Enraptured (12 page)

She had been so sure he felt the same desire she did. His mouth had been so hungry, his embrace so tight. But then he had pulled away, saying he could not do it, as if he had forced himself to respond to her advances but finally gave up. Clearly, she knew nothing about men.

It was a relief a day later to be able to throw herself back
into work. The discovery of a small pierced, carved piece of bone also raised her spirits—though she wished, with a fierce pang of sorrow, that Uncle Lionel were here to share in the excitement.

Later in the day, she glanced up from her sketch of the site and the artifact's position in it and was surprised to see a man walking toward them. He was small and wore a bright red, knitted cap, beneath which a fringe of white hair peeked out. In one hand, he gripped a gnarled, dark wooden staff, but from the spryness of his walk, he scarcely needed it. Violet recognized him at once.

“Mr. McKay.” She smiled. Behind her Dougal let out a groan, but she ignored him. “I am glad you took me up on my invitation.”

“Aye. I'd a mind to see what you were up to.” The old man surveyed the ruins. “Doesna look like much tae me.” He turned his gaze on the McKenna brothers and Dougal. “I would hae thought young Munro would gie you better workers.”

Bruce McKenna rolled his eyes, and his brother said, “Whisht, now, Angus, hae you naught better tae do than tae watch men work?”

“Is that what you're doing?” Angus retorted. “Hae you found aught but sand?”

“As a matter of fact, we did.” Proudly, Violet unwrapped her handkerchief to reveal the small article inside.

Angus leaned in to peer at the piece of bone. “A bit wee, isn't it?”

Violet laughed. “Mr. McKay, do you ever say anything nice?”

“Course I do.” He ignored the snort from the men. “When I see something that warrants it.”

The old man settled down on a nearby rock and spent the rest of the afternoon watching them work, now and then tossing in a comment about their efforts and the results (or lack thereof). He returned the next day, so apparently he had enjoyed his visit, though Violet was not sure why.

Violet saw nothing of Coll the next two days. That was precisely what she wanted, of course; she was careful not to walk past the gatehouse—indeed she was careful not to even look in that direction. She avoided the library in the evening. It was somewhat lowering that Coll just as assiduously avoided coming to the main house.

When she did see Coll again, she was completely unprepared. She was kneeling at the excavation site when she felt an intangible change in the atmosphere and looked up. Coll Munro was walking toward the site. He moved with his usual easy grace, and she was reminded all over again of how wide his shoulders were, how long his legs. He wore no cap, and the wind teased the strands of his hair.

Her throat closed, her chest tightened, and for a moment she could not move. Then she popped to her feet, stepping on her skirt and stumbling. Already she looked a fool.

Violet lifted her chin. “Mr. Munro.” Her voice sounded tinny in her ears. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“My lady.” He stopped several feet away. The sun was behind him, making it difficult to read his expression. “I, um—Isobel would like to visit your site.”

Isobel had asked him. Of course that would bring him. Violet kept her voice steady. “Mrs. Kensington and her aunt have an open invitation.”

“Yes, well. She sent a note saying they planned to visit
this afternoon. I thought you might like to know.” He shifted. “So you could expect them.”

“No doubt they would find us doing the same thing, expected or not. But thank you for the warning.”

Coll nodded and glanced toward the men, who ostentatiously turned and went back to work. He came closer, and Violet moved to the side.

“Vio—I mean, my lady.” Coll followed her. “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Indeed?” She could see his expression clearly now. He was frowning.

“Yes. About the other night . . .”

“It was an enjoyable party.” She smiled brightly. “Thank you for suggesting it to me.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it, but that wasn't what I meant. I was talking about afterward, at the dock.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I wanted to apologize.”

“There is no need. 'Twas I who was at fault.”

“You!” He stared.

“Yes. My actions were inappropriate. As you said, I had been drinking, and—”

“Inappropriate?”

“Yes. I am aware my actions were unwelcome and . . . and forward.”

“Forward!”

“Really, Mr. Munro, are you going to parrot everything I say?”

“But you—I was not saying that
you
were—”

“There is no need to soften the blow.” Was he being purposely difficult? “Clearly you cannot make yourself want to—well, engage in, um . . .”

“Are you daft? What are you saying?”

Violet bristled. “I am saying that I acted out of character. I assure you, it will not happen again. And it is time this conversation ended. Good day, sir.”

“Wait. Why are you the one to decide if this conversation is over?”

“Mr. Munro! Lower your voice!” Violet hissed, glancing toward the workers.

Coll clenched his teeth, casting a glance over his shoulder at the three men, who had given up all pretense of work and stood watching them. “The devil!” His eyes moved past the men. “Bloody hell. They would show up now.” Violet followed his gaze. Isobel and her aunt were walking toward the ruins. Coll swung back, scowling. “This conversation is
not
over.”

“Indeed?” Violet raised her eyebrows and swept past him. “Lady Elizabeth, Mrs. Kensington, I am so glad to see you.”

Despite the way it began, Violet enjoyed the afternoon. Coll took his leave almost immediately. Violet guided the two women around the site, explaining where she and the men were digging and why, and showing them the pieces of pierced bone they had found. It was gratifying to share the discovery and even more so to see the real interest in their faces.

“You think these were part of some jewelry?” Isobel asked, turning the larger piece of bone over in her fingers.

“Yes, I believe the holes drilled in them would indicate so. We found these other two small pieces yesterday, very near the location of the larger piece.”

“They must be very old.” The awe in Isobel's voice was
so similar to Violet's own feelings that she warmed to the other woman.

After all, Isobel could not help being the ideal of beauty that Violet could never hope to attain. Nor was it Isobel's fault that Coll's face had lit up when he saw her at the dance—which was an absurd reason to resent a person, anyway. If Coll nursed an unrequited love for Mrs. Kensington, it was no business of Violet's.

They chatted at length about the possible origins of the site and how Violet planned to proceed. Rarely was she able to converse with another female who had the same eagerness to learn as her, and Violet enjoyed the conversation so much that she persuaded Isobel and Elizabeth to have tea with her at Duncally after they finished at the site.

For the first time since the dance at Baillannan, Violet went to bed that evening in a happy mood—which made it even odder when she awoke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, filled with a vague sense of unease. She pushed back the bed curtains and looked out over the room. The coals in the fireplace lent a dim reddish glow to the darkness of the chamber, against which the furniture made even blacker shapes. Just as she was about to close the heavy draperies and go back to sleep, a low metallic clank was followed by a muffled exclamation. Someone was in the house.

It had to be Coll, visiting the library again. Violet slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the clock on the mantel. Two o'clock. Coll would not be in Duncally looking for a book in the middle of the night. Perhaps one of the servants. But the servants' hall and bedrooms were on the floor below. There was no reason for any of them to be in this wing now.

Violet opened the door into the hall and peered out. The
corridor was not completely dark; a sconce or two high on the walls burned dimly, leaving pools of shadows up and down the way. The house loomed around her, dark and silent, the long stretch of corridor with its closed doors on either side whispering of hidden things.

She watched, nerves stretching. Suddenly a shape moved out of a door down the hallway, dark and silent, heading toward the stairs. Violet jumped, her nerves zinging through her. Without thinking, she flung her door wide. “Stop! Who is that!”

The figure took off at a run. Violet pelted after him, grabbing up a heavy candlestick from one of the tables as she ran. As she reached the top of the staircase, she saw the figure turn the corner of the landing and race downward. Violet followed, gripping the empty candleholder like a club.

A dim light was on the floor below, and it moved away as footsteps clattered across the marble floor. When Violet reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned toward the light and saw a dark figure carrying a lantern slip through the front door. Violet ran after him, bursting out into the night. Something crashed down on the back of her head, and she pitched forward onto the steps.

The blow stunned Violet, but it did not knock her out, and instinctively she broke the fall with her hands. For a moment she lay there, stunned, then lifted her head. It was drizzling, she realized, and cold. Patches of fog drifted across the drive, but she caught sight of the lantern light, diffused by the fog. A figure ran down the driveway and into the mist, the lantern bobbing at the level of his knees.

Violet pushed herself up and ran after him. She was vaguely aware of the sting of her palms and the throbbing
in her head, but they did not slow her as she tore along the driveway. The moving light drew farther and farther away until at last it disappeared altogether, swallowed up by the night. She slowed and finally stopped, her chest heaving. She shivered, realizing all at once how cold and wet she was.

Ahead of her was the dark bulk of a cottage. The gatehouse. “Coll!”

She ran forward. A light appeared in the window as she reached the house. Violet pounded her fist against the door. “Coll!”

She braced one hand against the doorframe, her head whirling, gasping for air. The door jerked open, and Coll stood in the doorway. He had obviously been pulled from his bed by her cries, for he was barefoot and shirtless and his hair fell messily around his face. Behind him a candle flickered on the table.

“Violet! Good Lord!” He reached out to take her arm. Violet tried to take a step, but her limbs seemed strangely disconnected from her. Her stomach pitched. She saw Coll's lips moving, but she could not hear his words. Her knees began to buckle.

Coll caught her as she crumpled to the floor.

C
oll swept Violet up in
his arms and carried her across the room to the fireplace. She leaned her head against him, closing her eyes on the suddenly tilting room. His chest was warm and solid, reassuring, and it was tempting to let go, to slide into the darkness, held by him. Safe.

He knelt, setting Violet on the floor before the fire, his arms still around her, and laid a hand against her cheek. “What happened? You're shaking like a leaf.”

She realized that she was, indeed, shivering, and she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

“It's all right.” Coll's voice was low and soothing. “You're safe now.” He shifted so that he was sitting on the floor, and he cradled her against his chest.

In the back of her mind, Violet knew she should pull away, not allow herself to be weak and dependent, but she could not move. It was too nice here, enveloped in his warmth. The sensation of his bare skin against her cheek was odd, but pleasurable as well, smooth skin and the prickle
of hair. She thought of the way he'd looked standing in the doorway—the wide expanse of bare chest with the overlying V of curling, red-brown hair, the hard, straight line of his collarbone and broad shoulders, the curve of muscle beneath the skin.

Her cheeks warmed. “I'm sorry. I'm getting you all wet.”

“Dinna fret about that.”

With her cheek against his chest, she felt the rumble of his voice as well as heard it, and it turned her soft and achy inside. The surge of feeling alarmed her, giving her the strength to pull away. Coll leaned back, his eyes dropping from her face to her chest. Red flared along his cheekbones, and his eyes went dark. Violet realized that the rain had soaked her nightgown. The wet material clung to her body, almost transparent, her full breasts and darker nipples, prickling from the cold, clearly visible.

She could not move. In the silence, she could hear the breath in Coll's throat turn harsh and fast. His face softened, eyelids drooping down over the sudden heat in his eyes. Finally, by force of will, Violet turned her face away, wrapping her arms around herself. As if her movement had released him, too, Coll surged to his feet. “I'll, um, get you a . . .”