Love Across Time (13 page)

“Aye.” The tension gripping his body eased. “Then wrap yer arms around me, and I’ll carry ye downstairs.”

Slender arms encircled his neck as he slipped one arm beneath her legs and the other grasped her around the back. He lifted her against his chest. Her body, soft, subtle, and rounded in all the right place to heat a man’s blood, caused his groin to tighten with desire. Ever since she’d awakened, a heightened state of arousal was his constant companion. He hoisted her into a more comfortable position and forced his body under control.

She peeked up at him through thick lashes. Her anger appeared to have evaporated as her soft palm made soothing circles on his chest.

“If you do not mind, Liam, I would rather arrive at the dinner table on my own two feet. Carried like a baby, is no way to meet Prince Charles.”

As she spoke, puffs of warm air feathered against his throat, tantalizing and tempting him to lay her across the bed and leave their guest downstairs to entertain themselves.

“Liam?”

Her imploring voice vanquished his lustful thoughts. He blinked and gazed at her. By her quizzical expression, he knew she waited for an answer.

“Aye. I’ll carry ye to the bottom of the stairs, and ye can walk the rest of the way. But I’ll nae let ye walk down the stairs least ye fall and injure yerself.”

“Fine. You may carry me.”

Fingers linked behind his neck, she squirmed and wiggled in his arms. The move caught him by surprise, and he clutched her tighter against his chest.

“Thank you. I favor an upright position when I meet Prince Charles.” Her lips curled into a tiny smile.

He stared at her lush lips and resisted the urge to kiss away her impertinent speech. He lowered his brows and squinted at her mouth. The words didn’t sound right. They scraped across his nerves like an iron wagon wheel on the cobbled streets of Edinburg. A moment passed before he realized what was wrong. No brogue.

“Margaret ye nae sound like a Scotswoman. When ye speak, ye sound like a...well, everyone will think yer speech odd.”

He became increasingly uneasy under her intense scrutiny. Her mouth opened then closed. Her pink tongue darted out to circle her lips and left them damp and moist. Desire swirled deep in his belly and left him aching to return her to bed and climb in beside her.

“You mean I talk like a Sassenach.” Her voice held a touch of humor. “Ursula said the same thing.” A teasing glint sparkled in her eyes. “I’ll nae embarrass ye in front of yer guests, Liam.”

His arms tightened around her. “Now ye sound like me wife.”

He placed a quick kiss to the lips he longed to devour. The second their lips touched, he knew he’d made a mistake. The kiss was supposed to be a light, airy display of affection. Only it went deeper. Desire wrapped his lower regions in a powerful grip. Sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead. His tongue swept across her lips then plunged inside.

The sweet taste of her had his body clamoring for more. All the love inside him poured into his kiss. Seconds expanded to minutes, minutes into what felt like hours. Slowly he separated his lips from hers, but lingered to place tiny kisses at the side of her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids before he drew back to stare into her eyes to gauge her reaction to his overly zealous kiss.

Her eyes were round and had darkened to cobalt blue. His arm around her back felt her breath hitch. Good. She had felt that instant spark, also? Felt the same fire that had swept through them the first time their eyes had met across her father’s hall.

“Uh .... We shouldnae keep our guests waiting,” she murmured in a throaty whisper.

The sensual timbre of her voice made him long for another heated kiss, but her words penetrated his foggy mind and caused him to recall the prince and his Scottish captains.

“Aye,” he agreed, when all he wanted to do was lay her on the bed behind him and join her for a night of tussling between the sheets. With what he wanted most not being an option, he maneuvered her through the door and descended the stairs.

When he reached the bottom level, he lowered her legs, and let her slide against him until her feet touched the floor. She gasped, and her gaze flew to his face. A hint of color fused her cheeks. He smiled; glad to know he wasn’t the only one to suffer the pangs of their fierce attraction. Placing her hand on his forearm, he moved her forward. With each tentative step, she grew stronger.

The closer they came to the crowd assembled in the great hall, the deeper Margaret’s fingernails dug into his arm. Her gaze darted from person to person. Margaret had met his family before her accident, but since she claimed not to recognize him, he doubted she remembered them, or their names. As he guided her toward the group, he quietly reintroduced each member.

“The man standing beside the fireplace be Conner, me cousin. Uncle Dugan stands beside him and Dugan’s wife, Eleanor, be seated next to the prince. The rest I will introduce later.”

“Thank you, Liam.” Her sweet smile nearly had him dragging her back up stairs to play out his fantasy of tupping his wife.

Men rose to their feet when he led Margaret into the room. A glance downward showed her cheeks flushed with excitement. She wore a wide smile, and her gaze stayed fixated on the prince. Doubts assailed him. Did she find the prince as attractive and irresistible as other women did? No scars marred the man’s smooth features, his clothing appeared impeccable, and he possessed the manners of the high court.

Considering the prince’s reputation with women, perhaps he should have left Margaret in her chambers and used her illness as an excuse for her absence. Too late to change his mind. Margaret had veered toward the prince and halted. Left with no choice, he made the introductions.

“Prince Charlie, me wife Margaret. Margaret, meet Prince Charles Edward Stuart.”

“Pleased to meet ye,” she said with a perfect brogue then glanced over her shoulder and winked at him.

“My pleasure, Mademoiselle.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips.

Liam could have sworn he heard her sigh. The prince peeked up at her through his thick lashes, and Liam noticed a gleam of interest come to life in his eyes. Draping an arm around her shoulder, Liam drew her closer to his side until the prince dropped her hand.

The cook waved to draw his attention to announce supper.

“If ye’ll join me wife and I, the meal is ready to be served.”

Extending his arm to Margaret, the prince said, “May I escort you to supper Madame Menzies?”

She glanced up a Liam. A question lurked in the depths of her blue eyes. He removed his arm, granting his silent permission.

“Thank ye.”

The prince took Margaret’s hand, placed it on his arm, and escorted her to the head table. He sat her to the left of the laird’s chair and claimed the seat of honor for himself then instructed Liam to take the chair on his right. This seating would allow the prince uninterrupted access to all of Margaret’s attention.

“If ye have nae objection sire, I’ll sit next to me wife.”

Before the prince could protest, Liam slid into the chair beside Margaret. For an intense moment, everyone stared at the prince to gauge his reaction to Liam’s defiance of what amounted to a direct order.

“Ah… amour.” Charlie laughed, touched his fingertips to his lips, and made a smacking sound.

A hearty chuckle from the men seated at the long table echoed in the room and eased the tension filled air. Prince Charlie beckoned George Murray to sit on his right.

When everyone had found a place at the tables, servants began to serve dishes of baked pheasant, grouse, potatoes, turnips, fresh bread, and crowdies made from white cheese. Several times the prince demanded Margaret’s attention by leaning close to whisper in her ear, and each time she laughed. And each time Liam sank deeper into his cups.

His fingers twitched as Liam lifted his tankard. Not all the ale in Scotland could dim the fiery flame of jealousy burning low in his stomach. His critical gaze skimmed over the prince’s smooth unblemished cheeks.

Yes, he should have left Margaret in her room.

Intoxicated spurts of course laughter filled the room as men drank heartily from their mugs. When James Drummond stood and lifted his drink to make a toast, conversation dwindled to low murmurs.

“We march to victory at Culloden to return the House of Stuart to the throne of Scotland,” he proclaimed.

Feet stomped, and clan war cries vibrated the walls. Men held their cups in the air and yelled, “To Bonny Prince Charlie, and King James of Scotland.”

“To the success of our mission.” Charles raised his cup and drank.

Cheering subsided when the prince held a jeweled hand in the air for silence. Men drained their mugs while others signaled a servant for a refill.

Liam had just returned his cup to the table when the prince leaned forward, peered around Margaret and stared straight at him.

“I have something of great importance to ask of you, Monsieur Menzies.”

Laughter ceased. Chieftains listened intently. Servants halted in their steps. Each gaze pierced his flesh like a thousand angry hornets.

In the silence, Liam heard Margaret’s swift intake of breath and felt her fingers dig deep into his thigh. He glanced down and saw the blood had drained from her face. Stark fear glittered in her eyes, along with a sheen of moisture. He forced his eyes away from his wife’s ashen face to look down the table to his uncle and cousin. Their gazes sharp and assessing, they waited for his response. His heart slammed against his ribs.

From the moment Rory informed him of the Stuart army’s arrival he’d dreaded what purpose lay behind the visit. What other reason could the prince have if not to recruit more troops for his war? Every man seated at the table knew extra warriors could mean the difference between defeat and victory.

Some would name him coward if he refused to accompany the prince to Culloden or at least send a platoon of men. Yet, how could he send men into battle and not lead them. Thus far, he had avoided entanglements in the dispute over the throne; it appeared all his efforts were for naught.

He had stated his position to King George II’s emissary months ago that he preferred not to involve his clan in the struggle between kings for the throne. Yet, with the prince’s request stated so publically, how could he refuse a direct appeal without the taint of cowardice attached?

He felt the heavy weight of responsibility slam into his chest. Men would die. Good men. His men. But what choice did he have?

“If it be yer wish, me men and I will join ye.”

Liam’s offer pierced her breast like a razor sharp sword thrust into her center. Her heart ceased to beat, and her breath came in short-shallow gasps. How could she keep Liam from going to war and perhaps dying, if he volunteered?

Her gaze shifted and lingered on the man at her side; spine straight, gaze fixed on the Menzies Coat of Arms hanging on the far wall, shoulders braced as if he expected a dirk to be plunged into his back at any time. She could have sworn after his first inhalation after he spoke he hadn’t drawn a single breath.

Is this why Mrs. Bixby’s books entries ceased? Liam had gone to war and never returned. His lifeblood spilled on the body-strewn battlefield of Culloden.

Her nails dug deep into his thigh. Moisture gathered in her eyes, but she refused to let the tears fall. Apparently, she needed to save him from his own folly.

A glance around the room showed the servants lingered in doorways while trays of food grew cold. Chieftains paused, their meal forgotten, as their stony expressions fixated on Liam. A direct request from the prince, if denied, could be considered treasonous. Why hadn’t the silly man waited to see what the prince’s proposal entailed before he blundered ahead with his offer? Had the prince heard the reluctance in his voice that she had?

Margaret glanced down the rows of men that stared at Liam, and her gaze settled on Connor and Dugan. Strain pinched the older man’s features. Shoulders slumped, fist clenched on the tabletop, he didn’t appear to relish the idea of going to war. Excitement sparkled in Connors eyes as he slid forward in his chair in order not to miss any part of Liam and the prince’s conversation.

A disturbing thought pounded in her head. Did Conner’s eyes gleam with the prospect of becoming laird if Liam went to war and died in a clash of swords, or did the enticement of battle account for his spark of interest? Curious, she studied him closely. Surely, he realized Liam would expect him to ride by his side. Therefore, his chances of survival were no greater than Liam’s were.

She gave herself a mental shake. No, Conner couldn’t foresee Liam’s death in battle. Only she knew no victory awaited these men at Culloden. Yet, she struggled with the uncertainty the thought had aroused.

Her mind whirled in indecision as fear twisted her stomach into a cold, hard knot. She glanced at Prince Charles. Should she defy Liam and tell the prince the results of his doomed quest to regain the throne for the Stuarts? And if she did, would he, as Liam suggested, think her a witch and condemn her to death. Her head throbbed as she deliberated then discarded each logical explanation she could give of how she knew Culloden’s outcome. But somehow, she needed to prevent Liam from going with the prince without endangering herself or him.