Enraptured (35 page)

“Damn! Stop it!” His gloved hand clamped down tightly over her nose as well as her mouth, cutting off her air. “Stop fechting me or you're deid.”

Violet continued instinctively to struggle, panicked, but as black dots began to dance before her eyes, rationality resurfaced, and she went limp. His hand moved back to her mouth, and Violet sucked in air.

“I want it,” the voice growled. “If you want to live lang, you'll gie it tae me.”

Violet tried to talk but could not because of his muffling hand.

“I'm gang to take my hand off, but if you scream, I'll snap your neck. You ken?”

She nodded her head decisively, and the hand lifted.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Violet hissed, though she had the sinking feeling that she did. “Give you what?”

“The treasure, you fool. What else?” He gave her a shake. “The French gold.”

“I can't! I don't have it.”

He shook her again, harder this time. “Dinna lie to me! You do.”

“No! I don't. You know it's not in the house; you searched there.” This had to be the intruder. Surely there could not be two villains running about attacking people.

“Nae, not then. But you've found it. You and Munro been sticking your nebs in everywhere.”

“You
have
been watching me!” It had not been her imagination.

“Aye, I've seen you.”

“Then you must know we haven't found anything.”

“You hae! I saw you carrying it frae the auld castle.”

“No, we—” She broke off as he shook her so hard her teeth clacked together.

“I saw you. That great oaf was carrying a sack. You found it.”

“A sack?” For a moment Violet was baffled. “No! That was only our lunch! I tell you, we do not have it. We have not found any treasure.”

“Then you'd best get it. Elseways, you'll find yourself a world of trouble instead.”

“Hey!” a voice shouted from behind them. “Let her gae!” She heard the sound of a person scrambling up the trail, and something hit the ground behind them.

Violet's attacker let out an oath and shoved her to the ground. Violet struggled to her feet, impeded by her skirts and cloak, and whirled around. Her attacker was no longer there, only the swaying branches in the dark to show where he had gone. A walking stick lay across the path where it had been thrown, and farther down the path Angus McKay was hurrying toward her as fast as his aged legs would carry him, cursing all the while.

“Angus!” Violet picked up the old man's walking stick and hurried to meet him.

Angus leaned over, bracing his hands on his thighs, and panted. “Stupid, bloody, useless legs!”

“Are you all right?” Violet bent down to peer into his face.

“Of course I am! I'm no' the ain he was grabbing! Gie me that.” Angus jerked the staff from her hand and planted one end in the ground, using it to help him straighten up. “You shouldna be gang home sae late, you foolish lass.”

“I wouldn't have if I'd realized people were going to be jumping out at me!” Her tone softened. “Thank you. I am very glad you came along.”

“Och, fat lot of help I was tae you.”

“You scared him off.”

“Aye, weel, it was a guid thing I decided to gae home this way,” Angus grumbled. “Where is himself then? All over the glen these days, but no' here when you need him.”

“Coll?” Violet bristled. “I don't need Coll to protect me.”

“Aye, weel, you need someone.”

Violet did not bother to argue, just let the old man grumble and fuss until his anxiety had worn away. He insisted on walking up to the Duncally gardens with her before he turned aside to head toward his own cottage.

“Tell that lad to keep a better eye on you,” he said as a parting shot and trudged off, muttering.

Violet turned toward the house. Whatever Old Angus thought, she had no intention of telling Coll about the attack. He would only harangue her and probably insist that she walk with one of the workers back and forth to the house. Besides, she refused to run to him for help. Not with the way things lay between them. It would make her insistence that she was an equal and competent to take care of herself look utterly foolish if, at the slightest sign of trouble, she sought protection from him.

Coll couldn't do anything about it, anyway. However much the attacker threatened, whatever he did, they did not have the treasure—not that she would give it to him if she did. Violet scowled. The last thing she intended to do was give in to that blackguard's threats.

She would simply take more care in the future. She had been unprepared for this attack, but no longer. She would get a sturdy walking stick like Angus's. And she would be more careful about looking around and being alert. She would even go back and forth to the ruins with her workers.

Perhaps she would start searching for the treasure again. On her own, of course; she would not ask for Coll's assistance. If he wanted to continue to sulk, let him. She would calmly, coolly go on about her business. She did not need Coll Munro.

Coll was certain he was living in hell. He had been doing so for ten days—every aching night burned into his brain.
He hated the bed in which he slept because Violet was not there. He hated the chamber in which his bed lay because it did not carry the scent of roses that clung faintly to everything in her room. And he hated the whole bloody, pernicious house because he was trapped there for God only knew how long—the rest of his life, he was beginning to think—unwilling to leave Violet unprotected, determined not to touch her, his whole body continually thrumming with unsatisfied lust.

All he had to do was look at her and his nerves began to sizzle. But if he avoided the sight of her, he thought about her instead. It was, perhaps, even worse to think about her, for then he recalled the way she looked beneath him as he drove to his climax, the way she melted into ecstasy under his hands, the way she took his breath away with a smile.

Nor was it desire only—though that bubbled inside him like a volcano—but a host of other stings and burns, as well. The emptiness when he was alone. The cold that pierced him at Violet's aloof glance. The absence of laughter, of argument, of lively discussion. Her rejection of him was a constant gaping wound.

Of course,
she
was unaffected by it all. The woman had a heart of stone. No word, no glance, betrayed anything but serene calm. Violet came down to supper every night, perfectly able to make meaningless chitchat all through the meal, with none of the tongue-tied awkwardness that blanketed him. She spent her evenings contentedly alone, usually puttering around in the library—unless he was there. More than once, even though his good sense had screamed that it was a foolish idea, Coll had gone to the library. He told himself that he went late so he could avoid Violet, but in truth
he was there only because of the idiotic hope that she might come in, and that there, in that room where they had been so often together, he could somehow bridge the gulf between them. She never came.

The worst of it was that Coll knew that all he had to do to end his torment was to give in to her. To swallow all pride and return to her even though she had wanted nothing of him—not his name, his protection, his entire life—only what lay between his legs. She'd take that if he was willing to accept the pitiful scraps of a life she offered him. What sort of a weak imitation of a man would that make him? Coll wished Violet had never come to Duncally. Yet the thought of not knowing her cut him like a knife.

He threw himself into his work, hoping it would free him from thoughts of her. Hoping he would be tired and sore enough to sleep when he fell into his bed each night. It rarely worked. He had spent most of the previous day working on Tom Connery's farm, helping him repair a stone wall. Still, slumber had eluded Coll for hours. When he had finally fallen asleep, he had awakened before dawn, sweating and rock hard, from a lascivious dream that he could not remember. That had been the end of sleep.

Coll left the house early, stopping first in the kitchen for a cup of Sally's tea. She looked at him in that worried way and pressed him to eat, as if he were starving to death just because he had missed supper a time or two. How was a man to endure sitting at the table with Violet, pretending to eat when it all tasted of ashes, when all he could think about was the way each morsel of idle conversation fell from her soft, rosy lips?

He arrived at Connery's croft before the man had finished
his own breakfast. Coll swallowed his comments about the man's laziness—he was well aware that his temper was quick these days, causing everyone to walk on eggshells around him—and went down to haul up the stones from the brae himself. They finished the wall by midafternoon and Coll left, wondering what he could find to do for the next few hours. He had hoped to avoid Violet's presence for another meal.

He almost accounted himself lucky when he came across the ewe that had blundered into a muddy ditch and gotten mired in it. His opinion changed when, splattered with mud and still unable to extract her, he had to walk back to Connery's croft to get a rope to pull her out.

He had managed to wrap the rope around her, with a great deal of struggling and cursing, when he heard the sound of a rider. He did not turn around until a cool masculine voice said, “Well. Wrestling with sheep now?”

Coll turned to look up at the man silhouetted against the sun. “Jack. What the devil are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing. Never thought I'd see you turn shepherd.”

“Och, and you never will. The more I'm around the creatures, the less I can abide them. She's not even the bloody earl's animal, she's one of Dougal MacKenzie's, but she's well and truly stuck. I canna leave her like this.” Coll lifted his hand to shield his eyes against the sun. “Don't just sit there, man, get down here and help me.”

“In the mud?” Jack Kensington grimaced, but swung off his horse, leaving it placidly cropping grass.

“Just pull.” Coll tossed him the end of the rope. “I'll shove her from this end. I'm already so covered in mud, it'll make no difference.”

Jack shrugged and took the rope. Pulling it around behind him and leaning against it, he began to back up. Coll shoved the animal's hindquarters. With an audible squelch, the sheep's back legs came free, and the ewe scrambled up the side of the ditch. The sudden shift of momentum sent both men tumbling.

“How is it you get me into these situations?” Jack grumbled, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

“Me! It's you that's always pulling me into trouble. At least you're not the one sitting in the mud.”

Jack looked down at Coll sprawled at the bottom of the ditch and began to laugh. “True. And glad of it.”

Coll climbed out of the ditch, wiping his hands clean on the grass. Little enough, he thought ruefully, could be done with the rest of him. He unwound the rope from the sheep and flopped down on the grass beside Jack. “What brings you here? You passing by or did you track me down?”

“The latter. I went by Duncally and they told me you were at the Connery croft. I was on my way there when I saw you rolling about in the ditch.”

“I'm guessing Isobel sent you.” Coll looked away, idly plucking at the blades of grass.

“You know her well. She wants you to visit. We have not seen you in some time. I scarcely noticed myself, you understand, but Isobel misses you. You might bring Lady Violet along. Isobel and Aunt Elizabeth admire her.”

“Mm.”

“I'm even curious to hear about your treasure hunt.”

Coll rolled his eyes. “Aye, well, that's as dead as everything else.”

Jack glanced at him, then went on carefully, “The invitation,
of course, is only my wife's excuse. Her real reason for sending me is to inquire into your state of mind.”

“Pry, you mean.”

“If you want to be blunt about it.”

“You can tell Mrs. Kensington that I am fine and she has no need to worry about me.”

“I will be sure to do so. But after that, she'll ask me if you look like you've been sleeping and eating. I, you understand, shall have to answer honestly that you've shadows the color of Loch Baille beneath your eyes and hollows in your cheeks.”

“I dinna.” Coll sent him a baleful glance. “And you are a traitor to males everywhere.”

“I am a man who likes to sleep in my bed every night. After my wife has established the state of your health—or the lack thereof—next will come the inquisition as to whether it's true you have taken to frequenting the tavern in Kinclannoch.”

“Once. I went there one time ten bloody days ago.”

“I was told you were singing laments.”

Coll winced. “Dinna remind me.”

“Isobel holds that the laments are an ominous sign. But she is more concerned about the reports of a fistfight.”