Once Upon a Highland Autumn (11 page)

“I fell out of a tree when I was nine, and cut my leg. It took seventeen stitches to close the gash. Then there was the time I drove a fishhook through my thumb. I still have both those scars, and a few others besides. My horse threw me once, and I cut my chin, just here—” He tilted his head and showed her a small white line that traced the contours of his jaw. She had the oddest desire to reach out and touch it. She clasped her hands together and concentrated on glaring at him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows, instantly looking every inch the haughty nobleman. “Oh? Why’s that?”

She looked around. The castle was still now. Were the stones less forbidding, the air less oppressive than it was just minutes ago? “There’s a curse,” she murmured.

He grinned. “Yes, I’ve heard.” He held up his hand, swathed in her handkerchief. “I don’t usually, but this time I’m inclined to believe it’s true.”

“You’re trespassing,” she said. He really did have an incredible smile. Eachann had a broken tooth, but Rossington’s smile was perfect. It made her feel like she was standing in the sun. It also made her unaccountably angry. “Is it common practice in England to go about breaking into houses and castles that don’t belong to you?” she snapped.

He smiled again, and this time she saw something new in his eyes. Triumph. He reached into his pocket again, and pulled out a scrap of paper.

“But I do own Glen Dorian, Lady Megan—or is it Margaret today?” Her jaw dropped, and she felt her knees turn to water. “Have I succeeded in surprising you?”

“Yet again,” she admitted, raising her chin.

She stared at him. His expression turned smug, and he was looking at her with the same haughty expression he’d had when he regarded her across the drawing room. But it appeared he had every right—she was the trespasser. She turned on her heel and went toward the door. “Then I should most certainly go. I’m expected back at Dundrummie, and I have . . .” She reached for the door latch and tugged.

It wouldn’t budge.

She stared at it a moment. Hadn’t it been wide open when she arrived? She tried again, jiggling it with all her strength. It refused to give.

“Here, let me,” he said coming closer, reaching past her to grasp the rusted latch himself, the long length of his body inches behind her. Megan swallowed, and kept her eyes on the latch, and the strong, tanned hand upon it. “It’s stuck fast,” he muttered. “Odd, it opened easily enough before—” He yanked at it.

She looked around desperately, wanting to be out, away from his disturbing company. “Is there another way?”

“Not that I’ve seen. There’s a staircase over there, but it’s blocked with rubble. I was clearing it when you appeared, but it goes up, not down—or out.”

“There’s the window,” she said breathlessly, hurrying over. She stepped up on a bit of fallen rubble and looked out. The ground was nearly fifteen feet below.

“It’s too far,” he said, and she started at the sound of his voice. He was right beside her yet again, leaning over the wide sill next to her. She could smell the warmth of his skin.

She dug her nails into the crumbling stone of the windowsill. “Nonsense. If you boost me up, I can find handholds in the stone and climb down to the ground.”

“Have you done that before?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve heard tales of such things—lovers climbing up the sides of towers to rescue their lady-loves, prisoners escaping. There’s a story about a man who tied bed sheets together to climb out of the dread Tower of London . . .” She realized she was babbling and he was staring at her, and fell silent. He really did have the most attractive gray eyes, keen and bright. They matched the color of the loch.

“I suspect it’s different in real life,” he said. “Far less romantic. No one in stories ever suffers broken bones or smashed skulls. If anyone is going to climb out, I think it must be me.”

She gaped at him. “Then what?”

“I’ll go around and open the door from the outside and let you out.”

She wondered fleetingly if he’d ever come back, and shook the thought away.

“You don’t agree with my plan?” he asked, mistaking her gesture. “May I remind you that you are a guest in my home—well, my castle—and it is my duty to rescue you?”

Were all Englishmen so gallant? Or perhaps he was merely stubborn, or horrified at being locked in with her, alone.

He climbed up on the wide windowsill, and slid one booted foot over the edge. She held her breath as he grinned and lowered himself. “Ah, I’ve found my first foothold, this isn’t so difficult after all,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

“Better to be careful than lucky,” she said, her heart cowering in her throat.

“That makes no sense at all, my dear Lady Margaret.” He was groping with his left foot, the fingertips of one hand still clinging to the window’s edge. Her handkerchief was tied around his finger, and the monogrammed edge fluttered in the breeze.

“It’s Megan,” she murmured, staring at the embroidered M.

He lowered himself again—and slipped. She watched in horror as his eyes widened, and he slid down the entire height of the wall. He landed at the bottom, flat on his back and didn’t move.

“Lord Rossington?” she called.

“It’s Kit,” he said, without opening his eyes.

She frowned, and he forced his eyelids up and looked at her. “My name,” he explained, getting slowly to his feet. His cheek had been grazed by the stone and was raw and bloody. His coat was torn, his hair mussed, and he looked as unlordly as it was possible for a man to look. He brushed the dust from his breeches and gazed up at her. “It’s Christopher, actually, but they call me Kit.”

“Kit,” she murmured, testing it on her tongue. Odd, but it suited him well, and had a gentle dignity to it. “Are you unhurt?”

“I think so.”

“Then please open the door.”

She watched him disappear around the edge of the tower, then crossed to the door to wait, the sound of her steps loud in the lonely space. She ignored the shiver that crept up her spine, and tried the latch again. It still rebuffed her. She was stuck. Was it imagination, or were the shadows in the hall growing longer, reaching toward her? She leaped back in surprise when the latch rattled under her hand, but it was only Rossington—Kit—on the other side, shaking it. She put her hand to her pounding heart. “It won’t budge on this side either,” he said at last, his voice muffled. “Try again from your side.”

She jiggled it desperately, tugged with all her might, but it held firm. The wind hummed though the hole in the roof. “Can you kick it in?” she called.

“Stand back,” he ordered. She braced herself to one side, waiting for the door to splinter and crash to the floor. It seemed a pity to destroy one of the last whole things in the old castle, and she felt a moment’s regret displace fear. The panel shuddered against the weight of his body, but remained stubbornly unscathed. Anger—and fear—instantly replaced regret.

“Can’t you do better than that?” she demanded.

“It’s solidly constructed. You’ll notice that although most of the rest of the castle is rubble, this door is still here. I daresay it will stand forever.”

“Should I wait that long, d’you think?” she asked sarcastically. She heard a sound behind her and spun, but there was nothing there. The wind stirred a cloud of dust in the middle of the floor, and it rose and danced, made the cobwebs shiver and sway. Was it getting dark? Surely it was too early. Perhaps a cloud had passed over the sun outside, but the shadows grew, crept closer, and Megan pressed her back against the wall next to the door, and felt her heart climb into her throat. Her eyes flicked around the dark edges of the room, but there was nothing there—at least nothing that she could see. Terror suddenly made her limbs shake. She did not want to stay here. She put her hand on the latch and tried again, pulling desperately, feeling tears sting her eyes.

Kit stared at the door from his side, considering how best to open it. If he had an axe, perhaps, or something to pry at the hinges, he’d be able to free her at once, but he hadn’t thought to bring tools.

Suddenly, Megan was scratching at the door, and he could hear the sound of panic in her breathless cries.

“Are you all right?” he called out. “What’s happening?”

“I—” She faltered, and he heard the thick sound of tears in her voice. “I want out!” She was afraid. He felt his gut tighten. Had the birds returned, was there an adder coiled amid the ruins, or a wolf?

“I’ll get you out. Go back to the window if you can,” he said, and he ran around the castle the way he’d come.

“Megan?” he called up to her, and she peered down at him, her eyes huge in her pale face. She had dust on her cheek. She looked young, terrified, and beautiful, Juliet to his Romeo. Or Lady Macbeth.

“Climb down, sweetheart,” he said, as if he were speaking to a frightened child.

“I’ll fall.”

He shook his head. “No you won’t.”

“You did,” she argued.

He swallowed an oath and held out his arms. “But I’ll be here to catch you,” he assured her.

She climbed over the sill. For a moment he saw a slim and tempting length of leg from ankle to knee. Then her foot slipped, and she shrieked. He watched her skirts swirl in the wind for an instant before she fell, twisting as the wind caught her, turning her around so her eyes were on his, big as saucers, and coming closer. He opened his arms and braced himself.

She hit him full in the chest, knocking him backward, and he closed his arms around her protectively as they tumbled into the thick grass.

The impact made his teeth rattle for the second time that day. Her knee slammed into his thigh, an inch from disaster, and her elbow met his ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

She lay still for a moment, and he held her tightly against his shoulder. Her hair was as soft as silk. “Megan?” he said dragging air back into his lungs. She wasn’t moving. “Lady Megan?”

Slowly she raised her head, and looked down at him. Her eyes were wide, and inches from his own. They weren’t green, or brown. They were a mesmerizing mix of colors, the shades of the heather, the hills, the setting sun, the glow of a fire. Her lips were parted in surprise, her cheeks flushed, and soft tendrils of her hair had escaped the tight braid to caress his cheeks. He was suddenly aware of the press of her body on his, the fact that her hip was resting against his groin, and her breasts were soft on his chest, and his arms were still wrapped around her. He gritted his teeth against the inevitable and quite natural reaction to holding a lovely woman, and closed his eyes, trying to think of anything but her, willing away his sudden arousal.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Her voice a husky purr that made the situation worse, not better.

“I think I’m supposed to ask you that,” he managed.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes scanning his face, her lips so close to his that his mouth watered. If she did not move, he would have to kiss her, and that might lead to—he swallowed a groan and lifted her aside as gently as he could, before his growing arousal became obvious, and got to his feet, gazing at the distant hills, counting to ten.

Then he held out a hand to help her up, felt the tingle of awareness rush through his body all over again as she set her fingers in his, and almost dropped her.

She mistook the reason for his sudden release of her. “Did I cause any injury?’ she asked, advancing on him. “Is your hand—”

He looked down at the grubby, grass-stained handkerchief that bound his thumb, and laughed. No, it didn’t hurt. Not as much as his ribs, or the damned inconvenient erection he was trying to hide, or his pride.

“I will come back tomorrow with some tools, fix the door, or remove the hinges and take it out altogether. Someone else might have gotten stuck in there, and not been able to get out.”

She stared up at the window and bit her lush lower lip, catching it between sharp white teeth. It was an unconsciously sensual gesture, and he swallowed a groan. The wind blew her cloak back, pasted her gown to the contours of her body, the soft curve of her hip, the mounds of her breasts, the shape of her thigh. He looked away, and began to count again.

“There are tales of this place,” she said. “They say there’s a—”

He held up a hand. “I know—a curse.”

“Not a curse, a legend. It’s not the same thing at all,” she said, her careful English pronunciation forgotten, the soft Highland lilt evident. It was enchanting.

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

She looked up at the facade of the old castle. “A curse is . . . well, a bad thing. A legend is more like a blessing, a tale of the folk who lived here once, and a hope that a time like that will come again, that happy lives will be lived here once more, that love—” He watched a blush rise over her cheeks, like a rose coming into bloom. “I’m babbling like a ninny,” she said, and her blush deepened further still. “I must look a terrible sight. No wonder you believe in curses.”

“There’s dust on your face, and cobwebs on your gown,” he admitted. Not that they detracted from her beauty one whit. Her hands immediately flew to her cheeks, rubbed at them. She then noticed her hands were as grubby as her face. He smiled and held up his own hands, also covered with dust and blood and rust from the door latch. “I look just as bad.”

“The loch,” she said, pointing. “We can wash our hands at least.”

He followed her down to the water’s edge, and she knelt on a rock, dipped her hands into the clear water, and splashed her face.

Kit winced at the icy chill of the water. “Is the loch always this cold?” he asked. “It’s late summer!”

“Of course,” she said. “The water comes down from there—” She pointed to a snow-capped peak that peered over the end of the glen.

“Then I shan’t swim,” he said.

She sent him a sharp look. “Is that why you bought Glen Dorian?”

“To have a place to swim? Not at all,” he assured her. “The river near my house in Derbyshire is warm and slow and pleasant for that,” he said.

“There are shallower and warmer pools in the hills, higher up, and waterfalls.” He watched her eyes scan the glen, saw her love for the land. It made his breath catch, and the hopeful edge of desire rose yet again.