If only he didn’t look so repulsed to have awakened pressed against her.
Out of habit, Zarabeth slid into her brisk society-hostess voice. No one out-eleganced Zarabeth of Nvengaria. She also spoke fluent English—meeting Egan had inspired her to be more diligent in her studies of the language.
“Very well, then,” she said. “We can pretend you left while I slept.”
Egan’s eyes narrowed. She could never fool him, and he knew it. Egan could always see through her, no matter that Zarabeth never had any idea what was going on behind his hard gaze.
Egan leaned over the bed and pressed his hand to her forehead. “No fever. Good. I got ye out in time.”
Flashes of memory came to her—the storm, the breaking ship, the wild and terrified thoughts of the sailors and crew, the despair of the first officer as he flailed away from her, and his last fading thought—I’m sorry. Then the freezing, greedy sea, trying to pull Zarabeth from the rocks to her death.
Egan touched her cheek. “Are ye all right?”
Zarabeth gasped, wrenching herself from the visions. She looked up to find Egan’s face an inch from hers.
She’d always loved Egan’s eyes, deep brown flecked with gold.
She remembered the first time he’d opened those eyes and looked at her. That had been after she’d found him in a ditch by the side of a Nvengarian road, Egan half dead. She’d been rolling by in a carriage with her parents and had glimpsed him out of the window in the darkness, or at least she thought she’d seen him. She’d known he was there, somehow. Zarabeth had begged her father to stop the coach, and they’d carried the wet and feverish foreigner in his odd plaid clothing back to Zarabeth’s father’s estate to be nursed.
When Egan had awakened from his stupor a few days later, Zarabeth had been sitting by his bedside, reading fairy tales to him in Nvengarian. He’d stared at her in confusion before demanding to know, in his luscious Scots tones, where the devil he was.
Zarabeth pulled her thoughts to the present. She tried to keep her voice from shaking as she answered. “I am well.”
Egan straightened, holding the plaid closed with one tight fist. “Good. I’ll tell the landlord to get ye breakfast.”
Before he could turn away, Zarabeth asked quickly. “Where are we?”
Egan paused, scowling and impatient. “An inn up the coast from Ullapool. Closest thing I could find—couldn’t risk carrying ye all the way back to Castle MacDonald with you that wet and cold.”
Zarabeth shivered again but only from the bewildering memories of the wreck. “We are even then, you and I. I rescued you from a ditch, and you pulled me from the sea.”
Egan’s brows rose the slightest bit. “No, lass, you and I will never be even.” He swung around to the fire, lifting another log onto it one-handed, his hips moving against the plaid.
What on earth did he mean by that? Zarabeth studied him, but Egan remained enigmatic, as usual. It was ironic that the only man she’d ever loved was the only man she couldn’t read.
“How did you find me?” she asked him.
“I heard ye calling out,” Egan said as he stirred the fire to new life. “Even over the storm, I heard ye calling from the rocks below. Good thing I did. I climbed down, and there ye were, clinging to the Devil’s Teeth, fainted dead away.”
Egan turned from the fire, snatched a much-wrinkled gown from a rack where it had been drying, and tossed it onto the bed. “Dress yourself, and I’ll have them bring a meal to ye.”
He took up a large linen shirt and woolen stockings from the hearthrug without loosening his grip on the tartan. “Keep warm,” he admonished. Then he banged out the door and was gone.
Zarabeth sank down into the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. A few tears leaked from her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She’d grown too accustomed to being constantly watched to let her emotions show. So many people had watched her for so many different reasons.
One thought in her jumbled mind stood out from the rest. Egan had said he’d heard Zarabeth call out, but she hadn’t, not in words. She’d been too exhausted to shout for help with her voice, needing all her strength to hold on to the rocks.
She’d only called out with her mind, and Egan had heard her.
Chapter 2
Castle MacDonald
I am going straight to hell.
Egan guided his horse down the narrow trail that skirted the top of the cliffs, directly above the spot where he’d found Zarabeth. Zarabeth was seated in front of him, her backside tucked between the spread of his legs, her hips swaying with the movement of the horse. Wrapped in a dry cloak the landlord’s wife had lent her, she looked little more than a bundle of wool in his saddle.
Egan held her securely—for her safety, he told himself. Yet her nearness churned up every lustful thought he’d had of her since she’d become a woman, no matter how many times he reminded himself he had no business having such thoughts. Not only was Zarabeth still married, despite her husband’s treachery, but she was the daughter of one of his closest friends, a man without whom Egan would have died long ago.
So here he was, with his dear friend Prince Olaf’s only offspring perched on the saddle before him, thinking of how her backside felt against his thighs. This, after waking up pressed against her body, Egan’s hand on the curve of her breast, her softness against his palm. He remembered the exact size and shape of her breast and the easy way she fit into his hand. Even the wind cutting from the mountain couldn’t banish the direction of his thoughts.
Straight to hell.
They’d left the village behind, heading toward Loch Argonne and Castle MacDonald. The road at this point hugged the coast but would make its way inland around the corner of Ben Duncraig.
“It’s breathtaking,” Zarabeth said over the wind, the lilt in her voice as musical as ever.
“I know. ’Tis bloody cold.”
“No, I mean beautiful.” She swept her hand to indicate the rise of the mountains, the sharp blue sky, the sea dropping away at their feet. “You must love it here.”
In the seconds before Egan had awakened fully this morning and realized he was fondling the woman he’d vowed to protect, he’d experienced deep joy. Her warm body tucked against his, her hair tickling his lips, the scent of her so fine. He’d wanted to stay there forever.
His conscience liked to stick it to him with a knife.
“Love is going a bit far,” he said to clear his thoughts. “Can be bleak and cold of a winter’s night.”
“Not with a warm fire and your family around you. Damien said you had a large family that lives at the castle.”
“Oh, aye, you’ll be mobbed. I sent word last night with the innkeeper’s boy that I’d found ye and would bring ye back safe.”
She glanced back at him, worried. “And Baron Valentin and my footmen are truly all right?”
“Unhappy but unhurt. I sent them to the castle. Cousin Angus’s wife-to-be will likely fuss around them ’til they’re driven mad.”
Zarabeth faced forward again. “I still think it is beautiful here,” she said.
“Well, ye go ahead and think that.”
“I will,” she said loftily. “With or without your permission.”
She shifted in the saddle, rubbing against him, and Egan stifled a groan. She wasn’t doing this on purpose, was she? The girl Zarabeth had enjoyed tormenting him, but the woman Zarabeth had been through so much since he’d last seen her.
What Egan needed was a lush female he could lay himself on and thrust into until this madness went away. But in his fantasy the woman took on Zarabeth’s pixie-like face, her Nvengarian-blue eyes, her long lashes, her smile. She’d stretch out her arms and welcome him to the body that had imprinted itself on him this morning for a few fiery seconds.
Zarabeth watched the scenery in silence, unaware that Egan was aching under his plaids and thought he might drop dead of it before they reached Castle MacDonald.
Nothing so dire happened bef
ore he swung the horse up the road that led to his ancestral home. Loch Argonne stretched like a broad sheet of silver between mountains, the lake both dangerous and beautiful. Castle MacDonald perched on a rock cliff overlooking the loch, an impregnable fortress that had stood eight hundred years, reachable only by a road that wound tortuously up the mountain.
The horse perked up as they climbed the hill, knowing he was home. At the top, the ancient gate that had been wedged open for the past thirty years welcomed them, the horse’s hooves echoing hollowly through the narrow tunnel of the gatehouse. A coach could just fit through if the driver aimed correctly—the stones on either side of the tunnel bore scrapes from carriages whose drivers hadn’t.
Beyond the gatehouse lay the courtyard—a wide expanse of stone—and the open double doors of Castle MacDonald. Highlanders poured out of these doors as they approached—cousins Angus and Hamish, nephews Jamie and Dougal, neighbors Adam and Piers Ross, and Gemma MacLean, Angus’s betrothed, chivvying the lot of them. They swarmed around Zarabeth and Egan, talking at once.
The two Nvengarian footmen rushed out behind Gemma, no less anxious, quarreling over who would hold the horse and who would help Zarabeth down. The hard-faced Nvengarian who’d stopped Egan on the docks followed more slowly, his gaze resting on Zarabeth, then Egan. This must be the Baron Valentin Damien had mentioned in his letter.
“The poor lass, is she all right?” Gemma MacLean elbowed past the crowd and lifted her capable hands to Zarabeth.
Before Gemma could pull her from the saddle, blond, gray-eyed Adam Ross laced his strong hands around Zarabeth’s waist and carried her to the ground. “There you are,” he said, flashing his perfect smile. Bloody interloper.
“I am well,” Zarabeth said in English, answering Gemma. “Egan found me quickly. I was warm and dry in no time.”
Her assurances and her bright smile made the others relax, Angus heaving an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God for it,” the big man rumbled.
The two Nvengarian footmen now began an argument over who would build the fire in Zarabeth’s chamber. Amid the noise, Egan gave Zarabeth a searching look. Exhaustion etched her face, yet she smiled as though ready to hostess a supper-ball.
“She needs rest,” Egan growled at the Highlanders hemming her in. “Do ye not all have something to do?”
“Gracious, yes.” Gemma flapped her skirt at the men. “Get on with ye. ’Tis my wedding day, and I want it perfect.”
Angus and Hamish exchanged guilty looks and rushed indoors, followed by Jamie and Dougal at a dead run.
“Your wedding day?” Zarabeth asked her, startled. “Egan didn’t bother to tell me that,” she said, slanting him an annoyed glance. Egan hadn’t thought to mention it, what with rescuing Zarabeth, carrying her home, and distracted by her nearness every second.
“Aye, but don’t ye worry, love,” Gemma said. “I’m having Angus MacDonald make his vows to me today, don’t matter what happens. Rain or shine, whether we’re in the kirk or on top of a tor, he’s pledging himself to me, and that’s that.”
* * *
Zarabeth enjoyed the wedding ceremony inside the small stone kirk on the hill near the castle, the simplicity of the service soothing her aching head.
Angus, a red-haired man who resembled Egan, though with more bulk, stood at the altar, red-faced and sweating, mumbling his vows. Gemma, resplendent in her plaid gown, her red-gold hair gleaming in the weak sunlight, made her responses clearly and with triumph. Angus’s brother, Hamish, stood next to him, amused at his discomfiture, but Gemma smiled, radiant, and Angus began to look smug.
Back at the castle, Gemma rushed about preparing her own wedding feast with the help of the cook and the castle’s small staff, shouting orders at her new husband, who in turn bellowed at Hamish. When Zarabeth asked to help, Gemma, a gillie’s daughter, looked horrified that a highborn lady should dirty her hands.
But Zarabeth stubbornly insisted. As the wife of a duke, she’d organized many entertainments designed to impress a thousand guests from the best families in the land. Plus she’d do anything to keep from thinking too much about how she’d woken up nose to nose with Egan.
Not that she had to work hard to avoid him. Egan had disappeared after the wedding and did not return until late that afternoon, when the additional guests for the feasting and dancing began to arrive.
Supper was a loud, laughing business in the Great Hall, on the first floor of the almost vertical Castle MacDonald. The two-story room had high windows, thick ceiling beams, and whitewashed walls that held an assortment of weapons from wicked-looking axes to claymores and spears. A boar’s head hung over the enormous stone fireplace, whose huge fire heated every corner of the room. The castle majordomo, Williams, gave growling commands to the sunny-faced maids who served the feast.
It was all very different from Sebastian’s orchestrated affairs in Nvengaria, where who sat next to whom at the table was a study in intrigue. Here, the Highlanders shouted orders at the maids who shouted right back at them, and every few minutes someone voiced a loud joke that had the whole room roaring with laughter.
After the feasting the tables were cleared out of the way, and the dancing began. The wedding couple was towed immediately to the middle of the room and circles formed around them.
A fiddler and a drummer struck up a merry tune in the corner, and the swish of plaids and laughter soon accompanied the dancers. Some of the men sported plaid knee breeches and trousers instead of kilts, and most of the women wore skirts of plaid, though a few dressed in fashionable garb that would not be out of place at a London soiree.
Baron Valentin had managed to save some of the Nvengarian luggage, but all Zarabeth’s clothes had been lost, the gown she’d been found in ruined beyond repair. While the baron wore his blue military coat with a green sash from shoulder to hip, Zarabeth had to make do with a hastily altered gown belonging to Egan’s absent sister, Mary.
Zarabeth liked the MacDonald plaid of dark blue and green laced with red and black, and the lightweight, warm fabric. She fingered the skirt, knowing she touched a piece of Egan MacDonald’s heritage.
With so many people in the room, Zarabeth found it difficult to shield the thoughts clamoring about her. Usually she could keep them at a dim buzz on the edge of her senses, but her tiredness, worry, and the sheer weight of the thoughts broke through.
Gemma, gleeful and exasperated—Aye, when ye marry a Highlander, ye marry the pack of ’em. Angus’s thoughts were less coherent but filled with embarrassed happiness and anticipation of the wedding bed. A general cacophony of joyousness permeated the room, and Egan …
Egan reposed alone by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece as he sipped his whisky and watched the dancers. His unruly hair had been pulled into a tail but curls escaped it—he’d never been able to tame his hair. He looked every inch a Highlander in his full kilt, with a swath of fabric slung over his shoulder. Zarabeth tried to shut out the noise of the wedding party and focus on his thoughts, but as usual, she found only silence.
Egan had said little to her since they’d arrived at Castle MacDonald, evading her at every turn. Now he caught her glance and left the fireplace to join her.
“Are ye well, lass?” he asked.
Zarabeth pasted on a smile. “Since I’m no longer drowning, hanging on to rocks for dear life, or freezing, I must be perfectly fine.”
Fine, except that Egan stood too close, his warmth touching her along with the masculine scents of wool and whisky. The wedding band on her finger seemed to throb
“Ye should be resting,” he said in a low growl. “’Tis late, and this lot should find their own homes.”
“No, no, I find the entertainment most diverting,” Zarabeth said quickly. “So different from Nvengaria.”
Egan’s gaze pinned her with unnerving shrewdness. “Ye seem cheerful for a woman who’s survived a shipwreck.”
“Well, I did survive it, that is the cheerful thing.” Zarabeth’s smil
e faded, and she swallowed. “The first officer did not. He …”
She remembered the man’s hands reaching for her, then his scream as the boards splintered beneath his feet and he fell into the sea. The magic charm around her neck had glowed brightly.
“Dinnae grieve overmuch about the first officer,” Egan said grimly. “I returned to Ullapool after Angus and Gemma wed to investigate a bit.”
Ah, so that’s where he’d vanished to.
“The ship’s captain managed to find some papers belonging to the first officer, and he showed me them—damning letters. The man had taken a bribe to sabotage the ship offshore and to take ye into a boat by yourself. He’d been paid plenty to try to take you to another ship, which was waiting down the coast.” He let out a breath as he scowled. “One thing to console us is that his money is at the bottom of the sea with him.”
Zarabeth recalled her few glimpses of the first officer’s thoughts, very few, since Baron Valentin had insisted she keep to herself during the voyage. “I sensed something was wrong,” she said slowly. “And when he pushed me onto the boat, I had a feeling …” He’d shielded himself well, this man, until the very end.
“I put my men to tracing who he was working for,” Egan said, voice rumbling. “They were able to track a man to a tavern in Inverness, but that man had fled by the time they arrived.”
“A Nvengarian?” Had Sebastian or maybe his terrifying secretary, Baron Neville, an evil man, found her already?
Egan shook his head. “A Scotsman, but none knew him. His accent put him from Glasgow, likely hired there. I sent men to investigate, but I’m nae hopeful. Even if we never find him, he’ll have to stay in hiding and not bother ye.”
“Let us hope,” Zarabeth said with feeling.
“Those who live on my lands are loyal to me. If there are any strangers lurking within twenty miles, I’ll know all about it.”
“I feel very safe here in this castle, I can assure you.” It was nice to feel safe, if only temporarily, such a change from her life for the last five years.