Taming the Barbarian (19 page)

“Fleur?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I must return to Briarburn, Stan. I’m sorry.”

“Briarburn. You jest. You’ve only just arrived. You’ve not yet spoken to Antoinette or—”

“I know. I—” she began, but through the crowd she thought she heard a rumble of laughter. Was it he? Was it the Highlander? Was he laughing at her? She could imagine how his chest would feel beneath her hand as he… “I must go,” she breathed, and, pulling from Stanford’s grasp, rushed out the door.

Taking a deep breath, Fleurette closed her account book and rose to her feet. On the street below, a pair of carriages rumbled past each other, barely leaving so much as a wisp of air between their spinning hubs. A small boy with a dog cart sold an orange to a passerby and happily pocketed the coin. An old man with a limp and a cane turned the corner toward Tooley Street.

In other words, nothing had changed. All was well. Pulling her cloak from its peg near the door, Fleur exited the factory, gave Horace a nod, and stepped into her favorite cabriolet.

Rumbling along on the velvet-covered seat, she dropped her head back against the upholstery and refused to allow herself to think of anything more irritating than a warm bath and a hot meal.

She would have both within the hour.

The stairs to her bedchamber seemed unreasonably steep, but she managed to reach her room. Closing the door behind her, she turned with a sigh toward her bed, and felt the breath freeze in her throat. For there, upon her tattered coverlet, was a man’s cravat embroidered with the letters
TME
.

“Tessa! Tessa!” She screamed the girl’s name even before she thought, and suddenly the maid was beside her, white-faced and gasping in her doorway.

“What is it, m’lady? What’s wrong?”

Fleur pointed shakily toward the bed. “Thomas’s…” She tried to calm herself, to breathe, to think, but it was no use. “His cravat. What’s it doing there?”

Tessa turned wide-eyed toward the bed. “I don’t… I’m sure I don’t know, m’lady. I haven’t seen it for years.”

“Was someone here? Did Benson borrow it? Was it recently laundered. Did—”

“M’lady.” Tessa reached out, grasping Fleur’s hand. ” ‘Tis just a neck stock.”

Fleurette tried to relax, but terror crowded in like darkness. “Who left it there?” she breathed.

Tessa blinked, pale and befuddled. “I don’t know. I was tending your—”

“Well find out!” Fleur snapped, then drew a deep breath and quieted her voice. “Please, Tessa, if you could…” Everything was fine. All was well. It was the simply the strange events of the past few days taking their toll on her nerves. “My apologies. Please forgive me. I am just…” Her gaze strayed back to the bed. It was just a tie. A scrap of cloth. Nothing more. “It has been a difficult day. Could you please find out who put the cravat on my bed?”

“Certainly, m’lady. Right away,” said the maid, and scurried from the room.

Fleurette closed her eyes to calm herself, but her chamber suddenly seemed overheated and airless.

Through the north window, the gardens looked calm and peaceful, overlooked by the towering Celt. She delayed only a moment, then hurried down the steps and out the front door. Drawing a deep breath, she steadied her hands against her skirt and slowed her pace though her mind skittered ahead, imaging the comfort of the dark statue.

But that was ridiculous, of course. It wasn’t as if she needed to be near it. It wasn’t as if she could not manage alone. But passing under the arched arbor, she instantly felt better. Striding past the hedges, she assured herself that all was well. A lark sang from the heights of the bay willow as a chipmunk chattered to its companion and scurried for cover.

Fleurette closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. The air was pungent and sweet and…

She snapped her eyes open, every nerve suddenly taut, for the smell of tobacco filled the evening air. She turned woodenly, searching the lengthening shadows, half-expecting to see Thomas lounging on the bench beneath a laughing cherub. Half-expecting to see smoke curl from his favorite pipe.

And suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Thomas was dead. He’d drowned. Not far from where she stood. Not so very far. Just through the woods, where the Nettle bent to the south. And suddenly she was running, racing through the garden and into the forest. Branches slapped at her face, but she slapped back, flailing wildly. Her breath came hard. Darkness poured into the forest behind her. Mist curled up in cloudy waves, but she raced on. She had to see the spot, remember the past.

A sound moaned from her right. She snapped her gaze in that direction, but there was nothing. Up ahead, something rustled. She started, but it was only a field mouse, scurrying for cover. She stumbled, then slowed to a rapid walk and calmed her racing heart. All was well. She was being ridiculous. Acting like a frightened schoolgirl, when there was nothing to fear, but in her mind’s eye she saw Thomas’s face. He was dead, long dead and lost on the river’s bottom, and yet he stared at her from empty eye sockets as if accusing her of his death.

A branch crackled behind her. She jerked about. Mists curled in silver waves from a nearby bog. She skimmed her eyes side to side, but there was nothing unusual, nothing but the gnarled trunks of ancient trees and the soft scrape of branch against branch.

She turned back to the west and moved on. But the woods seemed eerily silent. Every creaking branch sounded sinister. Every hiss suggested a threat. And then she heard the hoofbeats.

Her breath caught in her throat and though she knew she should turn about, she could not seem to do so. She cranked her eyes to the right. A branch snapped.

She spun about.

Nothing. But she was shaking now, and breathless. She swallowed and closed her eyes. All was well. She was being foolish. Chiding herself for her weaknesses, she turned.

Someone grabbed her. She screamed, but her mouth was covered. She tried to spin away. To flee, but it was too late. She cranked her eyes upward, finding her captor’s face.

“Hush,” he murmured.

Her eyes widened. Her heart stopped. ‘Twas Killian who loomed over her, his hand pressed over her mouth.

“Stay put,” he whispered, and released her.

“What?” she breathed.

But he only raised his hand to his own lips and disappeared.

Perhaps she would have followed him, or perhaps she would have mounted the dark stallion that stood not far away. But her legs seemed strangely incapable of supporting her. Thus, she grasped a nearby branch and sank to a boulder to wait.

Minutes ticked endlessly past. A modicum of courage returned, assuring Fleur that she had been ridiculous. She’d been frightened for no reason. The woods were perfectly safe.

“Why are ye here?”

She shrieked as she spun about.

Killian jerked to a halt, his looming form filling her vision.

Fleurette swallowed hard, clasped her chest and tried to breathe. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” He advanced a couple of careful steps. ” ‘Tis me own woods ye be in, lass.”

Reality settled slowly in. She nodded, then shook her head, fighting her own shuddering reason. “That hardly gives you the right to sneak up on a person.”

“A warrior does na sneak,” he said.

“Then you should—”

” ‘Twas someone else.”

Her heart stopped dead in her chest. “What?”

Even in the darkness, she could see his scowl. Or maybe she could feel it, bearing down on her like a dark cloud. “Did ye na ken ye were being followed?”

She stared at him, then forced a laugh, though her imagination ran wild. Who could it have been? Kendrick? A business competitor? Or was it someone with a grudge of a more personal nature? Her throat felt dry, barely able to utter a sound. “That’s ridiculous. I… That’s ridiculous.”

“If ye did na ken there was someone behind ye, why were ye running?”

The world seemed surreal. Terrifying. Dark and unknown here deep in the woods. But he looked as solid as granite, as unmoved as the earth itself. Fear was not something he would understand. And hers had been a foolish terror, brought on by a discarded necktie and a wisp of tobacco smoke. Hadn’t it?

He remained watching her, his eyes hawkish, his body unmoved. “Do ye oft venture into these woods?” he asked.

She refused to allow herself to glance about, for even now, old memories were crowding in. Memories of happiness and fear, of hope and hopelessness. “This was a favorite spot of mine once,” she said, and dug deep for some hint of backbone. Surely she was not such a wilted flower that she would allow a few eerie events to quell her spirit. “Before you stole it from me,” she added.

But he didn’t rise to the bait. “In the dark?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“Do ye oft wander here alone in the dark?”

“Oh, well, no,” she admitted, and straightened her skirt, as if she were preparing for a ball. “Not on a regular basis.”

His gaze bored into her. She shifted hers away.

“Why now?”

She cleared her throat and forced herself to take a seat on the boulder again. “What?”

His brows lowered as he strode forward. “Why have ye come here, alone and in the dark? Have ye no sense whatsoever?”

She straightened her back with an effort. “I am perfectly safe in the woods.” Memories roared in. She shoved them back. “Or would be, were it not for you.”

“Ye think me a threat, lass?” he asked, and, reaching up, grasped a branch in his oversized hand. He loomed over her, as powerful as a force of nature.

She swallowed and forced herself to refrain from scrambling off the rock and away. “Tell me, Sir Hiltsglen, are you trying to frighten me?”

The woods seemed absolutely silent, and he laughed. The sound was quiet, rumbling softly through the night, like a part of the darkness itself. “Mayhap I would,” he said, “but I fear ‘twould do little good in the end.”

She tilted her head in agreement, though her chest still felt tight with the gnawing terror. ” ‘Tis true,” she said. “I do not care to be afraid. What good would it do me?”

“It might keep ye alive,” he said, and leaned aggressively forward, “had ye the good sense to know danger when ye see it.”

She jumped to her feet, knees knocking. “Are you threatening me now?”

“I would na be the first,” he rumbled, then, “Why are ye here?”

“As I said—”

He stepped forward, crowding her back. “I dunna care for lies, lassie.”

She almost scrambled away, almost gave in to the towering fear, but some foolish instinct made her step forward instead. “And I dunna care to be threatened, Scotsman. Not by the likes of you.”

“Oh?” They stood toe to toe, facing each other in the misty darkness. “Then who do you prefer for the task?”

“Don’t be idiotic. I’ve no desire to be terrorized.”

“And yet ye are.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“What happened, lass?”

She wanted to skirt the truth, to hide the facts, to lie outright, but his expression was so dark and earnest that she found she could not. ” ‘Twas nothing really. Just a…” She took a steadying breath. “Just a cravat left upon my bed.”

“A cravat?”

“A man’s stock. A tie.” She tried to force a laugh, but the sound was weak. “As I said—”

“And ye dunna ken whose it was?”

She would like to have lied, but she could not quite manage it. ” ‘Twas my husband’s.”

Silence echoed in the woods.

“And this frightens ye?”

“I just…” She tried to find her balance, her nerve. “I was spooked. I acted the fool. Forgive me.”

“But ye are na a fool, thus I wonder why ye fled.”

“Because he’s not dead.” The words rushed out. She covered her mouth with an unsteady hand and shook her head. “I didn’t mean that. ‘Tis simply that his body was never found.”

“Ye think yer husband yet lives?”

“No. No. I mean, I wish it were true, of course. I would give anything. But he drowned. And yet, his body was not found. Thus I have nowhere to mourn his loss, and sometimes the nightmares—”

She trembled, and suddenly she was wrapped in his arms, held gently against the hard thrum of his heart.

“There now,” he rumbled. “Ye needn’t fear. Ye are safe here.”

And she was. Despite the terror, despite her past, she felt, suddenly, as safe and cherished as a babe. He stroked her hair, and she closed her eyes to the shivering feelings. How long had it been since she’d been held with tender caring?

“Have ye reason to believe he survived?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head against his chest. “No. Not logically at any rate.”

“Do ye believe in specters?”

“I…” Leaning back, she glanced into his face. No, I… No.”

“Then mayhap someone is playing tricks with yer mind. Have there been other such instances?”

She wanted to deny, but again, the truth came unbidden to her lips. “Someone slashed my gown. And tonight, in the garden, I could smell his tobacco.”

“So someone means to make ye believe yer husband yet lives.”

She swallowed hard, and her words, when they came, were no more than a whisper. “Do you think so?”

“Aye lass, I do,” he said, “I but wonder why his return would frighten ye?”

“It doesn’t. ‘Tis—”

“It does,” he countered.

They stared at each other in the darkness.

“Tell me true, lass, what did he do to make a woman like yerself afeared?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he threaten ye?”

“No.”

“Did he—”

“I said no,” she insisted, and ripped herself from the shelter of his arms.

“If it were so, ‘twould na be yer shame, but his.” He said the words softly, but she was already shaking her head. “Ye can admit the truth.”

“I’ve told you the truth.”

“Then who is bedeviling ye?”

“I don’t know.”

The world was quiet for a heartbeat. “Ye can tell me true, lass,” he said finally. His words were slow and steady, filled with an old-world solidity that was his alone.

She felt her knees buckle as if the earth were melting beneath her feet, but she braced her legs against the weakness, for she could not afford the cost.