The Lady and the Laird Page 9

  Her own audacity stunned Katlin almost as much as the sensations he unleashed within her. Where did she come from, this woman of fire and hunger who accepted the wildest caresses and returned them in measure? Who was she, standing in the haunting mist on the edge of the sea, locked in the arms of a man who was, if not her adversary, at the very least her rival?

  She trembled at the strange familiarity of it all, as though she had known this and more in some other time and place. But not some other man, she realized—this one, this strong, proud man who held her with such fierce tenderness.

  No, that could not be. She was Katlin Sinclair, he was Angus Wyndham. They were who and what they were. All else was fantasy.

  A soft sound broke from her, half-moan, half-sob. She wrenched her mouth away from his. "Angus, please..."

  So finely attuned was he to her response, yet he did not hear the desperation in her voice. Heard, instead, only the plea and felt its answer within himself.

  His mouth trailed fire along the slim white line of her throat. Through the linen of his shirt, he could feel her erect nipples raking his chest. His hands moved to cup her breasts, the thumbs caressing the rosy crests.

  "Sweet," he murmured deep in his throat, "so sweet."

  But also fully awake to the danger that lay not so much within him as within herself.

  Her hands pressed against his chest. The skin, like velvet laid over granite, did not yield. She pressed again, more urgently.

  "Angus, let me go."

  The words cost her so much that she almost wept to speak them. Pleasure, incandescent only a moment before, was turning rapidly to the pain of frustration and regret.

  He heard her at last, and his arms loosened enough for her to step away from him. She did so, trembling, and quickly snatched up the fallen blanket, wrapping it around herself like a protective cocoon.

  Cheeks blazing, she said, "That shouldn't have happened."

  Angus looked at her thoughtfully. His breathing was still rapid and his arousal remained as before, going its own way as such things will, but at least his mind was clearing. He wasn't surprised by her reaction, only that it had taken so long to occur. That in itself was very revealing.

  Softly, he said, "Go inside, Katlin."

  She did look at him then, a quick, startled glance that correctly interpreted his meaning. Swift as a doe, she turned and disappeared into the mist.

  Angus waited until she was gone before he unclenched his fists. Only by keeping them tightly closed had he resisted the urge to sweep her back into his arms. He exhaled slowly and shook his head in ironic amusement. He was thirty-two years old and a man of considerable experience. He should have long ago absorbed the fact that life was always capable of surprises. But that had never seemed so forcibly true as it did now.

  With a shake of his head, he turned toward the path that led to the beach. Although he had managed to let Katlin go, he didn't trust himself to follow her into the house. Never mind that the servants would be stirring. His passion was still too hot to be trusted.

  The mist was beginning to clear as he walked down the narrow path. When he reached the shore he kept going, walking easily Over the scattered rocks. His long legs and swift stride devoured the distance.

  When he was half a mile from the manor, he stopped. Standing on the edge of the water, he stripped off his clothing. Naked, he plunged into the surf. The shock of the cold was intense. He gasped and forced himself to move quickly, warming his muscles. Even chilled as it was, the sea was an old friend. He had been swimming almost since babyhood and well knew his own capacity.

  After a time, he turned on his back and let himself drift. The sun had burned through the early fog and fell warmly over the foam-flecked water. The tide was going in, assuring he would not be carried very far from shore. Off in the distance he made out the broad clump of rocks at the last point before Innishffarin. A harsh, barking sound rippled in the air. The seals were in residence.

  He turned over again finally and struck out the way he had come. High on the cliff above him, he did not notice the rider who paused briefly, eyes watching the smooth slash of his body through the water.

  ***

  Katlin pressed her heels into the mare's sides and urged her on. She had dressed, claimed her mount from the stable and ridden out of Wyndham without seeing anyone. That suited her perfectly. Heat still flooded her cheeks, and tremors coursed through her. She shook her head, vainly trying to clear it, but the image of Angus riding the sea stayed with her.

  By the time she reached Innishffarin, she had given tip remonstrating with herself and decided to accept what had happened. It was an aberration, that was all, the kind of thing that would never occur again. Granted, it would be embarrassing to face Angus, but she would survive it. What mattered was that henceforth and forevermore, she guard herself against the wanton stranger buried so deep—but not deeply enough—within her.

  She dismounted in the stable yard. A young groom ran out to greet her, one of those sent from Wyndham. He led the horse away with promises that she would be well cared for.

  Entering the hall, Katlin found a cheerful blaze in the main fireplace. Her nose twitched at the good smells floating up from the kitchens. The stone walls still felt chill and damp, but there was a sense of comfort that had been missing before.

  Grateful though she was for it, it did not escape her that what she saw was not the result of her own efforts but of others. That troubled her but she set it aside. There were more important matters to think of just then.

  Her first order of business was to check on Maggie Fergus. The housekeeper was still asleep. She looked more at ease than she had the previous day, and her breathing was regular. Mary and Margaret also seemed improved. As for John, he was up, hobbling around on a crutch. He looked glad to see her.

  "We were worried about you, miss," he said quietly after she had knocked on his door and been bidden to enter. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," Katlin assured him, although she was anything but. "Lord Wyndham suggested I wait out the storm. He assured me all would be seen to here."

  "As it was, miss," John said. He seemed not at all surprised by the fact that she had accepted Wyndham hospitality. "A fine man, he is, and he has his people's loyalty. There's a lot to be said for that."

  "I'm sure there is," Katlin muttered. "Are you sure you should be up and around?"

  "Sure as, miss. This crutch will see me fine, and with all the help we've got now, at least I can pitch in."

  Katlin was unconvinced but she saw no point in forbidding him to work. John had always been a robust man who preferred to keep busy. She nodded and withdrew, making her way to the small room where Sarah slept. It was empty and the bed did not look as though it had been used.

  Concern gripped her. Sarah might know her way all too well around the streets of London, but she had never been in such a place as Innishffarin. Anything might happen to her.

  Quickly, Katlin went downstairs. An old, gnarled man with a shock of white hair was in the kitchen. He was stirring a large pot of porridge but looked up as she entered.

  "Good morning, miss," he said gravely. "I be Neal from Wyndham. We weren't expecting you so soon."

  "I thought it best to return as quickly as possible," she answered distractedly. Her gaze drifted from the porridge to the rack of honey cakes set out to cool on the table. "You cook?"

  "Aye, miss, and right well, if I do say so myself. Learned at sea, I did. Sailed with his lordship for nigh on fifteen years. Saw the world, or as much of it as I'd ever want to."

  "I didn't realize," Katlin said slowly. Angus had been at sea? She perched on a stool beside the table and reached for one of the honey cakes. It fairly melted in her mouth.

  Warmed without and within, she said, "It's a grand thing to go to sea."

  Neal agreed. "It is that, miss. Had a fair time of it, we did."

  "His lordship couldn't have been very old when he went."

  "Not more than fif
teen when we first hauled anchor, but he was already a man. Became more of one, I'll admit, with all the adventures we had."

  "Where did you go?" Katlin asked.

  The old man laughed. His eyes, wreathed in a web of wrinkles, were filled with memories. "Where didn't we? Sailed clear around the Horn, up through the Indian Sea all the way to Cathay. Went to the Americas three years running. What a place they are! Back and forth we went, carrying spices, fabrics, great logs of wood, anything and everything we could find a market for. I can't tell you how many storms we sailed through or how many times I thought we'd reached our end, but on we went till one fine evening, in Lisbon it was, his lordship got word about his father."

  '' Word that he had died?'' Katlin asked softly.

  "That he was dying," Neal corrected. "A fine man the old lord was, but fierce proud. His son could always find a way around a problem, but the same wasn't true of him. They'd had a falling out over something and Angus—his lordship that is—went off. By the time he got home, it was too late. His father was dead and he was laird in his place."

  "How sad," Katlin said softly. She, too, had lost parents without having any chance to say farewells. The experience left a void that was never quite filled. "What did they argue about?"

  Neal shrugged. "A woman, what else?"

  Katlin's eyes widened. "But you said his lordship was only fifteen?"

  The old man looked amused. "Aye, and a man for all that. We grow up fast here in the highlands, miss. Didn't you know that?"

  "I guess I didn't," Katlin said quietly. A woman at his age? And someone important enough to cause a split with his father that was never healed.

  "They weren't... That is, they didn't both—" She broke off, flushing.

  Neal cast her a chiding glance. "What would you be thinking such a thing for, miss? A fine, well brought up young lady like yourself? But no, to answer the question, they didn't both want her. The old laird wanted Angus to marry the daughter of a wealthy Edinburgh shipowner. Angus refused. He didn't care for the lass, thought her too full of herself, and he wasn't ready to settle down anyway."

  "I should think not, at fifteen."

  "'Tis young, all right, but not unheard of. After all, he was heir to Wyndham and his only brother -- younger than him by a year—had died in childhood. There was a certain eagerness for him to marry and start the business of getting sons."

  "How did the shipowner's daughter feel about that?" Katlin asked.

  "I suppose she was all for it, miss. He was a fine strapping young man, not as big as he is now but on the way to it. And then there was the title, the land, the manor. She'd get enough from the bargain to make it worth her while."

  Katlin knit her brow and reached for another of the honey cakes. They really were delicious. "I suppose she languished after he left, foolish chit."

  Neal laughed, delighted at the notion. "No such thing. She up and married a mine owner from somewhere down in England. Gave him a couple of lads, went to court and kicked up her heels in a way his lordship would never have stood for, if you take my meaning."

  She did. "Possessive, is he?"

  "You might say that, miss. What he has, he holds."

  Which was a rather daunting thought considering what had passed between them not so long ago. She pushed it aside resolutely. Yet she could not escape the realization that the old man was right. What the laird had he held, and more—what he wanted, he took. Yet he had restrained himself with her and for that she had to find it in herself to be grateful.

  Nourished by honey cakes, warmth and, if truth be told, good gossip, Katlin belatedly remembered Sarah. When she asked Neal if he had seen her, he smiled slightly. "Pretty little thing? Red-haired? Aye, I've seen her. She's in the barn with Seamus."

  "Barn?"

  "Over the rise that way," he said, cocking his head.

  "I didn't realize Seamus was back," Katlin said as she rose to go.

  "Came in last night. Carried a ewe down from the hills. She was having a hard time of birthing and he wanted her here. Good man, Seamus."

  Katlin nodded. She took her leave with a smile and a promise to return. The ground squelched underfoot as she made her way from the castle. As Neal had said, once over the nearest rise she caught sight of the barn nestled in a cleft between hills. Considering how dilapidated the castle was, the barn was surprisingly sturdy. The planks looked fresh-hewed, and a good strong double door shut out the elements. She was heading toward it when the door opened and Sarah emerged. She was smiling, her cheeks were flushed and her bright red hair was decidedly disheveled as, for that matter, was her clothing. Seamus was right behind her. His hand held Sarah's. They looked into each other's eyes and laughed.

  Katlin drew back. She had no right to intrude on so private a moment. Yet she could not help but envy them a little. They were free to follow their hearts.

  She was not. If she meant to keep Innishffarin—and she did—she had to put her duty above all else. Her servants were healing, some necessary repairs were being made, and, most merciful of all, the rain had ended. That left one urgent matter to be seen to.

  She straightened her shoulders and marched back toward the castle. Never mind the fear that coiled in her stomach. She was a Sinclair, and it was past time for her to show it. Most principally to his lordship, Francis Baron Wyndham, erstwhile laird of Innishffarin.

  Chapter Nine

  That was the trouble with ghosts, Katlin decided. They were forever showing up where they weren't wanted or expected, but just try to get one to appear when you needed him and he'd be anywhere but.

  She said as much out loud as she forced herself, step by step, along the corridor where she had first glimpsed the ghostly visage.

  "What are you afraid of?" she demanded of the air. "I know who you are, Francis Wyndham, and I know why you're here. If you're scared of me, that's a pity, but I can understand it. I imagine you'd be frightened by any Sinclair."

  It was a calculated risk but one she felt she had to take. The ghost had been there more than a century. He could certainly outwait her if he chose. Her demand for him to appear was like whistling in the dark. Inside she was terrified, but she couldn't let anyone see it, most certainly not a ghost.

  She smiled weakly as she remembered that not very long ago she hadn't believed in such things, or at the least she would have called herself uncertain. Life was lived in daylight or in a blaze of candle flame, amid cheerful, laughing people, safe in the love and approval of her great-aunt, basking in Charles's attentions, all so easy and smooth. All so distant from what she was doing now, prowling the dank corridor, whistling for a ghost.

  "Enough," she murmured. "If you're too afraid to face me, so be it. But don't try coming around on your own. I won't pay you any mind, I promise."

  A breath of air moved past her cheek. She paused, listening intently. "Are you there?"

  Nothing. She was utterly, unmistakably alone. All but stamping her foot in annoyance, she turned to go. Directly into dank, cloying darkness, filled with the scent of the grave and of something even more unholy—despair. It wrapped around her, squeezing her breath and chilling her to the bone.

  Katlin gasped. Her hand went to her throat. She couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't breath. This, then, was death, for it could be nothing else. She was alive still, she could think and feel, but she was completely helpless in the face of it.

  Oh, no, she wasn't, her mind said sharply. Out of the depths of terror, an angry voice cried. She was a Sinclair and she wasn't about to be bullied or cowed by anyone, most certainly not by a Wyndham, and a dead one at that.

  "Stop it!" she demanded. "Stop this instant. I won't have this. If you don't cease immediately, I shall summon a priest and have you exercised."

  The darkness faded. Slowly, the horrible smell receded and with it the cold. Only a slight chill lingered. Katlin had just begun to breath more easily when directly beside her right ear, not inches from it, a man's voice said clearly, "Exorcised, chit. Not exer
cised."

  Katlin jumped a good foot or two by her own estimate. Had the ceiling of the passage been any lower, her head would have struck it.

  Weakly, she murmured, "L—Lord Wyndham?"

  The voice chuckled. It really wasn't a bad sound, only very strange considering that it seemed to come from the air. "Not so brave now, are you?"

  She had to get a grip on herself, absolutely had to. This was what she wanted. She couldn't let it go.

  "Oh, no, I'm not," she said firmly. "Just don't try to pull any more tricks like that and we'll get along fine. I meant what I said about the priest."

  "Hmm, I doubt it, but as you will. It's no fun trying to scare you, anyway."

  "That's because I'm a Sinclair," Katlin declared, determined to drive home a point.

  "No, it isn't," the voice replied. His lordship sounded exasperated. "It's because you're a woman. You scare too easily."

  "I do not! The nerve. I'll have you know that there are plenty of men, thousands of them at least, who would never have dreamt of doing what I'm doing right now. Come looking for you, that is."

  "They have more sense," his lordship said. "You don't have the wits a gnat is born with."

  Katlin took a deep breath, determined to control her temper. "You're a Wyndham, all right. You're all the same—high-handed, arrogant, insufferable."

  "Met a few of us, have you?"

  "Only one other, but that's enough. Why can't I see you?"

  "You just did."

  "You mean the darkness? Don't be silly, that isn't you. I know what you look like. I've seen your portrait."

  "Which portrait?" the baron demanded.

  "You mean you had more than one done?" Katlin was surprised. Most people found it quite sufficient to sit through the tedious business one time and one time only. Although now that she thought of it, Charles's country house was festooned with portraits of him. Apparently, he had more patience than most.

  "I had several," the baron admitted. A shade defensively, he added, "It was the custom of the time.

  That last one, not the best I must say, was done when I was far too old. Should never have allowed it."