The Devil’s Due

by Boucher, Rita

  “Do you want an apple?” she asked, rummaging through her pocket. “They are rather small, for the orchard was near to ruin. I always carry a few with me when I hunt. One never knows how long it will take, but we were lucky today.”

  “We were lucky,” So, she did have a hunting companion. Somehow, Duncan could not picture Daisy in the role of a stalker. One of the men from the village perhaps? An oddly annoying thought, but the direction of his ruminations was altered abruptly as Selkie trotted closer to the fence. Duncan was about to call out, to warn Kate away. The stallion had more than once been known to bite the hand that fed him, but Selkie nipped the proffered apple with the daintiness of a dowager at tea.

  To Duncan’s amazement Kate scrambled onto the fence and began to rub Selkie’s mane. Even after nigh on a month together, the balky horse would not let Fred come close to him. Yet, in the space of a few minutes Kate had the stallion close to purring like a contented cat. However, the horse’s reaction was less oversetting than the sight of Kate herself in breeches and a boy’s shirt. Why was it that those ill-fitting garments so disturbed him? They covered as much as the most modest of gowns. Yet, the masculine cut somehow served to emphasize the feminine charms beneath, hugging curves, suggesting softness.

  Kate knew that she ought not to. The mount must certainly belong to The MacLean. Yet, the horse seemed to be taunting her, butting himself playfully against her shoulder, nearly knocking her from the rail as if encouraging her lunatic thoughts. The temptation of freedom was beyond resisting. To gallop, to fly on horseback if only for just a few moments would be more than enough and Duncan MacLean need never know of it. As if the stallion somehow understood, he sidled close, standing stock still. Grabbing a handful of mane, Kate used the fence as her mounting block, sliding herself on to the horse’s bare back in a swift motion.

  It was disbelief that held Duncan rooted. She could not be so utterly reckless, to ride an unknown horse with neither reins for guide nor saddle and stirrups for grip. But by the time he was convinced that his vision was telling true, it was too late. Beast and woman became a single creature, a melding of hair and hide, horseflesh and skin that was almost seamless as they cut through the tall grass, gaining speed.

  As they rode beyond the narrow pale of his view, Duncan stepped from his concealment and watched them soar effortlessly over a fallen log. The air filled with a childish whoop of glee as her long braids flew behind, the plaits of copper-tinged brown mingling with Selkie’s light mane. They turned at the corner of the pasture with the precision of a crack regiment on parade and he caught a glimpse of her face.

  It was as if he was truly seeing her for the first time. The weight of care and wariness was gone, her face wholly open and unguarded. She wore the joy of the moment, shedding the mantle of mistrust that cloaked the fire of an untamed spirit. Green eyes glowed bright, lit like faceted jewels by the exhilaration of her smile. A wild thing she was, in the freedom of that untrammeled flight, as much girl as she was woman.

  Still as a lead soldier, Lord MacLean stood by the stables, his shirt tied carelessly about his waist despite the growing chill in the air. Freed from its queue, The MacLean’s damp hair curled at his shoulder, the sunlight shading it the many-hued dark of a raven’s wing. His arms were folded across his torso, throwing the night-colored whorls on his chest into shadowed relief. As she drew closer, she tried to read his expression, but his face was an impassive mask. The horse danced to a halt before him, but he made no move, said not a word to break the damning silence.

  There was no choice but to dismount on her own. Apprehension made her awkward as she slid from the stallion’s back and she nearly fell in a heap on the ground. There was no excuse that she could think of as she scrambled to her feet. How could she hope to explain the impulse that had grown to a need? Surely no man could understand what it was to spend a life shackled by convention.

  Did she realize the eloquence of her expression? Duncan doubted it; else she would be much better at masking her emotions. Although her back was ramrod straight, her eyes were pools of uncertainty. He moved forward and involuntarily, she took a step back. That small gesture of fear cut him like a whiplash, releasing all the anger that he had tried to rein back. “Are you mad?” he shouted. “You could have bloody well killed yourself! Selkie is no Hyde Park hack, not the compliant pieces of cat’s meat that ladies are wont to ride, my girl!”

  My girl, the phrase reverberated in her mind, but she heard Marcus’s voice. You are being childish, my girl. . . Have you no concept of proper behavior, my girl? Always those two hateful words tacked on to every rebuke, simultaneously reducing her to both chattel and child. Usually, the phrase was followed by a sigh and a look of regret that told Kate that she had failed once more to meet Marcus’s lofty standards. Ah, whatever shall I do with you, my girl?

  “I am not your girl,” Kate said, her fists clenching by her side. She saw Lord MacLean, but it was not to him that she spoke. “Moreover, you have likely surmised that I am not one of that vapid breed known as ‘lady.’”

  Duncan’s fear and fury diminished as fascination came to the fore. Her voice was quavering with obvious emotion and her eyes blazed bright.

  “I have survived, milord, although I once thought that nothing could be a worse ordeal than a Wednesday night at Almack’s,” Kate declared, reaching beyond the shame, the feelings of inferiority. That woman, the weak dependent female that Marcus had wished her to become, could never have reached this place, never have brought herself and his daughter to safety. “I have survived.”

  Somehow, she had grown in the space of a few moments. Gone was every trace of the irresponsible girl, playing the tom in borrowed breeches. Her voice was soft, but there was considerable dignity in that quiet declaration, justifiable pride if the pain in her eyes was any indication. There was a terrible knowledge in those depths.

  “Aye,” Duncan said, jarred by the recognition. Other than his companions in Hell, Duncan had never before encountered anyone who understood. “I too, know something of survival, and its cost.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed, recalling herself to the here and now. “Endurance has its price.”

  “And its limits,” Duncan added, looking pointedly at his horse. “No matter that you might show them a trick or two at Astley’s Amphitheatre, you cannot depend on luck.”

  “And you have never been tempted to try the bounds of your luck?” Kate asked. To her surprise, a red flush radiated from beneath his beard. Fearing that she had roused his ire once more, she hastened to apologize, trying to tell him that she was not some untried greenling who might bring a horse to ruin.

  “I should not have ridden your stallion without leave; for that, I am sorry. However, the chance that I took was not a great one. Papa was always telling me that I spent too much of my time about the stableyards. Your animal has a bit of the devil in him, true enough, but there is not a horse worth riding that does not. And he is a champion, milord, as good a piece of blood and bone as I’ve ever ridden. ‘Tis like flying, I vow, a wondrous, smooth gait.” Her lips tilted in a wry grin. “But you know that.”

  “As false an apology as ever I have heard,” Duncan said gruffly, but he could not hold on to his anger. How could he in the face of that small, self-deprecating smile and her enthusiasm? “Clearly, you would do it again in a minute, ‘Mrs. Smith.’”

  “I am sorry, milord,” Kate repeated lamely, her head bowing as she cursed her foolish tongue. How could she have been so stupid as to endanger everything with her fits and starts? Perhaps Marcus had been right after all. “If you wish us to leave now, I understand. I cannot blame you for taking me into contempt.”

  Leave. The word hit him with the force of a blow. In less than a day, the solitude of a hermit’s existence had suddenly lost its savor. “Why would you think that you are deserving of my disgust?” he asked.

  Was there any means of salvaging the situation? Kate wondered. She should have simpered, affected meek subservience, th
e air of helplessness that she had learned at great cost. That was what men truly wanted; she ought to have taken that lesson to heart by now. Although it was likely too late, at least she might try. She had managed well enough to dupe most of Society. The London hostesses had looked tolerantly upon her, although she never achieved the brilliance that would have satisfied Marcus.

  But when Kate dared to look up, she knew that the timorous facade that had fooled others would not deceive this man. His dubious inflection upon “Mrs. Smith” had been a warning, a line drawn in the dust. There was only so much that he would leave unquestioned. That steely slate eye penetrated too far, told her with a look that there could be no more deception. Caught out at last, Kate gave a brittle laugh.

  “Do you roast me, milord?” she asked, drawing at the baggy knees of her breeches and sketching out a mocking curtsey. “Do you not see that I am the epitome of genteel womanhood? La, sir, you do jest, surely. Well, I freely admit that what I do to a pianoforte could set the milk to souring, but I can shoot the pip from a card, milord, set a snare, or tickle a trout, then clean and cook what I catch. Titter at me behind your hand at the Prince’s levee when I make use of the wrong fork, but I can tell which foraged mushrooms would soon have you standing at the pearly gates and which roots could satisfy your stomach on a long march. Put me on a fine horse and I vow, I can lead you a dance, but you waltz with me at risk of your toes.”

  “Would you, ‘Mrs. Smith’?” he asked, softly.

  “Would I what?” she asked in confusion. Her eyes were starting to sting. She would not cry.

  “Waltz, of course. Were I willing to put my feet at hazard, that is,” Duncan said, noticing the tell-tale glitter, the furious fluttering of that fan of lashes as she struggled to maintain control. Once again, she had refused to use tears as a weapon. No female in his past acquaintance had ever been restrained by that compunction.

  “Why are you trifling with me?” Kate shook her head. “I am by no means a proper type of female. Heaven knows M . . . my husband told me so often enough.”

  “Did he indeed?” Duncan snorted, watching as she self-consciously tucked in the trailing ends of her shirt. How small the span of her waist seemed. He was certain that his two great paws could easily encircle it. Not a proper female? Had the man been blind? Could there be anything more feminine than those delicate features, the sculpted planes of her cheeks, the generous lips that seemed made to smile or to kiss? What could be more womanly than the body that he had held all too briefly the night before, the soft flesh, the clean female scent? Yet, although this pocket Venus seemed as fragile as spun glass, she was made of stronger stuff and therein, perhaps, was the answer. “Then your husband sounds like a bloody fool. Did he wish you to become a Dresden figurine, Kate? To live upon his shelf and be admired?” Duncan guessed.

  His perception was wholly disconcerting, much too close to the truth. Kate opened her mouth to deny, but thought the better of it. Far wiser not to speak at all. She had already betrayed too much.

  “Did he fancy himself Pygmalion then?” Duncan sensed his advantage and pressed the point. “I had always thought that the gods did Galatea no great favor when they brought her to life. ‘Tis an easy thing for marble to maintain perfection, but when Pygmalion’s creation became flesh and blood, I warrant she was bound to disappoint him. Is that who you are running from, ‘Mrs. Smith’? Did Galatea suddenly find that she had dreams of her own, a will that would not be chiseled to suit the sculptor who would shape her to his own image?”

  “You are a fanciful man, milord,” Kate said, trying to conceal her sudden confusion. “I had always thought that rogues were of a pragmatic frame of mind.”

  “And how did you become aware of my rakish history, Mrs. Smith?” he asked, advancing slowly.

  She had made a grievous tactical error, in fact, several, she realized as she rapidly tried to recall what else she had let slip. It was so long since she had allowed herself to be carried away, to give vent to her true feelings. What magic did this man have to make her so reveal herself? “Your behavior is common knowledge . . . the crofters . . .” She left the words dangling, hoping that they would be adequate.

  They were not.

  “I left this place at the age of fourteen,” he said. “As far as the crofters were concerned, I might as well have fallen off the rim of the earth and good riddance. The last news to reach beyond the passes of this corner of Wester Ross was likely the Bonnie Prince’s defeat.”

  “Very well then, if you must know.” Kate gave a shrug of feigned indifference, knowing that any retreat could be fatal. “The ‘Mad MacLean’ something of a byword in military circles, milord. Your exploits both on and off the battlefield gained you no little notoriety.”

  Her use of his sobriquet gave the explanation credence, but he knew that it was not of whole cloth. Something was missing and he pressed the attack once again. “Almack’s, military circles, dining with Prinny does not add up to ‘Mrs. Smith’, poaching off the land and existing hand to mouth. I find myself tiring of this ‘Mrs. Smith’, nonsense. We both know it to be a fiction, so I refuse to call you by that last name any longer. Tell me, why are you here, Kate?”

  Once again, she found herself scrambling to maintain her position. “If you think me a liar, milord, perhaps it is best if we go,” she said, facing the possibility that the battle was lost.

  “Is he a brute, Kate? Did he hurt you? Or the child?” For a brief instant, he saw something flare in her eyes, then disappear as quickly as it came.

  “No,” Kate said, meeting his gaze squarely, “There is no husband searching for me, milord. Anne’s father is more than a year in his grave and he would never have knowingly harmed his daughter, or me.”

  That was truth; there were no lies in that straightforward look. “Then why? Why have you abandoned the world of Mayfair and the beau monde? Were you left destitute? Is that why you are hiding at the edge of nowhere, living in a crumbling ruin?”

  “It was never truly my world,” Kate said. It was a private opinion that she had never voiced to anyone except for Daisy. Why was it so easy to tell a stranger of her grievous failure? “With my husband gone and my funds limited, there is nothing for me there now. In honesty, I sometimes wonder if there ever was. As for your question, I turn it back to you, milord. Why have you returned here? To a crumbling ruin?”

  Duncan lifted his eye beyond her toward the stone turrets of Eilean Kirk. “Why? Aye, well you might ask! Why would I leave London when Lady Jersey and all her fellow patronesses were fair to swooning at the sight of me? Abandon Town though His Highness would have me at his right at his next Carlton House fete to thank me for the service I gave my country? It was my duty as the MacLean to hie to my auld ancestral home, to enjoy the splendor, the adulation of my clan,” he said, the burr adding bite to his sarcasm. “My mother would be calling it destiny that this haunted place is the only shelter left to me. We Scots are great believers in the forces of fate, you know. Do you put credit in destiny, Kate?”

  Thinking of the twists and turns that led her to Eilean Kirk, Kate nodded. What if she had not received Ian Dewey’s belated letter with the inheritance for her dead husband? What if Dewey had not chanced to mention that the castle was deserted and that there was neither heir nor a buyer to be had?

  Her father had always believed that every step in life was guided by providence, but Kate had lately been convinced that the attentions of fortune were capricious. Now her opinion was decidedly a mixture of the two. She was a wealthy woman, but she dared not touch a penny of her funds lest John trace her. She was beyond her brother-by-marriage’s reach for the time being, but well within touching distance of her late husband’s unusual comrade. Her current circumstances made the choice between Scylla and Charybdis seem quite comfortable by comparison.

  “You never answered my first question, though I’ve answered yours. Why did you decide to come here, of all places?” Duncan demanded.

  He was close, within a hair
’s breadth of breaking his promise. As for her, if she so much as lifted a finger, she would graze the expanse of his bare skin. For a brief instant she was tempted to tell him everything, to rely on the strength that seemed to radiate from him. But with so much at risk, Kate could ill afford to gamble on the integrity of a rogue. “Ah, but you have already given the answer, milord.” Her mouth curved in a poorly attempted smile. “Fate.”

  “And if I demand a more precise explanation?” Only strength of will kept him from closing what remained of the gap between them. She seemed so vulnerable; her fear palpable despite her brave front. Although there had been many women in his past, he could not ever recall feeling this urge to comfort, to hold and protect. Never had a sworn oath seemed so fragile a barrier.

  “Do you wish us to remain here?” she countered, wondering what the answer would be. He could not like it, for MacLean seemed the sort to dictate terms, not accept them. Yet, she could see the hesitation in that singular core of grey and she began to hope. But there was something else in his gaze that was oddly unsettling, something undefinable but undeniably dangerous.

  “Stay . . .”

  The word seemed torn from his throat.

  “Please... stay . . .”

  There was a sound from the brush and Cur came loping towards her, the coney she had shot cradled in his mouth. She bent and took it from him, glad of the excuse to turn away from that raw force that beckoned to her, drew her like iron to a lodestone. “Good boy,” she murmured, stroking the dog in approval. No, it was not lust in Duncan MacLean’s expression, for Kate had already seen him wearing his rakehell’s mask of desire. The emotion in that glimpse was far more disconcerting. It was solitude that spoke . . . the raw, desperate need of a man who has suddenly discovered himself to be entirely alone. “Cur is a most excellent gilly, is he not?”