Fallen Angel (18 page)

"She wants her dog back," he replied, as if that remark explained everything.

It made perfect sense to Janet who had been given the whole story by Duncan before he had left earlier that evening to enjoy a pint with his cronies at the White Horse.

"Ye canna miss it," she said, looking at the viscount with unabashed interest as if seeing him clearly for the first time. "Beyond the stables, there is a track between two dry
staine dykes.
Follow it for a mile and ye'll come to the old drovers' road. There's a bothy beyond the ford."

It was all he needed to hear. With a curt farewell, he spun on his heel and left her staring.

Within a short time of leaving Janet, the viscount was dressed for riding and leading 'Thelo out of the stable. He followed the old housekeeper's directions to the track between the stone enclosures and mounted up. Though night riding was not one of his favourite pastimes, he had a soldier's disregard for what must be endured. The night was clear, the track ahead visible in the uncertain light of the moon. He had been used to worse in his advance across Spain with Wellington.

Though he thought that he had sent himself on a wildgoose chase, he never once slackened his pace.

Maddie was alarmed about her dog's fate. He regretted that he had brushed off her fears as if her feelings meant nothing to him. She must know that that was far from being the case. In some small measure, he meant to atone for what he was sure she had regarded as his callous indifference. It had been no such thing.

It was her intimacy with Moncrieff which had brought his temper to boiling point. Innocent though that relationship surely was, he would not tolerate the gossip that her disregard for convention was bound to occasion. Damn! It was more than that! And he knew it! He was as jealous as a green cat! Was there no end to the unfamiliar emotions this one young girl could arouse in his breast?

Thelo stumbled, and Deveryn brought the stallion's head up with a sure touch on the reins. The track was climbing steeply, taking him away from the coastline. He hoped that Maddie would be suitably mollified by all the efforts lie was making on her behalf. He thought of her snug in her bed. The picture warmed him as the damp wind caught the tails of his cloak.

But Maddie was not at that moment snug in her bed as the viscount surmised. She was up to her neck in the swollen waters of the ford into which she had tumbled when Banshee had come to grief on a concealed rock. She dragged herself to her knees and sobbed her alarm for her downed mare. When Banshee whinnied and rose on four legs, Maddie sank back in relief. It was the horse who dragged her from her icy stupor, for Banshee was eager to leave the freezing waters far behind, and Maddie was still clutching the reins in her hand. The skirts of her riding habit were like a dead weight as she was half dragged the last few yards to the other side of the ford.

There was no light from the bothy, no welcoming aroma of burning peat lingered on the air. The place was deserted. Maddie did not know whether to be relieved or alarmed. She could not very well stand up to Will Fraser when she was as weak as a drowned kitten. On the other hand, it meant that she had come on a wild goose chase. She thought she might beat her dog when next she found her. At least she had the comfort of knowing that Kelpie was not in Will Fraser's possession. The shepherd was too acute to linger within reach of Maddie's retribution if he had harmed her dog. And conditions had not improved sufficiently to allow him to get far from home. He could be anywhere. And so could Kelpie. Maddie groaned and dragged herself to her feet.

It took only a few minutes to pen Banshee in the open lean- to at the back of the bothy. She found a crock of meal which she knew was reserved for the drovers' dogs. In the circumstances, it was the best she could offer her tired mare.

The bothy itself was a low stone structure with a thatched roof. The door was half falling off its hinges. There was no need to trouble herself about trespassing. The bothy was held in common, belonging to no one, belonging to everyone, and used mostly in emergencies when a sudden mist or fall of snow caught the shepherds off guard in the hills.

Maddie's first task was to get a fire going in the grate. It took her a good half hour. Only then did she light the oil lamp and take stock of her surroundings. To one side of the fireplace was a plain deal table with an assortment of chairs. On the other side, along two walls, were a series of built-in cots covered with sheepskin pelts. A large wooden chest and an assortment of stone crocks and blackened cooking utensils made up the rest of the furnishings—not all the comforts of home by any means, but welcome nevertheless. .

She stripped to her chemise and draped her habit and cloak over one of the chairs which she had dragged to the blaze of the fire. The blankets, she knew, would be stored in the large wooden chest to protect them from mice. In a moment, she had opened the lid and was winding a coarse woolen garment under her arms and around her shivering body. Only then did she inspect the stone crocks. As she suspected, they were filled with oatmeal, the staple of Scotland's shepherds—and armies—for centuries past. Though she was hungry, she decided to forego the gruel which could be easily prepared from a cup of the oats and a little boiling water. She had neither the inclination nor the strength to leave the shelter of the bothy to fetch water from the ford. In the last crock, among other things, she found a bottle of whisky.

She withdrew her booty and carried it to the fireplace. Remembering the efficacy of Janet's hot toddies, Maddie forced herself to sample the foul smelling liquid. She drank sparingly. After a while, the numbness began to recede and a delicious feeling of warmth spread along her skin. She* drank some more, and decided that she felt considerably more the thing. After another swig, she felt brave enough to consider the implications of her position.

In another hour or so, she thought that she might be able to tolerate the ride back to Drumoak even supposing her clothes could not possibly have dried out by then. After further reflection, she decided that it was imperative that she return to the house before daybreak. Pneumonia she could face, but not the blaze of Deveryn's anger should he discover that she had spent a good part of the night alone, and again unchaperoned, away from home. If she had returned with Kelpie, she would have been vindicated. As it was . . . Her mind refused to finish the thought. She shivered and took another swig from the bottle to stop her teeth from chattering.

It was the draft of cold air on her bare shoulder which roused Maddie from her intoxicated slumber. She resisted the pull to wakefulness and snuggled deeper into the warmth of the heaped pile of sheepskin pelts on the cot. A shadow fell across her face and her eyes reluctantly opened.

The first thing she noted was the sheen on the blond head. She stretched in a lazy, natural, cat-like movement. "Malcolm?" she intoned sleepily, and smiled up at the man whose face was hidden in shadow. There was no answer. By degrees, her gaze became more focused. She noted the breadth of shoulder and the silklike tendrils of fine hair across the forehead. No, not Malcolm. Deveryn, of course. He had come to help her after all. Her smile deepened.

"I thought," she said with only the merest slur to her words, "that you weren't coming. What made you change your mind?" She had no idea how damning her words were.

There was no answering smile. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart. I'm not Malcolm. Were you expecting him? Oh! Now I think I understand. Is this your usual trysting place?"

Her brows drew together. She was not deceived by the mildness of Deveryn's tone. He was angry. She struggled to come fully awake. After a moment, she pulled herself to her elbows.

"What are you doing?" she asked uncertainly as she watched him throw first his cloak, then his jacket onto one of the spare cots.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm undressing. It would
be a pity to let all that beauty go to waste." His eyes swept over her, insulting, damning.

There was no doubt in her mind. Deveryn was not merely angry. He was beside himself with fury. Her eyes dropped, following his gaze. The blanket had dropped to her waist and the fine linen chemise was plastered to her damp full breasts like a second skin. She hastily drew the blanket up to her chin, and swung her legs out over the narrow bed. The pleasant effects of the whisky, if that's what she had consumed, were beginning to wear off. Her courage seemed to ebb with them.

"Deveryn," she began with a show of boldness she was far from feeling, "I made a mistake. Will Fraser wasn't here. Now you can say, 'I told you so,' and we can both go home. All right?" Her look was hopeful.

"Wrong!" he said, coming to tower over her. A strong hand tipped her head back and she was forced to look into eyes as turbulent as a summer storm. "You can drop that innocent pose." He shook his head and smiled, feigning amusement. 'You must have been laughing up your sleeve to take in a jaded cynic like me. Was Moncrieff in on your game? Well, no matter. Time to pay the piper."

He withdrew his hand and undid the gold studs at the cuffs of his shirt. Maddie's mind went reeling.

"If you're trying to frighten me, Deveryn, you're not succeeding." Unexpectedly, her hand grazed the half-empty bottle at her feet.

The viscount stripped off his shirt and seated himself on the adjacent cot to remove his boots. Maddie stole one swift glance then could not bear to look at that sleek, powerful torso. She flexed her own muscles. Nothing happened. Disappointment mingled with dismay. There could be no question of pitting her puny strength against his. Her hand on the neck of the whisky bottle tightened. Little Maddie Sinclair wasn't afraid of anything, she told herself resolutely.

"Trying to frighten you? On the contrary," he mocked. "After tonight, you'll be under my protection. Let Moncrieff or any man come near you, and I'll kill him."

"Under your protection!" she echoed, her indignation momentarily blotting out the fear she had newly disclaimed he had the power to provoke.

"I see you've heard the expression. Moncrieff, no doubt!" he sneered. "Make no mistake, Maddie, I don't share my mistress, or my lightskirt, with any man."

She tried for a reasonable tone and sounded, even to her own ears, ridiculously prim. "I don't wish to be your mistress."

Very deliberately and cuttingly, he said, "I've no wish for a slut for a wife. You can forget I ever offered you that position."

"I don't wish to be your wife either," she shouted, almost on the brink of hysteria. She had never seen Deveryn so coldly determined. Nothing she said seemed to have the least effect on him. Her mind began to grapple with the logistics of escape.

"Don't worry, I'll meet any price you name."

"Can't you get it through your head? I don't wish to be anything to you." Desperation lent urgency to her voice. "Don't I have any choice in the matter?"

"No! You don't," he said baldly. "To the victor go the spoils. I'll hold you against all comers."

He had stripped naked and Maddie felt that in removing his clothes, he had discarded the fragile veneer that kept him civilized. From his throat dawn, he was covered in a sheet of hair—not the pale, angelic gold of his head, but a riot of dark copper gold, like a ripe cornfield ready for harvest. The potent virility was overpowering, too much and too soon. She gulped. It was time to make her move.

"Jason," she said, low and sultry, modulating her tone to ape the siren's voice she had once cultivated when playing the part of Clytemnestra in a school play. "Jason," she said again, more softly, and she rose gracefully to her feet. She prayed that he would remain on the cot. If he were to stand, she would lose the advantage. A few steps took her to his side. Though it took all her courage, she put out one hand to touch his naked shoulder. The powerful muscles seemed to contract under her palm.

"Maddie?" he said, and his anger became muted, his expression uncertain.

"I can't fight you any more," and she smiled tremulously.

He expelled his breath slowly, and both hands went to the blanket, stripping it back to reveal the transparent chemise. "Maddie," he said again, and she heard regret, mingled with longing in the single word before she was dragged to stand between his hard thighs. His mouth closed over the raised peak of one breast. "God, Maddie!"

She brought up the bottle and swung it down toward his head. At the last moment, as if warned by a sixth sense, he jerked away, and the blow caught him on the shoulder, close to the neck.
Maddie
cried out and dropped her weapon. Deveryn was bent over, holding his neck, dazed from the unexpected blow. She clutched the blanket to her and ran.

There was no time to saddle Banshee. She led her mare out of the lean-to and scrambled on her back. Keeping her head well down and clutching Banshee's mane as if her life depended on it, Maddie urged the mare forward. A shrill whistle split the air, and out of the shadows, in front of her, loomed a prancing, snorting monster. It took Maddie a moment to realize that Deveryn had called up his stallion to block her path. Desperately, her heart beating frantically in her throat, she wheeled Banshee to face in the other direction, but Deveryn's stallion circled them, pinning them down like a sheepdog herding skittish sheep toward the pen, and the mare was too nervous to heed her mistress's bidding.