Stuart, Elizabeth (14 page)

"We
were just cooling off after the heat of the dance," MacLean replied.
"By the way, I don't think you two have met."

He
performed the introductions with an unruffled composure Anne greatly envied but
could not emulate. She was intensely uncomfortable under Elizabeth's assessing
stare. Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass. How could she have been
caught in this compromising position?

Elizabeth
laughed brittlely and placed an elegant, jeweled hand possessively on MacLean's
arm. "Father has been asking for you, but I told him you were occupied. I promised
him I'd tear you away if I could..." She glanced at Anne and let her words
trail off suggestively.

Anne
could bear it no longer. With a mumbled excuse, she turned and fled. Eric
hurried along beside her, finally catching her arm and pulling her to a halt
just inside the hall. "Don't mind Elizabeth," he said, with far more
understanding in his voice than she wished to hear. "She's had a yen for
Francis these two years I'm aware of. She's unbearable whenever he's flirting
with a new beauty."

Anne
glanced up into his serious face. "And does that happen often?"

His
eyes dropped from hers and he shifted uncomfortably. "About as often as a
new beauty comes along."

The
words were nothing more than she had expected, but they held a strange power to
wound her. "I see," she replied, carefully composing herself.
"How sad for Elizabeth."

The
party broke up soon after, with the guests congratulating MacLean and Janet on
the success of the evening. Anne should have been with them, but she had
slipped away up the back stair to her room.

She
undressed hurriedly, putting the gold dress carefully away. If only she could
put her thoughts away so easily. Why had she allowed MacLean to drag her away
like that? She knew better! She stared at her reflection in the polished glass.
Elizabeth Macintyre obviously thought she was no danger. Humph! It would do the
woman good to have some competition—not her of course, but someone more
experienced, someone able to deal with MacLean's lovely lies.

She
jerked the pins from her hair and brushed it viciously. It didn't matter to her
whom Francis MacLean wed! He was an accomplished flirt. Even her cousin had
seen fit to warn her of that. She resolved to think no more of the matter as
she blew out her candle and settled into bed.

In
the darkness, the curtains rustled softly against the wall like whispering
children. A soft night breeze wafted the heady fragrance of spring through the
open window. The sighing winds must have blown away the mist, for the moonlight
spilled into the inky blackness of her room like a pool of molten silver. Anne
tossed about uncomfortably, but sleep was far from her. Finally, she got out of
bed.

Leaning
her forehead against the cool stone of the window facing, she was aware of a
painful emptiness in her chest and a strange longing she couldn't identify,
much less understand. Something was missing; some important part of life was
passing her by. She was consumed by an urgency to fill the void in her life
with the feeling of belonging she'd had at Camereigh. Soon she would be back
under the dominion of her father and there would be little enough of laughter
or love. These short days might be all she would have to guard against the
loneliness of a lifetime.

She
closed her eyes, remembering that strange moment with Francis when he had
almost kissed her. She had made no effort to stop him; she'd even believed his
honeyed words. Lord, but the man could be convincing!

Still—how
would it have been to feel his lips on hers, his strong arms around her? Her
heartbeat quickened at the thought, and the strange longing within her twisted
more sharply. Now she would never know...

Unable
to face the thought of trying to sleep, Anne lit a single candle, dressing
hurriedly in the first garment that came to her hand. She dared not walk
outside the castle at this hour, but perhaps a turn about the battlements would
calm her restless spirits.

Leaving
her hair flowing loosely about her shoulders, she caught up her cloak and moved
toward the door. Turning the latch quietly, she slipped down the murky hall,
thankful that torches still flickered in the wall embrasures in honor of the
numerous guests.

Since
her room was on an outer wing, she had little difficulty reaching the heavy
door to the stairs leading to the battlements. It was unbolted and slightly
ajar. Some careless guest must have taken an evening stroll and forgotten to
secure it. Careless or drunk, she mused, climbing the steps in the moonlight.
The wine had certainly flowed freely. She had even imbibed more than was wise
herself. Perhaps that was the reason she had responded as she did to MacLean's
touch.

Reaching
the top of the stairs, she caught her breath at the beauty of the scene. The
meadow stretched out in the moonlight like a placid, silver sea, the dark
shadows thrown out by the castle walls looming in stark contrast.

Trailing
her hand against the rough wall, Anne moved along the battlements,
contemplating abstractedly why she felt such discontent. She leaned against the
parapet, feeling the cool fingers of the night wind ruffle her hair.

She
thought again of Elizabeth Macintyre, wondering unhappily if MacLean would wed
the girl despite his protest. The Scotswoman was a beauty; there was no doubt the
two made a striking couple. She stared into the darkness, disliking Elizabeth
intensely at that moment. Mac-Lean had kissed her—Anne knew it. She hated the
thought of the dark-haired beauty in his arms.

"And
of what does Mistress Randall think in the quiet after a ball?"

With
a cry of alarm, Anne whirled toward the sound, instantly recognizing the tall
outline of Francis MacLean when he stepped from the shadows. "You startled
me," she uttered breathlessly. "I never dreamed anyone else would be
here at this hour."

"I
couldn't sleep, either," MacLean said, crossing the narrow space to the
wall. He leaned against the parapet, so close his forearm brushed against hers.
She could smell the clean, woodsy fragrance that clung about him. It brought
back memories of the night of her capture, when she had slept in his arms as
they traveled through the night.

"I
meant what I said earlier tonight, Anne," MacLean said abruptly, breaking
the short silence between them.

"Oh?
And what was that?"

"You
know what I mean. I'll play no games with you, lass."

She
stared resolutely across the meadow. "Mistress Macintyre obviously thinks
you belong to her," she stated bravely, wishing that she could calm the
frantic pounding of her heart. "You must have given her some reason for that
belief. No woman goes after a man who's given her no encouragement."

"I'm
afraid you know little of your own sex, sweetheart," MacLean said, with
what she knew must be a smile. "Elizabeth and I have known each other
since childhood, and she's quite capable of going after anything she wants.
She's been after me this last year. Not for any very flattering reasons, mind
you, but because she sees me as an unending source of gold to ease her wants.

"And
I won't say I've not considered making her my wife," he admitted after a
short pause. "I want a family, Anne. I need sons to carry on my name. I
thought she'd fill the need as well as any other."

"'Tis
a common enough reason for marriage," Anne said carefully, "but I'd
not have thought it of a man like you."

"I'm
near twenty-seven years of age, Anne, and I've had more women than I can
remember," MacLean said with a bluntness that made her face burn in the
darkness. "I'd determined I wasn't the kind to have more than a passing
interest in any woman... but now I'm not so sure."

Anne
stared determinedly across the meadow, gripping the stone wall until its cold
roughness cut painfully into the flesh of her fingers. She didn't dare consider
the implication of his words. After all, Eric had said...

The
thought died beneath the gentleness of Francis's touch. Catching a stray curl,
he pushed it behind her ear, his strong hand sliding beneath her chin and
lifting it toward him in the moonlight. He pushed the hair back tenderly from
her brow, his touch so amazingly gentle she felt her fear and distrust slipping
away. He stroked her hair, moving his hand down her shoulder until it rested
lightly upon her waist. Drawing her into his arms, he held her against the hard
length of his body while he gazed intently into her upturned face.

Anne
closed her eyes instinctively. The cool brush of the night wind caressed her
face as his lips, soft and tentative as the touch of a butterfly, met hers.

All
her childish imaginings had not prepared her for this moment. His lips covered
hers, softly persuading, his moist tongue slipping expertly along the barrier
of her closed mouth. All distrust and resentment were forgotten as her lips
parted beneath the growing pressure of his. He probed deeper, tasting the
sweetness of her mouth, moving with a rhythm that evoked a surprisingly
pleasant sensation in her. His hands moved down her back, pulling her closer,
while her arms slid up to cling about his neck.

The
pleasurable kiss ended long before Anne was ready. Burying her face against the
rough linen of his shirt, she drew a deep breath to quiet the erratic pounding
of her heart. His arms held her close. She was warmed by the heat of his body
and the spreading warmth in her own blood. In that moment she knew a
contentment no traitorous thought could mar.

"I've
wanted to do that for a damnably long time now," Francis said unsteadily.
"I'd not have held off had you not looked at me as if I were a villain
each time I glanced your way. What frightened you so, lass?"

She
shook her head, unable to speak or meet his eyes. How could she tell him that
she had admired him from that first night—that his dangerous intensity had been
like a beckoning flame to a foolish moth? She couldn't admit that the fear he
had seen in her eyes those last days had been a fear of her own weakness: a
woman didn't say that to a man.

At
her silence, Francis slid his hands inside her cloak, putting his arms around
her more intimately and bending down to catch her lips once more with his own.
His mouth was more demanding this time. She felt an increasing excitement
flowing through her as she responded instinctively to the feel of his body
against hers, his hungry mouth upon her own.

His
warm lips caressed her eyelids and her brow, and he whispered soft words she
didn't understand against her hair. Her senses reeled and an irrational
happiness swept through her, shutting out all thought of the world beyond his
arms. So this was what it meant to be loved by a man like Francis MacLean, she
thought exultantly.

After
a long moment, Francis lifted his head. "I've longed to see you like this
again, with your hair down as it was that morning on the trail." He buried
his face in the fragrant mass. "Had Donald not been along, I can't say
what might have happened."

"Why
were you so angry that morning?"

His
knowing fingers moved gently through the silken curtain of her hair, pausing to
massage the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. Anne closed her eyes with
something akin to a contented pun.

"I
was doing my best to remind myself you were an enemy... and you were making it
damned hard to keep that thought uppermost in mind," he answered with a
chuckle.

She
smiled, lifting her hand to run a timid finger inquisitively along his smooth
chin and up across the hard line of his jaw, satisfying a sudden need to touch
him. Her exploring fingers discovered a tiny scar above his ear. She traced it
into his hairline, running her hands through his thickly curling hair before
returning to linger along the line of the scat.

"A
souvenir from a battle I almost lost as a boy," he responded in answer to
her unasked question.

"Was
it bad?" She shivered slightly as he caught her open palm and pressed a
kiss against it.

"Not
so bad as it could have been. They were trying to cut my throat, but I was too
quick." She could hear the smile in his voice at the memory.

"What
happened?"

"I
got away and learned to be a bit quicker in my sword play. Practice keeps a
man's head on his shoulders in these parts—unless, of course, he loses it to a
pretty lass. Something I've not done above once before in my life."

An
unexpected stab of jealousy pierced her. She tried to push him away, but his
strong arms captured her waist, holding her tightly against him. "She was
a chamber maid of amazing talents," he whispered laughingly, "and I
believe I was all of fifteen at the time. My heart was near broken when I
realized there was more than one man in her life... but I recovered!" Her
laughter blended with his until he lowered his mouth to hers, abruptly ending
their amusement.

The
intimate claim of his mouth upon hers silenced any protest she might have made
as his hands boldly caressed the curves of her body. Anne closed her eyes
tightly, giving herself up to the intense pleasure of his kiss, her own hands
tentatively exploring the muscular expanse of his broad back. His lips left
hers, tracing downward to press hotly against her throat, flooding her nerves
with a warm pleasure unlike any she'd ever known.