Enraptured (4 page)

“It was a surprise, true enough.” Coll took the note from her hand. The broken red seal of wax was his brother-in-law's, and Coll was unsurprised to see Damon's handwriting on the inside. He glanced over the letter. “This says nothing about you.”

Coll intended to let Violet remain; there was no way he would allow Mrs. Ferguson to turn out any woman into the cold night, much less this one. But he could not resist pretending that the matter was in doubt. He supposed he should feel guilty about teasing her, but the truth was, it was too enjoyable watching her attack all obstacles in her way. He only wished he could get rid of the housekeeper.

“My uncle would have brought me with him had he not been stricken ill,” Violet argued. “I assisted him, not only with his research and writing, but also at the sites. He would have wished me to come here and continue his work.” Emotion clogged her voice as she went on, “Dr. Overton would have been so excited at the prospect, so happy.”

“No doubt.” Her obvious grief touched Coll, but he knew she would not welcome any show of sympathy from him. His voice, however, was gentle as he went on, “Mardoun intended for Dr. Overton to come next spring. It is cold already and will be worse in winter.”

“I'm eager to get started and quite able to work in the cold. I am not a fragile female, I assure you.”

“Clearly.” Coll handed the letter back to her. “Mrs. Ferguson, please have a room prepared for Lady Thornhill.”

The housekeeper swelled up like a pouter pigeon. “Coll Munro! Dinna say that you intend to put her up here! That you believe her story?”

“I canna think why anyone would lie about wanting to visit those ruins, can you? And it's far too cold to send her away even if it is a lie.”

“Hmph.” The housekeeper sent a suspicious glance toward their visitor but turned to issue terse orders to the other servants.

“I will write Mardoun,” Coll told Violet. He did not add that Mardoun's reply scarcely mattered; Coll intended to let her remain. He was, however, too honest not to warn her, “But the weather is harsh. Most of the earl's servants returned to London with them. The rooms are shut off and laid with dustcovers. The food is plain. You'd do better to come back in the spring.”

“Mr. Munro, on excavations I have slept on the ground in a tent and eaten my food cooked over an open fire. I believe I can endure sleeping in an empty mansion and eating ‘plain' fare.”

Coll's lips wanted to twitch up into a smile. He wasn't sure why he was so intrigued with this combative, irritating
woman who looked like a soft, sweet armful but was as prickly as a thistle. It would take a brave man indeed to touch her. But he found that he itched to discover what sweetness lay beneath the armor of nettles.

“Welcome to Duncally, my lady.”

V
iolet awoke at dawn, as
the first tentative glow crept between the draperies. She lay for a moment, blinking at the unfamiliar tester above her head, before she remembered where she was. The events of the night before came flooding back, and she grinned, shoving back the covers and going over to push apart the curtains. Duncally!

The sun was just creeping above the horizon, lightening the dark blue sky. She could make out the darker lumps of hills, and in the foreground, vague shapes of the outbuildings. She was here. She had reached Duncally and won the right to stay, at least for the moment. Now she would have to prove herself—but she was confident she could.

Last night, after the obstructive Mr. Munro had left and the dour housekeeper had led her to her room at the remotest end of the dark hall on the second floor, she had felt a stab of loneliness and uncertainty. Those sort of emotions she worked to keep at bay and was usually quite successful. But last night, once she'd achieved her goal, she had let down
her guard, and the aching loss of her uncle and mentor had crept back into her heart. When she was safely alone in her room, she had given way to tears.

Fortunately, a good night's sleep had banished her gloom. She refused to allow sorrow or fear to rule her. Her uncle's memory was best served by proving how well he had trained her, by accomplishing what he would have done with this opportunity. Excitement thrummed through her at the prospect.

She wanted to see the ruins—breakfast could wait. Quickly she ran through her morning's toilette, dressing in one of her serviceable, dark woolen gowns, flannel petticoats beneath to ward off the chill, and braiding her hair and coiling it into a tidy bun at the crown of her head. Picking up her cloak, gloves, and bonnet, she left the room. The hallway was dark, even forbidding, none of the walls' sconces lit and all the doors closed. Of more concern to her was the sudden realization that she did not know how to find the ruins.

No servants were about in the large, silent floor below. She didn't want to waste time roaming through the empty house to find them. Better, really, to ask Coll Munro. As estate manager, he would know the location, and she had heard Mrs. Ferguson say he lived in the gatehouse, which would be easy to find.

Outside, the sky was lighter, the horizon washed with pink and gold. The air was chilly, but she scarcely noticed it. She dismissed, as well, the odd feeling buzzing along her nerves and knotting in her chest. It was dread, no doubt, at encountering that man again.

She could not help but remember the feel of his lips against hers, the treacherous yearning that his kiss had
aroused in her. It was embarrassing that it had taken her so long to pull away from him—and maddening that he, like other men, saw a woman only in that way. Still, she had faced him down last night despite her embarrassment, so the worst was over. And perhaps today, he would see past the dainty feminine appearance that was the bane of her existence and notice the competence, the intelligence, the
person
beneath the curvaceous form.

Not, of course, that there was any reason he should be different. And certainly no reason that she should care. Coll Munro had no place in her life. Her career, her work, was what was important, and a man, however pleasing to look at, however charming, had no part in that.

Violet grinned to herself at the thought of calling Munro charming. He had been anything but that—blunt and unwelcoming, scowling at her and throwing up every obstacle he could think of to dissuade her from staying. No doubt he would be equally obstructive this morning. But somehow the prospect of verbally jousting with him raised her spirits even more.

The house just inside the massive gates was tidy and small. Violet was glad to see that light glowed in one of the windows. She rapped sharply upon the door. When there was no response, she knocked again and was rewarded by a low, grumbling voice within.

“Aye, aye, I heard you.” The door swung open and Coll Munro loomed in the doorway, frowning. “I told you I would—” He stopped abruptly when his gaze fell on her.

Here in the light of dawn, she could see that his eyes were sky blue, sleepy and heavy lidded beneath eyebrows of cinnamon brown, darker than the deep gold of his hair.
Clearly he was as handsome as he'd seemed in the darkness, his jaw sharply cut, his chin square, his lips full and well shaped. He had not shaved yet, for his lower face was covered with stubble, which, like his brows, was darker than his hair and intriguingly tinged with red.

Violet's stomach dropped as if she had missed a step on the stairs or stood at the edge of a precipice. She glanced away hastily, and her gaze fell upon his chest, where his unbuttoned shirt hung open, revealing a wide swath of skin. A center line of curling, red-brown hair led downward, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. Thoroughly flustered, Violet tore her eyes from the sight of his firm, ridged chest and dropped her gaze to the floor. His feet were bare, and the sight seemed far too intimate.

She struggled to come up with something to say to end the awkward moment, but her mind was perfectly blank—well, no, not blank, but filled with images that it was better not to think about.

“Oh—ah—Miss—I mean, my lady.” Coll fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, taking a step back. “I didn't realize—I wasn't expecting you. I—”

“I need directions to the ruins.” Violet realized that in her rush to cover her awkwardness, her words had come out abrupt and graceless. She added in explanation, “I'm afraid I don't know how to get there.”

Munro stared at her. “Now? You're going to the ruins at this hour?”

“That
is
why I came here, after all. It is my vocation, not a pastime. I'm eager to get started.”

“Yes. I can see.” He took another step back. “Come in, then; it's cold. Give me a minute, and I'll take you.”

Violet's insides fluttered. She thought of walking with him to the ruins and how awkward it would be, with nothing to say and her mind filled with the image of Coll when he opened the door. His sleep-tousled hair and the wide swath of skin between his shirt, the curling hair that she wanted, most peculiarly, to glide her fingers through. She forced a bright smile. “No need to go to such trouble. I am sure I can find the way if you give me directions.”

“It's no trouble. Easier than trying to explain since you don't know the countryside. I just need to finish dressing.” Color tinged his cheeks, and he glanced toward a door in the far wall. No doubt it led into his bedroom.

Violet felt her own face heating as well. It was foolish to feel embarrassed—after all, he was the one who had answered his door half-dressed. She had done nothing wrong, and she had learned long ago not to worry about propriety or appearances. They were unimportant and usually acted as barricades to a woman's career. Yet somehow Coll Munro seemed to be able to turn her blushing and tongue-tied at every turn.

“Please come in.” Coll stepped back farther. “I'll just, um . . .” He glanced around, then nodded to her without finishing the sentence and hurried into the other room. He appeared, Violet thought, as relieved to escape as she was to be left by herself.

Violet relaxed when the door closed behind him. The room seemed too confined with him in it, as if he took up all the air. She drew a deep breath and composed herself. She must not allow herself to become flustered again. From bitter experience Violet knew that men expected to command in any situation, and that in the face of even the slightest
hesitation or uncertainty, they would rush to fill the void. She had to maintain firm control, not only of the situation but of her own reactions, as well.

She did her best to ignore any sounds from the other room, whether it was thuds or rustling or a low, muttered curse. Better not to think about Coll Munro dressing a few feet from her—his fingers working their way down the line of buttons, grazing the skin of his chest and stomach as they moved, tucking the shirt inside his breeches. Even imagining him shaving sent the oddest sensation through her.

She wondered exactly what a man did as he shaved, an intimate sort of activity to which an unmarried woman was not privy. She was aware of the instruments involved, of course, but how long did it take and where did one start and how did he shave the narrow space between his lip and nostrils, especially the dip in the middle? What would it feel like to stroke her finger down that little valley?

Violet shook her head, dispelling the thoughts, and strolled around the room. Coll Munro was neat, and the furniture, though plain, was sturdy and well made, the wood sanded and polished to a gleaming smooth surface. The peat smoldering in the fireplace gave out the odd odor Violet was becoming accustomed to in Scotland, but another pleasant, woodsy smell mingled with it. It was, she discovered, the scent of wood shavings discarded in a pail, along with some blocks of wood, beside a set of shelves. Several carved objects lay on the shelves, one of them a statue of an elf peering out from around a tree, so charmingly done she had to smile.

There were woodworking tools, as well, and pieces of paper weighed down by another small block of wood. She could see the edges of a sketch emerging from beneath the
paperweight. Her fingers itched to pull the papers out and look at them, but even Violet's rapacious curiosity could not make her breach the laws of polite behavior to that extent.

Coll Munro had an artistic streak. She imagined his large, capable fingers working on a piece of wood, pulling forth the delicate traceries and whorls. Turning away, her eye fell on the opposite wall, where a sketch hung in a simple frame. The portrait, done in charcoal, was of a woman so lovely it took one's breath away. Laughter shone in the subject's large bright eyes, and her mouth was quirked up at one corner in the beginnings of a smile. Her hair was a mass of tumbling tresses, held back on one side by her hand as if to shield her curls from the wind. In the static drawing, Violet could see the motion, the almost tangible energy and vivacity that radiated from her.

Was this the woman Coll loved? Affection and familiarity permeated every line of the drawing. A fiancée? A lost love? Violet took a step closer. The woman's beauty was such that Violet could not help but admire it, yet she felt an unfamiliar twinge of envy. Violet had never wished she were more pleasing to the eye; indeed, Violet had found her looks more a detriment than a source of pride. But in this moment she knew a sharp, brief twist of longing. What must it be like to be a woman whom men cherished?