* * *
It had been far more than an hour since Amelia had fled the camp in the woods. She was just resigning herself to the fact that she was lost when she reached the edge of a tree-lined field and a grand skyline of towers and turrets came into view. Exhausted but clinging to newfound hope, she stopped in her tracks and blinked to focus her eyes on the impressive panorama of stone architecture, like a
small
city in the distance. On its outskirts she saw vegetable gardens, an orchard, a vineyard, a mil —al less than a mile away.
Civilization at last. A world she knew.
She began to run, stumbling on blistered feet over grass that glistened with dew. White mist rose from the surface of a lake, but as she drew closer it revealed its true purpose as a defensive moat. The castle stood on an island. Its stone
wall
s and drum bastions rose sheer from the water, and the tremendous gate tower was connected to the mainland by a drawbridge and an arched entrance.
Richard might be there now, perhaps with a
small
battalion of soldiers, stationed within. What would she do when she saw him? What would she say about the
appalling
stories she’d heard about him?
Would he ask if she had been ravished?
Breathless with exhaustion, she reached the bridge at last and crossed over, where she was met by a large, ruddy-cheeked guard dressed in a kilt and armed with two pistols and a claymore. He stood under an iron portcul
l
is.
“Are you lost, lassie?” His voice was deep and intimidating.
“No, sir, I am not lost. For once, I know exactly where I am —at Castle Moncrieffe—and I wish to address the earl.” She could barely speak through her breathing.
“And what’s your business with my laird so early in the morning? He’s a very busy man.”
She spoke in a clear and steady voice. “I am Lady Amelia Templeton, daughter of the late Duke of Winslowe, who was a colonel in the King’s army. One week ago, I was abducted by the Butcher of the Highlands, and I have just escaped. I am in immediate need of the earl’s protection.” It took every ounce of mettle she possessed to get the words out.
The Scotsman’s smile faded, and his face went pale.
“You’re the colonel’s daughter?”
Oh, thank God.
“Yes.”
He bowed to her. “Beggin’ your pardon, milady. Come this way.”
He led her through the wide, shaded archway, then into the blinding sunlight beyond, which beamed down on an inner bailey. It was a green, parklike space with a circular drive
all
around. To the left a high curtain
wall
with drum bastions blocked the view of the lake, and to the right a large square building cast a long shadow across the lawn. There were few people about.
Amelia and the guard walked quickly toward the main castle, which was just as she’d imagined from her father’s descriptions. Moncrieffe was a stately palace of classical elegance, and she could barely believe she was about to set foot inside it, after the trials of the past week. How strange it would be to walk on polished floors again, to behold works of art, to climb ornate staircases.
They entered the main
hall
and passed through an archway to a
small
reception room with elaborate wood paneling, a marble chimneypiece, and a fine
collection
of Chinese porcelain.
“Wait here, milady,” the guard said, bowing again before he quickly departed, closing the door behind him.
Amelia once again felt the sting in her shoes from the blisters, so she hobbled to an upholstered chair, sat down, and clasped her hands together on her lap. She sat very
still
, taking a moment to close her eyes, catch her breath, and calm herself. None of this seemed real. She felt strangely detached from it.
It was quiet in the room, except for a clock ticking on the mantel. After a moment or two, she opened her eyes. She looked around at the furniture. The chairs and end tables appeared to be of French workmanship, while the carpet looked Persian. On the far
wall
there was a portrait of an ancestor—a fierce-looking man in an armored breastplate and kilt, with one hand on his sword.
The clock ticked on, and she did not move from her chair for a
full
ten minutes, though it seemed like an eternity. An eternity of
still
ness.
Final y, she heard footsteps in the
hall
and stood. The door opened, and a gentleman entered. He was of medium height and slender build, wore a green brocade morning coat with lace cuffs, black knee breeches, shiny buckled shoes—and upon his head a curly brown wig. He, too, was just as she’d envisioned from her father’s descriptions, although she did imagine the earl to be
tall
er.
If this was, in fact, the earl.
He looked very …
English.
She curtsied.
“You are Lady Amelia Templeton?” he asked, and his Scottish brogue reminded her that she was
still
in the Highlands.
She noted with immense relief that the gentleman’s voice was friendly and kind. There was nothing threatening or intimidating about him.
“Yes, and I am grateful to you, Lord Moncrieffe, for receiving me at such an early hour.”
“Oh no,” he said,
strolling
into the room, appearing rather concerned. “I am not the earl. I am Iain MacLean. His brother.”
She shifted on stinging feet while struggling to hide her disappointment. “Is the earl not in residence?”
“Aye, he is here. But he is not yet out of bed. He
’ll
need some time to at least put on a
coat.” Iain smiled apologeticall
y.
“Oh yes, of course.” She glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes past seven, certainly not the proper time for a
call
.
This was
all
very strange. She had been running for over an hour, having escaped an abduction. Her hair had not been combed, her skirts were soiled with mud—she could only imagine what she
smelled
like—and this man seemed to be wondering if he should ring for tea. What she real y wanted to do was run to him and shake him and demand to know if he understood what she had been through.
“May I inquire,” she calmly asked, “if Richard Bennett is here? He is lieutenant-colonel of the Ninth Dragoons, and I was told he was heading in this direction.”
This felt utterly ridiculous.
“Aye, he was here,” Iain replied, gesturing for her to sit down again. “He stayed only one night, however, for he was determined to find you, Lady Amelia. You should know there is a considerable search taking place on your behalf, even as we speak. Your uncle, the Duke of Winslowe, has offered five hundred pounds to anyone who delivers you safely back to Fort
William
. He’s been most distressed by what has happened. As we
all
are.”
Ah, sensible talk, at last, about the reality of the situation.
This wasn’t a dream after
all
. She had found sanctuary.
She exhaled sharply. “Thank you, sir. You have no idea how relieved I am to hear
all
of this. It is comforting to know I was not forgotten. I rather felt like I was in danger of disappearing forever.”
Although she
still
feared that a part of her soul was lost in another place and would never be recovered.
He sat down on the sofa beside her and squeezed her hand. “You are safe now, Lady Amelia. No harm
will
come to you.”
She took a moment to
collect
herself and hold back the tears that threatened to spil from her eyes. Her
belly
flooded with misery.
But no—it was not misery. She could not let herself believe that she was unhappy. She was safe now. The terror was past. She was no longer a captive in the mountains, or in danger of losing herself to that strange madness that had taken over her body. She had escaped successful y, before it was too late, and she would probably never see Duncan again. She should be happy. She
was
happy. She
was.
“I must look a fright,” she said shakily, managing a
small
smile.
There was compassion in Iain’s eyes. “You look very tired, Lady Amelia. Perhaps you would like some breakfast and a warm bath. I can summon the housekeeper, and my wife, Josephine, would be happy, I’m sure, to offer her maid’s services and lend you a clean gown. You look to be about the same size.”
“That would be most kind of you, Mr. MacLean. I have long wanted to meet the earl, as my father spoke highly of him.
Perhaps I could present myself to him in a more respectable fashion.”
Iain smiled gently. “I understand. Please, let me show you to a guest chamber.”
* * *
Amelia could have wept tears of joy after she enjoyed a private breakfast and was then shown to the bathing room, where she undressed leisurely and eased herself into a warm copper tub. The
wall
s of the room were hung with green damask, and a rush mat covered the floor. White linen curtains, hung from a circular canopy above, surrounded the tub, while a strong, hot fire blazed in the hearth. Mrs. MacLean’s maid stood by to assist Amelia in bathing and dressing. She lathered her hair with herb-scented soap, massaged her scalp, then poured a gentle stream of water from a shiny brass pitcher to rinse it clean. She rubbed her skin with a soft cloth and washed her back, and afterward the maid dressed Amelia in a blue and pink gown of rich floral silk brocade, generously on loan from Mrs. MacLean.
The dress had a scoop neckline trimmed with lace. Its sleeves were tight, with deep cuffs below the elbow, and it boasted a boned stomacher of matching silk brocade. The buckled shoes, also of blue silk damask, were one size too large, but two extra pairs of stockings helped fil them out.
Amelia felt as if she were dreaming
all
of this.
The maid piled her hair into an elaborate, towering construction and shook the powder generously until she blinked with burning eyes and sputtered and held up a hand to stop the assault.
It felt strange moving about in such a confining display of extravagance after a week of wearing nothing but coarse wool and loose linen, but when she viewed herself in the looking glass, glittering in silk and satin, and recognized what was familiar, she began to weep. The tears were strange, however. Her emotions were disjointed and rambling.
She longed desperately to see her uncle again and wondered when that blessed moment would occur. Perhaps then she would feel normal again.
A short time later, a liveried footman knocked at her door and said, “His Lairdship
will
see you now.”
She
followed
the young Scot into the wide corridor, which took them to the main staircase, then downstairs toward the rear of the castle. They crossed over a bridge corridor with arched windows looking out onto the lake, which led out of the castle to the keep—a separate tower at the back, surrounded entirely by water.
Amelia wondered what questions the earl would ask. How much would he wish to know about her abduction? Would he ask the details of her capture, the specifics about Duncan’s weapons, or his name and the names of
all
the rebels who
followed
him?
Would the earl force her to give an account of where she and Duncan had camped each night and who they encountered along the way? If she revealed that information, would the earl send an army into the forest immediately to hunt for Duncan and drag him to the Tolbooth?
Something raw and agonizing seized up inside her. She did not want to be responsible for his capture. Where was he at that moment? He must have known she would come here.
Was he outside the castle
wall
s, watching her pass by these very windows? Or had he escaped in the other direction, knowing that once she arrived at Moncrieffe, she would reveal
all
she knew and he would be pursued?
She hoped he realized the gravity of his predicament and had fled the other way. It would be best for both of them. She also hoped Moncrieffe would be as fair as her father believed him to be and that he would take
all
of Duncan’s conduct into account. She was
still
in possession of her virtue, after
all
. Duncan could have deprived her of that, but he had not done so, and for that she would be forever grateful.
Amelia and the footman crossed a long narrow banqueting
hall
, then reached an arched door at the end with wrought-iron fittings. He knocked, then pushed the door open and stepped aside. Amelia entered a
gallery
with a polished oak floor,
wall
s of gray stone, and a wide fireplace adorned with heraldic images in the spandrels. She moved
full
y into the room, and the door closed behind her.
The earl stood elegantly at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the lake and park beyond. He wore a lavish
full
-skirted blue coat of French silk, heavily embroidered in silver, with
frilled
shirtsleeves extending from the cuffs. The tight knee breeches were gray, worn with knee-high riding boots, polished to a fine black sheen. Unlike his brother, he wore no wig. His hair was lightly powdered and tied back, the long queue spiral y bound with black ribbon. She noted the decorative saber at his waist, encased in a glossy black sheath.
“My lord.” She waited for him to turn around so that she could award him a proper curtsy.
When at last he did face her, she bowed her head, but the shock of familiarity shot into her stomach like a cannonbal
l
.
Her gaze flew up as the urge to honor him with the customary curtsy
fell
to the wayside.
“You?”
Were her eyes deceiving her?
No, they were not.
It was Duncan. Butcher of the Highlands.
Or his identical twin.…
Her body shuddered as if she’d been punched, and she stood, breath held, fighting shock and disbelief. This was not real. It could not be!
Hands
still
clasped behind his back, Duncan—or the earl—strode ominously toward her, shaking his head. “Tsk-tsk, Lady Amelia. I am very disappointed to discover that Fergus was right in the end. ‘Can you trust the word of the English?’he always said. I should have listened to him.”
Feeling dazed and frazzled and
still
not entirely sure this was not Duncan’s twin, she turned for the door, but he
followed
and pressed the flats of his hands against it before she could reach the handle. He stood behind her with his arms braced on either side of her while she tried in vain to tug, rattle, and shake the door open.
She
called
for a servant, but no one came to her aid. She might as
well
have been shouting into a void. When she final y gave up the struggle and tipped her head forward in defeat, Duncan nuzzled the back of her ear, as he had done so many times before, and she knew in that moment that this was the man she had come to desire so desperately. She had not gotten away at
all
.
“I would expect no less from you, lass. You were always a fighter.”
His body brushed up against hers. Were it not for the memory of
all
too recent sensations and desires, she might have been able to keep her head, but this was impossible.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “How can this be?”
She felt as if she were back in that field in the rain on the first morning of her abduction—not knowing what kind of man she was dealing with, feeling powerless to escape. She had no idea what he meant to do with her now that she had run from him.
He
pulled
her away from the door, then circled around her and blocked the exit with his large, muscular form.
“I knew this was where you would come,” he said, “so I rode hard from the camp. Did you enjoy your breakfast and bath? Is the gown fashionable enough for your sophisticated tastes?”
There was something diabolical in his eyes, and there was a hard edge to his voice that cut her to the quick.
“You are truly the earl? This is not a hoax?”
Al at once, a hot and seething anger burned in her core.
How could she have been so blind? And
all
that talk about her learning to trust her own judgment and see a man for who he truly was on the inside—how could he have said
all
that to her while he was masquerading as two different men, intentional y misleading and manipulating
all
who came into his sphere? Who
was
this man deep down? She had no idea.
“I am the great Laird of Moncrieffe,” he said, spreading his arms wide, a gesture that flaunted the extravagance of lace at his cuffs. As he lowered his hands, a blue gemstone on his forefinger reflected the sunlight beaming in through the window. “But I am the Butcher, too.”
“You lied to me.”
Al that had passed between them—the intimacy and tenderness she had felt in his arms, the trust that had begun to grow—it was
all
gone now, and she had never felt more foolish. With a sweep of her hand, she indicated his fashionable clothing. “What is
all
of this? I cannot believe you spent five days with my father negotiating for Scottish freedom, leading him to believe you wanted peace, while at the same time you were riding up and down the Scottish Highlands
killing
English soldiers?” She looked around the room, at the paintings on the
wall
s. “Who else knows of this?
You certainly
pulled
the wool over my father’s eyes, as
well
as my own. Who else have you tricked besides me? Does your housekeeper know? The footman who just escorted me to this door? Is this a vast and bottomless conspiracy of treason?”
She thought of Richard spending the night here at Moncrieffe, enjoying the earl’
s food and whisky and his so call
ed hospitality. On the way to the guest chamber, Iain had told her that Richard had employed the earl’s militia to ride out in search of the infamous Butcher. Richard was probably being lured on a wild-goose chase by now, on his way to the Orkney Islands or some other far-off place.
And was
any
of what Duncan told her about Richard true?
She had no idea what to believe.
“No one at the castle knows,” Duncan replied, “except my brother and his wife.”
“Your brother, who was so kind, and arranged for my breakfast and a bath … He is a charlatan, too?”
Duncan frowned. “He’s a good man and a loyal Scot.”
She tried again to reach the door. “You are insane. You and your brother both.”
Duncan seized her wrist. His big warrior hand gripped her like a steel vice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
She didn’t bother trying to free herself. “Why not? Are you afraid I
’ll
walk out of here and reveal your true identity to the world?”
It was a clear threat, uttered without subtlety or reservation.
His eyes narrowed, and he dipped his head to speak close in her ear. “I fear nothing at the moment, lass, because Angus is standing outside that door and he’s been itching to slit your throat from the beginning. You’d be wise not to give him a reason to do it.”