Highland Temptation (8 page)

Emilia's father was after her. His breaths were heavy in the mist, but it was too dark to see him. He seemed to surround her. He was everywhere, and she didn't know which way to run.

She turned in a slow circle, the mossy ground cold under her bare feet. Where was he?

“Emilia,” he said sharply, “come with me. Right now, or your punishment will be even more severe.”

She was too frightened to respond, her breaths coming out in short gasps, her heart beating so hard she thought it might break her ribs. She clutched her hand to her chest, as if that might help to contain it. It punched angrily against her palm.

“Emilia!” her father barked. His voice came from all around her.

And then the whip cracked on her back. She jerked, crying out in pain, feeling the scabs break, the blood begin to seep into her dress. She sobbed, “No, Papa, please, Papa,” and she saw his face looming over her, ghostly white, dripping with sweat, sneering in anger.

“You are an evil, unfaithful daughter. You make me
sick,
” her father spat out.

Crack!

This time the force of the whip made her surge upward, panting, her eyes popping open. Slowly, the bedchamber came into focus. She was sitting up in bed, the blankets twisted around her. The room wasn't completely dark—Colin had turned down the lantern to the lowest possible setting without extinguishing it.

Her father was here. His breaths were ragged, just like they'd been in the clearing.

Frantic, she lunged for the dagger, the
sgian dubh.
She grabbed it by the hilt and thrust it out in front of her.

But then, reality seeped in. No. Papa wasn't here. Someone was gasping, panting, but it wasn't her father. She lowered the dagger, listening, her own chest heaving.

And then she saw Colin's head, his hair nearly black in the dim light. He was sitting up and leaning forward, his head just visible over the foot of the bed. His shoulders rose up and down with every labored breath he took.

She threw off the covers and slid from the bed, hurrying around it to see what was wrong. He sat up, his knees clutched to his chest, his forehead pushing down on them. He rocked back and forth, breaths sawing from his chest, his shoulders shuddering with the effort.

She dropped to her knees beside him and put her arm around his shaking shoulders. “Colin?”

He didn't respond, only flinched at her touch. She thought of her own beating heart…she'd just been woken from a nightmare in which she'd mistaken Colin's breathing for her father's. In the dream, she'd hardly been able to breathe. Her chest had been so tight, her heart frantic. She'd felt just like Colin looked right now.

“It's all right,” she murmured. “It's just another dream. It's over.”

He sobbed on an exhalation that sounded so painful she winced.

“Colin, just breathe, please. Take a deep breath.”

Miraculously, he did as she instructed, shuddering as he drew in air, his back rising as his chest expanded.

“Good,” she murmured. “Now, let it all out. The darkness is leaving you with this breath.”

He blew it out, slow and long. Under her arm, his back was like steel. “Breathe again, just like that,” she told him, and as he did so she said, “The rest of the darkness is going now. With every breath, it dissipates. You're getting rid of all of it. Nothing's going to be left but me, here beside you.”

He breathed a half-dozen times like this, long and slow, and his body's shudders lessened on each exhalation.

Finally, he stopped shaking altogether, but he didn't look up at her. He kept his forehead pressed to his kneecaps, and she noticed for the first time that except for removing his cravat and waistcoat, he hadn't undressed for bed. He still wore his kilt and stockings, even his shoes.

She gently combed her fingers through his hair, pressing her fingertips to his scalp in a way she hoped felt good to him.

“It's all right,” she murmured. “It's over now.”

Finally he lifted his head and turned to stare at her, the golden flecks in his eyes bright and glassy.

“Why are you not frightened by me, Emilia?”

She took a moment to respond, her hand falling from his hair to flatten over his back between his shoulder blades.

“I know a man who frightens me,” she finally said, her voice quiet, the image of spittle flying from her father's lips flickering in her mind. “But you are his antithesis.”

He looked away. “Perhaps not.”

“
No.
You are his opposite in every way.”

“I should frighten you,” he said, and his voice was ragged and shaking. “I frighten myself.”

“The darkness you spoke of earlier,” she said, “it's not who you are. I know you're fighting it.”

“Them.”

She tilted her head in question.

“The demons. The spirits of the men I've killed.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

The pain in his expression made her heart sink straight through the slats of wood on the floor.

“Dozens of them,” he whispered raggedly. “I see their faces. They come to torture me. To drive me insane as punishment. To kill me.”

She hesitated, once again knowing she was out of her depth, terribly afraid that something she said would make it worse for him. But she had to say something. She had to try.

“I'll help you fight them,” she whispered.

He swung his head to face her again, his eyes blinking. “Why?”

“Because I don't want them to destroy a good man. I won't
let
them destroy a good man.” Determination made her voice quiver.

“I'm too far gone,” Colin said. “I canna control them, canna stop them—”

“No, you're not too far gone,” she interrupted. “You can conquer them.”

“I've tried.” He sounded exhausted.

“Maybe. But you've been alone. Now you have me.” That statement sounded brisk and confident, and it matched the feeling she had in her gut. The confidence made her feel strong for the first time in a very long while. It was who she was, she realized. Not a beaten-down waif, but a strong woman who could battle her own demons and help Colin battle his.

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “We can conquer them together. I promise, Colin. We can and we will.”

He didn't answer, and they sat in the quiet dimness for a long while, Colin with his arms still wrapped around his shins and she with her arm around him, leaning her head on his shoulder. She wanted desperately to kiss him—she felt so very close to him at this moment. Closer than she ever had to anyone.

But, as he hadn't wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability last night, now she didn't want to take advantage of his.

Finally, she murmured, “I want you to come to the bed with me. You're not getting a good night's sleep on the floor.”

“I canna—”

“Nothing's going to happen,” she said, cutting him off. “It'll be like that first night in London, when you comforted me. Please, let me hold you tonight. Let me comfort you.”

She saw his throat move as he swallowed.

“It'll be all right,” she said softly. “In any case, it's so cold. We can at least keep each other warm.”

After a long moment in which she could clearly see him warring with himself, he nodded. “Aye.”

The next day, the cloud cover broke, leaving a bright blue sky dappled with dark gray clouds that brought intermittent showers.

Colin kept silent for the most part, trying to be polite with her when she spoke, but he was so disgusted with himself, he could hardly force words out.

What had he been thinking, insisting upon taking her north? He was a fool. Stupid.
Mad.
She'd be far better off with one of the other Knights. He would have sent a letter to London already asking for one of them to take over, but he'd promised her he wouldn't.

He slid her a glance. She had taken out her art supplies, and her rapt focus switched back and forth between the scenery and the pad of paper she drew on.

She was like no woman he'd ever known. Raised a sheltered English viscount's daughter, she nevertheless didn't behave like a spoiled princess. She faced this journey with a lust for adventure he admired and hadn't once complained of boredom or discomfort, though her wounds surely must pain her sometimes. She reminded him of a caged lioness, her innate fierceness and strength muted by years of abuse. As the days progressed, he was seeing the emergence of those traits. He loved it.

He thought of her last night, how fiercely she'd stood beside him even as his own weakness had appalled him. She had been magnificent. Somehow, her strength had seeped into him, bringing him back from the precipice he found himself hovering on far too often these days. Then she'd coaxed him to come to bed with her, and he had, sleeping like a wee babe for the remainder of the night, her arms protectively wrapped around him.

Hell, he was here to protect her, but it seemed she'd done a better job of protecting him.

A smile tugged at his lips as he gazed upon the muddy road. Despite the wetness, they had made good time, and would probably cross the border of Scotland sometime tomorrow. If the weather and roads cooperated, they'd be spending tomorrow night in Edinburgh. From there, it would be another three days of travel, depending on the weather, but at least they'd be in Scotland.

“I'm ready,” she suddenly said.

After such a long silence, her words jolted him, and he glanced at her to see that she'd laid her drawing aside. “What do you mean, lass?”

She didn't look at him, just sat straight and tall, staring ahead. “Ready to tell you more.” She swallowed. “About my father. About what happened.”

Ah. His gaze flicked from the road to Emilia and back again. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I am.”

“All right, then.” He waited.

Another long silence, the rattle of the carriage's wheels over the uneven road punctuated by splashes and sucking sounds as they drove through spots of deeper mud.

“My father is the mastermind of a plot against the monarchy,” she finally said, her voice reed-thin.

He clenched his jaw. This was what the most cynical part of him had suspected. He glanced at her, but she'd already begun speaking again.

“He has been inciting high-ranking members of the government against the royal family. Spreading rumors that the Regent is unworthy of the throne, that the Hanovers need to be deposed for the good of the kingdom. He intends to take action sometime this summer, when the Regent and his brothers will be in London.”

“What does he plan to do?” Colin's voice sounded as tight and thin as hers.

She swallowed hard—he could see her throat move roughly before she spoke again. “He's hired assassins to kill the heirs of George III. And since the king himself is too mad to rule, he depends on the sensibility of the British populace to bring the Hanover line to an end and hence Britain back to glory.”

Colin ground his teeth. “Is there anyone else involved?”

She nodded, and when he glanced at her this time, he saw tears glistening in her eyes. “I know all of them. My father is the leader, but they have pledged to support him. Lord Chalmsworth. Lord Mountebank. Sir Benedict Fawkes…”

More names of high-ranking noblemen and prominent statesmen poured from her lips without hesitation, a long list, and he wondered at this. Did she simply have an excellent memory or had she spent so much time thinking and worrying about it that all the names were branded forever in her memory?

“All right,” he said quietly when she had finished. “I must inform the Knights.”

“I know.” She twisted her hands in her lap.

“In the next village with a posting inn, we'll stop and write a letter.”

“Yes.”

She was blinking hard now, trying to control the flow of tears, he realized. He laid his hand on her arm. “Everything will be fine, lass. We'll stop them.”

“I know you will,” she said, but that didn't appear to placate her. He knew why, of course. This was her father's plot, and her father, if caught and found to be guilty, would hang as a traitor.

“I know everything,” she whispered. “Meeting times and places. The names of the assassins they've hired. The plan to spread their propaganda.”

“I believe that part of their plan has already begun,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes. My father began the rumors, subtly, last autumn. They've been controlling how they disseminate the information, but now they're trying to reach a broader audience.”

“Is there written evidence that can prove these activities?”

She chewed on her lower lip. “That was what I originally discovered. I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that my father was involved in…something terrible.” Colin nodded—he'd had those pit-of-the-stomach feelings countless times, and they almost always proved correct. “I started studying his files and reading his correspondence, late at night when the household was asleep. When they hinted at all this, I studied all of it until I could put the puzzle together.”

“And he caught you looking through his papers?”

She nodded. “The night that I came to your house. He was in bed, but perhaps he couldn't sleep, or perhaps he sensed something was awry. In any case, he came down to his study. I'd picked the lock to his drawer, and found the offer he and the others had made to the assassins. A thousand pounds and safe passage out of England to be given for each murder after the deed is done. My father and his associates have hired several men, to ensure it's done properly, and they have made it into a competition. The first to properly kill each prince receives the reward.”

Colin nodded. “What happened when he found you?”

“I've never seen him so angry. He is no fool, and he understood right away that I knew everything. He locked the door and beat me.” She swallowed. “He keeps the cat-o'-nine-tails in his study for this purpose,” she whispered. “As…as he was beating me, he said if I ever revealed anything of the plot to anyone, that would prove what kind of daughter I was, and he'd kill me.”