Emerald Embrace (15 page)

She shivered. Even in the cave it was cold. Perhaps it was even worse, for the wind sounded more terrible here. The rains would begin soon.

But it was not long before Ian and Peter returned with the doctor. And Dr. MacTeague instantly sat down by the man, nodded his approval of the splint and bandage, and leaned low to the man’s chest.

“We can lift him painlessly enough, I think, the three of us,” Bruce was telling his cousins. “One at the shoulders and two at his feet. It will be a blessed mercy if he stays unconscious—”

“We need no mercy, Bruce,” MacTeague said quietly, looking up. “He’s dead.”

“What?” Martise cried in horror from the cave.

She stumbled to her feet and then lumbered heavily across the sand. She fell by the man and cared not if she insulted MacTeague. She leaned against the sailor to seek a heartbeat herself, and then she frantically felt at his shoulders and at his breast.

There was nothing.

MacTeague was watching her over the body of the fallen man.

“I’m sorry, Lady St. James. The man is gone.”

“But he was alive!”

“Aye, milady. And you did well, miraculously well. You made every effort … but he’s gone now.”

“I’ll take him up,” Conar said briefly, bending down to lift the body over his shoulder. He straightened. “It will not matter now to him if it be a rough and rocky road.”

He started up the cliffs. Martise sat in the sand, shivering anew, unable to accept the man’s death.

Then she felt Bruce’s hands upon her again, lifting her to her feet, sweeping her up into his arms. His eyes touched hers, but he spoke to MacTeague.

“The Lady St. James needs her ankle bound. Can we tend to it at the plateau?”

“Aye, that’s fine,” MacTeague agreed.

Her eyes remained on Bruce’s as he carried her surely up the cliff. The wind ripped and tore around them both, and screamed and cried.

“He was alive,” she whispered.

“Aye, he was alive,” Bruce agreed. And then he looked ahead, climbing. “He might have told us—something,” he said.

“He did,” she murmured.

Then he was staring at her again, staring hard.

In the gray, murky air that swirled around them, he seemed to be cloaked in darkness. Fear and longing mingled within her, along with the terrible sense of danger she felt whenever he was near.

She knew not if the danger was within the naked, all-powerful charisma of the man, or if it lay in something more evil.

“What did he say?” he demanded harshly.

Conar and Ian and Peter and the doctor and the dead man were far ahead of them.

They were alone on the cliffs, alone by the sea, and she was powerless within his arms.

“What did he say?” Bruce repeated, his voice like the thunder that would soon crack the sky.

“Nothing, nothing, really!”

“You’re lying, girl.”

“No!” she cried. “He tried to speak. He barely had a voice left. I leaned against him. I tried to hear—”

“Don’t you understand! We might have learned something!” he snapped back at her.

Oh, yes, she understood.

The man might have told them all something … Creeghan. The word that he had whispered was “Creeghan.”

The wind screeched and moaned again, and then suddenly, with a violence all its own, the rain came.

Bruce ducked his head low against her, and for the fraction of a second, Martise caught her breath, certain that he meant to throw her …

Down to the Dragon’s Teeth far below.

But he did not. He held her more tightly to leap his way across the rocks, and hurry for the plateau and the waiting horses.

There was no question that her ankle could be bound then and there. Nor did Bruce even take a step toward the mare. He set her atop the bay and leapt up behind her, and called out that they would head straight for the castle.

He sheltered her from the wind, and from the rain, and though her heart beat too quickly at first, she was glad enough to lean against him and let him take the brunt of the wind and the rain. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared, and she closed her eyes, tucked close against him.

He was in his element, it seemed. Undaunted by the wind or the sheeting rain or the sizzle of the lightning or the heartless crack and peel of the thunder.

Indeed, he appeared immune to it, a lord of the wind, a lord of the thunder. She could not care at the moment, she could not think. She could only hold tight throughout the reckless ride and seek her harbor in the hard warmth of his chest.

They came to Creeghan. Bruce burst through the door with her in his arms. Elaina and Hogarth, both in the room, cried out at her appearance.

“What is it?” Elaina cried.

Bruce set her in the chair before the fire.

“It’s nothing—” Martise tried to say.

“’Tis her ankle. Brandy, Hogarth, we’ve a need of some warmed brandy.” His eyes met hers as he loosened the button at her throat, then he stepped back and MacTeague took his place. Hogarth was there with the brandy, informing her that there would be a steaming bath in her room as soon as she was ready.

“Thank you, but I’m fine, truly I am,” she said.

MacTeague was pulling off her stocking and gently feeling her foot and ankle. Ian drew off his soaking frock coat and set it upon a hook in the wall, then walked across the room to the table, pouring out whisky for the men and handing a glass to his father before bringing glasses to his brother and Bruce.

And then they all stared at Martise. She tried to smile.

“Well, ’tis a sprain, and Lady St. James might want to soak it in her bath before I bind it. It will do well enough, but”—he pointed a stern finger at her—“ye must stay off your feet, milady, for a good week.”

“A week!” she cried with dismay.

“A week,” he said firmly.

Bruce set down his whisky and stepped forward again. “Come on, I’ll carry you up for your bath.”

“I’ll come, too,” Elaina said, “and tend to her.”

Bruce paused, looking at his sister. “Well,” Elaina reminded him softly, “I can help her where you must not, Bruce.”

Bruce’s look conveyed that he could help her very well, and that he really didn’t give a damn whether he must or must not. But he smiled at his sister and agreed and started for the stairs.

And his eyes upon Martise’s as he walked indicated that he really could and would do whatever he chose. Whenever he chose.

He opened the door to her room with his shoulder and carried her in to set her on the bed. Holly was there, pouring a last kettle of steaming water into the bath.

“Oh, my Lady St. James!” Holly moaned.

“I’ll stay with her, Holly,” Elaina said.

Bruce was down upon a knee, removing her other boot, his eyes upon hers. His hand moved subtly against her stocking, and his gaze was wicked. But then he smiled, dropped her boot upon the floor, and rose.

“Call me, Elaina, when Lady St. James is ready to come down and see the doctor again.”

He strode to the door. Martise watched him, then she struggled to sit up. “Wait, Bruce, please!”

“Aye?”

“Where—where is he? The sailor.”

“Tenderly wrapped within the archway, I assure you. We’ll bring him back to the village. MacTeague will want to examine him at greater length.”

He was walking out the door.

“Bruce!” she called once again.

He paused, watching her, waiting. Was it warily? she wondered. She could not tell. His fire eyes burned into her.

“What about the girl? Clarissa. Did any of the others find her?”

He hesitated. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said. He stared at her a moment longer, then looked to his sister. “Call me, Elaina,” he said, and then he was gone.

And even though Elaina chattered and sympathized, Martise felt as if she was very much alone.

She felt cold. So cold.

Even when she had stripped away her sodden clothing and sunk into the steaming water, she still felt a chill deep within her, because he was gone.

Like any childish, wayward girl, she was falling in love without wit or reason.

No, she was no longer falling. It was too late. She loved him …

She feared him …

But, like a fool, she loved him more.

I
t was later that night, when Bruce Creeghan had carried Martise back down to the hall and Dr. MacTeague was busily binding up her ankle, that Bruce announced his intention of leaving the following morning for Edinburgh.

Startled, Martise looked from MacTeague’s gentle hands upon her foot to Bruce Creeghan’s eyes.

He was watching her.

“I want something done,” he said simply. “There has to be a better warning system for these ships.”

“But can anything be done in Edinburgh?” Ian asked his cousin.

Bruce’s gaze fell upon Ian. “I hope so. If not, I shall take the problem on down to London, and to the queen herself. By God, this is the third wreck we’ve had within four months! And we don’t even seem to be able to pick up enough pieces to learn where the ships are coming from, or going to.”

He paused, staring into the fire. “Except for this time. We know that she was the Lady Anne out of Glasgow. Part of the mast washed up on the shore.” He was looking from one to the other of them, around the room. No one said anything. There was an acute and painful silence, and then a log snapped.

Watching him, Martise felt his anguish over the downed ships. But then she found herself wondering about the sailor again. The man had been alive.

And she had been sure that he whispered the word “Creeghan.”

And if so …

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it. Bruce couldn’t have murdered the man, he hadn’t been alone with him. But after he had carried her into the cave, he might have asked his cousin to fetch something by the rock, or walk toward the cave and check on her. And perhaps, in those fleeting moments, he had snuffed out the small breath of life that had remained within the sailor. To hide something.

To keep the man from whispering. “Creeghan” again.

She opened her eyes. He was staring at her. Seeing into her, seeing through her. His lip curled with a kind of mockery. “Perhaps nothing can be achieved,” he said. “But still, I must go.”

“You might want to keep your eyes open for the young Cunningham lass, too, Bruce,” MacTeague advised him. “I say the lass has gone and run off. And without a word to her poor mum.”

“Aye, indeed, I’ll ask after her,” Bruce said.

After Martise’s ankle was bound, the chairs were drawn all about the fire, and they sipped warmed brandy against the wet chill of the evening. The men were still talking. Elaina broodingly studied the fire, and Martise wondered if she wasn’t thinking of her own lost love.

It occurred to her then that if Bruce Creeghan was going to be absent, it would be a wonderful time to search his library.

He was watching her again, and she lowered her eyes hastily, staring at the flames in the hearth. She would have to ask him tonight for his permission to use his library while he was away.

MacTeague rose. “I imagine that the rain has stopped by now. I’ll be getting on home, then. Thanks for the warmth and hospitality, Bruce.”

“Thank you for coming to the cliffs so quickly, and returning here for Lady St. James’s ankle,” Bruce responded.

MacTeague included them all in wishing a good evening, and then Bruce walked him to the door. While he was gone, Peter yawned, excused himself, and said good night.

Only Elaina, Ian, and Conar remained with Martise. They all looked expectantly at Bruce when he returned. “There’s naught you need before I leave?” Bruce asked his cousins.

Ian shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Bruce. And if anything comes up, why, we’ll wire you in Edinburgh.”

“Then I’ll take Lady St. James up to bed,” he said. He bade them good night, tenderly kissing his sister on the cheek. Then he swept Martise up into his arms. She wound hers around his neck, and thought how swiftly, how easily, how trustingly she had come to do this.

Trustingly…

He carried her up the stairs, and she knew he was going to speak, but he did not do so until he brought her into her room and laid her gently upon her bed.

He moved away from her, standing by her side, arms crossed over his chest, and she was suddenly aware that she was going to receive a lecture.

“You must take care, which may not be so easy now, but MacTeague means to send up a pair of crutches in the morning, so you’ll be able to get about a little. Your door bolts must always be locked. Do you ken?” He took a step toward her again. “It’s very important. Keep your bolts locked at night.”

“Against the ghosts?” she asked.

She saw his jaw twist and set. “Against any intruder,” he warned her.

He turned around and headed toward the door.

She sat up on the bed and called out to him. “Who is it in this house that I should be afraid of?” she demanded.

He stopped, and slowly turned to her, and she felt the fire of his eyes like something that could devour her very soul. “An intruder need not come from within a house, milady St. James. No castle was ever truly impregnable.”