Emerald Embrace (25 page)

“I’ll never forget the night. It was raining and cold. And when I came in, I thought that I would find warmth. Mary and Bruce by the fireside, maybe the sounds of Uncle Peter with his bagpipes somewhere, Ian and Conar about. But only Hogarth appeared when I came into the hall, and he was drooped and pathetic and his hair was whiter than ever and he seemed exhausted. His eyes were damp, and he told me that Mary had died soon after her last letter to me. And Bruce was ill then, desperately ill. I told Hogarth that I was going to my brother, and then I warned him not to tell anyone else I was back. I hurried here, to this tower. Hogarth had told me that Bruce had been melancholy since he lost Mary, but it was only the night before that he had taken so gravely ill. You see, Hogarth had found him down in one of the crypts—the fourteenth-century crypt.”

Martise felt the blood drain from her face. The crypt. The crypt where she had been struck down herself.

She said nothing, and Bryan continued. “Dr. MacTeague had already been in; he had done everything for Bruce that could be done. Elaina had been with him, but she had stayed up through the previous night and all day, and Hogarth had sent her to bed and stayed with Bruce himself. And so, when I reached him, Bruce was alone. But my brother didn’t awaken while I was with him. I brought the chair up to the bed, and I sat there. I talked to him. I thought that I’d keep him alive by talking.”

He paused, then started off softly again. “I was back behind the pillar—Bruce had draperies on the bed then. And I had dozed off. Then I awoke, knowing that someone was in the room. I couldn’t tell who, because the candle had burned out. I didn’t realize at first what was happening because I was barely awake … and then I saw that the figure was trying to smother Bruce. A pillow was pressed over his face.

“I leapt up and threw myself on the form and dragged it away from Bruce. But I was barely awake, and the person was strong and got away. I would have pursued the attacker, but … there was Bruce. I could not leave him. Not that it mattered in the end. Death was not to be robbed. By dawn, Bruce was ravaged by fever. I held him while he breathed his last and stayed at his side. I was bereaved, and then mystified, and then horrified and furious. Something was going on in the castle. Something serious, something so serious that someone had been willing to kill Bruce because of it.”

“Who?” Martise whispered.

“I still don’t know.”

“But why did you claim your brother’s identity?” she asked.

“Because I needed everyone to believe that I was Bruce, in case Bruce had known something, or seen something. In case someone inadvertently gave himself—or herself—away, thinking that I was Bruce.”

She was silent, still staring at him.

He cocked his head to one side, his arrogance showing in his smoldering eyes. “Well, milady?”

“I—I don’t know whether to believe you or not. How can this be? Surely, someone must suspect.”

“There was nothing to suspect.”

“But, surely—”

“Hogarth knows who I am. And, I suspect,” he added, “Elaina does, too. But she will not say anything, and perhaps she does not even admit it to herself. It is easier for her to believe that Bruce is alive, and that there is still a prayer that Bryan will return. But she knows. I believe that she knows.”

She was trembling, wanting to believe him, not knowing if she dared do so.

“Well?” he demanded again.

“I don’t know—” she began.

“And neither do I, milady,” he retorted. “I’ve given you all that I can. Now it is your turn. Some things are easy. ’Tis a strong Virginian accent with which you speak. And you are a St. James—so you claim—and other than the fact that you came here lying a blue streak, I’ve no reason to doubt that you are a St. James.”

“How very kind of you to give me such faith!” she retorted, deepening her accent and allowing it to drip with scorn. He ignored the tone of her voice. His eyes narrowed as he watched her, shimmering golden in the candlelight.

“Let’s have it, shall we?” he said softly. His tone rippled danger, and it infuriated her.

“I was in Richmond when Lady St. James died of the typhus,” he reminded her sharply.

“I’ve told you—”

“You’ve not told me why you are here!” he snapped.

“And I’ve nothing else to say to you!” she flung back. She needed desperately to be away from him. She needed to try to understand all he had told her, needed time to sort it all out, and to try to decide if she believed him or not. His story rang true.

And yet there was still so much going on in the castle. She didn’t want him talking to her any longer.

Making demands upon her.

She swept a tail of the sheet over her shoulder with all the dignity she could muster and stared at him as she rose from the bed. “I’ve nothing else to say to you tonight. You’re still an imposter, and—”

“I’m an imposter! I, at least, madam, belong in the castle!”

She shook her head, but his back was still against the wall and his eyes held a definite warning gleam. “I am not an imposter. I am Martise St. James. Let me by.”

“Nay, lass. You’ve yet to answer a single thing.”

She swore softly, slamming a foot on the floor. Then she remembered that she could go through the dressing room and bath and reach the stairway. She glanced toward the doorway, but he saw the direction of her eyes and her thoughts. She dashed for the dressing room door, but he was upon her.

Kicking, flailing, she was swept up in a tangle of the sheet, and in seconds flat she was flung back upon the bed, and he was straddled over her. She struggled against him and then went still, realizing that she wore nothing but the sheet, and that he, too, was dangerously bare beneath the smoking jacket. And God forgive her, but she could not think logically when he touched her so. It was far too easy to remember vividly everything that had passed between them. She did not want to love him, not now, not when he seemed so ruthlessly cold and determined. Not when his eyes held that very dangerous spark.

No, she had fallen once …

But his thighs were powerful and hot as he straddled her. There was an electifying vibrance about him, and despite herself, she felt color flood her cheeks. She was not horrified by anything that happened between them. She was still in wonder, still in awe, and she wanted to taste and feel every sensation again.

And she dared not…

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

She could never tell him about the emerald. Never. He would probably not believe her. Or he would think that the emerald had been Mary’s, and that Martise was a thief, come to steal it away in the night.

“You know why I’m here!” she cried out.

“Why?”

“Because of Mary.”

“Because of Mary?”

“Yes! Because of her letters. Because she wrote to me so often. And because at first she was so much in love. Because she adored Bruce Creeghan. And then because she was so very afraid! And then she died!”

He shook his head, and then he seemed furious again. “Bruce would never have hurt Mary. Never. He loved her.”

“But someone—”

“Nay, Martise, I would have known. I trust Mac Teague—”

“No, Laird of Creeghan, you do not!” she accused, twisting her wrists against his hold. “If you did, you would tell him who you are!”

“I have told no one who I am.”

“Then—”

“Nay, I have not told him, for I would not have him give me away inadvertently. And you must not do so either.”

She inhaled, furious, wishing desperately that she had the strength to cast him from her. She had not. The deep V of the smoking jacket displayed the rippling power of his chest muscles and she could feel the force of his thighs as they locked around her, as relentless as the twist of his jaw.

And so she lay perfectly still, challenging him with her eyes. “How do I know that you are not Bruce? That you have not lost some of your senses, that you are not as debauched as some of your ancestors, that you didn’t murder your brother upon his return, and take on this charade?”

She should never have spoken, she thought swiftly, not if she valued life. For his eyes were like golden blades, and they sliced into her with an intensity she could feel. He did not move, not visibly, but she felt the fury and the tension that stole over him, tightening his muscles, knotting his body. He leaned close to her, and she fought desperately not to lose her courage. She would not quiver before him, she vowed, even if he did close his fingers around her throat and squeeze.

But he did not touch her throat. He smiled slowly, with a hard and bitter twist to his lips. “Perhaps you cannot know,” he told her. “Perhaps you will have to trust in me.”

She moistened her lips, returning his stare, praying then that he would let her up, and let her run.

But he did not move. And at last she murmured, “Let me up. The night is nearly over. I need to return to my own room and—”

“You are a fool,” he interrupted her quietly.

“How dare—?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he informed her flatly, steel in his tone.

“Oh, but I am!” She felt a heated flush rising to her cheeks. “If you think that I am going to remain here with you—”

He leaned against her. “If you’re not afraid, milady, then you should be. I’ve told you that oft enough. Despite what you do or do not believe, I am not going to be the one to brick you into a wall. But, Mistress Martise St. James, someone here must be very aware that you do know something. You were struck down in the crypts. What were you doing in my room that night?” he demanded.

Her eyes widened at the sudden attack. She had been moved, she knew, from one crypt to the other. So how had he known that she had come down the spiral stairway from this tower?

“I wasn’t in this room—”

“You’re a liar.”

“But how—?”

“I was in the great hall, Martise,” he said coldly. “After I saw the lights, I was in the hall, and I came quickly below. You did not pass me by, and so you came by the spiral stairs. So, why were you in this room?”

She lifted her eyes to his rebelliously, the blue dazzling in her defiance. “You tell me, my Laird Creeghan. You say that I am so anxious for your company—”

“I am anxious that you quit lying!” he hissed.

She fell silent, then told him sharply, “Let me up.”

“Nay.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I’ll not sleep with you again! I’ll not be so ravished—”

“You call that ravished, mistress?” he inquired with such a trace of mockery in his voice that she wanted to hit him.

“The kiss was forced!” she insisted.

He looked as if he was about to laugh and she slammed her fists hard against his chest. “I will not sleep with you again, great laird of Creeghan!” she insisted desperately. “If you touch me again, I swear that it will be by force, against my will—”

“Milady,” he murmured, catching her hands and holding them hard against his chest as he met her eyes, “I’ve no desire to force you to anything. But you’re not returning to your room tonight. Things are moving too swiftly … and frighteningly. You are going to stay in this room.”

She paled. “I’ll not—”

“Cease, milady. I do not intend to sleep with you. I intend to keep you alive, until I can see you safely out of here.”

She forgot that she herself had been intending to flee. But she couldn’t believe now that Mary had died of natural causes when so much was happening here. When she knew that she was not imagining the lights at night. When she knew that a young girl had been murdered recently.

“I’m not going anywhere!” she informed him tensely.

He still held her hands and pulled her even closer.

“I am not leaving!” she repeated, but her voice held less conviction, and she was trembling.

“If you do not leave, you play it all my way.”

She clenched her teeth and felt the chill of the room touch her back.

“And know if you stay that I shall haunt you. Far worse than any spirit, my dear lady. You will do as I say, and you will stay where I tell you.”

“You are an arrogant autocrat, Laird Creeghan,” she returned.

“I intend to keep you alive,” he said bluntly. She was beginning to shiver. He suddenly dropped her hands and strode back to his door, checked it, then came over to the bed to stare down at her again. “You did not search well enough,” he informed her.

She cried out softly as he nearly unseated her, lifting up the mattress and pulling a weapon from beneath the bed. “It’s a Colt revolver, heavy, but accurate, and a six-shooter. Have you ever fired a weapon?”

She stared at the pistol, and emotion welled in her throat. It was an American weapon, and, yes, she knew it well. Many Rebel soldiers had carried breechloaders, rifles that needed to be loaded for each shot with balls and powder or a cartridge, slow weapons, even when fired by experts. But many cavalry men, many of the guerrillas, had managed to obtain the revolvers. War had given the world many new weapons. There was the Winchester and the Gatling gun, and the Colt weapons had been improved to such speed that they could truly rain down death upon men.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve fired a gun before.” Her father had seen to that. She had fired many different kinds of guns during the war. There were renegades and deserters from both sides who had preyed upon women alone.

He grunted and shoved the Colt back beneath the mattress. “If anyone comes after you, do not hesitate to shoot.”

“Does that include you, Laird Creeghan?” she asked.

He paused, then he smiled. “That must be at your discretion—milady.”

Then he turned and walked toward the dressing room door, and suddenly, she felt fear constrict her throat, and she called out to him. “Where are you going?”

He paused and turned back to her. “The dressing room. I’ve a cot I can pull out. Good night—milady.”

And he disappeared. But he left the door open between the rooms, and though she was anxious, she was glad.

The candle was burning low, the fire in the hearth was all but out. She pulled the covers close about her and stared up at the ceiling, wishing she could call out to him.

She closed her eyes tightly against the night, and she was forced to realize that she was still in love with him.