Emerald Embrace (7 page)

“I’m quite sure that Lady St. James will be gone by then,” Bruce said coolly.

“Perhaps not,” Peter said. “And ye would enjoy the day, lass. There is dancing and singing and the endless cry of the pipes and there’ll be dishes I’ll wager ye’ll not see again, anywhere. And all the lads and lasses wear their colors—”

“And that’s important!” Elaina said, her cheeks flushed with excitement, heedless that she had interrupted her uncle. “You see, Martise, after the Jacobite uprising, the men were not allowed to wear their plaids, their colors. Many rushed off to America to fight in the Revolution, because there, in British regiments, they were allowed to wear their plaids.”

“Aye, and for all of that,” Bruce continued, a touch of bitterness in his voice, “many of the Scotsmen were deserted there when the war was lost.”

“Or won,” Martise reminded him pleasantly, “depending upon one’s point of view.”

“Aye, of course,” Bruce agreed. “Except that you are a born Englishwoman, Lady St. James. Did your years with the Yanks convince you otherwise?”

Martise carefully cut a piece of carrot that lay within her stew. “Yanks?” She smiled sweetly. “I lived in the Confederacy, Lord Creeghan. Yanks referred to the Americans in general of nearly a hundred years ago. Southern gentlemen highly resent the term ‘Yank’ being tossed upon them, I do assure you.”

“That’s right, we’ve welcomed a little Rebel into our midst, I had quite forgotten,” Bruce said. Martise sensed the tension in his voice, the same tension that had tightened her own.

“Bruce!” Elaina exclaimed, distressed. “How can you—?” She broke off and turned to Martise. “Don’t let him taunt you so. He is very much aware of the American situation, and I assure you, all of us here had our hearts with you in the South.” Tears shimmered in her eyes as she challenged her brother. “Isn’t that true, Bruce? Isn’t it, please?”

If Bruce Creeghan had anything whatsoever that might be considered a soft spot, that soft spot was Elaina. The tension left his features. Across the candlelit table he stared at his sister, and Martise felt a warmth at her spine as she wondered what it would be like to feel the tenderness he cast upon Elaina turned her way just slightly. The years left his features, and the fire of his eyes seemed amber with warmth. His appearance was ever more striking.

“Aye, Elaina,” he said softly. “We have sympathized with the South. And we have prayed. And all will come well.”

All would not come well! Martise wanted to scream. The war was lost; the land was ravaged and bathed in blood.

“Martise lost her husband,” Elaina reminded him. “Fighting for the Confederacy.”

“Indeed,” Bruce agreed. But he said no more, and gave no apology, and Martise felt the fire of his eyes upon her once again. He did not seem to sympathize with her at all. He did not even seem to believe that she had lost a husband in the war.

There was an awkward silence.

“Well, the war is over,” Martise said. She sipped her wine, ignoring the laird’s eyes as she felt them sizzling upon her. She smiled down at Elaina. “The games do sound wonderful. Once, when I was very young, I went to something similar in North Carolina. Some of the Highlanders left over from the Revolution must have planned them.”

“You were in the States when you were young?” Bruce asked politely.

She froze, then felt heat flush her cheeks. She fought against the color and made herself smile. “Yes, you see my father had a brother who moved to the States, and we visited there that one year.”

Elaina saved her then, plunging in once again with enthusiasm. “The bad is all in the past, isn’t it? The Jacobite uprising and both of the American wars are over, and now, in the Highlands, we wear our colors and play our games. Mary loved the plaid, you know, the Creeghan plaid. And Bruce plays the pipes wonderfully—well, so does Uncle Peter, and Conar and Ian, for that matter! But it’s the caber throw where we are known to excel. The laird of Creeghan always wins the caber throw.”

“The caber?” Martise asked.

“It was quite important once,” Bruce said. “The caber is a great log, and the laird who could throw it the farthest would be deemed the strongest. In the days when we were known for our endless feuds—and when we battled the English with swords instead of words—it was important to prove our strength.”

“But now it is fun,” Elaina said. “We shall have to find some colors for Martise to wear. We’ll have a kilt made for her.”

“Ah!” Uncle Peter said. “Shall we get her a kilt, or have her kilted?”

“What’s the difference?” Martise asked.

“A kilt is a skirt, lass, a garment, made and ready. To be kilted, a man rolls in his fabric, and in the rolling, creates his skirt and his scarf from the one piece, as I be awearin’ it now. But the lasses, they choose their colors as they would, some making fine long woolen skirts, and some choosing only to have scarves about their necks. But indeed, lass, ye’ll have to come in colors of some sort! What shall they be?” he asked Bruce.

The master of Creeghan lifted his wine glass to his lips, watching Martise with his burning gaze. “Why, she must wear the plaid of Creeghan, of course. She is a guest in this castle, and Mary’s sister. She must take Mary’s things.”

“Then it is settled!” Elaina said delightedly. “And she will stay until the games, at the very least.”

“Aye,” Bruce agreed. “She will stay until the games, at the very least.”

He did not ask her, Martise noted. It seemed he did not ask much, but assumed that when his will was determined, it would be as he said.

Not with her.

“We shall have to see,” she told Elaina. “I’m not sure how long I can stay.”

“Oh? Do you have a pressing engagement awaiting you elsewhere?” Bruce asked, courteously enough. Why did his every question seem double-edged? she wondered.

“We shall see,” she repeated firmly, and once again it seemed that another member of the household saved her, or saved her pride, for at that moment the great outer doors opened, and then were closed, and they heard footsteps upon the stone. Seconds later a man appeared in the hallway, unbuttoning his heavy overcoat and apologizing as he did so.

“Sorry that I am late, but Father Martin was not so easy to find this night,” he told Bruce. With his coat gone, the man resembled Ian. His eyes were lighter, his hair had a reddish tint to it, and he was, perhaps, a few years older. He, too, was a handsome man, and his smile, when it touched upon Martise, was warm.

“Conar,” Bruce told her, rising to his feet. “Lady St. James, I give you my cousin Conar, and the last resident here within the castle.”

Conar came around the table, his smile open and pleasant when he welcomed her. His hand was cold upon hers, but he had come from outside. “How delightful, and yet how sorry we are, Lady St. James.”

“Martise,” she said softly. “And thank you.”

Conar took the empty chair at the other end of the table. Hogarth seemed instinctively to know Conar had arrived, and within seconds the old man was back in the room, serving him. Martise was glad to see his comfort and ease with the servant as Conar thanked the man and apologized again for being late.

Martise was glad, too, that she had smelled no whisky on the man’s breath, for he probably would have gained the wrath of Lord Creeghan.

She didn’t need to defend these people, she thought to herself. They had lived with one another for years and seemed to do well enough.

“Did he say when he would come?” Bruce asked Conar.

“Aye, he agreed that tomorrow would be fine.”

“Good,” Bruce said. He turned his attention to Martise, smiling. “I had assumed you were anxious to leave us. And I was quite certain you would want a service for your sister while you were here. That is why Conar went for the father. Tomorrow afternoon at five, we will have a memorial in our own chapel below. For Mary.”

“Oh! That—that was very thoughtful of you,” Martise said.

“Not so thoughtful, merely proper,” Creeghan said abruptly. “Tell me, Conar, what is our status with the Flemish wool merchants?”

The tone of the evening meal changed to one of business. Martise soon realized that castles were difficult to maintain these days and that Lord Creeghan was involved in many and diverse enterprises. Wool was their largest export, but they were also involved with certain fishing industries and owned a harness-making shop, which Ian spoke to Bruce about.

“’Tis doing poorly, the shop,” Ian informed Bruce. “We should pull out.”

“We can’t pull out. At least twenty families in the village are dependent on that shop. We’ll have to find a way to make it work, and that’s that.” He rose suddenly, staring down at Conar. “If you’ve had time to finish, we’ll take our brandy in the office and continue there.”

Creeghan rose and bade Martise a good evening. Conar, Ian, and Peter did the same, leaving her and Elaina alone.

“Truly, I am so glad you have come, Martise!” Elaina told her.

The welcome was real. “Then I am glad, too,” Martise responded. She smiled. “Tell me, what are we to do now?”

“Well, I know that I, for one, am going to indulge in more sherry,” Elaina said, and rising, she went to the sideboard for the sherry bottle. She smiled, and poured the sherry into her wine glass. “Hogarth will bring us tea. Shall we have it by the fire?”

“Lovely,” Martise agreed. “Except that I’ve a better idea. Let’s have it in my room and we’ll steal the sherry bottle and have that, too.”

Elaina was delighted. When Hogarth came, Martise informed him that they would like the tea in her room. Hogarth seemed surprised at first, and then very glad that Elaina seemed so happy.

Up in her room, Martise did her best to draw Elaina out, but Elaina proved herself to be quite a Creeghan, subtly evading questions while asking Martise many of her own: what had the war been like, what had the South been like, there had been so much said, and so much romanticized. Martise tried to answer many things honestly, but when Elaina turned her questions to Africa, Martise found herself in trouble once again. She shifted the conversation back to Elaina.

“Why were you so distressed at dinner this evening? With your brother. When he seemed not to know that my husband was a Confederate—and definitely not a Yank.”

“Oh!” Elaina said. “Oh …” She rose, agitated. “It’s quite a long story, truly it is. And it’s late, really late. I hadn’t begun to realize just how late it had gotten. I’m quite exhausted. You must forgive me. I’ve had a wonderful night. I haven’t had a friend such as yourself in so long now … since Mary. Oh, I am sorry, I—”

“Elaina, you must not apologize each time her name is mentioned. I loved her dearly, but then I believe you did, too, and truly, you were the one most frequently with her at the end, so, you see, your loss is all the greater.”

“How very kind,” Elaina murmured. Impulsively, she hugged Martise, but before Martise could say another word, Elaina fled. “We’ll talk soon, sometime soon, I promise. Good night, now.”

And then she was gone.

Martise looked around the room, and it seemed as good a time as any to begin a thorough search of the place. The emerald had to be somewhere.

Deep in the armoire she found many of Mary’s belongings. She searched through the beautiful silks and velvets and brocades, and marveled at the lovely corsets and elegant bloomers that Mary had acquired after her marriage. And she suddenly found herself wondering about the relationship between the tall dark lord of Creeghan and her petite friend, and then she felt her cheeks burning and she touched them with her hands. She knew why Mary had fallen in love. She knew all too well.

And yet …

And yet, she told herself harshly, the emerald was not among Mary’s things.

She thought about calling Holly to help her disrobe for the night, but determined to struggle with her numerous hooks and tiny buttons herself. She laid her gown out carefully over the back of a chair, then wearily left her petticoats to lie where they fell. She breathed far more easily once she had untied her corset and stepped from her pantalettes, but then she shivered in the evening coolness and quickly slipped into her sheer white bed gown.

Beneath the covers, she discovered that she still shivered.

And when she closed her eyes, she discovered that Bruce Creeghan was with her still.

She drifted, and in her dreams, he came toward her. He was dressed in black, and the very darkness combined with that of his hair and the fire of his eyes gave him a Satanish appeal. He smiled, and in his eyes she felt the curious power that so beckoned to her. And in the darkness all around him he was before her, and his hands were upon her shoulders, beneath her gown, and the gown was falling to the ground in a rustle of lost purity, of lost innocence. And then she felt his kiss against her naked shoulder, slow, lingering, and then the fire was stoked in a line to center and swirl within her breast, for the liquid flame of his tongue touched her there …

She jerked up, wide awake, very aware of the dream, shaking and horrified …

And yet, wondering what it was that had awakened her. There was no light in her room. The single candle she had left burning had died out.

The doors were opened, she realized. The doors to the balcony beyond.

And she had heard something. Not something near. Something far away. Something tremendous, like thunder.

She leapt from her bed and slipped out onto the balcony, hugging her sheer gown to her as the night wind ripped upon it.

She heard the wind, and again she heard a sound like thunder. She walked to the wall and listened, holding tight to the ancient stone. Far below her, she could hear the sounds of the sea, slashing hard against the cliffs.

She blinked, thinking that she saw a flicker of light on the cliffs below. But then there was nothing. The light was gone.

She waited, but there was nothing more. Just the wailing sound of the wind, and the crash and thunder of the waves upon the stone. No more lights appeared. The wind was cold, and it was seeping through her fragile clothing. She started to back away from the wall.

As she did so, she came against something as hard as the rock, but not cold, not cold at all. She felt the touch of something living, vibrant, pulsing. She nearly screamed, but she did not. She could not. A hand clamped down firmly upon her mouth, and a searing whisper touched her ear. “Don’t scream, milady. ’Tis me, Bruce. Laird Creeghan.”