No Other Woman (No Other Series) (18 page)

Shawna should have slept quite easily.

Maddeningly, she did not.

She lay in bed for what seemed like forever, staring into the fire. And in the flames there, she saw the past. In her mind's eye, she relived the fire that had occurred so long ago; she remembered wakening beside the burned corpse. She could still hear her own scream.

She closed her eyes against the colors of the fire, then opened them, frowning. She hadn't slept, she'd heard no sound, but she was suddenly afraid that someone might have come into the room.

Coward!
she silently charged herself.

But she slipped quickly out of bed and looked around the room. No one. She still had the uncanny feeling that she was not alone.

She spun around in a circle, looked under the bed. She walked to the window and looked out on the night. The moon was high in the sky. So nearly full.

She shivered, and was certain that she heard movement in the room.

Chilled, she ran back to the bed. She crawled back beneath the covers, staring across the room to the fire once again. A startled gasp tore from her lips.

It was impossible.

She had been right; she was not alone.

He
was here.

Clad in a black shirt and black breeches tonight. He sat in a chair before the fire, one long booted leg cast haphazardly over the arm of the old Queen Anne chair as he stared into the flames.

Oh, God, he was there...

And she didn't know whether to scream with rage and frustration...

Or simply to pray.

Chapter 10

He turned his head.

"Ah, m'lady!" he said, his voice quiet and deep. Almost a whisper in the darkness.

"My God!" she breathed, still stunned. "You can't be here!"

"I'm well aware you intended me to surprise my brother and his bride in their bed."

Shawna hesitated uneasily.

"And did you?"

"We've had a discussion."

She lowered her eyes quickly, biting her lip. Perhaps it had been a foolish move on her part. She had managed to surprise him.

And anger him.

"I assumed you wanted to see your brother as quickly as possible."

"Y'er heart was in the right place, eh, lass?"

The edge to his voice kept her from imagining he might have meant the words. "Perhaps you should cease accosting people in the middle of the night."

"I don't accost people in the night."

"Only me," she whispered.

His green gaze seared her. "Only you," he promised.

"But..."

"But what?"

"How did you manage to get into this room? It's simply impossible—"

"Ah, I beg to differ. Ghosts and selkies and beasts will go wherever they choose."

Beasts...

Shawna leapt out of the bed, coming around to stand in front of the fire, staring at him.

"Beasts... beasties!" she repeated. "Aye, at least as a creature of lore, Laird Douglas, you are doing some good. You got Danny out of the mine somehow. For that, I am eternally grateful."

He stared at her, then shrugged, his eyes piercing hers once again. "Aye, indeed, I got the lad out. And he'll have a long and far more healthful life, I imagine, since you took it upon your shoulders to decree that he will no longer work in the mine."

Shawna had the truly uneasy feeling that he was managing to hear every word she uttered. "I was right in what I said and did. Fergus would work his children to the bone and sit upon his..."

She broke off, weary. Andrew Douglas was here now, and David was alive. Her serving as the lady of the manor with the right to make decisions was all a charade.

"You were right in what you did," he told her surprisingly. And to her amazement, his voice gentled. "The lad is a charmer. Handsome little thing, and bright as can be. He only lived because he listened to me, and did as I told him. He might have drowned, but he held his breath and swam exactly as I told him."

"I couldn't reach him," Skylar said.

David was suddenly on his feet, angry as he approached her. "What in God's name were you doing in the mine?"

She set her hands on her hips but found herself backing away as he neared her. "I—I had to go in. I knew that there was a child stuck—"

"You seem too easily misdirected and misguided by the needs of wee ones, Shawna. You should wed, bear a few of your own, and have done with the madness of trying to care for all those in the world."

"Thank God you've apparently not found the time to marry and procreate! You'd make a wretchedly cold-hearted parent!"

"I am aware that I cannot save the world."

"One child was at risk; not the world."

"The child survived. You're not to go in the mine."

"But I must; if I am lady here—"

"You are not."

"What I am," she informed him angrily, "does not depend on Douglas dictates. I most certainly am Lady MacGinnis, and my father made that so, and I am tired of battling wretched
men
over that fact!"

"I don't care if you're the bloody queen. While I live, you'll not go back into that mine."

"But you don't live—you've chosen to remain dead."

"You know full well that I am very much alive," he reminded her.

She found herself backed up against the cold stone wall of the turret room; there was no place else for her to go and he was all but leaning against her as he stated his warning. She swallowed hard as she felt his fingers thread into her hair, lifting her face to his. She started shaking, and told herself it was the cold of the stone while she tried to meet his gem-sharp stare with dispassionate dignity.

"You've not been alive for five years. And since you've chosen to remain dead, you have little power here."

"Really?"

"Dead men cannot make decisions, nor issue ultimatums."

"Well, m'lady, rest assured that I am one corpse who will do so—most especially where you are concerned."

She gritted her teeth, but refused to fight the hold he had upon her. "If you're so bloody concerned, what in God's name has taken you so long in coming back from the dead?" she demanded furiously.

Then she wished that she had not spoken, for his features hardened; his jaw locked and she saw the powerful cords in his neck straining with tension.

"Circumstances over which I had little control," he said flatly, his fingers curling more tightly into her hair. "You don't want me to remember where I was for the majority of the last five years."

The coldness of his tone sent a chill sweeping down her spine, reminding her that he had returned for what was his—and vengeance as well.

Shawna studied him, recalling the word he had used for where she had cast him.

"Hell," she whispered.

"Hell," he agreed harshly.

"But I don't know how you came to be... in whatever hell you found yourself!" she swore fervently. "David, you say I must listen, but surely you must realize that someone else might have come into the stables that night,
not my family.
You should have seen them today, David, all of them—"

"I saw them."

"You cannot see everything—"

"Far more than you would ever imagine," he assured her.

"There have been no further attempts on my life," she reminded him.

"Aye. I have sat guard each night, waiting for the time that will come when someone tries to enter your chamber despite that bolt."

"No one will hurt me. No one except—"

"Oh, aye?" he challenged angrily. "No one except...?"

"You!" she assured him.

He smiled grimly, no thought of releasing her as yet seeming to cross his mind. "There is no hurt I would inflict upon you, my lady, that could begin to compare to the pain you brought down upon me."

"If I could go back, I would undo what I did that night, by God, I swear it. Sweet Jesu!" To her horror, she felt tears stinging her eyes. She fought them with a tremendous effort.

She couldn't falter. She'd never tell him what
she
had gone through after that night. Never.

"I would endure your hell for you, if I could, Laird Douglas!" she hissed angrily.

"Would you really?" he demanded, arching a brow. "I'm quite glad of it, for, though I haven't it in mind to condemn you to hell, I think I'd like the bed tonight. A chair before the fire isn't exactly torture, but it isn't comfortable, either."

To her incredulous relief, he released her, turning away, striding to the bed.

He plumped up one pillow and tossed the other to her. She caught it, her anger growing.

"Would you be so good as to toss the blanket, too?" she inquired.

He threw the blanket casually to her, turning away. It landed atop her head. Furiously, she pulled it off, and before she could control the urge, she found herself rising, ready to fly at him.

She caught herself just in time, for he spun around to face her again. She stood dead still, hands clasped behind her back, chin high, voice scathing as she spoke. "You overbearing, wretched bastard! This castle abounds with rooms and beds and you have easy access to any and all of them—so it seems!"

He arched a brow. Smiling and with a curious taunt to his voice he repeated, "Overbearing, wretched bastard?"

"Indeed! There are at least a dozen beds you can choose from, but instead you savor the act of throwing me upon the floor!"

He lowered his lashes for a moment, then gazed at her once again, a teasing light in his eyes. He played with her, she thought then. Cat and mouse. He played a game. "Throwing you upon the floor," he murmured, taking steps toward her.

They seemed predatory steps.

Menacing steps. Slow. Easy. Calculated. They brought him directly to her.

Then circling around her. "I've yet," he said quite softly, and she felt his eyes raking over her, head to toe, "to
throw
you upon the floor, though the idea does have its merits!" he assured her. He remained at her back. She spun swiftly around to face him, unnerved to have him behind her, feeling his every breath against her neck.

"You've stolen my bed. Mine—not yours. This is not your room. So, in a manner of speaking, you have thrown me from my bed," she accused him indignantly. "It is one and the same."

"Is that how you see it?"

"Aye."

"But the castle, we've agreed, is mine?"

"Aye," she murmured uneasily.

"Then every bed within it is mine," he stated.

"Not when it is occupied by someone else!"

"Then pray, if I have thrown you from your bed, let me throw you back into it!"

She gasped, nearly shrieking aloud as his hands fell upon her. There was no violence in his touch, no brutality to his hold, yet he lifted her, casting her indeed, and sending her flying.

She landed upon the bed, stunned, breathless, afraid to move, and afraid to lie still. She gasped again when he was suddenly next to her, a muscled leg thrown over her hip, his arm barring her from rising then as he observed her from a position upon his elbow. "My dearest Lady MacGinnis, since the act of 'throwing' you upon the floor seemed such a cruel behavior on my part, I welcome you back to the bed. I wouldn't dream of putting you through the torture of a night on the floor."

His eyes were green fire; she didn't know if he spoke with anger, or if he taunted her still. She only knew his nearness alarmed and excited her. She was very afraid of moving, even breathing, for she could feel him within every fiber of her being. He spoke in a pleasant, evenly modulated voice, yet there was an edge beneath it, as if he seethed beneath the surface, as if the fire within his eyes burned throughout him, and his cat-and-mouse game was about to come to an end.

She gasped in a long, desperate breath in order to manage a reply.

"Actually, I think I rather enjoy the cool feel of stone at my back."

"You are kind and courteous; you say that only now because you have so suddenly determined to be generous with the bed."

"I don't mind the floor."

"I simply cannot
throw
you there; I'm afraid you've betrayed your true feelings on the matter."

The green in his eyes remained wickedly glinting.

Dangerous.

Still afraid to move, she vowed to keep control of her temper. She was not going to allow the whirlwind of sensations ripping through her to overrule her pride, dignity, or courage. "Would you be going there, then?" she asked hopefully.

"I would not."

"Then?" she inquired, the word scarcely a whisper.

"We will both sleep in comfort."

"Here, together?"

"Ah, m'lady, you are indeed blessed with keen powers of observation and comprehension."

So much for carefully maintaining her temper and control. She had to escape him. With sudden, wild impetus, she attempted to leap free of his hold. Yet she could not, for he was as swift as a tiger, and apparently he had been awaiting her attempted departure. In one smooth motion he seized her, drawing her against him hard, her back and derriere flush to his chest and loins, her right arm caught beneath her own weight, her left wrist captured firmly in his grasp.