Elaine Coffman - [MacKinnon 04] (14 page)

“Imagination plays strange tricks on everyone from time to
time.”

“It’s no my imagination,” she said. “I saw them and I heard
their pipes, too. Not the modern pipes with three drones, you ken, but the old
pipes—the ones of centuries ago—with two drones.” She stirred and turned from
him. “I know you must be thinking me a puir daftie.”

“No. I find you intriguing, not daft, Margaret.”

“Margaret,” she repeated. “Och! It’s been so long since
anyone called me Margaret.”

The corners of his mouth tightened. “Ross wrote that was
your name.”

“Aye, it is. No one close to me calls me Margaret. I’ve
always been called Maggie.”

“A name more suited for a barmaid than a lady,” he said,
cursing himself for being so hard.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I talk
to her like I long to? Why can’t I tell her the things I feel inside? Why must
everything I say or do be something that will drive her away, when I might just
want her to stay?

She dipped her head. “Thank you,” she said quite musically,
then she laughed. It was clear, and happy, and quite, quite sincere. “Perhaps I
am more aptly named than I thought.”

“Or perhaps you aren’t.”

She laughed again, and he had never itched more to take a
woman in his arms.
Maggie, Maggie, would you kiss me?
His heart sprang
forward at the thought. He almost felt the soft weight of her in his arms, the
heat of his palm against a softly rounded breast. Dizziness swept over him, the
effect of too much blood, aroused and gushing into his heart—and another place,
lower down. He stepped closer to her, taking her chin in his hand. The humor in
her eyes faded. Her expression was now watchful. Wary. Adrian ached to hold
her, to kiss her. He wanted to take her clothes off and see what she was like
beneath all those gauzy layers of dress and petticoat. His thumb stroked the
mouth he found too full for fashion.

Strange how it looked so perfect for kissing.

He needed no further prompting. His body was rock-hard and
trembling. His arms felt like lead weights as he drew her against him. There
was no further thought as his lips slid over hers in a hard kiss.

Maggie’s arms went around his lean frame, her fingers
gripping the hard muscles of his back. He thought of another place he would
like to feel those hands, and groaned at the sudden leap of his body’s
response.

Maggie held her breath as his hand came up to touch her
breast, the heat of his fingers touching her through layers of clothing as if
none of it existed. Her breasts tingled and a slow ache spread across her
belly. She sighed and leaned closer to him, responding to the intensity of his
kiss with an intensity of her own.

He pulled away from her, his hand dropping down to take
hers. “Come over here,” he said, “behind these rocks.”

Maggie’s first impulse was to shove him into his beloved
rocks and tell him to rut whatever he found there, but she knew part of his
brazen assumption that he could toss her skirts outside like a common strumpet
was her fault. She had responded to him. She had enjoyed kissing him. She had
found pleasure in the feel of his hand upon her breast. And she
had
let
him know it.

The look she gave him was filled with confusion and shame,
and she turned her face away, feeling the tension of the past few days grip her
body. She contemplated leaning her head against the comforting strength of his
shoulder, letting him lead her behind the rocks. And then she remembered Ross’
words.
Go easy. He won’t fall in love overnight. Remember, time is on your
side.

She pulled away from him, but she didn’t look into his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Her head tilted back and she looked at him, her face full of
surprise. “You know who I am.”

“I know nothing, save what I’m told. And that, at times, can
be confusing. Margaret…Maggie, you leave me flustered. You see visions, you hear
sounds, you speak in riddles. Your name isn’t your name. I find you past plain
and then see you so beautiful, I ache. You’re a lady to the core, and I find
you melting in my arms like a woman who has done this sort of thing before. You
are the daughter of an earl, and yet you have given up everything to come to
me, a man you don’t even know. You’re open and honest, and at the same time,
shrouded in mist and mystery. And even your goddamned eyes change color. Who in
the hell are you?”

“Perhaps I am all of those women you described, but more
importantly, I’m your wife.”

“I know, but I can’t help wondering why.” His voice was
thick now, his finger stroking the curve of her cheek. “What are you running
from? What is the real reason you chose this path?”

He saw her eyes widen. The sun filtered through long lashes
to leave a fringe of shadow upon a porcelain-smooth cheek. “Tell me,” he said,
“tell me why you came here. It couldn’t be because you had no other offers.”

“No, it wasna. I did have another offer, but I chose you.”

“Why?”

“I told you,” she said, turning her face away and gazing out
over the water. “I came because of the man I came to know through your letters.
Your life here was intriguing, of course, and I had never been to America, but
it was the man in the letters who drew me, who made me choose the unknown over
the familiar.”

“What did I put in those damn letters that interested you so
much?”

“I read about a lonely man, a man with needs, and I knew I
could have an understanding, a partnership with a man like that. It is
important for me to be needed, to feel I am contributing something.” She turned
toward him, her eyes steady as they looked into his. “My life may not have
looked very promising, but I still had a choice. I wasna forced to come here by
my circumstances—unfortunate as they were. To have accepted the other offer and
remain in Scotland would have been to choose the easier way. Whatever you might
think of me, Adrian, I want you to know I
chose
to marry you and come
here.”

Adrian could tell by the honesty he saw in her eyes that she
was telling the truth, yet something about all of this didn’t sit right with
him. It pricked at him constantly, this need to dig deeper, to find the real
reason she chose to marry him.

“You said you received only one other offer. That intrigues
me. I would have thought the daughter of an earl would have received more
offers—and a lot sooner. How old are you?”

“Old enough,” she said with a laugh. Then, her voice turning
serious, she said, “I’m twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven,” he repeated. “What made you wait so long to
marry?”

“How old are you, Adrian?”

“Thirty-one.”

“What made you wait so long?”

He laughed at that. “I told you. I was in love with someone
else.”

“As I was,” she said, her voice turning soft and wistful.

Before he could ask her anything more, she spun away from
him and ran back toward the house. He watched her go, unable to think beyond
the fact that she had loved someone else. It never occurred to him that it
might be equally hard on her, knowing he had loved another.

And loved her still.

Every candle in the dining room threw golden images on the
windows, where mullioned panes reflected the light back into the room. Over the
dining table the three chandeliers glittered like a thousand lights upon a
gleaming floor. But the man standing before the windows, swirling a snifter of
brandy in his hand, seemed not to notice. Obviously irritated, Adrian frowned,
a pulse beginning to throb in his forehead.

He was waiting for her, and she was late…again. He intended
to tell her just how annoying he found it to have her always late, but when he
heard her coming down the hallway and he turned to tell her, the words died in
his throat.

The moment she stepped into the room, the light from the
candles struck her. She wore a gown of the deepest moss green velvet, clinging,
daring. Her pale shoulders were bare, the hue of creamy pearls. The bodice was
tight, molded like a hand over perfect breasts, high and full above a slender
waist. The gather of folds looked almost black as they fell away from the waist
to be caught up in the back in a bustle that cascaded like a waterfall behind
her. A pair of antique emerald earrings surrounded with diamonds glittered in
her ears. Her throat was bare. Her hair, pulled back into a low cluster of
curls, made her large eyes appear even larger.

“I’m late,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “you are…again.”

“Perhaps in time I will get more punctual.”

“Perhaps.”

As she came toward him, he watched the way she moved,
fluidly and in control, like a slow-moving stream following a course it has
known for centuries. Everything about her was regal—her walk, her bearing, the
way she held her head, and most of all, her composure. There was no sign
anywhere that this was the same woman who had found herself overcome with
emotion and fled his presence a few hours ago.

She stopped just inches away, turning her eyes upon him.
Tonight they were amber—pale and glittering with the light of a million golden
candles. He looked at her face, his eyes following the smooth lines of her
beautiful white shoulders, lingering at the swell of half-covered breasts. He
didn’t want to be distracted by her eyes, or her breasts. He did not want to
feel drawn to her. “It’s a bit chilly in here. Do you think you need a shawl?”

She looked up at him and saw the angry clench of his jaw.
She also saw the hunger in his eyes. “I dinna think it’s a shawl I need. From
the way you’re looking at me, I think I need a bodyguard.”

At that, he threw back his head and laughed.

She stood beneath his scrutiny feeling ridiculous. He had
never looked at her as he did now—a look that went beyond mere curiosity or
familiarity. And because of it, there was an awkwardness between them now that
had not existed before. It was the first time she dreaded being alone with him,
and she hated herself for the feeling.

Her heart beat strong and rapidly, and her breath seemed too
great for her small throat. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be
between them. She had been married before; she had known the intimacy, the
assurance of warm familiarity. This wasn’t the way she imagined being with her
new husband. He made her conscious of herself, made her aware of her
shortcomings. Most of all, he made her aware of the instability of her
marriage, the delicate state of her tenure here. There were problems that
existed between them. Some spoken, some that remained unsaid. Her father always
taught her that problems were messages, some sort of a good thrashing life had
to give one sometimes, in order to teach a lesson. Experience had taught her it
was easier to learn the lesson the first time around, for the thrashing had a
tendency to get more severe when repeated.

At last her common sense took over. They couldn’t stand here
all evening like a couple of doorjambs, facing each other, each of them
thinking private thoughts and imagining what the other was thinking. With an
almost pleading look, she broke the strain of silence.

“I must apologize for this afternoon. It wasna like me to
turn my back and walk away as I did. I—”

Amusement danced in his eyes. “You didn’t walk,” he said,
remembering vividly what she had said and how she had turned away from him.

“Aye,” she said, smiling, “it was a fast walk.” When he
didn’t smile, her mood turned serious again. “I dinna make a habit of running
away. It willna happen again.”

Adrian was surprised by her apology, especially since he
knew it wasn’t entirely her fault. He had goaded her, though he couldn’t bring
himself to apologize. His curiosity about the man she had been in love with was
still there, but it wasn’t a topic for discussion over dinner. He would ask his
questions later.

“Don’t make any promises,” he said. “Promises seem to be
made for breaking. Let’s try to have a pleasant meal tonight. After receiving
ear strain the last time we dined, I asked Molly to move your place closer to
mine. It’s damnably hard to talk to you when you’re sitting half a mile away.”

Determined not to break the fragile thread of truce that
stretched between them, Maggie said, “It will be much easier on my voice as
well, I ken.”

“Shall we sit down?” he said, pulling out a chair for her.

“Aye, thank you,” she said, dropping into the chair with one
graceful movement, feeling her nerves stretching with tension. How stiff they
both were. How terribly formal.

He took the chair at the end of the table, which was to her
right. He poured her a glass of claret from an exquisitely cut decanter. She
picked up the glass and took more than a ladylike sip. Over the rim of the
glass she caught his amused look. She put the glass down. “I like claret.”

A half smile played around his mouth. “Apparently.”

“I suppose you think I took a rather large swallow.”

“You
did
take a large swallow,” he said, laughter in
his eyes.

“Aye,” she said, laughing. “But I had a good reason, you
ken.”

He was about to ask her what that reason was, but at that
moment Wong brought in the first course, and Maggie gave Adrian a surprised
look. “I gave Molly the evening off,” he said. “But don’t worry. Wong is only
serving the salmon soup. He didn’t cook it.”

She laughed, feeling more relaxed “I’m glad you gave Molly
some time off. She deserves it. Besides, she is a married woman.”

The humor faded from his eyes. “More often than not, that’s
a reason for keeping apart.”

“Aye,” she said, feeling the strain between them again, “it
can, but it doesna have to be that way.” She looked down at her soup and picked
up her spoon.

She even eats like royalty.
He picked up his glass,
annoyed at himself for even noticing. He didn’t care if she picked up the bowl
and drank from it, or crawled on the table and lapped it like a dog.

“How did you come to be so interested in building a lumber
mill?”

The sound of her voice startled him, pulling him back from
his thoughts. He studied her for a moment before answering. “I thought Ross
told you everything there was to know about me.”

“Not everything,” she said, then smiling, she added, “I ken
he wanted to leave us something to talk about.”

Actually Ross had told her a little bit about Adrian’s
background—his years in the Mexican War, his attempt and failure at farming,
and how that led to his coming to the gold fields with Alex. She knew about
Katherine, of course, and that Adrian had bought his brother’s interest in the
mill. But she didn’t know where Adrian’s interest in a lumber mill had come
from.

Adrian began to tell her—slowly at first and then more
freely when he discovered her interest was genuine. Her questions were
intelligent, well phrased, and thought-evoking. Not at all the kinds of
questions he would have thought a woman would ask.

Before long he was telling her of his love for this lonely,
majestic land, the thing he had achieved, the goals he still had, the places he
had succeeded in doing what he set out to accomplish, the disappointment over
his failures. She had a way of listening that made him want to talk, and he
found that talking gave him a renewed vigor, a sense of excitement he had not
felt in a long time. It was one thing to have a dream. It was another thing to
share it. Before he was even aware that he was doing it, Adrian was telling her
about the problems with Pope and Talbot, and how they wouldn’t stop until they
had ruined him, or at least taken over his foreign markets.

By the time dinner was over and Wong had removed the last of
the dishes, Adrian had been talking for almost two hours, and the two of them
had finished the bottle of claret.

In a state of mellow companionship, they fell into silence,
each regarding the other.

I didn’t know it would feel so good to talk like this.

I had no idea he had so much on his mind, lived with so
much responsibility.

“You obviously are accustomed to discussing topics normally
reserved for the men’s smoking room. Your father must be quite a man.”

“Aye, he is. I was born late in my parents’ life, the youngest
of three boys and two girls. Because of the age difference between myself and
the others, it was like being an only child. My father didna rear me to think
of myself as inferior to a man. He saw to it that I was well educated in the
traditionally feminine areas, and in many areas normally thought to belong to
men. I helped him with his accounts, with the running of our estates.”

As she talked, it was apparent she had the knowledge and
ability many a man would covet. He folded his hands in front of him, thinking
about this new side of her he had not realized existed. But while he admired
the things he had discovered, he wondered if these things had something to do
with the fact that she had been so long to take a husband. Had her father
depended upon her so much that she felt compelled to stay with him, giving up
her future prospects of a husband and family? Was he the only man of importance
in her life?

The stirring to life of these questions reminded him that he
had some other questions to which he wanted answers. He came to his feet,
coming around behind Maggie to pull out her chair. “Do you play the piano?” he
asked.

“Aye,” she said, then added lightly, “I play the bagpipes,
too, but I dinna think you would want to hear me. My playing is dreadful at
best. Whenever I played, my father’s dog would howl.”

An odd expression came into his face and he almost smiled,
then checked himself, but when he spoke, his voice was laced with humor.
“Piano, I have. Thankfully, we’re out of luck on the bagpipes—unless you brought
some with you. Dare I hope…”

She laughed. “You’re safe for now. I had enough baggage to
accommodate several bagpipes, but none found their way into my belongings. I
ken it’s just as well. I’d run off all your help if they heard me play,
especially if they’ve never heard anyone play the pipes before. The first few
notes can be quite dreadful to the unexperienced ear. I’ve heard it likened to
the screeching of a cat and the wailing of a banshee.”

She turned her face toward him, and once again he was aware
of the surge of lust for her that had prompted him to kiss her as he had on the
cliffs this afternoon. He looked down into her upturned face, seeing no residue
of anger, no lingering remorse over his sudden display of passion with her. He
had never known a woman so completely capable of putting things behind her. He
realized suddenly that she was looking at him with obvious interest in what he
was thinking. “So the bagpipes are out,” he said.

“Yes, and devilishly happy you should be that I have only
your piano to prove my skill.”

“I’m sure you must play quite well.”

“Of course I do. Have you ever known a Scot to admit he
could do anything in a bad way?” When he shook his head, she smiled and said,
“However, I have been told I am quite an accomplished pianist, but of course,
that was when I was standing in the room. What else could they say?” He paused
by the door, waiting for her to pass through. As she did, she said, “I ken you
will have to judge for yourself. Would you like me to play for you?”

“I would.”

As they walked to the music room, Maggie said, “I must admit
I’ve already taken the liberty of playing your piano.” He didn’t say anything,
but she went on to explain. “Dinna forget I was here for two weeks before you
arrived. I ken you expected I would do a little snooping. It’s a woman’s nature
to be inquisitive, after all. I’m surprised you haven’t discovered that before
now.”

“I am not all that experienced with women, as you will soon
learn.”

“That is probably to your advantage—and mine,” she added with
a laugh.

All this talk about women made him uncomfortable. It also
made him remember the way she felt in his arms, the way her mouth felt beneath
his. She had the mouth of a courtesan, meant to pleasure a man. All over.

He imagined what it would be like to have her make love to
him, to pleasure him with her mouth. He ground his teeth in frustration,
forcing his mind back on the piano. “How do you like it?”

“The piano?”
No, making love
. He nodded and said,
“Yes.”

Maggie didn’t know the direction of his thoughts, but she
knew they didn’t lie in the music room.
The bedroom, more than likely,
she said to herself, careful to keep her voice light when she answered his
question.

“It’s a lovely instrument,” she said, “but slightly out of
time.” She was going to add that was to be expected any time something was
shipped a great distance, but he spoke before she had a chance.

“If the piano isn’t good enough for you to play on, I won’t
force you,” he said, his jaw clenched. His anger flared to rise quickly to the
surface. “I bought the most expensive piano to be found. It’s brand-new, so
there shouldn’t be anything wrong with it. Perhaps it was your playing.”