“Maybe the ocean’ll give it back.” Armstrong tried to comfort her. “Sometimes it does.”
“I want it now.”
“M’lady…” The night was dark again, lit not by a full moon but by a new moon. She could scarcely see Armstrong’s face, but she knew he stood there, a servant, a friend, not wanting to lay hands on her again, not wanting to leave her alone, but shivering and more than a little afraid.
She wasn’t afraid. What was there to be afraid of now? Ian was dead.
But inside herself, she heard a wee voice chide her. She was the lady, it said. She had duties. Duties that started with Armstrong, her safeguard. He still had a wife and child on the beach, and more children at home. His family did care what happened to him, and it seemed the ingrained habits of a lifetime were not easily discarded.
So Alanna turned away from the thief of an ocean and waded out of the surf. “We need to take Mr. Lewis’s body and put it in the water.” She sounded almost normal, she noted, and the lady’s conscience approved.
“Aye, m’lady,” Armstrong said.
“And is Brice dead?”
“Nay, m’lady.” Armstrong pointed a shaking finger at the beach.
She saw two dim figures limping toward the path, and she stopped, her feet still covered by the sloshing surf. By the way Wilda held him, by the way Brice leaned on her, it was clear they had worked out whatever problems plagued them. The laird of the MacLeods would be celebrating his wedding as soon as his wound had healed.
Alanna turned her head away. She was the lady of Fionnaway. She had to help the sweethearts, but she didn’t have to watch. “You’d better pick out two of the biggest men and have them carry Brice. He’ll never be able to get up that cliff by himself.” The waves were rushing up on her calves now, then falling back. “Edwin stabbed him.”
“Edwin?” Armstrong said incredulously.
“He killed Ian, too.”
“That other body was Edwin?”
She started walking again. “Is Edwin gone, too?”
Armstrong looked around. “I dunna see it.”
She half turned toward the ocean. “I don’t want that one back,” she told the selkies.
The people on the beach milled about, talking in low voices, but a few of the wetter folk, the ones with children, were beginning to leave. Soon, Alanna knew, the path would be full as they climbed to their homes and settled in their beds.
Together. They would be together.
Everyone would be with their families. With the people they loved—and the people who loved them. Except her.
Walking to one of the boulders, she wearily sank down. Her ribs hurt again; she hadn’t noticed them before, but now the ache was persistent—and negligible when compared to her heavy heart.
A heavy heart. She leaned against the rock. She had never realized it before, but the phrase was more than a cliché; it was the truth. Her heart felt as if it weighed her down, beating slowly beneath the magnitude of impending grief. She knew in her mind Ian was dead; soon, she could tell, she would know with her heart.
“M’lady, it’s cold and dark. We should go back t’ Fionnaway.”
“Go ahead.” Twisting her heels, she dug her feet into the sand and waved Armstrong off. “I’ll come up soon.”
“Then I’ll stay here with ye.”
She heard the uneasiness in his tone. He was, after all, the safeguard, and responsible for her as well as for the stones. But he had no reason to worry. The lady of Fionnaway understood her duty. “I’d like to be alone.”
“I dunna think that’s wise.”
“I’m just going to sit here for a while.” She looked up at his dim shape, careful to keep the hovering anguish at bay. “Go home to your family, Armstrong. They need you more than I do.”
Something about her calm manner must have convinced him, for he bowed and retreated. But he returned promptly with a blanket he’d scrounged from someone, and laid it across her shoulders, then he placed her boots beside her.
“Thank you,” she said faintly. The blanket smelled of damp wool, but it protected her against the breeze. She tucked it close around her shoulders as the last whispers of concern died away. Everyone was gone.
Chapter 31
She was all alone. Trying to comprehend, Alanna stared out at the ocean. It had given her so much. Fionnaway, the stones, the pact: everything about her birthright found its origin in the sea.
Now it had taken its fee. She still had her heritage, the estate that had meant so much to her. She was still the lady of Fionnaway. Before her stretched days filled with work and worry, joy and fulfillment. And she would perform her tasks alone.
Reaching for her boots, she shook out her socks. Her necklace dropped onto the sand. Picking it up, she stared at it as if she had never seen it before.
No one was left to offer her a rune stone on her birthday, and Mr. Lewis had taken the one she’d picked yesterday. She’d seen it on his bloodied chest. She had recognized it. The death rune.
So Mr. Lewis had sacrificed himself for her. Ian had sacrificed himself for her.
Lifting the necklace, she placed it around her neck and felt the chill of the stones.
Didn’t these men comprehend that loneliness ate at her spirit until she was nothing but a hollow shell? She’d already been isolated when she lived at the witch’s hut, but then she had subsisted on hope.
Now she had nothing.
She worked her hands into the sand, lifted it and pressed it into clumps. Some would say her responsibilities would be easier to perform without Ian. He had, after all, been selfish, cynical, and determined to have his own way.
She clenched her fist and stopped the flow of sand. He had also needed her. Needed her warmth, her laughter, her love. His last, magnificent gesture proved that.
She looked up at the sliver of a moon now high in the sky.
And she had needed him. Dear God, she needed him now.
The first sob tore from her throat, followed by a second, and a third. She wanted Ian. Tears scoured her cheeks until the skin was raw. Her belly ached, her lungs burned. She wanted her lover to hold her, but the chill of a indifferent Scottish night surrounded her. Sorrow tumbled from her, unimpeded by convention or discretion. No one heard her, no one cared, as anguish lacerated her with the dull edge of a blade.
Until she heard a feminine voice call across the distance.
“Alanna. Alanna.”
She dashed the tears from her eyes, looked around frantically. Her mother. It had sounded like her mother.
“Alanna. Out here.”
She stared out at the black waves. Was there someone out there?
Groping along the rock behind her, she lifted herself to her feet. There was something. Someone? Yes, a head bobbed toward shore, and in the face Alanna glimpsed echoes of enchanting beauty.
But all her attention fixed on the large object the creature propelled in front of her.
“Ian.”
Not her mother. His. Muirne had brought him back.
“Ian!” Alanna screamed his name, tossed the blanket, and ran. Water sprayed as she pounded into the surf. The waves swamped her; her movements slowed. Unsteadily she struggled on. “Ian.”
Alone, he rolled toward her, still clad in his trousers, and she caught him. Was he alive? Had the selkies somehow used their magic to cheat death? “A miracle,” she pleaded aloud. “Another miracle.”
She dragged him to shore, onto the sand, knelt beside him, touched him…
Dead. Still dead.
“Please.” She smoothed her hand along his face. “Please. I need you so much.” She clasped his hands, touched his chest. The wound had healed, leaving only a thin line that faintly glowed; the selkies had been able to do that. “Ian, please come back to me.”
She’d demanded his body back, but what she’d really wanted was his life. She’d wanted the selkies to take him into the deep and use their magic on him.
They hadn’t. They couldn’t. Deat
h held reign over the greatest magic.
So now she had him, and the having was almost worse than not having. When he wasn’t with her, she could delude herself. But no delusion was possible as she held him, saw his dim features, and knew he would never again smile at her, trying to charm her into his bed. Never frown at her and forbid her to do her duty. Never look over the land with the craving of a outcast. Never create dreams for her and make them come true.
Her tears dropped onto his skin, glistened in the feeble light. “I love you.” She heard the call of the seabirds as they nested in the cliffs above the beach, and as Ian had commanded, she remembered that day in the meadow. She remembered the rough wool of the blanket, the scent of crushed grass, the clouds drifting through the blue sky. He had forced her to listen, to look, to absorb his possession into her every sense, and now she could never forget. He would be with her always—but only in her mind.
Dropping her head onto his chest, she pressed her wet cheek against his chilly flesh. “I’ll always love you.”
Beneath her ear, she heard a sound. She caught her sob, half formed.
Nothing. His heart remained silent. There was nothing but a desperate woman’s longing.
But then…a swish. A thump.
A beat.
“Ian?” Hope tumbled in her. Desperation ignited her. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear as hard as she could against his breastbone.
Nothing.
“Please, God.” If heartfelt prayer could bring a man back, then Ian would live indeed. “Please, God.” Lifting her head, she shook Ian. “You can do it. Come back to me. Ian!” She put her hand to his slack mouth. No breath. “Ian!” Frustration roiled in her veins, and she smacked her fist against his chest.
And he flinched.
“Oh, please.” She cried, rubbed him, begged him and God and love itself.
He shuddered beneath her ministrations. Had her faith been rewarded? He was moving. He was alive!
Euphoric, anxious, afraid that the life that had gone so easily could go again, she stumbled to her feet. “Cold. Are you cold?” Running to the discarded blanket, she raced back and spread it over him.
He was breathing. Faintly, but breathing.
“You’ve got to get out of the water.” She caressed his face, petted his hair, lifted the edges of the blanket and winced at their dampness. “Nay, wait.” He was like a newborn, and she expected him to walk. How foolish. “I’ll get you out. Don’t exert yourself.”
His eyelids fluttered as she grabbed his shoulders and jerked. And fell to her knees as her ribs protested. Holding her side with her hands, she fought the pain.
When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her.
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Try again,” she encouraged him, wondering if she’d run mad, then touching his forehead and knowing she had not.
Faintly he whispered, “You brought me back.”
She had brought him back? She almost laughed. What had she done but shriek and cry and adore him past the doorway of death? “Not me.” She whispered, too.
“It was you who brought me the final step.” His hand lifted, groped until she caught it in her own. “Your tears on my face. Your love.”
She cried, dashed the tears off her face, cried some more. “Can you move?”
Stupid, inconsequential question, when she wanted to say so much more.
“Of course.” He lifted himself onto his elbows. “See?”
“You’re in the water. The blanket’s getting wet.”
Wincing, he inched back onto the beach while she hovered, wanting to help, unsure if she should.
“Sorry.” As he lay flat, he apologized for his breathlessness. “I’m weak.”
“Of course you are. You’ve never been dead before.” She leaned toward him. “Let me help you sit up.”
She knew it was he, Ian truly returned to her, when he used her nearness to capture her face in his hands.
“Alanna, did you see the moon, the wind, the sea? Did you understand?”
Beyond words now, she could only nod.
“I love you. You’re a part of me, the best of me, and I couldn’t bear to leave you.”
“Thank God,” she murmured.
“Yes. Thank God. My God.” Pulling her to him, he wrapped her in his arms and held her. Just held her.
It was the only place in the world she wanted to be. She savored his heat, his breath, his heartbeat, as surely as she did her own. And slowly she became aware of the salt-laden breeze, the cold sand beneath them, the tumble of rocks as another wave undercut the cliffs. Loath to leave, yet knowing he should be resting before a fire, she said, “We should go.”
“Yes. Alanna?”
“What?” She helped him first to sit, then stand, supporting him as he regained his balance.
“Look what I brought back.”
She glanced at his outthrust hand. There, on his middle finger, he wore a ring. His ring. She caught it, lifted it to her mouth, kissed it. “I took my true wedding vows on this ring. I’m glad to see it back.”
“I’m glad to have it back. And, Alanna?” He fumbled in his trouser pocket, then brought out the oilskin parcel. Opening it, he ordered, “Cup your hands.”
She did, and he poured a glistening hoard of sea opals into her palms. In the warmth of her hand, they changed, grew bright, and blazed with radiant joy. Her joy.
With a deep satisfaction, he said, “There they are.”
She looked up to smile at him, but he was gazing out to sea.
She stared, too, and realized he wasn’t talking about the stones, for heads bobbed in the surf. Selkies. Dozens of selkies.
Ian waved an arm toward them. “They’ve come to congratulate us.”
Faintly, on the wind, Alanna heard their cries, and among them, one special voice.
Muirne’s voice.
Ian heard it, too, absorbing it with a smile. Then he hugged Alanna close and turned her toward the cliff. “Come on, love,” he said. “Let’s go back to Fionnaway. Let’s go home.”
Vast, restless, and overwhelming, the sea tears at the western coast of Scotland. Fingers of land reach into the water, trying to grasp eternity and losing to the constant grind of the waves. The wind lifts the brine and carries it up, into the Highlands where mist drifts over tall standing stones like silk draped over the finest lady. There where the land and the sea meet is a place of special enchantment, of special beings, of humans and of selkies.
Some die. Some live. Some perish from broken promises. Some are rescued by love.
One is my son. Ian is his name, and he has what I could never find. A helpmate and a lover.
He has given me what I have always longed for. A daughter I hold most dear.
Alanna.
For them I see six lassies and the first lad ever born to this branch of the MacLeods. I see success and wealth and happiness. Most of all, I see long life and everlasting love.
And what else could a mother wish for her children?
—Muirne of the Selkies, August 1800
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone who helped with this book. My fellow plotters, Jolie Kramer, Heather MacAllister, and Susan Macias—we miss you, Susan. My critique group, Joyce Bell, Betty Gyenes, Barbara Dawson Smith, and Susan Wiggs—we miss you, Susan. My editor, Carrie Feron. And a special thanks to Connie Brockway, who, when I called and said, “I need you to be brilliant now,” was promptly brilliant.
About the Author
New York Times-bestselling author Christina Dodd has written more than twenty-one historical romances. Her first such novel, Candle in the Window, won both the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart and RITA awards. In celebration of her new novel, Scandalous Again (2003), HarperCollins is publishing Ms. Dodd’s classic backlist, including: That Scandalous Evening; The Governess Brides Series: My Favorite Bride; Lost in Your Arms; In My Wildest Dreams; Rules of Surrender; Rules of Engagement; Rules of Attraction;
The Princess Series: Someday My Prince and Runaway Princess; and The Well Pleasured Series: A Well Favored Gentleman and A Well Pleasured Lady. Please visit www.christinadodd.com.
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By Christina Dodd
Candle in the Window
Castles in the Air
The Greatest Lover in All England
In My Wildest Dreams
A Knight to Remember
Lost in Your Arms
Move Heaven and Earth
My Favorite Bride
Once a Knight
Outrageous
Priceless
Rules of Attraction
Rules of Engagement
Rules of Surrender
Runaway Princess
Scandalous Again
Scottish Brides
Someday My Prince
Tall, Dark, and Dangerous
That Scandalous Evening
Treasure of the Sun
A Well Favored Gentleman
A Well Pleasured Lady
Credits
Cover art by Fredericka Ribes
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A WELL FAVORED GENTLEMAN. Copyright © 1998 by Christina Dodd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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