by Amy Quinton
Amelia liked him on sight. This was certainly no stuffy, English butler.
“Och, Master Alaistair, welcome home.” He said, his love for his gruff lord evident in his very demeanor.
“Mac. This is Mel, erm, this is Mrs. Amelia Chase.”
Amelia stepped forward and reached out to shake his gnarled hand. Mac clasped her proffered hand in both of his, but looked at MacLeod with a knowing grin.
MacLeod shrugged his shoulders and looked away as he said, “Och, She’s American.” As if being American explained everything.
Aye, as MacLeod would say, she supposed it did.
Mac turned back to her, a curious gleam in his eye. “Is she, then? Well, welcome to Greenwood Park Mrs. Chase the American,” he said as he continued to shake her hand with both of his. He winked, and his eyes held an extra twinkle that hadn’t been present quite so obviously before.
She looked over at MacLeod with a smirk and replied, “Why thank you…Mr. Mac.”
“Ah lass, jus’ call me Mac. We are quite informal here, for truth we are.”
“Why thank you, Mac. And you can call me Mel; it’s what the big silent ox over there calls me,” she said as she gestured toward MacLeod.
Mac was obviously surprised by her revelation, but covered his shock with an even toothier grin, if it could be believed.
Amelia smiled like a cat with a canary and added, “And I think we will get a long quiet well, you and I. Quite well, indeed.”
“Och, to be sure, lass. To be sure.”
At that, Amelia slid her hand into Mac’s elbow and turned him toward the house as she stepped inside on his arm. “So Mac, tell me about this magnificent castle.”
They left MacLeod alone on the front stoop.
Kelly moaned. One of the idiot thugs working with him had managed to clip him with his shot. His own man. It was a simple graze upon the arm, but at times, even the smallest scratch could be painful if cut across the skin just so. As this one was.
He’d have to call for Megan downstairs to tend to him for he probably required a stich or two. The thought left a smile upon his face, despite his failure to capture his quarry.
A knock on the door interrupted his musings upon the very accommodating redhead down below.
“Come in.”
A footman in unfamiliar livery entered bearing a note. Kelly stood and grasped the letter, ignoring the footman, who simply turned about and left, as he opened and began to read:
Irish,
We need to meet. Himself is most displeased. You are to ride to Carlisle with all due haste. Present yourself at the Hairy Goose Inn five miles west of the city by sunrise tomorrow.
X
Evening, The Same Day
When Amelia came down for dinner that evening, she expected to be taken to some colossal medieval dining room with a table to sit sixty, possibly with a fireplace large enough to fit four MacLeods standing shoulder to shoulder within the firebox.
Instead, she was taken to the kitchens, which suited her just fine. She honestly preferred intimate and cozy over vast and cold.
Its fireplace wasn’t quite tall enough to fit a standing MacLeod, but it would fit about ten MacLeod’s bent over at the waist and standing side by side!
And there were two of them. Two fireplaces, that was. It must have been something to see in medieval times when it was new, not like it was now, darkened with over three hundred fifty years of soot and grime.
To her surprise, MacLeod was already seated at the head of a small dining table. To his right was an empty seat, presumably hers. Mac was next to the empty chair to the right. She nodded her head in his direction when she saw he noticed her, and he winked in return.
An older woman, “Mrs. Mac” as she was introduced earlier—the housekeeper, organizer of maids, and head cook, basically the woman who did it all and held this place together with her more than capable hands (they got along famously)—sat across from Mac, her back to Amelia.
To MacLeod’s left, with his back to her, as well, was a man with short reddish hair sitting in a wheeled chair. She, admittedly, was surprised. She hadn’t realized anyone else of note to the family resided here in MacLeod’s castle.
She stepped further into the room, and MacLeod stood with alacrity, his simple wooden chair scraping the stone floor and echoing off the stone walls, his face tight and focused.
Mac, on the other hand, stood with more care, slowly and with some difficulty as he was getting on in years. He wore a large grin planted firmly across his face, his white hair still in wild disarray. She was beginning to suspect it stayed that way all the time. Even directly after a combing.
The man in the wheeled chair couldn’t stand, of course, but he did turn back to look at her.
And Amelia’s stomach dropped into her feet as she met familiar green eyes.
She unconsciously stepped forward and might have stumbled as if literally tripping over said stomach. She honestly didn’t know, as surprised as she was. For there, in a chair designed for people unable to walk, was a man who was the exact image of MacLeod.
His twin.
Not a parent. Not a son. Nor a cousin or nephew.
A brother, an identical twin brother.
He didn’t speak, and of course, he couldn’t stand.
After her initial surprise passed, she quickly noted that there were, in fact, some subtle differences between the two men. The brother so closely resembled MacLeod, a stranger would have difficulty telling them apart, yet upon further reflection, she could see that his face did not wear the hard edges characterized by MacLeod’s focused intensity. The brother’s face was soft and open, speaking of a relative innocence by comparison.
“Mrs. Chase.” said MacLeod.
“MacLeod.” she returned.
He held his hand to her as if beckoning her to his side, and oddly enough, she placed herself there, by his side, as if the action were the most natural thing in the world to do. She turned to face MacLeod’s brother, a genuine smile upon her lips.
“Mrs. Chase, may I introduce to you my brother, Alain…”
MacLeod’s voice softened when he spoke his brother’s name, the sound almost a whisper with far too much emotion tumbling out alongside the word. She heard love in those two syllables, and more. Heartbreak. But far worse, despair.
She waited a moment for him to speak, but he only smiled back at her. So she said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alain.”
MacLeod leaned down and spoke quietly in her ear, his breath warm and sending shivers through her body. She looked up to him, caught the look in his eyes as he said, “Lass, he canna speak.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The bottom fell out of her world.
Or at least, it felt as if it had. God. Just when she thought she had it all figured out, this.
Oh, MacLeod.
She’d caught one glimpse. One stupid infinitesimal glimpse into his eyes a mere moment after he’d introduced her to his brother, and what she saw there ripped a hole in the fabric of her reality. For one fleeting moment in time, MacLeod looked broken and exposed.
She could scarcely conceive of a world in which a man like MacLeod could be vulnerable. It was all wrong, as if she’d woken up to find the sky painted green and the grass blue, and pigs flying about with wings of glass. It made her desperate to soothe and support him. To be his friend, his steady rock. To fix him, putting everything to rights as it should be.
MacLeod’s vulnerability was gone in an instant, replaced by the stalwart man she’d come to know and respect.
God, what must it be like to have a twin you couldn’t speak to? Or share jokes with? There would be no discussing the hideous waistcoat he might have received for Christmas from some senile aunt, nor whether the latest news from France was accurate or a bundle of lies made up by the government.
They couldn’t talk about that fish that got away. Or what they should get their mother for her birthday.
They could no longer do all t
he things that siblings, particularly twins, do.
MacLeod helped Amelia to the only vacant seat at the table. She was relieved for the distraction as she was at a complete loss for words while her mind spun about, flitting from one thought to the next and never latching on to any one thing for more than a moment.
Her lips felt like cracked earth, so she reached for a glass of water and drank in great big gulps until she’d banished the sticky dryness from her mouth.
In the midst of a million other random thoughts were a jumble of competing emotions. She wanted to wail; she wanted to scream. God, she even wanted to laugh. How crazy was that?
She wanted to reach across the table and punch MacLeod in the nose for being so enigmatic and tight-lipped about himself, about his life.
Who would blame her? He’d never—not one single time—even hinted at a brother, especially a twin brother. And certainly not one with some level of disability. It made her fully aware she knew very little about Alaistair MacLeod, and that fact bothered her to such a degree she wanted to excuse herself from the table so she could hide in her room and examine her feelings from every angle, poking and prodding them until she’d explicated them all to death in her mind.
She and MacLeod had been through so much, had spent so many days together—months, even.
And the most ridiculous thing about it all? She was a damned hypocrite, for all that.
Aye, as MacLeod would say, crazy.
Once MacLeod returned to his seat, he reached for the platter of roast beef before him and began to carve off slices of meat. There were no footmen on hand to perform the task—or even to serve them at all, for that matter.
Thank You, God.
She’d always felt uncomfortable in the past when seated at a table with servants to cater to her every desire, and every single time she’d felt the pressing need to talk to them rather than ignore them as everyone expected her to do.
MacLeod turned to his brother, and with a voice so soft she’d have thought it came from someone else had she not been watching him speak, asked his brother, “Would you care for some meat, Alain?”
His brother studied her while he nodded his head and answered, “Yes.”
But I thought…?
“Yes is the only word he can say.” MacLeod bit off as if he’d read her mind.
She looked at MacLeod and frowned at his obvious change in tone. He was surly now, like a wounded animal.
Yes, exactly like a wounded, vulnerable animal.
She heard a swift thump, followed by a grunt from MacLeod, who looked sharply at his brother before turning back to her and offering, “My apologies, Mrs. Chase. I did not mean to speak so disagreeably,” in a much more congenial tone.
Amelia looked to Alain, who gifted her with a very charismatic smile and a wink.
A wink.
That small gesture stunned her absolutely. Amelia blinked, it was all she could manage for a moment. She swallowed the newly formed lump in her throat and returned his grin with one of her own.
“Och, so tell us, Mel, have you enjoyed your visit to our shores?” inquired Mac while everyone saw to passing around the remaining side dishes, filling their own plates as desired.
Amelia ladled a spoonful of peas on her plate. “It has certainly been interesting, thank you for asking.”
“Go on with ya,” said Mrs. Mac, her name was Mairi, then added, “You’ve been travelin’ with this here silent beast, I’d say interestin’ is a wee bit of an understatement, if ye ask me.” Then, she laughed loudly, a long drawn out guffaw that spoke of confidence and a carefree disposition, clapping her hands in glee.
Amelia couldn’t help but smile and revert to form. She passed the peas to MacLeod. “Well, let’s just say that I firmly believe his brutishness is all a cover. He’s really a big ole softy. I’m rather convinced he’d prefer to be wearing pastels with lace and dancing in drawing rooms in gold knee breeches if he could have his way.” She winked at Alain.
Alain laughed out loud, catching everyone off guard for a moment. For two ticks of a clock, one might have heard a pin drop. Then, as quick as if someone had snapped their fingers, they all joined in with companionable laughter.
Well, everyone except MacLeod.
MacLeod finished ladling a spoonful of peas on his plate then asked his brother, “Peas, Alain?”
There was the soft tone again.
Alain said, “Y-yes,” but shook his head no.
To that, MacLeod said, “Of course.” He stood and brought the bowl of peas over to Mairi.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Later that Night: MacLeod’s Study
Amelia threw open the door to MacLeod’s study, slammed it shut again, and strode across the room as if she owned the place, which didn’t surprise him. He could finally admit it; he found her confidence attractive.
She was captivating in her fury, so much so that he didn’t stand upon her entry into the room—and didn’t even notice that he hadn’t until she was all the way across the room. By then, it was too late and fortunately, she didn’t really care.
When she reached his desk, she threw her hands on her hips and said, “You didn’t tell me you had a brother,” in a tone that was quite accusatory.
He almost laughed at the flash of fire in her eyes. Almost. Instead, he ignored her outburst, picked up the top letter from the pile of mail on this desk, and proceeded to open it as he said, “Och, there’s a lengthy list of things I’ve not told ye, Mel.”
He eyed her briefly when she reached forward, placing two small fists on his desk. She bent low over said fists, looking him square in the face. “Such as?”
He didn’t look at her when he said, “I was engaged once.”
That remark was met with silence. He looked up just as she collapsed into a chair. No graceful seat. A full-on collapse, her face stunned.
Eventually, she asked, “How long?”
“Five years ago.”
She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair, having regained some of her shocked composure. “And where is she now?”
“Dead.”
Amelia’s hand flew to her throat and she swallowed. “I see.”
He looked at her then, the devil pricking his temper. “Nae. You don’t. Her name was Delilah, and she was a traitor. A traitor to England.” He didn’t add, and to me. “In case you were wondering what kind of man you’re dealing with—in case you were thinking you could reform me—I’ll have you know I watched her hang, completely unmoved by her pleas for a pardon.”
A million thoughts seemed to flit across her face. She appeared confused for a moment, and she frowned. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
He didn’t want to admit, even to himself, he was afraid to know. That he wanted to take back what he’d just acknowledged lest she judge him and find him lacking, which was absurd.
Amelia stood and leaned over the desk once more. “So, now you’re cross with me again?”
He looked back to his letter. “Nae.”
And it was the truth. He wasn’t. Not really. He felt edgy of a sudden. Like his shirt was too tight and everything around him was just off. He hated the feeling. Like any man, it made him grumpy. He decided to throw himself into work to distance himself from his discomfiting feelings.
Feelings he was loathe to review. He wouldn’t…at least, not yet.
Rubbish. That was an utter lie; he’d thought of her ceaselessly since the moment they met. And when he wasn’t dreaming about fucking her senseless, or simply caressing her until she fell asleep in his arms, he was thinking about every single emotion she wrenched from his soul, all with apparent ease and all without his consent.
His response clearly did not please Mel, for she let out a “Humph,” and rounded his desk. When she reached him, she stepped between his seated self and his work, pulled the letter from his hands and tossed it behind her, then leaned back against the desk, blocking him from his pile of correspondence.
She crossed her arms and tapped out a melody with her dainty, yet impatient, foot.
He looked down so she wouldn’t see his smile, and his gaze stayed pinned there until he had his revealing grin under control. Once he was able, he explored her stance from her tapping toe all the way up to her sentimental gaze. He saw compassion there. At least it did not feel like pity.
When their eyes met, they stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment. Her foot slowed, then ceased its incessant tapping altogether. In fact, everything seemed to still as if the world held its breath, waiting. A thousand words flew between them without either one of them making a sound.
She called to him, this strange and difficult woman, with her American ways and her open smile.
Without saying a word, he spread his legs wide, her legs between his knees, caging her. He slid forward in his chair and pinned her to the desk as he wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head against her stomach, his cheek cradled by warm woman and pillowed by the softness of her feminine body.
He felt her fingers in his hair.
He closed his eyes, feeling as if the world had finally shifted back to normal. A world which had truly ceased to be normal five long years ago.
Now, this incomprehensible, open, determined, bright-eyed woman had stepped in and turned him inside out. She forced him to see her. To think of her. To know her, despite his ever-present desire to distance himself from others, especially women.