Highlander Ever After Page 6

  “We should go back,” he said, his voice a rumble. “’Tis too cold. I should never have brought you out here.”

  “Not yet.” Zarabeth tried to smile, pretending she wasn’t dying a little inside. “Let’s stay a while longer. I’m tired of hiding myself, tired of living in a gilded cage.”

  Egan’s brows went up. “A definite lack of gilding at Castle MacDonald, ye might have noticed. Not to mention a bloody great lot of Highlanders.” His voice remained low, as though he didn’t want to frighten her.

  “I don’t mind them.”

  Boldly Zarabeth raised her hand and touched his face. Egan stood still, letting her caress him as he had when she’d run her thumb over his chest in the Great Hall. No wrenching himself away as when he’d realized he’d fallen asleep with her at the inn.

  Zarabeth made herself lower her hand and step back, breaking his embrace. Egan let her go, his fingers closing on her elbow only to steady her.

  Egan was right—the day had grown colder, and they needed to retreat indoors.

  Zarabeth moved to retrieve her pole, and Egan brushed past her to pick up the net, which looked strangely empty. She peered at it as Egan lifted it.

  “There’s a hole in it,” she said, dismayed.

  Egan studied the ruined mesh, then lowered it regretfully. “Aye, they’ve gotten away. Back to freedom.”

  He walked past her, grabbed his pole from the rock, and started down the path, calling to Jamie on the way.

  * * *

  Jamie had caught a string of fish, and dangled them proudly as they climbed the hill to the castle. Zarabeth followed Jamie, aware of Egan hulking behind her and of her footmen trailing in the distance.

  She could still feel the imprint of Egan’s fingers on her back and her vast disappointment that he’d chosen not to kiss her. She’d needed him to kiss her, to feel the firmness of his lips and the bite of his tongue, the heady sensation of being in his arms.

  But Egan had a deep sense of honor. Zarabeth had always known that, and her father had reminded her of it when Egan had departed Nvengaria for the last time. Though she was twenty-three now, she knew she’d always be little Zarabeth in Egan’s eyes, daughter of his closest friend and now married to another man, as horrible as her marriage had turned out to be. Egan would keep his honor, and Zarabeth would stew in silence.

  Jamie’s long legs and quick stride carried him up the hill, Zarabeth coming breathlessly behind him. Egan made no noise at all except for his boots crunching on stones. Zarabeth strove to keep up with Jamie—she’d never let Egan make fun of her for growing too staid.

  Jamie sailed into the courtyard at the top, ten paces ahead of Zarabeth. She tried to quicken her pace, her legs and feet aching by the time she struggled through the gate, Egan and her footmen right behind her.

  A shiny black carriage with its wheels’ spokes picked out in gold stood in the courtyard, empty of its passengers. A red-coated coachman busily scraped mud from the coach’s painted surface, looking aggrieved—he must have scraped it through the gatehouse. Jamie bade him a cheerful good day as he scurried into the castle.

  Egan halted just inside the courtyard, and his face went still. “Bloody hell.”

  “What is it?” Zarabeth asked quickly.

  She turned back to Egan in worry, and Ivan and Constanz flanked him, hands near their weapons. Zarabeth was too Nvengarian to believe herself safe even in these remote hills, though she’d been certain no one sinister had lurked at the river. She’d sensed no thoughts but those of Jamie and her footmen, no presence but the patrolling men and Baron Valentin.

  “My sister,” Egan groaned. “God help us.”

  He strode past Zarabeth and into the castle. Zarabeth pattered behind him, Ivan and Constanz at her heels.

  A lady in a much-decorated blue traveling gown and a headdress stuck with many ostrich feathers stood in the front hall. Mary Cameron, Egan’s sister, looked much like her brother with her brown eyes and riot of dark curls, but she’d managed to tame her exuberance with modish and lovely clothes, and carried herself in a stately manner. The household servants swarmed around her or scurried upstairs with boxes and valises.

  Zarabeth sensed Mary running over lists in her head of things she needed to do, her thoughts focused and anxious. But she also sensed something behind Mary’s surface—loneliness, defensiveness, and a feeling of being left out. It was as though Mary kept the lists going steadily to keep from thinking more troubling thoughts.

  Mary stripped off her gloves and gave her brother an aggrieved look, not noticing Zarabeth behind him. “How could you, Egan?” she said. “We at last have a visitor of consequence, but could you be bothered to send word when she was expected? What do I learn when I alight but that she’s already here?”

  “I could scarce send ye word when her presence is supposed to be secret,” Egan said in irritation.

  Mary opened her eyes wide. “Not secret to me, your own sister. Dougal had to tell me.” She frowned at Jamie, who had halted to watch the fun, still holding the string of fish. “Get those to the kitchen, Jamie. They stink to high heaven—what would she think?”

  Jamie merely said good-naturedly, “Hello, Auntie,” and trudged down the stairs toward the kitchens.

  Mary swung to Egan again and at last saw Zarabeth. Whatever she had been about to say died on her lips, and her expression moved swiftly from alarm to anger to dismay.

  “Your Highness.” Mary made a deep, formal, and perfect curtsy. “I apologize for not being here to greet you as a hostess should.”

  Zarabeth slid off her dirty gloves and went to her, holding out her hand. “I am not a princess, Mrs. Cameron. You do not need to address me so.”

  Mary straightened. “But Egan told me …”

  “My title as a young woman was princess, but my family is not royal—only distantly related to the ruling family,” Zarabeth explained—she’d had to explain this often as she traveled. “It is like Russian families, where all the children of dukes are little dukes and duchesses. After a while everyone is a duke or duchess.” She smiled to show she was not offended.

  Mary looked mollified. “I apologize. My brother is the worst at protocol. How would you like me to address you?”

  “If you call me Zarabeth, I believe we shall get along quite well.”

  Mary’s cheeks pinkened. “Then it is my delight to welcome you to our home, Zarabeth.”

  Egan looked heavenward behind Mary’s back. “This is Castle MacDonald, Mary, not a society salon.”

  Mary glanced at Egan and nearly shrieked. “Good Lord, what a mess you are! What will our Edinburgh guests think of you? If they find you in this state, smelling of river and fish, they might dash right back to Edinburgh, so do clean up, there’s a good brother.”

  “They can hie back this night for all I care and have done,” Egan said with finality. “I’ll have no part of this mad scheme.”

  Mary ignored him and smiled at Zarabeth. “I am so happy to meet you at last. Let me sort myself out from my journey, and I will have Williams give us tea.” She held out her arm to Zarabeth to escort her upstairs.

  Zarabeth fell into step with her, knowing exactly how to behave in this situation, at least. Mary was deeply conscious of social niceties, Zarabeth read in her, but she had a good heart.

  As they went up the stairs, Baron Valentin entered the castle with the entourage of Egan’s men. Mary’s step slowed as she looked down over the banisters and saw him, and she halted, startled.

  Valentin, even in his human form, had a primal and dangerous air, as though no civilized house could hold him. He glanced up at the two of them, but he didn’t stop or ask questions. He’d likely either been told by others who Mary was or concluded it himself.

  His gaze rippled over Mary, and Zarabeth sensed his sudden sharp spike of interest. Valentin’s eyes met Mary’s for a brief, intense moment before he looked away.

  Egan greeted him below, and Valentin walked with Egan into another room.


  Mary remained still, staring at the door through which the two had vanished, her hand frozen on the railing. “Who …?”

  “Baron Valentin,” Zarabeth said, taking her arm again. “Sent by Prince Damien to guard me. You will grow used to him.”

  She did not add a reassuring platitude, such as saying he was quite kind once you grew to know him, because Zarabeth did not know whether Valentin was kind. She knew very little about the enigmatic half-logosh baron. He’d kept to himself during their travels in spite of her attempts to draw him out, though he had always been polite and deferential.

  Nor could Zarabeth read many of his thoughts—he was adept at keeping his innermost secrets secret. She was surprised she had sensed his jolt of interest when he’d looked at Mary.

  Mary continued up the stairs, leading Zarabeth, but her gaze returned to the lower hall more than once, her expression troubled.

  * * *

  Mary insisted Zarabeth enjoy a hot bath after her “fishing ordeal.”

  “My brother had no call to drag you out into the mud and rain,” she said indignantly. “It was really too bad of him.”

  Zarabeth insisted she’d been happy to go, but Mary, seeming nervous after their encounter with Baron Valentin, rattled on. “He never has learned how to behave in polite society—I have heard stories of him wearing hunting kilts to the palaces of Vienna. So embarrassing.”

  Zarabeth knew Egan often played what he called the “Mad Highlander” on purpose, pretending to be an ignorant, backwoods Scotsman with a heavy accent. His antics made everyone laugh. He did it both to put people at ease and to hide his shrewd intelligence when he deemed it necessary. Zarabeth had always found him amusing—Mary obviously did not approve.

  While Zarabeth bathed, Mary sent in clean dresses—heavily embroidered lawn gowns with much trimming. Zarabeth ignored them in favor of one of the plaid gowns, telling the worried maid who’d come to dress her that she found wearing such a simple frock a novelty.

  In truth, Zarabeth did not want to return to being a highborn lady just yet. In the tartan gown she could realize she’d finally escaped the stringent and suffocating duties as the wife of one of the Council of Dukes, that she was safe from Nvengarian intrigue and machinations in this remote and strange land.

  After dressing, Zarabeth dismissed the maid and left her room for the gallery that circled the main staircase. Ivan and Constanz were at the bottom of the stairs, standing guard. Nothing would get past them.

  Zarabeth had not had time to explore the castle, having been busy since the moment of her arrival, and now she looked about with interest. Castle MacDonald was tall and square, rising straight from the rocks around it in a pile of sharp-cornered stone. The polished wooden staircase with galleries wound through its heart, obviously more modern than the building around it. A huge and finely made tall case clock at the top of the staircase chimed, sonorous and slow.

  This place had originally been built for battle, Zarabeth could see—luxuries like the carved banisters, paneled doors, clocks, and runners in the halls had been added when battle had ceased being a way of life.

  Paintings of MacDonalds hung on the stone walls of each floor, portraits ranging from those done in recent years to paintings from the dim past. She found Egan’s father at the end of her gallery near the clock, a broad-shouldered man with a severe manner and Egan’s gold-flecked eyes. Next to him was a painting of a woman with a warm smile and dark brown ringlets, the shape of her face so like Egan’s and Mary’s that Zarabeth knew it was their mother.

  A portrait of Mary hung nearby. She stood straight and tall, chin lifted, her hand on the back of a chair in which a very young Dougal sat holding a black, flop-eared puppy. Mary stared out of the painting haughtily, as though letting the world know she could live quite well on her own, thank you.

  The painting on the other side of Egan’s father’s caught Zarabeth’s attention—at first Zarabeth thought it a portrait of Egan, but a closer look revealed that it was not. The young man had Egan’s openness of manner, a smile on his face, and a wicked twinkle in his eyes, but his features were subtly different. He wore an army uniform—kilt and red coat, his tall hat under his arm. The youthful face looked excited, eager for battle.

  This must be Charlie MacDonald, Egan’s younger brother, who’d died at Talavera in 1809. His portrait held pride of place, at the head of the stairs next to Egan’s father. Egan had been in the same Highland regiment as Charlie, but though Zarabeth scanned the walls, she found no portrait of him.

  Zarabeth quietly took the stairs upward. She found no portraits of Egan on the floors above hers either, only landscapes of Loch Argonne and faded portraits of MacDonald men and women from centuries past. One painting, dark with age, depicted a man who held a sword very much like the sword hanging in the Great Hall. There were fewer rooms as she went up, the doors faded and worn like the paintings.

  A door in the middle of the gallery three floors above hers stood ajar, and she heard Egan’s baritone rumble from behind it. She paused to listen, and realized to her astonishment that he was singing.

  Zarabeth had heard Egan sing before, usually loudly and horribly out of tune, belting out Scottish ballads in elegant drawing rooms to entertain as the Mad Highlander. This time he sang in a low voice that was surprisingly musical.

  She could make out lyrics about lying on a plaid in the heather with a bonny lass. Her treacherous imagination put herself on the plaid with Egan, lying beneath his strong body, the purple-flowered heather rippling around them. She imagined Egan’s strong fingers in her hair, his mouth on her lips, his hard body nestled on hers.

  Zarabeth closed her eyes in the silent hall, swaying in time with the music. The song was sensual, but sweet and full of the love of a Highlander for his pretty maid. If only …

  She heard a soft splash and popped open her eyes. Egan was in his bath.

  A proper young lady, a society hostess like Zarabeth, should turn and quietly make her way down the stairs to her own chamber or to the rooms below. It should not even occur to her to tiptoe to the door and peek inside.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Zarabeth pressed her face to the crack in the open door and positioned herself so she could see into the room. Egan lay in a tub in the middle of it, facing the fireplace opposite the door. His head was tilted backward, the damp rendering his hair excessively curly as he sang gently to the ceiling. His arms rested on the sides of the tub, tight muscle slick with water.

  Zarabeth imagined creeping up behind him and running her hands along his arms and shoulders. She would cradle his head against her chest and not care that the damp ruined her gown. Egan would open his eyes and smile at her, then pull her down for a bathwater-soaked kiss.

  Zarabeth knew she had no business thinking these things or peering at him like a love-struck dairymaid. Egan was letting her stay in the castle out of kindness to her father, and because he would do anything for her cousin Damien, nothing more. But each time she tried to make herself turn and go back downstairs, her slippers seemed stuck to the floor.

  Egan ceased singing and hummed the tune, his voice wrapping her like silk. She could listen to him forever.

  Zarabeth had just convinced herself it would be prudent to retreat when Egan braced himself on the sides of the tub and stood up.

  And then an army couldn’t have dragged her away. Egan rose like a god from the sea, water cascading from his body to slosh over the tub’s sides. Zarabeth was fixed in place as his beautifully sculpted back, strong thighs, and firm backside came into view.

  His skin was tanned from the sun, a bit lighter where his kilt covered him, as though in summer he wandered about in the kilt and nothing else. The thought made her throat dry.

  His hair hung to his shoulders, heavy with bathwater, rivulets trickling to his buttocks. Muscle rippled as he rubbed water from his face with his broad hands.

  Good-natured Egan MacDonald was a beautiful man, and Zarabeth had always known it. He’d charmed every la
dy he’d met in Nvengaria, and the young Zarabeth had been eaten up with jealousy. The woman Zarabeth could only stare in awe and understand why ladies tried to ensnare him.

  Whistling, Egan reached for a robe. The mirror over the fireplace slanted downward, revealing the full front of his body before he pulled on the dressing gown.

  Zarabeth nearly slid to the floor. When he’d stood next to the bed in the inn, his plaid had been securely around him. Now nothing blocked her view of his tight abdomen and the phallus that hung full and thick from a gathering of dark hair.

  The sensual beauty of him made Zarabeth’s blood heat and her heart speed. She wanted nothing more than to enter the room and slide her hands inside the loose robe, touching her Highlander. His body would be warm and wet, the gaze he turned on her dark with desire.

  Zarabeth must have gasped or made some noise because Egan turned his head, not in alarm but nonchalantly, as though unworried about who might be watching. His gaze came to rest on the gap between door and doorframe, but he made no sign that he saw her.

  Zarabeth took two silent steps backward, then turned and sped noiselessly down the gallery, her heart beating fast and hard.

  * * *

  Zarabeth wore one of Mary’s much-trimmed gowns the next afternoon when she accompanied Mary to the home of Adam and Piers Ross.

  She had spent the previous afternoon being fitted for new frocks, but it would be days before they were ready. She’d welcomed the tedious measuring with Mary and the seamstress to keep her mind off Egan … Not that such things had worked.

  She’d relived the moment of Egan rising from his bath all the rest of the day, her mind showing her maddening pictures of him beckoning her inside the chamber, a sinful smile on his face. He’d take her into his arms, soaking her dress with his wet body, and pull her into a melting, hot kiss.

  Zarabeth also dreamed this throughout the night and awakened damp with sweat, her hand pressed to the join of her thighs. She’d tried to banish the dreams, but they crept into her head as soon as she closed her eyes again.