The Ravishing One (23 page)

He smiled at her and, before he realized what he was doing, lifted a tress of her hair and tucked it
behind her ear. It was silky and warm where the sun had toasted it.

“Are you disappointed?” he asked.

In answer, she turned her head as though to catch the touch of his knuckles against her cheek. He must be imagining it. He’d taken to investing her expressions with his own yearning.

Yearning. What a pallid term for this feeling. He leaned toward her a little, hoping she would lift her face to his. She didn’t.

“Do you know what the word ‘platonic’ means?” he asked.

She stepped away, concentrating. “I believe it is a form of … affection, defined by the Greek philosopher Plato.”

“Exactly. And what type of affection is it?”

She met his gaze, shadows advancing to cloud the blameless blue of her eyes. “The affection of deep friendship.”

He would never presume she might view him as a friend … he wasn’t even sure he wanted her to. It might preclude something else. But the darkness eclipsing her bright eyes made him immediately aware of the ridiculousness of suggesting to her that
any
relationship exist between them—most especially
something else
.

He’d
kidnapped
her, for God’s sake! He was keeping her here so that she might not bring harm to his best friend. Or so he’d once told himself. He was no longer sure what he was doing or why he kept her. He
only knew it had very little to do with James Barton anymore.

She, on the other hand, was simply making the best of an untenable situation. He should be thankful that since they’d taken dinner together in the kitchen a week ago she’d not once alluded to, or evinced the slightest inclination of, seducing him.

More’s the damn pity.

Instead, he’d begun … begun … 
wooing
her. Yes. Trying to coax out one of her rare smiles, make her laugh, make her speak without first considering her words. She was still standing, waiting patiently for … for what?

The answer was loweringly obvious—for them to continue their walk.

“Is something amiss?” she asked.

Once more, his humor saved the situation. “Forgive me,” he said, pulling himself together. “I swallowed something unpalatable.”

“All’s well now, I trust?” she inquired innocently.

“Everything is fine.”

“Perhaps you’d like to return to the manor?”

“By no means. Please, let us continue.” He offered her his arm, and after a brief hesitation she took it and fell into pace beside him.

“You speak fondly of your stepchildren. You’ve mentioned Kay several times.”

She seemed to find the return to more mundane subjects a relief. “Yes. I like him very well.”

“Tell me about him.”

As usual when he asked something of a private nature, her chin rose a small degree as though she was bracing herself. Would he betray her trust? How much would he absorb before he used what she told him against her? she would be asking herself. He knew because he asked himself the same question each time she asked him to reveal something of himself. Yet she had not backed down from his queries. And neither had he.

It was heady and dangerous, this conversation they enjoyed, both of them wanting so much to believe in the other that they ignored the deep-seated suspicion neither had been able to purge. And only lately Thomas had become aware of an unforeseen consequence of their verbal intercourse: It was immensely arousing.

There was, he now suspected, a very good reason the biblical cant for coitus was “knowledge.”

“I shall never forgive myself for Pip’s having been wounded,” she said instead of answering his question about Kay. He’d noted that the evenness of her voice was often in direct contrast to the depths of the emotions she guarded.

He no longer blamed her for Pip. He’d learned too much since. Some she’d told him, some he’d guessed, filling in the areas she was loath to speak about.

Fia had met Pip and been touched by his boyish playfulness. With no template to follow, she’d treated Pip as she’d treated the only other boy of her acquaintance, a boy who patently had no romantic interest in her, her stepson, Kay. She’d not foreseen that Pip
would misconstrue her easy camaraderie for something else. And when she’d discovered it, it had been too late.

“I am sorry,” he said.

She did not ask for what, but her fingers tightened briefly on his sleeve. They walked silently for a while, the scent of flinty, wet rock and pine needles rising with each step.

“Does young Kay miss his father?” he asked.

“Gregory? Some, but then Gregory wasn’t with us much.”

“And do you miss your husband?” He had no idea why he asked.

She stopped abruptly, turned, and considered him a long minute before saying, “Gregory MacFarlane was a dull-witted man with no greater aspiration than to be approved of by rakes, roues, and rotters. He treated his children with benign neglect and me with alarmed tolerance, which is better than most parents treat their children and far better than I expected. I neither loved nor hated him, respected nor despised him, which made our marriage a most unremarkable one.”

“Why did you marry him?” It was an unfair question; she might not even know why Carr had wed her to MacFarlane.

“I married him for his house,” she said, and walked away.

“Certainly there was more to it than that,” he insisted, catching up and stopping her with a hand on her arm. “Carr wouldn’t have need of a farmhouse in the lowlands.”

“Carr?” she echoed. “What has Carr to do with this?”

“I assumed he’d … persuaded you to wed MacFarlane.”

“Why would you think such a thing?” she asked.

He watched her in growing consternation. “Because,” he said gently, “as you yourself acknowledged, Carr had groomed you from an early age—”

“Be damned to Carr,” she suddenly whispered in a violent undertone. “Be damned to Carr’s plans. I married MacFarlane to escape Carr and his plot and machinations. Because once MacFarlane died I thought I’d be free from ever being molded and prodded and manipulated by anyone again. I thought I’d be independent.”

“But how could you believe that?” he asked. “What with MacFarlane’s having a son—”

“I didn’t
know
MacFarlane had any children when I married him,” she said tensely before her expression softened. “I had no idea.”

The vehemence in her voice made no sense. If Fia loathed Carr so much, then why was she so often in his company? Carr paraded Fia before the ton as a horse trader might a prime mare. He scowled, something in his unconsidered analogy fitting more closely than it ought.

Beside him, Fia’s thoughts moved on kinder currents. Kay and Cora. How she’d resented them her first few weeks at Bramble House. But the resentment had faded, the emptiness it left filled with startling
rapidity by something else, some unnamed and hitherto unexperienced emotion. For a long time she’d struggled to put a name to that thing, amazed that it should find a home in her hard heart.

Oh, she loved Gunna well and she owned a late-blooming affection toward her brothers, but to find that she loved two Scottish brats! Incredible.

How deeply she’d grown to love them she hadn’t known until Gregory’s death and Carr’s appearance. She’d do anything to protect them. Her gaze slew toward where Thomas regarded her with a pensive, suspicious air.

Abruptly thoughts of Kay and Cora and Carr vanished. She could not stand to see that expression on his face. She swept rapidly past him. Why should the motives for her marriage matter to him? Other women married for property, or social advancement. In fact, the majority did. Why, then, had her admission sounded so distasteful?

She bit her lip hard, her ears attuned for the sound of his footsteps following. None. He’d stayed where she’d left him. She chanced a backward glance, saw him regarding her in puzzlement.

Had she been mistaken? Had that not been distaste and mistrust on his face? She’d never before had so much trouble divining a man’s feelings. Of course, those feelings were generally obvious, because they were primal. One needed to have no more than a decent set of eyes directed at a certain part of a man’s anatomy in order to ascertain them.

That being the case, ’twas obvious Thomas felt
something
for her. But she wanted to be something more than the object of a man’s salacious fantasies. Although to be the object of
Thomas’s
salacious fantasies … She swallowed.

Sometimes at night, she’d think of him the way men thought about her—or so they’d whispered to her often enough. Her muscles would flex, arcing toward some spectral lover. The skin of her breasts and thighs would feel too taut, and she would ache with a need that had never been satisfied—indeed, a need she’d barely been aware she owned. A need Thomas could fulfill. If only he would.

God, what was she thinking? Her thoughts, her emotions, her motives in allowing herself to be abducted, her goals here, everything was in turmoil. Nothing was as she’d planned. By all that was sacred, she was
smitten
with Thomas McClairen. Like the veriest girl! And she had no idea, none, what to do about it.

A touch on her shoulder brought her swinging around. Thomas stood behind her, regarding her intently.

“What?” she asked breathlessly.

“Do you love Bramble House so much? Is it that important to you?”

“Love it?” she echoed in confusion. Her world had been set atilt and was spinning madly. “I don’t know. Wanton’s Blush was my home, even though I knew I would never have her, I would never be able to …”

“To what?” he asked, searching her face.

“To set her to rights.”

“Rights?”

“Aye. She always put me in mind of a queen in exile, forced to hide her regal nature behind a courtesan’s skirts.”

“Yes,” he murmured. He swallowed and the contraction of his throat set a wave of longing through her. His gaze was fixed on her mouth, his own lips relaxed, almost open. What would happen if she leaned closer? What would he do? What if he did nothing?

She forced herself to break eye contact, and to pick up their conversation.

“I found pictures of the castle as she was before Carr possessed her. She had an almost magical quality. But perhaps that was due to the artist’s talents.” She smiled wryly. “I used to pretend I was Lizabet, first lady of the castle, waiting for Dougal to come back and make things right.”

“Dougal McClairen?”

“Aye,” she agreed. She wanted to touch his face again, as she had the night of the masque. He was not so smoothly shaven now; his skin would have a different texture. “But when I grew older, I knew I was not Lizabet, and Dougal would not be coming. So I found another place to call home.”

“And another Dougal?” he asked.

“No,” she said firmly. “I knew better by then.”

“You found your home at Bramble House.”

“I found a
place
at Bramble House,” she corrected. “But it will never be Wanton’s Blush.”

He hesitated a moment and then said, “Would you like to see it?”

“What?”

“The castle.”

“There’s naught to see. Carr said it had all burned down.”

“Not all of it.” He took her hand. “Come with me.”

Chapter 19

T
he late afternoon air carried a warm southern breeze with it. Thomas, riding beside Fia, scarce understood the impulse that had led him there. He’d never considered taking Fia to the castle, but then he’d never considered that the castle meant anything to her.

After the days of companionable discourse they’d come full circle. The last few hours’ ride, their conversation had been stilted, their avoidance of each other’s eyes obvious. But as they drew nearer the coast and small things had begun to look familiar to her, Fia relaxed, her anticipation overcoming her shyness. Thomas’s own unease vanished and he drank in the subtle signs of her delight playing across her lovely face.

’Twas like watching a master violinist play an intricate yet seemingly simple cantata. One needed to attend the
nuances. He knew the scent of the sea comforted her, for she inhaled often and deeply. The softening in her eyes proclaimed that she favored the rowan over the hawthorn. Hares must plague the Bramble House kitchen garden, as testified by the slight flattening of her lips when a rabbit darted across the path.

They were near now. They wove between a stand of pine, and crested a flinty knoll as the trees gave way to the open. There, beneath them, lay the surging sea, McClairen’s Isle, and Maiden’s Blush.

The setting sun was quitting the sky in all due pageantry. Purples and mauves, crimson and orchid stained the horizon, bathing the castle walls in a soft, phosphorescent light so that from this vantage Maiden’s Blush looked like a half-formed fairy castle.

About her base, small figures moved slowly—workmen leaving with an air of reluctance, as though begrudging the need for sleep and food that kept them from their tasks. For the castle was being painstakingly and lovingly restored. Not to Carr’s mad standard of extravagance, but to her former beauty and dignity.

“You’re rebuilding her,” Fia gasped beside him.

He nodded, his eyes filled with the spectacle below. “Aye,” he said softly. “As she was meant to be … only better.”

“But why?” she asked incredulously. “Wanton’s Blush—”

“Maiden’s Blush,”
he corrected. “She was Wanton’s Blush when your father held her, but now I own her
and Maiden’s Blush she’ll stay for the rest of her days or until the last McClairen dies.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his odd mood both black and triumphant. “If a man like Carr cannot kill us, who else could?”

“But how have you accomplished this?” Fia asked, her awed gaze fixed on the sight below. The north wing was complete and work was being shifted to the short central portion. Thick wooden scaffolding enveloped what was left of the facade.

“Carr didn’t want it after it burned,” Thomas said. “I did, and he’d no objections to selling the island to me—or rather, to my agent.”

Fia stared. Carr had never told her. He’d sold her home without a single word. She flinched involuntarily, amazed there was anything left in her that Carr’s heartlessness could hurt.