When the Laird Returns (11 page)

Only once before had they stood so close in the brightness of sunlight, on that first meeting days earlier. Each subsequent encounter had been in the shadows or illuminated merely by a lantern’s glow.

Her knowledge was greater than it had been that day he’d rescued her. He was not simply a man blessed with a beautiful smile, or eyes as blue as a Highland sky. His character held as much fascination for her as his appearance.

I could love you.
The thought caught her in mid-breath.

Slowly he untied the knot she had just tightened, his knuckles brushing the underside of her jaw.

Unable to look away, Iseabal watched as Alisdair lowered his head, his whisper traveling like a breath across her temple.

“I wish you wouldn’t wear it,” he said surprisingly, the low resonance of his voice causing another chill, this one through her entire body. “Your hair is too lovely to be kept covered.”

Slipping the kerchief from her head, Alisdair speared his hands through her hair. As mischievous as the wind, and as determined, he pressed his hands against her scalp, the touch as strange and enticing as the smile he wore.

Reaching up and gripping his wrists, Iseabal forced his hands down until they stood linked only by the touch of their fingertips. A tentative joining, mimicking their marriage. Her thumb began to trace his index finger, then slowed when Iseabal realized what she was doing.

She pulled away, staring down at her hands rather than at
him. In the bright light her knuckles were almost bulbous, her fingers callused from years of using sharp tools and working on stubborn stone. She clenched them into fists.

“I am still a married woman, MacRae,” she said softly.
However you might not wish it.

“And I am still your husband,” he countered, to her surprise. “Have my wishes no bearing?”

Glancing up, she saw that his smile had vanished, and his gaze, somber and direct, was filled with curiosity.

He gripped both her hands, gently turning them over. Embedded in her palms was limestone dust, the result of years of carving stone. On the base of her right thumb was a faint scar, the D her father had carved.

She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t release her.

“Talented hands,” he murmured. “Those of a woman who chooses occupation rather than idle hours.”

His words sounded absurdly like a compliment.

The shouts of the men on the rigging, the creak of rope tightening against the spars, Rory’s triumphant whoop, the cook’s shout to line up for the noon meal—all these Iseabal heard as muffled sounds. Even the air seemed thicker, heavier, laden with the taste of brine.

She was too fascinated with him, too curious, and too aware. He wanted nothing to do with her, wanted no bonds between them, yet now he stood as encapsulated in this moment as she.

“Please,” he said, and it took a moment for her to understand. He didn’t wish her to wear her kertch.

She nodded, reluctantly. He didn’t know what he was asking, she realized. Not to wear her kerchief was to portray herself as a single woman. But perhaps it was right and proper for her appearance to mirror her status in the world.

Iseabal pulled away finally, bending to retrieve her tools. But he reached the leather sling first and passed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, looking anywhere but at his face.

“Iseabal,” he began, only for her name to fade away between them.

She moved away from him, turning at the end of the passageway to glance back. He had not moved from his position and they exchanged long looks before she retreated into the cabin. Regret tasted like tears, she thought, closing the door behind her.

L
ondon was a stain upon the horizon, great clouds of gray smoke looming over the city as if to mark it for the tired traveler. The harbor itself was a forest of masts, ships stacked together so tightly that Alisdair thought a man could reach the wharf by walking from deck to deck.

As was common in crowded ports, Alisdair chose to berth the
Fortitude
in the harbor, using her small boats to ferry the crew ashore. Giving the order to Daniel, he stood against the bow railing, watching as the anchors were gradually lowered.

Daniel was evading him of late, careful to carry out his orders, but just as cautious to avoid any personal conversations. In fact, he noted, his entire crew seemed to be going out of their way to avoid him. Which was just as well, Alisdair thought. He was in no mood for superstitions or portents or reportings of Henrietta’s tail.

The ship’s cat crossed his path, sending a sideways glance in Alisdair’s direction as if amused at his growing irritation.

He had already dispatched Rory to the docks, to engage a carriage and driver for the journey to Brandidge Hall. According to his father’s directions, the Sherbourne estate was not far from London, and the distance easily traveled in an afternoon.

Even though his cabin was located in the stern of the ship, he heard the door open. With his gaze now directed toward London, his senses were nevertheless attuned to Iseabal, making him aware of her in a way that surprised him. He could almost feel each one of her soft footfalls across the deck, hear her faint murmur as she greeted him. He should not have been able to discern the scent she wore over that of London’s busy port, but he could, detecting something green and woodsy and smelling of flowers all at the same time.

Attired in a petticoat of red stripes and a jacket of red, she came and stood beside him. She had left her hair uncovered, spreading down her back like a thousand strands of ebony silk. Her face was pink with color, her attention directed toward London lying before them.

“There are a great many ships,” she murmured.

“It is said that sooner or later everyone travels to London.”

“Have you been here before?” she asked, looking up at him.

In the morning light she appeared almost radiant, he thought, then turned away before he could emulate James in waxing poetic.

“No,” he answered. “I haven’t.”

“You don’t like being in England,” Iseabal said.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

He had traded for silks in China, and for spices among the
islands of the Pacific. He had seen France, marveling at its castles and cathedrals. Spain and Portugal held an allure, as did the American colonies. But he had not, until now, felt uncomfortable in his travels or choice of port.

One of the
Fortitude
’s boats was returning, Rory sitting in the bow, a wide grin on his face. “I found a carriage and a driver, Captain,” he called up, and Alisdair nodded in response.

“Will you be ready to leave in a few moments?” he asked, turning to Iseabal.

“Where are we going?”

“To Brandidge Hall. The Sherbourne estate.”

“To refuse an earldom.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You’re leaving me in London, then?” she asked, concentrating on the sight of her trunk being loaded into a second boat.

The question grated at him, coming as late as it did. She should have asked her fate a day ago, or a week. Not now, not when they were set to disembark.

“With the amount of money I intend to settle on you, Iseabal,” he replied irritably, “you’ll be able to choose your own destination.”

Her glance was quick and shuttered, but instead of saying more, she moved to the side of the ship, peering intently over the rail. She looked, he thought sourly, as if she could not wait to leave the
Fortitude
.

The journey to the dock was uneventful, memorable only for its silence. Neither he nor Iseabal spoke, and even the voluble Rory remained mute, occasionally exchanging glances with the sailor at the oars. On the descent to the boat and in the ascent to the wharf, Iseabal merely took Alisdair’s hand,
nodding her thanks. But not once did she speak to him, as if she’d already dismissed him from her life.

Behind them, two sailors carried their trunks, Rory leading the way to the coach he’d hired. The boy glanced back from time to time as if wondering at the delay. Alisdair had issued orders that every man was to be given leave, except for a rotating watch left aboard the
Fortitude
. Rory was evidently eager to be about the business of proving himself man enough to consort with his fellow crewmen.

London’s sky was gray, and the air seemed thick with the smells of a slaughterhouse, unwashed bodies, and smoke. Everywhere Alisdair looked there were people, crowds of them undulating toward their destinations. He took Iseabal’s elbow, navigated beyond a small group of men talking vehemently in the middle of the street, their arms waving toward the harbor.

Carriages, drays, large coaches, and carts sat nose to nose along the wharf, waiting either for cargoes to be unloaded from an adjacent ship or for the transport of their wealthy owners.

Soldiers attired in their distinctive red coats stood in strict formation, ready to board one of the ships. Alisdair didn’t doubt that their destination was the American colonies, their duty to act as a deterrent to the growing talk of rebellion.

Placing his arm around Iseabal’s far shoulder, he pulled her closer to him, his annoyance growing with each of the glances sent in her direction.

Finally they were at the coach, parked away from the main wharf. He and the driver exchanged a few words while the trunks were being loaded.

“It’ll take longer to get through London, sir,” the driver
said with a gap-toothed smile, “than it will this place of yours.”

He nodded, his attention caught by the sight of Rory opening the door for Iseabal. She entered the coach gracefully and silently, her quick smile one of thanks.

She smiled at his cabin boy and watched him with studied caution, Alisdair thought in disgust.

Rory stood at attention beside the coach, the pose difficult to maintain since his eyes were darting from sight to sight and his feet were impatiently tapping on the bricked pavement.

“You’re eager to be off, then?” Alisdair asked with a smile.

“Yes, sir,” Rory replied, with no attempt made to disguise his excitement.

Alisdair bent, grabbing the boy’s hand and placing a few coins on his palm.

“Thank you, sir,” Rory said, staring down at the money in awe.

“Your wages for the next month, Rory,” Alisdair told him. “Have a care.”

“I will, sir.” Rory smiled brightly. In seconds the three sailors were gone, disappearing into the crowd.

Alisdair mounted the steps, settling himself into the coach with his back to the horses. As the vehicle lurched forward, the motion reminded him of a lumbering merchantman.

Flicking open the leather shade, Alisdair found himself unwillingly impressed at the sight of a large domed cathedral. He sat back against the cushions, feeling not unlike Daniel in the lion’s den. Daniel might admire the predator’s home, but it didn’t mean that he felt comfortable as a guest.

Iseabal, however, appeared entranced with the view of
London. Her eyes widened; her breath seemed to stop before escaping on a sigh of enchantment. Not exactly Fernleigh, Alisdair thought, wondering at his foul mood.

“Have you never traveled before, Iseabal?” Alisdair asked. His voice sounded surly even to his own ears, so he forced a smile to his lips.

She turned her head slowly, her gaze measured. The hint of irritation, however, was in her eyes. “I’ve been to Inverness and Edinburgh, MacRae. But no farther than that.”

“Why do you call me MacRae in that tone of yours?” he asked. “Have you forgotten my name again?”

She looked startled at his anger. Well she might be, he thought, and at other responses he was feeling at the moment. He needed to obtain an annulment, he decided, then ease his need with some willing woman. A female who did not look as equally alluring in sunlight or in shadow. And who did not, he decided, hide her thoughts behind such rigorous restraint.

“I call you MacRae,” she said quietly, “because you’ve given me no reason to address you familiarly.”

Her dignity shamed him at the same time that it fanned his irritation.

He should not wish for her to speak to him, to divulge all those secret thoughts she kept hidden. Instead, he should be grateful for her reticence. The less he knew of her, the better.

Yet a more ferocious part of him, controlled not by reason but by the more elemental emotions, wanted to hold her steady, place his palms on both sides of her face, and peer into her eyes until he found all the answers he needed. Who was Iseabal?

Alisdair realized that he still didn’t know.

“We’ll reach Brandidge Hall in the afternoon,” he said.

She nodded, eternally accepting.

“My duties will take me no more than a few days to perform.”

She didn’t respond to that, merely kept her attention on the view.

“I’ll be back on the
Fortitude
in a week,” he added.

Still no response, almost as if he’d not spoken.

And Iseabal? What would happen to her? The thought was disconcerting. So, too, the realization that while it had been easy to make the decision to obtain an annulment, the execution was proving to be more difficult.

She was doing nothing to encourage him to remain her husband. She’d offered neither logic nor cajolery in an attempt to change his mind. Instead, her enticement was to irritate and confuse, to hide her thoughts and restrain her speech until he was mired in a curiosity that wouldn’t cease.

He should simply kiss speech from her. Open her mouth and inhale her unvoiced words.

“Have you given any thought to where you will live?” he asked abruptly. “I will take you wherever you wish to go.”

“You may as well leave me here,” she said. “My father will have no qualms about declaring me a widow and marrying me off again. You and he are alike in your greed.”

Startled, he stared at her, thinking that perhaps it had not been the wisest thing to wish speech from Iseabal.

“He would do anything for money, while you would do the same to obtain your freedom,” she said at his silence.

“I’ve never thought to be compared to Magnus Drummond,” he responded tightly.

She tilted her head, stared at him. “Outwardly you’re nothing like him. Or any of the other men he’s shown me to.
My candidates for groom have all been wealthy, but few of them had their teeth or hair.”

“At least I have my hair and teeth,” he said, annoyed in a way he could not articulate.

“Yes,” she agreed, glancing at him. Only that. Just that one word uttered in such a bland tone that it had the effect of being among the most insulting remarks ever spoken to him.

The carriage was suddenly too small, the space so confining that he felt as if the air itself pressed in on his skin. Alisdair frowned, leaned back against the cushions, and feigned sleep.

Time had evaporated, and no great ideas had occurred to Iseabal about her future. Because her father considered her mother’s relatives a drain on his finances, she’d not seen them often these past years. Yet word still flowed between Leah and her family, love having no barrier.

Her mother’s sister lived in Inverness, but she had been sickly of late and it did not seem fair to appear on her doorstep without warning. A cousin living not far away from Fernleigh had borne another child. Perhaps she and her husband could use an extra pair of hands to help with the chores or act as nurse.

There were pitifully few choices for an unmarried woman. Nor did Iseabal have any talents that might support her. She didn’t have her mother’s ability at needlework or tatting lace. The making of bonnets was a tedious chore. The only true talent she had was in carving stone, and that was considered a foolish occupation for a woman.

How strange to be so unwanted in all ways.

From time to time she glanced over at the MacRae, realizing that he was not asleep, merely distancing himself by his
position. He sat in the corner of the carriage, his arms folded against his chest, his long legs spread out before him. In this confined space he was too imposing.

Words might sway him from his decision, but she could not say them.
Let me stay.
A simple sentence, but one that was held in her heart, not to be voiced. Pride, it seemed, was all she had left, and it was not easily spent. Perhaps she was as much a miser as her father, Iseabal thought wryly.

Moments lengthened into hours and the view changed from thickly crowded London to a more pastoral vista. Softly rounded hills undulated around them, creating small, shadowed valleys. A gentle land, England. There were few people on the roads, and even fewer dwellings, as if this fertile earth stewarded itself.

Clouds began to obscure the sky, darkening as if in preparation for rain. She was suddenly amused by the hint of another storm. They had left Scotland in a torrent; were they to be welcomed in England by yet more rain? Even the breeze tasted of it, but there was neither lightning nor thunder to mar the perfect scenery.

Rain marked their passage, drumming on the roof of the coach in a strangely comforting sound.

There, in the center of a glen, sat a house, a structure reminding her of a great white eagle, its wings stretching out on either side of its body. Like that proud bird, the house seemed to declare itself as worthy of admiration.

“Is that Brandidge Hall?” she asked in amazement.

Opening his eyes without hesitation, Alisdair pulled the shutter away from the window, looking down at the house. “If it is,” he said wryly, “I was not given to understand that it was quite so large.”

An enormous white dome, its leaded glass winking in the
pattering rain, sat atop the center of Brandidge Hall. Above the bowl-like shape, a tall, golden spire seemed to point the way to heaven itself.

Flanking the house were great gardens, misted in the rain. Hedges trimmed to form curves and winding, almost impossible, designs were interspersed with gravel paths and flower beds rich with blooms. Iseabal recognized the pattern in the center of one formal space as a Celtic knot, similar to that found in her family’s crest.