“’Twas you who brought them,” Egan said. “I’ll nae risk asking one of the lasses to dance, lest she think it a proposal of marriage.”
Mary’s face brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that …”
“Ye dinnae dare go puttin’ that into their heads,” Egan said in alarm.
“It might save time,” Mary said thoughtfully.
“Ye’ll nae do it.” Egan took a step toward her, his alarm turning to panic. “Ye’ll nae embarrass yourself and the MacDonalds.”
Mary stopped, giving him a startled look. “You know, you sounded like our father just then. I half expected you to threaten to lock me in the dungeon.”
A grim look flashed in Egan’s eyes, and he quieted his voice. “I’d never do that, and ye know it.”
Mary opened her mouth to continue, but something in Egan’s stance made her remain silent. She shook her head and marched away to find something else to worry about.
Egan’s jaw remained firm, his look troubled as he watched his sister. Zarabeth squeezed his arm, solid under his coat. “I thought your family didn’t use the dungeon anymore,” she said, trying to ease his tension.
“My father did from time to time,” Egan said without looking at her. “He thought it would teach us a lesson when we were disobedient, to stay a time with the ghosties beneath the castle.”
Zarabeth blinked in shock. “That was cruel.”
“Aye, well, my father wasn’t known for his kind heart.”
Zarabeth thought about the paintings she’d found in the gallery, one depicting his stern father. “Why there are no portraits of you in the house?”
Egan’s gaze pierced her. “What?”
“I’ve seen portraits of Mary and one of Charlie in your castle,” Zarabeth explained. “But none of you. I looked on all the floors.”
All warmth left Egan’s eyes, leaving a bleakness that chilled her. “And you won’t find one. My father destroyed mine.”
Zarabeth gasped, her shock returning. “Whatever for?”
“It was after I came home from the Peninsula and told him I’d lost Charlie at Talavera.” Egan’s voice was grim. “He fetched his dagger and slashed my portrait to ribbons.”
* * *
Zarabeth stood up in a dance with Adam Ross after supper, but her gaze followed Egan. Egan remained on the other side of the room, well away from the rest of the company, his hands behind his back, his head bowed as he listened with great attention to an elderly woman who sat against the wall, chatting to him.
Egan hadn’t responded to Zarabeth’s breathless question about why on earth his father would take a knife to Egan’s portrait. He’d turned away instead, his countenance hard, and led Zarabeth in to supper.
Supper ended at midnight, and as soon as the dancing began, Adam had latched on to Zarabeth. Egan had watched narrowly as Adam led her out to dance, but apparently he’d decided not to interfere.
This ball might have been held in any English country house or grand mansion in London. The food at supper had been refined and elegant, prepared by a French chef, and instead of Highland dancing, Adam led Zarabeth out into a stately cotillion.
Zarabeth liked Adam. He embraced being a modern Scotsman without awkwardness, wearing his Ross plaid kilt proudly. His blond hair was a bit long, tumbling back from his face in the romantic style, and his gray eyes showed he had a sense of humor.
During the cotillion he said the correct things to Zarabeth about the weather and asked how she liked the Scottish scenery. Usually Zarabeth was a master of inane conversation, but tonight she wanted to ask bald questions.
“Egan told me what happened to his portrait,” she said when they moved in the dance down the long room. “Why?”
Adam’s polite look faded, and he nearly missed a step. “Are you certain you do not wish to continue speaking of the weather?” he asked warily.
“Very certain.” Zarabeth gave him a decided nod. “You are his closest friend—you must know.”
Adam looked subdued. “Aye, I do. It is not a happy tale, and Egan doesn’t like it spoken of.”
“Speak of it anyway,” Zarabeth said. “He isn’t your laird. He’s not even of your clan.”
Adam shot her a wry smile. “True, but I remember stories of the days when the MacDonalds were my family’s enemies. Egan’s ancestors had vicious tempers and long memories, and loved revenge.”
“You can tell him I forced you to reveal the story, if it will make you feel better.” Zarabeth sent him a kind look. “He will believe you.”
Adam laughed his cultured laugh. “I doubt that. I’m surprised, though, that you don’t know, since your father is Egan’s friend.”
Zarabeth glanced at Egan, who was still speaking to the elderly woman. The lady seemed enchanted by his attention, all smiles for the handsome laird.
“I imagine he did tell my father,” Zarabeth said, “But neither bothered to tell me. Will it hurt him if I know?”
“Hmm. I think it better you do know. Egan has been odd since he came home after the war, even more melancholy than usual. He doesn’t like to stay at Castle MacDonald for long stretches. Too many bad memories.”
She regarded him in surprise. True, Egan hadn’t spoken much about his home, but he’d never been harsh about it. “But it’s such a lovely place.”
Zarabeth already loved the castle, which was filled to the brim with Highlanders and their noise—Jamie and Dougal bellowing up and down the stairs, Hamish growling at them both, Gemma shouting to Angus to hurry and do something or other. The helpful, plain-spoken Williams, his good-natured wife, the cheerful maids. Zarabeth had never felt a pall at Castle MacDonald, although she conceded that the relief at having escaped her husband’s prison of a house might have overlaid her impressions of it.
“Charlie MacDonald had a way with him—everyone liked him,” Adam said as they turned in the dance. “Egan always considered himself awkward and gruff, while the family doted on Charlie. To be honest, Charlie was a bit spoiled, and in my opinion, the lesser man. But never say I told you that.”
Adam turned with her again, and continued. “When Egan decided to join the Ninety-Second Highlanders, Charlie didn’t want to be left out. Egan’s father gave up trying to persuade Charlie to stay home, and admonished Egan to take care of him. Charlie and Egan ended up on the Peninsula, and were at Talavera.”
“Where Charlie was killed,” Zarabeth supplied. Egan had told her that much when he’d lived with them in Nvengaria.
“I never heard the details of it, but yes,” Adam said. “Charlie died, and Egan took leave from the army to return to Scotland with his body. Old Gregor MacDonald broke down when he saw Charlie so battered and bloody that we could barely recognize him. He held Egan responsible. He destroyed Egan’s portrait and rid the house of all Egan’s belongings, while he set up a sort of shrine to Charlie. Old Gregor pretended Egan no longer existed. Egan left Scotland again and only returned after his father’s death.”
The dance came to an end. Adam bowed as was correct, and Zarabeth curtseyed numbly and let Adam lead her from the floor.
“That’s horrible,” she said as Adam halted with her near the French windows. “How could their father blame Egan? A battle was hardly Egan’s fault.”
Adam sighed and shook his head. “The old man was insane with grief. He said Egan should have looked after Charlie better.”
Zarabeth snapped open her fan, her anger at Egan’s absent father acute. No wonder Egan never talked of his home or his brother. She could not imagine her own gentle father ever being so cruel.
She said, “Egan and Mary mentioned tonight that their father liked to lock them in the old dungeon to scare him. Did he do so to Charlie?”
“No. Egan, yes, but never Charlie.”
Zarabeth waved her fan faster as her rage grew. She wished Egan’s father were still alive so she could tell the man exactly what she thought of him.
“I’ve distressed you.” Adam bent to her, his gray eyes filling
with dismay.
“Not at all,” Zarabeth said. “I am simply …” She made a frustrated noise. “Furious if you must know. It rather overheats one to contemplate the ill treatment of one’s friends.”
Adam quickly opened the French door. “Come outside and cool yourself. The wind is not as brisk tonight, and I have a real terrace.”
His attempt at humor didn’t soothe her, but Zarabeth allowed Adam to lead her outside and close the terrace door.
It was indeed a relief to escape the hot room. Zarabeth drew a long breath, reflecting again that the Highlands were a heavenly place. Clouds obscured the moon, but the overcast sky kept the air from being too crisp. Below them Adam’s lanterns lit the garden path like overlarge fireflies.
“It may not have the same place in your heart as Castle Ross,” Zarabeth said, resting her fingers on the balustrade. “But you have a lovely home, Adam.”
She couldn’t see Adam well in the darkness, but she sensed his pleasure at her words. “My father had a good eye, and I’ve tried to keep up what he began.”
“It is very tasteful,” Zarabeth said sincerely. “So many wealthy people run to excess. The old Imperial Prince—my cousin Damien’s father—loved opulence. He could have given Nero instruction. Our nation heaved a collective sigh of relief when he finally passed away.”
“Prince Damien is a better ruler?” Adam asked, but she sensed his thoughts flitting off, distracted.
“Gracious, yes,” Zarabeth said fervently—Damien was a hundred times the man his father had been, and so kind to her. “Damien was penniless for a while, had to work like a serf to survive, which gave him understanding of how so many people are forced to live. Penelope, his wife, is English and quite sensible. She will keep any family tendency to excess at bay.”
“Excellent,” Adam murmured. “Good for Penelope.”
He was paying little attention to the conversation but knew how to keep up the pretense. Both of them were expert at polite banality, Zarabeth realized.
“I am pleased Egan has such a friend in you,” she said, touching his arm. “His father might have been awful, but the rest of you have rallied around him. I am grateful for that.”
Zarabeth felt a rush of heat as Adam’s attention returned to her. She shielded herself against his thoughts the best she could, but intense emotions could always penetrate.
You are winning her over, Adam was thinking. She is delight itself.
Oh, dear.
“Perhaps we should return to the ballroom,” Zarabeth said quickly.
“Not yet.” Adam touched her cheek with kid-gloved fingers, and his voice went soft. “Lady, will you do me the honor …”
He trailed off as he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her lips. Zarabeth stood her ground, letting him briefly touch his mouth to hers. A small kiss, nothing passionate—she could allow him that.
But as Adam’s lips slid along hers, she heard the smattering of his thoughts. Touch her … taste her… Perhaps have her in my bed …
Adam’s musings spun beyond words to a vision of Zarabeth lying in a four-poster bed she’d never seen before, her body bare, Adam kneeling at the foot of the bed whispering, Spread for me, sweet lady.
Darkness suddenly erased Adam’s features, his pale hair, his pleasant eyes. She saw Sebastian instead, her husband’s mouth twisted in a grimace as his fingers gripped her ankles. Spread your legs, Zarabeth—let me get this over with.
Zarabeth tried to twist away, but Adam’s grip was strong. The conflicting visions spun through Zarabeth’s head and tore down her barriers.
She screamed.
Instantly Sebastian’s features dissolved and became Adam Ross’s once more. He stood a foot away from her, his eyes wide, mouth open in surprise.
A moment later, the terrace door crashed open and Egan came barreling out. Snarling like a madman, he seized Adam by the neck and hoisted him high into the air.
Chapter 9
The Cottages at Strathranald
“Egan, for heaven’s sake,” Zarabeth cried. Egan saw her dart forward, reaching out to stop him.
Egan shook Adam once. “Ye dared put hands on her, is that what ye did?”
“I did nothing, man.” Adam’s adopted English accent died under stress, his full Scots returning.
“I see ye walk out here with her—alone—and then hear her screaming. How can that be nothing?”
Zarabeth clutched Egan’s arm, which he made rock strong. “It was my fault, Egan,” she said. “I saw something in the dark, and it frightened me.”
Egan looked down at her—Zarabeth’s eyes were wide and anguished, but she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. Another lie.
“Has anything ye told me since ye arrived been the truth?” he demanded.
Zarabeth’s chest rose with a sharp breath. “Well, of course it has!”
“Egan, my friend,” Adam broke in, tight-lipped, his cultured tones returning. “You’re upsetting my guests.”
Egan felt the weight of stares behind him. Mary slipped past the crowd and onto the terrace, followed by the curious Faith and Olympia and their mothers. Piers Ross pushed to Egan, glaring up at him with angry gray eyes under his rumpled blond hair.
Adam said, “If you plan to call me out, Egan, get on with it, but at least let me go. You’re ruining my coat.”
Egan opened his hand, and Adam thumped back to his feet.
“Ye touched her,” Egan said to him in a deceptively soft voice. “Ye dared.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Egan,” Zarabeth growled beside him. “He did nothing. I was frightened, but not of Adam. Cease being such an overprotective bully.”
She turned from them and stormed into the house. Adam straightened his cuffs, his grin flashing in the dark.
Egan started after her, but Piers stepped in front of him, scowling like a thundercloud. Adam stopped his brother with a hand on his shoulder. “A misunderstanding is all, Piers. No need for clan warfare.”
Now Mary got in Egan’s way. “Egan, leave her be. You ought to be attending to Miss Templeton and Miss Barton in any case.”
The two young ladies joined Mary, and their anxious mamas hovered behind them. More people in his path.
“She cannae be left alone,” Egan said. “Her life is in danger, if you haven’t forgotten.”
Mary gave him a maddening look. “Baron Valentin is looking after her nicely.”
Through the open door Egan saw the grim-faced baron slide Zarabeth’s hand to the crook of his arm. Egan felt slightly better, knowing the half-logosh could protect her very well, but only slightly.
“I will take her home,” he told Mary. “Why I let ye talk me into bringin’ her here in the first place is beyond me ken.”
Adam barked a laugh. “You could always lock her in a cage and have done.”
“If I thought it would help, I would.”
Mary looked daggers at Egan, then swung around and stomped back into the house. Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Templeton shooed their reluctant daughters inside, and Piers shut the door behind them, leaving himself, Adam and Egan on the terrace.
“Egan,” Piers rumbled dangerously, but Adam held up a placating hand.
“No harm done,” he said. “I will admit to the pair of you that I did kiss her, but I swear on my father’s bones I did nothing more than that, nor did I plan to ravish her out here with my own supper-ball commencing inside. She must have seen a mouse or something.”
Egan tried to unlock his clenched hands, tried to dredge up his sense of humor. He couldn’t. The thought of Adam touching her, of brushing even a light kiss to Zarabeth’s lips, churned fury though his body.
“Dinnae touch her again,” Egan said, his jaw so tight he thought it would break.
For some reason, Adam’s grin only widened. “Ah, that’s how it is, is it? You might have told me.”
“I have no idea what yer talking about,” Egan growled, then slammed his way past Piers and back inside.
Hamish and Angus met E
gan halfway across the room, their eyes alight. “What is it, cousin?” Hamish asked eagerly. “Are we doin’ battle?”
Egan ignored them and walked on. Across the room, Baron Valentin beckoned to a maid and led Zarabeth into a small side room. The maid scuttled after them and shut the door, closing Egan out.
Egan came to rest outside the anteroom, determined to plant himself there until Zarabeth emerged. Unfortunately this made it easy for Messers Templeton and Barton to find him. The two fathers stopped in front of Egan like a portly wall, stomachs in strained waistcoats arriving first.
“Mr. MacDonald,” Templeton began. “You need to declare your intentions.”
Egan fought to keep the berserker rage of generations at bay. While Egan’s great-grandfather had been dying a humiliating death at Culloden Field, these gentlemen’s grandfathers had been hiding over the border in England, loudly declaring their loyalty to King George. Egan had looked into their pasts, and knew this to be true.
“My intentions,” he said in a tight voice. “Are t’ take my friend Zarabeth home and not let her come out again.”
Barton blinked, mouth moving a little as he tried to work out what Egan meant. Templeton blinked. “No, sir, I mean your intentions toward our daughters. Which do you plan to marry?”
Barton leaned forward. “The gels are pestering us something terrible. If we knew which one, ’twould make life easier for us all.”
Egan gave them both a hard look. “I intend to marry no one. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“No,” Barton said, bewildered. “Mrs. Cameron said you were hanging out a shingle for a wife.”
“My sister has it wrong. Take your daughters back to Edinburgh, where ’tis safer for them.”
Templeton looked pained. “MacDonald, I do not think you quite appreciate the nature of the situation. My wife will have Olympia married, if not to you then to Mr. Adam Ross. If my wife knows where to aim, she will be much easier to live with.”
As furious as Egan was with Adam, he wouldn’t wish either of the young women on him. “My neighbors will choose their own brides.”