Claimed by a Scottish Lord (20 page)

Until Ruark had entered her life, Rose had been so sure of her goals, self-righteous in her courage. She could slay dragons. She didn‘t know what she was fighting for now. Ruark had muddled her heart. In her mind, a man who did bad things even for good reasons was still beyond pardon. Ruark had even admitted to his transgressions, all the while accusing her father of heinous crimes.

Perhaps the biggest crime of all was that she believed Ruark. He had no reason to lie to her. Her growing anger reflected her own fallibility. No wonder people hated her so.

‘Twas one thing to be the daughter of a man guilty of using his power for political gain and another thing entirely to know he had ordered the destruction of a merchantman, killing everyone on board. For a man capable of such a cold-blooded act was capable of killing a young boy for vengeance.

How did one reconcile oneself to the reality that a mother she had idolized would not throw herself off a cliff rather than wed herself to such a man?

And as Rose worked on her hands and knees in the garden pulling weeds from the dark loamy earth, she thought her heart might burst from the constriction in her chest.

She wanted to hate her mother for being weak. Rose thrust her fingers into the soil, ignoring the first drops of rain, when suddenly the dark clouds churning in the sky opened. Sheets of icy water fell over her. Elbows deep in mud, she raised her face to the sky and let the rain wash over her, hating her father most of all. The sentiment was different from before, she knew, when a part of her had held out a deep-seated childlike hope that her father was not as people painted him. Different, for it was like a poison that seeped into her veins and touched even the most sacred, precious memories she held of her mother.

Rose didn‘t know how long she remained on her knees in the garden. No one came out to fetch her inside. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself walking past storm-lashed trees, no longer aware of the dull ache in her leg or her heart. No longer aware of anything at all.

Her feet sinking in the mud, she pushed past low-hanging branches and entered the parkland, past sheep huddling against the rain, through a clove-covered field, and kept walking, farther and farther from Stonehaven. Even if she had nowhere to go. Even as a part of her mind acknowledged that Ruark Kerr might be a self-admitted pirate and smuggler, but at least he was an honest and courageous one.

B
y the time Rose made the long trek across the open divide and emerged onto the top of a small hill, the rain had spent most of its fury and so had she. She sat for a while and rested where the hill sloped away in a breathtaking fall of rocks that spilled into the head of a lovely glen. The fecund scent of wet earth and fragrant pine filled her nostrils. As the sun began to set, she pushed away from the rocks and continued walking.

Water sluiced over granite boulders, disappearing into mossy crevices. She crouched to avoid a low-hanging branch and as she maneuvered her way down the narrow footpath, she thought she heard the faint whicker of a horse. Through the mist, she could see an aged chapel ahead. A three-foot-high iron fence surrounded the chapel yard. She approached a cemetery, wet leaves muffling her footsteps. This was Ruark‘s family cemetery.

She followed the fence around the chapel. She could see Stonehaven‘s rooftop in the far distance through the thinning branches of the trees.

She almost laughed.

For all the time she had spent traipsing across the parkland and through the woods, she had somehow walked in a circle. It occurred to her then that no matter what she did, she could not seem to escape Ruark or her fate. Surely, there was irony to be found somewhere in that observation.

She peered at the chapel where moss had grown over the stones turning the entire north side a deep green. The building looked sad and alone standing among the stone monuments of the dead.

The mist began to thicken and she shivered as she looked around the empty yard. Her gaze fell on the horse tied to a wooden hitching post off to the side of the chapel.

Loki.

Rose looked around but saw no sign of Ruark. She drew back the iron lever on the gate, wincing slightly as it screeched on rusty hinges. She entered the yard and walked among the stones to where the horse tore chunks of grass from the wet ground, chewing thoughtfully as he eyed her approach. No one was near to prevent her from taking the horse and riding away. But something stopped her.

All her life, she had felt trapped by other people‘s decisions about her future, leading her about like a horse wearing a halter, telling her what she could do or not do, who she could be or not be. She found that even drenched as she was and with mud caking the hems of her skirts, she had never felt more in control of her own fate. Even if the illusion of choice falsely empowered her, ‘twas her choice to not take Loki and run.

Behind her, the door to the chapel stood slightly ajar, and she found herself stepping inside. The interior smelled old and musty like mildew, beeswax, and a hint of incense that had been burned into the stone walls over the decades. A beautiful mural of angels colored the domed ceiling high above her head. She thought a candle burned in the loft. She turned up the stone staircase to her right. This was a crypt. The wall bore the names and ages of the various Roxburghe earls along with their wives, sons, and daughters for the last two centuries. A small, narrow room opened at the top of the staircase. A candle burned in a ceramic holder.

Someone had set it on a narrow table in front of an engraved stone built as part of the wall. Rose bent and read:

RUARK JAMES LINDSAY KERR

BELOVED FATHER AND HUSBAND TO JANELLE HIS ENGLISH BRIDE

1650–1685

CHANCE NOT. WIN NOT.

A profane statement about one‘s destiny.

―He was my great-grandfather.‖ Ruark‘s voice came from behind her and she spun around alarmed. He stood on the stairs. ―I surprised you,‖ he said. ―I apologize. You were absorbed.‖

She had not seen him when she entered, but it looked as if he had been up here awaiting her.

She gestured to the angels floating against the ceiling. ―This area looks newer than the rest of the chapel.‖

―The loft was added during my great-grandfather‘s tenure as earl, after a candle caught fire and burned the timbers in the old chapel roof. So he has been granted his place of prominence . despite the fact that he was presumed to be a traitor and distrusted by many on both sides of the border. He was a privateer in the service of King Charles the Second.‖

―Perhaps he was also a smuggler and pirate. I cannot imagine any relative of yours selling out so completely, no matter appearances.‖

Ruark climbed the stairs, stopping just before he reached the landing where she stood. He‘d tied his hair at his nape with a leather thong. Soft leather riding boots hugged his calves.

His cloak and hair were damp as if he had not been long out of the rain. She could smell the clean scent of soap on him. He walked to where she stood and peered out the window as if to make sure Loki remained tied.

―I considered it,‖ she said. ―Escaping.‖

―I know.‖ Leaning a shoulder against the cold stone wall, he folded his arms. ―I was beginning to think you had got lost.‖

―You knew I would be coming here.‖

―I saw where you went into the woods and knew where you would be exiting. There is only one path.‖

―You left Loki unguarded?‖ she accused him. ―I could have stolen him!‖

―And yet . you did not.‖

She felt trapped by the fact that he had not so much left Loki in the open, but that he would have let her take him.

―I have been watching you, wonderin‘ how I should approach you,‖ he said. ―I know that learning about your father came as a shock—‖

―Why would you care?‖

He smiled briefly. ―I could not rightly say,‖ he admitted, scratching his head and eyeing her with bemusement. ―You do not much like me—that is true, I think, and deservedly so. You have only tried to cut my throat and bash my brains with a rock. Maybe I do not like having the advantage between us, love.‖ He paused, then said softly, ―Maybe I have been where you are. Trapped.‖

Folding her arms, she dropped her gaze to her feet and swallowed past the constriction on her throat. The smell of burning candle wax made her nose itch. After a moment, she sat on the wooden bench in the alcove next to the narrow stairway. As if she‘d invited him, he settled his large body next to her making her scoot a bit to accommodate him. She could not help staring, for his warmth burned through her damp clothing. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and they remained thus in companionable silence. She could feel his eyes on her profile. His leg remained in her field of vision and she glanced at the stone engraved with his great-grandfather‘s name.

―He isn‘t buried here,‖ she said.

―He perished at sea a year after Janelle died giving him a son.‖

―I . am sorry,‖ she said, compelled to say something.

―Aye, but ‘tis a fact of life. Loved ones die. Ships vanish.‖

Most ships that vanished remained so forever. No one ever knew the fate of the crew or passengers. Like her mother. Ruark could have so easily met such a fate. ―You are his namesake. How is it you managed to follow in his footsteps?‖

He didn‘t answer immediately and she sensed some kind of struggle within him. ―My father made the decision for me,‖ he said watching the candle sputter. ―He and I did not have the best relationship. More often than not when it came to settling our differences, he won. One day after a particularly . violent disagreement, he shipped me off.‖

―McBain told me . ‖

―It was a long time ago,‖ he said. ―The reason no longer matters.‖

The tenor of those words told her that at one time nothing else had mattered more. But something had changed inside him just as something was changing inside her whenever he was near.

―Is it true then that you tried to kill him?‖

Humor twinkled in his eyes, though his gaze was at once direct. ―Aye. I was not known for my restraint in the tender years of my youth.‖

―But thirteen years ago you were barely an adult. How is it that you eventually became captain of the
Black Dragon
?‖

―The captain was a drunkard and wieldy with a whip. One day while he was beating one of the crew, I decided I‘d had enough.‖

―You mutinied?‖

―I am guilty of smuggling. Perhaps even a bit of subversive behavior should anyone choose to mount an offense against me. But not a mutineer. The Roxburghe family owns a fleet of merchant ships. My great-grandfather‘s legacy to this family. The ship on which my father exiled me, the
Dragon
, was my own inheritance. My father possessed a macabre sense of irony when it came to doling out life lessons.‖ He studied his clasped hands. ―It took me a year of hell before I had the guts to claim the helm of that ship as my own.‖

―What did you do with the captain?‖

He glanced sideways at her. ―I dropped the bastard off in Workington with a note to my father, telling him to go to the devil. I then gave the crew a choice to stay or leave. Every single man jack stayed.‖

―Will they come to live at Stonehaven?‖

―Maybe. I don‘t know. Most want to stay on the sea.‖

Do you?
she wanted to ask.

―I came here to save my brother,‖ he said, as if he could read his mind. ―I never had any intention of staying. I‘ve never been much of a farmer.‖

―You should stay, my lord.‖

She looked around the sunlit stairwell in hopes of diverting her thoughts. Dull early-evening sunlight broke through the clouds and filtered through a stained-glass window at her back throwing patches of red, green, and gold on the walls around her. ―This is a fine loft that your grandfather built. You have kind servants. A beautiful home.‖ She cleared her throat and stood. As did he, slowly, as he stepped down the stairs and once again took his place in front of her.

―Why should I stay?‖

―Because you are looking for something, and if you have not found it already, then you have not been searching in the right place.‖ Self-consciously, she looked down. ―Now that I have rambled about, I think I should like to return.‖

He propped one boot against the landing to prevent her escape. They stood nearly eye to eye, and something hot and dangerous arced between them. ―There is a hunting lodge an hour‘s ride from here,‖ he said. She felt the warm assessment of that dark blue gaze. ―I have been meaning to visit the place since my return. You are welcome to ride with me. Chaperoned, of course . if you choose to go back and fetch Jason to accompany us.‖

―A chaperone? Because you do not trust me. Or I should not trust you?‖

―Both, perhaps.‖

This time it was her turn to laugh, but she sobered at the thought. ―At least we are honest with one another,‖ she said.

Honesty in and of itself was a form of trust. She had only truly trusted two people in her life. Friar Tucker and Mrs. Simpson. A hostage houseguest was not supposed to trust her captor. Or feel safe. Or feel this much desire. Yet she did.

And as the silence lengthened between them, he cupped her face with his hands. Her heart pounded against her breasts as if she had been running uphill, and then he bent his head and kissed her.

She stood on the landing, still holding tightly to the balustrade as if to catch some of her weight. Her mouth opened taking his tongue and giving her his. She wanted to touch him, to know him as she had that night in the glade, except in the light where she could see and feel him, where her mind could not lose him in the darkness. His kiss gentled, a contradiction to the raw desire she sensed in him and which coursed through her.

He pulled back, his hooded eyes surveying her as if to discern her thoughts. Strangely, she was no longer afraid of the future. She had at last found the capacity within herself to confront her future on her own terms. ―Will everyone not wonder where we are?‖ she asked.

―Are they not looking for us?‖

He swept back a wayward strand of her hair and lent his mouth to the shell of her ear. ―I am the only person who went after you today, Rose. If they wonder, they will not speak of it upon our return.‖

Chapter 11

T
he hunting lodge was a two-story, ivy-covered Tudor cottage in the woods with a yard overrun by bramble and bracken. Inside, the dusty floorboards creaked with each step. A forest of horns gleamed back at Rose from amid a variety of weaponry on the walls. They had barely made it to the cottage before the second storm hit them. Rain slashed at the windows and made a
drip-drip
sound in the fireplace.

Ruark knelt in front of the huge stone hearth, large enough to roast a spitted boar. Yet, somehow, he managed to build a roaring fire. A lightning flash illuminated the room. With the heavy rain, she saw nothing but rivulets sliding down the thick lead glass. Her teeth chattering, she moved nearer to the hearth. To Ruark.

He turned to look up at her from his position closer to the floor. He‘d slicked his rain-black hair to his nape and it remained tied back. The silver ring in his ear caught a flash of light.

―It looks as if no one has been here for years,‖ she said.

Crouched on one knee in front of the hearth, he looked around the room. Much of the furniture remained: a long wooden trestle table and chairs, an oak breakfront stacked with a plethora of porcelain ware, none of which looked to have been touched in years. ―I used to come here when I was a lad.‖

Her clothes were soaked through and he dragged two heavy chairs nearer to the hearth for her to lay out her attire to dry.

He pulled blankets out of a cabinet set atop the breakfront. Standing in front of the hearth with one hand outstretched to the warming flames, she continued to watch the fire burn. She was neither coy nor demonstrative about her desire, but the newness of it all caused her to hesitate. She felt shy and nervous and did not know how one behaved in such circumstances.

He‘d seen her before undressed by the pond, but stripping out of her clothes now had a different connotation. She knew it. He knew it.

She could see it in his eyes as he stopped beside her to give her a blanket. Thunder grumbled against the eaves of the house. He looked up at the ceiling as a burst of lightning illuminated the room. ―I need to see to Loki,‖ he said. ―There is a stable behind this lodge.‖

They had left the horse tied near the front of the house. After the fire began to warm the room, he left her to secure Loki in a stall. She remained in the silence, her eyes closed, her senses opened to the pungent woodsy smells and sounds of the night surrounding her.

Then she set aside the blanket and struggled with the hooks and strings on her bodice and skirt. But her hands were freezing and it took her longer to remove her bodice, stays and petticoats. She laid her stockings over the back of the chair nearest to the hearth. Ruark still had not returned from the stable, so she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and went in search of something to drink.

R
uark did not return until sometime later. Wrapped in the woolen blanket, she had waited for what seemed an eternity. She had found a flint box and lit a candle, then discovered dusty bottles of wine in the other room. Inside the breakfront were serving dishes. She set out two glasses for the wine.

She stood at the end of the table, next to the tall carved oak master‘s chair, watching nervously as Ruark stomped the mud from his boots and cursed the rain and the bloody chill. The rain had plastered his shirt against his arms and shoulders. ―The storm looks like it might be here a few hours.‖ His voice partially muffled against his sleeve as he wiped his face with his arm.

When he saw what she had prepared, he paused in his remonstrations. His gaze fell first on the pallet of blankets she had made in front of the hearth, then on the table. But as he dropped his arm to his side and approached, he had eyes only for her.

She clasped the blanket tightly to her bosom. ―I found bottles of wine and brandy in the back room.‖ Her chin lifted and her tongue seemed to move faster. ―I do not think I misinterpreted your purpose for bringing me here.‖

He stopped near enough to her to touch. ―Nay, you have not,‖ he said quietly, reaching out to tilt the wine bottle into the light as if to check its contents.

She laughed, but he heard the tremble in her voice. ―I have not had anything to drink, if that concerns you. I thought . so that we are both clear on the matter at hand, anything I offered you this day should be done with a sober bearing. I wanted you to know my mind ‘tis sound as it ever will be.‖

He looked down at the pallet she had made in front of the hearth. ―
Is
your mind sound?‖

―Are you calling me a lunatic then?‖

His low laughter sounded from deep within his chest, and he reached out to smooth the hair from her face. ―Maybe.‖

She might be of sound mind, but she remained uncertain. The lines of his lips softened as he spanned his fingers over her cheek. ―It was not my intent when I brought you here to ask why you agreed to come.‖

―Should it matter?‖

―Aye, I did not think it would.‖

Just then, there was a patter of windblown rain against the sheaves and glass, yet neither of them looked away from the other. ―I have discovered that I possess a certain honesty when around you, Ruark Kerr. ‘Tis simple.‖

She eased the blanket off her shoulders, bearing pale shoulders in the firelight. Then she lowered her arms and let the blanket fall to the floor.

She stood before him wearing nothing at all but the golden glow of firelight. His eyes swept over her. She had never seen herself fully naked as she stood now before him. She had never seen herself in another‘s eyes as she saw herself now in his. Tonight it was as if she stood on the edge of the cliffs that bordered the falls, with all the rush and wild fury of the water churning at her feet and through her veins.