Enraptured (18 page)

His eyes flew open. “Violet!”

One hand shot out and grasped her arm, and he rolled onto his back, gazing up at her with hot, dreamy eyes. His mouth curved in a slow smile, and his other hand went to her hip, spreading his fingers out in a caress. “It
is
you.”

His skin was searing hot where he touched her, and the soft movement of his fingers made warmth blossom between her legs.

“Of course it is I.” She fought her jangling nerves. “Who else would it be? Are you sick? You feel hot.”

Coll's eyes widened. He jerked his hands back as if he had laid them upon a hot stove and shot up to a sitting position, grabbing the covers as they slid farther down his body. “Violet. What are you doing here?”

“I came to wake you up, remember? Really, Coll, are you feverish?” Violet put her palm against his forehead, and he skittered back, clutching the covers.

“No! I'm fine!” His voice rang in the silence. He lowered his tone. “I am not feverish. I—um—I was dreaming.”

“Oh. A nightmare.” Violet nodded. “That was why you were twitching.”

“Twitching? What was I—did I say anything?” Alarm mingled with the dazed expression on his face.

“Nothing I could understand.”

“Thank God.” He pulled up his knees beneath the covers and crossed his arms on them, muttering to himself as he dropped his head to his arms.

“It's most annoying when you mumble like that. I can't understand what you're saying.”

“It's better you don't know.”

“No doubt.” Violet's eyes strayed down his back, bared by his position. Her fingers itched to glide along the bony ridge of his spine, and she curled them into her palms. She noticed that the covers had slipped more when he moved, falling away at his side so that a slice of his bare hip was exposed. He
was
naked beneath the sheets.

Her mouth went dry as dust. She had to wrench her eyes away. “Well . . . then, um, I shall go. If you are, uh, sufficiently awake.”

“I am wide-awake,” he snapped, then sighed. “I am sorry. I'm a bear when I awaken. Anyone will tell you.”

“That many have been with you when you wake up?”

“What? No. I mean—I dinna mean . . . Meg and Ma and um . . .”

“And a few other women.” Violet watched the color flare along his cheekbones. She wasn't sure why the sight made the nerves dance beneath her skin or why she enjoyed the tumult. Or why she felt such a compelling urge to provoke him. It was almost as if she wanted to see him explode.

That was such an odd, disturbing thought that she turned away abruptly. “Well. I shall go to bed then. Good night.”

Coll stared after Violet as she strode into the dark hall and out of sight. Letting out a low noise, half groan, half growl, he flopped back onto the bed. He rolled onto his side and
buried his face in his pillow, muttering oaths, none of them adequate to express what burned through him. What if she had understood his mutterings? Had she realized the state he was in?

He had been dreaming of her. It had been summer in his dream and they'd been swimming at the loch. She had worn only a shift, and the wet cotton clung to her body, revealing every delectable inch. She lay back on the ground beside the loch, holding up her arms to him, and he went to her, burying his mouth in hers, his hands sliding under her shift and over her slick skin.

Then she had said his name, and he had opened his eyes to see her standing before him. For an instant, still lost in passion and sleep, he had reached for her. He was fortunate he had come to full consciousness before he dragged her into his bed.

He grunted. Aye, fortunate. So much better to be lying here sweating and shaken, still hard as a rock and no chance of release, at least not in the way he ached for. Why did he let the woman torment him so? Yes, she had those doe-soft eyes, lambent and huge, and her breasts were full and soft and would cup so sweetly in his palms. Her lips were luscious, eminently kissable. But other women were beautiful, other women were softer, sweeter, more pliant.

Yet none of them beckoned him as she did. That tartness in her made it all the more tantalizing to taste her sweetness. The possibility of watching the warmth and pleasure unfold in her lured him. He yearned for the powerful, primal satisfaction of awakening that most hidden part of her—as if she had locked inside her some deep, shimmering secret that only he had the key to open.

Coll sat up. He must get up and dress; he must turn his mind to other things, forcing the roiling, pulsing hunger inside him to ease. If he did not learn to do so, it would be an exquisite torture living in the same house with her. Perversely, it seemed that he ached to race straight toward that torment.

Sighing, he lay back, crooking his arm across his eyes, and, for just a few more moments, gave himself up to thoughts of her.

Violet sailed into the dining room the next morning. Despite the fewer hours of sleep the previous night, she felt strangely invigorated. Coll was already seated at the table, nursing a cup of tea.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, going to the sideboard.

Coll's response was more a low grunt than a greeting. Violet cast a glance at him over her shoulder. His eyes were clouded and his hair tousled, drifting every which way. A long, thin, red line ran down one side of his face where he had obviously slept against something ridged. He hunched over his cup of tea, one hand cradling it, as if it were his only comfort, looking rumpled and sleepy and disagreeable. Somehow the sight of him lightened her chest.

“It's a lovely morning, isn't it?” She piled food onto her plate.

“It's raining.”

“Ah, but rain can be lovely, can it not? I suppose it's all in how one looks at it.” She sat down across from him with a smile.

Coll cast her a jaundiced look. “Are you always this . . . bubbly in the mornings?”

“You, I take it, do not greet the morning with pleasure. I would have thought you were accustomed to rising early, growing up in the country.”

“I am accustomed to it. Doesn't mean I enjoy it.” He took another swallow of tea.

“Perhaps I should be the one taking the last watch. I appear to be more alert.” Violet decided not to mention that she had struggled to keep her eyes open on her own watch. “Though I admit I would be less useful at subduing the intruder.”

“Mm. Perhaps you could talk him into insensibility.” Coll looked up at her from beneath his lashes, eyes glinting.

Violet struggled to suppress a smile, but could not. “Ah, I see your brain has awakened.”

Reaching over to snag a slice of bacon from Violet's plate, Coll leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully as he studied her face. “And I can see that you've some mad new scheme on your mind. Go ahead. Out with it.”

She lifted her brows haughtily. “Just for that I should not tell you.”

He simply waited.

“Oh, very well. I did a good deal of thinking last night as I waited for our culprit.”

“Lord help us.”

“Returning to the house multiple times would increase the thief's chances of getting caught. It seems very foolish.”

“Which would be unsurprising if it's Will Ross.”

“That may be true, but I wondered if the small items taken were merely incidental to the main purpose. An impulsive
grab, thinking it would not be noticed and reasoning that he deserved some bit of payment for failing in his main objective.”

“Which was?” Coll lifted his brows.

“What if he was searching for something larger? More valuable. So valuable that it is worth returning time and again to search for it.” Violet leaned forward, her eyes intent on Coll's face.

“And what might this valuable object be?”

“Well, Mr. McKay suggested—”

“Auld Angus! What the devil does he have to do with it?”

“Nothing, except to offer his opinion, as he is wont to do.” Violet's lips curved up in amusement.

“I might have known. When did he favor you with this opinion?”

“He's come to the site twice now. The first day it was to critique our work. Yesterday he seemed more interested in the intruder.”

“I'd like to know how he learns everything that happens in the glen when he lives like a hermit.” Coll glowered. “I suppose he pointed out I'd bungled the thing.”

“No. So far he has not had to go further afield than my workers to find ample things to criticize. He and the workers discussed the possibility that the intruder was seeking treasure.”

“Treasure! Oh, bloody hell . . .”

“Adam seemed to think your sister and the earl discovered the French gold brought home by Malcolm Rose. Angus declared that to be nonsense.”

“Angus has the right of it—much as I hate to agree with the man. All Meg found was a bit of leather and a couple of
coins. Hardly a treasure. Those coins could have been the laird's traveling money.”

Violet frowned. “I can see that you are determined to take the most prosaic view possible.”

“I'm a prosaic man,” Coll retorted. “Simple explanations tend to be the likeliest.”

“Be that as it may, the existence of the treasure is not the point.”

“No? Then what is?”

“The fact that people
believe
it exists. And that some believe it is hidden in this house.
That
could be what the intruder is looking for.”

Coll set his jaw stubbornly, but after a moment he let out a sigh and relaxed. “You may very well be right. But there's nothing I can do about it if people are determined to believe it's here.”

“Well, there is
one
thing we could do.”

“Aye, and what's that, then?”

“We can find it first.”

A
treasure hunt? That is your
solution?” Coll stared at her.

“No, my solution is
finding
the treasure. Until it is discovered, people will persist in thinking it is here and will look for it. But if we found the treasure and secured it in a bank, they will know hunting for it here is useless.”

“But I have no idea where it is.”

“That is why we have to discover what happened to it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You just want to look for buried treasure.”

Violet laughed. “I do in fact enjoy a good puzzle. That does not make finding it any less necessary. Besides, it will give us something to enliven the evenings.”

“I think my evenings have been lively enough since you arrived.” Coll sighed. “Very well. But exactly how do you propose to find it? The one place I am certain we would not find it is here in Duncally. Damon's family was on the opposite
side of the war. They would never have been entrusted with money meant to save Prince Charlie's cause.”

“Might they not have stolen it from the laird? Do you know anything about what happened to it?”

“We know that Lord Mardoun was in England at the time, not here. We know that Sir Malcolm returned because Isobel and Jack found his body. And we know he was murdered by his wife and brother.”