Love Across Time (28 page)

Panting, he leaped from her embrace to hop on one foot while he yanked off his boots, then striped away his shirt and trousers. Desire swamped her as her gaze traveled over his tanned flesh, over the ridge of muscle on his stomach, then downward to his engorged manhood. Her entire being surged with desire.

Impatient, he tugged her undergarments off then slowly lowered his body on top of her. Eyes closed, he appeared to savor every inch of her warm flesh. Braced on his elbows, he tangled his hands in her hair and tilted her face upward. He dotted tiny kisses on her cheeks, nose, chin, and then sealed their lips together in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

The touch of his tongue, as he entered her, sent tiny shivers of desire ripping along her nerve endings. Each thrust of his hips brought her closer to release. Her passion soared as his ardor mounted. Tiny bursts of light flashed behind her eyelids. Inner muscles pulsated around his long shaft as he plunged deep then withdrew only to plunge in again, deeper. She shattered and cried out his name. Hot waves of ecstasy liquefied her body. Sated, she went limp.

With a groan, he collapsed, spent. A clammy layer of sweat covered his chest and arms. Her hands explored the warm skin stretched over the taut muscles of his back as tiny aftershocks undulated through her. Sometimes the guilt she felt over making love to Margaret’s husband overwhelmed her. Yet the guilt lessened each time he made her feel as if she was the only woman he’d ever loved. With time, she’d banish the raw emotion completely. She brushed back the damp hair from his face, and his face split into a wide grin. She found it impossible not to return his infectious smile.

He rolled out of bed and reached for his breeches. “As much I’d like to tarry and make love to ye all day, the others are waiting to go home.”

Bouncing from the bed, she agreed, “Aye, let’s go home.”

There would be time later to tell him of her love and that she had decided to remain with him. She would arrange for a special evening meal sent to her room tonight and inform Liam of her love and her decision to stay. For the first time since she’d awakened, she felt fully alive, blissfully happy. A bottomless peace of contentment wrapped itself around her and inside she bubbled with intense pleasure.

She no longer needed to search further for the brooch. To have the brooch in her possession would only tempt her to leave. It would be better if she never found it.

Between stolen kisses and intimate caresses, they managed to dress. An hour later, Liam carrying the largest trunk, they descended the staircase.

Dugan, Connor, and Rory sat at a table, each gripping a mug. Eleanor sat before the fireplace with a tight-lipped-pout of disapproval on her face. Others were scattered around the room.

Connor rose. “Ye look a wee bit fagged, cousin. To save yer strength, I’ll fetch the rest of yer belongings if ye see to the loading.” A knowing twinkle lit Conner’s dark eyes.

She felt her cheeks color. Apparently, everyone realized what had taken so long for them to come downstairs.

“Aye. Ye do that cousin, I’ve me wife to tend to.” Liam chuckled, tucked her closer to his side, and rushed her out the door.

Carts packed and loaded, they left Weem and rode toward the castle. If Cumberland’s men had made a shambles of the place there would be plenty of work to do before sunset. Her mare danced alongside Liam’s much larger mount, appearing as anxious to return as her rider. Opposite of their journey to the Inn, when the gloomy day had matched her spirit, today the sun shone bright as if to welcome her home.

She glanced at Liam to see if he was as pleased as she was about returning to the castle. Dark strands glistened nearly blue in Liam’s hair. He smiled at something Rory said, who rode on his other side, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. Yes. Since she’d awakened, each day he appeared happier than the day before.

Is this what the gypsy woman meant when she said Maggie possessed what she sought? A life with a man she loved, the joy of knowing her love returned tenfold. No, a hundredfold.

As they neared the castle, clansmen lined the road. When they spotted Liam at the lead, they cheered and chanted the Menzies’ motto:
Vil God I Zal
, God willing I shall.

Yes, God willing, she now had a family, love, and a future. If only nothing happened to jeopardize her newfound happiness.

Servants who had been left behind greeted them at the door, all joyous smiles, and blushes. Liam didn’t believe he’d ever seen old Nancy smile as much as she did now. Although she appeared delighted to see them, he also had the impression she had enjoyed the Duke’s stay.

“It be well with ye and the other women, Nan?”

“Aye, me lord.” Her wide grin revealed dark teeth
long with age
and four empty spaces. “Right fine gentlemen the Duke’s men were. Ye’ll nae hear complaints from the women who stayed behind.”

“Good.”

He didn’t think the title gentlemen could apply to men who butchered surrendering soldiers on the battlefield, but he refrained from saying so. He felt a tug at his arm and looked down at Margaret’s fingers plucking at his shirtsleeve.

“Liam. I must check with the cook, order the bedchambers aired and unpack. I will see ye later.”

His thoughts turned bleak. Her eyes held a sheen of purpose, anticipation. Did she hope to continue to hunt for the brooch? After their nights of passion, he’d hoped she’d given up the idea of finding the brooch, had abandoned the notion that it had the power to whisk her through time, that the desire to leave him had vanished.

The sour taste of defeat settled deep in the pit of his stomach as he watched her rush up the stairs as excited as a young bairn. A raw primitive grief struck him at the thought of losing her, not to a future century, but to an impossible fantasy. He waited until she was out of sight then turned to Conner.

“Come, Conner. I be in need of a good stiff drink, if Cumberland and his men have left any.”

The hidden compartment in the sideboard where he kept his favorite Scotch whisky opened with a quiet click. He poured two snifters half full, handed one to Conner, who leaned against the fireplace, then settled into a chair.

He threw his head back, emptied his glass in one gulp, and reached for the decanter.

“’Tis better sipped, cousin, to savor the glide of fire down to yer gullet.”

“Aye.” He swirled the golden liquid around and stared into the glass.

Thoughts of Margaret’s determination to leave him made him want to get rip-roaring drunk. Raw grief ripped through him as he remembered her expression of resolve. How could he live out his years knowing he held only a tiny portion of Margaret’s heart? That she yearned to be somewhere other than with him.

He tossed another shot of whisky down the back of his throat and wished he could swallow the bitterness of defeat as easily.

He glanced up and saw his Uncle Dugan drag Eleanor down the stairs by the arm. Eleanor appeared to be pleading, but from this distance, he couldn’t hear what she said. When they drew close, Dugan threw her to the floor at Liam’s feet. Conner straightened and slammed his glass onto the mantle.

“Father?” Anger vibrated in Conner’s voice.

“Stay out of this Conner.” Although softly spoken, Dugan’s order held a deadly command. He glared at his wife. The silence lengthened between them as she sat immobile. “Go on tell ’em, tell Liam what ye’ve done.”

“Dugan, please.” Tears glistened in her eyes. Head bowed, her hair had fallen loose and blanketed her shoulders in disarray.

“Tell him,” he yelled and raised his fist as if to strike her.

“Uncle.”

The sting of command halted the downward motion. Liam would not tolerate a man of his uncle’s strength to hit a woman no matter what the provocation. When she remained silent, Dugan held out his fisted hand toward him. He opened it, palm up.

“Margaret’s brooch.” Distracted from his astonishment of his uncle’s rough treatment of his wife, he picked up the silver heirloom. Turning it over, he noticed a piece of flimsy material still attached to the clasp.

“Aye. I found it buried beneath Eleanor’s baubles when she unpacked.” Angry eyes glared at the woman at his feet.

“But it be torn from Margaret’s gown the night she fell.” Puzzled, his gaze shifted between his aunt and uncle.

“Tell him Eleanor. Admit the truth about what ye’ve done.” He saw his uncle’s body quiver and shake as if he fought an uncontrollable rage boiling within him.

“It was an accident. I swear.” Head bowed in supplication, she rubbed her arms where Dugan’s fingers had left large, red welts.

“What be an accident?” he demanded.

He had never seen Dugan this angry. For years, his uncle had turned a blind eye to his wife’s faults. Never had he intervened when her sharp tongue had filleted the skin off his or Conner’s hide for some minor infraction, nor when the sting of her hand left marks upon a maid’s cheek. Why take a stand against her now?

His aunt’s hostile glare swung between him and her husband. Lips pinched into a tight line, anger twisted her face as her gaze settled on him. Defiance turned her pale-blue eyes cold.

His stomach churned. He felt impaled by her icy stare and knew the hatred she’d felt for him for years would come spewing forth.

“I am of higher birth than your mother.” Rancor sharpened her voice to a high screech. “The brooch should have been Connor’s to give to his bride.” She hurled the words at him like poisonous darts.

Conner’s gasp filled the silence left by her accusation.

“Nae,” Dugan yelled and waved his fist in the air. “It ne’er be Connor’s. I ne’er coveted me brother’s position as laird, and Conner has ne’er begrudged Liam his right to rule. Ye’ve let this thing eat at ye ev’er since Liam be born. Well, nae more. This brooch be passed from generation to generation to the laird’s bride. Conner would ne’er be laird unless....” Rage turned Dugan’s face a molten purple. Beneath the heavy beard and mustache, his lips twisted in a snarl. “It be ye. Ye have tried to have me nephew murdered, and when that dinnae work ye tried to kill his bride.”

“I did it for our son,” she screamed with mounting rage. “For Connor.”

“Nae, mother, say you dinnae.” Connor gazed at his mother in disbelief.

“Who helped ye?” Dugan bent over, grabbed a handful of her hair, tilted her head up until she stared into his eyes, and shook his fist in her face. “Tell me or so help me Liam will nae be able to stay me hand.”

“A McGregor that rode with John Drummond. He left with Prince Charles and never returned from Culloden.” The last traces of her defiance vanished with her softly murmured confession.

Dugan stood straight and glared at his wife. “Get up woman, ye be going to a convent. I’ll nae give ye the chance to finish the evil work ye’ve begun.”

“Mercy, Dugan. My life would be nothing but a life of misery and drudgery. It would be worse than death.” She curled her arms around herself and swayed back and forth.

A stony expression etched Dugan’s strong features. His shoulders stiffened. “If that be yer choice.”

Eleanor gasped and halted her rocking. “You cannot mean that.”

Her gaze fell on each man. Nothing resembling mercy marked Dugan or Connor’s face. And after what she’d done to Margaret, he had none for her, either.

“I beg you. Let me go to my brother in England.” Her hand reached out to touch her husband’s knee.

Dugan took an unsteady step backward. “It nae be me decision. Liam be the one ye wronged. I’ll abide what e’re he decides.”

His uncle’s chin lifted as if he hardened his heart to whatever decision Liam would make. Sometimes the position of laird held a man over a two edged sword. If he showed mercy for such treachery, the clan would think him weak, unfit to rule. Neither could he remain silent about her offence and allow her to go free and cause further harm. Eleanor was right. Life in a convent would be filled with misery and drudgery. Especially for a woman who had known nothing but idle hands her entire life. But death? Although that is what she intended for him and Margaret, his stomach rolled in revulsion at the thought of sentencing a woman to death.

Eleanor’s hands clutched her skirt. The same hands that were responsible for Margaret’s fall, the fall that had robbed her of her memory. Of a life content to be his wife.

Connor, his faithful kinsman, waited for his decision. He’d never ask mercy for his treacherous mother anymore than his father would.

A man of honor, Dugan stood erect, his stoic gaze fixed on the Menzies’ coat of arms above the fireplace. A just and fair man, he’d never question his laird’s judgment. If commanded, he’d deliver the deathblow himself. He could reward such devotion, with disregard for the husband beneath the warrior.

Time dragged as he searched for an answer to the dilemma in which he found himself. Sounds of the castle stirred around him. Hounds in the kennel bayed, in the field sheep bleated, and his heart twisted inside to realize his aunt had wanted him dead. Yet he could not, in all good conscience, to the same to her.

“Take her to her brother. She be banished and can ne’er return.”

Eleanor, who sat so still he failed to detect her breathing, broke into sobs. Connor’s head bobbed in agreement. Dugan’s eyes blinked once. His shoulders sagged with what Liam could only guess as relief from the burden as executioner, if Liam had sentenced her to death.