The Devil Wears Plaid (13 page)

Given how they had parted, she wasn’t expecting the warmest of welcomes, but Jamie’s expression was even more guarded than Bon’s had been. “Who told you where to find me?”

“Your cousin.”

“I should have known,” he muttered, dipping the nib of his pen into the bottle of ink resting beside his knee. “He’s been meddling in my affairs since he was auld enough to crawl. He used to drop bugs into my cradle just to hear me yell.”

“Did you decide it wasn’t too late to write an ode to the gentleness of my temperament?” she ventured, nodding toward the paper.

He scrawled another line on the cheap paper. “You’re probably surprised an uncivilized Scot can write at all. Or read.”

“I assumed you wouldn’t have been accepted at St. Andrews without passing some sort of proficiency exam.”

“My grandfather taught me how to read and write English and Gaelic.” He slanted her a mocking glance. “I taught myself Latin and French.” He dipped his pen in the ink again, using it to make a bold stroke across the foolscap.

“And just where did you get all the books?”

“Oh, we didn’t just steal gold, silver and cows. Whenever my grandfather got word that the Hepburn was expecting a new shipment of books for his library…” He trailed off, his devilish smile making it only too easy for her to imagine the rest.

“Well, at least you’re putting the skills your grandfather taught you to good use.”

His smile faded. “He wouldn’t be very happy with me at the moment if he knew I was using them to pen a ransom demand.”

Emma suddenly felt as if he’d plunged the sharpened nib of the quill into her heart.

But she had no right to feel betrayed. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known this moment would come. If anything, she should feel relieved. He was just fulfilling his vow to her, was he not? Once the earl delivered his ransom, Jamie would set her free. She would be free to return to the loving bosom of her family, free to resume her role as dutiful daughter
and be the bride of a man she neither loved nor desired.

She could hardly reproach Jamie for looking
at
her when she talked instead of looking
through
her as her family tended to do. She couldn’t scold him for making it clear he’d like to choke both her former fiancé and Lysander instead of blaming her for their shortcomings. She couldn’t chide him for making her feel safe in his arms when he was the greatest threat her heart had ever known.

And she certainly couldn’t hate him for making her believe—if only for one giddy, glorious moment while she had shared both his bed and his kiss—that she might be worth more to a man than silver or gold.

“So just how much am I worth to you?”

Jamie’s pen stilled over the foolscap. A single drop of ink welled up from the nib of the pen, falling to spatter like a drop of fresh blood against the face of the paper.

Emma struggled to inject a note of false cheer into her voice. “Five hundred pounds? A thousand? My own father sold me for five thousand pounds so I’d urge you not to settle for anything less. I’m sure the earl would be willing to pay a very dear price indeed for the womb destined to bear his future sons.”

Jamie’s grip on the pen was so tight she was surprised it didn’t snap in two. If not for the solitary muscle twitching steadily in his cheek, his profile
could have been carved from the stony crags of the mountain towering above them.

When he finally turned to look at her, his piercing gaze cut straight to the quick of her heart. “You set far too low a price on yourself, Emmaline Marlowe.”

Emma didn’t realize she had ceased to breathe until he returned his gaze to the paper and she drew in a shuddering breath. He’d withdrawn his eyes from her a heartbeat too late to hide the flicker of emotion in their depths. Was it guilt? Regret? Longing? Whatever it was, it didn’t stop him from scrawling his name across the bottom of the foolscap with a decisive flourish, sealing both of their fates.

He blew briefly on the page to dry the ink, then rolled the paper into a tube and secured a leather band around its length, his motions brisk and impersonal.

Graeme emerged from the trees, the boy’s pace slowing when he saw Emma. He ducked his head, his gaze traveling shyly between the two of them. “Bon told me ye were lookin’ fer me, sir.”

Jamie rose and held out the scroll. “See that this is delivered into the earl’s hands at the earliest opportunity. Wait for his answer and bring it to me without delay. We’ll be waiting at the abbey ruins on the north face of the mountain.”

Graeme accepted the missive from Jamie’s hand. Tugging his spiky blond forelock, he offered Jamie a
bashful bob. “Aye, sir. I’ll do just what ye say. I’m yer mon, I am.”

He bobbed twice more before rushing back toward the cottage clearing at a near sprint, plainly eager to prove he was worthy of Jamie’s trust.

“So what do we do now?” Emma asked stiffly when the boy was gone.

“It won’t take him long to get back down the mountain on his own. So we ride,” Jamie replied, seizing her by the upper arm and hauling her toward the clearing as if to remind them both she would never be anything more to him than his prisoner.

W
HEN THEY RETURNED TO
the clearing, Muira was waiting to whisk a sturdy cloak around Emma’s shoulders.

The woman fastened the cloak’s leather frog beneath Emma’s chin, her plump fingers surprisingly efficient. “So glad to see the dress fits ye, lass. After shovin’ out her fourth babe, me daughter-in-law never could quite wiggle back into it. Squealed like a sow the whole time the bairn was being born and has been eatin’ like one ever since.”

Emma tried not to shudder, thankful her mother hadn’t made it to the rudiments of childbirth when instructing her in the duties of a wife.

After bidding Jamie a tearful farewell, Muira
threw her arms around Emma, hugging her as if she was a long-lost daughter. Somewhat taken aback by the show of affection, Emma gently patted the old woman’s back.

Only then did Muira whisper, “Never forget, lass, that a mon doesn’t always need poetry to court a woman.”

Emma glanced around to see if Jamie had heard her but he had already mounted his horse and was holding out his hand in invitation. He wasted no time in tugging her up into the saddle behind him. As he urged the beast into motion, Emma twisted around in the saddle, surprised to find a lump in her throat as she watched Muira and her cozy cottage melt back into the woods.

J
AMIE RUTHLESSLY DROVE THEM
up the mountain until they could no longer outrun the gathering shadows of dusk. When a dark wood loomed up before them, those shadows threatened to engulf them completely.

The rest of the horses balked at the edge of the wood, leaving Jamie with no choice but to tug his mount to a prancing halt.

The horses milled about, tossing their heads and whickering nervously. The men sawed at the reins and fought to keep them from bolting, showing a bit
too much white in their own eyes for Emma’s comfort. The towering pines swayed and creaked in the wind, guarding the invisible entrance to the forest like enchanted sentinels planted there by some ancient king long forgotten by both time and history.

“Where are we?” Emma asked softly, tightening her grip on Jamie’s waist as she abandoned all pretense of pride. It was almost as if they were about to cross some invisible boundary into a territory from which there might be no return.

“Nowhere of any consequence.” His tones were terse but he briefly rested his big hand over both of hers as if seeking to soothe her fears.

Bon edged his sorrel toward them, still struggling to control the beast. The fitful shadows had robbed his face of color, leaving it pale and gaunt. “The lads don’t want to go on, Jamie. They want to know if we can go ’round?”

“Not unless we want to add another two days to our journey. When Graeme returns with the earl’s response, we have to be where he can find us but the Hepburn’s men can’t.”

Bon stole a look over his shoulder at his companions, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat. “Ye can’t blame them fer bein’ sore affrighted. They’ve never forgotten what happened to Laren or Feandan.”

Emma would have never taken Angus and
Malcolm to be pious sorts, but at the mere mention of those names, both brothers signed a hasty cross on their breasts.

“No one ever found Feandan’s body, only his horse,” Jamie pointed out with a sigh. “For all we know, he’s in Edinburgh right now with his face buried in some barmaid’s bosom. And Laren was a fanciful young fool who got spooked by his own shadow on a misty night and rode straight off a cliff.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances, no more comforted by their leader’s words than their horses were.

The commanding timbre in Jamie’s voice deepened. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some silly legend stand between us and what’s on the other side of these woods. If you’re not men enough to ride through them with me, then feel free to stay behind like a gaggle of superstitious auld women and wait for the Hepburn’s men to come pick you off one by one.”

He urged his horse through their ranks, forcing them to give way or be trampled. After a tense moment of hesitation, they began to wrestle their own mounts into submission and reluctantly fell in behind him.

They entered the forest in a single line, leaving behind the light of the rising moon for a dappled web of shadows. Emma shivered as a gust of wind danced
past them, making the silvery leaves of the birches rattle like dry bones. It occurred to her that if these rugged men were afraid of whatever dwelled in these woods, then she might be wise to be afraid as well.

“What sort of legend were you talking about back there?” she asked, wishing she could see Jamie’s face. “Just what exactly has your men so spooked?”

“The silly fools believe these woods are haunted.”

Emma stole a glance at the ghostly white trunks of the surrounding trees, feeling a fresh tremor dance down her spine. “By whom?”

“My parents,” he replied grimly.

Without another word, he gave the reins a sharp snap, urging their mount into a canter and driving them all deep into the very heart of the forest.

H
E’S ALWAYS REFUSED TO
talk aboot it but I heard they was both found with their heads cleaved clean off.”

“Well, I heard the blade of a single claymore was rammed right through both their hearts.”

“What a lot o’ piddle and nonsense! If that was true, then why would they still be wanderin’ these woods with their bluidy heads tucked under their arms?”

Finishing off a tart chunk of cheese Muira had packed for their journey, Emma sidled closer to the circle of men seated around the fire, both appalled and transfixed by their gory gossip. A low-hanging mist was wending its way through the pale trunks of the birches that ringed the clearing. That same mist had forced Jamie to call a halt to their harrowing rush through the wood and order his men to make camp for the night. Despite their visible unease, they had
complied with a minimum of grousing and grumbling. They might fear whatever haunted this wood but they also knew that to continue racing blindly through it would mean certain destruction for both their horses’ legs and their own necks.

Their voices were hushed, with none of the jovial banter or ribald taunts that usually marked their conversation. Instead of competing to see which one of them would be the first to drink too much whisky and pass out, they took furtive sips from the earthenware jug being passed from hand to hand, as if they didn’t wish to dull their wits on such a night.

Or in such a place.

As Malcolm—yes, Emma was quite sure it was Malcolm—cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, she could almost feel the damp, spectral fingers of the mist brushing the back of her own neck. She edged a few steps closer to the comforting glow of the campfire, inadvertently catching Bon’s eye.

Giving her a snaggle-toothed grin, he patted the stretch of fallen log next to him. “Come join us, lass, before the bogles creep in and carry ye off.”

“I’m afraid you’re too late, sir. They already did,” she retorted, drawing a chuckle from the other men.

When the fellow next to him failed to scoot over quickly enough to suit Bon, he earned a painful jab from Bon’s bony elbow. Emma settled herself gingerly between the two men on the log, an effort that
would have been impossible in a corset and heavy petticoats.

Bon pried the jug of whisky from Malcolm’s hand and handed it to her. “Drink up, lass. ’Tis a good night fer a wee bit o’ liquid courage.”

Remembering her experience with Muira’s whisky-laced tea, Emma took a tentative sip of the stuff. It seared a fiery path from her throat to her gullet. She sucked in a desperate breath, tears scorching her eyes.

Bon gave her a hearty clap on the back, dislodging the cough trapped in her throat. “No need to be ashamed, lass. Scots whisky is fine eno’ to make even a grown mon weep with joy.”

Emma had no choice but to nod, since she was still incapable of speech.

“Our mum told us Jamie’s da was the jealous sort,” Angus said, taking up their conversation right where they’d left off. “That he took the notion Jamie’s ma was dallyin’ with another mon and strangled her with his bare hands, then shot himself with his pistol.”

Emma winced. When Jamie had strode off into the woods without a word of explanation shortly after they’d made camp, she had felt a ridiculous flare of alarm. Now she was almost relieved he wasn’t here to listen to such terrible speculation about his own parents.

Angus leaned closer to the fire, sweeping his gaze around the circle of bug-eyed men. “They say some nights when the mist comes stealin’ in from the moors, ye can still hear her beggin’ him for mercy.”

“Balderdash.”

The voice came from just behind Emma, its crisp cadences cracking like a whip. She jumped, barely managing to bite back a startled shriek. Lemmy wasn’t so lucky, which earned him a flurry of snickers from his companions. He ducked his big head, hiding his sheepish grin behind his untidy fall of hair.

Jamie slanted her a mocking glance as he came sauntering around the fire, making Emma wonder if he had been eavesdropping even longer than she had. The shadows from the firelight flickered over his features, making it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or amused to discover that she had once again been invited to join his men’s ranks.

“I’m sure our guest appreciates a good yarn as much as the next lass,” he told them, “but you should remember that Miss Marlowe’s notions of entertainment are far more sophisticated than ours. She wasn’t raised on gruesome tales of kelpies, goblins, baby-stealing bogles… or ghosts. You should take better care not to offend her delicate sensibilities.”

As he moved to claim a low, flat rock on the opposite side of the fire, Emma said, “I can assure you
I’m not so quick to take offense as you would have your men believe, Mr. Sinclair. Even Lancashire has its share of headless horsemen and white ladies.”

Stretching his long, lean legs out before him, Jamie tilted his head to the side to survey her. “So you do believe in ghosts?”

“I most certainly do not. We
are
living in the Age of Reason after all. Science has judged most apparitions to be nothing more than the inevitable result of superstition and ignorance.”

Of course she hadn’t believed men like Jamie Sinclair still existed either until he had come riding into that abbey. It was almost as if he’d materialized from another age, an age where might was prized over manners and passion over propriety.

“Is the lass callin’ us ig’nrant?” one of the men demanded, looking more wounded than outraged.

Bon snorted. “If ye weren’t so bluidy ig’nrant, ye’d know, wouldn’t ye?”

“Perhaps a more apt word might be
uneducated,
” Emma said gently, extending the jug of whisky to the man as a peace offering. Before he could take it, an eerie cry splintered the night.

No amount of fine Scots whisky could have burned away the chill that shot down Emma’s spine in that moment. For a tense eternity, there was no other sound except the fitful crackle of the fire and the echo of that unearthly cry. They all held their
breath, scanning the shadows that surrounded them. Emma had to fight a treacherous urge to leap over the fire and into Jamie’s arms.

“There’s no need to wet your breeches, lads,” he drawled, leaning back on one elbow. “’Twas naught but a bird, or perhaps a wildcat. Now pass that jug over here before our wee Miss Marlowe drains it dry.”

His men hastened to obey, more than one hand betraying a lingering tremor as the jug traveled their circle. When it arrived at Jamie’s hand, he tipped it back and took a long, deep swig. His gaze met Emma’s over the leaping flames of the fire, as if to deliberately remind her that his mouth was where hers had just been. And to remind her just how tender and persuasive that mouth could be.

He lowered the jug. “You might as well continue with your tales. You heard Miss Marlowe. She’s not some nervous Nell afraid of her own shadow. I’m sure she’s as eager to hear more of your gruesome gossip as I am.”

Jamie’s men took a sudden and keen interest in the cleanliness of their boots, looking as if they wished themselves anywhere else in the world—including the Hepburn’s deepest dungeon.

Emma cleared her throat, the whisky giving her even more courage than she had anticipated. “It’s been my experience that the only weapon strong enough to still the wagging tongues of gossips is the truth.”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed to frosty slits. She had allowed herself to forget—if only for a moment—that he just might be more dangerous than whatever was lurking in those woods. At least to her. “This isn’t some Lancashire sewing circle or London drawing room, Miss Marlowe. Out here the truth can be a dangerous thing. It can even get you killed.”

“Is that what happened to your mother? Did the truth get her killed?”

The hush that had fallen after that eerie cry seemed like a cheerful hubbub compared to the silence that descended over them now. It was as if the night was holding its breath along with Jamie’s men. Emma refused to relinquish Jamie’s gaze.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but edged with reluctant admiration. “Apparently ghosts aren’t the only things that don’t frighten you. If my men were half so bold, we’d have routed the Hepburn long ago.”

Emma swallowed, thankful he couldn’t hear her heart hammering in her throat.

“If ’tis the truth you want, lass, then ’tis the truth you’ll have.” While his men exchanged shocked glances, he took another swig of the whisky, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “When my mother, Lianna, was little more than a girl, she was out collecting mushrooms in a wood very much like this one when she met a bonny young stranger
who had lost his way. Their flirtation was probably harmless enough until they both made the greatest mistake of their lives.”

“What did they do?” Emma asked.

Jamie was gazing at her as if she was his only audience and his men were as insubstantial as the ribbons of mist curling around them. “They fell in love.”

It was impossible to mistake the note of warning in his voice.

Emma shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why was that such a terrible mistake?”

“Because they were born to be enemies, not lovers. She was the daughter of the last surviving Sinclair chieftain… and he was Gordon Hepburn, the only son and heir of the Hepburn.”

A wave of shock rippled through Emma but it was clear from the bleak expressions on the faces of Jamie’s men that they were already all too familiar with this chapter of the story.

Jamie went on in his hypnotic burr. “Every time she could escape her father’s watchful eye, she would steal away to meet him. This went on until the inevitable happened… she realized she was with child.”

“But… but…” Emma stammered, “wouldn’t that make you—”

“A bastard.” Jamie’s glower warned her to tread with care. “And a Sinclair. Just like my mother.”

Emma snapped her mouth shut, reeling with
astonishment. She searched Jamie’s face—his regal cheekbones, his strong blade of a nose with its lightly flared nostrils, the rugged planes of his jaw—but could find no trace of the wizened old man to whom she was promised. A man she now knew to be Jamie’s paternal grandfather. For the first time she understood why their enmity was so personal… and so bitter.

“They both knew their fathers would be outraged if they discovered the truth,” Jamie continued. “So they ran away together and set up house in a crofter’s hut deep in the forest with only her loyal auld nurse to tend to them. They were determined to keep her safe and hidden from both their families until after the babe was born.”

It was all too easy for Emma to imagine the two young lovers playing at domestic bliss in some cozy cottage, desperately trying to ignore the storm clouds gathering over all of their hopes.

“After the babe was born, they left him with the nurse, then set off down the mountain in the dark of night. Their plan was to elope, then come back, retrieve the babe and break the news to both their families after it was too late for them to be stopped. They truly believed their union would put an end to the feud between the Hepburns and the Sinclairs once and for all. That their love was strong enough to defeat the hatred between their clans.”

Resting her chin on her hand, Emma sighed wistfully. “Such a romantic dream.”

“Aye, it was.” Jamie agreed, his voice so dispassionate he might have been talking about a pair of strangers. “But also a hopelessly naïve one. They died in a misty glen not far from here that very same night. They were found lying on the ground with their hands outstretched toward each other, yet still a fingersbreadth apart. She had taken a pistol ball to the heart. He was shot through the head.”

Emma might have felt self-conscious about the tear she was forced to dash from her cheek if Malcolm hadn’t tugged a grimy kerchief from his pocket and honked loudly into it before passing it to his brother.

“Who would do such a thing?” she whispered when she could speak again.

Jamie shrugged. “The Hepburns blamed the Sinclairs. The Sinclairs blamed the Hepburns. Accusations flew and the feud continued, more bitterly and violently than before.”

“What happened to the poor ba—” She hesitated, knowing he was more likely to scorn her pity than appreciate it. “To
you
?”

“The Hepburn despised the very fact of my existence so my mother’s father took me in and raised me as his own.” Jamie’s gaze traveled the circle of his men’s rapt faces before returning to Emma. “So now
you all know why there are some who say my parents’ shades still drift through these woods, calling out to each other on misty nights. ’Tis still whispered they’re doomed to wander this place where they died—together yet ever apart—until their murderer is revealed.”

His words sent a fresh shiver dancing down Emma’s spine. “Is that what you believe?”

“Of course not. As you pointed out so eloquently, Miss Marlowe,” he said, lifting the jug of whisky to her in a mocking toast, “we live in the Age of Reason. And the Hepburn has certainly proved there are more turrible monsters to fear than ghosts.”

I
T WAS FAR TOO
easy for Emma to believe in ghosts—and even more sinister agents of darkness—while lying on her side in the middle of a strange wood and watching the mist come creeping out of the trees toward her. The spectral tendrils seemed to ripple and curl, weaving themselves into forms that were alien and yet all too recognizable—a hollow-eyed skull, a snarling wolf, a beckoning finger, inviting her to rise from her bedroll and come meet her doom.

She flung herself to her other side, starting to feel like some overly fanciful heroine from one of the Gothic novels Ernestine would sneak between the pages of her Bible when their mother wasn’t looking.

She’d been kidnapped by a gang of Highland ruffians. She had far more substantial threats to fear than a pair of restless ghosts.

Like the man who still sat gazing into the dying flames of the fire, the empty jug of whisky dangling from his strong, tanned fingers.

Jamie’s men had been snoring in their bedrolls for quite some time now, leaving him to face the night all alone. The flickering shadows played over his strong jaw and the stark planes beneath his cheekbones. Emma could not help but wonder what images he might be seeing in those waning flames.