Beloved Impostor Page 10

  He took his mouth from hers, and his lips burned a trail down the side of her face with unrestrained passion.

  A knock. Another. For a fleeting second it was muted by the intensity between them. Then it came again, louder and insistent.

  The Maclean stepped back, shaking his head as if to bring himself back to reality, then looked at her with an expression of chagrin and disbelief. As if he could not believe he had kissed her.

  Neither could she. She knew her face must be flushed with color.

  Another knock.

  The Maclean mumbled what sounded like an oath to her, then opened the door.

  She heard the steward’s voice.

  “Rory, a runner just came in. The Campbells have attacked the village near their border. Took cattle. Burned crofts. Trampled fields. Two crofters were killed. Many wounded.”

  Felicia’s blood cooled as Rory Maclean stiffened. “Have a horse saddled for me. Pick fifteen men. We will leave within the hour.”

  The door closed. Douglas had not seen her, and she was glad. But Rory would see her stricken expression.

  Her clan had attacked his. Douglas’s words kept echoing over and over in her head.

  Because they were searching for her?

  She leaned against a wall. Had she been responsible—in some way—for the deaths of innocents? Had her disappearance sparked unreasoning retribution?

  Rory turned to her. Hot anger had replaced the desire that had been there just seconds earlier. Anger and resolve.

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  “It is not your doing, lass,” he said. He touched her cheek for a moment with a wistful finality. “I should not have been here when my clansmen are in danger. I can only ask that you forgive me.”

  She heard the guilt in his voice, but she had no chance to say more.

  “Lachlan will accompany you home. Again, my apologies for your misadventure.” The wistfulness had left his voice. It was impersonal now, all his vital intensity—everything that so attracted her—turned to protecting his people.

  What if he knew she might be the cause?

  Guilt and a terrible sense of loss filled her as he gave her one last look, then disappeared out the door.

  Damn these cold, damp Highlands.

  Rory and his men wended their way to the outlying village. The night was as cold as it had been several nights earlier when they’d stolen Campbell cattle. Had the destruction of a Maclean village been in kind?

  When would it ever stop?

  At least the bitter wind brought him back to reality.

  Rory needed that cold. It reminded him of duty. It took his mind away from the Cameron lass.

  Why did she so bedevil his thoughts? She was no beauty.

  Yet deep inside he knew. She had a passion for life that had been missing in his all too long. It glowed in her eyes even as she tried to hide her emotions. It was in the kiss, in her response, even in the way she’d engaged him rather than cower in fear or strike out in anger.

  The devil take it. He could not afford the distraction. He looked around. Archibald rode on one side, Douglas on the other.

  He was grateful for their silence. He nursed his thoughts, tried to quench the fires that still raged inside him.

  By all the saints, what had he almost done?

  He had nearly broken a vow. He had allowed himself to become distracted when he should be attending to the business of the clan.

  God’s eyes. She was nothing like Maggie. Or Anne. Both had been physically lovely and sweet and caring in disposition.

  Janet’s eyes flamed like an out-of-control fire. He suspected that she had as many thorns as petals. But a man wanted to smile when Janet did. Her eyes lit, and a small dimple appeared in her cheek. And in the sun or candlelight, her hair took on the shine of copper.

  She was both calm and peace, and fire and storm.

  The combination was irresistible to him.

  And a challenge.

  A challenge he had to refuse. He was a trader, and a trader spent months, even years at sea.

  Worse, he was a Jonah.

  Even had that not been true, she was pledged to another. He’d reacted as he had because it had been years since he’d been with a woman.

  But he was not a man to lie, even to himself, and he knew that was not entirely true. Aye, he’d wanted to touch that flaming hair, rub his hand down her flushed cheeks, lock his arms around her body. He wanted to feel her and taste her. The devil take it, he wanted to bury himself in her.

  Even now, his loins tightened at the thought of her standing there, looking up at him with something like wonder in her eyes.

  He’d felt the desire in her. He also recognized the awakening. There was an innocence mixed with passion that had been intoxicating. More than intoxicating. For a moment, the aching loneliness had left him.

  And that was dangerous. He had come home to solve problems. Not to create them. A liaison with a woman pledged to the son of the enemy he hoped to lead into a truce was pure madness.

  She would be gone when he returned. He had made Lachlan pledge to take her back to the Camerons on the morn. They would probably never meet again.

  He spurred his horse on. The others increased their pace to match his. He wanted to be at their destination by dawn. Perhaps by riding hard, he could ignore the hole opening in his heart.

  He smelled the destruction even before they arrived.

  Then he heard the keening. The sound of death.

  Archibald blew on his horn to tell the village that friends were approaching.

  Silently, clansmen crowded around them as they approached the smoldering ashes of the crofts.

  Some knew him from years earlier when he rode and raided the Campbell properties. Others looked at him with curiosity, still others with anger.

  “We ha’ wounded,” said one man. “Our healer was killed when she tried to stop them.”

  “How many dead?” he asked. “How many wounded?”

  “Three dead now,” another man stepped forward. His tone was belligerent. “Eight wounded, including a mere lass who was trampled. We ha’ no protection. Now we ha’ no homes, no cattle. Our fields were destroyed.”

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Ramsey,” said the man. He looked at the man next to him. “Sim lost his brother.”

  Sorrow filled Rory. And memories.

  “I cannot bring back the dead,” he said, “but we will replace your cattle. There will be no rent due this year. I will see that you have enough food for the winter.” So much for the cattle he had taken just days ago.

  “If ye are still here,” Sim muttered.

  Another man moved toward him in an obvious attempt to silence him.

  Rory held up his hand to stop him. “He has the right,” he said.

  “We ha’ been asking for help,” Ramsey said angrily. “We are herders here. And farmers. We are no’ warriors.”

  “You are certain the raiders were Campbells?”

  “Aye. One wore the Campbell crest. They said they were looking for someone. They did not say who.”

  “A woman?”

  The man shrugged. “They did not say.”

  It had to be the Cameron lass. She was, after all, the betrothed of the young Campbell. The enthusiasm of his men on his behalf had caused this. He’d never had these problems with his crew aboard ship. They had known discipline, had realized what he wanted and obeyed instantly.

  He had been away too long. They all remembered the lad he had been, the young man who had been so in love with his wife that he had neglected all else. And because the man he was now was a stranger to them, he had not yet earned their respect.

  He must do that before they would follow his lead.

  He had been convinced that the future of the Macleans lay with forging a truce with the Campbells. But now looking at the ruined village and the despairing villagers, he wondered whether that was possible. They and other Maclean clansmen would expect retribu
tion.

  More bloodshed. More widows and orphaned children.

  He hadn’t wanted this. God in heaven, he did not want this.

  “Our wounded?” Ramsey asked.

  “I will send them back with my men. We have a healer at the keep.”

  “Two of our lads are missing. They were tending some sheep.”

  “I and one other man will stay and search. We can cover more ground on horseback,” Rory said.

  The crofter looked disbelieving, then he touched his forehead. “Thank ye, my lord.”

  “You will not be left to fend for yourself again,” Rory vowed. “From this day, you will have protection.”

  Skepticism showed in some faces. He could not blame them. They had every right to feel abandoned.

  Rory would have a word with Douglas on his return. The man should have taken more responsibility. Then he sighed. That assessment was unfair. He and Patrick had left the clan of their own free will. Neither could have foreseen their father’s death, but they had left a void in leadership. Douglas, a distant cousin and steward, had no real authority, and Lachlan apparently had chosen not to take it.

  He had to set things right before he left again. A flicker of apprehension swept through him. How could he leave now? Or even in the near future? Too many people depended on him. Yet how could he stay where grief shadowed every step?

  How could he be of any use when he doubted himself, when he was haunted by ghosts and curses?

  For a few moments he had forgotten …

  He saw to it that litters were prepared and attached to the horses. Those not badly wounded were assigned to ride with some of his men. He watched as they departed.

  “Let us find your missing lads,” he told Ramsey.

  Felicia rose with the sun and went to the window.

  The dawn was cloudless. It would be a glorious day.

  She did not want a glorious day.

  Lachlan had told her last night they would leave at early morn. She would have to pretend an illness she did not feel. A relapse.

  Back to the fireplace.

  But how many times would that sham work? Still, she pushed several stones in the embers and waited impatiently for them to warm again.

  When she dared wait no longer, she wrapped them in cloth and crept back to the bed. She put them to her cheeks. When she heard a knock, she quickly moved the rocks near her feet, replaced the covering, and huddled in the bed, hoping to look ill.

  Another knock. She tensed as the door opened.

  Moira entered with a breakfast tray and stopped suddenly as she saw Felicia. “Oh milady. The fever is back.”

  Felicia tried to look ill. Very, very ill. “My fault,” she said. “I did over much yesterday.”

  “Lachlan has already broke fast. He and an escort are waiting.”

  “I do not think I can travel today. I feel light-headed.”

  Moira looked quite pleased at the news. “I will tell him and bring ye some porridge.”

  Moira’s porridge was quite terrible, but a price well worth paying if she could earn herself a few more hours. Perhaps without the lord in residence, it would be easier to escape the keep.

  The lord. Rory. Rory Maclean.

  She had to stop thinking of him.

  Nothing was more impossible. There was no future with him. But he remained in her thoughts, as welcome—and as impossible to dismiss—as an enemy army at the gates.

  She still remembered how her body felt next to his, the heady exchange of kisses, both gentle and demanding.

  God’s love. He was a Maclean. She was a Campbell. He had raided her people. Her people had just raided his, and he had gone to do only God knew what.

  He said he wanted peace, but how could there be peace after the latest raid and what was sure to be retaliation? Was he killing Campbells now? Men that she knew? Men who had watched her spar with Jamie? She could still hear their shouts of encouragement as she’d lifted the heavy sword.

  Moira still regarded her with a worried look. “I will tell Lachlan.”

  She disappeared out the door, and Felicia quickly placed the stones close to her cheeks again. The stones were cooling, but she hoped they were hot enough to redden her cheeks. Then she shoved them back under the covering as the door opened.

  Lachlan strolled in. He was dressed for riding with a warm fur mantle covering most of body. He wore long hose and soft boots.

  “Lady Janet,” he said. “Moira told me the distressing news. He leaned down and touched one of her cheeks. Something like amusement flickered in his eyes, and she wondered if he sensed her deception.

  “I am sorry to ruin your plans,” she said in as weak a voice as she could feign.

  “Ah but it is your welfare that concerns me,” he said. “I know you must be anxious to return home. Your family must be most distressed. In truth, I thought we might have visitors by now.”

  Could he possibly know what she was about? But no. How could he?

  “My mother and father are not at home. They are at the court in Edinburgh,” she said.

  “Still there must be someone concerned about your absence,” he said with annoying persistence. “We should send a rider to your home and tell them you are safe.”

  “Nay!” she said before she could stop herself.

  “And why not?”

  She frantically searched for a reason and finally came up with one. She finally came up with a half truth. “They wish me to marry someone I do not wish to marry.”

  “The Campbell?”

  “Aye,” she said reluctantly, mentally asking God to forgive the lie. A day. Mayhap two. That was all she needed.

  He looked thoughtful. “You cannot remain missing forever.”

  “Nay, but if he thought I had been abducted—”

  “Your reputation would be ruined, and he would not want you,” he completed.

  “Aye,” she said as she watched him carefully.

  “You wish to use my brother?”

  “I was the one who was taken,” she reminded him.

  “And you wish to take advantage of it. Have you thought what the Campbells might do if they thought we abducted you? The Campbells and Camerons together?”

  “You did abduct me,” she said reasonably.

  “Aye. Unfortunately, my brother refuses to make it right. He could marry you, and all would be solved.”

  “Would I have naught to say in this?”

  She saw a gleam in his eyes.

  “I have seen how you look at him and how he looks at you.”

  “He looks at me in no special way. He had made it clear he wants no marriage. He certainly does not want me.”

  “Then you are blind, my lady.”

  “I believe what he says.”

  “And if you did not?”

  “I am but a pawn,” she said. “My desires have no value. But I do not wish to marry anyone. I want …”

  He waited.

  She had almost blurted out the words. She wanted to get to London to see what help Jamie could offer. She could not be the bride of a Maclean even if he did want her. He most certainly would not if he knew who she was. He would despise her. He no doubt felt her family was responsible for every tragedy that had beset him.

  “A woman seldom has the choice of loving. Decisions are made for her.”

  He searched her face. “I want my brother to love again. He was a different man then.”

  “And you. Have you ever loved?” she asked, suddenly curious.

  “I am of no matter,” he said.

  He was avoiding the subject, and that made her wonder. She wanted to learn more about all the Macleans.

  They were not the barbarians she had been told, and had believed. Of course, they might well turn into such if they learned her true identity.

  “You were a lad when Lord Rory left?”

  “Aye.”

  “And the older son?”

  “Patrick?”

  “Aye. How long has he been gone?”
r />   “More than three years.”

  “You do not believe he will return?”

  “Rory does.”

  “But you do not?”

  “If he were a prisoner somewhere, ransom would be asked,” he said. His expression changed, his brown eyes darkening. “Are you concerned that Rory will not inherit?”

  “I care nothing about rank or power,” she said.

  “Then we are two of a kind.”

  “Are we?” she asked suddenly. Was it possible that Lachlan would, could, help her?

  “I must leave,” she said urgently. “Will you help me?”

  “I thought you were reluctant to return.”

  “I do not wish to go home. I wish to go to London.”

  His eyes widened with surprise. “London?”

  “I have friends there. They will help me.”

  “Do you hate James Campbell that much?”

  “Would you like to be traded like a horse?”

  “Nay, no more than I like expectations of what I should be.”

  “Will you help me then?”

  “You cannot travel alone safely.”

  “I can travel as a lad.”

  He studied her for a long time. “Aye,” he said softly.

  “No more questions?”

  “Nay.”

  She knew what she was asking of him. He would be going against the orders of his chief. His brother.

  For her? For reasons of his own?

  Or could he be trusted at all? She did not know him that well, nor did she have much experience at judging the motives of others.

  “Why?” she asked bluntly.

  “Because you are desperate,” he said simply. “And I have been, as well.” He did not elaborate, and his tone warned her not to pry further.

  “I do not wish any harm to come to you.”

  “I know,” he said. “My brother no longer knows how to love. Or laugh. Or be happy. But he would not punish me for doing what I think is right.”

  She prayed it was so.

  “When?” She wanted to leave now. Before Rory Maclean returned and she lost her resolve.

  “On the morn. Moira has already announced that you are ill. You should stay in today.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And you can take the stones from the bed. They are no longer needed.”