Blue Bonnets (5 page)

‘This isn't funny!' She snapped. ‘Why didn't you wake me up before the morning?'

‘Believe me, sweetheart, I tried, but you're one hell of a deep sleeper.'

She closed her eyes. The Northern Lights – the Merry Dancers, wasn't that what he had called them that night? Fragments of memory now rushed back to her: disjointed images of Lord McGunn standing on the cliff edge under a magical, colourful night sky. He was cold, and drunk, and she had walked him back to his tower, helped him take off his shirt in front of the fire. She swallowed hard as more pictures of that night played back. He sat down in his armchair. Then she had a sip of that awful tonic and fainted. So it was true!

‘It was that horrible liquor I drank that made me sick,' she said, her eyes still closed. ‘I poured some out in a glass for you and drank a little, then everything became blurred and I fell into a great big black hole.'

‘Into my lap, more like.'

She blushed again. Even in the dim light he could see the pink heat on her cheeks. He'd never met a woman who blushed so violently and so easily before. An image which had tormented him before flashed in his mind – that of creamy white throat and breasts taking on the same delicious shade of pink. He rose and walked to the fireplace. Grabbing a stick, he bent down and started poking at the fire. Sparks rose and flew up in ribbons into the chimney.

What was the matter with him? He usually had more self-control when women were concerned, yet he only had to remember how deliciously soft and curvy Rose had felt under him for red-hot desire to surge and thrust inside him, and make his body hard and achy.

‘You drank some whisky?' he asked in a gruff voice.

‘It wasn't whisky but medicinal tonic, and so disgusting it made me all weak and fuzzy.'

‘That explains the broken glass.' He turned to her. ‘Why did you go to the cliffs that night?'

‘A… dream woke me, and then I saw the lights outside and I just wanted to be close to the sky.' She gave him a stern look. ‘It was fortunate I did. You were so drunk you could have fallen off the cliff.'

He didn't answer but set his mouth in a grim line. He must have suffered another attack of his unpredictable, debilitating illness. Even if Kilroy was right and he did sleepwalk, there was definitely something else ailing him. Whatever it was, he could only hope he had time to secure the future of his estate before it killed him.

The water started bubbling in the pot. He filled up two tumblers, sprinkled tea leaves into the boiling water and handed her a cup. Wrinkling her nose, she picked out the brown leaves floating on the surface with her fingers while he cut the cheese and placed a wedge in front of her together with some bread and an apple.

Outside, the blizzard gathered pace as it swept through the forest and filled the night with howling and screeching, and the sounds of trees groaning like spectres. The wind rattled the door, clawed at the shuttered window, and Rose let out a startled cry when a strong gust hurled down the chimney and made the fire hiss and spit.

‘There's no need to be afraid,' he said, calmly. ‘We're perfectly safe here. These cottages were solidly built.'

She nodded but her face remained pinched, and her eyes huge and frightened. He bit into an apple, stretched his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. The pains in his head and chest had receded at last, as had the feverish tremors, and a pleasant torpor now filled him. For the first time in days, he felt almost at peace.

‘What will you do when the storm has passed?' Rose asked, breaking the silence.

‘I told you. I'll take you back to Wrath then I'll ride to Westmore to talk to McRae about arrangements concerning you and the
Sea Eagle
… and about Malika, of course.'

‘Take me with you.'

She leant forward, put her hand on his forearm.

‘Please.'

Her lips parted and he caught a glimpse of her pearly white teeth and the tip of her tongue. He remembered exactly how her lips had felt under the pad of his thumb – soft, yielding and moist. His breathing deepened, his blood pumped around his body, hot and sluggish.

‘Cameron must be told about Morven at once. The man must be stopped and thrown into jail.' Oblivious to the turmoil inside him, she pressed her fingers harder onto his arm. ‘The sooner that despicable man is punished, the sooner we can give these poor people their houses back, or start building new ones.' Her lips quivered. ‘I saw what he was capable of this morning. He stood aside while his gang burned houses down. Two women died because of him.'

Glancing down, she withdrew her hand from his arm.

He sighed, dragged his fingers through his hair but didn't say anything. It would be useless. Rose clearly still didn't believe Morven was only following McRae's orders.

‘What's more, I want to be the one telling Cameron about Malika,' she added. ‘Even though they didn't exactly get along, I know he'll be eager to start an enquiry.'

‘I doubt he'll be that bothered by the death of a dancing girl,' he snorted.

She looked straight at him, her eyes shining like gems and her golden curls a halo of sunshine in the light of the fire.

‘That proves you don't know him. He is a good man. I wouldn't have married him if he wasn't.'

‘A good man?'

He felt angry suddenly, so angry he wanted to break something – McRae's neck preferably.

He forced a deep breath in. What did he care if Rose was wrong about McRae? A few weeks of married life would soon dispel her illusions. McRae couldn't live without his whoring, drinking and gambling clubs. Rose wasn't the first, and wouldn't be the last, to be fooled by his charming façade. The man was a debauched, wicked, thrill-seeking cad.

Then again, who was
he
to talk? He may not share McRae's predilection for prostitutes and card tables. He may not turn tenants away from their homes in the dead of winter, but his heart and soul were just as black. The nightmares which haunted him were stark reminders of his past actions, and his illness was no doubt the product of his tormented and feverish brain. Didn't his grandfather predict that he would end up mad like his mother, or drinking with the devil like his father – whoever
he
was?

He got up so abruptly the feet of the chair scraped the floor.

‘Enough talking, it's time to rest. Drink up, finish your food and go to bed.'

He pulled his plaid out of his bag and handed it to her. ‘Take this. It will keep you warm.'

He knelt in front of the hearth to add more wood onto the grate.

Her footsteps pattered on the floor, her skirt rustled softly behind him and brushed against his back. He breathed in her fragrance and closed his eyes. All he wanted to do right now was to hold her in his arms, brush her hair aside and bury his face in the curve of her neck to taste the softness of her skin and her unique, sunny and feminine scent.

He took hold of a thick stick and poked at the fire.

‘I didn't think it was possible, but I swear you're even more bad-tempered than my brother, and that's not an easy feat,' she started in an angry voice. ‘I will eat and drink when I please, and go to bed when I'm tired. I am sick of you ordering me about as if I were silly, naive and irresponsible. You may not have noticed, Lord McGunn. I am not a child but a grown woman.'

Hell, of course he had noticed. He stabbed at the fire with his stick. She was the woman who made him smile and dream of sunshine and summer days – the woman who aroused his most primitive instincts. She was also the woman he would never have because she was McRae's.

He tightened his grip on the stick, turned round and rose to his feet.

‘But you are silly, naive and irresponsible,' he started, coldly. ‘So let's be very clear,
sweetheart
. I don't care a jolt about your spoilt brat antics. You're not on your Algerian estate here, ordering your servants about and cracking your whip to scare them off. I'm in charge, which means you'll you do what the bloody hell I tell you to do. Understood?'

The stick snapped in his hand and he threw the pieces in the fire.

When he turned round again, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

‘How dare you speak to me like this?' Her voice shook. ‘It is true I misjudged the intentions of the post-guard and the coach driver,' she carried on in a choked voice. ‘It is also true I'm not clever. I'm nothing like my mother or Harriet, my brother's wife. I can't read a serious book without falling asleep and if I don't concentrate really hard when I help Akhtar with the accounts I get all the figures mixed up…'

She was so pretty with her pink cheeks and her shiny blue eyes that he had trouble concentrating on what she was saying. Why was she saying she wasn't bright? Hell. The woman could speak French, English and Arabic, and if that wasn't clever, he didn't know what was.

‘But I'm not a spoilt brat,' she resumed, ‘and I don't crack the whip to anyone. We only have a few servants in Bou Saada and they're like family to us.'

Her words penetrated the thick mist of his consciousness. He shook his head.

‘Hang on a minute… So what you said that first day about whipping your servants, it was a lie?'

She shrugged. ‘Of course.'

‘And you‘re not rich?'

She shook her head. ‘Our estate was confiscated by the French army over a year ago and was only recently given back to us in a pitiful state. My brother offered to help us rebuild it, but my mother is a very proud woman. She would never accept charity from anyone, let alone her own son.'

‘Does McRae know you're not rich?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then why did he marry you?'

Her blue eyes opened wider.

‘He married me because he loves me.'

‘Love?' he sneered. ‘Marriage is a business arrangement, especially where McRae is concerned.'

Her cheeks turned a deep shade of red.

‘You are truly the most horrid man I ever met. How I wish you'd fallen off that cliff the other night or that your Merry Dancers had come to take you away!'

She darted to the door, grabbed hold of the handle, managed to pull the door open onto the cold, stormy night, but he was right behind her. He slammed the door shut.

‘Where do you think you're going?'

She spun round, her back against the door. He put his hands on either side of her head, caging her in.

‘Outside. And I don't care if I freeze to death. Anywhere is better than being stuck here with you. You hated me from the very minute I arrived at Wrath Harbour. It's a wonder you bothered to come after me at all.'

Mesmerized by her mouth, so tantalisingly close, he bent down slowly. His heart beat fast, driven by a need so powerful he was losing control.

She was trapped between the hard, cold wooden door and his hard, hot body, and even though he wasn't touching her she was completely at his mercy. His gaze skimmed over her eyes, her face, down to her throat and her chest which rose with every fast, shallow breath she took. She was no match for him. It would be so easy to kiss her and take her, here and now.

He closed the gap between them until her breasts brushed against his chest and their hips made contact.

She gasped and fear made her eyes grow wide. It was like a slap in the face. What the hell was he doing, forcing himself onto a woman?

He pulled away, and stepped back inside the room.

‘I already told you. I'm protecting my interests,' he said, bringing a note of harshness into his voice. ‘As long as I have you, McRae will have to do what I say and call his bankers off.'

‘So I'm just a pawn in your bitter war against my husband. That's the only reason you came after me?'

He nodded. ‘Of course, what else?'

‘Then you really are no better than the post-guard and his accomplice, are you?'

He flinched, his jaw locked. ‘No, I suppose I'm not,' he conceded. His fists balled at his sides, he turned away.

‘Please do as I say,' he finished. ‘Go to bed now.'

Moving away from the door, Rose didn't argue this time but wrapped herself into the plaid and lay down on the filthy straw mattress.

Bruce sat down, pulled his flask and poured himself a drink. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Four

Her eyes flicked open onto thick, velvety darkness. Outside the wind howled and swished, and for one terrifying moment she thought she was back on the
Sea Eagle
in the middle of the storm. Then she remembered. She wasn't on the clipper but in a cottage in the forest and a blizzard raged outside. Inside however, everything was still, silent and empty.

Her heart leapt with panic. She was alone in the dark. Again.

With Lord McGunn's plaid still tightly wrapped around her, she jumped off the bed and walked to the fireplace where a few embers still cast a weak glow from under a pile of ashes. She grabbed hold of a stick and poked at the embers until they gave out enough light for her to see that the candle's stump stood in a pool of congealed wax on the table, next to Lord McGunn's open flask and his pistol, but where was he?

She spotted the shape of a body stretched out on the floor behind the table and her eyes skimmed over a man's riding boots, black breeches, a white shirt.

‘Lord McGunn, I don't think sleeping on the floor is a good idea,' she called.

He didn't move, make a sound or open his eyes. And he called her a deep sleeper!

‘At least put your jacket or your coat on…'

He didn't even stir. Was he even breathing? By Old Ibrahim's Beard, what if he had drunk too much whisky and had passed out? Or even worse, what if he was dead and she was on her own in that abandoned shed in a middle of a snowstorm?

In a panic, she knelt down at his side, slipped her hand over his shirt to pat his chest. He wasn't dead. His heart was beating, faint and erratic. Her hand slid up to his shoulder and she gave him a shake.