Enraptured (16 page)

It should have been a terrible day. The sky was gloomy, hanging low and gray, mist hovering in the air. Violet had slept only a few hours; her head was sore; her scraped palms hurt, and her home was no longer safe. Yet her mood was strangely lighthearted.

Unsurprisingly, the workmen at the site had already heard about the intruder. It was somewhat more surprising, however, to hear that Angus McKay also knew what had happened. He arrived early in the afternoon, dark eyes bright with interest.

“Sae you've been brawling at Duncally, lassie,” he said, looking considerably heartened by the idea.

“I was not brawling. It's hardly my fault if one of your countrymen broke into Duncally.”

“What did the reiver steal?”

“No one seems to know what's missing.”

“It was the French gold they was after,” one of the workers said with assurance. “Red Meg and Mardoun found it and locked it up in Duncally.”

Angus turned a scornful gaze on him. “Don't be daft. Meg and that Englishman dinna find any treasure.”

“Or sae they said,” the man replied portentously.

“Och, you're as mush-headed as the lads at the tavern.”

“Treasure?” Violet asked. “Do you mean the money Lady Elizabeth's father supposedly brought home after the Battle of Culloden?”

“Aye, that's it. A great chest of gold pieces. The casket itself was chased in gold, with a great emerald on top, and—”

“Poppycock!” Angus slammed the end of his walking stick into the ground. “Adam McKenna, you're as great a nodkin as you've ayeways been. As if the Baillannan was walking aboot wagging a chest like that. He micht as well hae said, ‘Rob me.' ”

“But I thought they didn't find the treasure, only a few coins,” Violet said.

“Sae they said,” Adam repeated.

“They dinna want anyone to know they'd found it all,” his brother, Bruce, explained. “Too dangerous, you ken. Someone micht try to steal it. And sae they did, last night.” He shot Angus a triumphant glance.

Angus rolled his eyes. “Are ye saying Meg would lie to us all?”

“Weel, she's one o' them now, isn't she?”

“It was her own granfaither!”

“Her grandfather?” Violet wrinkled her brow. “I don't understand. Are you talking about Lady Elizabeth's father?”

“Aye. Turns oot the old laird was Meg's mither's da as well.”

“Nae surprise,” Adam offered. “The Munros hae ayeways been thick as thieves with the lairds of Baillannan.”

“Oh.” Violet blinked and returned to her digging, losing track of the others' conversation as she considered the ramifications of Angus's words. Locals thought a hoard of gold was somewhere in the house. And if Malcolm Rose was Meg's grandfather, then he was Coll's as well. Little wonder, she supposed, that he had such an obsession with his illegitimate birth.

Lost in her thoughts, it was some time before she was aware of an itchy feeling in her upper back, a subtle awareness of being watched. She glanced over at Angus, expecting to find him staring critically at her work. He was still in a heated discussion with Adam McKenna, paying no attention to her. The odd tingling along her spine remained, so strong that Violet turned to look behind her. No one was there. She swiveled full circle, scanning the horizon, but saw no sign of anyone.

Her nerves were getting the best of her. Last night had shaken her, making her start at shadows. Determinedly she went back to work. However, she returned to the castle that evening when her workers left instead of staying on as she usually did. Tonight she preferred not to be alone.

She wondered if Coll would be at supper or whether he planned merely to sleep at Duncally. It would be nice to have company at the meal, even if Coll had looked as if he were
swallowing a bitter draft this morning when she insisted on remaining.

Doubtless he would also take it badly when she informed him that she intended to help him thwart the intruder. However, he would get over it soon enough; he did not hold on to his anger for long, one of the most appealing things about him. Like his smile. Or the way his hair fell forward onto his forehead so that he impatiently brushed it back. Or his long fingers and callused palms, moving with gentle care over her cuts and bruises.

No. She was not going to dwell on those things. She was determined to be cool and casual around Coll. She was not going to sit around mooning over him. She felt things for him that he did not feel for her; she could accept that. She would be unemotional. She would treat him as she would Mrs. Ferguson or one of Uncle Lionel's colleagues.

And if she took a little extra time over her appearance tonight, he would not know about it—and where was the harm, anyway, in wearing a bit of jewelry or arranging her hair in a softer style? It was not as if she were trying to seduce him. She would not know how to even go about such a thing.

Coll was pacing the corridor outside the dining room when she went down to supper. Violet hid the little fillip of pleasure inside her. His eyes ran swiftly down her before he pulled them back to her face.

“Are you joining me for supper?” She kept her voice cool and polite.

“I hope you do not mind. Mrs. Ferguson insisted.”

“I see.” He had not sought out her company. Violet ignored the lump that settled in her throat. “That is kind
of her. It gets somewhat boring by myself. Though I must say I am surprised she would be concerned about it.” Violet walked past him into the dining room.

“Nae.” Coll snorted. “It was not that; it's the impropriety of Meg's brother eating with the servants. I stay in one of the family rooms, so I must have supper where the family does.”

“I am sorry she imposed on you. I can explain to her that you would prefer not to dine with—”

His eyes widened. “Nae! I did not mean that. It's not that I dinna wish to eat with you. I thought you might not want—that you would think it inappropriate. I'm just—” He stopped and sighed. “Och . . . the truth is, all this”—he swept his hand out—“I am not used to eating in grand style.”

Violet smiled at his pained expression. “I am forced to endure it every meal, so I see no reason why you should escape it.”

He relaxed, giving her a sheepish grin as he took his place in the chair across from her.

“At least she did not force you to sit at the head of the table.” Violet's eyes twinkled.

“Thank goodness for that. No doubt she feels only the earl is worthy of that spot.” He leaned back in his chair, watching uneasily as the footman dished food onto his plate.

Violet turned to the servant. “We would prefer to serve ourselves, Jamie.”

The footman regarded her with trepidation. “But Mrs. Ferguson said I was to wait on you.”

“I am sure Mrs. Ferguson will not blame you if I tell you that you may leave.”

“Uh . . . yes, miss.” He shifted uncertainly, cast a glance
toward Coll, then hastily set the food down and left the room.

“You've put young Jamie in a quake. He canna decide whether it's worse to disobey you or Mrs. Ferguson.”

“I feel sure Mrs. Ferguson will add it to the list of my sins and punish me accordingly. I suspect her serving my meals in this mausoleum is retribution for disturbing her order of things.” Violet cast a look of disfavor down the long table with its intimidating array of silver epergnes and candelabras.

“I would have thought you were accustomed to dining in a room like this.”

“Our house had nothing this grand. We ate in the informal dining room usually, and even the formal dining table was half this size. In any case, I have not eaten there these many years. I am much more used to my uncle and aunt's cozy little table.”

“You do not live at home?”

“I do not live at my parents' house. But Uncle Lionel's is my home—
was
my home.” Her eyes glimmered with moisture, and she looked away. “My father and I do not . . . see eye to eye on a number of things, I'm afraid. 'Tis easier to live apart.”

“I can understand that.” Looking more relaxed now, Coll began to eat.

Violet glanced at him in surprise, thinking of the fiddler at the dance, with his quick grin and easy charm. “You do not get on with your father?”

Coll scowled. “Dinna tell me—you found him most agreeable. Women do.” Grudgingly he added, “ 'Tis hard to argue with the man.”

“Yet you found a way to do so, I take it.”

“Nae. We dinna argue.” Coll shrugged one shoulder. “The man is as slippery as wet soap. A will-o'-the-wisp. Here today and gone tomorrow. You canna depend on Alan McGee.”

“I see.” It was easy to glimpse the roots of Coll's rocklike reliability.

“I know,” he went on as if she had argued. “I should not blame him for what is only his nature. Meg takes him as he is. So did our mother. But I find it hard to forgive him for leaving Ma to handle everything on her own. He would come back, and it would be all singing and laughing and telling tall tales. He'd go on about how much he missed us, how beautiful Ma was, and how sweet it was living in the glen. Then after a time, he'd grow restless. You'd see it in his eyes, hear it in his music. And he would leave again.”

“It must have been hard.”

“It was hard for Ma.”

“For you as well,” Violet said mildly. “I imagine a boy needs his father.”

“I managed well enough. The Roses were good to her. To us. And by the time Andrew no longer needed a nurse, I was old enough to help her.”

“No doubt you did.” Violet could imagine the sturdy lad he must have been, big for his age and doggedly taking on jobs that should have been handled by a man. “I am sure your mother appreciated it.”

“She used to say I was her rock.” Coll gave Violet a self-deprecating smile. “I think she mostly meant my head.”

Violet chuckled. “Maybe only a little.”

“Why did you and your father not see eye to eye?”

“You can guess. I was not the daughter he wanted. Not
like my sisters. I harassed my brother's tutors for answers to my questions and often did my brother's schoolwork for him. Father thought I was too interested in reading and too little inclined to be pleasant and compliant.”

“You? Not compliant? I would never have guessed.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “I wanted to learn interesting things, not how to walk and dress and play the piano.”

“You argued?”

“Endlessly. When I was fourteen, he sent me to live awhile with my mother's sister and her husband.” Violet smiled, remembering. “Aunt Caroline and Uncle Lionel. I think his intent was to show me what happened to a woman who did not land a suitable husband—living in a small house and worrying about money, having only one servant to clean and cook, wearing old dresses and not going to fashionable parties. But I was in heaven. My uncle let me read his books, and he answered my questions. I helped him and went to digs and listened to conversations with his colleagues. I lived with them for eight months before I had to go back home.”

“I take it your father found you not improved.”

“No. We had terrible rows. He would cut off my correspondence with Uncle Lionel or confine me to my room or take away my books. It made my mother miserable, and finally Father sent me away to school.”

“Ah.”

“Not a real school.” Violet scowled. “It was a ‘young ladies academy,' which meant we were taught piano and sketching and deportment. How to pour tea and carry on a meaningless conversation and speak enough French to buy gowns in Paris.”

“They sent you home?” Coll guessed.

Violet laughed. “No. They were too fond of my father's money to give up on me. It was better than being immured at home. There was a small library. A tutor came in to teach us literature, and he would lend me books. We went to museums every now and again, and best of all, I was able to correspond with Uncle Lionel. I was able to slip out and go to some interesting lectures. Of course, I had to pretend to be a boy to get into them, but . . .”

“You pretended to be a boy?” Coll's brows shot up.

Violet nodded. “Sometimes I was turned away because they thought I was too young.” She sighed. “It is difficult to pretend to be a man when one is no taller than I.”

“There must have been . . . other difficulties.” His eyes dropped to her breasts, then hastily away.

“I managed.”

“Your father must have relented. Obviously you pursued your studies further.”

“Clearly you don't know my father. After school I had to make my come-out. I did not ‘take,' as you might imagine. Eventually I reached the age of twenty-one, and I was free to pursue the life I wanted rather than the one Father chose for me. I went to live with my aunt and uncle again and studied with Uncle Lionel. I have not seen my father since.”

“Your father disowned you?” Coll gaped at her.

“No. That would have been a scandal in itself. But I am not exactly welcome at my father's table. He does not speak of me, so of course neither do my mother or sisters. I have gone home once or twice when he was away, but it made my mother uncomfortable.”

“What about your brother? Your sisters?” Coll leaned forward, his forehead creased in concern.

“I am something of an embarrassment to them as well.” She smiled at him. “What do you say here—dinna fash yourself? We are all happier this way.”

“Your father sounds a hard man.”

She shrugged. “From what I have seen, most men are like my father.”

“Not all men. There are fathers who are not dictatorial.”

“No doubt. My uncle was different.” A smile quirked her mouth. “And there are fathers who are agreeable will-o'-the-wisps.”

“Och, lass, surely there must be some who are in between the two.”

“Mm. Perhaps.” She toyed with her fork, not looking at him. “There was a man I thought was different. A scholar studying with my uncle. We talked of books and sites and methods. I thought he was a man like Uncle Lionel, and I daydreamed about a life with him. Loving each other. Working together. He asked me to marry him. I said yes. I thought it was all very romantic.”