Imposter Bride (29 page)

Sophie could feel his frustration. “Why don’t you
give me the list, Mr. MacEwan, and I’ll do my best to see to the
repairs.”

“You’ll get money out of the Metcalfs?” He laughed
mirthlessly. “That’ll be the day!”

“Just let me know what needs to be done.”

MacEwan peered at her, his small dark eyes searching
her face as if judging whether to take her seriously or not.

“Highclyffe is full of history,” she remarked. “It
would be a shame to see it fall into ruin.”

“Aye, a damn shame.” He nodded. “I’ll make you a
list then.”

“Good.” She took a deep breath. “And I’m going to
follow you back down the stairs. I don’t want to meet up with your
ghost when I’m all by myself!”

He chuckled and turned to make the descent.

Later, Sophie searched out the elderly Mrs. MacEwan
to tell her she was going to take some exercise after the long
journey north, when in truth she didn’t want to spend any more time
alone in the fortress.

The housekeeper showed her out the back gate which
was guarded by a heavy portcullis rusted open.

“Don’t go too far, Miss,” Mrs. MacEwan warned.
“There are still wild beasts about, and the sun goes down quick in
these parts.”

“Thank you,” Sophie lifted her skirts, “I’ll be
careful.”

She walked through the back gate, through a wall of
granite twelve feet thick, toward an overgrown lane that led down
the slope to the lake—a much less frightening and seldom-used path
than the main road.

A flock of grouse rose out of the gorse as she
passed, and they flapped noisily into the silver-blue sky. She
watched them take wing, and wondered what it would be like to be a
bird, able to soar from danger and land unremarked in another place
and resume their lives unmolested.

Sophie knew she could not complain about the life
into which she’d landed on her jump from the burning London inn.
Lady Auliffe had been everything a grandmother should be and more.
She couldn’t complain about her future in-laws, either. Barring
their mind-numbing stuffiness, the Metcalfs were a respectable
family. She was no longer starving, cold, and alone. She should
count her blessings instead of succumbing to despair. Still, she
could not shake a feeling of doom at the prospect of her upcoming
life.

Sophie looked across the lake and drew in a deep
breath of the crisp winter air, pulling back her shoulders with
renewed resolve. She was to marry Edward in the morning. Let her
sadness begin then. But this one last afternoon of freedom belonged
solely to her.

With each step, Sophie’s heart grew lighter. The
spicy fragrance of the pines and the clean scent of the water
soothed her. Since her arrival in London, she had almost forgotten
what fresh air smelled like. London air was heavy with coal smoke,
and rank with the stench of garbage and night soil. Even the Thames
carried a thick fishy smell along its sluggish path to the sea. But
here at Lake Lemond, there was no hint of human habitation, and the
air smelled wondrously sweet.

The lake was large enough to produce slight waves
that sighed across the gravel and sand along the shore. Sophie
walked close to the water’s edge, listening as the water sang a
soothing lullaby to her. Late afternoon light slanted in through
the trees, throwing long shadows in her path, and warming the side
of her face. There on the lake shore, Highclyffe took on a
different light, one of wild tranquility, one that she would not
soon forget.

At first she thought the shape ahead was an odd rock
formation perched atop a jumble of boulders, until it moved and
Sophie heard the jangle of a horse’s bridle. She paused, unwilling
to have her idyll cut short by the presence of another human being,
as well as worried that she had walked too long a distance alone
and might have placed herself in danger.

Then she saw the figure bend, pick up something, and
throw it out to the lake. She watched the thrown rock skip a score
of times before dropping through the mirror of the water. The man
reached for another stone, and then another.

Sophie could tell his movements were fired by
frustration, and that the toss of the rock was no playful activity
but an exercise fraught with anger. She took her time in studying
the man, and guessed that he was above average in height, though it
was hard to judge at a distance, and that he was broad in the
shoulders and slender in the hips. His figure reminded her of Ian
Ramsay, and at the thought of her former friend, Sophie crossed her
arms over her chest to ward off the pain his memory provoked in
her.

The movement must have caught the man’s eye, for he
glanced in her direction. She could see the lighter triangle of his
face beneath his black tricorne hat. Sophie nodded, not wishing to
be rude to a neighbor, but decided it was high time she returned to
the castle, and safer if she did not confront the disturbed man.
She turned and deftly picked her way back to Highclyffe over the
stony beach.

“Miss!” she heard him call behind her.

Her stomach squeezed together sickeningly, and she
glanced ahead, wondering how long it would take her to run back to
Highclyffe. She had ventured at least a mile from the fortress.
Could she even run in the loose rocks? And if she ran, would the
man chase her?

“Miss!”

She kept to a quick but steady pace, pretending not
to hear the man calling to her. His voice was strident with alarm
or anger, she couldn’t tell which, and didn’t wish to find out. The
shore looked different to her as she hurried along, and she was
certain the strip of beach had been a bit wider when she had passed
before.

Behind her she heard footsteps quickly approaching,
as man and horse followed her and soon would overtake her. Sophie’s
heart pounded in her chest and she glanced into the dark woods to
the right, wondering if she would stand a better chance of escape
if she plunged into the thicket where a horse could not go. She
knew, however, if she strayed from the path, she would get
hopelessly lost as night fell around her.

Sure that she was about to be accosted by a ruffian,
Sophie snatched up a long piece of driftwood and whirled to face
the man. She wasn’t about to be taken from behind, pushed into the
sand face down, and raped by a savage Scotsman. Not without a
fight.

The man stopped a healthy distance from her and
dropped the reins of his horse. It stood beside him on the beach,
gazing at Sophie, its ears pitched forward, its large luminous eyes
full of curiosity.

Sophie held up the sturdy gray branch and dug her
boots into the sand.

“Don’t come any closer, sir!” she warned.

The man paused and then tilted his head, as if
trying to see her face from a clearer vantage point.

“Miss Hinds?” he inquired.

“Do I know you?” she shot back, straining to see the
man’s features in the shadow of his hat. Something in the set of
the man’s shoulders and the turn of his leg was oddly familiar to
her.

He swept off the tricorne, revealing dark hair and
dark swooping brows, stark cheekbones and sharp jawline—all
overwhelmingly familiar to Sophie. She nearly fainted in shock to
see Captain Ramsay standing in front of her on a beach in
Scotland.

“Ian?” she choked, vastly relieved.

“Good Lord!” He swept forward. “It is you! What are
you doing here?”

“Me?” she retorted, “What are
you
doing
here?”

She allowed him to disarm her, and he pitched the
weapon into the lake, while his left hand gripped her elbow. He
stared at her face, and she wasn’t sure if he gripped her to keep
her from dashing away, or if he was overcome by the sight of her,
as she was dangerously close to being overcome by the sight of him.
Her breath came in quick short gasps that she could not control,
and she had to remind herself that she was angry at him.

“I had to get out of London for a while,” he finally
replied.

“But why here?”

He glanced at the lake as if weighing his reply and
then looked back at her. “I grew up close by.”

“In Scotland?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s the connection.”

“What do you mean?”

“With the Molly MacRells of the world.”

“Yes, in a fashion.” He allowed his gaze to run down
the front of her, and then having assured himself that she was all
right, his gaze rose to her eyes. “I hope I didn’t frighten
you.”

“Well, you did.” She pulled away and brushed off his
touch.

“I meant to help.”

“In what way? By chasing me?”

“I had to stop you.” He nodded toward the path
behind her. “The beach will soon be impassable up ahead, as will
the beach behind us. I was concerned you might get caught by the
tide.”

“Tide?” She glanced at the lake, knowing enough
about bodies of water to be sure that only the ocean and some
rivers were pulled by the moon. What falsehoods was he telling her
this time? “What tide? This is a lake!”

“With underground channels to the sea. Loch Lemond
rises and falls each day. ‘Tis a well known fact.”

A connection to the sea and its tides accounted for
the way the beach seemed to have shrunk on her return. She glanced
at Ramsay’s face. “Well, then, I suppose thanks are in order.”

“I believe they are.”

She saw a small smile in his eyes and the sight of
it pierced through her cool resolve to remain angry with him. When
she was with him, he seemed so warm and so caring, always concerned
about her, always appearing to be on the verge of leaning down to
kiss her mouth, but at the same time struggling within himself not
to succumb to the urge. He could make her dizzy with his seemingly
genuine charm and his obvious attraction to her, and then turn his
back on her with chilling swiftness that defied explanation. His
hot and cold antics had broken her heart, and she knew she was
better off not looking at him any more than necessary. His eyes had
always been her undoing.

Sophie picked up her skirts. “Then I thank you,
sir.”

“There is a path just behind those rocks that will
take you around the beach and up to the high meadow.”

“Thank you.”

“In this light, you might have trouble finding it,
though.”

“I’ll manage.” She turned toward the path.

“Sophie—”

She froze, and then slowly twisted around to stare
at him over her shoulder. “What did you just call me?”

“Sophie.” He took a step toward her, and his boots
crunched loudly in the gravel, thundering in her ears. “I’ve wanted
to call you that for weeks.”

“Why?”

“Because it suits you. And because I cannot play
this game a moment longer.”

“What game? What are you talking about?”

“You know full well what I’m talking about.”

He strode up to her until his boots pushed into the
folds of her cloak and skirts. She shrank back, pressing against
the cold granite boulder behind her, knowing she had nowhere to
run, and not certain how to play her part this time.

“Sophie.” He reached out and clutched the tops of
her arms in his hands. “We must talk.”

“No!” she cried. “Let me go!”

“I know who you are. I know all about you.”

“You know nothing!”

“Puckett has been investigating you.”

“You’re mad.” She tried to yank out of his grip, but
he held her tightly. “Leave me alone!”

“Sophie!” His gaze locked with hers and she knew she
was in trouble. She could feel the earth slipping out from under
her feet. “We need to—”

“Ian, n—”

He silenced them both with a sudden kiss, pinning
her against the rock, kissing her and holding her until she lost
the will to protest. She melted in his arms, giving in to this last
moment of passion, knowing she deserved it as a condemned prisoner
deserved a last meal.

Since the moment she had laid eyes on Ian Ramsay,
she had felt the flaring heat of desire between them, and now the
flood of her attraction for him, mingled with his long, aroused
sighs, poured over her. No matter what they were to each other, no
matter how coldly he might walk away afterward, she would allow
herself this one last pleasure before her dream of true love was
packed away on her wedding night.

Sophie let her head loll back on her neck as his
mouth trailed down her throat. His hat fell off to the stones at
their feet, and she slipped her fingers into his raven hair, which
was as silky and soft as she had imagined it would be. His hair
tickled her neck, sending shimmering thrills of delight all the way
to her toes and igniting a fire of want deep in her womb. Though
they were barred from each other by layers of wool and silk, she
felt each stroke of his fingers, each warm breath of his mouth,
each press of his hips against her own far more acutely than any
touch of Edward Metcalf.

Then his hands slipped inside her cloak, pushing
upward and over her breasts as if to stoke the flames that were
already roaring inside her. She kissed the taut flesh stretched
over his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, and the tendons of his
neck above his snowy white cravat. He strained to pull her tighter,
and she felt herself being lifted off her feet.

“To come upon you like this,” he breathed near her
ear. “’Tis like a miracle!”

She wrapped her arms about his neck and gloried in
the touch of their torsos merging with a shattering embrace. She
had never clung to anyone as tightly as this, and still it did not
seem close enough to satisfy either of them.

“Sophie!” he gasped. “Tell me that you do not want
this.”

“Ian—”

“Tell me that you do not want this, and I shall walk
away.”

“No—” she breathed, but the rest of her words fell
away as he kissed her again. She held his warm face in her hands
and nearly cried out as the kiss went soaring into a new and even
more urgent frenzy. She couldn’t help but respond. She pushed her
hands into the woolen folds of his coat and ran her palms down his
sides, marveling at the strength beneath her fingers and pressing
herself over the blazing proof of his desire. A cry lodged in her
throat, for at that instant she realized what she had always wanted
from Ian Ramsay, and it was much more than a kiss.