His Lass Wears Tartan (13 page)

Bruce let out a laugh. “That’s for sure. Putney swore you avoided meeting me by hanging out here with the horses.”

“Mainly this one.” Rogue led him over to Dougal. The gigantic horse stuck his nose into her chest; long flowing pieces of black mane fell across his eyes. “Dougal, this is Bruce. Behave around him, ya hear?” She ran her right hand along the horse’s smooth face, leaning over and kissing his nose.

“That thing is huge. Are you sure it’s a horse?”

“Bruce, stop it. This is my best friend in the whole world. Just slowly bring your hand palm up to his nose so he can sniff ya.”  

Bringing up a tentative hand, Bruce locked eyes with the horse. “Ya best get used to me now rather than later.” The horse sneezed in his hand.

Laughing at the surprised expression on his face, Rogue wrapped her arms around Bruce’s neck. The horse shoved her in the back, and Bruce’s arms tightened around her.

“It had better never come down to me or that horse I see. It’d be no contest.”

“All right, get on with ya now, or I won’t be able to let you go.” Rogue elbowed him toward the stable door.

“I’m not leaving you alone out here in the dark.”

“I’m not alone. Dougal’s with me.”

“Never mind the horse. I’ll walk you back to the castle, and donna argue with me.”

Nodding, she slipped her hand in his and let him lead her out of the stable and toward the castle. Not a star could be seen in the now cloud-covered sky; the moonless night surrounded them like an invisible cloak of romance. Rogue could have walked with him all the way into town, just so she wouldn’t have to let go.

Her mind fuzzy from passion and the lingering dregs of alcohol, she thought she heard a twig snap behind them. Had she not secured Dougal’s gate? She tried turning around with an unsteady stop and tangled herself in Bruce’s arms.

“Bolting away from me already, lass?”

She stared at the stable and noticed nothing amiss. Leaning against Bruce, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with an ardor that surprised her.  

Standing in the middle of the bridge, Bruce watched the wooden door close behind Rogue, blocking the last gleam of the light from the kitchen. His body ached at being separated from her; his heart screamed her name. He visualized her damp skin under him in the stable—such a rush of delicious wonder and tenderness filled his soul. The few town girls he’d dated seemed almost nonchalant during their time in bed. How could he know Rogue was still a virgin?

With a long sigh in the cooled darkness, Bruce headed for his van with a lightness in his step. As he walked up to the cluster of trees where he always parked, Bruce’s body suddenly slammed against the driver’s door, his head cracking against the window. A fist crashed into his jaw before he’d caught his breath, snapping his head to the side.

“What the ...”

“She was supposed to be with me tonight, you worthless peasant. How dare you interfere with my plans?”

Bruce threw his right fist without success in the general area of his attacker. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t focus thanks to his grogginess from the vicious sucker punch.

“You pathetic delivery boy.” A second punch split Bruce’s lip, splattering blood on the side panel of the truck. “She’s mine, you skirted piece of crap. How dare you take her to bed?” A powerful blow into Bruce’s midsection doubled him over. “Her millions aren’t good enough for the likes of you.”

The attacker brought his knee up, shoving both hands on the back of Bruce’s head at the same time, shattering his nose. As Bruce slid to the ground, he watched a pointed boot aim for his throat.
Jonathan
. And what little consciousness existed disappeared into blackness.

The next thing Bruce noticed was damp dirt near his eye. He didn’t hear anything other than Jonathan’s heavy breathing; this late at night, no one from the castle would see his crumpled body. Bruce focused on getting air through his bruised throat quickly swelling shut. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs.

The man dragged his limp body toward the back of the truck. Jonathan dropped him again in a moist puddle of mud as he opened the back doors then pulled the limp top half of him into the truck. He thought he saw his tools and empty crates inside the dark opening, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. He heard Jonathan grunt and felt him fling the other half of him onto the cold flooring before slamming the doors shut.

A lightness filled Bruce’s head, and he began rising up over the top of the truck. He couldn’t tell if the lump of his body below was breathing, but he watched Jonathan look around him. Bruce felt no emotion or angst. What was happening? Why could he see Jonathan jump into the driver’s seat?

The van backed up as rain started falling and made a sharp turn away from the driveway. A few drops became dozens as the taillights shrank into tiny red specs. Bruce wondered where his truck was going, why was it leaving him behind, before finding himself inside the cab sitting in the passenger’s seat.

“I’m sick and tired of people usurping my goals, my dreams,” Jonathan screamed. “Enough schlepping for that ungrateful pig of an author. It ends tonight.” Pounding his fist on the steering wheel, Jonathan lowered his voice. “Anyone who found his weak commercial plots entertaining must have an IQ of seventy.” Jonathan squinted out the window, the windshield wipers having difficulty keeping up with the drenching rain. “Yes, yes, this is perfect,” he giggled. “This will do nicely.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. Giggles from a grown man? He looked out the windshield at the precipitation reflecting in the headlights as the van bounced and jolted. They were definitely off any paved road.

Jonathan practically had his face against the fogged glass of the windshield. No emotions, no self-awareness.

Why aren’t I screaming?

“I am unstoppable.” Jonathan’s breathing sounded ragged and rough. “I’ll dispose of William the same as I did Beatrice and,” he paused to wipe his mouth, “blame everything on the dimwitted delivery boy. Brilliant, dear boy, you are utterly brilliant.”

Jonathan rolled down the driver’s window, sticking his head out, as the downpour splashed into the cab, drenching the man’s shoulder.

Bruce heard a rumble break over the noise of tires in the mud. He blinked and found himself in the back of the van again, looking at his crumpled body.
I know that sound. This is not gonna be good.
The back doors of the van crashed open on a rough bump, and Bruce saw his chance. He quickly kneeled next to his body and shoved the lifeless form out into the mud.

Standing next to the mud-splattered form, Bruce watched Jonathan open the driver’s side door, gunning the engine. Seconds later, Jonathan flung himself from the vehicle, tucking into a roll on impact. The driver’s door swung back and clicked just before deafening silence.

The van had nosedived off the cliffs, heading for the jagged rocks below.

Struggling from the grip of the mud, Jonathan forced himself up and took a few swipes at the wet dirt covering him. The man mumbled before stumbling away from where Bruce stood over his lifeless body, heading back toward the castle.

• • •

After a long, scalding shower, Jonathan felt revived and celebratory. He’d rinsed his mud-caked clothes in the shower and flung them over the rod to dry. How he wished for a bottle of champagne right now. He combed his damp hair into a ponytail and wrapped himself in his silk robe.

Getting out the necessary medical supplies, Jonathan tapped the side of the plastic disposable syringe with an expert flick of his finger before pushing the plunger, releasing a drop of liquid insulin splashing from the upright needle.

That pompous prima donna of the literary world wouldn’t last a week without my assistance and talent.
He snapped a cover over the exposed needle and set it in a plastic carrier before unwrapping the safety packaging of another one. Wouldn’t he make headlines around the world if he exposed the has-been wizard behind the curtain who’d stopped writing his own pages years ago? Jonathan had penned Leatherton’s last three best sellers, cringing at the thought. He fumed at how easily he cranked out such commercial crap, while his own literary efforts suffered the heart-wrenching walk of agent rejection time and again.

Jonathan couldn’t understand how ignorant writers shelled out thousands of dollars from their meager pockets to sit at the professor’s knee and hear the secrets of his success. Woefully unsuspecting, gullible writers thinking they were next to wear the crown of published fortune. Or worse, the handful of already published authors, hoping for a movie deal from their latest book, who signed up for his classes like lemmings falling off a cliff.

A cliff? He chuckled to himself. How apropos tonight.

If I were a lion, my tail would be twitching at the vulgarity of this pathetic lot.
How dare Beatrice assume she could usurp his domain? Flirting and throwing her loose flesh at Leatherton in hope of marrying the fool?
Steal my inheritance after these horrific years of taking care of him? Hardly. I am his only companion until death do us part.

It was simple to ingest a cup of soup with insulin—death imitating natural causes so no one was the wiser. He laid the next full syringe in the plastic case.

Grabbing a new syringe package, he tried snapping it in two with his hands. He must get rid of the simpering Leatherton; the fool hadn’t stopped crying and mooning around, making Jonathan dole out various writing exercises to the students in his place. Surely no one would suspect if the feeble man died of a heart attack. The stress of a broken heart, right? Happened quite often where one dies shortly after a departed loved one. And a sappy ending readers would clamber to read when he wrote Leatherton’s memoirs, of course. Cha-ching. That was the one tome he’d more than gladly write with his name over an inch tall in capital lettering above the title.

Catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror, Jonathan struck a pose. Practicing his glare, he looked deep into his own eyes, pools of blue iron and coldness. Tucking a stray strand of dark-chocolate-colored hair behind his ear, he looked around the room. The aura of castle life flowed over him while he imagined the luxury of penning a Pulitzer Prize–worthy book within these walls.

It wouldn’t take much to charm the petticoats off the young, naive owner. He’d already left her speechless a few times with a mere taste of his charm. She’d be outright grateful after a full blast of his attention. A quick wedding, nothing too elaborate or garish, would make headlines in the literary world. Interviews and articles would show him settled behind an ancient carved desk, with a marvelous feathered quill and inkwell for signing the extravagant contracts publishers would offer him.

Let the auctioning begin for rights to Leatherton’s memoirs. He had the perfect ending.

Rogue’s good fortune at escaping detection from anyone in the castle held as she made her way to her room, her hair flowing untied in long, loose strands over her shoulders and her dress wrinkled. Her mind could only focus on Bruce’s lips against hers and his body on top of hers. Once in her room, she glided through the motions of removing her dress and hanging it up. Still in her undergarments of bodice and petticoats, she sat on the edge of her bed, the soreness between her legs awakening an immediate reminder of what they’d done in the stable. How could one part of her sting when the rest of her felt glorious while entertaining the idea of love?

 Needing to talk to somebody, someone who had to be Aunt Baillie, Rogue threw the bodice and the rest of the costume into a corner and slid her nightgown over her head before donning her robe. She ran a hairbrush through her tangled hair, yanking at the snarls, and hoped she’d find her aunt in her room. Glancing at the clock by her bed, she figured the antics downstairs should be over.

 “Please be there, please be there,” she prayed as she knocked on her aunt’s bedroom door.

“Just a minute.” Delightful words to Rogue’s ears.

“Why, sweetie, come in.” Her aunt moved away from the door. “I wondered where you were. Jonathan asked about you often after dessert. Shall I have Putney bring up a pot of tea for us?”

“No,” came out rather sharply. She’d completely forgotten about the castle tour Jonathan had planned. “Sorry, I, I had way too much wine during dinner. Way, way too much.” She rubbed fingers on her forehead. “What did ya tell Jonathan?”

“Well, the truth, I suppose, my truth as it was. You told me you were having dinner with him and the writers’ group, so I hadn’t concerned myself with your whereabouts.” She tsked. “I’m afraid his face turned a bit harsh, like I was purposefully hiding you from him. Really.”

Dropping her head, she mumbled, “I went out to the stables, to, uh, see Dougal.”

“I thought as much, but it was certainly no business of his if you wanted some private time.”

“Maybe not so private as it turned out,” she mumbled. “I really just need, uh, wanted to talk to you for a few minutes. Is that all right?”

Baillie walked over to the two high-backed, overstuffed chairs in front of a roaring fire. “Come, sit down. You look exhausted. At least have a glass of water. I see a miserable headache in the morning for you.” She picked up a tray with a clear pitcher of water and glasses and set it between the chairs.

Rogue turned her head before her aunt could see her flinch at the idea of sitting down and carefully lowered herself into the cushioned chair. After all the excitement in the stable, the alcohol had long left her system, but she accepted the offered glass.

“Auntie ...” Rogue paused, looking into the fire for a long, silent stretch. “How did ya know ya loved Uncle Kai?”

The older woman chuckled. “That’s an age-old question everyone asks at one time or another. How does anyone know if he or she is truly infected with the ominous virus of the heart?”

“Don’t tease me, Auntie.” She kept her face toward the fire.

“Oops, sorry. Rogue, I may not be the best person to talk about love and its challenges and benefits. For so long, I thought I didn’t need a man to feel complete in my life, and I still don’t. But your uncle adds a treasured quality of joy and exasperation to my world unlike anything I’ve ever known. I can’t imagine life without him now.”