The Pursuit (3 page)

Ian might not have married, but he never denied any of his children either. He brought them all into his home, even those sired as far away as Aberdeen—at least, all that he knew of. The harem aspect of the tale might have arisen because he’d allowed a few of their mothers to abide in his home as well, even after he had no further interest in them personally. Whichever woman he favored at the time, he was usually
faithful to her. Or so he assured anyone who bothered to ask him about it.

It made for a very…odd family relationship, to be sure, and Kimberly might have been glad that she’d grown up elsewhere—if the man who’d raised her hadn’t been such a tyrant and unloving parent. A few of her brothers had other sisters, but she was the only sister they
all
could claim as theirs, so she was included in their sphere of loyalty. If anything, being the only female among them, and despite her being the oldest of them, she was more protected than the rest. That protection had extended to Melissa when she was born. Since they’d all been there for her birth, they considered her
theirs
.

Lachlan had had a bit of trouble with that over the years. If he and Kimberly had a spat or if he simply frowned at her wrong, he was likely to get trounced by the lot of them, if even one was around to see it. And heaven forbid if he ever attempted to scold Meli when they were visiting. It was a wonder he did tolerate them, as many times as they’d attacked him first, without asking what the trouble might be. Must be a Scottish thing, that he found their attitude acceptable and as it should be, and never held it against them.

But Kimberly loved her brothers dearly, all sixteen of them, and she was quick to make excuses for their shortcomings, which they did happen to have in abundance. They were an argumentative, hot-tempered bunch. It was surprising, really, since Ian had raised them, and he had a more
mellow temperament. At least, he had prior to returning to Scotland to nurse his broken heart. And he’d been nothing but mellow since Kimberly had joined the family.

I
T
was an old home, maintained extremely well. Donald Ross had borne no title—wasn’t even considered gentry by English standards—but he was rich due to a hefty inheritance that, like the house, had been passed down through numerous generations and was still intact. He had surprised one and all by winning for himself the daughter of an English viscount, but it was reputed to be a love match, so those of a romantic nature were charmed by the tale.

Lincoln’s memory of his father was of a tall, strapping man, robust, hearty, good-natured, always with a smile on his lips, always there when Lincoln needed his attention. He had died when inspecting one of his mines in the lowlands. A tunnel had collapsed, crushing him so severely that he lived just a few days after being dug out of it. Lincoln had no memory of that, hadn’t been allowed to see his father after the accident, which
he’d resented at the time but over the years became grateful for, since it left him with only the good memories.

Lincoln had often wondered why his mother, Eleanor, had stayed in Scotland after her husband died. It certainly wasn’t so Lincoln could remain in the only home he’d known, because she’d sent him away quickly enough when the trouble began. He’d never understood why she hadn’t gone with him, though. A caretaker could have been left with the house if she hadn’t wanted to sell it. With Donald’s death and Lincoln sent away, she had no family left there, but she did have family in England. Richard had said they’d never been close, but still…

Lincoln’s only conclusion, when he was older and could think of more possibilities, was that she had stayed behind to look after the inheritance. It was supposedly vast, including many properties and businesses that required close attention. One of her letters had dealt with the subject, said that when he came of age he should take over the management of it.

That was another letter he’d never answered. The inheritance was his now, but he’d wanted nothing to do with it if it meant dealing with her, an easy enough choice to make, since he didn’t need the money. His Uncle Richard’s entailed estate, which had been left to him the year before he’d come of age, was quite lucrative as well.

Lincoln was home now—the home he’d been born in, the home he’d spent his first ten years
in—and his fears had been realized. The rage was back, came the moment he laid eyes on her, standing there alone in the doorway as they piled out of the carriage. Many another time Eleanor had stood there just so, waiting anxiously for him to come home. The sight and memories it brought back should have given him a smile, rather than the bitter taste of bile he was feeling.

It had been ten years since he’d last seen her, on one of her many visits to England. He’d been unable to avoid her that time. As he got older, more excuses occurred to him, excuses that had worked well enough—until now.

She looked old, and not just her age accounted for it. She was almost fifty, true, but she looked much older than that. Her hair was completely gray now, though it had shown signs of turning the last time he’d seen her, when she was only thirty-nine. She looked tired. She looked as if life was a burden to her, rather than a joy to be savored.

She wore black, as though she were in mourning. She was rich, could have traveled while she was still young, could have remarried, could have done anything she liked. Instead she had elected to stay here and live her life alone, and perhaps she was now regretting it.

Lincoln felt no sympathy for her. No kinder emotion would get through his rage, and, in fact, it took all the willpower he could muster not to get back into the coach and drive away. He knew he wouldn’t be able to contain his rage for very long. They had planned to stay at least a week
here before the start of the London season. He’d be lucky if he could last a few days in her company without the bile’s spilling forth.

Henriette had had to prod him into the house. He’d merely nodded at Eleanor in passing, spoken the single word “Mother,” and moved on into the parlor without glancing her way again. He was amazed he’d been able to do even that. His aunt, with her usual prattle, had filled in the awful silence that had followed his cold greeting.

And he couldn’t get his anger to calm down. He stood now at the window in the parlor that faced north, the direction where
they
lived, and his rage just got worse, thinking of the savages as well. Thirty minutes passed with him standing there alone, while his aunt and cousin were being settled in upstairs. He honestly didn’t know what he was going to do if Eleanor joined him in the parlor without either his aunt or his cousin present as a buffer between them.

It wasn’t
her
voice, though, that disturbed him finally. “’Tis grand indeed, tae be seeing ye again after all these years, young master. D’ye remember me, then?”

Lincoln glanced around. It was Mr. Morrison, offering him a cup of tea. Out of all the servants in the house, only Eleanor’s maid was English, brought with her when she married Donald. She’d brought with her also her English habits, and having tea served every afternoon was one of them. Morrison had been the butler there even before she arrived, and apparently he still was.

Lincoln didn’t recall the man as being so little, though. Of course, Lincoln hadn’t reached his full height of six feet four before he’d been sent off to England, had been missing a good seven of those inches at ten, so Morrison had seemed much taller then.

“Indeed, Mr. Morrison. You haven’t changed all that much.”

The little old Scot laughed—actually, it was more like a cackle. “Och, but ye hae, and aplenty. I wouldna be recognizing ye if I didna ken ye were expected.”

Lincoln didn’t think he’d changed all that much in appearance, other than adding the extra height. Of course, living with his face every day of those years made a difference, he supposed, different than not seeing someone for nineteen years. His hair had been just as black when he was younger, his eyes just as common a brown. His face had filled out some, was more defined. Women found him handsome, though he imagined his title was just as attractive to them as his looks.

Lincoln took the cup, but he didn’t drink from it, set it on the window ledge. He would have much preferred something more mind-numbing than tea at the moment.

He nodded out the window. “Do the savages still live there?”

“’Tis doubtful, since they’re all as grown as ye are. But they dinna exactly socialize, so nae gossip comes oot o’ there tae say one way or t’other.”

Lincoln hadn’t had to explain whom he was referring to. He wasn’t the only one who called those particular Scots “savages.” They’d made that distinction for themselves on a grand scale, even when they were children. They lived nearly four miles north, far enough away that he might never have met them, if he hadn’t wandered far and wide as a child.

He decided to find out for himself. In truth, he just needed an excuse to get out of there before his mother showed up again. He’d had no intention of crossing paths with the savages again, ever. Although he was much better prepared for them now than he’d been at ten, he was mature enough not to desire that kind of confrontation. It was simply an excuse to ride off for a few hours. He wouldn’t really ride north.

He found himself headed north anyway.

L
INCOLN
could blame his curiosity. He’d heard of the legend called Ian MacFearson—who hadn’t? But he’d never seen the man himself. He’d seen the man’s home before; he just didn’t remember it being quite so gloomy-looking. Of course, a child saw things through different eyes, he supposed. What an adult would find dismal, a child might find scary and, thus, exciting.

The place sat on a rocky promontory with barren trees before it and the cold sea at its back. The trees must have thrived once, before the soil had eroded away, their roots now embedded in the rock serving as testimony that the area wasn’t always so dismal of growth.

Spring was nearly over, but nothing had bloomed around Ian MacFearson’s home—nor ever would, unless fresh soil was transported in. Why anyone would want to live in such barren surroundings was beyond Lincoln, yet the area
had grown, with other buildings nearby—none so large as this old manor, but houses that hadn’t been there when Lincoln had last come this way. There had been other houses, though. MacFearson had relatives other than his overlarge brood of sons.

There was no activity about the place, but then, as Lincoln recalled, there usually wasn’t. If you didn’t catch the brood coming or going, you might think the place was abandoned. That is, if you came by in other than the cold months, when chimney smoke would give sign of occupation. There was no sign of that now.

Lincoln had never been inside, had never been invited. No one ever was, as far as he knew. Yet he’d knocked on the door many a time to draw out his friends to chum about with him. They didn’t talk about their father. Only people who didn’t know them did.

Memories of those happier times were jarring. Common sense prevailed, however, and Lincoln left before anyone noticed him in the area. Those memories still persisted though, of things he hadn’t thought about in years. Distracted, he wandered off the southern path home in an east-erly direction, to a place he’d gone many times as a child.

The pond was still there, a crumbled ruin of a barn in the distance the only evidence that anyone had ever lived near it. It wasn’t even a pond, just a deep hole that collected rainwater, and there was usually plenty enough of that to keep it
filled. A few moss-covered bricks along one edge suggested that the hole might have been someone’s cellar a century or two ago.

Another memory stirred as he approached the pond. It had been one of the hotter days of a brief summer when he was a lad of eight. Most days here weren’t warm enough for anyone to need cooling off, but that day was, and Lincoln had remembered the little pool he’d come across in his wanderings and had gone there for a cool dunking. He hadn’t known how to swim yet, but only one side of the pond was deep enough to require swimming, and he stayed well clear of it.

He hadn’t been the only one to have discovered the pond, though, for several of the MacFearson brothers showed up that day, with the same intent of cooling off. Starved for the companionship of someone near his own age, Lincoln had been delighted by their arrival and offered them his friendship. Three of them were leery of getting better acquainted with him, but the fourth boy, Dougall, who was also eight, took to Lincoln immediately, and they soon became fast friends.

He eventually met the rest of the brothers. Like those who had been with Dougall at the pond, the others weren’t as open as he was and were hesitant at first to accept Lincoln into their group, but it wasn’t long before he called them all his friends. And how quickly they all became his enemies.

Lost in memories, Lincoln had nearly reached
the pond before he realized that it was occupied. A family of four, apparently, the woman sitting near the edge watching two young girls splashing about in the water, the man lying in the tall grass some distance away, napping—or trying to. The wife was attempting to keep the girls’ giggling down to a quiet level that wouldn’t disturb her husband.

Lincoln had never known adults to make use of the pond, but of course there must have been many changes to the area in the nineteen years he’d been gone, with more people living there these days. It would be rude simply to ride off now, even though he was in no mood for conversation with strangers—unless he could leave without their being aware of him.

He stopped his horse about fifteen feet away. The woman’s back was to him, the children low enough in the water that only the tops of their heads were seen. They hadn’t heard him yet, over the noise they were making. Well enough, he could at least try to keep it that way and leave quietly. Then his horse neighed.

“Hello.”

He sighed and started to dismount. The woman had turned just her head to see him before offering the greeting. Then she stood up, bonnet in hand, giving him a full view of her now, as well as a friendly smile, and he was quite frankly stunned. His hand stuck to the pommel of his saddle. One foot still in a stirrup, he literally froze there in motion. And the thought crossed
his mind that the man lying there taking a nap had to be the luckiest bastard alive.

She was very tall for a woman, only three or four inches under six feet was his guess. She was dressed in plain country garb: a brown skirt with no hint of a train, a long-sleeved white blouse without pleats or other frills, sturdy walking boots—they’d brought no horses with them—and a plaid shawl currently tied about her hips that would come in handy if it rained.

The clothes said she was just a country lass, and probably a poor one at that. The husband and children with her said that Lincoln should think of something other than how her soft lips would taste.

It wasn’t just the height he found very intriguing—he’d never held a woman that tall in his arms—but with everything combined, he was quite sure he’d never been so instantly nor so strongly attracted before to any other woman. She was very pretty, true, but he’d seen prettier. Her figure wasn’t lush—she was on the thin side—but her height accounted for most of that. Her hips were still gently curved, her breasts at least a handful.

Her face was striking, though, the bones not too prominent, the cheeks graced with dimples while her smile lasted. Her brows were arched delicately, but they appeared natural. Her lips were narrow, but they would probably swell lusciously with the right kissing. Her eyes were light green, like twin sparkling gems, and they drew
attention immediately, being so pale in contrast with such dark hair.

Perhaps it was that her long hair was loose, windblown, in wild disarray, which gave her a sensuous, earthy look, as if she’d just risen from a wild night of sex. Exquisite hair, an auburn so dark it was nearly black, yet with the faintest hints of red. This could account for the wave of lust cresting so swiftly and shocking the hell out of him.

He’d stood there too long, still not fully dismounted, just staring at her, which probably prompted her laugh. “I’ll be thinking I’ve grown an extra ear if you dinna say something. New tae the area, are you? Or just visiting?”

“No—I mean, yes.”

He managed to get his other foot onto the ground while his face flushed with color. Her soft burr was enchanting. He’d grown up hearing it from other women, shouldn’t be the least affected by it, but from her it was the sweetest music to his ears.

He walked slowly toward her, aware that his pulse was racing. “Actually, I’m visiting, though I did used to live a few miles southeast of here.”

“Did you, now?” She appeared thoughtful for a moment. “And here I was thinking I knew everyone from a good twenty miles ’round.”

“It was a long time ago. You might not even have been born yet before I moved away…well, you were surely too young to know all your neighbors back then.”

She did look no more than seventeen or eighteen,
yet she had to be older than that to have two children already, and older than tykes to go by the sound of their giggling coming from the pond. He’d yet to see the children clearly, just their heads bobbing in the water.

“That’s surely possible, I suppose. Your ‘long time ago’ could be twice m’age, e’en thrice.”

Lincoln stared incredulously. She glanced to the side and down, her thick hair falling over her cheek so he couldn’t see her face for a moment. But she couldn’t hold back the laugh for long.

He blinked. Good God, she didn’t even know him, and she’d just teased him. How charming—and refreshing—to meet a woman who wasn’t primly demure or excessively stiff upon first acquaintance. He could so easily have taken offense, but she didn’t seem to take that into account. Or if she did, she didn’t care.

She flipped her hair back, not trying to be enticing or seductive, yet she was nonetheless. She was still wearing an impish grin, one dimple present and so tempting. He had the strongest urge to delve into it with his tongue, to make her laugh while making love to her so he could…Bloody hell, had he lost his mind?

He looked away himself, before he did something really beyond the pale, like kiss her in plain sight of her family. He didn’t dally with married women. Never had, never would. Well, he’d been absolutely firm in that resolve—until now. He stared at her daughters, could see their faces now as they glanced up at him curiously.

They were both blond, very pretty, possibly seven or eight in age. They didn’t take after their mother, but then they didn’t take after the father either—at least by what could be seen of his coal black hair under the hat he had tipped over his face. Seven or eight? That was starting a family a bit young by any standards.

Staring at the children for a few seconds did help to get his mind off of seducing their mother—for the moment. “Very well,” he said as he glanced back at the woman. “It was nineteen years ago, and I was just ten, which makes me not quite…thrice your age.”

Another laugh, filled with delight that he’d joined in the teasing. “You’re sure, then? Adding up tallies was ne’er m’strong suit, ye ken.”

“Quite sure—that is, supposing you’re a bit more than nine years old.”

“Och, a wee bit more at least.”

He smiled. “By the by, I’m Lincoln Burnett.”

“Melissa MacGregor.”

She thrust out her hand to shake his in a manly manner, rather than offering it for a brief touch as a lady would. He took it, regardless, and didn’t want to let it go, wanted to kiss it instead. But hand kissing was old-fashioned, done more as an overture these days, a not-so-subtle statement of obvious attraction. He bloody well hoped he wasn’t so obvious in his own attraction to her.

He let go of her hand. He should leave now that he’d done the common-courtesy brief chat,
but found himself asking instead, “You live nearby, then, do you?”

He shouldn’t have asked, didn’t really want to know, didn’t want to be tempted to seek her out once he did. It’d be infinitely better if he never saw her again.

“Nae, Kregora is much farther south. I’m visiting m’grandda for a day or so. ’Tis him who lives up here.”

He didn’t recognize the name Kregora, but he did vaguely recall that a small branch of the MacGregor clan lived in an old ruined castle some nine or ten miles southeast of the Ross manor. He’d never wandered quite that far as a child to see for himself, though.

“I learned to swim in this pond,” he volunteered, still reluctant to leave just yet. “A friend I used to meet here taught me, after teasing me mercilessly that I’d been coming here without knowing how.”

She looked surprised. “How ironic. M’Uncle Johnny brought me here when I was six tae teach me as well. Much easier tae learn in placid water than in the ocean. I’ve been bringing m’cousins here for the same thing e’er since.”

That was quite a distance to travel just to teach children to swim, especially when most people considered it an unnecessary skill to have, unless they planned to earn their living from the ocean…. Cousins? He peered at the two girls in the water again. They really looked nothing like Melissa. And for her to have borne
them, she’d have to be much older than she appeared to be.

He said as much. “They’re not your daughters?”

She followed his gaze. She didn’t laugh, but he could see in her light green eyes, when she looked at him again, that she wanted to.

“And here I was thinking we’d established that I’m only nine m’self.” She grinned. “I’m also thinking m’da would be going on a rampage, were I tae start having bairns afore I get m’self wed.”

It was the oddest sensation for him, to be so thoroughly embarrassed, fighting another blush, yet at the same moment be so utterly thrilled. She wasn’t married. She was available for a…closer acquaintance.

“My apologies,” he offered. “You just seemed like a family enjoying an outing.”

“Aye, and we are, just no’ that closely related. This is actually only the second time I’ve met these cousins o’ mine, the first time their mother has allowed them tae come up the Highlands for a visit. O’ course, I’ve so many cousins, ’tis doubtful I’ll e’er be meeting them all.”

Which was the case with many large families, and some not so large. He had cousins of the third and fourth generation as well on the Ross side that he’d never met, since they’d moved to other countries.

Lincoln nodded. It was time to go. In fact, he’d prefer to be gone before the man woke up and possibly ruined this first meeting of theirs. But he
didn’t mind leaving now that he was sure he would see her again. And he would.

“I’ve intruded long enough,” he said, turning toward his horse. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss MacGregor. Until the next time, I bid you good day.”