Delight and Desire (2 page)

She started to reach out a hand, but then let it drop to her side. ‘Sir, I— You must allow me to thank you, and to explain…’ Her voice, never more than a whisper at best, faltered into nothing. She felt lost.

His smile widened the merest fraction. ‘I will come again tomorrow, at dusk, in hopes of seeing an enchanting vision once more. Tomorrow, and every day after, just in case…’ He let the promise hang in the air. Then, without another word, he disappeared into the darkness.

He took two steps down, stopping to lean his forehead against the cold stone wall, waiting for his heart to slow and for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Behind him, on the stone platform, he could hear the sound of clothing being shaken out, and quick nervous breathing as she grappled with tapes and pins. He must not stay here, picturing her transformation from nymph to earthbound lady. He did not want to be seduced by that. He wanted to remember her as he had first seen her—ethereal, floating, fairylike.

He moved a little further from the light. He was beginning to see the shapes of walls and steps now. And he was almost back in control. It was safe to move. He started down the staircase, resolutely ignoring the ache in his leg. It had returned to remind him of his mortality. And, indirectly, of hers. He must not dwell on that. More important to concentrate on muffling the sound of his leather boots on the stones. The abigail below must hear nothing.

Half-way down, Robert stopped and shrank back against the wall at the narrow end of the steps so that there would be room enough for her to pass without touching him. He was in the darkest part of the staircase, too dark to see her in her everyday garb. Would she know he was there? He was resolved not to betray his presence by word or movement. It must be as if he had become part of these cold blank stones.

He heard a step then, far above. She was wearing quite heavy shoes, or perhaps even boots. On the battlements, he had fancied her feet were bare.

He strained his ears, listening for her approach. For a moment there was nothing. She was probably waiting, as he had done, until she could see her way in the darkness. Then he heard light steps on the stairs, coming ever closer, and the soft shush of heavy fabric brushing across the edges of the stones. He held his breath, waiting. She was very close now.

It was the scent that reached him first. Lavender, he was sure of it. And yet he had smelled no lavender when he held her in his arms. A heavy skirt brushed against his thigh, and the scent wafted up around him. It was not unpleasant, and yet it was not her. His nymph had smelled of watery magic, and then of desire, not of the lavender of common clothes presses.

She had stopped. She must sense that he was there, beside her.

He tried not to breathe, tried to ignore the alien scent from her gown.

The briefest touch on his fingers. Not silk, but warm living skin. She had caressed his hand.

‘Tomorrow. Dusk,’ she whispered.

And then she was gone.

Isobel paused, watercolour brush in hand.

It would soon be dusk. Would he keep his promise?

Her heart began to pound. It was madness! She should not have come! He was a gentleman. He would never accept Isobel as a lady. Not after what had passed between them on the top of that tower.

It was absurd to be waiting here, indulging her foolish dreams yet again. Yesterday she had worn that indecent chemise gown, dampening her muslin skirts in daring self-indulgence. She had even unpinned her hair and kicked off her shoes. She had thought herself totally alone, enacting her fantasy, her last moment of freedom before she had to give herself to duty and a loveless marriage. But then
he
had appeared, like a fairy-tale prince, taking her proffered hand and…

That kiss had been no fantasy. It had been delight, and desire. It had been glorious. And utter wickedness.

She should leave here before he came, before it was too late. She must not meet him again. A woman of almost twenty could not afford to dally in the unattainable dreams of childhood. She told herself sternly that she should be concentrating on the vital business of finding a rich husband. Otherwise, the Anstruthers would finally triumph in their ancient feud with her family. In previous centuries, many had died, on both sides of the Ritchie-Anstruther feud. Nowadays there was no more blood-letting; the weapons of choice were wealth and power. She, Isobel Lang Ritchie, was her family’s last hope—she would have just this one London season—and if she failed, her family would soon be bankrupt.

With a shake of her head, she began to pack up her painting things. But then she paused again.
Slowly, Isobel. Enjoy the moment. This could be the last time you will be free to sit here on a spring evening, in the silence of the early dusk, feeling the pull of these crumbling, tight-lipped stones. They know your secrets, but they will not tell. You are safe here. He will not come.

Twisting tendrils of mist were beginning to climb the walls. With a sigh, Isobel rose to her feet and let her gaze roam the triangular courtyard. Very ghostly now, in the failing light. She could sense the same age-old magic that had gripped her yesterday. Her heart began to beat a little faster.

And then she saw it! A watery outline, barely visible in the shadows of the gatehouse, like the ghost of some Caerlaverock defender, long dead, come to find her and bid her farewell.

He had come. He had kept his promise.

Tall and spare, he walked calmly out of the shadows until he was standing only feet from Isobel’s frozen body. She could neither speak nor flee. She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Regimentals, dark hair, a strong, lived-in face. Age impossible to determine, for war matured a man. Thirty, perhaps?

She felt a rustle of petticoats at her back. ‘Miss Isobel…’ Isobel hushed her old nurse with an impatient gesture. Her soldier was an honourable man. Had he not proved it just yesterday?

He bowed a little stiffly and spoke politely, as if to a chance-met stranger. ‘Forgive me, ma’am. I have intruded. I fear I— Perhaps you will permit me to introduce myself? Major Robert Anstruther. At your service.’

Anstruther?
Terror sliced through her gut and froze every muscle in her body. No, please, no! She was ruined! She had behaved like a wanton with a man who was worse than a stranger—he was a mortal enemy. The Anstruthers were devils—
every last one of them
—and all bent on completing the destruction of the Ritchies. Isobel had learned that from the cradle. And now she herself had handed him the weapon to strike her down.

She had thought Caerlaverock her protector. But the castle had played a cruel trick on her, drawing her into the arms of an enemy for her very first kiss. This place was not enchanted; it was cursed. And so was she.

Behind her, Annie was sucking in a horrified breath. Isobel spun round to silence the woman before she could pronounce the fateful name of Ritchie. He must not learn her true name. That was her only chance of escape. She must look him in the face, and lie.

She took a deep breath and turned back to him. She forced herself to ignore the fear pounding through her veins, and to smile serenely up at this Anstruther monster. ‘I am Isobel Lang, from Dumfries, sir.’ She curtsied politely.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lang.’ He bowed again and came forward, walking with a very slight limp. So he had been wounded in battle, serving his country. Could that redeem even an Anstruther? No, he was still a monster. She must not allow herself to admire this man, or to think well of him in any way. He had the power to ruin her.

She must not let him see that she was afraid. She must do nothing to arouse his suspicions. Good manners, and innocuous conversation. That was the only route to safety.

‘Thank you, Major. I must tell you that we were on the point of leaving, so you do not intrude.’

A startled expression crossed his face. Then he frowned. Had he expected her to remain with him, to continue what they had begun in the magic of yesterday’s twilight? The very thought of that was bringing the heat to her cheeks. She must get away from this dangerous man!

His frown disappeared. She fancied he gave a tiny shrug. ‘You paint, ma’am?’ He gestured towards Isobel’s stool and sketch pad. ‘May I look?’

Isobel hesitated for only a second. He was simply being polite. Best to offer her work for a frank assessment, followed by a swift farewell. ‘I am afraid I have never yet succeeded in capturing the special quality of this place.’ She offered her pad. ‘As you will no doubt see.’

He did her the courtesy of studying her work with care. ‘I am not sure that anyone ever could,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Though I do think you have caught Murdoch’s Tower extremely well. Solid and somehow ephemeral—magical—at the same time.’ He smiled down at her then, in a dangerously beguiling way. The fear that was knotting her gut began to subside, overcome by the heat of invading memories. It was almost as if they were embracing through her painting. Touching each other all over again. Why did he have to mention Murdoch’s Tower? The place where they had— Now even her skin was beginning to burn.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied quickly, trying to damp down her warring senses. Desperate not to betray herself further, she found herself stammering, ‘You…er…you know Caerlaverock well?’

He nodded. ‘I came here often when I was living at home. You will think me a strange kind of soldier, I fear, but I always used to come here at dawn or dusk. To enjoy the twilight solitude.’

‘Then we had best leave you at once, sir.’ She started to turn away.

He put out a hand. It stopped inches from her arm and yet she felt the crackle of awareness, as if they had touched, and held. ‘Ah, no, ma’am. Pray do not leave on my account.’

There was a peculiar smile in his eyes as he looked at her, a mixture of understanding and…and intimacy. He was trying to help her through this encounter. But he wanted her to know that he remembered everything. And that she should remember, too. Her body remembered all too well. There was now a molten, glowing core, deep in her belly, urging her to reach for him, to—

This was madness! She must be possessed to let down her guard with a sworn enemy! At that terrifying realisation, the glow in her belly turned instantly back to ice.

She closed her eyes for a second while she struggled with her fears. From somewhere deep within, she found new strength. She would flatter him, and then outwit him.

He was politely ignoring her strained silence. ‘You have just as much right to enjoy this place as I do, ma’am. More, if you are going to paint it. I have no such talent to offer. All I can do is gaze around, and try to fix it in my memory.’ He glanced down at her sketch pad. ‘I wonder— But no. That would be an imposition.’

She could end it. Now. Without hesitation, she tore out the page. ‘It is a paltry attempt, sir, but if it may help you to remember a favourite place when you are serving far from home, I will give it willingly.’

He accepted it as though it were a masterpiece, and priceless. For a moment, he stood staring down at it. Then he stowed it carefully inside his uniform jacket. ‘Thank you, Miss Lang. You are very generous.’

‘Miss Isobel! I can hear the carriage. We should leave.’

Oh, heavens! She had forgotten that the carriage could betray her. What if he recognised it? He must not see it. She had to divert his attention, somehow. Without pausing to think, she said quickly, ‘Would you be so good as to give me your escort, sir? I should welcome one last look across the moat before I go. Annie will take my painting things out to the carriage and return for me in just a moment.’

Isobel’s fierce look silenced Annie’s protest. With amazing speed, the maid gathered up all their belongings and hurried out of the courtyard.

Isobel let him usher her across the courtyard to the walkway between the two huge towers that faced towards the Solway Firth, and England. With the mist rising, the castle was again an island of other-worldly tranquillity, cut off from the day-to-day tumult of feuds, and poverty, and marriages without love. Her fears receded, lulled by the enveloping twilight. They were alone together again, but the enchantment they had shared could not come again. Fairy-tale fantasies were for children. They never came true.

For several minutes, she forced herself to make light conversation about nothing very much. Prompted by polite questions, she spoke of her painting and of her delight in plants and gardens. Safe enough. And so much safer than allowing herself to dwell on how his lips had tasted hers and taught her to respond to him, with a knowledge and desire she had not known she possessed.

Annie’s distant footsteps on the gravel cut through her beckoning fantasy. She must end this, and save herself. ‘Sir, may I ask a favour of you?’ Without giving him time to reply, she whispered urgently, ‘May I ask you
not
to escort me to my carriage? My coachman, you see, is a dreadful mischief-maker. If you were to escort me out, he would certainly inform my papa of this…er…encounter.’ She swallowed again, trying not to remember how that first encounter had been. Just yesterday.

There was so much understanding in the look he bestowed on her then, that she flushed scarlet with embarrassment. And returning fear. If he once discovered she was a Ritchie, he would lose every shred of sympathy for her plight.

‘Miss Isobel. The carriage is waiting.’

‘Thank you, Annie. I will come at once.’ She curtsied demurely, holding her breath. Her heart was pounding. Would he do as she asked?

He smiled politely and bowed, without moving to close the space between them. ‘Forgive me if I do not escort you out, ma’am. I fear—’ He gestured towards his injured leg and shrugged his shoulders, as if in apology.

‘I should not dream of asking you to do so, sir. I will wish you good day now.’ She bowed her head and turned away before he could reply. Then she slipped her arm through her maid’s, and hurried her towards the exit.

Today’s encounter with one of her family’s sworn enemies must not be spoken of, not to anyone. And yesterday’s encounter? That must remain a deep, deep secret, buried where even Isobel herself could not find it.