Highlander Mine (9 page)

I held back from him, but our breath mingled in an erotic tease. Neither of us would either relent or surrender. This mutual fascination was going to be a test of wills, so it seemed. Knox Mackenzie was used to getting his way, in whatever it was he happened to pursue. I had no doubt that any woman he conquested would be instantly and willingly subservient to whatever request was made of her. He was mourning the death of his wife but it seemed to me that he was taking his brothers’ advice to heart:
’tis time to move on.
He seemed charged with some sparked emotion that shone out of his eyes.

The moment was deliciously laden with possibility, yet neither of us moved. We were entranced yet stubborn. Conflicting urges warred in me feverishly. I desperately wanted to bridge the divide, to ease closer and touch my lips to his. I was imagining the softness of them, the taste. I knew if I surrendered myself to his touch I would be overcome with raging, riveting responses that I badly wanted to experience. I was on the edge of a thrilling precipice. Just one more step...

But then he would win yet again.

“Give me what I want,” he whispered.

I felt my breath quicken. What was his meaning? What
did
he want? A kiss? Something more? Or something else entirely? And his quiet command provided exactly the impetus I needed to resist him. That frank, arrogant authority. My assumed obedience.

I always get what I want.

The implications of his certainty—that I
would
give him what he wanted—incited me to do the exact opposite. I stepped back, breaking the spell he held me in. I could see that this small, new distance displeased him. His brimming satisfaction in the face of my enthrallment turned and his mouth curled in a light scowl.

“This interrogation isn’t proving quite as informative as I had hoped,” he said.

The comment bothered me. Was
that
all he’d wanted of me? Had he staged the attraction between us as a ruse to lure me and tease me into giving him the information he was after? Very likely, I realized. A man like him wouldn’t truly be interested in a woman like me. Look at the state of me, I thought. My hair was a wild mane, my dress barely covered me. I was curvy and windblown and unrestrained. I was a wanton mess compared to the slender, elegant refinement he was used to.

You bastard,
I thought.
You scoundrel.
I was cornered, bracketed by his muscular thighs and the big bulk of his body. My inner angel and devil were distracting me with irritating banter, mostly because I was having trouble deciphering which was which. In fact, I knew Knox Mackenzie was neither a bastard nor a scoundrel. Far from it. He was questioning me in the interest of his clan and his family.
He’s playing with me, deceiving me by pretending to want me.
Perhaps not. Perhaps his urges were as genuine as they seemed, as genuine as my own.
There’s one sure way to find out. Kiss him. Kiss his surly mouth.

The combined forces of his allure and his cunning felt downright dangerous. There was no telling what I could be talked into under this kind of influence. I could feel my heart racing in a staccato thrum, not with fear but with lingering sympathy and, most of all, with flooding desire. I wanted to cry for him and his losses, and for my own. I wanted to be suitable for him, knowing only too well that I most likely never would be. It wasn’t something to pine over. It simply was. I knew only too well the uselessness of futile wishes.

“I want the truth from you,” he said. As though I owed him something. His low, sincere tone was quietly commanding, as always. But my unruliness and my caution had been provoked. I wanted to rebel against this total control he couldn’t help but issue.

First false desire and now subtle intimidation.

“Go to hell,” I heard myself whisper.

He didn’t even flinch. But his eyes flashed. “I’m already in hell,” he replied darkly.

My lips curled in a cynical smirk that was more about self-preservation than anything to do with actual cynicism. I guessed he was talking about his losses and his loneliness, but even with those crosses to bear, his lot was still one of the most fortunate I had ever encountered. I glanced over his shoulder, out the window to the picturesque orchards beyond. “Well, I suppose hell is relative, in that case. All
I
can see is paradise.”

His transfixed gaze was on my parted lips, roving lower, to the swell of my full, rounded breasts. I realized my shawl had come loose again in my distraction. The absurdly low cut of my gown was emphasized by my unsettled, breathy stance as I leaned back from him, my back arched. I almost felt a small triumph at the entranced look on his face. He looked deep into my wide eyes as he repeated softly, “All
I
can see is paradise.”

It was then that Knox Mackenzie leaned closer. I prepared myself for the most intense sensations of my life even as I thought smugly:
I won. He can’t resist. He relented first.
I felt giddy and triumphant before he even touched me, with superfluous glee and intemperate anticipation.

A sharp knock rapped on the door, spearing the moment.

He stepped back abruptly at the sudden interruption.

Knox composed himself, but I could detect an irate incredulity in him. Something about his reaction was almost comical; it was just so different from anything I was used to. I imagined the translation of his expression along these lines:
my loyal subjects know better than to trouble me in this way.
I couldn’t hold back a smile at the thought, which did not escape his notice. He stared at me and, with intense effort, I smoothed my face into an expression of innocence. Something about his incense was crazily endearing, and mixed as it was with my heady reaction to him, the effect entertained my little devil to no end. I tried to restrain myself, but a small bubble of laughter escaped me.

He contemplated me coolly, clearly annoyed and baffled by my small outburst. “I can’t imagine why you would find humor in any of this,” he seethed, to which I giggled again, lightly clapping a hand over my mouth.

Knox strode toward the door and I pitied whoever it was that had interrupted him—
us
—in the throes of...whatever it was we’d been in the throes of. One of his underlings would surely be subjected to some unwarranted wrath. But it wasn’t one of his officers or servants at the door. My small nephew darted under Knox Mackenzie’s arm, which was still outstretched and holding the door open, and ran toward me.

“Ami!” Hamish said, reaching me and holding up a small yet very shiny metal sword. My nephew was out of breath but triumphant with his prize. The weapon was well crafted, I noticed, even though I had no experience in the craftsmanship of swords. It looked solid and attractive, as these things go, and was the perfect size for Hamish. A new belt hung around his waist with a leather scabbard attached. This, too, was artfully designed and inlaid with threaded etchings in swirled flame-shaped patterns.

Hamish displayed the sword, held up with both hands for my appreciation. Pride and undiluted excitement were written all over his face and I felt indebted to Knox Mackenzie. For providing such an easy fix. Hamish had not had an easy life, especially recently.

Hamish’s father’s financial struggles were such a constant that they seemed more a part of James’s character than a result of external forces. Unbeknownst to us, his crippling debts had plagued him since well before my sister had married him. Cecelia had married James, who was ten years her senior, because he had offered a refuge for us at a time when we had been utterly desperate. Our parents had died, only a month apart, and left us a surprisingly meager inheritance that had mostly been eaten up by various creditors. My father, despite his respected status as a gifted doctor, was a kind and softhearted man, a truly compassionate practitioner who treated the infirmed whether they could pay him or not. He never turned a patient away. People would knock on our doors in the dark of night. We could hear their pleas from our beds, high above the street.
Please, Dr. Taylor. I beg you. Please take pity on my child. Please take pity on my wife, my cousin, my mother.
My father might have been a saint, but he died a poor man. In the days before our stately home—almost entirely owned by the bank—had been sold, Cecelia and I huddled together in the candlelight, shivering against the wind at the windows. I remembered it vividly, the sudden emptiness of our lives, and the terrified uncertainty.
What will become of us?
I remembered asking my sister at the time.
Where will we go?
James Scott was known to my sister. For a time, he had pursued her. At first she’d brushed off his advances, claiming he was shady. After the death of our parents, however, when the winter grew colder and the money ran out, she gave in to his proposals. And so Cecelia had taken her vows, believing him to be a successful businessman whose assets would shield us from poverty. I don’t know if he lied to her at the time, or embellished the extent of his endowments to lure her. Whatever had taken place, James Scott’s financial situation was far less attractive than it might have first appeared, and only continued to deteriorate. I could no longer go to school to pursue my dream of becoming a teacher. We were forced to live in the gaming club, rather than at a separate, more acceptable residence. And James was forced to turn to the darker side of business, resorting not only to gambling, but to smuggling, illegal trading and worse.

Hamish, who knew nothing of the more refined side of life, except through the books I read to him, had never felt an affinity for his father. Even as a very small child, he seemed to understand that his father was lacking in traits that he valued. My nephew learned the tricks of the trade, as we were forced to do to survive, but his interests were in the pages of the adventure stories we read together. Honor, bravery, loyalty: these were the ideas that captivated him. And now, with his angelic face lit with delight, I could detect that he had found aspects of that fantasy here, in this unexpected reality. His wooden sword had served him like a talisman, a link to a world far from the backstreets of Edinburgh, where men aspired to greatness, where heroism was the goal, not deceit. And this new shiny metal treasure seemed to embody something that had been missing from his life. Not hope. Hope tended to be disappointing, for the most part. This sword glimmered with something more concrete. Escape. And attainment. With
this
sword in his hand, Hamish could truly aspire to the ideas of valor that had so captured his imagination.

That symbolic weapon, clutched as it was in Hamish’s grip, seemed to signal a change. For him, and for us. Hamish could begin to protect himself, as he would have need to do, against the evildoers that sought him out, if they were ever to find him. That small sword felt wildly auspicious, and I was grateful to Knox Mackenzie for providing it. For somehow introducing a real glimmer of fortunateness into our lives. In that moment, I resolved to leave Hamish here, at Kinloch. My journey was not yet over—I had yet to find out what had happened to my sister. But Hamish would be safe here, I felt certain. Knox Mackenzie might be arrogant and self-important, but he was also honorable. And, surprisingly,
caring.
He had read the simple desire of a nine-year-old boy and had gone out of his way to grant it. Without any obligation to do so, at all.

I felt like throwing my arms around Knox Mackenzie and giving him a very appreciative kiss.

But, of course, I did not.

“You’re early,” Knox commented, to Hamish.

My mind was whirling, hatching a plan. Now that I had found a place to leave Hamish, where I knew he would at least be fed and protected behind guarded clan walls, I could begin to plan my return to Edinburgh. I would need money to pay for food and possibly transport. I remembered Knox’s sisters’ offers to help me find work, and I thought I might go to them, to ask them if there were tasks I could perform for them here at Kinloch in exchange for some coinage.

“Amelia.” Knox’s voice trod through my thoughts, scattering them. “I might ask if you’d enjoy a stroll through the flower gardens, just to the west of the orchards. Or you might prefer to return to your guest chambers for a rest after the trials of your long journey. I will speak to your brother for a time, and then he can join you.”

Part two of the dreaded double-pronged inquisition. The one in which our lies could very well be revealed.

Now that I knew the extent of Knox Mackenzie’s keen intelligence, I felt a jab of panic in my heart. Best if I waited until the verdict was reached as far as our fate at Kinloch was concerned. It was likely that Laird Mackenzie would uncover all our dark secrets within the hour, and immediately banish us from the sanctuary of his clan’s keep. The thought distressed me for a number of reasons. First, it would delay my trip back to Edinburgh, since I would need to start from scratch in my search to find a safe haven for Hamish. Second, I found the thought of leaving this idyllic, magical place unsettling. We’d only just arrived, yet I was already becoming addicted to the pleasure this place delivered to my senses. The
beauty
of it was supreme. The calm, peaceful safety of it was nothing less than sublime. Third, well, I didn’t bother dwelling on my fascination with the aloof and dazzling overseer of this veritable utopia. That was a fixation I needed to decisively rid myself of before it could firmly take hold.

And it
hadn’t
yet taken hold, I assured myself.

I thought of Cecelia, alone and unprotected. James’s assignments had become increasingly dangerous, I knew. He was now involved in the smuggling of weapons, whiskey and opium. These were excursions that could—and did—prove lethal to some. My sister was resolute in her decision to wait for her husband, stubborn as she was, but how long would she have to wait, alone and unprotected? And at what cost? Would James even return at all? Had Fawkes taken out his anger on Cecelia when he’d discovered my desertion? These were questions I was determined to return to Edinburgh to find out the answers to. A part of me was troubled at every glimpse of beauty in our new surroundings, every round apple and singing bird and warm bun, knowing that my sister might be suffering. Aye, she’d insisted that I flee, and for good reason. But any pleasure I might have derived from the idyll that was Kinloch was always going to be undermined by my worry.