A Slip In Time (10 page)

He studied her, uncertain what to
believe as their gazes locked and held. The lass beneath his hands
was as warm and real as any he’d ever known — certainly not a ghost
and seemingly no witch either, for he found no condemning
mark.

She still panted for breath from their
exertions, glaring up at him with a mingling of anger and fear in
her eyes. Her hair spilled over the pillows and about her in
glorious disarray, gilded bright by the fire’s light.

Och, but she was a beauty, Rae
thought. Mayhap, she was an enchantress after all, holding him in
thrall with her wide green eyes and temptress body. He knew not
what wiles or power brought her to his bed, but for that trespass
he’d require one kiss. One kiss in recompense, giving her reason to
flee or to stay.

Julia saw the hungry look kindle the
Scotsman’s eyes. He gathered her to him, drawing her up in his arms
till they both knelt in the middle of the mattress, pressed
together. Before she could protest, his mouth crushed down on hers,
a searing, possessive kiss.

His hand slid down her
spine to the hollow of her back, then
over
her backside, kneading her flesh and holding her firmly against
him. The wool of his plaid rasped her tender flesh, but through its
folds she
felt the startling proof of his
desire.

Julia struggled to
no
avail as the Scotsman continued his aggression,
parting her lips, and invading her mouth. She started as his tongue
laid siege to hers, stroking, fencing, and ravishing till her blood
surged beneath his seduction. Her voice abandoned her as did her
strength, so undone was she by his possession.

But as the heady kiss continued, the air
turned heavy once more. Without warning, the Scotsman vanished from
her arms, leaving her clutching thin air.

Julia tumbled back onto the pillows, panting
for breath, while overhead the canopy and draperies dissolved from
red into blue.

Pale light threaded past the window
curtains and into the chamber, tickling Julia’s eyelids.

She awoke with a gasp. Castigating
herself for nodding off, she slid from the bed and made a swift
search of the room. Rae Mackinnon lurked nowhere in sight.
Leastwise not in the nineteenth century!

What was she saying? Did she really
believe him to be from the past — a ghost, or whatever? She didn’t
want to think about it. It didn’t matter. She was leaving. The
ghost, the room, the castle, Scotland, everything. She was leaving.
Now. Forever. She had endured quite enough.

Julia retrieved her traveling trunk
from the far corner, hauled it in front of the armoire and shoved
open its lid. Yanking wide the armoire doors, she seized an armful
of clothes and stuffed them into the trunk.

Julia grabbed a second armful and
jammed them in as well, then halted abruptly. She would need a gown
in which to travel. The serviceable brown wool she had worn from
London was still being cleaned, and she certainly couldn’t be seen
in the rumpled mess she now wore.

After the Scotsman’s disappearance,
she had rushed to dress herself, trembling fiercely as she pulled
on layer upon layer of mismatched clothing in the dark. She’d then
rummaged in the bottom of the armoire for her riding crop. Finding
it, she kept vigil through the night, crop in hand, lest the lusty
“Third Laird of Dunraven” return and attempt to ravish her with
more than his kiss.

Julia’s cheeks flooded with warmth at
the memory of that kiss, the sensation of his mouth on hers, the
strength of his arms, his hands caressing . . .

She jerked her thoughts back, her
flesh tingling with his remembered touch. “Hampshire.” She
swallowed hard. “I must get home to Hampshire.”

Shoving back her disheveled hair, she
snatched out the remaining gown that hung in the wardrobe, an
almond green silk day dress. Too fine for travel, she would have to
risk spoiling it. Besides, the boned bodice would help amend her
bungled attempts with her corset and laces.

Julia began peeling off the protective
layers of garments — jacket, two shirtwaists, three skirts, more
petticoats, several chemises . . .

She should have vacated the chamber
during the night, she admonished herself as she slipped into the
green dress. But where would she have gone? She was loath to wake
the servants and didn’t know where her aunt and cousins slept that
she might join them. Nor did she desire to linger in the inky
corridors with all the dead, stuffed animals, or await daybreak in
the Long Gallery with the stern-faced portraits watching
her.

She worked the buttons on her gown,
thankful it opened down the front, allowing her to dress without
assistance.

In the face of all that had befallen
her the past two days, she supposed it unwise to have remained in
the room through the night. Still, she had. Could there be some
part of her that secretly hoped Rae Mackinnon would return and
possess her with another potent kiss?

“Certainly not!” Julia cried aloud,
appalled at herself for even considering so outrageous a
notion.

She finished securing her dress,
fingers shaking, then swept back her hair and tied it with a
ribbon. She looked a fright, no doubt, but she had no time for
vanities. She must leave Dunraven Castle. At once!

Julia bundled the last of her clothes into
the trunk and locked it. Someone, perhaps young Tom, could fetch it
down to the coach after she made her arrangements with Lord Eaton
and

Aunt Sybil. She didn’t intend to
return or to put so much as one toe back into the room if she could
avoid it.

Nerves spinning, Julia departed the chamber.
Traversing the gallery, stairways, and corridors at a rapid pace,
she arrived long minutes later in the entrance hall.

She braced herself to speak with Aunt Sybil
and Lord Eaton. Predictably, there would be objections, but she
would not allow anything they might say to override her
determination to leave. She would also need to dispatch a note to
her grandmother and one to Mr. Lawson, her solicitor in Hampshire,
informing him of her imminent return.

Julia tumbled words through her mind,
unsure how to broach the subject with her aunt and host. But did it
matter if she blundered her way through as long as a coach could
be provided to see her to the station at Perth? If Dunraven held
secrets, as Lord Withrington had suggested, then surely they had
found her. She must escape this place and the Highland lord who
haunted her nights and days.

As Julia approached the breakfast
room, she observed the others assembled inside through the open
double doors. Their interest appeared fixed toward the head of the
table. Good, she thought. Lord Eaton was present, most likely with
his foot propped high and the ladies twittering about him. Well,
they could twitter off or stay, but she’d have her talk with him
now.

Julia whisked through the portal then halted
in her footsteps. At the head of the table stood a
distinguished-looking man, attired in full Highland dress, his
tartan of red in vivid contrast with his snow white hair.

Lord Muir, she realized in utter amazement.
It could be none other.

Though advanced in years, he appeared fit
and hale. His most striking feature was his luxurious mustache and
a longish beard that reached to the top button of his tweed jacket.
A plank of snowy brows bridged a strong nose and deep-set eyes,
these pale blue in color and underscored with heavy pouches.

The guests from Braxton sat tense in
their chairs, apparently having swallowed their tongues. Lord Muir
glowered down the length of the table to where Lady Henrietta Downs
poised a heaping spoonful of sugar over her porridge. His frown
deepened.

Lord Muir himself stood before his own bowl
of porridge, unadulterated and steaming, a frosty glass of milk
beside it. As he continued to glare his disapproval, Lady Downs
yielded, the corner of her mouth twitching as she deposited the
sweetener back into the sugar bowl.

Lord Muir’s features eased. Giving his
attention to his own bowl, he spooned up the piping hot porridge,
dipped it into the cold milk, then walked to the window and
consumed the fare as he gazed out.

Julia slipped quietly down the right side of
the room to the sideboard, where she poured herself a cup of tea.
As she added a splash of cream, she caught snatches of muffled
conversation behind her. If she understood aright, the marquis had
arrived no more than an hour past and was far from pleased by their
presence. Some expressed concern he would turn them out.

Julia stirred her tea in thought.
Surely Lord Eaton had approached his uncle on the matter of
billeting guests at Dunraven. On the other hand, Lord Eaton’s
invitation at Braxton had been impulsive. Not impulsive, she
corrected, abrupt — as was his disappearance northward
overnight.

Julia stole a glance over her shoulder to
the marquis and found him at the table dipping another spoonful of
porridge in the glass of milk. He then walked slowly along the far
side of the room eating the porridge as he surveyed the hunting
oils that lined the wall.

Would he pack them off? That would
certainly solve her dilemma. Still, from the little she knew of
Highland hospitality — mostly from Emmaline and what she’d gleaned
from her readings — Scots hospitality was renowned, even when
entertaining one’s foes. Of course, Lord Muir was only part Scots,
Julia reminded herself, though by the look of him, his Scots blood
ran strong.

Turning, she cast about for Aunt Sybil
and found her sitting beside a gentleman known to her only as
“Rokeby.” Lilith and Emmaline sat further down, side by side with
the Reynolds twins, Ava and Ada, the four of them attended by a
clutch of young swains. At the head of the table, Lady Charles
conversed with Sir Robert and Lord Withrington while Sampson Dilcox
listened intently from his place opposite them. Notably, Lord Eaton
was absent.

Tea in hand, Julia started from the
sideboard, thinking to approach her aunt.

“Miss Hargrove, here is a place.” Mr.
Dilcox sprang to his feet and pulled out the chair beside his
own.

“Yes, do join us,” heartened Lord
Withrington, adjusting his spectacles.

Julia glanced to where her aunt bent in
conversation with Rokeby, their heads nearly touching. Releasing a
small, frustrated sigh, Julia lifted her lips in a smile and
joined the others.

Lady Charles’s eyes rounded as Julia
settled herself in her chair.

“My dear, are you ill?” she blurted,
drawing the attention of those nearby. “You are positively ashen. I
do not mean to be unkind, but there are huge dark smudges beneath
your eyes.”

Julia cringed as she fell under the scrutiny
of a dozen pairs of eyes. She touched a hand to her hair, silently
upbraiding herself for not checking her appearance before coming
down to the dining room.

“I am only little tired.
Truly.”

“We should send for a doctor at once,”
Mr. Dilcox’s voice rang with anxious concern. “I shall ride out
myself if someone will direct me where to go.”

“No, please, Mr. Dilcox.”

“Sampson.”

“Sampson. I only lack sleep
—”

“Don’t tell me you
had
another
restless night in the tower chamber.” Lady Charles
clucked.

Lord Muir, who had seemed to be purposely
ignoring the conversation, abandoned his attention to a painting of
game birds and pivoted in place. His eyes veered to Julia then to
Mr. McNab, who was just entering the door.

“You lodged this young woman in the
south tower?” he barked.

Every head in the room swiveled to the
marquis then to the butler. Mr. McNab began to stumble out an
explanation, but Julia rose from her chair and intervened.

“Lord Eaton insisted over Mr. McNab’s
protests, your lordship. Mr. McNab had no choice.” She blinked.
Now why did she take up for the cantankerous Scotsman, she
wondered, astonishing herself? “I am quite prepared to vacate the
room,” she added quickly. “In truth, my belongings are already
packed.”

Across from her, Sir Robert leaned
forward, his expression perplexed. “You couldn’t sleep so you
packed — before breakfast?”

Julia caught her lower lip with the
edge of her teeth. She couldn’t openly reveal her decision to leave
when she had yet to mention the matter to her aunt.

“The tower room is very fine and I am
most appreciative for its use. But my sleep there has been, shall
we say, disturbed.”

“Disturbed, Miss Hargrove?” Sampson
quirked his head.

“Dreams, that is all.”

Blank stares confronted her.

“Disturbing recurrent dreams.” She
reseated herself and took a small sip of tea. “Nightmares,
actually. Most distressing.”

Julia fought to control the tremor that
overtook her hands as she replaced the cup on the saucer. Lord Muir
returned to stand before his porridge, but he neither ate nor
spoke. Julia could not meet his eyes but felt his scowl.

“Perhaps a doctor
is
in order, dear,” Mrs.
Charles broke the silence. “You haven’t been well since you
arrived. Obviously, it is your state of health, not your room, that
is the cause of your distress. I’m sure the marquis would be
amenable to sending for a physician.”