Lost in Your Arms (22 page)

Making his way to the fire, he sank down on one of
the comfortable chairs. He was tired, so tired he was staggering, but with a glance about the circle of Englishmen, he announced, “My memory has returned.” At their gasp, he glanced around with a grin. But as he noted the obvious absence, his grin became a scowl. “First, tell where Harry has disappeared to.”

Chapter 22

Enid woke in a huge, luxurious bed in a massive, luxurious bedchamber, clad in the lovely lace nightgown Celeste had sent for her. Covering her eyes against the morning sunlight, Enid groaned.

Last night had proved the ultimate humiliation. MacLean had carried her across the threshold of Castle MacLean as if she were a weakling or a . . . bride.

Then after breaking bread at the MacLean table, to have had to introduce herself to the family. For the second time that night, a silence had fallen, one that had rippled out from her and reached the very outskirts of the hall. More than that, heads had turned from her to MacLean, and back again.

But she had to hand it to the MacLeans. Even after that stunning piece of information, everyone had remained cordial. They’d filled her wineglass. They’d told her tales of Kiernan MacLean’s youth. Tales that had made her laugh a little too hard. Well. She had been exhausted, and the wine had been potent.

When the MacLeans and their guests and servants had been told in no uncertain terms—by the MacLean himself—of Enid’s fatigue, Lady Bess herself had led her upstairs to a bath and a bed. Although Enid had been almost asleep on her feet, she vaguely remembered Lady Bess explaining that in this chamber, Robert the Bruce had slept.

Enid hoped her wine-soaked brain had invented that fantasy, but in sitting up and looking around, she feared she had heard correctly. The sheets rustled like the finest cotton. The high posters on the bed, the ornately carved headboard, the paneling that covered the walls up to the chair rail, all was glorious, polished cherrywood. The coverlet, the bedcurtains, lofty canopy, and the drapes were deep green damask. Even the high ceiling with its painted clouds and plump cherubs suggested royalty.

Oh, how soon could she leave this hellhole and get back to her real life?

The sterling silver doorhandle rattled wildly, and Enid drew the covers up to her chin. “Come in,” she called.

The doorhandle rattled again. Supposing it was a serving girl with the breakfast tray, Enid climbed out of bed via the steps and walked toward the door, which sprang open, spilling MacLean into the chamber in a facedown sprawl.

She yelped and snatched the new burgundy red brocade wrapper off the chair. Holding it before her like a shield, she looked him over and decided he hadn’t hurt himself. He had landed on a very plush carpet. He wore the same clothing he had worn all the way through Scotland, and he was obviously the worse for
drink. His head probably ached. He was probably sensitive to light.

Going to the windows, she opened the drapes.

And loud noises.

She yelled, “You’re not my husband. Get out of here!”

Surprisingly enough, MacLean rose right to his feet and looked her over with squinting deliberation. “You look much better this morning.” He waved his hand at his own face. “Last night you had big rings under your eyes and your mouth was all pinched and wrinkly.”

Half-insulted, half-amused, half-desperate—that was too many halves, but she had never done well at mathematics—she said, “What a silver-tongued knave you are. Now get out.”
Get out because you look too good even covered with filth and smelling of whisky
.

“You’ll want to know what’s happening.” He tapped his lips. “Do you know I’ve been up all night talking to the Englishmen?”

Turning her back on him, she pulled on her wrap.

He didn’t seem to notice that it looked superb on her. “I told them everything I remembered.”

Marching to the door, she held the knob and pointed. “Out.”

“But it was the most interesting thing. Just when I got to the good part, I didn’t know anything!”

She stopped waving him out and stared at him instead. “What do you mean, you didn’t know anything?”

“Better shut the door.” He shushed her with extravagant care. “This is secret stuff. I’m not supposed to tell a soul.”

“You’re telling
me
.”

“ ‘Course I am. I sleep with you.”

Why had she ever considered this man appealing? She opened the door wider. “No, you don’t. Get out.”

“I can’t remember the explosion.”

She hesitated. She looked down the corridor to make sure no one was listening. She looked back at him, scruffy and casual. “The explosion that killed Stephen?”

He nodded.

“What
do
you remember?”

“I remember going to England to find Stephen, for I suspected he had fallen into bad company. Stephen always did. I found Throckmorton. He sent me to the Crimea to get Stephen and then”—MacLean shook his head sadly—“nothing. I remember nothing.”

It shouldn’t matter to her. She shouldn’t care about MacLean’s safety, or about this intrigue, but she had been involved. She was curious. “So you believe that the person who tried to kill you in the Crimea is trying to kill you now?”

“That, certainly.”

“You think you were followed such a distance?”

“Why not? Train travel is easy, and if he can silence me before I declare him, he is safe.” MacLean flung himself into a delicate chair so violently the wood groaned. “Harry almost shot me.”

“What?” She gave up and slammed the door. “When?”

“You know Harry. Tall, dark.” MacLean imitated a ferocious frown. “Always serious.”

“I know who you mean, and I have long suspected he was the assassin.”

“No, no, no. Not him. He came in last night long after
everyone else, and he had a rifle.” MacLean coughed as if he had a scratchy throat.

Walking to her bedside table, she poured MacLean a glass of water. Old habits died hard. “Why did Harry have a rifle?”

“Kinman and I had been talking about the shooting. You remember last night’s shooting?”

She wanted to shake him to hurry the story. Instead she extended the glass. “I remember the shooting.”

He considered her through red-rimmed eyes and fingered her robe. “That is a very pretty wrapper. Did you wear it for me?”

“No. Drink your water.” She thrust it into his hand.

“No.” He leered with ludicrous exaggeration. “For me, you would wear nothing.”

Swiveling, she marched to the window. “It’s a shame Harry didn’t shoot you.”

MacLean had the audacity to look wounded. “Cruel. You are cruel. If you’re not nice to me, I’ll leave.”

“Let me hold the door for you.”

“You jest.” He slumped in the chair. “Harry hunted out of doors until he found the rifle, and he was angry. That really is a beautiful robe. It makes your hair look . . . wavy.”

“My hair
is
wavy.” She caught herself. “Why was Harry angry?”

“Because it’s an English rifle.” He took a long drink that drained the glass. “Stolen from Throckmorton’s own personal collection and brought here, just to shoot at you.”

“At
me
?”

“And at me.”

“But Harry doesn’t know who did the shooting.”

“No.”

They still weren’t safe, but she deduced, “We know more than we did. We know it’s one of the guards.”

“They’re going home today. All except for Harry, Kinman and Jackson.”

Surprised, she questioned, “Jackson? You’re allowing the valet to stay?”

“He has impeccable references from Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh, so Kinman assures me Jackson is safe.” MacLean managed to look both piteous and engaging. “And he shaves me so well.”

Enid considered MacLean’s scarred, scruffy, bewhiskered face. Yes, he would treasure Jackson for his way with a razor. “You ought to have him shave you now.”

MacLean wiggled the glass. “Can I have some more?” As she drew near, he caught her fingers. “You have on a lace nightgown.”

“I was asleep when you arrived.” A lie, but she didn’t care.

“I saw it before you put that ugly robe over the top of it. The nightgown is pretty.” He tugged her close.

If she hadn’t resisted, he would have pulled her into his lap. Fueled by anger that he thought she was so easy, and panic, because she wanted to be easy, she said, “You don’t like me, remember? I’m Stephen’s mercenary wife.”

“Mercenary.” He scowled, but he didn’t drop her hand. “But not like my mother.”

“Your mother?” Lady Bess? Mercenary?

“She and I talked about this last night. She thinks I ought to wed you.”

Enid didn’t know what to think. How to respond. “She’s wrong. We will never marry. You’re not wise enough to propose. I’m not desperate enough to accept. Why do you think your mother is mercenary?”

His face contorted as if he were in pain. “When I was young, she was a good mother. Then she betrayed the memory of my father. For
money
.”

If MacLean weren’t drunk, he would never speak so frankly. But he was drunk, and Enid had stumbled upon the reason MacLean despised her so much. She hesitated, for she knew to pry into Lady Bess’s life was despicable, but curiosity conquered her reservations. “What did your mother do?”

“My father hadn’t been in the grave for two months when she went off to Edinburgh and found herself a merchant.” His voice vibrated in disgust. “He was old, absolutely vulgar, and very rich.”

The thought of Lady Bess, vibrant and affable, lost in the arms of an ancient, uncouth parvenu jolted Enid. “Did she say why?”

“My mother has never explained herself to anyone, and certainly not to her fifteen-year-old son left in charge of his tearful, eleven-year-old sister.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Mother and her husband went off to London. She provided his entry into society. People laughed at her. Even up here, we heard how they ridiculed her.” MacLean looked down at their entwined hands. “My sister and I stayed here, missing her, while I took charge of the estate and Elizabeth kept the house. Mother flitted about London, dressed in the finest clothing and ignoring her obligations.”

Enid could see Lady Bess flitting, but she couldn’t believe Lady Bess had ignored her obligations.

“Then, within the year, the old fool died, and my mother came back, expecting a warm welcome.” MacLean shook his head, his rancor still fresh. “She gave me her newfound fortune to tend and thought I would thank her. But
I
would not be so easily bribed.”

“Good for you. That’s the spirit!” Enid said sarcastically. “That’s probably because you’ve never been in need of money.”

“As usual, you are wrong.” Apparently, he’d recovered enough wit to return her sarcasm. “The troubles in the Forty-five hit my family hard.”

By that she surmised the MacLeans had been involved in last century’s futile uprising.

“The MacLeans have been recovering ever since. When my father died he left almost nothing except the lands and castle, and we counted ourselves lucky to have that. In need of money? Aye, I was fifteen years old and frantic.”

The truth burst on Enid. A truth so obvious MacLean had to be deliberately blind not to see it.

Blind . . . or trapped in a fifteen-year-old’s pain and disappointment. “Wait. Wait.” She squeezed his fingers to get his attention. “You’re telling me your mother married a decrepit old man for his money. You’re saying she did this to get away from her responsibilities here at Castle MacLean, to live the good life in England while you struggled trying to survive on a pittance. You’re telling me after the merchant’s death, she came back with his fortune in her palm, threw the entire amount into your lap, told you she was
too lazy to care for it, and now never leaves the Isle of Mull?”

Straightening his shoulders, he looked at her with chilly directness. “Yes.”

“And you attribute her actions to selfishness?” Furious, she snapped her hand free from his. “You ought to know, you cold fish. You selfish swine. Your mother fixed it so
you
wouldn’t have to wed some disgusting heiress to save your estate!”

His green eyes narrowed, and he snarled, “That is not true!”

She brushed at the air. “Don’t talk to me. If you can’t figure out that your mother should be cherished just for being your mother, much less for being a good mother . . . you’re not just drunk, you’re stupid!”

He got to his feet looking much more sober. “No one else thinks as you do.”

“Is that what influences you? What everyone else thinks?” Enid thrust herself right under his nose and shook her finger at him. “I can assure you, everyone knows what your mother did. Ask Donaldina what she thinks.”

“Donaldina was my mother’s wet nurse.” He said it as if that explained everything.

“Fine. Ask one of the men.” Enid gestured freely. “Graeme complains about her. Ask Graeme what he thinks of your mother.”

“She sews him up. He likes her.” MacLean was groping now, unable to face the truth.

Enid didn’t care. She wanted justice for Lady Bess, and she needed MacLean to admit the truth for his own sake—and for Enid’s. “Everybody likes Lady Bess.
Everybody worships her. She brought me up here personally, fed me some twaddle about how Robert the Bruce slept here—”

“He did.”

“—And I cried myself to sleep because I never had a mother like yours. I never had a mother at all, and you’re whining because your mother sold herself to save you from marital bondage. You ungrateful wretch.” Enid wanted to stomp her foot. Instead she straightened her shoulders and grasped for her rapidly slipping dignity. “So don’t you compare me to your mother. She is a wonderful woman, while I—I am as mercenary as you fear.”