Enraptured (20 page)

“And crawl to the inner cave where it was hidden,” Coll added. “She would have had to go on hands and knees several yards through a tunnel, dragging the gold with her.”

“It would have been lighter to carry if it was in several bags, but then she would have had to make several trips. In either case, it seems unlikely that she would have moved the treasure far from the cave.”

“I agree. She would also have had to be careful not to be seen. There were British soldiers around and men returning to their homes. She could not trust anyone, even people she knew, not with gold or the name of her lover. She probably did it in the night or at dawn.”

“Which makes proximity even more of a necessity.” Violet turned to her map, putting her finger on the spot marking the cave. “Where was her home?”

Coll leaned over, bracing one hand on the table, and drew on the map. He was intensely aware of Violet, only inches from him. He hoped she did not notice the unsteadiness in his fingers as he sketched in the house. His eyes went to the curve of her neck as she bent over the map. Tiny wisps had escaped from her upswept hair and curled at her nape. He imagined twining a silken strand around his finger. Or bending down to press his lips at the juncture of her neck and shoulders. Coll thrust his hands into his pockets and stepped back. Violet looked up at him, her brows raised, and he realized that he'd missed whatever she had just said.

“I'm sorry. I was, um—what did you say?”

“I asked what the actual distances are. How long would it take to go from Faye's home to the cave?”

“Oh. Well.” He sat down, scooting the chair back and turning so that he was facing her. “Our cottage is very close to the loch. She would have rowed the dory to the cave. It would take me a bit more time than it did to row to Baillannan the other night. It would take her longer than me, but I'm not sure how much, given her condition. Thirty minutes, perhaps?”

“Then she would have loaded the bag or bags in the boat and—what?—returned to her home?”

“Probably. Of course, she could have rowed along the shore to the village or on around the promontory.”

“Or to the other side of the loch, the Baillannan side.”

Coll nodded. “Yes. But she would not be as familiar with the village as she would be the land around our cottage. And she dinna grow up at Baillannan as Meg and I did. I think she would be likeliest to row back to our dock.”

“She would be tired after all that rowing and hauling. It
would make more sense to take it home than make another trip from home to the new hiding place the next day.”

He nodded. “She could have found a safe enough spot in or around the house to leave it for a day.”

“So it is probably hidden not far from her house.” Violet tapped her forefinger on the block representing Faye's home.

Coll leaned forward, steeling himself against the lure of Violet's nearness, and drew his finger in a large, misshapen circle around the cottage. “She would have been very familiar with the area on this side of the loch through the woods rising up to Duncally and back to the cliffs above the sea. The land around the circle is open, not much place to hide anything there. It's much the same on the promontory where the ruins are located. But the rest of it, the trees and burns and paths, that's where the Munro women have always gathered their plants. I've even heard people call it the Spaewife Woods.”

“
Spaewife
?”

“A seer, one who has ‘the sight.' Some people have named our home the Spaewife's Cottage. The Munro to whom the laird gave the land was said to see the future, and the Laird of Baillannan relied on her to warn him or to help him lay his plans.”

“Handy.”

“It was indeed.” He turned an amused glance to Violet. She was leaning, chin on hand, watching him, her mouth curved up in a smile. His good intentions crumbled in an instant. Suddenly he could think of nothing but kissing her . . . and more than kissing her. Lust flared deep in his belly, and he pictured himself pulling her up from her chair and into his arms, bending her back over the table. He imagined her
hair spilling across the polished mahogany, her body yielding beneath his. Maps, theories, questions, were swept away, along with morals and manners, crushed beneath the tide of his surging desire.

“Coll? Are you all right?”

He pulled his mind back from the brink. “What? Yes. Yes, of course.”

Violet stared at him, and he wondered what she had seen in his eyes, if she had glimpsed his thoughts. She was perched straight as an arrow on the edge of her chair, her hands folded in her lap.

“I was—just thinking.” Coll wished like the devil he
could
think. He turned, focusing on the map. “It's still a large area to search. Faye could have dug a hole and buried the bags anywhere.”

“Yes, but she said in the letter that he would be able to find it. That their child could find it. So she wouldn't have put it in some random place. She must have marked it or left something that would enable her daughter to find it. A clue. A note.” Violet gestured toward the old book. “Her journal seems the likeliest place. She meant for that book to be passed down; you said it was filled with her remedies.”

“Yes. She did it for her child, but Janet, my mother, didn't know it existed. It was only recently that Meg found the book.”

“Have you read it?”

“No. I looked through it a bit the other night, trying to find a remedy, but that's all. I dinna think even Meg has read it carefully. Her main interest was finding references to the man whom our grandmother loved.”

“I think that's where we should start—the journal. If we read it carefully, maybe we'll find that clue.”

“Yes. Of course.” It was a terrible idea. Coll thought of sitting beside Violet every evening, heads together over the book, his senses bombarded by her nearness, his flesh quivering with the urge to touch her. It would be the most exquisite torment. There was nothing he wanted more.

V
iolet hummed under her breath
as she walked into the library. She and Coll had been reading Faye Munro's journal for three nights now, and though they had not yet found a word about the treasure, she was looking forward to the evening. She found the journey of discovery as fascinating as the goal itself.

Something about taking that journey with Coll was also intensely exciting. Just her sitting next to him, their shoulders almost touching, was enough to raise her pulse, and the soft rumble of his voice both soothed and stirred her. She found herself daydreaming about spending all her evenings this way, talking over their day's activities and unraveling knotty problems. Every night she was more reluctant to leave the library and retire to her room, which seemed increasingly lonely, dark, and cold.

She feared, however, that Coll was tiring of the whole thing. Though he participated willingly enough in their search of the journal, he was clearly becoming restless and
tense. His body was taut beside her, as though he were coiled and about to spring up at any moment. Indeed, he frequently did jump up to pace around the room.

They had given up keeping watch for an intruder, for by now everyone in the glen was aware that Coll was staying in Duncally, and no one would likely want to confront him. Yet Coll often stayed up late, prowling around the house after Violet had gone off to bed. Once Violet had awakened, heart pounding, sure that she had heard a noise. Dawn was breaking, and when Violet peeked out through her drapes, she saw Coll walking about, wearing no coat despite the cold, his head down as if deep in thought.

Violet suspected that he was troubled. She was tempted to ask him about it, wanting to help him, but the remoteness in him lately discouraged her questions. So she did her best to focus solely on the task before them.

They had given the first part of the journal only a cursory examination, reasoning that the issue of the treasure did not arise until after Malcolm Rose returned from France. Most of the beginning consisted of remedies and Faye's joy in being able to record them, with only a few vague references to the man who had given her the journal.

When they reached the section after Malcolm sailed for France, Violet found it difficult not to get caught up in the girl's wistful musings. Faye did her best to remain circumspect about her unknown lover, but she spoke frequently of her “empty heart” and her impatience for her lover's return. Then joy burst forth upon the pages, making it clear that Sir Malcolm had returned. That had been followed by worry, as well as elation when she discovered she was pregnant. Soon,
Violet thought, there must be some mention of the treasure and hiding it.

Coll was seated at the table when Violet came into the library. He stood up, and for an instant a look that she had seen in his eyes often in the last few days appeared, then vanished . . . as it always did before she could identify it.

She gave him a searching glance as she took her seat. “You look tired. You should rest more.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I've had a bit of trouble sleeping.” He shrugged and gave her a tight smile. “No doubt the beds are too fine for me.”

Clearly he had no interest in discussing the matter—at least not with her. She turned toward the book open on the table. “Where did we end last night?”

“This part's all about comfrey and some other herb, then a remedy.” He carefully turned the page.

Violet was distracted by the sight of his hands on the book—so large and strong, roughened by calluses and marked with scars here and there, yet his fingers moved with delicacy on the fragile paper, supple and gentle. Violet pulled her thoughts back from their wayward path. “She mentions the cave. Look, she says she gathered Irish moss today, but then says, ‘Naught there. I fear he is lost forever.' She must mean she searched for a message in their cave.”

“Aye.”

“And this—something about—the dory, perhaps? Can you read this word? You are better than I at deciphering her hand.”

“I've had some practice the past two months, reading
Mardoun's chicken scratches. Clearly handwriting is not an attribute valued in earls. Nae, I think that word is
Davey
, not
dory
.” His voice sounded odd, distracted.

Was he leaning closer to her? “I see. ‘Davey is very good to me.' ” He
was
closer; she was certain she felt the touch of his breath on her hair. She lost her place on the page. “I, um . . .”

“What are you wearing?” Coll blurted out.

“What?”

Color flared along Coll's cheekbones, and he pulled back. “You smell different.”

“I
smell
different?”

Now the red washed over the rest of his face. “Not that you smell, well, I mean you do, of course, you smell wond—quite nice. But tonight you—it's something different. Your perfume. A different perfume, that's what I . . .”

He looked so flustered and furtive that Violet began to chuckle. “Sally McEwan made a cream for my hands. They were chapped from the cold. It has attar of roses in it. See?” She stretched out her arm toward him.

His hand clamped around her wrist, and he pulled in a breath, his eyes closing. “You smell like summer.” Coll released her arm, almost shoving it away, and jumped to his feet. He began to pace, his hands jammed into his pockets. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

Violet watched him, uncertain. Her insides were a tumult of sensations. The touch of his hand around her wrist, the look on his face as he breathed in her scent, the husky quality of his voice—all vibrated through her, turning her warm and shaky and eager. “Coll, are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine.” His tone was sharp and impatient.
“I'm sorry. I'm—it's just a problem . . . with one of the crofters. I've been distracted; I apologize. Let's go on.”

“All right.” Violet was sure he was lying, but it would serve nothing to say so. Her instinct was to pursue it, to wring a better answer from him, but she held her tongue, afraid to speak lest the answer cut her.

He slid the book closer to Violet. “Why don't you read aloud, and I'll listen? I think better on my feet.”

“Of course.” Violet returned to the journal. “That's all she says about that. There's another recipe.” Violet read each snippet, which ranged from comments on the weather to the pain in her back to the black feelings that plagued her in the middle of the night. “Poor woman. It's clear she's close to despair. ‘The bairn is my hope.' Now it's ‘wet November.' Wait, now she says, ‘I watched the sun rise this morn, all gold and pink glory. It made me think of him and how we watched it.' ” Violet swallowed against the unexpected tears rising in her throat. “There's a space, and she says, ‘My burden should rest with those who went before.' Coll . . .” She turned toward him.