Forgetting the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss) Read online

  “How awful of him.” Lucy disintegrated again and Virginia joined her, paroxysms of laughter buckling her at the waist.

  “Have you two been drinking whisky?”

  “I’m sorry, Mary. We’re not laughing at you. Really,” Lucy said. “But, oh, poor, poor Magnus.”

  “He must feel like a hunted man.” Virginia stifled another giggle.

  “Easy for you to laugh, Virginia. You havenae tried, even once.” Mary jutted a petulant chin her way.

  “Is that a dare?” Virginia asked.

  “It is. And I wish you luck.” With that, Mary spun and stormed off.

  “You don’t have to go to Magnus’s cottage,” Lucy said.

  “Are you joking? Of course, I’m going. I’ll not back down from a challenge like that.”

  …

  He told himself over and over, This is a dream. Still, he pulled her into his bed, kissed her, stroked her, made love to her. He licked away the beads of sweat on her shoulder, tasted the saltiness, and heard the desperation in her breathing. They were tumbling, writhing, wallowing in soaked sheets. She pressed her finger into his chest and when she removed it, blood ran freely from the hole. They were lying in a bed of blood. His blood.

  Magnus came full awake, aroused and breathing hard from his dream. He rolled out of bed and staggered toward the window. The shutter hung open, letting in the summer dim, enough twilight to find the basin and splash his face with cool water. He glanced down at his chest. No hole. The sheets were damp with his sweat, not his blood. What kind of dream was that, and what the hell did it mean?

  He could think of only one person who would know. Declan. His cousin had the second sight and often dreamed of future events, important events. He’d known where the enemy would strike their battalion at Salamanca and had saved hundreds of lives that day. He’d dreamed of his future wife, Caya, as well as Alex and Lucy’s Jemma. Maybe Declan would dream of him this time. Maybe his cousin had dreamed something about him and Virginia.

  The sun still hovered over the horizon. Hours before dark. Time enough to go to Taldale Farm, borrow some whisky, and ask Declan about the dream. He got dressed and set out on foot. On his way, lightning flashed above and the mountains rumbled with thunder in the west. He made it to Declan and Caya’s farm before the rain, but the house was dark, shut up for the night. He called out and got no answer. Declan and Caya must already be asleep.

  “Newlyweds. Probably spent all day in bed, too.” Jealousy stabbed him between the third and fourth ribs, a short sharp ache.

  The kitchen door was unlocked so he let himself in. Cousin Declan wouldn’t mind if he finished off the whisky in the cupboard. He lit a taper from the banked fire and rummaged through the items in the pantry until he found a likely bottle, smelled, and smiled.

  Rain pattered on the stones outside the kitchen door. He and the whisky could wait out the storm here in front of the hearth. Warm and dry. No one would mind.

  The next thing Magnus knew, he was blinking back painful spikes of morning sunshine, Declan was hollering some aught from above stairs, and Caya was demanding to know why he was asleep on her kitchen floor. Jesus. How did he end up here? And why? It took a while for the whisky fog to clear enough for his mind to piece together the events of last night. By then, of course, the couple were staring at his face just like everyone else had done. He silently vowed to flatten Dr. Farquhar.

  Caya offered to make him breakfast and, as he was hungry, he accepted. Plus, that gave him an opportunity to congratulate them on their recent nuptials, and to apologize for missing their reception. He would have answered Declan when he asked why he’d spent the night on the floor, but the reason seemed absurd now that it was morning. He’d come here to ask if Declan had dreamed of him. What had led him to that daft idea? The threads of last night’s rational plan unraveled, tangling themselves in and around his thoughts of Virginia Whitebridge. How could he ask Declan about Miss Virginia? In the chaos aboard the Tigress, he wasn’t certain his cousin had even met the woman. How could Declan dream of her if he’d never met her?

  After an awkward silence, Caya sent Declan out to fetch eggs. As soon as he left, she pressed Magnus further.

  “If you won’t talk to Declan, talk to me. What’s going on?”

  He told her a half-truth implying he’d come to their house to hide. “Those women willnae leave me be.”

  “Do you mean they came to your cottage and bothered you?”

  “Aye. They keep bringing me food.”

  “That’s criminal. All of them bring you food?”

  “Aye. All except Miss Virginia. She’s the only one who hasnae dogged me.” The stool under him creaked, and he tried to make himself smaller.

  Caya poured him tea. He didn’t like tea, but said nothing. “Do you want Miss Virginia to dog you?”

  He eyed the Cornish woman Declan had won in an all-night card game. Did she have the second sight same as Declan?

  “Miss Virginia would never dog me. She’s too dignified.” And then his story spilled out. How he’d caught her in his arms during the battle on board the ship. How she’d held his hand while the doctor scalped him. How he’d retreated to his cottage until he looked like a man again.

  “When was the last time you shaved?”

  “Cannae say as I’ve ever scraped my face.”

  Caya, the dizzy woman, grabbed his hand and dragged him upstairs to the special bathing room Declan had fitted for her. He tried to resist, but she was having none of it.

  She pushed him in front of her mirror and said, “There now. Look at yourself.”

  Like everyone else, he hadn’t seen his face clean-shaven since he was an awkward lad of fifteen or so. To his surprise, he looked nothing like that boy. His nose no longer looked too big for his face, and he’d grown a strong jaw with a cleft chin. No more spots, either. In fact, he wasn’t all that bad looking, really. “I’ll be damned.”

  “You’ll be dead, if ye dinnae get oot of my wife’s boudoir.” Declan spoke from the doorway, no doubt agitated to find his wife alone with another man in a bathing room. All of a sudden, his earlier doubts about why he’d come to Taldale evaporated, and he grabbed hold of his cousin. He had to know.

  “Have you had any dreams about me, man?”

  Declan didn’t answer him right away.

  “I ken you dreamed about Alex and Lucy having a bairnie, and then you dreamed about Caya as your wife. So, I was wondering, did you dream anything of me?”

  He searched his cousin’s face, waiting for the answer. Waiting. Declan shifted to his other foot, but still he said nothing.

  And then his cousin, his best friend since childhood, a person Magnus knew better than he knew himself, looked him in the eyes and lied to him. “Nae. Sorry. No dreams.”

  Magnus fled the house. Having run most of the way home, he paused at the river crossing to catch his breath. Christ. Had he even said goodbye? He sat down hard on the grassy bank. The lie had been plain on his cousin’s face. Declan had dreamed about him. But why wouldn’t he talk about the dream? He could think of only one reason. The dream had to have been too awful to tell.

  “Bloody hell. Declan has dreamed of my death.”

  …

  On Wednesday afternoon, all four women went to the kitchen and waited while Mrs. Swenson packed a basket full of cheese, bread, ham, a dozen scones, a gooseberry tart, and a jug of bitter ale.

  “Gooseberry are his favorite, and he’ll want butter and jam with his scones,” the cook said, adding them to the already brimming basket.

  Virginia touched Mrs. Swenson’s work-worn hand. “This is lovely. I’m sure Magnus will be by soon to thank you in person.”

  The quartet of ladies stepped outside and headed for the Seaward Path, Charlotte carrying the jug of ale and Lucy the basket. An hour ago, Virginia had been so certain about this adventure. It was sure to be fun. An afternoon excursion with her friends, delivering victuals to one of the men who had saved them. Now, however, she was b
eginning to doubt the wisdom of visiting Mr. Magnus. What if he turned her away? Even more worrisome, what if he invited her inside?

  “We’ll walk you most of the way there.” Lucy hovered close to Virginia’s elbow. “Once you’re in spitting range, you can make it the rest of the way on your own.”

  “This is a fool’s errand.” Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know why you bother.”

  “He hasnae let his own mother set foot inside his cottage. Why would he let you in?” Mary added.

  “It’s not a competition, you know,” Lucy said.

  “Of course, it is.” Mary plucked a stone from the path and pitched it into a hedgerow, startling several birds into a frenzied, screeching, flapping escape.

  “I know. Let’s make a wager.” Charlotte turned to face the group and walked backward as she spoke. “Mary and I will bet you and Virginia that Magnus won’t even come outside to greet her.”

  “And what will we wager?” Lucy asked.

  “The losers have to play lady’s maid to the others for a whole week.” Charlotte stuck out her hand. “Shake on it?”

  They paused on the path. “It’s a deal,” Lucy said. “I won’t mind playing lady’s maid if we lose, but if we win, I would adore it if Charlotte did my hair every morning.”

  Virginia laughed and tripped on a stump. Thankfully, Mary caught her before she landed in a bramble bush.

  “Sorry. I’m a real hazard.”

  When they arrived at Magnus’s cottage, they stopped just out of hearing. Charlotte handed her the jug of ale. “Walk straight ahead. You can’t miss it.”

  Lucy transferred the basket of goodies to Virginia. “It’s the big white building.”

  “If he sends you away, we’ll lead you back home,” Lady Charlotte said.

  “What if he doesn’t send me away?”

  Mary harrumphed.

  “Whatever happens, we’ll wait for you right here.” Lucy pointed Virginia in the right direction. “I’d say the door is twenty paces straight ahead.”

  She took a deep breath and counted. One, two, three… Maybe Mr. Magnus wasn’t at home. Eight, nine… That would save her some embarrassment, not to mention disappointment. Twelve, thirteen…

  “Good luck,” Charlotte called.

  Virginia turned back. “Thank you.” Drat. She lost count. The big white building loomed ahead, its fuzzy shape taking on more definition with each step. When she was very close, she called out, her voice thin and uncertain. “Mr. Magnus? Are you home? It’s me, Miss Virginia.”

  The door opened. A small victory, she supposed. Charlotte and Mary hadn’t gotten this far.

  “Miss Virginia. How did you find your way here?” He was instantly at her side, one big warm hand at her elbow, another on her back. Her heart bumped hard in her chest at his touch.

  “The other ladies showed me the way. I’ve brought your dinner.”

  He took the heavy jug of ale and guided her to his door. “Come in and sit down.”

  Victory. She’d breached the man’s castle. Well done, Virginia. “Goodness, it’s dark in here.”

  “I’ll open the shutters.” Magnus relieved her of the basket. Seconds later, she heard the bang and clap of shutters opening and the room filled with light. It smelled like peat smoke, saddle leather, and…what was the other thing? It reminded her of Laird John’s study. Yes. That was it.

  “I smell books.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. What a stupid thing to say.

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll move these out of the way.” Magnus gathered a stack of volumes from the chair in front of her and placed them on his bed.

  “I didn’t mean—I just meant—do you enjoy reading?”

  He stood before her, slightly out of breath. “Aye. Mostly books on breeding horses and bloodlines and such. I plan to breed and sell draft horses—the best in Scotland.” There was a puff of pride to his voice.

  “That’s an ambitious dream.”

  “Not a dream. Not anymore. I reckon I’ll have the blunt to buy the land after the Tigress sells her cargo. I’m a partner in that venture. Did you know about that?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard. Congratulations. I’m happy something good came of…of…” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the loathsome ship. Searching for anything else to talk about, a book lay open on the table, and she leaned closer to read. “You enjoy the poetry of Lord Byron?”

  Magnus swept the book up with an abashed, “That’s nothing. I dinnae ken how it…”

  “Lord Byron is considered a rather wicked man, is he not?”

  He dipped his head and rumbled, “Perhaps, but I ken his adventures only add to his poetry.”

  The air around her vibrated with his voice, and a thrill shivered across her shoulders.

  “Yes. Of course.” Virginia’s heart thudded so hard, she thought he might hear it in the moment of silence between them. This mountain of a man, this tower of muscle, this steely warrior, liked to read poetry.

  Mr. Magnus set the book of poetry aside. “Will you stay and share dinner wi’ me?”

  She regained her composure. “Thank you, but I mustn’t. The ladies are waiting.”

  He stepped closer, and the light from the window fell across his face. His features sharpened, and she inhaled a happy surprise. “Oh, there you are.” Adonis was no exaggeration. Magnus Sinclair was the sort of handsome one only read about in novels. She tried not to let her eyes fall to his broad chest where the powerful muscles beneath his open collared shirt strained at the soft linen fabric. And, dear Lord, he was so…well, there was only one word for it. Big.

  “Will ye no’ stay just for a wee while?”

  She met his gaze again, those clear brown eyes rimmed with ridiculously long eyelashes. His plain, unguarded request played havoc with her reason. She would, if she could, stay for hours and hours, but that was out of the question, as they were already breaking a dozen social taboos by being alone together in an unmarried man’s home.

  He rubbed at the stubble on his cheek, and Virginia remembered how upset he’d been over having to shave.

  “I think you surprised everyone with your good looks.” Damn. What is wrong with me? Every time Magnus Sinclair was within reach, her thoughts just flew out of her mouth without any care for what was appropriate.

  “My beard is gone. I look foolish without it.”

  Foolish? Is he teasing me? “Mr. Magnus, it’s true my poor eyesight puts me at a disadvantage, but I can see clearly at close range, and having had that opportunity on two occasions, I can assure you, you do not look foolish. You look…you look…” Drat. I’ve done it again. Talked myself into a corner. Will I never stop babbling?

  “What?”

  “I was going to say, you look handsome, but that would be forward of me.”

  He flashed a crooked smile at her—half boy, half rogue, all mischief. Which, of course, made her fall a little bit in love with Mr. Magnus. The silence between them hung in the air like a question until, having become awkward, she felt compelled to break it.

  “Your aunt Flora asked me to check your stitches while I was here. May I?”

  “Of course.” Magnus moved even closer and turned his head slightly, never taking his eyes off her. The stitches held. No redness around the cut. No sign of infection. He smelled good, like cloves and fresh-cut hay. Without thinking, she placed a hand to his cheek. He leaned into her touch. Then, his eyes dropped to her lips and she knew…he was going to kiss her.

  He hesitated for a moment, giving her an opportunity to refuse him, like a gentleman would. Instead, she licked her lips, tilted her head back, and welcomed him, like a wanton woman would. His lips, warm and plush, covered hers and she reeled at the sensation. So soft at first. Tender and tentative. His large, warm hands slipped around her waist and slid up her back, drawing her to him, pressing her against his hard chest, lifting her to her toes. His tongue swept across the seam of her lips, and when she opened to him, he plunged in.

  Dear Lord, this is a kis
s. A proper kiss. He kissed her the way she’d always imagined a man would kiss a woman. With passion and possession and abandon. At last, someone was kissing her. Someone was holding her. How pathetic. She’d been married for three years and yet this was her first real kiss.

  Married.

  A chill shuddered through her. Magnus seemed to sense it and released her. He settled Virginia back on her feet carefully, as if she were a fine piece of china. But she couldn’t meet his eyes. She was a liar. A pretender. She had deceived this glorious man.

  Trembling, she stepped away. “I’ll tell Flora you are well. She would like you to come for supper.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldnae have—”

  “It’s my fault.” When she gazed up at him at last, he looked truly apologetic, which made her feel all the more like a criminal. “You didn’t know.”

  His dark eyebrows dove together. “Didnae know what?”

  Regret, heavy and unyielding, overtook her. She had pretended—lied really—with good reason while she was aboard the Tigress. Had the captain known she hadn’t been a virgin, she’d have lost her value and he would have passed her around his crew after he’d had done with her. But now? Now, she was just lying. The others would forgive her for prolonging the pretense. They would understand why she’d hidden her marital status. But she was safe at Balforss. No reason to continue the charade. She’d even involved dear Lucy in her deceit. And all because…

  Because she didn’t want to be Lady Langley. She wanted to be Miss Virginia Whitebridge and bask under the sunshine gaze of Magnus Sinclair forever.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Virginia?”

  She should tell him now while they were alone. He might forgive her for the lie, as it was short-lived.

  “I…I’m…I have a husband.”

  “What?” Magnus’s interest sharpened.

  “I kept that a secret from everyone. Things would have gone badly for me if the captain had known.”

  “You’re…”

  She waited for him to finish, but he remained silent, perfectly still.

  “Married,” she said for him.

  Magnus looked away. “Married,” he repeated as if announcing a death.