Scottish Brides Page 3

  “No. I don’t want to marry you because you were a virgin! I wanted to marry you regardless of your state of chastity. But when a woman has reached your age and not tumbled into bed with a man sooner, the man she tumbles with assumes she loves him!”

  A certain expression crossed her face.

  And he knew right away he’d stated his case badly. He could almost hear Lady Valéry quoting, “A woman of your age?”

  So he hastily added, “And I love you. I wanted to marry you yesterday. The day before. The first time I saw you! ”

  “Infatuation,” she said flatly. “You’re a nice man in the throes of infatuation.”

  That was when he lost his temper. “I am not a nice man,” he roared.

  He might not have even spoken. She said, “Now . . . you’ve got to go away.”

  A nice man. He’d brooded about that one phrase. A nice man. He still brooded about it. Apparently she thought he treated every woman the way he’d treated her, and fell in and out of love with obnoxious regularity. In fact, looking back, he realized she had a decidedly odd opinion of men, and he still didn’t know why.

  But he would find out. Oh, yes, he would.

  Andra poked her head around the curve of the stairs where she’d disappeared. “Are you out of breath from the climb? Shall I help you with my arm around your waist, old man?”

  She didn’t even realize the danger she courted. He smiled, depending on the shadows to hide the menace of his intent. “Yes,” he invited. “Come down and assist me.”

  Something—the tone of his voice, the flash of his teeth, or perhaps that knowledge of him that she had gleaned through the mingling of their bodies—must have warned her, for she stared down at him for one still moment, then said briskly, “I think not,” and her head bobbed out of sight.

  He heard the clatter of her soles on the stairs as she hurried upward, and his smile widened to a savage grin. Run away, little girl; you’ll not outrun me.

  Her own valiance stood his stead as a weapon, for it would never occur to her to admit to alarm. Even now, as her footsteps slowed, he knew that she was telling herself to stop being such a ninny, that he was a civilized man who could be depended upon to be a gentleman.

  She didn’t realize that the veneer of civilization wore thin when a man was deprived of his mate.

  It grew warmer as he climbed upward, and he caught her at the place where the stairs slanted sharply upward, becoming more of a ladder. Andra stood, head bent against the tight constraint of steps and wall and ceiling, her fingers tucked into the handle of the trapdoor, a sconce on the wall barely lighting the stygian darkness. “Can you lift the hatch?” she asked. “Or shall I?”

  That stupid valiance of hers must be blinding her to the instincts of primitive woman. She should be fleeing him, but instead she taunted him, inquiring without actually asking if his manners had evaporated when she’d banned him from her bed. They had, but he saw no reason to tell her so now. They were not yet completely away from the inhabited part of the castle and the restraints enforced by the presence of other, more civilized people.

  Taking care to touch no more than the tip of her elbow, he guided her toward the wall, away from the drop that descended to the base of the tower, and passed her. He pushed back the shiny steel latches and lifted the sturdy wooden panel. With the screech of metal and wood, he shoved the trapdoor up and across the floor of the chamber above.

  A sudden brightness descended from the tower, and a draft of fresh air relieved the stuffiness of the stairway. “The servants must have left the windows open. I’ll speak to Sima when we are done here.” Her tone made it clear she wished that would occur soon.

  The spring of his anger wound tighter. “Indeed, you should. Your servants take too much on themselves.”

  The irritation that infected him spread to her. He could tell by the color that bloomed in her cheeks and the flash of her dark eyes. She bit her resentment back, and he rejoiced. She didn’t want to give in to his passion, not any kind of passion and that meant she feared the results.

  She had loved him; he knew it, and he would discover what megrim had made her withdraw from him. That was his mission this evening—not getting her alone, which he badly wished to do, or even viewing the MacNachtan marriage kilt, which he now used as a pretext.

  “Are there mice?” he asked.

  “Probably.”

  “I don’t like mice.”

  “What a craven.”

  She ridiculed him, and he did no more than bow his head. If she were fool enough to believe him craven, she deserved what she got, and more.

  She moved forward, and he stepped down and gestured her upward. He saw the flash of wariness when she realized how smoothly he had maneuvered her, but she hesitated only a moment before brushing past him.

  She thought him a gentleman, or at the very least that she could manage him as she managed everything else in her barren life. She didn’t realize that the layers of civility had been peeling away from him: on the ride here, during that interminable dinner, on the long ascent up the stairs. He watched her climb the ladder, watched as her slender ankles rose to eye level, and watched as she glanced down at him. She couldn’t retreat, but she did snap, “Stop leering at my legs and follow me.”

  “Was I leering?” He skipped every other rung until he stood directly behind her. “Imagine that, a man appreciating his woman’s attributes.”

  Placing her hands flat on the floor, she boosted herself up. “I am not—”

  His hand cupped her bottom, lifting her, turning her. Then his arm swept down and knocked her knees out from under her. The boards thumped as she landed, and he sprang up and over her. Trapping her between his outstretched arms, his weight supported on his hands, he said, “Yes, you are my woman. Let me remind you how much my woman you are.”

  “Mr. Fairchild . . .” Her brown eyes observed him cautiously, her fingers hovered close to his chest, but she kept her tone brisk and impersonal. “What was between us before is no longer a matter of importance.”

  “At one time not too long ago, I thought you a shrewd woman.” He lowered his body onto hers, inch by heated inch. “I have changed my mind.”

  Four

  Hadden kept his legs between Andra’s, using his knees to press against her skirts, pinning her in place. The scent of soap mixed with the scent of him, and his breath huffed from beneath his parted lips. Her fingers hovered so close to his chest that she could feel the heat of him, but she shrank before his forward motion. Something in her insisted she not touch him. Not if she wanted to cleave to her resolution to remain alone and not risk—

  She could see, through the blackness of his pupils, the determination that steered him. His breath caressed her cheek. “Andra.”

  A like determination blazed through her; he would not intimidate her. She shoved at him hard. “Get off me, you big oaf. Who do you think you are? Some kind of English reiver?”

  He rolled off her and flopped flat on his back, covering his eyes with his arm. She experienced a measure of satisfaction—and unacknowledged relief. She wasn’t so wrong about her reading of Hadden’s disposition, then. He wouldn’t kick a dog, or slap a servant, or kiss a lass against her will. He was a nice man, a malleable man.

  In time, he would do as she’d predicted all those months ago. He would forget about her.

  Sitting up, she looked at his outstretched figure. Yet she had imagined he would forget before Castle MacNachtan disappeared at his back. And she never thought he would have been so irate. Cautiously, she slid away from him and farther into the attic. Could there be other facets of his character that she had evaluated incorrectly?

  “Is that it?” He sounded carefully bland, like a gambler determined not to show his hand, and still he hid beneath the cover of his arm.

  “Was that what?” she asked cautiously.

  “Was that the reason you wouldn’t accept my suit? That I am English?”

  “No, of course not.”

&n
bsp; “Then it’s my family.”

  “Your family?”

  “Perhaps the infamy of the Fairchilds has spread even into the Highlands of Scotland. You’ve heard the tales, and you’re reluctant to graft such a shrub to your illustrious family tree.”

  Startled, she considered him; he was handsome, honorable, and kind, she could scarcely believe his protestations—and she’d be damned if she’d tell him the real reason. “I’ve never heard of your family.”

  “Then you’re worried that my sister raised me, and she did not, perhaps, do as well as parents would. Yet let me assure you, she loved me dearly and taught me well. I have the manners and morals of a man raised by the sternest father.”

  “I know that, for in the Highlands,” she said loftily, “we judge a man by his character, not by his background.”

  He took his arm away from his face and stared at the ceiling. “Really? And how do you judge my character?”

  She swallowed. “You said you wanted to marry me, but I knew you didn’t . . . you were just infatuated.”

  Turning his head, he examined her thoroughly. “Really.”

  She scooted a little farther away and wished she could scoot down the stairs and out the door, and run and hide from that enigmatic, knowing gaze. She didn’t like the combination of restraint and recklessness he displayed. It made her unsure of herself—and of her control over him. She wasn’t used to feeling like this: nervy, like a horse to be broken and ridden at will. She was the lady, and always in command.

  Why, then, was her heart beating a little too fast? Why did her breath catch, and the faintest dew cover her forehead? Was it because she feared he would force her to tell him the truth? A truth that even she pretended did not exist?

  Deliberately, as she had done so many times these months, she turned her mind away to tasks and duties. She couldn’t think about it now, so she looked around the chamber. After all, a mistress must oversee the labor of her people.

  And the condition of the tower proved that her people could be depended upon, regardless of the task, All traces of dust had been swept away. The floorboards, although old and splintered, had been scrubbed. The glass windows sparkled, and two of them were barely open to let in fresh air. Spiderwebs no longer festooned the corners. Unneeded or worn furniture stood about the chamber: a chair stripped of its cushions; a bench; a tall, aged lamp table.

  Trunks had been gathered from all over the castle and transported up the stairs, and Andra grimaced as she imagined how the men must have complained. But she, more than anyone, knew the futility of arguing with the house-keeper when she was set upon a scheme, and this chamber was, after all, truly spacious and bright. Perhaps Sima was right. Perhaps it would be good to store the family valuables up here.

  Although Andra wasn’t looking at him, she was aware when Hadden sat up. Even though he was across the open trapdoor from her, he seemed too tall, too muscled and too intent on her for comfort.

  Not that she knew anything too much about men and their desires, but she suspected that primal glare meant she’d best hurry with the kilt, or she’d be fighting him off.

  That hadn’t been what happened before. No, last time he’d been here, she had done the seducing, and a good job she’d done of it, too, for he’d proposed marriage before morning.

  She woke to find him looking at her with a wondrous glow in his eyes, as if she didn’t have the mark of the pillow on her cheek and her mouth didn’t taste like the bottom of the well and her hair wasn’t a witch’s black tangle.

  “Andra.” He smoothed the hair away from her face with a tender brush of his fingers. “You’re the woman I love. Please marry me.”

  Damn him for dragging reality into her fantasy. And damn her for wanting to squall like a frightened infant when he’d asked.

  She swallowed several times, fighting much the same reaction now. “The kilt. Sima said it was in the trunk. So go look before it gets dark.”

  “In the trunk?” He looked over at the line of five chests, some so ancient the seams were splitting; others, although old, still in good repair. “Which trunk?”

  Did he have to be difficult? And couldn’t Sima have been a little more specific? “You can explore.”

  “Will I know the MacNachtan marriage kilt when I see it?”

  He had a point, much though she disliked admitting it. And she knew she had to help him find the MacNachtan wedding kilt so she could send him away with a clear conscience. “I’ll assist you in completing your purpose.”

  He made a noise deep in his chest, not a laugh, not a rumble; more of a growl. “No one else can.”

  Standing, she discovered that her knees wobbled, but the goal of showing him the wretched kilt and getting away from this unwanted intimacy steadied her. “In fact, you don’t have to do anything, you big, lazy lummox. I’ll search for you.” She started toward the trunk farthest to the left, and he began to follow. “No.” She held out her hand to halt him, then lowered it hastily before he noticed the trembling. “I’ll do better if you’re not looking over my shoulder.”

  Stopping, he said, “Gracious as always, Lady Andra.”

  Gracious? She didn’t care about gracious. She cared only about speed. As she stood in front of the first trunk, she glanced out the window. It was July, high summer in Scotland. They had two hours of sunlight left until nine o’ the clock.

  But the trunks were deep and wide, five trunks filled with the history of the MacNachtans, and she knew as she knelt before the first one that the hope she cherished, of finding the kilt in there, was a crazy hope.

  Nevertheless, she held her breath as she lifted the lid and cleared away the first layer—plain paper laid over the contents to protect them from dust. Beneath were tartans, lots and lots of tartans, and for one moment Andra allowed herself to revel in the smell of ancient cloth and old memories.

  Then, as Hadden paced, she pulled out the carefully folded plaids. The MacAllister tartan, the MacNeill tartan, the Ross tartan. All tartans of the families that had, at one time or another, married into the MacNachtans.

  But no MacNachtan tartan, and certainly no marriage kilt.

  She shook her head at the hovering Hadden, and he strode away from her.

  Carefully, she replaced them and covered them with the paper.

  Then, from a distance, she heard the hollow, eerie sound of . . . voices? Swinging around, she demanded, “What was that?”

  “Your mice.” He stood frowning at a tall end table as if its location annoyed him.

  Though she strained, she could hear no more. An errant breeze ruffled her hair, and she relaxed. Of course. She could hear the servants speaking from down in the courtyard.

  She moved to the next trunk while, behind her, Hadden dragged something along the floor, entertaining himself in some manly furniture rearrangement. She didn’t care, as long as he didn’t hover.

  The scraping noise stopped, and the back of her neck prickled. Glancing behind, she saw him, lingering too closely for comfort, and she glared.

  He glared back, then swung away, and as she lifted the trunk lid, she heard another something being towed across the floor.

  Men. How well she knew they had to have something to keep them out of mischief.

  Inside the trunk, she found a cured sheepskin laid face down so its fleece could buffer the contents from impact. Plucking that free, she laid it out on the floor, then peered inside at the paper-wrapped, odd-shaped objects that filled the trunk. Removing an item, she weighed it in her hand. Light, oblong, knobby. Uncovering it, she jumped, dropped it—and chuckled.

  Five

  The sound of her laughter softened his ire and irresistibly drew him to her side. He hovered above her, wanting to brush the tendrils of hair off the delicate skin of her neck and press his lips there. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and love her until she had no energy to tell him no. He wanted to . . . he wanted to talk to her, damn her. Just talk, explore the byways of her mind, get to know her. And that seemed t
o be what frightened her most. In a soft voice, the one he used to calm a fractious horse, he asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “My great-uncle.”

  He didn’t even know she’d had an uncle. “What about your great-uncle?”

  “The man was a wanderer. He left Scotland as a youth—that was after Culloden; he’d been much involved in fighting against the English, and it seemed a wise thing to do—and he traveled the wide world. When he came back years later, he brought some unusual mementos.”

  She spoke freely, something she had not done since he’d uttered those fateful words—marry me—and Hadden bent closer. “What is it?”

  She picked up a wooden mask, dark, painted with extravagant designs, and staring from empty eye sockets, and waved it at him. “From Africa. Uncle Clarence said the native women hung them in their huts for protection from the evil spirits.” Smiling, she passed the grotesque thing up to him.

  “It would certainly frighten me.” He turned it from side to side.

  “And this.” She unwrapped a painted clock, carved with intricate swirls and sporting hidden doors. “From Germany.”

  Hadden squatted on his haunches, laid down the mask, and took the clock. “Quaint.”

  “Ugly,” she corrected.

  “Well . . . yes.” His breath caught when she shared a smile with him.

  “When wound up, it keeps perfect time, and on the hour, a bird pops out and sings.”

  Gingerly, he tried a little humor. “I can’t believe you don’t keep this downstairs in the great hall.”

  “We did until my uncle . . . until he left.” Her smile vanished; she bit her lower lip. “Then we put it away, for it made my mother cry.”

  A puzzle piece, Hadden realized; she missed her uncle and ached for her mother’s pain. “Why did he leave?”

  “Memories are long here in the Highlands. There were those English who took over estates abandoned by the outlawed Scots, and one remembered Uncle Clarence and threatened to turn him over as a rebel. Uncle knew the family could ill afford that.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter when it so obviously did, “So he left.”