Lucy Muir (21 page)

Although she could not see him, Phoebe sensed Lord Murray had stepped closer and was standing right behind her. She wished desperately he would go away before she broke down, and kept her eyes fastened on the bonnet, feeling that as long as she did so she could control her tears. Suddenly there was a flash under the water and the bonnet vanished abruptly, as though it had been pulled underneath the surface by an unseen hand. Startled, Phoebe jumped, and then struggled to regain her balance as her boot slipped on the dew-wet surface of the rock. She would have fallen but for Lord Murray’s strong hands grasping her shoulders and holding her firmly upright.

When Phoebe had managed to steady herself, Lord Murray did not let loose his hold upon her. Instead,  he turned her round and tipped Phoebe’s head up so her eyes met his. A feeling of intense yearning overwhelmed Phoebe, and she knew in that moment that she could not walk away from Castle Abermaise without trying one last time to break the barrier that had come between her and Lord Murray. Celeste was right. She could not know what he really felt unless she asked. And what was the risk of lost pride against the prospect of losing the man she loved forever?

“Lor—” Phoebe began, but her speech was cut off as Lord Murray abruptly pulled her against his chest and silenced her lips by covering them with his in a passionate kiss. At the familiar feel of his lips upon hers Phoebe knew that she had not imagined the first kiss. But wonderful as that first had been, this one was even more so. The lips that had been soft and gentle were now hard and demanding, telling Phoebe she belonged to him, and insisting she admit the truth and submit. Phoebe readily complied, her response causing Lord Murray to hold her tighter and closer, as if they could melt into each other’s very souls.

Phoebe became unaware of how much time passed as they stood embracing in their precarious position on the rock overhanging the lake, unaware and uncaring of any danger. She would have willingly stayed there in his arms forever, and when Lord Murray did finally lift his head from hers she felt bereft.

“I know you are still betrothed to Wilfred Atwood, but you care for me,” Lord Murray said, his voice raw with emotion. “You must break it off. Whatever you may feel you owe Wilfred, that will be more merciful in the end than marrying him when you love me.”

“Wilfred?” Phoebe repeated, so bemused from the kiss that her mind only vaguely registered the name. Then the meaning of his other words became clear and her full faculties returned. “I am not betrothed to Wilfred, and never was. Wherever did you get such an idea?” she asked in astonishment, stepping back. Lord Murray, fearing Phoebe might again lose her footing, led her to a safe seat on a rock farther away from the edge.

“Why, from Miss Atwood,” he answered Phoebe’s question as he seated himself beside her. “She told me of your secret betrothal.”

“I have
never
been engaged to Mr. Atwood,” Phoebe protested. “We are good friends, but no more. How could Olivia have told such a tale, and how could you have believed it, knowing her?” Phoebe asked reproachfully.

“Miss Atwood’s news only supported what I had seen with my own eyes,” Lord Murray said, hope springing alive now that Phoebe had denied his worst fear. He told her of his seeing the kiss at the card party in London, and how her participation in the race had seemed to suggest that she and Atwood had had an understanding. “I had never really wanted to offer for Miss Laurence, but as a gentleman of honour I could not cut out Atwood from your affections. Then when you and Miss Laurence came to the Highlands, I knew immediately that Miss Laurence would never suit. I cannot tell you of my relief when Miss Laurence transferred her affections to Miles, for I sensed that you had come to care for me and that given enough time together I hoped to persuade you to end your betrothal with Atwood. But then the Atwoods arrived and the two of you seemed thick as thieves. And after that everything seemed to fall apart.”

“So that was it,” Phoebe said in wonder. “And I thought you were either angry with me for breaking the unwritten Scottish code of hospitality, or that you had discovered I had no fortune.”

“Foolish girl,” Lord Murray said, reaching up to smooth the wind-blown curls from Phoebe’s face. “I told you I did not hold you to blame for their departure, and as for your having no fortune, I have always known that and never cared. Do you not understand that I
love
you, my red-haired Scottish lass, and that I would want to marry you had you only the clothes upon your back?”

Phoebe felt herself blush at the strong emotion evident in Lord Murray’s voice. Seeing her confusion, he smiled and drew her close, kissing her again, tenderly this time. Phoebe thrilled to his gentle touch and relaxed into the warmth of his body. They sat in a close embrace until the sun burned off the last of the morning mist.

“I think we had best go back or the others will think we have fallen into the loch,” Lord Murray said at last, reluctantly rising and pulling Phoebe to her feet.

Reminded of the existence of others, Phoebe looked anxiously to see where the gillie was, but for the first time ever the faithful shadow was nowhere to be seen.

“I rather suspect he has gone ahead to tell the others the news,” Lord Murray commented with a grin, correctly interpreting Phoebe’s furtive glances.

Phoebe laughed self-consciously and Lord Murray took her hand in his as they began to descend the path. A wonderful sense of peace and happiness filled Phoebe’s heart as they walked slowly back to the castle. No longer did she dread the coming day, for now Lord Murray would be accompanying the party as well as Lord Huntsford. She and Celeste had both found their Scottish lords, as her young friend had predicted that day in London so long ago.

As Phoebe and Lord Murray neared the castle, they heard the skirl of bagpipes, and Phoebe could make out the figure of the piper as he marched slowly back and forth before the entrance of the castle.

“What is that Dinsmore is playing?” Phoebe asked her lord, liking the joyful sound of the music. “I have not heard him play that tune before.”

“That,” Lord Murray said, stopping in the middle of the path and bending down to kiss Phoebe’s cheek, “is the wedding march of the Murrays.”

Copyright © 1991 by Lucile Moore

Originally published by Harlequin Regency [0373311435]

Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.