A Highland Duchess (32 page)

Twice, Rebecca glanced back at her impatiently, as if questioning why she lingered. Twice, Emma smiled and followed, sedately but punctually, to where the garden sloped down to the dock.

Patricia greeted her with a smile, then turned to a large man standing beside her.

“Fergus, darling,” she said, “this is Emma. Our cousin Bryce’s wife.”

Fergus turned and smiled at her. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache was the same shade of red as his hair. His hands reached out and encompassed hers, and Emma felt as if she’d been gripped by a giant.

“A pretty little thing you are,” he said in a rough burr of a voice. “Bryce found himself a jewel, he did.”

“Thank you,” Emma said, a little startled.

“Fergus, you mustn’t embarrass Emma. Not so soon, at least,” Patricia added, reaching up and patting the side of his face with one hand.

He turned his attention to his wife.

“No one can be as beautiful as you, my love,” he said, dropping Emma’s hands and directing all his attention toward Patricia. No one existed but the two of them.

She turned her head to find that Ian had arrived. She hadn’t expected him to accompany them. Would she have accepted the invitation if she’d known he’d be present?

Probably, and chided herself for doing so.

Ian helped Rebecca into one of the boats, while Fergus assisted Patricia. A young man introduced himself as Broderick and held out a hand to her. Emma accepted it with gratitude, getting into the second boat with him and two large baskets. She’d never been in a boat, and the experience of not having any balance whatsoever was disconcerting.

Broderick didn’t speak as they crossed the lake, the waves surging so strongly beneath the hull that Emma wondered if the lake had its own tide. Or was it somehow linked to the North Sea? The wind was howling, as if it had gathered speed for a thousand miles and now its sole aim was to push them back to shore. Neither Broderick nor any of the occupants of the first boat looked uneasy. Emma could only guess that the wind was always this brisk and the water always this turbulent.

She could understand why the first McNairs had chosen the island for their fortress. It was easily defensible since there was no beach, no welcoming shore, only a series of large boulders sitting like jagged teeth along the edge of the island. Over the years, someone had cleared a way through the boulders, and it was there they docked.

The others left their boat with practiced ease, while Emma relied heavily on Broderick’s kindness. He reached behind him, grabbed the two baskets, and together they followed the others.

Around her were thickly forested trees, tall pines, maples, and elms. The birds sang prettily in the vicinity, a rustle in the undergrowth signaling the alarm of creatures not often disturbed.

The path, soft with loamy soil, dried leaves, and pine needles, wound upward from the beach to the highest point of the island.

To her left, sitting in forlorn isolation, were the ruins of the McNair castle. Emma stopped to study it for a moment, moving to the side of the path so Broderick could move past. Lochlaven was barely visible through the trees, and it struck her that the two structures were separated by both a narrow inlet of water and centuries.

The damp breeze was a caress against her cheek, the sunlight filtering through the trees a soft welcome. Emma would have liked to linger in that one spot, but their party was in pursuit of the summit. She cast one longing look toward the ruins of Lochlaven Castle before lifting her skirts and following them in silence.

She’d never been given to adventure. Her life had been mostly sedate, until her marriage to Anthony. This journey to Scotland had proven to her that travel was not easy, nor as exciting as she’d once imagined. Train travel was a bit frightening, and riding in a boat could be difficult on the stomach.

“Are you all right, Emma?”

She looked up to find that Ian had separated from the rest and come back to see why she was falling behind.

“I must confess that my mind was wandering,” she said. “I was not as intent upon my destination as I was my thoughts.”

He stepped to the side of the path and waited until she came level to him, then matched his strides to hers so they were climbing to the peak together.

“Were your thoughts that onerous?”

“I think they were, yes,” she said. “I was thinking that travel wasn’t as pleasant as I envisioned it to be. Perhaps that’s the same with all things we imagine. They’re never quite as attractive in reality.”

He didn’t say anything in response. Nor did she glance over at him to see his reaction to her words.

“I discovered how your maid left Lochlaven,” he said a few minutes later. “The supply wagon. We send it once a week to Inverness, and it’s just now returned.”

She glanced over at him.

“According to the driver, she decided to return to London. She said that she’d never agreed to come to Scotland.”

Emma stared down at the path. “That’s true,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean she’s innocent,” he said.

“I know.” Juliana had been on her mind for the last three days. Try as she might, however, Emma couldn’t come up with a reason why the maid would have wanted to murder Bryce. Nor was he yet conscious and able to give them any information.

Ian shrugged. “I’m going to send some men to Inverness to see if they can find her. Perhaps she knows something. I’m not as forgiving as you.”

“You think I was wrong in not reporting Anthony’s murder,” she said.

“Yes,” he said simply. “At the same time, I can understand why you didn’t.”

“I just wanted it over,” she said. “I just wanted to forget those years.”

“Is that what you do?” he asked. “When circumstances are too difficult, you simply pretend they didn’t happen?”

She glanced at him to find him studying her, his eyes turbulent.

“Anthony, yes.”

“And me?”

It wouldn’t be wise to tell him that she hadn’t yet found a way to pretend that the interlude in London hadn’t happened.

She only shook her head, a wordless admission that she couldn’t answer his question.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Do you think you should mention that now? When Rebecca might hear? Or Patricia?”

“My sister and her husband have eyes and ears for no one but themselves,” he said.

She glanced ahead to where Patricia and her husband were holding hands as they walked.

“And Rebecca?”

“Do you think,” he said softly, “if you and I were engaged to be married, that we’d hold hands? Or after we’ve been married for two years, still look at each other in such a way?”

She was entirely too warm, and it wasn’t the summer afternoon that was affecting her.

“Ian,” she said softly, “please do not do this.”

“A man can think. There aren’t any penalties for thoughts.”

“As long as they remain unvoiced,” she said.

He stopped, turned and looked at her.

Had anyone else ever looked at her the way Ian did? Did he study her to imprint her in his thoughts and his memory? As if he knew how she should look and was measuring the reality of her against an image he’d already formed in his mind. As if he wanted to know every one of her thoughts and value them, unspoken.

“Being around you, Emma, is sometimes hell.”

She stared at him. What did she say to that? How did she defend herself?

“We should avoid each other, then,” she said.

For a few moments the only sound was the leaves and the twigs crunching beneath their feet.

“You’ve already been avoiding me,” he said.

She sent an irritated glance toward him, one that he correctly interpreted, if his smile was any indication.

“Avoiding me only lessens the time we spend together, Emma. It has no effect on my thoughts.”

She stopped in the middle of the path and turned. “Ian, you mustn’t think of me. I mustn’t think of you.”

Dappled sun danced through the leaves and played upon his shoulders. He might have been a Celt of old, one of the original McNairs. A man destined to know his own future and still stride confidently toward it.

He was a devastating person to know, and by knowing him—remembering him—she also had to fight against him. He was a much greater temptation than any she’d ever known. Those years at Chavensworth felt simple now and almost easy compared to the chore and the necessity of pushing Ian away.

Because one part of her, perhaps the whole of her, didn’t want to be proper and moral. She wanted, even now, to walk into his embrace and allow him to hold her. She could tell herself it was a farewell gesture, but that lie died before it could be born. She dared not touch him, or think about those days in London, or dream of his kiss.

He reached out and plucked a bit of leaf from her shoulder. But his hand lingered, the warmth of his fingers felt even through her dress. The pretty yellow dress Rebecca had given her.

She bowed her head and concentrated on the shine of his shoes, the drape of his trousers at the ankle. Anything but his eyes and the tender expression that shouldn’t be there.

“I always thought I was strong,” she said softly.

“And you don’t think so now?”

She merely shook her head from side to side.

Emma regretted this moment more than any other moment in her entire life. She regretted the need to step away from him, turn and continue on her way. She resented having to do something so virtuous, and so terrible. He was a man with whom she might have found happiness. He was a man she respected and admired, and had perhaps come to love. Her experience with love was lamentable, but if it meant that a person felt unfinished, unaware, and only half alive without another, then it was truly love she felt for this man.

A forbidden love that no one would understand.

“Forgive me, Emma. I would not add to your burdens.”

“Then do not seek me out anymore, Ian. Please. We only knew each other for three days,” she said softly. “We don’t know the important things about each other.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I know the depth of your courage. I know what kind of books you like, that you love flowers, that you’ve never experienced simple pleasures. I know you’re afraid to feel, and yet you give of yourself with such freedom that it awes me. What else is more important than that?”

Silence surrounded them, as if even the forest creatures and the birds quieted to listen to his words.

She forced herself to look at him directly. “Are you asking me to be an adulteress, Ian? Are you asking me to be what everyone thinks I am? Immoral and profane?”

“No,” he said softly.

“Then what do you want from me?”

He placed his hand on the back of his neck and looked up as if seeking guidance from the clouds. Finally, he blew out a breath and looked at her.

“This is not the conversation I meant to have with you,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about Juliana.”

She halted on the path and waited.

“I went back and tested all three bottles again. At first I thought it would be impossible because there was little of the wine left, but there was enough.”

“What did you find?”

“The bottle containing the arsenic was from the crate. Not the bottle Juliana purchased in Inverness.”

She understood immediately. “The crate from London,” she said.

He nodded.

“The crate from your uncle’s cellar.”

Chapter 28

S
uddenly, Rebecca was advancing on them, her skirts held up with both hands, her smile fixed and determined.

“What are you two talking about back here? You both look so earnest and serious.”

“Bryce,” Emma said, finding the ability to lie came quickly and easily to her.

Let Ian judge her for that.

Rebecca’s face instantly transformed into a sympathetic look.

“My dear Emma, I am certain he is on the road to recovery. I am quite certain he is going to be well any day. Don’t you agree, Ian?”

Instead of answering her, he looked ahead. “I think we’re nearly there, are we not?”

“Ian, you know the island far better than I,” Rebecca said, sending him a fond smile.

Ian turned to Emma. “We’re nearly at the summit. There are some ruins here. Roman, I suspect.”

Rebecca grabbed Ian’s right arm with both her hands and smiled up at him.

“Dear Ian, have you told Emma of our plans for our wedding? I was saying, just this morning, that she really should plan to attend. Don’t you agree?” she said.

“Of course,” he said.

Emma smiled politely, an effort that was nearly beyond her.

Please, God, do not let me be here when Ian marries.

“Ian says that he met you in London,” Rebecca said. “Before you and Bryce were married.”

Emma glanced at Ian, uncertain how to respond. Why on earth had he said that? How did she tell Rebecca that he’d pretended to be a burglar? Or that she’d realized, all too soon, that he wasn’t exactly the brigand he pretended to be?