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C
H
APTER
S
IX

“I
recommend you tell her, Macrath. It's the only way we can make sure she's safe.”

“I don't want her to know. I just thank God Ceana is here now. Virginia won't notice the extra precautions I'm taking.”

“The more she's aware, the better.”

Ceana halted outside Macrath's library.

What were they discussing? Something they evidently didn't want Virginia to know.

She was instantly annoyed on her sister-­in-­law's behalf. Such behavior reminded her of her brothers-­in-­law. They, too, were set on proscribing behavior—­hers—­and ensuring any choice was taken from her.

Her brother was the most obstinate person she'd ever known, which turned out to be great training for handling three Irish brothers-­in-­law. Now she wanted to enter his library and demand he tell Virginia whatever it was he was trying to hide.

His next words kept her silent and in place.

“I can't abide the idea of Virginia being frightened.”

What on earth was he talking about?

They shouldn't have left the door ajar. Nor should she have such a curious nature. She really should leave, pretend she hadn't heard anything and go to the gazebo, her original destination this morning.

How was she supposed to un-­hear what she had heard?

“You know your wife better than I, Macrath, but Virginia doesn't strike me as the type of person to be frightened by a threat. Instead, I would imagine she would go after him herself.”

Macrath laughed. “You might be right. Still, it's my duty to protect her. And I don't want her knowing.”

“I'll accede to your wishes, but I think knowing about the threat, your wife would be better equipped to handle it.”

“On this we're just going to have to disagree.”

From the sound of Macrath's voice, he was moving closer to the door. She scuttled backward, entered the hallway and made her way out the back of Drumvagen.

The passage of years hadn't softened her brother's obstinacy. If she went to Macrath and ask, he'd simply refuse to tell her. Nor could she, in all good conscience, go to Virginia and tell her what she'd overheard. Doing so would be in direct violation of Macrath's wishes.

No, she needed to get Mr. Preston alone and find out what was going on at Drumvagen.

B
ruce had been warned about Scottish weather, but so far he hadn't found it appreciably different from his Massachusetts home. Scottish winters couldn't be any more deadly than one accompanied by a frigid wind off the Atlantic. Still, he hoped to be home by the time of the first snow, a thought that would have pleased him a week ago. When had it changed?

He stopped on the path, surprise keeping him still. Ceana was sitting in the gazebo, her attention on something he couldn't see. He could circumvent the structure and continue on to the village or make his presence known.

Since she'd been on his mind since the night before, he veered off the path and headed for the gazebo.

He stood at the steps, his hands on either side of the columns.

“Since I've told you about my wife, it's only fair you tell me about your husband.”

“Is it?”

She'd been gazing at a letter. She looked up, regarding him somberly, her deep blue eyes mysterious and captivating.

“I apologize. I didn't mean to interrupt you. I'll leave you to your letter.”

“I have no intention of reading it,” she said, holding the envelope up for him to see. “It's from Ireland. No doubt one of my brothers-­in-­law fussing at me. I didn't get permission before I left, you see.”

“Why did you need permission?”

She sighed. “I'm my husband's widow.” She looked off into the distance. “Peter's been dead for three years,” she said. “Most ­people normally don't mention him, as if doing so erases my grief. Was it the same for you?”

“Yes. You loved him very much.”

“Yes. And your wife?”

“The same. How did he die?”

“A cold,” she said. “Just a cold. He must have been feeling very bad but he never said anything to anyone. One night he went to sleep and simply didn't wake up. The physician said it was pneumonia involving his heart.”

“And so you came to Scotland.”

A smile trembled on her lips. “And so I came to Scotland. Not to escape my grief, Mr. Preston, but my in-­laws, all of whom think I should have been buried with my husband.”

“You're jesting,” he said, taking a seat to her right.

“According to my brothers-­in-­law, I should remain a proper widow for the rest of my days.”

“They're damn idiots if they think that,” he said.

Her eyes widened at his profanity.

“I apologize, but I can't imagine a worse fate. What are you, in your twenties? You've got a long life ahead of you. Are you supposed to be dead because your husband died?”

“I'm a little older,” she said, “but I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Preston.”

“Bruce,” he said. “My name is Bruce. You must call me that, otherwise I can't call you Ceana. It would be an inconvenience for me to have to translate your name to Mrs. Mead before I speak.”

“You are the most surprising man,” she said.

“Why? Because I say what I think?”

“Is that entirely wise, saying what you think?”

“Decidedly not,” he said, staring at her mouth. “Otherwise, I wouldn't tell you I've wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you, widow or not.”

Her fingers pressed against her mouth as if to banish any improvident comment or hide her lips from him. The first she might be able to do, but never the second. He would kiss her ear, then maybe behind it, down her neck and up again. He'd make her gasp and lose control of herself and then he'd have that lush mouth of hers.

A week, that's how long it had been since he lost his reason. From the very first moment he saw Ceana Sinclair Mead.

S
he had to leave.

He was making her think things she had no business thinking. Very well, perhaps he wasn't actually
making
her think those things, but he shouldn't say things like that to her. He shouldn't make her pulse race in such a manner.

His eyes were so attractive, reminding her of a tumbler of the best Scottish whiskey with light shooting through it.

His chin was square, his throat strong, his shoulders almost too large for the white shirt he wore. She had absolutely no intention of allowing her eyes to stray below his waist in memory of what he looked like naked.

She was not a woman to engage in fantasies, and he was very much a fantasy.

“What must Virginia not know?” she asked, gratified to see his face change. The teasing grin was instantly gone and in its place were thinned lips and a flat stare.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said.

“Nonsense, of course you do. You and Macrath were discussing something in his library. He didn't want to tell Virginia something and you were all set for letting her know. What was it?”

“You misheard, I'm afraid.”

She sat back against the gazebo bench and folded her arms, giving him a parental stare, one capable of freezing her daughters in place.

“You're lying. I'm very good at ferreting out liars, and you're lying.”

“You're mistaken.”

“Very well, then I'll just go to Virginia and tell her what I overheard. She'll get it out of Macrath sooner or later.”

He actually had the effrontery to grin at her.

He had been so much more receptive to her tears. What a pity she wasn't the type to weep on command.

“You really must tell me,” she said.

“I must?”

She nodded. “It's the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“I regret I will have to be ungentlemanly, then.”

“She's my dear friend and my sister-­in-­law. If she's in danger, I should know.”

“You don't trust Macrath to protect her?”

She sighed. “Of course I do.”

“Then leave it, Ceana.”

“How can I?”

He looked away, staring through the trees.

“What do you know about Paul Henderson?” he finally asked.

She shook her head. “I've never heard the name.”

“He was employed by her first husband in London. As a caregiver.”

She nodded. “I remember. Lawrence was an invalid.”

“From what I understand, Henderson developed an attraction to Virginia. He kidnapped her.”

She hadn't heard that story.

“What happened?”

“Henderson was all set to take her to America, but Virginia escaped.”

“And so did Paul,” she said, guessing. “Which is why you're here.”

He nodded. “Macrath hired me a decade ago to find Henderson.”

“And you did,” she guessed. “Have you been watching him all this time?”

“When I realized he was on his way back to Britain, I informed Macrath.”

She remained quiet, hoping he would tell her the rest of the story. To her relief, he continued.

“I followed him to Scotland, but lost him outside of Inverness. I don't doubt, however, he's on his way here.”

“Surely he doesn't have a fixation on Virginia after all these years?”

“One man's obsession might be considered another man's love.”

“But surely he understands how much she loves Macrath?” A thought occurred to her. “You don't think Virginia's in danger. You think Macrath's the one he's after.”

He shrugged. “At this point it doesn't matter which one. I'd just as soon rid the world of Paul Henderson.” At her look, he smiled. “No, I don't mean killing the man. But in America we couldn't prosecute him for a kidnapping taking place on Scottish soil.”

“But once he came back to Scotland he could be arrested,” she finished.

He nodded again.

“Now you have to find him before he hurts Macrath or Virginia.”

“I do.”

“I agree with Macrath,” she said. “It wouldn't do to tell Virginia.”

He studied her. “Why?”

“Virginia worries, and I don't mean about her safety, but about Macrath. My brother can sometimes be rash and imprudent.”

“I find him to be measured and deliberate.”

“Then you don't know Macrath as well as you think. He loves Virginia. When you love someone, you aren't always measured and deliberate.”

“Is that how it was with you?”

The gazebo was suddenly too warm and he too close, even though he was on the other side of the structure.

“There are many types of love, Mr. Preston.”

“So it wasn't.”

“I adored my husband.”

She sat there regarding him, trying to rein in her temper. He was everything she didn't like in a man: arrogant, condescending, self-­righ­teous, too confident. Plus, there was a look in his eyes that made a flush travel from her heels all the way up to linger on her cheeks.

Someone should tell him it wasn't proper to look at a widow the way he was looking at her. Someone should tell him he should keep a proper expression on his face, not allow his lips to turn up on one corner as if he found the situation amusing.

Someone should also tell him she was not the kind of woman who flirted with a man she barely knew, even if the man had appeared stark naked in front of her.

He had quite a nice backside, and why on earth was she remembering that now?

­“People tell you you're right most of the time, don't they? I'm surprised they don't bow in front of you. Do the women all giggle and scamper about?”

He only continued to smile at her, as if her words didn't discomfit him one bit. Or as if he knew how agitated she was, although she was certain she didn't reveal it in any way.

“Go away, Mr. Preston. Bruce. Whichever name you prefer. Go away, leaving me to my contemplation of nature.”

“You want to be alone?” he asked.

“Yes, I most fervently do,” she said, turning and focusing her attention on a venerable oak.

One moment he was sitting across the way and the next standing in front of her, hauling her up into his arms and placing his mouth on hers.

Her lips fell open in surprise as he laid claim to her mouth. She told her arms to remain at her side. Ordered her back to stiffen. But, oh, her treacherous arms wound around his neck, and when he took a step forward, she bent backward like a sapling in a gale.

He was kissing her and she was letting him. Worse, she was participating. Her heart was furiously beating, her breath coming so fast she wondered if she'd tightened her corset too much this morning.

She was burning up. It was not yet noon yet she was desperately overheated. The sun wasn't doing that to her. This annoying, arrogant man was kissing her into a fever.

Desire spread through her body. Joy, anticipation, the sheer delight of being alive made her tremble.

What was she doing?

She was allowing a perfect stranger to kiss her. Worse, if he pushed the issue, she might well succumb on the floor of the gazebo.

With the last of her reason she pulled back. She placed one hand against his chest, feeling his heart beating as fast as hers. Head bowed, she prayed for some type of restraint as well as the ability to speak.

“Virginia would be miserable worrying about Macrath.”

“Love does that,” he said. “They love each other very much.”

She nodded. Should he be talking about love to her? Especially when they stood so close and she still tasted him on her lips.

She pressed her hand against his chest, feeling like he was a wall of brick or stone, something impenetrable and immobile. He must release her. He must step back and remove temptation from her.

As if he heard her words, he took two steps back, dropping his arms. He didn't, however, apologize. Nor would she be such a hypocrite to demand it. She hadn't been a victim but a willing participant.