Sarah Gabriel (22 page)

T
apping lightly on the door before entering the room, Kate was surprised to see Alec awake. He looked strong and healthy, if ill at ease, for he perched on the edge of the bed with the thick ivory coverlet, embroidered by her mother years ago, wrapped around him. His torso was bare, his left arm held by a cloth sling against him. One leg and foot stuck out beneath the coverlet, toes pressed to the floor.

“I’ve nothing to wear but this, apparently,” he said, indicating the coverlet.

She crossed the room toward him. In the firelight, his bare skin was sheened smooth, and his hair, freed of its queue and black ribbon, swept softly over his shoul
ders, glinting like dark whiskey in the light. His gaze, blue-gray as a stormy sea, compelled her toward him.

Thinking of the way he had loved her, touched her, the other night, she caught her breath. “I’ve come to save you, then,” she said, “for I’ve brought a clean shirt.” She set the bundle down on the bed. “Your plaid and jacket are being cleaned and mended.”

“I’ll need more than a shirt if I’m to walk out of this room, my lass,” he murmured with a wry smile.

She nodded, swallowed, did not want to think about his leaving Duncrieff. He would expect her to go with him to Edinburgh; she was, after all, still under arrest.

Remembering what she carried in her pocket, she drew out a thick envelope. “This was in your jacket.”

He accepted it and set it aside. “It’s a letter from my aunt in Edinburgh.”

“It smells heavenly,” she said. “Like chocolate.”

“Now and then she sends me a wee sample of something my uncle is working on—an eating chocolate, something like a wafer, but it is meant to be eaten like a small pastry, all of chocolate.”

She smiled. “That would taste wonderful!”

He grimaced. “It might, but my uncle is fond of chocolate in the traditional Spanish style. With pepper,” he emphasized. “Believe me, it is not too pleasant when you bite into it in solid form. His experiments continue, and the sample in that letter could have hot peppers in it. It’s the way the cacao powder was mixed in the Americas, where the Spaniards first learned about chocolate from the savage tribes there,” he explained. “
Xocalatl
is what they called it there, and they
drank it cold and unsweetened, sometimes with very hot peppers added.”

Kate wrinkled her nose. “I cannot imagine that—it’s such a lovely, rich drink. We’ve always made it with lots of thick cream and sugar—it’s the only way I’ve ever had it prepared.”

“You’re fortunate,” he said, and she laughed a little.

“So you were taking me to their house in Edinburgh?”

“I am planning on that, aye,” he said, in a careful tone.

She glanced away to pick up the shirt and hand it to him, but he looked askance at it. “I’ll need my plaid with that.”

“A shirt is all you need for recuperating in bed.”

“All I need for bed,” he murmured, touching her arm, “is you, Kate…my God, I do.” He seemed surprised by his own words.

Her breath caught in her throat, and shivers plunged through her as he drew her toward him, opening his knees, coverlet draped generously over him, to bring her close, circling his uninjured arm around her waist, and he slid his hand along her back so that she leaned inward.

She could not help herself, wanted to pull away and could not. His nearness took her breath away, and as his lips met hers, she simply melted. This was what she wanted—tender touching, shared passion, and love. She wanted only to be with him.

And what must be said, what must be done, seemed only to interfere with what felt most real to her, what she most desired. She did not want to think, to argue, to bargain anymore.

His lips brushed over hers, yet she could not allow him to dissolve her will further. She pulled back, stepped away, picked up the shirt, and dumped it in his lap.

“You should be resting,” she said, while his hand slid away from her waist.

“I’ve had more than enough rest,” he growled, his voice hoarse with what she knew was desire. “I’m mending quickly now. And we’ve got to be away from here, you and I, and off to Edinburgh.” With one arm in the sling, he began to pull the shirt awkwardly over his head.

“I’m not going with you,” she said quietly.

Thrusting his head through the neck of the shirt, he paused, then slowly drew the cloth down over his torso, empty sleeve hanging. He stared at her. “I cannot leave without you.”

“I will stay here, with my kinsmen about me. You must go,” she said, drawing back farther, away from his spell. “My kinsman Allan thinks so, and our friend Neill Murray.”

“I do not doubt they want me out of here, but you must come with me. I have yet to meet your brother and speak with him.”

“He will say the same.”

“You’re expected in Edinburgh. If you intend to hide from that, you would have to put yourself into exile and leave Scotland altogether.”

“My father was exiled nine years ago,” she said. “We lived away from Scotland and Duncrieff for years because of it. He never saw Scotland again, for he died at
James Stuart’s court in Rome. I’ll stay here.” She folded her arms.

Alec tipped his head. “Once you make up your mind, you never give in, do you?”

“Rarely. And I’m safe here. Duncrieff is remote enough. After a while, Katie Hell would be forgotten. Only you,” she said, “would know the truth of my name outside of my own kin. You and Jack.”

“So you expect me to just walk away from you?”

She glanced down, her heart aching so that she pressed her crossed arms against herself. “I would have to ask your promise…to keep my identity a secret.”

“Another bargain? What would you give me in return?”

She raised her gaze to his. “My trust.”

“That’s a fine reward, lass.” He reached out, took her arm and pulled her toward him again, so that her hip met his thigh, coverlet draped between them. “But I cannot leave you.”

“Can you not?” She could hear the soft sound of her breathing as she waited.

He pulled her so close, then, that she leaned against his chest, so close she could feel his heartbeat under her hand lifted between them. So close that his cheek brushed hers. “There are other matters to consider,” he said, as his lips grazed over her cheek to touch her mouth.

“Oh,” she breathed, feeling her legs wilt. “What?”

He nudged her nose with his, slipped his tongue along her lower lip, so that she sucked in a breath and melted further, leaned against him, felt his arm encircle her.

“You are still under arrest,” he murmured, his deep voice resonating through her. She began to pull away, and his hand tightened at her back, his lips and breath warmed her, thrilled her, even as his words threw her into turmoil. “And you remain under the legal custody of an appointed agent of the government.”

“You,” she said.

“Me,” he breathed, and his lips took hers again. She moaned in surrender, then in protest, and pushed away.

“Do not do that,” she said. “I cannot think when you—”

“When I what?” he asked. His eyes were so very blue, she thought. Had she fully noticed their extraordinary beauty before?

“When you ply that magic over me,” she said breathlessly. “When you touch me, kiss me, I cannot help myself. Do you know that you are the only man who has ever made me feel like this? And yet you are the one who would take me away from here.” She felt a sob rising in her throat.

“Kate,” he whispered, reaching out to take her hand.

She shook him off angrily. “You had better leave.”

He shook his head, sighed. “Listen to me. You are to appear before the Court of Justiciary within a few days, and I am to bring you there. If we do not—”

“You said you do not always follow rules.” She glanced at him. “What would happen if you went back without me?”

“I might be arrested, I suppose, on a charge of treason, or aiding a spy. Grant would see to that. He wants
you brought to justice, not for spying, but for humiliating him.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I did not really think—what then, if you were arrested because of me?”

“I suppose I would have to find some way to escape—Jack would help me—and would come looking for you here.”

“And then?” Her breath faltered.

“We would flee into exile, you and I.”

She admired the ability he had to add a wry touch, now and then, to make even serious situations seem manageable. She was often too serious. “But you have family to consider.”

“So do you.” He reached for her hand again. “Kate,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand, “marry me.”

She put a hand to her bodice, feeling a sort of panic. She thought of the Fairy Cup, of the legends, of her own determination never to marry. What if this love was not true, what if this red soldier was not trustworthy after all, what if her clan suffered for her choice? “I cannot. I must not.”

“Do you need a finer proposal?” He indicated the coverlet. “I would look silly kneeling in this, or in my shirt alone. You’ll have to take me as I am. Marry me, lass.” His thumb moved over her hand, making little warm circles.

Her breath was coming in gulps. She wanted to throw her arms around him, tell him that she loved
him, that she did not care about legends or arrests or what her family would say about a redcoat, or his about a spy. For so long she had not been able to do exactly as she wanted. There were more constraints on fairy-blessed Katie Hell than anyone realized.

“We hardly know each other,” she finally said.

“I could better protect you in Edinburgh if we were wed.”

Shaking her head, she looked away, her arm outstretched, hand in his. “My kinsmen would never allow it, so it does not matter if it would help or not.”

He tipped his head. “Since when do you go by what others say?” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. She closed her eyes for a moment. “There are more than enough reasons. We’ve shared the same bed, and what we’ve done there…and elsewhere…certainly obligates me to marry you, if nothing else.”

Again she shook her head. “Not enough basis for a marriage. Look at Jack and Jeanie. And she still refuses to marry him.”

“Jean is very stubborn. And she’s not sure she trusts Jack.”

“Then she and I have a good deal in common. I release you from any obligation you might feel. There,” she said, lifting her chin high. Pride was the only defense she had against her stubborn heart, which desperately wanted this. But she was afraid that if she made the wrong choice, her clan would suffer.

She loved Alec, she was sure—but she was not sure if he loved her, or whether he had decided to marry her
out of a sense of responsibility because they had shared a bed.

She did not know if what she felt was true love, and she did not know how to tell. How did one know such a thing?

Alec drew her closer. “Listen, Kate. Our marriage would give me a better means of protecting you. But I will not beg at your feet like a pup.”

She frowned, and did not answer, glancing away.

His fingers gripped hers. “I…care about you, Kate.”

Startled, thrilled, she stared up at him. Cared about her…was that enough to fulfill the demanding legends of her clan? She thought not, and shook her head. “I cannot marry you.”

“When you were sitting by my bedside,” he said, “weaving your bit of lace—and in my fevered state, I thought you wove a spell—what did you tell me, then?”

She remembered exactly what she had said spontaneously, when he had been so ill. “I said…that I love you,” she whispered.

“Do you?” He held her hand.

“Why ask me this now?” she asked. “Was it…what happened between us? You do not need to marry me because of that.”

“Hush.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Sometimes…fever burns away what we do not need, so that we can see what is most essential to us.”

She leaned forward, kissed his lips. “Alasdair Callda, with all your rules and orders. With all your
thinking
.”

“I am not an impulsive man, true. I am a staid sort. But you have whirled me ’round and ’round, Katie Hell. Life looks different to me now than before. I am trying to find my bearings again.” He half smiled. “With you.”

She felt a whirling inside herself, too. Smiling sadly, she slipped her hand out of his. “I cannot marry you,” she whispered. “There are too many differences between you and me. Marriage between us would not be the right thing if you are only trying to help me. I am bound by clan tradition to marry only…under certain conditions. Please understand.”

She waited, hoping wildly that he would suddenly tell her what she most needed to hear from him—that what he felt for her was extraordinary. He only frowned.

“I understand that I am being refused,” he said quietly.

She pulled in a breath, began to speak—but she could not explain this to him. To be sure of that sort of love, she must hear it from his lips—but he had said nothing of the sort.

“I’ll go find out if the rest of your things have been mended,” she blurted, and turned away, tears stinging her eyes.

B
ending over the silken pillow in her lap, frowning slightly, Kate switched the long, slender thread bobbins back and forth, back and forth, plaiting and twisting the threads to form a fine mesh for the strip of lace she was creating. When she finished a small section, she stopped to move the brass pins that held the fine net of threads in place. Her fingers moved so fast over the pillow, so deftly and without much thought on her part, that her mind was free to think.

And all she could think about was Alec. His marriage proposal last night had set her spinning, and her thoughts and feelings had not yet come to ground since then. What should she do? She had to know what was
right—for her, for him, for the clan that depended so on her making the right choice.

Click, click
. The bobbins tapped lightly against one another as she switched the threads around, twisted the little spindles, wove the threads in and out, in and out.
Click, click.

The work was soothing, calming to her, the repetitive movements reliable, entrancing. She need only step aside, sometimes, and let her fingers take care of the work. She had learned lace making in the English convent in Bruges, where her sister Sophie had been educated.
Click, click, clack
. She could lose herself in the rhythms of her fingers and the long, slim bobbins as she wove them, switched them, plaiting and twisting the delicate white threads.

As she worked, she glanced at her sister Sophie, who sat at a large table perusing a rather large illustrated book. Sophie’s advancing pregnancy made her favorite occupation, gardening, a little impractical, and so she had settled for another morning in the library studying about the plants she loved.

“I’d so much rather be mucking about in the garden just now than reading about it,” Sophie said, flipping another page. “It’s more enjoyable to learn about plants and flowers from Nature. But Connor has suggested that I study and read as much as I can about these things. He has a library full of them at Kinnoull House—he studied horticulture and farming, did you know?”

“Not the fine art of brigandry?” Kate murmured, and Sophie laughed.

“He’s a master of that,” she agreed. “At any rate, I
will not be doing much kneeling in the garden, with this babe coming after the new year.” She smoothed a hand over her rounded belly. Her sack dress, of pale blue brocade that reflected her remarkable light blue eyes, gave her growing figure plenty of room to expand. Kate watched her flaxen-haired sister and smiled. Sophie looked lush and blooming, as bright as one of her beloved flowers, which seemed to blossom almost magically wherever their mistress planted them.

Kate would never have imagined her sweet-tempered older sister holding her own with a rogue like Connor MacPherson, but she had done so, outwitting the man at his own game. Now Kate understood how her sister had fallen so totally in love with her handsome Highlander. Sophie had found genuine love, and her happiness had contributed to a peaceful atmosphere at Duncrieff, so welcome after the tragedies and unhappy events of the years that had gone before.

So there was something to the fairy legend, Kate thought. A loving marriage had brought more magic to the clan.
Love makes its own magic
, she thought, remembering the motto on the rim of Duncrieff’s Fairy Cup. Sophie’s experience gave her more hope for her own future.

“I love these Dutch tulips, the variegated sort, like red and yellow flames,” Sophie mused, turning another page. “I wonder if Connor would let me send for more bulbs from the Netherlands.”

“The man would let you do anything,” Kate said as she plaited a group of delicate threads. Gradually she was creating a pattern of linked acanthus leaves. “It
will take me years to finish this strip of lace,” she muttered. “I’ve had hardly any time to work on it at all.”

And if she went to prison, she thought grimly, she would never have a chance to complete it. She thought again of Alec—did he really expect her to ride off to Edinburgh with him and marry him on the chance that she might not have to go to prison? She could not trust the outcome of that—she was, after all, a spy. And he was a redcoat, she reminded herself.

“Oh, I like this one very much,” Sophie said, leaning forward at the table to peruse a page she was studying. She flipped the page of a large book filled with illustrations and glanced up at Kate. “Look at this handsome red tulip. Quite wonderful. I do love the red ones.”

“I do, too,” Kate said, twisting threads. “And I do not know what to do.”

“Katie?” Sophie asked. “What is it?”

“Oh! Nothing,” Kate said, furiously flipping lace bobbins,
tap-tap-tap
.

“Is it the red soldier?” Sophie asked gently.

“Of course not.”
Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Sophie got up from her chair and came over to sit beside Kate on the brocaded sofa. “Are you sure? You know, I went to see him this morning. I thought I had best introduce myself.”

“You did?” Kate looked up, feeling a curious hunger to know more. “What did he say? What do you think of him?”

“He was resting, so I did not stay,” Sophie said. “We spoke only briefly. He seemed very tired, and I pulled the drapes shut and urged him to get more sleep—that
sort of injury takes a good deal from a man, though he is healing very fast. And I came close to say my greeting, just to get a better look at him,” she confided, laughing a little. “He’s very bonny, your Captain Fraser—a braw and beautiful man.”

“I suppose,” Kate said, ducking her head again to focus on the next patch of mesh.

“We said very little, but I liked him very much, instantly, and that sense never fails me with people. He seemed calm and strong. He is a good man.” Sophie set her long, graceful fingers to the crystal hanging at her throat on a fine chain. “He’s a very good man, Katie, despite being a red soldier. He said that you—”

“What?” Kate looked at her sister, feeling suddenly desperate, needy.

“He said you make him look at everything differently, as he’s never seen it before,” Sophie said. “He said he would never forget you, and he hopes you will forgive him someday.” She tilted her head, watching Kate, who shrugged.

“Nothing to forgive. He was only doing his duty.”

“I imagine so. He mentioned how much he appreciates our hospitality, but says he must leave soon and plans to do so today. He was not certain you would want to say farewell to him before he went.”

Kate dropped the bobbins, put a hand to her mouth, and began to weep, while Sophie slipped an arm around her shoulder.

Alec walked through the hallways of Duncrieff alone, passing one well-appointed room after another,
but he had no time to pause or explore. When Mary had arrived very early with a breakfast tray of coffee as well as hot chocolate drink, he was already dressed in plaid, waistcoat, and mended red coat, along with his officer’s sash. He had assured Mary that he was fine, truly recovered, though she fussed over him before mentioning that Duncrieff had arrived home late the night before and now waited to speak with him in the drawing room, along with Kate and the others.

He was invited, she said, to join them at breakfast—but he thought he might decline that in favor of leaving altogether.

Expecting to meet her brother sometime today, he had dressed for the interview and now felt as if he walked toward his fate, even his doom. Although he did not want to leave Kate, he knew the time had come—he could neither force her to come with him nor force her to marry him if she refused. In Edinburgh, sooner or later, he would have to deliver her to court. As much as he wanted to protect her, he could not guarantee her safety after that.

With his arm in a sling and his jacket draped loosely, he walked along a corridor and down another flight of steps. The castle had been restored a century earlier, he had learned, to Jacobean grandeur. He passed one fine room after another: gleaming parquet floors, walls paneled in oak or painted in soothing colors. Scattered throughout were Turkey carpets, tapestried chairs, furnishings in older styles mixed with a few graceful French pieces; he saw crystal chandeliers and porcelain, mirrors and inlaid tables, paintings and bronzes—
and in every room, glass or China vases filled with flowers.

Though it was well into October, every room seemed to have fresh flowers in it—vases of marigolds, daisies, lavender fronds, pots of forced tulips, other flowers he did not recognize, all in bloom. Their fragrances freshened the air, and as Alec progressed through the halls, he began to relax a bit, to feel at home here, despite the early-morning appointment that awaited him.

Duncrieff had worked its own magic over him—he felt it everywhere, as if it were an enchanted palace, an elusive part of the Otherworld. Magic simply pervaded the air like light or music.

And he wondered if the magic was no more mysterious than just the peaceful atmosphere of a home filled with love. No wonder Kate had been desperate to return to Duncrieff. He would have done anything, were it his home, to come back.

He found the drawing room, following Mary’s directions, and hesitated, hand on the doorknob. Then he drew a long breath, and opened it.

The room was empty, he saw that immediately, to his surprise, for he had expected to face an angry young chief and a phalanx of stern Highland warriors.

Filled with early-morning sunshine, the room was large and lovely, the walls painted in creamy tones, the polished wood floor covered in a long Aubusson carpet, the furnishings a mix of dark Jacobean and lighter French, with tapestried chairs and a narrow sofa, and a painted harpsichord in a corner. The back wall of the room was pierced with tall windows hung with velvet
draperies, framing a view of a stone veranda and gardens that swept out to the foothills and mountains far beyond.

He strolled across the room, drawn by the spectacular view. Beyond the veranda, he saw flower beds and rose arbors, a fountain apparently kept dormant in autumn, a corner hedge maze, and orchards of fruit trees. From that window, he could see miles of the heathered hills and snow-topped mountains that surrounded the long length of the glen. The honey sandstone walls of Duncrieff Castle sat above all of it like a benevolent queen watching over her own.

He glanced around the room, and his attention was drawn by a curious object on a heavy carved sideboard. Other than flowers in vases and silver candlesticks, the centerpiece on the cabinet was a glass bell jar over a silver plate swathed in red velvet. A golden goblet sat protected inside.

A beautiful thing of hammered gold banded in silver, its surface was etched with swirling knot designs, its rim set with small crystals. A few of those were missing, he noticed immediately, as he leaned forward to peer more closely.

“The Fairy Cup of Duncrieff,” Kate said behind him.

“Ah,” he said, turning, nonchalant though his heart pounded hard. “Of course. I’ve heard a little about the fairy legends of Duncrieff.” He glanced at her.

She stood silhouetted in the door that led to the veranda and gardens, a fey creature with sunshine behind her all in a glow. Her fairy ancestry suddenly seemed very real.

She walked toward him, ethereal in a gown of silver-blue damask, the snug bodice and elbow sleeves trimmed in falls of lace, the bodice and wide skirts split to reveal an embroidered floral underdress. Her hair was neatly tamed beneath a lace cap, her earlobes held tiny pearl drops. Elegant, lovely, she was every bit the beautiful creature of the king’s court.

She joined him without glancing at him. In fact, she seemed to be avoiding his eyes. “The wife of the first laird of Duncrieff left this to her family. She was a Green Lady.”

He tilted his head. “A ghost?”

“Not that sort of Green Lady,” she said. “She was a princess of the tall and beautiful race of fairies who lived in the forests of Scotland a very long time ago…in the time of the mists, or so they call it.”

He nodded. “Did she use this cup?”

She shook her head. “She commissioned it from fairy goldsmiths, they say, of fairy gold from the hills of Glen Carran. Long before this castle was here, the princess came to Duncrieff with the MacCarran ancestor who rescued her when she fell in a river. He nursed her to health and fell in love with her, and she became his wife and the mother of his three sons.” Still she did not look at him. “One day she went back into the forest, returning to her kind, and to the green places where she was born. Her need for freedom, in the way of the fairies, was so strong in the end that it overcame her love for her human family. She was compelled to leave.”

“I see,” he murmured. “Wild blood.”

She nodded. “Leaving them broke her heart, they say, but her nature was fey and wild, and if she had remained, she would have withered away. But she left gifts with them.”

“This cup?”

“More than that, she left fairy magic through her blood, which became part of each generation of the MacCarrans of Duncrieff. Her three sons each inherited a different ability, and those have been passed along. Now and then, not even in every generation, someone is born with one of the gifts of fairy, such as healing, or the Sight, or…the glamourie. That’s the gift of bedazzling, or charming, others.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “And what of this cup?”

“It holds magic for the family, or so tradition says. When one is born with a fairy talent, one of the crystals is removed from the rim and worn by that person. The stone will enhance the power, or so it is believed.”

He glanced down at her. “Your sister wears a crystal necklace similar to yours. So she has this gift, too?”

She nodded. “Sophie’s fairy talent is the one that encourages growth—it’s related to the healing gift, I suppose. Much of the gardens here are Sophie’s work—she has been restoring the garden here at Duncrieff, and at her husband’s home, for months. And she’s increasing, came by it very quickly, she said…and that is a gift of growth and healing, too.” She smiled.

“Very much so. She’s very like you, lovely, and charming. I see the magic…in both of you.” Strange, he thought, how readily he was beginning to accept the
fairy element in the MacCarrans, though previously he would not have believed such things.