as she was, he still expected that she, like so many others, would become a mewling sheep, effusive in voiced sympathy, but always at a carefully maintained distance. He only managed to tolerate those unaware of his torment over the loss of his brother. The others drifted off—except James, who had torments of his own.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I lost my mother when I was very young. I know how it hurts to lose someone you love. But the important thing is that you did what you could.”
“No, it’s not,” he lashed back. “The important thing is that Adam died. I failed, and Adam died, and I’m left to live a life that was meant to be his.”
He hadn’t intended to say that. His explanation of Adam’s death should have been enough, but something about her made his outburst safe. She wasn’t a whiny piece of fluff like the others. Something about her held steadfast, held true.
Enough. He’d answered her questions. He gave her a quick nod, then took up the oars. No doubt she’d be anxious to rush back to the safety of her friend now that she knew of his deficiency.
He pulled hard at the oars while ravens called overhead. He glanced up at the black birds, grateful for the opportunity to change the topic of conversation. “James says the ravens are coming back. They’re the namesake for the castle, you know. They disappeared for—”
“In the photograph, he seemed so serious.” Apparently, escape to a less painful topic was not to be.
“Aye.” He smiled tightly. “He had lofty goals. As the firstborn, he was to be the rightful laird of the Macpherson clan. It was always his vision to bring back the distillery and then follow my father into politics.”
“But that’s not your plan.” She cocked her head.
“Adam saw the potential for the distillery even at an early age. He was the one who reopened it after it had been idle for years. My talents are of a different nature.”
“Yet you keep it running.”
“Yes, I keep it running,” he said, annoyed. “The distillery pays the family’s debt and provides employment. Do you know how many lives would be impacted by the close of Ravenbeck?” He shook his head. “The distillery is an indispensable part of Beckmore. I willna close it.”
“Temperance leads to wealth and—”
His glare managed to stop her mid-chant. She dropped her gaze. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Habit.”
“A habit you need be breaking,” he insisted.
She sat quietly for a few moments while he pulled closer to the shore.
“Those garments were sized more for a boy, not a man,” she said eventually. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want his memories disturbed. I’m not sure we ever leave such pain in the past.” She was so solemn, he wondered if she spoke from experience. “Memories still hurt in the present,” she continued. “I hope you realize that I meant no offense.”
He settled the oars in their brackets while he wiped sweat from his face. “It’s been seven years. Seven long years of mourning Adam’s death. Seven years of working to restore the distillery.” He raised his gaze to her face. “Both my mother and James tell me I need to move on. You seem to be a practical woman, English. How long is the appropriate time to mourn the loss of someone who was as close as your shadow?”
He set his jaw and stared at her face, watching shock and sorrow fill her eyes. When she didn’t immediately answer, he shook his head. Though loathe to admit it, perhaps James and his mother were right.
Distant thunder rolled across the loch. The sky, still clear and sunny, showed no evidence of rain. Perhaps the thunder was Adam’s voice, taken by lightning, trapped by thunder. If only he could understand it.
“Take the clothes,” he said, picking up the oars and continuing toward the shore. “It’s time to move on. Adam’s clothes do no good tucked away like some religious relic.”
In a few minutes he’d be free of the stubborn woman, her enigmatic expressions, and the resurgence of painful memories. Lord, he needed a rest . . . but apparently was not bound to get one. A form separated from the planter that marked the walkway. Hamish waited on the shore. That could only mean trouble was brewing.
“There’s one more thing I would ask,” she said.
He glanced back toward his passenger. Jesus. Had he not conceded enough?
“I noticed a camera in the turret room—the bellows?” She squinted up at him.
By St. Andrew’s arse, what was the woman about now? He pulled hard on the oars, launching the boat to the short wooden pier. “Is it your intent to tell me that photography is also the work of the Devil? Between whisky and photography—”
“No, I was going to ask if I could use it. If that’s all right?”
“You’re familiar with cameras?” It was an aspect of Miss Starke he hadn’t considered. In fact, he supposed he knew very little about her, other than that she had the most interesting eyes. They changed with her thoughts, much like the way the surface of the loch changed with the skies overhead. And then there was that irrational desire to nibble at that sweet spot where her neck joined her shoulder. He caught himself staring at that very spot. Bollocks! He pushed that thought aside. Miss Starke did not appear to be the type of woman who would be about a squirt and a squeeze.
She wasn’t bound to be at Ravenswood long. There was no need to know her better. No matter that his manly parts argued otherwise.
The pier loomed ahead, with Hamish waiting to catch the rope to secure the boat to the side.
“My father was a photographer of note,” she said, obviously unaware of his internal struggles. “After he died, I found it necessary to sell his equipment. I thought I might be able to take some photographs of the estate while we wait on Miss Huddleston’s ankle to heal sufficiently.”
The boat scraped along the wooden pier. He tossed the rope to Hamish, who quickly tied the bow to a post. Cameron looped the other rope around a different post and pulled it snug. Peat jumped onto the pier without hesitation. Cameron offered Miss Starke his hand to steady her as she stood.
Her hand, soft and gentle, disappeared in his own. Somehow he had expected something . . . not as appealing. The surprise made him hesitate until Hamish cleared his throat, reminding him that they weren’t alone.
“By all means.” His lips tightened as he assisted her to the planking. If she were off taking photographs, she would not be spouting slogans in his presence, nor would she be leading his thoughts down paths where they did not belong. “Raid my attics, ransack my past. Take whatever you wish. But if at all possible in the days ahead, just leave me in peace.”
Hamish extended his arm for assistance as well, but she ignored it. She straightened her back, then nodded stiffly to the both of them before walking briskly toward the castle.
Hamish watched her depart while Cameron leapt to the pier. “I’m sorry, Mac,” Hamish said. “I’m afraid there’ll be no peace for you this day.”
Chapter 12
“What do you plan to do with that dusty thing?” Faith asked while Claire carefully checked the leather bellows and attempted to extend the camera along a metal track that slid out of a wooden casing. The whole contraption resembled a Japanese puzzle box. One had to know the trick to gain access to the charm inside. Claire busied over the camera in a wooden box as she sat at the foot of Faith’s bed.
“Do you mind if I use some of your soap?” Claire asked.
“It’s by the basin.” While the castle had all the modern conveniences, including indoor plumbing, an old-fashioned wash basin had been set in Faith’s room for her convenience so she wouldn’t have to hobble down the hall. Claire poured a bit of water in the porcelain, wet the lavender-scented bar, then brought it back to the camera to rub along the metal track
s.
“I thought you wanted to wash your hands,” Faith said, surprised. “What good will that do?”
“The soap will help the bellows slide smoothly.” Claire returned the damp bar to the bowl. “The image comes in here”—she pointed to the round lens at the front of the extended box— “and appears in the back where I can see it. By moving the lens closer or farther away from the subject, I can focus the image, make it sharper.” She demonstrated the bellows sliding forward and collapsing back several times.
“To say nothing of making it smell better,” Faith added, with a glance at her soap.
Claire grinned.
“Is it functional?”
Claire grimaced. “The camera is functional, but without collodion plates to use for the negative image and albumen paper for the positive, I can’t make photographic prints.”
“You don’t have those things?”
“I found some glass plates and negative frames. If I had the proper chemicals I could make up the necessary solutions.” There was the possibility that the chemicals were in the same room where she had found the camera, but she’d guessed they’d be old and ineffective.
“If you don’t have what you need to make it work, what good is the camera?”
Claire set the box aside and leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps the best way to capture the attention of the temperance committee isn’t with slogans.” She made a wry face. “No one seems to appreciate them anyway.”
“That’s true,” Faith agreed, a bit too quickly in Claire’s opinion.
“I thought maybe I might use this camera to show the wages of sin as it pertains to liquor. It’s far more difficult to naysay the human cost of obsessive drinking when there is pictorial proof to the contrary.”
“And where do you plan to find your subjects? The ones willing to pose for such a project?”
“Why, here, of course. In that little village, Beckmore. We know there’s a tavern that must have patrons. And patrons have families who suffer. I just need to find those families.” And the chemicals, she added mentally.
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