Duchess of Mine (27 page)

Last night she’d been so tired and had sought
Duncan to relieve her while watching over Helen. But once she’d
seen him—one of his long legs out from under the covers, his giant
chest bare, his stomach exposed, and a thin wisp of a sheet
covering his pelvis—well, she couldn’t seem to control herself.
She’d taken off most of her clothes, telling herself that she’d
snuggle for a bit. Only a few minutes. Maybe one hundred twenty
seconds. Tops.

But then she’d fallen asleep.

What if something had happened to Helen? She
never would have forgiven herself if it had. Thank God nothing had.
Now, she was just embarrassed Helen had caught her with Duncan,
which was kind of funny in a way.

Except when she asked about a wedding.

Panting, Duncan raced into the room, his
clothes thrown on and in disarray, but covering that wickedly
beautiful body of his. He was sinfully muscled, down to his
chiseled stomach muscles that flexed and strained when she’d had
her hand around . . .

Keep it together, she chided herself. She
needed to focus on Helen. And just Helen.

Although Duncan’s clean scent threatened
whatever calm she was trying to show.

“Ma, how are ye?”

Helen smiled and extended a hand for Duncan,
which he held, then reached down for an embrace. He was such a huge
man, and his mother had become such a small woman—the image should
have reminded her of opposites, but it made Fleur think of their
similarities. Both so stubborn, so brave, so graceful, and how she
wanted them in her life for as long as they lived, how she wanted
this clean feeling when she was in their presence.

Fleur ached then.

She never wanted this to be over, yet knew it
would be.

Or did it have to end?

Duncan finally released his mother and
straightened. “What can I get ye? Ye hungry? We should call for
Mrs. McVicar. She’d want to ken of yer recovery.”

“What I want is to ken when the wedding is?
Or was?”

Duncan’s smiling face switched instantly to
planes of tension. He swallowed and looked at Fleur.

“I’ll go get Mrs. McVicar now.”

Fleur knew she was acting like a coward,
running from the moment, especially abhorrent considering how Helen
had finally woken and probably needed nursing. But it couldn’t be
helped. Panicking, she raced from the room, feeling her eyes prick
with the instant sensation of hot, grimy tears. She wanted to stay,
not just in the chamber but in Scotland. However, the look Duncan
had given her...the way he’d tensed...what if he didn’t want
her?

Grabbing one of Duncan’s black leather coats
that nearly scrapped the ground on her, she left the house in a
hurry. Even though it was the early morning, already there were a
few people marching toward Durness’s Green, probably going to
market. And of course, at the front of the fence line were Duncan’s
young soldiers. They immediately straightened when seeing her
frantic face.

“Oh, my lady, whatever can I do for ye? Is it
bad news?” A tall, skinny kid asked whose name Fleur couldn’t
remember for the life of her.

She stopped running just a couple feet from
him. “Actually” —she grinned and began to cry. “Actually, Helen’s
woken. She’s in good spirits, but I wanted to retrieve Mrs. McVicar
anyway.”

“’Course, ‘course. I’ll get her for ye.” The
boy smiled back at her and was about to bound away when Fleur
called out to him.

“Well, I wanted to go, go get her.”

Skinny guy’s dark brows drew down. “I—I’m not
sure if Duncan would—”

The mere mention of his name,
Duncan
,
and Fleur started to blubber. Moisture crashed down her cheeks, and
she shook from crying.

She was hysterical in front of a stranger.
Well, she knew the kid a little, but barely. The poor young soldier
reached out for Fleur, but never touched her, as if her tears were
contagious.

“I—I can go get Mrs. McVicar. But, well, why
didn’t I think of this earlier? But o’ course! Why, Lady Fleur why
don’ ye come with me. I bet ye need some fresh air, eh?”

Fleur couldn’t help but almost giggle at the
kid trying so hard to appease her tears.

She nodded and jogged in the direction of
Mrs. McVicar’s house.

“We don’ need to run. Oh, but ifnye want to,
we’ll run.”

The instant her legs moved, her mind echoed
thoughts about Duncan.

She should be thinking about Helen’s
recovery, instead all she could contemplate was...what if Duncan
didn’t want to marry her? Helen might be joking about the
matrimony. Or not. She was a woman from the seventeenth century
after all. However, in the time Fleur had gotten to know her, she
thought Helen had been a rather free sexual being with Duncan’s
father. They hadn’t married until after she was pregnant, although
she had said something about handholding in reference to a wedding.
Whatever that meant.

Still, joke or not, Fleur was scared of
Duncan’s reaction. He’d frozen. He’d stammered. He’d stalled.

What if he thought she was too forward? What
if he no longer respected her, because she had—well, she had tried
to give him a hand job.

She was never like this in her own time.
Sure, she’d had sex before, but it had been mutually consenting,
well thought out beforehand, and...okay, a bit on the boring side.
But it had been tidy.

She almost laughed at her absurd thoughts,
nearly tripping. The boy running beside her looked winded, but he
kept up with a wide smile, his green kilt flapping everywhere. And
under Duncan’s coat she was nearly naked, making running a bit
uncomfortable considering she wasn’t wearing any breast support. As
much as the corsets were a pain, they at least made things stay in
place. She could get used to them, the stays as Helen had called
them.

Almost to Mrs. McVicar’s house, she nearly
giggled. She’d gotten to know her way around Durness through the
weeks of living here. And she liked it. She liked feeling intimate
with the town, knowing where everyone resided, like back in
Porcupine when she’d been a kid.

This—this place was so much like home. Only
no home she knew.

It was messy here.

And, God, she’d nearly forgotten the threat
of Cromwell. His army was on the way, and the muses had said
something about finishing her mission before they arrived.

It was brutal here.

There was no order.

As she passed through Mrs. McVicar’s gate,
Fleur realized she wanted to stay here, where nothing made sense.
Where one plus one could equal infinity. Where it was undefined.
Where she loved.

Mrs. McVicar raced out of her small wooden
house, her face pinched with panic.

“Nay, nay! I was goin’ to try a new laudanum
today. Nay, don’t tell me Helen’s passed—”

“Helen woke up!” Fleur shouted. Her emotions
were all over the board. She chuckled as she cried. She thought in
weird circular thoughts, no longer straightforward and logical. She
was different here. Scotland wasn’t to blame. It was
her
. In
just a few weeks she’d changed. Changed for the better.

Mrs. McVicar raced into Fleur’s arms,
embracing her while laughing hysterically. “She woke up? She woke
up?” Mrs. McVicar pulled away enough to face Fleur. “What’d she
say?”

Fleur swallowed, but more tears flooded her
vision and luckily her voice too.

Mrs. McVicar said something about grabbing
her coat then checking on Helen herself and was gone before Fleur
could give any kind of answer. Thank God too, because Fleur wasn’t
too sure if she could repeat what Helen had said. It might hurt too
much to say that Helen had asked about her marrying Duncan.

She’d never wanted the white wedding with a
veil and the cake smashed in the bride and groom’s faces. She’d
never wanted the billowing dress and the thin promises of the vows.
Granted, she knew marriage could last and had fidelity. Hell, all
Fleur need do is look at Rachel and Ian, who seemed happier now
than when she’d first met them. But so much about weddings seemed
too celebratory, as if it was covering up that no one knew if they
had truly fallen in love.

No, she’d never wanted that.

But long ago she had wanted something like
it. Back then she’d wanted a doeskin dress beaded with rattling
elks’ teeth. She’d wanted to give her heart to someone who could
run as fast as she. All right, she’d wanted those things when she
was a girl. And had promptly abandoned her dreams as soon as she
entered Texas, too afraid to wish for anything ever again.

She’d stopped hoping.

She’d stopped having faith.

She’d stopped living.

The muses had been right. Coyote had been
right. She had been a shell of a person, of herself.

It was here in the Highlands that she felt
like she was taking her first breath, breathing all the way down
into her spirit.

She didn’t want to stop. But had she messed
things up with Duncan by...she couldn’t seem to keep her hands to
herself concerning him. Did he think less of her? What did he think
of her anyway?

Maybe it was time to stop being a coward,
running from her problems, but to run at them. Maybe it was time to
ask Duncan a few questions.

But did any of it matter when the muses might
take her away?

Chapter 24

I
t was a hot day, as if the sun knew
Helen would rise today and burn Duncan with questions about his
intentions regarding Fleur. Of course he wanted her! Of course,
he’d take vows with her, for her. But she was...Hell, he wasn’t too
sure what she was, little lass from the future. He believed her
wholly about that. He just didn’t want to. If only she belonged to
Scotland, to his time, to him.

In the late afternoon, as the sun swept its
grueling heat on everything, making it a blurry yellow day, Duncan
spent hours listening to Mrs. McVicar and his mother talk about her
recovery. A few townspeople came by and wished her well, embracing
him firmly with only love in their eyes, and all the while he
noticed Fleur keeping her distance. That was more punitive than
anything the sweltering heat could hand out.

As soon as Helen drifted off to sleep, Duncan
searched for Fleur. About an hour ago, she’d vanished, and Lord it
scared him that she might be gone for good. Mayhap she had been
right all along—she had been sent here to care for Helen, and now
that she was on the mend, Fleur would simply disappear, breaking
his heart.

Her scent was everywhere in the house
though—softly floral, thoroughly feminine. Ah, yes, she had said
something about being outside if Helen needed her. Duncan had kept
the home as cool as possible by drawing the curtains and closing in
the cool morning air. But it was stifling inside. Not as hot as out
of the house, but repressive nonetheless. He didn’t know why that
was either. His mother was awake and seemed to have more energy
than when he’d first come down from Sweden.

Actually, he knew why the house felt like the
walls were closing in. His ma had jested so much about their
upcoming wedding. And Fleur, woman decidedly not of his time and
not for him, had tried to gain some ground from him.

Leaving the house through the backdoor, he
spotted Fleur right away, in the tiny chamber he’d built out of
chopped wood. Every time Helen had made a turn for the worst, he’d
pound out his frustration on the wood, adding to the pile until it
was no longer just a line parallel to Helen’s well-groomed, thanks
to Fleur, vegetable garden. He’d made piles of wood into a
geometric design around half of the house and had made a small
room—three sides chopped wood, the fourth the back of the stone
house. Mainly so he could find a little privacy. Since Fleur’s
kidnapping the house had around the clock guards, even though Rory
had mysteriously vanished as of late. Also Mrs. McVicar and the
laird’s personal physician visited every day. Although Dr. Stevens
had returned to Tongue now, Mrs. McVicar and other townsfolk kept
showing up, giving him no time alone with his thoughts, other than
in Fleur’s chamber. And while in her room, he’d been too tempted to
stay with her, kissing her, feeling her breasts against his chest.
It had been too distracting. So he’d built the small room of
chopped wood.

He stood at the one entrance and exit,
wondering how to get Fleur’s attention. Sitting on a tree’s stump,
she had her wee back to him, humming a sad tune. Duncan thought she
was fiddling with her hands, doing something as she quietly sang
her song.

He cleared his throat, feeling like an
ogre.

She startled and jumped up, clutching a large
white clump of Helen’s knitting to her chest. The beautiful woman
was trying to finish the blanket his ma had started to make. Lord,
she was such a considerate thing. So sweet.

So God damned beautiful it made his body
instant coil with too much heat.

She chuckled when she saw him.

“Ye trying to finish it for my ma?”

She nodded. “I’m nowhere near the knitter she
is though. Maybe I should stop.”

He couldn’t help but grin, not just because
of her honesty, but because he seemed to keep doing that around
her. Inspecting her work, he did notice her stitches were tighter
than his mother’s.

“Nay, ye’re doin’ a real fine job.”

She shook her head and showed him even more.
“See here, I’m knitting too tightly. It’s not going to look
good.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has a different
stitch. No one is the same as another’s. My ma kens this. She’d
love that ye helped her. Don’t undo what ye done.” He tried to take
the white bundle, but Fleur held it closer to her chest.

“You seem to know a lot about knitting.”

He snorted. “I did have many years watchin’
my ma do it. But soldiers, mercenaries, knit and sew. Have to after
ye’ve survived a battle with torn clothes. Can’t stomp about
without a stitch on, eh?”