In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (33 page)

He hated the idea of Baumann knowing her past when he didn’t. What the hell was Glynis hiding? What made her look pale enough to faint? What made her afraid?

He didn’t have answers to any of his questions. He wanted to put his arms around Glynis and demand that she tell him all her secrets, all her wants and desires, everything she’d hidden from him.

But one person didn’t have the right to demand that from another.

Not even a man in love with his wife.

S
leep wouldn’t come.

Grabbing her wrapper, she left her suite. As lovely as the rooms were, the walls seemed to be closing in on her. Were the servants still awake? She hoped not, since she didn’t want witnesses to her restlessness.

She walked to the head of the stairs. From here the steps twisted like a snake down to the first floor. She placed her hand on the banister, the polished mahogany warming beneath her touch as if the wood were still alive.

She descended the staircase, the steps illuminated by moonlight streaming through the cupola.

In the silence and stillness, she could almost hear the house’s heartbeat. The whistling wind was its breath, the pulsing of the boiler its heart, and the surge of water in its pipes its bloodstream. A door creaking, a shutter shivering, were Hillshead’s bones settling.

As a girl she hadn’t noticed details about the house: the fine weave of the carpets, the plaster alcoves or mahogany wainscoting. Nor had she noted the unique seafaring detail on each of the doors on the second floor. Craftsmen had carved a clipper ship into the upper panel of her bedroom door, repeating the surging waves along the frame.

She’d never thought of Lennox as wealthy. Of course she knew he was, but there were so many more important
things about Lennox. He was part of Cameron and Company, its heir and its head. Until she’d come to live here herself, she’d never considered the vast fortune Hillshead represented.

The house was at least a dozen times larger than her own home, and larger than any other in Glasgow. Hillshead was filled with treasures. Besides the statuary—each alcove boasted a marble rendition of a Greek or Roman god—and the gilt-framed paintings of past generations of Camerons, there were porcelain urns and figurines, bejeweled potpourri containers, and medieval-style tapestries hanging on several walls.

It’s possible she wouldn’t have noticed the touches of wealth had she not lived in so many places.

As she was waiting for passage home, she’d spent the last three months in America living in a boardinghouse, an experience she never wanted to repeat. She’d had to share the facilities with all of the tenants.

Now her bathroom was attached to her bedroom. Strips of cedar sheeted the walls. The bowls and tub were of beige and brown marble as smooth as the inside of a shell. The brass faucets were so polished she could see her face in them. Even the water closet had brass fittings and a wooden handle carved in the shape of a ship.

This was Lennox’s home. He’d grown to manhood here. He put his hand on the banister just as she was doing, raced down the stairs she was descending slowly or taken them two at a time.

Had he hesitated in the foyer, staring up at the huge stained-glass ceiling above her? If so, she doubted he’d been overwhelmed by a sudden urge to weep.

She’d nearly ruined her life. Single-handedly she’d taken the advantages she’d been given, the love surrounding her, and opted for something else. Her pride
had forced her to choose a life without love, only an exaggerated need for perfection.

She was not going to make the same mistake now. Whatever she’d done wrong she would undo.

The night breeze warned of winter to come, cooled her skin and made her shiver. She clutched her wrapper close to her chest with one hand as she walked.

How many times had she come here with Duncan, unaware of the valuables around her, only interested in Lennox? Laughter had echoed throughout Hillshead in childish disregard of wealth or position.

In Washington she’d often been visited by nostalgia, normally at a recital of sad music. She’d dropped down into her memories, allowing her mind to travel home to Scotland. In those moments, rare as they were, she was Glynis MacIain the girl, once enchanted with Lennox Cameron to the point of madness. The applause from the other guests would call her back to the moment, even though she wished she could remain in that place of memory and longing.

Time couldn’t be reversed. As much as she might want to, she couldn’t wipe the years clean and begin again.

But she could fix what she’d broken today.

How, though? What should she say? What did she need to do? How did she erase her mistake?

Her thoughts were like mice, scattering at the sound of an open door or a lit lamp.

She found herself in the corridor leading to the library, a place Lennox always used as his office. Shadows embraced her as she slowly pushed open the door.

The last time she’d been here she was eighteen years old and had recently returned from a trip to Edinburgh with her mother. She’d seen a crystal inkwell shaped like a ship in the window of a shop and had instantly been reminded of Lennox.

Lennox had been surprised by her gift but seemed pleased as well, placing the inkwell at the front of his desk. To her surprise it was still there, next to the spyglass his grandfather had given him.

Moonlight streaming in through the open window softly illuminated the library. She drew in the scents of leather and tobacco, faint but still noticeable.

The room was large, but all Hillshead’s rooms were oversized. Bookshelves lined the walls, each shelf containing a separate subject. She recalled that the ones closer to the desk were about ships and engineering. Farther away were novels and books on poetry. Some of the volumes had been well-worn, but she doubted Lennox had read them. Probably Mary had, instead. Did she read to her father now?

Lennox’s desk took pride of place in the center of the room in front of the windows. She circled it, fingers grazing the tooled leather top, envisioning him working here, signing papers, doing his preliminary sketches. A lamp also sat on the desk, along with a large blotter and a wooden tray filled with paper.

Was he at the yard? Would he stay there all night?

“Glynis?”

Her heart leapt into her throat. She looked up to see a shadow in the doorway.

Before she could speak, he strode to the desk and lit the lamp, banishing the darkness. His hair was mussed either by the wind or his fingers. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot. His white shirt was loosely tucked into the waistband of his black trousers, as if he’d already begun undressing. His sleeves were rolled up to expose his muscular arms. At the neck, his collarbones showed along with the well at the base of his throat.

A spot she wanted to kiss.

His trousers were tailored, the button fastening off-center,
the fabric fitted with darts and tucks capturing her attention before she realized she was staring at his crotch.

Hunger slammed into her. She needed him. Before the night was gone, before dawn greeted the day, before the sun rose or a thousand, million things happened, they had to solve this problem between them.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his frown making a V on his forehead and thinning his lips. “Why are you still awake?”

What’s wrong? Everything and nothing, but how did she say that?

“Why didn’t you come home?” she asked, plunging into the heart of the matter.

“Are you in love with him? With Matthew Baumann?”

Her eyes widened. “Are you daft? Matthew Baumann? I’d sooner toss the man in the Clyde.”

“He doesn’t feel that way about you.”

“You can’t be serious,” she said. “If he said such a thing, don’t believe him. It’s not a good idea to believe anything Baumann says. He’s a manipulator. He’s always been a manipulator. If he wasn’t working for the War Department, he’d be bilking widows and orphans out of their last few coins.”

“He’s in love with you.”

She drew back and stared at him.

“That’s not funny,” she said. “To even jest about such a thing is an abomination, Lennox.”

“I see the way he looks at you. It’s not a jest.”

“The only person Matthew Baumann loves is himself.”

“You haven’t seen the look on his face when he’s watching you,” he said.

She didn’t know what was worse, the idea Baumann might have some feelings for her or Lennox’s jealousy.
The child she’d been would have rejoiced to see evidence of his jealousy. The adult knew how caustic the emotion could be.

“I have no feelings for him. No,” she corrected. “I have one. I loathe the man.”

“Then why do I find you in conversation with him so often?”

“I can’t stop him from following me.”

“The question is why he follows you,” he said. He crossed his arms, his feet planted apart, almost like he was prepared to do battle with her.

Perhaps they fought a war, one of thrust and parry with words, gestures, and looks. The prize? Their marriage.

“You think Baumann set fire to your ship,” she said.

“I do.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “He’s not like that. He’s all about subterfuge and getting other people to do his bidding.”

“He doesn’t want the
Raven
to sail and he’d be a fool to let her. She’s one of the fastest ships I’ve ever built. She’ll slide into any southern port before the Union ships even see her.”

She glanced toward the window with its view of the night sky, then back at him where he stood watching her. No one else in her memory had eyes as penetrating as his or a gaze piercing through her defenses. A woman could be ensnared by his look, trapped into confessing all sorts of secrets.

She blew out a breath. “He wants information about the
Raven,”
she said.

One of his eyebrows winged upward.

“I haven’t told him anything.” She backed up against the desk. “I would never do such a thing. On the honor of a MacIain,” she said, repeating the oath Duncan made her swear as children. Don’t tell Mother. Don’t
tell Father. The oath was the most sacred bond they had, and only sworn on the most important occasions.

He nodded just once.

“Is that why you stayed away?” she asked. “Because you were jealous?”

“Not jealous,” he said. “Angry.”

His cheekbones bronzed. His eyes smoldered with unspoken words.

“Are you still angry?”

In Washington, she’d seen her share of emotionless marriages, couples who seemed to barely tolerate one another. An hour would pass and some couples would not speak. She’d also seen loving couples, men who smiled down at their wives with adoration on their faces and women who looked up at their husbands with worship in their eyes.

She’d envied them.

“Why did he think you’d tell him?”

“Because he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.”

“And how well is that?”

Lennox had unerringly shattered her heart. He threatened to do it again, now. If she were really older and wiser, she’d guard herself, seal off the vulnerable part of her, pretend an icy demeanor and not reveal her true feelings. But she knew instinctively that barricading herself against Lennox would only lead to disaster.

“Not as well as you,” she said.

When he didn’t answer, she walked to him, placing both her hands on his shirt, feeling his warmth radiating to her fingers.

She lowered her head, took another step, resting her forehead against his chest.

“Never as well as you.”

“I love you, damn it.”

Her eyes flew up to meet his gaze.

“Nothing matters but that, Glynis.”

“I love you, damn it?” she asked, bemused.

“Yes. Should I pretty it up?”

She shook her head, feeling time slow. Her heart beat only half as much as normal. She barely took a breath. Their gazes were locked and she drowned in his look.

“Will you come to my bed? Be my husband?”

His smile speared her heart. “Do I look like a eunuch?” he asked.

He grabbed her hand, turned and pulled her with him. She rushed to keep up with him as they raced through the darkened house and up the stairs.

H
e loved her.

Someone laughed belowstairs and the sound traveled upward in a ghostly echo.

Lennox loved her. Bubbles moved through her veins. Excitement danced on her skin. Her stomach was filled with butterflies and champagne. Lennox loved her.

He stopped at the landing and looked at her.

“Have you moved into my suite?”

Before she could answer, he took her hand again and walked to her room. He opened the door, entered the bedroom, glancing at the bureau top filled with her brush and mirror, perfume bottle and silver-lidded jars.

“Why haven’t you moved into my suite? It’s where you belong.”