Once Upon a Highland Autumn (28 page)

When it was over, he lay down and pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his side, drawing the plaid over them. He didn’t want to let her go. She snuggled against his shoulder, and he stroked her hair.

“Was that perfect?” she asked. “I mean, I imagine if it wasn’t, I must assume it was very close.”

“It was perfect,” he said, smiling against her hair, and meant it. He lay beside her and listened to the rain, and they slept.

M
egan woke with a scream as the wind blew the shutter back against the wall with a crash, and wind and rain blew into the room. The fire shifted and danced in the maelstrom, and shadows filled the room, flapping above them.

Kit got up and forced the panel shut again, and latched it, sealing out the weather—stark naked, gasping at the icy needles of rain on his flesh.

He turned to find her watching him, lying on her stomach, her slim ankles crossed behind her, her lips curved into a half-smile.

“You’re a bonny man, Christopher Linwood.” He felt his cock stir hopefully at her bold appraisal, especially when she rolled over and opened the plaid for him. “Come back and get warm,” she said.

He lay down again, and pulled her into his arms, and they stared up at the cobwebs that clung to the beams above them. “D’you suppose Mairi and Connor ever lay here like this on a rainy afternoon?” she asked.

He stroked her arm and smiled at the idea. “I’m sure it was a grand castle in those days—a proper place to make love to a lady.”

She kissed his cheek. “It still is.”

What else could he do but turn his head, capture her mouth with his, and start all over again?

I
t was dark when they woke again, the fire a low glow in the hearth, the room cold.

Megan watched as Kit rose and added wood to the fire, lit a lantern in his pack and set it on the chest.

He peered out through the crack in the shutters. “The rain is coming down sideways. I can’t see a thing,” he said. “I think the storm is getting worse.” He looked worried.

“We’d better get dressed.” He reached for her gown and petticoat and handed them to her, and she turned away to put them on, suddenly shy.

“I need help with the buttons,” she said, and waited as he fumbled with the tiny fastenings, as if they’d done this a thousand times, were old and married and familiar with each other. Every inch of her body was aware of him behind her, and she wanted nothing more than to turn and drag him back to the rumpled MacIntosh plaid by the fire.

“Do I look respectable?” she asked, smoothing her hand over the irreparable wrinkles of her gown. He smiled.

“Your hair is tangled, your lips are red and swollen, and you look like a woman who had just been bedded, and very well bedded at that, if I do say so. How do I look?”

She let her eyes roam over his tousled hair, his rumpled shirt and dust-stained breeches, and her heart flipped in her chest. He had never looked better—except of course when he had stood before her, naked, ready, his eyes telling her she was beautiful and desirable. She felt hot blood rising in her cheeks. “We should go, I think.”

He took the lantern and escorted her down the stairs, holding her hand. Only for safety’s sake, she told herself, gripping tightly, not wanting to let him go. The rain was noisier in the hall, an angry hiss and sizzle. It was cold away from the sanctuary of the fire, too.

He paused on the stairs and held up the lantern, and Megan followed his gaze.

Below them, the hall looked more like the loch than dry land. Debris floated in water deep enough to lap against the third step. He surveyed the damage, his face grim in the light, and Megan felt her chest close with dread. Rain still poured in through the roof, an icy waterfall. By morning—she swallowed. If floodwaters could wash away sturdy bridges like kindling, what would happen to the ruins of Glen Dorian?

With an oath he turned and pulled her back upstairs. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Rescuing you,” he said, bringing her back to the bedroom. He bent to add more wood to the fire. It blazed back to life.

She folded her arms across her chest, trying not to be afraid of the rising water, the fearsome thunder. “It feels more like you’re kidnapping me. Do you mean to keep me here for the whole rest of the year and a day, make me your love slave?” The fey quip died on her lips as he turned, his face worried.

“There’s no point in both of us going out in the storm. You’ll be safe here for now. I’ll go to the lodge, get a cart or a coach or a plow horse, even, and come back and get you.”

Megan felt her stomach tighten with dread, and she watched a bolt of lightning invade the room like a sword. The shutter shivered.

“Eleanor and Jeannie will be beside themselves with worry,” she said. She pictured the maid running across the park to Dundrummie to report that Megan had not come home. Would they assume Megan had been washed away in the flooding, or imagine her here, amid the ruins of Glen Dorian, wrapped naked in a plaid on the floor in Kit’s arms? “I’ll come with you,” she said.

He shook his head. “Be sensible—you haven’t even got a cloak, and the causeway might be flooded. I’d rather you stayed here,” he said.

“But—” she argued, but he was turning to go, pulling the collar of his rumpled coat closer around his neck, scant protection against the raging storm. “If it comes to it, you’ll be safe and dry here for the night.”

Megan’s heart quivered. “Alone?”

He touched her cheek. “There’s no curse, sweetheart. There’s more to fear outside these walls than inside, especially tonight.”

She looked into his eyes, saw the determination to keep her safe, and felt cherished. He was being chivalrous, kind, and brave, like Nathaniel. Megan gathered the plaid from the floor and wrapped it around him. “It will help keep you dry—at least a little.”

He took her icy hands in his and kissed her, a lingering kiss, and she felt a moment’s fear that it was a farewell kiss, that she’d never see him again. She clutched tighter and he forced a smile.

“Stay by the fire, sweetheart. I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” he promised.

She followed him to the top of the stairs and watched him descend, holding the lantern high. He sloshed across the floor, the water nearly to his knees. He picked his way carefully around floating timbers, choosing his steps carefully, and was gone.

She went back upstairs and peered through the shutters, watched the lantern move across the half-flooded causeway, over the path that led into the woods, and disappear into the dark. She was completely alone. The storm crashed around her, battered at the walls, shrieking and wailing like a living thing, full of rage and sorrow.

Megan went back to the bedroom and crouched by the fire, her arms clasped tightly around her body. Her teeth chattered, but her shivers had nothing to do with the cold.

“Keep him safe,”
she whispered to the air.
“Bring him back to me.”

She closed her eyes and thought of Kit’s mouth on hers, the firelight in his eyes as he loved her, his smile. Was that all it took to fall in love with a man? She had thought she loved Eachann, but she hadn’t felt this way with him. His kisses didn’t set her on fire. She loved Eachann’s charm and his humor and because she’d known him all her life—but she loved her brother for the same reasons. It was different with Kit. He was kind, and charming and funny as well, but there was more. She loved him the way a woman loves a man, desired him, felt the twining of her soul with his. Her heart leaped in anticipation when she saw him, and when he wasn’t with her, she could scarcely think of anything or anyone else.

The storm pounded on the shutter, demanding to be let in, and her throat closed with fear—not for herself, for Kit, somewhere out in the deluge. What if he was washed away into the river, or lightning struck him, or a flash flood carried him away? He wasn’t a Highlander, wasn’t used to such dangers. He might slip and hit his head, or—a million terrible thoughts went through her mind, and she got up, paced the floor of Mairi’s bedroom, knowing Mairi must have done the same, waiting and worrying, her heart aching for the man she loved.

Megan went to the window and unlatched the shutter, throwing back the panel to look out across the loch, into the dark hills, his name on her lips, her eyes scanning the darkness for him. How long had he been gone? The rain soaked her hair, drove into her like needles, and she felt panic welling in her breast. If something happened to him, if he didn’t come back—she hadn’t told him she loved him.

A gust of wind wrenched the shutter from her hands, tearing her fingernails, whipping her hair around her face in sodden, stinging tentacles, laughing at her puny attempts to wrench the panel back again. The fire danced in the maelstrom, as the wind swept in to torment the flames. They writhed, throwing shadows against the walls and the ceiling, forming shapes—monstrous things that made her heart climb her throat.

Thunder rattled the stone walls, shook the very floor beneath her feet, and Megan watched the bolt of lightning illuminate the glen in an otherworldly glow for an instant. Sounds filled the room, noises that came from beyond the dark doorway. She stared at the portal, heard footsteps on the stairs, hobnailed boots ringing on the stone, voices sounding a warning that came too late. Megan’s heart stopped, she backed up against the wall, dug her nails into the stone wall behind her.
Hide.
The whisper filled her mind. But there was nowhere to go.

The fire guttered pitifully, all but vanquished by the wind, and Megan swiped a hand across her face, slicked the rain off her icy skin. She was being foolish. She grabbed a stick and tore a scrap of canvas from the mattress and wrapped it tightly around the end. She thrust it into the fire, waited for the flames to catch hold of the makeshift torch. When it flared, she rose, forced herself to go to the dark doorway. “Hello?” she called, but the stones snatched the word, drew it into the walls, held it.

The stairs were empty. Another burst of lightning lit up the hall below, shattered and wet. There was no one there, only shadows. Megan’s ears pricked. She heard singing, a sad lament, the words broken by tears, and gasps of anguish. And she could hear bagpipes, far away, calling out from the hills, playing a slow and sorrowful
Ceol Mor
. Her flesh crept, and she backed away from the edge of the stairs. Surely it was the wind playing tricks on her, just the wind, but her torch guttered and shook in her hands, making the shadows shift, giving them room to draw nearer. Surely they
were
moving closer now, coming for her. She backed away, moving along the hall, the rough edges of the stone walls catching at her skirts. Cobwebs snatched at her hair, caressed her face with ghostly fingers, and she swatted them away, felt them tangle around her fingers as the wind whispered in her ear. She turned and fled, but the shadows followed her, lurching along the corridor behind her, chasing her, driving her—

“No!” she murmured as the flame of her torch began to flicker and dwindle. For a moment, the wind toyed with the fragile tongue of fire. Then she felt one last breath of warmth before the torch was snuffed into darkness. She shook it, but it was no use. She dropped it, and put out a hand to find the wall. The icy darkness seeped out of the ragged stone and into her bones, claiming her, drawing her in to the very walls of this place.

“Who’s there?” she whispered in Gaelic, and turned her head. “I’m not afraid!” But she was. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could barely breathe. Her eyes were wide in the dark, but blind. Was something moving, watching, waiting for her? Something brushed by her cheek like a breath, or a faint caress, clung, and she swiped at it, pulling it away. It was just a cobweb, only that, and she drew a gasp of breath, tempted to laugh at her ridiculous fear, but it came out as a gurgle of fear. She rubbed her hand along her skirt, raised her chin, told herself again there was nothing to be afraid of, that she was equal to the dark, better, and her own foolish imagination was all that plagued her. She would go back to the bedchamber, add more wood to the fire and simply wait. Surely the storm would blow itself out soon. The night could not last forever. She put her hand on the wall, took one step forward, then another.

Surely she hadn’t come far from the bedchamber. She would come around a corner, and see the glow of the fire, and all would be well. She could laugh then. She drew a breath and took another cautious step into the dark, shivering, wanting the light and heat of the fire more than she’d ever desired anything in her life.

Too late, Megan heard the floor crack under her feet, and the exclamation of the breaking wood shot up through the soles of her shoes, filling her belly with stronger, fiercer, sharper terror.

She sprang for the wall, fought for a handhold among the stones, but it was too late. The ancient boards surrendered at last, and Megan dropped into the darkness.

T
he door of the lodge opened at Kit’s pounding knock, but it wasn’t a worried Jeannie Fraser who greeted him. It was a tall gentleman Kit didn’t know, his face as forbidding as the weather outside.

“I’m Rossington,” he muttered through cold lips. “I need blankets and a cart, or at least a horse—” he began, but the man’s nostrils flared as he reached out to grab the sodden MacIntosh plaid wrapped around Kit’s throat.

“Where the hell is my sister?” he demanded.

“Alec, let him go,” someone else insisted—an English voice, gentle and female. She was drowned out by others as they rushed toward Kit—by Jeannie’s frantic sobs, and Eleanor’s strident questions, and even Leslie, who began flapping around Kit like a demented crow, predicting illness and death if Kit did not get dry and warm and properly dressed at once. Kit put him off, and stood where he was, dripping on the floor, blinking at the candlelight.

“I need warm blankets, oil cloth,” he said again. “Some whisky, too, I think.”