Lost in Your Arms (16 page)

“I will tell you as soon as I know, but I like not that you are withholding information from me.”

“If I told you now, you would just shout at me, and we can’t afford a scene of that proportion.” Throckmorton held out his hand. “Trust me a little longer. What I know can’t hurt you.”

MacLean clasped it. No other man here had his complete trust. Not Harry, black-clad and dangerous. Not Kinman, a sharp-eyed fellow who hid his intelligence behind a bumbling exterior. Not Jackson, the supercilious valet who wielded the razor so expertly. Someone was trying to kill him, and with him, his wife.

“So ye’re going, sir?” Mrs. Brown stood behind them on the steps.

“I am.” MacLean surveyed the woman whose wisdom he had come to cherish. “Will you miss me?”

“You and Mrs. MacLean.” Mrs. Brown surveyed him with satisfaction. “I knew ye were holding out on us, sir. I knew ye’d been walking about the room.”

“And how did you know that?”

“Calluses on yer feet.”

“There’s no fooling Mrs. Brown,” Throckmorton grinned. “She’s taken care of too many children.”

“So she has told me.” MacLean took her hand and kissed it, and in a spirit of mischief said, “I thank you, Mrs. Brown, for wiping my bare bottom.”

Hand to her bosom, Mrs. Brown laughed and blushed.

Enid watched them as if she longed to come up and join in. He curved his hand to her invitingly, but she pretended she hadn’t seen.

Mrs. Brown frowned at him. “Mr. MacLean, I thought I told you to have a care for your marriage.”

“I have.”

“Then why is she upset with ye?”

Irascibly, he said, “Why do you think her behavior is my fault?”

“Because ye’re a man. It’s always yer fault,” Mrs. Brown answered roundly.

Throckmorton elbowed him. “You can’t win with Mrs. Brown. I don’t know why you try.”

A familiar, faintly accented voice called from the top of the stairs.

Throckmorton’s head snapped around, and at the sight of Celeste, he smiled a smile so fond and foolish that MacLean almost laughed aloud. She had the man wrapped around her delicate little finger.

With a smile and a wave, she bustled past them, a dynamo of energy and affection, and went right to Enid’s side. Clasping her friend’s hand, she said, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Oh.” Enid kissed her cheek. “I wish I didn’t, either. I’ll miss you so much!”

MacLean watched the women, wanting them to be
friends, yet jealous of the smile that lit Enid’s face at the sight of Celeste. She had never looked at him that way, and ever since last night, she had acted as if he were bound to wound her.

“And I you. You must promise you’ll return to visit me”—Celeste lowered her voice, but MacLean heard her—“no matter what happens.”

“I don’t know if you’ll want me when you discover . . .” Enid’s voice trailed off. She glanced at MacLean, and seeing him staring at her, she flushed scarlet.

She didn’t glare. She didn’t snap out a comment. She turned away as if humiliated by the sight of him.

He wanted to roar at her, to tell her not to be ashamed of what they’d done. He wanted to talk to her, to explain that they were husband and wife and they would be together always. He wanted to kiss her until she relaxed against him. Most of all, he wanted to tease her until his sharp-tongued wife retorted smartly and he knew, he
knew
, she belonged to him.

“Everything’s ready.” Throckmorton slapped him on the back. “It’s time to go.”

Chapter 17

Enid woke to hear the racket of the metal wheels on the track, to feel the jostling of the train. It had been daylight when she had finally succumbed to slumber in the specially built sleeping compartment. Now, a single candle burned in the sconce on the wall. When she parted the velvet curtains to look outside, she could see nothing but black night, without a star or a glimpse of the moon. They—she, MacLean, and their entourage—must be crossing a desolate region indeed; the northlands, she supposed, or they might even have crossed the border into Scotland. She didn’t know how long it took to travel so far; she had never traveled by train before.

Blinking, she sat up in her bed. A light blanket had been pulled over her, by Kiernan MacLean, she supposed. She wondered where he’d wandered off to, then cursed herself for her curiosity. He had been with her when she’d gone to sleep; he had spent every moment with her since they’d left Blythe Hall, talking to her,
stroking her hair, acting so much like a loving husband that she wanted to cry or shriek or cling to him and beg him to tell her everything would be fine.

She had not. She had maintained a serene façade—which she feared had not fooled him at all.

Sliding out of the bunk, she quietly performed her ablutions.

She couldn’t nag him. She couldn’t sob on him. She most certainly couldn’t make love with him again. He was not her husband. She couldn’t treat him like one.

Although—she faced the little mirror set above the table in the corner—he acted like a husband. He had untied the red wood cravat at her neck and loosened the buttons on her green velvet jacket, opening them and baring her neck down to the vee of her breasts. Perhaps he had done so to make her comfortable, but she knew he had taken delight in the sight of her bare skin, and in his right to make free with her clothing.

With a sniff, she brushed at her skirt, pulled on her sturdy black traveling boots, and arranged her garments to respectability again.

At least he hadn’t tried to make love to her. She couldn’t allow that. True, they had already taken a bite from the apple, but now she knew the facts. She knew right from wrong. She had clung to her morals through dreadful times when abandoning them would have made her life much easier. She could never make love with MacLean again—and she hated the pang that went through her.

She almost wished she could tell him, but Mr. Throckmorton had been quite specific in his instructions, and Enid feared he was right. Perhaps if they interfered
with the return of MacLean’s memories he would never find the truth that lurked beneath the surface of his mind.

She heard the murmur of men’s voices in the compartment beyond the sleeping room, and she cautiously peered out the door.

MacLean sat with his legs propped up on the facing seat, talking to Harry.

Harry struck a similar pose, yet both men, for all their apparent repose, emitted an air of vigilance at odds with their postures.

They both wore black and brown, monotonous colors that gave them the appearance of morticians. Black jackets, black trousers, black boots that did not shine with polish, but rather were dulled as if the leather had been deliberately scuffed. Their waistcoats were dull brown, their cravats matched.

A small table sat between them, with five candles stuck in an affixed candelabra, an open bottle of wine, and two half-full glasses. They were speaking earnestly, and neither of them noticed her.

Enid sidled back toward her bunk, sat down and stared at the floor. She still didn’t understand how MacLean had managed to change so quickly from invalid to man of action. He would be so much easier to handle if he remained trapped in a bed.

What was she to do in these next few days as they were whisked hither and yon by Mr. Throckmorton’s men and MacLean came ever closer to his home? The knot in her stomach tightened. She considered herself a woman of good reason and logic, with a surfeit of etiquette and a healthy dollop of self-preservation, but
she was allowing herself to be carried along by events because she didn’t know what else to do.

Well, really, no precedent existed for her to follow. He needn’t think that she lied to him. Either there had been a horrible mistake, or they both had been lied to, and MacLean would just have to listen to her explanations before he blistered her with his contempt.

Contempt she did not deserve and would not accept.

“I’ll wake her.” MacLean’s voice sounded from right outside her door. In a humorous tone and in reply to Harry’s murmured comment he said, “No, thank you, Harry, I can handle my own wife.”

She stood up so quickly that her ankle boots struck the floor with a thud.

Pushing the door open, he considered her raised chin. “You heard that, did you?” His gaze ran over her too warmly. “You’re looking beautiful as always.” Before she could snap out a reply, he continued, “In a little more than an hour, we’ll be coming into Edinburgh. We’ll need to leave in a hurry.”

She might have been surprised, except that she’d already been so buffeted by surprise that nothing could take her unawares again. “I’m ready.”

He reached out his long arm and dragged her stumbling into his embrace. “There’s my plucky girl.”

Behind him, Harry chortled.

Harry. She still didn’t like him, although for no more reason than the fact he made judgments where he shouldn’t and carried caginess like a shield.

So, because she knew her antagonism was illogical, she smiled placidly at him while she freed herself from MacLean’s grip. “I hope, if we’re about to take
another leg of our journey, that you gentlemen also slept.”

Harry bowed. “Yes, ma’am. I’m a soldier. I sleep whenever I get a moment.”

“And I. I slept with you until an hour ago.” MacLean ran his finger over her lower lip. “You were exhausted. Do you feel better now?”

Everything about him shouted concern: his voice, deep and vibrant, his eyes, steady and warm, the way he touched her as if she were precious to him.

So she stepped away from him again. “I am better. I’ll just make sure I have my things—”

Without warning, the train slammed to a halt. She staggered into MacLean. He tumbled backward, taking her with him. Harry flew over the chairs. Brakes squealed. Panels groaned. Glass shattered, and two of the candles pitched to the floor and went out.

The silence that followed terrified Enid. Two cars ahead, the engine chugged slowly, but no sound came from the forward cars, where the rest of Mr. Throckmorton’s guard rested.

Harry got his breath first and swore, virulently and without regard for her delicate sensibilities—which satisfied a deep need in her, so she was grateful.

MacLean had just got out of his sickbed, and now he’d been flung violently to the ground. “MacLean, are you all right?”

“You’re not as light as you look.” He grunted and shifted her aside.

She tried to hold him still. “Your ribs? Your leg? Are you bleeding?”

Sitting up, he grasped her shoulders, held her still and looked into her eyes. “I’m well. And you?”

“Me? Of course I’m well. But you—”

“I am not an invalid.” He said it so definitely and looked so forbidding that she subsided.

But she watched carefully as he rose without assistance and extended a hand to her.

“I’m fine, too, thank you for asking.” Harry used a chair to help him to his feet.

“Blood?” MacLean asked.

“A little.” Harry dabbed at his scalp, and his fingers came away red. “Wrenched my foot.”

“That’s bad.” MacLean looked at the cars ahead. “I don’t like this.”

“Nor I.” Harry limped forward through the car. “I’ll go see what’s happened.”

MacLean waited until Harry opened the forward door and closed it again, then he sprang into action. He pulled on his greatcoat, handed her her cape and bonnet.

Frightened by his grim demeanor, she put them on without question.

“Gloves?” he questioned.

“I have them here.” She didn’t know what he planned to do, but she got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach when he pulled a long-handled brown carpetbag out from under the bed.

He handed it to her. “Can you carry that?” It weighed so much that it dragged at her arms, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he brought forth another, larger one from beside the table. He took something out of it—she would have sworn he held a knife—then slung the pack over his shoulder. “Look at me,” he said.

She did, and her mouth dried.

“This is an ambush. We’re leaving, and pray God it’s not too late.”

She nodded.

“I’m going to the rear door. I need you to blow out those candles and come to me. Can you do that?”

“Of course I can.”
And of course, I’m scared to death,
she might have added, but to what purpose? She eyed the distance between her and the door, then extinguished the candles. In a darkness as black and thick as tar, she moved through the debris to his side, glass crunching under her feet.

As if he could see her, he found her hand and clasped it. Pushing her against the wall, he whispered, “Stand there.” He opened the door.

Fresh, cool air brushed her face. Not far away, she could hear men shouting. But back here, she could hear no movement.

“All right.” Without making a sound, MacLean jumped onto the track. He whispered, “Jump, Enid. I’m here.”

She obeyed without thought. He caught her and swung her off the tracks.

The shouting grew stronger, and a gunshot rang out.

She started and clutched at him.

Without a moment of hesitation, he led her swiftly away from the train and into the darkness.

When the sun finally lightened the dreary day, they were climbing a lonely hill at a great rate, and Enid was ready to collapse.

MacLean noticed, of course. On this jaunt through the dark countryside, he’d proved time and again that he noticed everything. He had successfully avoided the
occasional farmhouse. He’d led her around cliffs and over rugged paths without pause. And when she’d said that he must be weary and need a rest, he’d found her a rock to hide behind so she could avail herself of the facilities.

She didn’t like him understanding her so well.

And why didn’t he need a rest, anyway? They’d come miles at a great rate and he moved ahead steadily, almost at the crest of the hill, while she . . .

“We’ll stop here.” He planted his walking stick beside a cluster of boulders. “You can rest and I can look out over the area, see where we’re going, see if we’re being followed.”

Dropping her bag, she glared at him and panted, “You’ve been . . . sick. Why . . . aren’t you . . . exhausted?”

“I’m a wee bit tired, lass.” His Scottish accent had grown stronger the farther he’d walked into the countryside. “But you’re doing well, too.”

“I’m . . . wheezing!” Leaning against the boulder, she pressed her hand to the stitch in her side.

“English women don’t exercise as they ought. Fresh air, there’s the ticket, and brisk walks in the sunshine.”

She tilted her head back against a boulder. “You’re a jackass.”

“If you can insult me, you’re feeling well enough,” he observed. “Here.” He handed her a skin of water he’d filled at a stream at least ten years and half a continent ago.

“Thank you.” But she just stared at the sack. “My arms hurt so badly from carrying that bag—what do you have in it, stones?—that I can’t lift them.”

Shaking his head, he uncorked the bag, then held it
for her to drink. She gulped eagerly at the water, and when she was finished she slid down the side of the boulder. The damp here chilled her bones, but her feet were up and her legs were outstretched, and she didn’t have to move a single, aching muscle.

“A knife,” he said.

She looked at him as he stood over her. “What?”

“You asked what was in your sack. A knife. Hardtack. Cheese. Dried meat. Blankets. Bandages. Ointment. Rope.”

“You gave me the heavy bag!” Which she knew was nonsense, but she felt no need to be reasonable.

“I have the same thing, but more. I’m carrying my kilt and my sporran. Even scorched as they were, I couldn’t leave them behind.” Taking off his greatcoat, he rolled it up and stuffed it in his sack. “I brought you a comb, too.”

If he expected praise, he shouldn’t be telling a woman whose thighs trembled from exhaustion. Querulously, she picked the silliest thing to complain about. “We don’t need two knives.”

He couldn’t have sounded more patient. “One to use. One to trade. It’s a fair trek across Scotland, and the food won’t last forever.”

“We can’t stop and buy something? You brought all that stuff and you didn’t bring any funds?”

“There’s a bit of the blunt, too, but any luck we’ll avoid meeting anyone. If we do, we’ll not show the cash around, and we’ll save it for an emergency.”

She wanted to groan, but she couldn’t spare the breath. Instead, she watched as he made his way to the top of the hill and lay across the rocks to survey the land in every direction. The wind blew his auburn hair
back from his familiar stranger’s face. His eyes squinted as he looked back where they’d come from, then forward where they would go. His clothing blended into the landscape—ah, that explained the monotonous black and brown—but she could still see the broad shoulders, the narrow waist. And his legs—her lips tilted bitterly—they were muscled. How could she have been so foolish as to attribute those thighs and those calves to the exercises he had performed in bed? He had been walking, all right. No wonder everyone had insisted she take nice, long respites from her weighty duties.