Beloved Imposter (36 page)

A lump in his throat made breathing difficult. He closed his eyes as he suddenly realized how she must have felt these last days. He thought he was being noble. Instead he had been cowardly. He had taken her, and left her. He had fought her, yet not given her the respect of being honest in the contest.

The room felt of desolation.

He was the reason.

He cared—no, he more than cared—about her. And he had hurt her, just as he had hurt every woman who had ever cared about him. Now he had to find her. He had to find some way of making amends.

And then what?

The curse still followed his family. His own personal devils made him a solitary, haunted man.

Leave her be.

His mind told him that. His heart had a different instruction.

He had to find her.

He went down to the stable and to the stall holding mother and foal. No sign of a young lass with short hair. The stable lad said she had not been there.

“Inform me if she does,” he said curtly.

The lad look startled, then touched his forehead. “Aye, milord.”

The kitchen!

He strode quickly to the kitchen. It was filled with newcomers. Moira looked up from huge pot several helpers were placing in the great fireplace.

“Milord?”

“Is Lady Felicia here?”

“Nay, I have no’ seen her since she helped with the midday meal.” Her brows knitted together. “She could be with Alina.”

“She probably is,” Rory said, not wishing to raise an alarm until he knew more. There was no way for her to leave Inverleith. The gates had been closed most of the day except for a small stream of men who went to guard the cattle outside.

Except…

He had left orders that every person entering or leaving be identified by another one.

He was learning exactly how devious and inventive she could be. He left the kitchen and strode to the gates. They were closed. The sentries seemed alert.

“Has anyone left here in the past hour?” he asked.

“Nay,” said one. “We have not open the gates.”

“You know my orders. No one is to leave unless he is identified by others.”

“Aye,” one said, then another.

He turned away. She had not left then. Where would she have gone?

She was not in the great hall. He started up to the stairs. Knowing something about Felicia now, he suspected she had explored the tower in the first few days. She would probably know all its many rooms.

He inspected all the rooms on her floor, coming at last to the nursery.

He hesitated outside. He had not been in it since Maggie’s death. The two of them had often visited the room and talked of their coming child. The pain was still in him, the lingering sorrow for what had been lost. But the sharp edge of agony had faded.

He opened the door and was, oddly, not surprised when he saw her sitting next to the cradle.

She looked up at him. Dusk had fallen, and the room was full of shadows.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I looked everywhere else,” he admitted.

“You thought I had escaped.”

He kneeled, his face level with hers. “I had hoped you would not wish to.”

“Why would I not?”

Her eyes were in the shadows, and her gaze darted away from him, as if she did not want him to see what was in them.

“Why here?” he asked.

“I explored the keep the first night I was here. I knew this room was … no longer used.”

“It is not. We have not had bairns here in a long time.”

“That is sad.” If it had been a mere comment on the obvious, he could have accepted it. But there was a longing and regret in her voice that reached out to him.

“Aye.” He knew the emotion he’d tried to keep at bay was in the crack of his voice.

Their gazes met, and the anger in hers faded in the empathy he felt reaching out to him. She knew sadness, and regret. He realized he had never asked her how she had come to be the ward of Angus Campbell. He had, in fact, asked little. He had not wanted to know. To know was to care. And he was too afraid to care.

He had taken much.

He’d given nothing.

Yet something in her reached out to him, just as it had to Moira and Alina and others.

He stretched out a hand, taking her slender one in his. She tried to withdraw it, but he tightened his grasp.

“You are a good warrior,” he said.

“You allowed me to win,” she accused.

“I was tired.”

“You knew who I was.”

He knew lying would not help him now. “Aye, I did. I have come to know you.”

She glared at him, and his heart contracted. She looked so fierce and yet moments earlier so vulnerable.

“But you certainly tested me,” he added.

“You did not try.”

“I tried to protect myself. You are a dangerous opponent.”

Her gaze turned suspicious. “I do not need humoring.”

“I do not think I would dare,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. He thought for a moment she might hit him.

Instead she stood with great dignity, this time successfully pulling her hand from his. “I have need of better company.”

He stood as well.

He meant to leave, but as in so many other occasions with her, he could not quite remove himself. Her blue eyes were shimmering, glazing with just a hint of tears.

“I want to go back to Dunstaffnage,” she said.

“And to the marriage?”

“It is better than being considered your—”

He stopped the words with his mouth. She tried to move away, but his arms caught her.

His lips caressed hers. She resisted but only for a fraction of a moment, and then her lips yielded, opened to his. Still, he felt a certain resistance.

He released her and stepped back. “You could still go to France,” he said. “I have a ship. I know a family that would look after you.”

“They would blame you,” she said. “They would believe you—”

“Did what my ancestor did?” he asked. “There would be no proof,” he finally said. Then he shrugged. “There could be something else, but…” He stopped before he blurted out a plan that, in all likelihood, would not even work.

Tears glazed her eyes, but she blinked them back.

He felt he was walking on white hot coals without boots. “God’s eyes but I want you,” he said.

“Do you?” she whispered. “You did not say that a few nights ago. I felt… bought.”

He turned away, unable to bear the pain in her eyes. “I did not intend that,” he finally said. “I wanted only to help you do what you had intended to do before we so abruptly interfered.”

“And if I do not want that any longer?”

He turned back to her. “I am a Maclean. You are a Campbell. We cannot change that.”

“Not that, perhaps, but that does not mean there could not be peace.”

“You are still pledged to another,” he said. “And your father would never permit a marriage with a Maclean. In truth, I cannot blame him, considering what happened years ago.”

“That was a hundred years ago.”

“That is nothing in the Highlands. We like our feuds,” he said bitterly.

“But if we can leave—”

“I cannot leave Inverleith again, especially not with you. Your father would destroy the clan. I cannot do that. Even if that were not true,” he interrupted her, “I have vowed never to wed again.”

“You do not believe the curse?”.

He shrugged. “I married twice and buried both wives and one child. I will not see you follow the same path.”

He heard her withdrawn breath. “Is that why you left me?”

“Aye.” He looked at the cradle beside her. “The cradle was for my child. A son, as it turned out. But he died at birth and also killed my wife.” Just moments earlier, he had thought he had accepted the pain. Now, hearing his own harsh, broken words, he knew he had not.

“I do not believe the curse,” she said. “Women die in childbirth.”

“Aye, but every woman who has married into the clan has died within a year or two. Curse or not, I cannot bear another loss. I will not.”

“What if I am willing to take the risk? Do I have no say?”

His eyes met hers. He touched her face. “You are bonny and gallant, and God knows I want you.” He tried to control the jolt that ran through him as he realized how much. “But I will not risk your life.”

She seemed to weigh his words, then turned abruptly and went to the window.

He felt a sudden chill in the room as if spirits of the lost mothers and children lingered here.

Was that why he’d never returned after Maggie died?

Why had Felicia been drawn here of all places? Did she feel the chill as well? Did it touch Campbells?

The shadows had deepened as they talked. He looked for a candle and found none, but then there would be no way of lighting it. This floor was rarely used, and they did not keep the sconces in the hall lit. Before long, it would be pitch black.

“We should go, lass.”

“Felicia,” she said. “My name is Felicia. Felicia Campbell.” The anger was back in her voice.

“We should go, Felicia,” he corrected himself.

“You go,” she said. “I wish to stay here. Unless you wish to keep me prisoner again.” Her voice was stubborn, determined.

Rory did not know what to do. He had tried to explain, but his explanation had obviously failed. He wanted to touch her, but that he knew would be fatal.

By the saints, he wanted to taste her kiss again. He wanted to feel her passion. He wanted to plunge himself into her warmth. He wanted to wake up next to her and watch her sleep. He wanted to hold her and never let go.

“Felicia,” he tried again. She turned then, and in the gloom, he saw tears glistening against her cheeks. It was the first time he had seen her cry. She wiped them away impatiently with her hand.

He wanted to kiss them away.

He held out his hand, and she took it. They were like lodestones, meant to come together. It had been obvious since they first met.

But even as they stood next to each other, Rory knew a chasm lay between them, one he did not know how to cross. “I meant no insult the other night,” he said. “I want you safe. I want you to be happy. I can offer you neither safety nor happiness, nor even life.”

“I know,” she said, and there was resignation in her voice, even as her hand held tightly to his. “I did not before, but I do now.”

Rory closed his eyes against the pain that radiated between them. They were both prisoners of hatred, and history, and duty. And there was no way of ever bridging them.

Jamie waited to hear from Morneith.

He received a response the third day he was in Edinburgh. Morneith had evidently interrupted his hunting trip. An encouraging sign.

He read the reply. “
I would be honored to meet the son of my very good friend and the brother of my future wife.”
Jamie almost gagged at the sentence.

It suggested a meeting in Morneith’s Edinburgh home tomorrow.

That did not suit Jamie at all.

He refused, citing previous engagements. He suggested meeting at supper in his father’s rooms at Edinburgh Castle instead. He added that his father was ill, and they would not be disturbed.

He waited another day for a reply. Despite Morneith’s warm words, he obviously was in no hurry.

That worried Jamie. So did the time being consumed.

He decided to take the next step. He needed help. Janet’s father, Dugald Cameron, was in Edinburgh, and he invited the Cameron chief to supper. The Cameron readily accepted, anxious to hear every detail of Felicia’s abduction and Jamie’s own capture and imprisonment.

“I would not have suspected them to abduct a woman,” he mused. “Since that first Lachlan Maclean tried to murder his wife, the Macleans have sought to recover their reputation.”

“They believed her to be Janet,” Jamie said. “She was under Cameron escort. I was told that the captain of the guard made the decision without telling Rory Maclean. They were hoping for a marriage between the two.”

“Over my body,” the Cameron said. “I would not allow a daughter of mine to wed a Maclean. I am not a superstitious man, but there have been far too many deaths.”

“What do you know of them?” Jamie asked, interested in Cameron’s opinion.

“I knew Patrick. He was a born warrior. No one could best him in a fight. And when there was not enough around here, he went to France to fight against Spain. With his father’s approval. The old laird had numerous French contacts and relationships. He wanted to strengthen them. He always believed that Scotland’s one hope was a firm alliance with France, and much of Maclean wealth was in trading with the French.”

“What happened to him?”

“No one knows. He just disappeared. Most believe him dead. If he had been taken prisoner, there would be demands for a ransom. Some word.”

“And Rory Maclean?”

The Cameron shrugged. “I know little about him. I saw him years ago, before he went to sea. I attended his wedding to Margaret McDonald, and I liked the lass. I hoped the curse had been broken,” he said, glancing quickly at Jamie. “I was saddened to hear of her death a year later. I haven’t seen Rory Maclean since. I know little about him, except his father said he was a good seaman and trader.” Then his eyes sharpened. “You would not have left her there had you thought she would be harmed.”

He was the first one to have reached that conclusion. Not Janet. Not his own father. Gratitude flooded him. “Nay, I would not.”

“I have been caught in the middle,” Cameron said slowly. “Rory’s father was a friend, but after a Maclean raid on the Campbells, your father made it clear I had to make a choice. I could not be an ally to both, and we could not afford to alienate the Campbells.” He sighed heavily. “I have not seen the Macleans since. I hear only gossip.”

Cameron’s gaze went back to his. “What did
you
think of the new laird?”

Jamie knew he had to be cautious. Despite his words, Cameron might well have more loyalty to his father than to his future son-in-law. Jamie knew his father was feared, especially by his neighbors.

“Do you know Morneith well?” he asked, ignoring the question about Rory Maclean.

The man’s mouth thinned. “Aye. He is ambitious.”