Highlander Ever After

  She had made a fool of herself over him again, drat it all. Perhaps she would be doing this at regular intervals until they were both too elderly for it to matter.

  Egan wanted her—she’d felt it in the pounding of his heart and his hardness that pressed her. His kiss had been that of a man craving a woman. If he’d let himself he would have, as he’d called it, rutted her, and Zarabeth would not have stopped him.

  Her marriage was dead, her heart empty, except for the places Egan touched. But he wouldn’t take her—and Zarabeth would be left to burn.

  Egan rose abruptly to his feet. “The rain is slacking. We should get the mare and foal back to the stables.” He turned away to the horses without another word, leaving Zarabeth to clench her hands in aching unhappiness.

  * * *

  Egan helped his groom safely stow the mare and foal, along with the horse they’d ridden back, in the stables under the castle, hoping to work off his anger and intense longing.

  He wanted Zarabeth, wanted her with everything inside him, and it was only getting worse.

  Damn the woman. When she’d jerked open his shirt to lick him, he’d lost all sense of time and place. He’d felt nothing but her warm mouth on his skin flaring his need high. He still didn’t know how he’d gotten himself out of the cottage without ravishing her. He’d have to stay away from her—that was all there was to that.

  He grunted in frustration. Easier to make it stop raining in Scotland than keep away from Zarabeth. How he’d lived for five years without seeing her smile and her sparkling eyes or hearing her lilting voice, he had no idea. He had to have been out of his mind not to ride back to Nvengaria, climb a rope to her balcony, and carry her off.

  Ridiculous. Like living in an opera.

  By the time he finished with the horses, he was sweating and somewhat in control of himself. Zarabeth had gone straight upstairs, thank heaven, to dry herself from the rain. Egan wouldn’t have to face her right away.

  When he climbed out to the courtyard, it was to see the MacDonald carriage squeezing through the gatehouse, followed closely by the Ross one.

  He suppressed a groan. “Bloody hell. Not now.”

  His fears were confirmed when girlish faces peered from his sister’s coach and shrill voices sounded. “Is this it? Is this Castle MacDonald? Oh it is quite bon temps.”

  Egan stopped himself from rolling his eyes at their attempt at French—every Frenchmen he knew would be laughing until he wept.

  The carriages halted and the two debutantes nearly leapt out as the Highland footmen helped them down, followed by their more slowly moving mothers and fathers, then Adam and Mary.

  Olympia spotted Egan. “Mr. MacDonald, we have come to see your castle. Mrs. Cameron says it is quite grand.”

  Egan shot Mary an irritated look, which she returned blandly.

  Then again, if the young ladies saw the wreck of the place, perhaps they’d want to flee back to the comfort of Edinburgh. Egan pasted on a polite smile and invited them inside.

  The ladies seemed to like everything, however. They cooed over the soaring entrance hall and the steep staircase. They demanded to see the Great Hall and exclaimed over the boars’ heads and many-antlered deer on the walls.

  Olympia and Faith tried to outdo each other in extravagant compliments, mostly in bad French, until even Mary flinched. Adam sat the fathers down out of the way in the Great Hall, and Williams brought them whisky.

  The ladies, however, clamored to see the portraits in the upper gallery. “All the MacDonalds,” Faith purred, as Mary led the way to the first landing.

  Egan tried to escape around them to make his way to his chamber higher above to wash and change, but the little group blocked his passage. Olympia and Faith strolled arm-in-arm, taking up the width of the gallery. Their larger mamas were even slower and took up more space.

  “Enchanting landscapes,” Olympia crooned. “And here you are, Mrs. Cameron, and your charming son.”

  The painting had been done when Dougal was five years old. Mary stood stiffly, her hand on the back of a chair, while Dougal held his puppy. Mary’s gaze was prim and quiet, at her most proper. Even the dog looked polite.

  “And here is Egan MacDonald,” Faith cried.

  Egan stilled. Faith, in her ignorance, clasped her hands in front of the painting of Charlie.

  He heard a door open behind him on the gallery. Zarabeth emerged, dressed in a clean plaid gown, her glossy hair once again in place.

  “It is so like you,” Faith bleated. “When you were much younger of course.”

  Zarabeth sent Egan an understanding look. She might be angry at him—and hurt—but even so, she understood him like no one else. She knew what he felt watching the young women gaze adoringly at his brother’s portrait. Charlie’s death had cost Egan so much: his pride, his self-confidence, any chance at peace.

  “No,” Mary said in a strained voice. “That is our brother Charlie. He died in the war.”

  “Oh dear.” Faith turned from the picture, her eyes large, her lower lip trembling. “How awful. Poor Mr. MacDonald.”

  Both young ladies manufactured tears and told each other they could feel what a loss was in this house. Olympia sniffled. “I can sense him still here, poor Charlie MacDonald, his ghost weeping.”

  “If ye think that, it only proves ye know nothing about Charlie,” Egan growled. He swung away from them and signaled to Zarabeth. “I need to speak to ye. Downstairs.”

  He abruptly descended the staircase, and Zarabeth, after a startled look, came after him. The others looked astonished at his departure, but Mary quickly pointed out the paintings of their father and mother, and the ladies became enchanted again. Nothing wooed better than ancestors.

  Egan reached the ground floor well before Zarabeth and waited for her in doorway to the antechamber between the staircase hall and the Great Hall. Zarabeth scuttled inside the antechamber as he ushered her in, then he firmly closed the door against the curious stares over the banister.

  Egan had planned to invite Zarabeth to sit with him at the rather dainty table Mary had carted here all the way from London, but he was too restless. He paced, hands behind his back, glancing out the window to where the rain had slackened.

  “Are you all right?” Zarabeth asked him. Her voice was like soothing water trickling over his troubled soul.

  Egan still could not calm himself. “No, I’m bloody no’ all right.”

  “I am sorry. If I’d been quicker I might have steered them away from your brother’s picture.”

  Egan stopped and faced her in surprise. Zarabeth stood in the middle of the room, having changed into a plain blue gown that was Mary’s. Her hair, which had been enchanting hanging down her back, was coiled into a knot, revealing the lines of her face. The shade of the gown brought out her eyes, vivid under the dark hair.

  “’Twas not your fault,” Egan said at her apology. “Mary should have warned them.”

  “What happened to Charlie?” Zarabeth sank gracefully onto a gilded chair that matched the curved-legged table. The set was elegant and serene, like her. “Adam and I were speaking of how your brother died at Talavera,” she went on. “I have been trying to decide how you are to blame for that.”

  Egan barked a laugh. “Did Adam tell ye I was to blame?”

  “Indeed, no. Adam said you blamed yourself. And your father did as well.”

  “Aye, well, that’s true enough.” Egan let out a heavy breath. “Me father thought I ought to have stopped the French shooting at us long enough for me to get me brother to safety.” His eyes stung, as though a bit of dust had gotten into them, and he put his hand over them.

  When he looked up again, he found Zarabeth standing next to him, her blue eyes lovely and concerned.

  Her tear-streaked face in the cottage had smote his heart. Egan had hurt her, and he’d never meant to do that. But if she had let him take her on the floor, she’d have regretted it when she came to her senses. Egan knew Zarabeth—she’d be
angry at herself, as much as he ground with self-anger over Charlie’s death.

  He suddenly wanted her to know the whole story. Zarabeth would listen without judgment—she’d always had that quality.

  Egan scraped back the chair next to hers, sitting down and leaning his elbows on his thighs.

  “’Tis a very simple tale. I was to lead a contingent of Highlanders and foot guards to charge the walls, since I was a captain and had had experience at Oporto. Charlie was still green, having only arrived in the Peninsula. Nothing for it but that he would join me at Talavera.”

  The memories of noise assaulted him, so much bloody noise—shots firing, men shouting, artillery thumping, horses screaming. The smells too—mud and dung and blood—crashed back onto his senses.

  “I ordered Charlie to stay in the rear and not be a bloody fool. He barely knew what to do with his saber, though he could shoot a pistol well enough. He told me the men needed good officers to spur them on, and he wouldn’t be stopping behind like a coward. I yelled at him to stay put, left him, and joined my men.”

  Egan swallowed on dryness. “I was so caught up in the battle I never noticed Charlie had disobeyed me until too late. He fell in the first charge. The French were shooting from the walls, and Charlie walked right into a barrage of bullets. He died quickly.”

  He found his eyes closed again, and pried them open. Zarabeth had her hand on his, her touch cool and comforting.

  “I am so sorry,” she said.

  Egan knew she truly was sorry. Her eyes held so much compassion he wanted to pull her to him and hold her for a long time.

  He cleared his throat. “I could nae even reach him until after it was all over. Until we took the city and rode in, and then I had to go back out and look for him.”

  Zarabeth watched him, her gaze thoughtful. “I am waiting to see how this is your fault.”

  Egan shook his head. “I should have tried harder to persuade Charlie to stay behind. I was impatient, not paying attention. We had a row, and I stormed out—the last words I ever spoke to m’brother were ones of anger. I went out to battle, and next thing I know, Charlie is dead from trying to lead a charge. Bloody idiot.”

  Zarabeth squeezed his hands, hers gentle and caring. “It was likely you could not have persuaded him, even had you tried. It sounds as though he was a bit of a hothead.”

  “Oh, he was, was our Charlie. Always got away with it too. Bonnie Prince Charlie he was called, after another man who charmed other people into doing his dirty work for him.”

  Egan fell silent, staring at his big hands clasped between his knees, Zarabeth’s smaller, smooth ones on them. Charlie had sworn at Egan that afternoon and declared he didn’t need a mother hen. And Egan had said, “Get yerself killed then, I care nothing for it.”

  He’d had to return home and face his father, explaining that Charlie had died when Egan wasn’t looking.

  He shut the memory away. Enough for today.

  “I didnae call ye in here to talk about Charlie,” he said after a time.

  “I thought not.”

  Zarabeth withdrew and rested her hands on the gilded table, calm as you please. But her eyes held understanding, quiet confidence. She believed in him, which was more bolstering than she could know.

  “I was thinkin’ about the magic ye said ye could do,” Egan said. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Do ye think ye can conjure a magic charm to remove those bloody females from Castle MacDonald, the Highlands, and my life?”

  Chapter 11

  Spells and Rituals

  The spell worked, but not, Zarabeth knew, in the way Egan expected.

  While Egan returned to his room to bathe and change, Zarabeth invaded the kitchen and, with Mrs. Williams’s help, rounded up candles, twine, grease, and salt. She picked up two stones from the ground beneath Castle MacDonald and borrowed a needle from Gemma. She spread all these on the table in the anteroom and invited the young ladies in to have their fortunes told.

  She could read from their thoughts that Olympia and Faith each wanted to push ahead of the other. But they smiled with sickening sweetness and told each other to go first.

  Zarabeth settled it by choosing alphabetically—Faith then Olympia.

  She lit the candles, rubbed the grease and salt on a stone, then asked for Faith’s hand. Faith wrinkled her nose as Zarabeth set the stone in her palm, but she held still, not about to let Olympia see her squeamishness.

  Zarabeth pricked Faith’s finger until a tiny drop of blood dropped onto the stone. Zarabeth took the stone away, quickly wrapped it in twine, and dripped candle wax on it to seal it. She said a short chant in Nvengarian, and the spell was done.

  “Wear this around your neck or keep it in your pocket,” she told Faith, handing her the talisman. “And the fortune I tell you will come true.”

  Fait looked excited. She wrapped the stone in her handkerchief and plopped it into the bag she wore pinned to her waist.

  Zarabeth scanned the girl’s mind and easily discovered what Faith wanted most—not long life and happiness, but the prettiest dress at the Season-opening ball in London. She gave Faith a vague reassurance that she’d find a most beautiful gown and sent her away satisfied. Zarabeth repeated the process for Olympia, though her fortune was different—Olympia would awe everyone next Season with her singing.

  Egan entered the anteroom after the ladies had run off to show their mamas the talismans.

  “It won’t hurt them, will it?” he asked worriedly.

  Zarabeth she knew Egan was tired to death of the determined young ladies, but even so, he was kind enough not to wish them harm. He was a gentle man for all his gruffness.

  “They’ll take no ill from it,” she assured him. “But I imagine they’ll pester their parents to take them home soon.”

  This prediction came true. Not an hour later, both young ladies gazed at Castle MacDonald as though they never wanted to see it again. Jamie showed them the dungeon, hoping to thrill them with an old bit of chain hanging near crates of whisky, but their eyes glazed and they complained of the cold and their aching feet.

  Mr. Templeton and Mr. Barton soon loaded them into Adam’s carriage and they rode away, leaving their wives to be helped into the MacDonald coach. Egan waved cheerily as Adam’s carriage rattled out of the courtyard, but the two young ladies could barely be bothered to return his farewell.

  “How odd,” Mary said, as she waited beside Zarabeth while Mrs. Templeton and Mrs. Barton were settled in Egan’s coach. “They seemed so eager to stay for supper and watch Egan perform a sword dance.”

  “They are young,” Zarabeth said, trying to sound wise for her twenty-three years. “Not long out of the schoolroom. Ladies tire of things easily at that age.”

  “I suppose,” Mary said doubtfully. “Well, I shall be off to Ross Hall to make sure everything is all right.”

  Egan handed Mary into the carriage along with the mamas and repeated the cheerful wave.

  As the carriage squealed through the gatehouse, Egan put his hands behind his back and cocked a suspicious gaze at Zarabeth.

  “What did ye do to them?”

  The courtyard was empty, but Zarabeth looked around before answering in a low voice. “I gave them a dose of ennui. It was not difficult—they’re already tired of being in the country, but neither wanted to admit it. They will badger their fathers to take them back to Edinburgh within the next day or so.”

  Egan started to grin, then his brow puckered. “They won’t have ennui forever, will they? That would be a bit cruel.”

  “No, no. The spell will wear off in a few days, and Misses Faith and Olympia will find some new diversion to be excited about. But I’m afraid they’ll always remember you as rather dull.”

  Egan’s laughter rumbled through the courtyard. “Thank heaven for that. Ye’re a devious woman, Zarabeth. Ye weren’t lyin’ when ye said your magic didnae work on me, were ye?”

  “No, indeed. For some reason, you seem to be immune.” br />
  He gave her a long look, his eyes warm. “Immune to your magic mebbe,” he said under his breath.

  “Pardon?”

  Egan’s plaid slid over his arm as he touched her face. “Nothing,” he said. “Just passin’ the time of day.”

  * * *

  The debutantes did return to Edinburgh the next day. Adam sent a relieved message that his house had at last emptied of Mary’s irritating guests.

  Mary was all for returning to Edinburgh and convincing the next set of parents to bring their daughters to meet Egan, but Egan forbade it.

  Zarabeth heard their argument as she left her room for breakfast the morning after the debutantes departed. Egan and Mary lingered on the stairs, Mary breathing hard, Egan grim-faced.

  “We are protecting Zarabeth, not hosting house parties,” Egan said in a hard voice. “Ye’ll stay home where ye belong.”

  “Yet you traipse about the world from Paris to Rome and back again,” Mary snapped at him. “While I sit home and embroider.”

  “From the tales I hear in Edinburgh, ye do a damn sight more than embroider.”

  Mary reddened. “What I do in Edinburgh is none of your business.”

  “It is when I hear about ye taking a Sassenach lover,” Egan rumbled. “The entire city was talking about it.”

  Mary stared at him in shock, but when she answered, her voice held fury. “What was I to do when my husband died and left me nothing? I found cold comfort here.”

  Zarabeth tried not to listen with her mind, but Mary’s distress worked its way through her barriers. She saw the loneliness in Mary, who was thinking that her affair hadn’t comforted her as she’d hoped, and that it was over. She’d mostly done it to defy Egan, and Egan hadn’t seemed to notice until now.

  “This is your home,” Egan said.

  “Where I sit and sew.” Mary’s voice was full of anger and also tears. “Such a life.”

  “Ye help me take care of Castle MacDonald and its inhabitants,” Egan argued.