Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (10 page)

Before she could turn away, his hands closed over her arms,
holding her immobile. His gaze traveled over her face as if he was searching
for something. “Have you ever kissed a man?”

She laughed. “I just told you I haven’t held hands with a
man before, and now you ask if I’ve kissed one.”

He cocked his head and looked at her as if trying to figure
something out. “You don’t hate men?”

“Of course not. I like them very much…as long as they behave
themselves.”

“And you aren’t afraid of them?”

“Not unless there is a reason to be.”

“And yet you won’t let them close to you, will you,
Cathleen?”

She stiffened. “I see no reason to.”

“You have no desire to marry and have a family?”

Cathleen cringed. There would be no family for her. Not
ever. “My grandfather is my family.”

“That isn’t what I mean, and you know it. David is old. What
will you do when he is gone?”

“I will continue to live as I do now. I am happy with my
life.”

“Are you now?”

“Of course. I stay busy…”

“Ah yes, a life filled with stray and orphaned animals, as
well as an abundance of good Christian charity for the needy. You seem to meet
everyone’s needs but your own. I wonder why that is.”

“I am happy, so what concern is it of yours?”

“You could be happier,” he said. “What has turned you
against marriage?”

“I am not against marriage. It simply isn’t for me.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“My mother died.”

“When?”

“When I was six.”

“And your father?”

“He was killed in the Crimea.”

Fletcher searched her face silently for a moment, then shook
his head. “And what happened to you? Why are you so set against marriage?”

She tried to pull away but again he held her fast. Her gaze
was drawn to his. He was smiling at her in a way she found threatening. “I
don’t think my views on marriage are any of your business. You are older than I
am, and
you
aren’t married.”

She had no idea what he would do next, so she was surprised
when he released her hand and drew the back of his fingers down the side of her
face, making her shudder.

The warmth of his fingers seemed to sear her skin. Ripples
of goose bumps spread over her, and she found it difficult to breathe. When she
thought she might faint from lack of air, she inhaled, dragging in a lungful,
not missing the amusement in his eyes.

“No, I’m not married, but unlike you, I have been kissed,
and I hope to marry and have a family one day.”

His words sent a chill down her spine. A painful memory
surfaced in her mind, a reminder that let her see clearly just how wide the
gulf was between them. They were opposites in every way. He was a brave and
bold American, confident and sure of himself, a man who knew what he wanted and
went after it. And he wanted everything life had to offer—wealth, a title, a
wife, children. And what was she? A shy and timid Scot, a spinster with a
painful past and no hope of ever having the things in life that Fletcher had a
right to expect. She would eke out an existence on this humble farm, taking
care of her grandfather in his old age, ministering to the needs of the
village, finding what solace she could in the words, “
It is more blessed to
give than to receive”.

She took a step back. He was nothing but a spoiled and
pampered upper-class American who was finding some sort of jaded pleasure in
tormenting a shy and backward Scots spinster. Well, she would show him she had
a little spunk. “There are a lot of things worse than not being married, but
that is beside the point. I am trying to do my Christian duty to help you with your
past, but I am not interested in the least in your future. I will thank you not
to be interested in mine.”

Instinct warned her to move farther away, but not in time to
prevent him from taking her in his arms and drawing her close. Every part of
her was perfectly aligned with him, and that realization brought her even more
discomfort.

Everything within her seemed to stop, and even to look away
from the fathomless blue depths of his eyes was impossible. Her breathing was
rapid and shallow, until the flow of air stopped completely when his lips came
against hers with firm, warm pressure. She could not have moved her head even
if she had wanted to, for one hand held her around the waist and the other held
the back of her head, where his fingers spread through her hair.

Her heart hammered in her throat. She felt lightheaded. And
everywhere he touched her, she felt the branding heat of his body burning
against hers.

“There now,” he whispered, “that isn’t so bad, is it?”

She turned her head away, his face blurring. He caught her
face with his hands and, turning it back to him, he kissed her. She returned
his kiss willingly, so puzzled at her response that she felt angry.

She slapped him.

She heard her hand crack against his cheek and felt its
stinging consequence. It wasn’t something she had thought about or even decided
to do. It had been simply a reaction, but even so, she was mortified. She had
never struck anyone or anything in her life. That she was capable of doing so
now shamed her.

But what embarrassed her more was the fact that she wanted
to slap him again, that she wanted to take the palm of her hand and lay it
against his face as hard as she could. As if sensing that, Fletcher caught her
hand in his, holding it firmly enough to cause her pain. Then instantly he
released her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to do that. It’s just that
whenever I look at you, kissing you comes to mind.”

She wiped his kiss from her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You play with something holy as if it were a trinket sold by Gypsies at the
fair.”

Without another word, she turned and fled to her room, not
bothering to see him out, or to lock the door, or to turn out the lamps, or to
do any one of the dozen things she always did at night before going to bed. But
then, why should she? Tonight was nothing like the countless other nights she
had gone to bed.

Tonight she had been kissed.

In her room, she closed the door and decided to wait until
she saw his light in the crofter’s hut, then she would close up the house for
the night. In the meantime, she would ready herself for bed.

She went to her bureau, and poured a pan of water to wash
her face and hands. She looked at herself in the faded mirror in front of her.
Of its own accord, her hand came up, her fingers curling under as she brushed
them across her cheek in much the same manner as Fletcher had done.

The act was the same, but oh, the feeling was ever so much
different.

It was late the next afternoon when Cathleen returned home
to find Fletcher and her grandfather bent over the documents scattered across
the table. As she entered the room, both men looked up.

David’s eyes lit up. “You’ve been gone a long time,
Cathleen. I was beginning to worry about you.”

She sighed as she removed her bonnet. Her cheeks were
flushed, her eyes bright and merry. Crossing the room, she gave her grandfather
a kiss on the cheek.

She did not look at Fletcher.

“I rushed through my chores this morning,” she said,
“because I had so much to do today. Mrs. MacElroy is sick, so I cleaned her
house and did some cooking—enough to last the rest of the week.” She put the
bonnet on a chair as she continued speaking. “After I left the MacElroys’, I
went to Widow Bennie’s.”

David’s brows went up. “What ails Widow Bennie?”

“Rheumatism racks her joints. Dr. Scott has been giving her
James’s Powder, which helps her legs, but seems to have no effect upon her
hands.” Cathleen shook her head. “Poor woman.”

“And so you were her hands?”

“Aye. She was in too much pain to be making candles.”

David frowned, looking at her hands. “What is that all over
you?”

She held her hands out in front of her, staring at the deep
blue stains. “Indigo,” she said. Her gaze flicked over to Fletcher, then she
looked away.

“Indigo?” David said. “Where did you get into that?”

She burst out laughing. It was the second time Fletcher had
heard her laugh like that, and a shame it was, too, for her laughter rivaled
her piano playing, so musical it was.

“I didna get into indigo. Myles Ballantyne did. He painted
his little brother, Robbie, from head to foot. Dr. Scott was afraid it would do
him bodily harm, so he asked me to help scrub the lad. Hout! Robbie was as
squealy and pink as a suckling pig when we finished with him.”

“And Myles?”

Her laughter was infectious and Fletcher could only join in.
“His backside was pink as well. I ken he wilna be painting young Robbie with
anything for a verra long time.”

Fletcher watched her sink down into a chair, and upon closer
examination he saw exhaustion in the grayness beneath her eyes. She pushed
herself overmuch.

Apparently David thought the same. “It would do you well,
lass, to rest a wee bit on the morrow. It willna do you or the village folk any
good if you wear yourself to the bone. You canna be everything to everyone,
Cathleen. I ken I have told you that before.”

“Aye,” she said, “you have, but I ken it went over my
bonnet. I canna rest tomorrow, Grandfather, for I promised I would bring water
to the workers haying in Ashton’s fields.” She came to her feet. “I’ll see to
dinner now.”

“Why not give us a joint of cold mutton, and take yourself
to bed early?”

“And miss all the things you and Fletcher talk about?” she
said, and with a laugh that was not as light or as merry as her previous one,
she left the room.

Fletcher watched her go. “She worries you.”

“Aye. She works overmuch,” David said. “It was true, what I
said. She does try to be everything to everyone.”

“Why is that?”

“I dinna ken. Perhaps she does it to feel needed, to fill
the emptiness in her own life.”

“And is it empty?”

David smiled sadly. “Is a wee old man like me enough to fill
a young lassie’s heart and life?”

“She seems happy enough, but I have wondered about her. Why
doesn’t she marry?”

The humor left David’s face. “She willna.”

“But why?”

David looked troubled. “I have my suspicions, but she doesn’t
like to talk about it, and I respect that. So it isn’t for me to say.”

“But you know the reason?”

David sighed, his gaze going to the door to the kitchen. “As
I said, I have my suspicions, and then it may be more than mere suspicion. If I
were completely truthful, I suppose I would have to say that I do know the
reason. Let’s just say there were things in her past—things to make her feel as
she does.” He looked at Fletcher. “It isn’t because she has not had offers.”

“Oh, I can believe that. She is fair of face and has a sweet
nature about her. She would have attracted many a beau, I’ll wager.”

“Aye, she had more than her share.”

“And she never cared for any of them?”

“She never allowed herself to care, not in that way. She is
as loving as the day is long, but whenever things progressed beyond mere
friendship, she took great care to stop it.”

“And that never worried you?”

“Aye, it worried me, but there was precious little I could
do about it. I would not force her to marry…ever.”

“No, of course not. But it does seem odd. It’s almost as if
she were afraid.”

“She is afraid.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Aye. It bothers me as a man, as her grandfather, who has
known love, and it bothers me as a man of God, knowing as the scriptures say,
‘There is no fear in love but perfect love casteth out fear’.”

David rose. “Weel now, I ken I had best be washing myself up
a bit before dinner. There is much to be done yet, and a hungry stomach was
never a good worker.”

Fletcher watched him go, his mind upon the words David had quoted,
“Perfect love casteth out fear.”

The phrase seemed to engrave itself upon his heart and echo
through his mind. He could not help wondering which, in Cathleen’s case, would
prove the stronger, fear or love?

He was not so foolish as to think he might show her love or
even perfect love, but perhaps in time he could teach her to trust. It would be
a beginning.

Cathleen poked her head through the door at that moment.
“Dinner is ready,” she said, then disappeared behind it.

Fletcher stared at the door for a long time after she had
gone, the words of Shakespeare coming softly to his mind:

What is your
substance, whereof are you made,

That millions of
strange shadows on you tend?

Her laughter drew him to her. It was early the next morning,
and Fletcher had just stepped outside the crofter’s hut and heard the musical
notes of her laughter drift toward him. Intrigued, he followed the sound until
he came upon Cathleen.

He found her sitting on a tumble-down stone fence that edged
a small field where a herd of fat sheep grazed. Above her were the gray
branches of a dead tree, and her hands were folded in her lap as the three
orphaned kittens tumbled about her. It was obvious that she was not aware of
his presence.

A bird, perched in the tree, warbled and sung his heart out.
She answered him with her own musical notes, replying as if she knew his song,
his habits, his way.

Fletcher had never seen her look so lovely. Her long white
neck and the flushed curves of her cheek were set off to perfection by the
simple construction of her dress and the rich color of her hair.

In truth, her beauty seemed in perfect harmony with
everything that surrounded her. Her profile was cameo perfect. Her hair was
brushed back from the temples, but the curls about her face had been cunning
enough to find their way back. The rest of the heavy, wavy mass was tied back
with a yellow ribbon, and so lovely was the effect of it all that it mattered
not that the ribbon was faded or its ends a bit frayed.

Beside her on the fence was a straw bonnet, which looked
every bit as old and worn as the yellow satin ribbon, lovingly loaded with
flowers and bits of trailing vine. Her yellow muslin dress was set off with a
white fichu, untrimmed but for a stingy little ruffle.

Everywhere he looked, she was all yellow and white, and
virginally plain. He could no more keep away from her than he could have cut
off his right arm.

Quietly, he made his way toward her, walking softly so as
not to disturb her.

Not far from the main flock of sheep, several lambs were
cavorting, and Cathleen was watching them with avid interest. Each time they
jumped and ran, their tails held straight, she laughed at their antics.

Amused, he stood there watching—not the antics of the lambs,
but the unassuming innocence of her.

He stopped a few feet behind her and lost himself in study
of the delicate curve of her ear, the dusky rose hue of her cheek…the soft nape
of her neck. He was close enough now to bend down and kiss it where the fine,
determined curls ran truant from her hair ribbon.

In this setting she was not the shy parson’s granddaughter
who thought him disruptive and unkind. Here, among nature’s bounty, she was a
nymph, a sun sprite, who thought him disruptive and unkind.

The thought of that brought a smile to Fletcher’s lips and
grief to his heart, but the sight of her was the joy of his eye. He stepped
closer, almost touching her now, looking down at the wealth of her hair—hair
the color of dark red cherries and smelling of roses.

For a moment he felt he could not resist leaning farther
down, allowing his lips to glide freely over the beauty of her face, to kiss
her lips and whisper softly in her ear. But that, he knew, would send her
running away from him.

He would have to settle for less. At least for now. But even
so, while feeling the intensity of her, he could no more stop himself from
sitting beside her than he could call off his search for proof of his ancestry.

He stepped over the fence where the stones had fallen away
and moved closer to her. When he reached her side, she made no move to get up,
but as a precaution he put his hand on her shoulder as he sat down beside her.

It was then that he noticed the fawn sleeping contentedly
just a few feet away, for when he sat down, the fawn lifted its head, looking
at him curiously with dark, polished eyes, its large ears alert and standing
up.

“Who is your friend?”

“Bathsheba.”

“Another orphan?”

“Aye. The mother was shot.”

“Well, let’s see. That makes three kittens, three ducks, and
a fawn.”

“The ducks are gone. Mary MacGregor came after them.”

“Anything else in your nursery?”

“Rabbits.”

“Oh dear. How many?”

She rolled her eyes in an adorable way that crinkled her
nose. “As of the last count there were five…and this one makes six,” she said,
holding up a smoky gray rabbit that began to kick furiously. She put the rabbit
down in front of her and watched as it hopped a few feet away before turning to
watch them, the sun shining behind its long ears and making them transparent.

“All I see is a pair of ears and two big feet.”

She laughed. “Those are the important parts,” she said. “But
he does have an adorable twitching nose and wonderfully soft fur.”

“Enough to line a pair of gloves, I’d say.”

She whipped her head around to look at him. “I could never—”

He laughed and held up his arms in surrender. “I was only
teasing.” He looked at the rabbit. “On second thought, he isn’t big enough for
a pair of gloves.”

She smiled.

“That would take at least
two
rabbits.”

“Keep talking like that and they will leave.”

“Maybe they should be leaving anyway. They look healthy
enough to me. Are they ill?”

She laughed again. “No…at least not now, although they all
had something wrong with them, at one time or the other.”

“You mean the usual bunny maladies like overproduction?”

“No, they were ill, or orphaned. Some had broken bones.”

“Which ones had the broken bones?”

“The black one. I also had a bird with a broken leg, and a
squirrel, too.”

“They are long gone, I gather?”

“Aye, most of them are, but sometimes I find some that don’t
want to leave, even when they’ve recovered.”

“I can understand that,” he said, giving her a soft look.

“Fie for shame!” she said, laughing.

“I love to hear you laugh.”

She stopped and turned to give him a strange look. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Why do men enjoy the company of a beautiful
woman? Why do you love your grandfather? Why do the capers of these lambs amuse
you? Why do you feel sorry for wounded animals? How can you talk to the birds?
It is something you feel, that’s all.”

She looked deeply into his face, as if searching for
something. “That is a strange admission coming from a man.”

“Why? You think a man cannot feel? That he cannot be moved,
that he cannot be touched by the gentler things?”

She looked away. “Not many men are.”

“I am not
many
men.”

“Aye,” she said, with an expression that showed her thoughts
were miles and miles away. He found he did not mind that in the least, for it
gave him time to study her more closely.

Sunlight worshipped her face, clarifying the amethyst color
of her eyes. He wanted to lose himself in those purple pools. Was he going mad?
He could never remember a woman having such an effect upon him. For a moment,
he could not help wondering if she had any idea just how badly he wanted to
take her to bed.

But he knew that she did not. It had become quite clear in
the past few days that her only interest in him was inspired by her interest in
his quest. His cause had become her cause, but by no means had his hunger
become hers, or his desire, either.

Her gaze came back to him. There was something about the way
she looked, or perhaps it was simply the nearness of her, or perhaps it was any
of a hundred other reasons that made him reach out and take her in his arms.

She pulled back immediately.

He allowed her to go just so far before tightening his hold
on her.

“Let me go, Fletcher.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Find some other method of amusing yourself. Don’t use me
this way.”

He released her. “Is that what you thought? That I was using
you?”

“Aye. If the feeling wasn’t mutual, then you were demanding
your feelings be given attention, and ignoring mine.”

“The feeling was not mutual? You may push me away, but it
isn’t what you want.”

“It is what I want. I feel nothing when you touch me.
Nothing!”

His hands gripped her shoulders, close enough to her neck
that when he lifted his thumb, it brushed the sensitive hairs at her nape.

She drew up her shoulders like a turtle drawing into its
shell, and he couldn’t help smiling. “You see? You do feel something.”

“Aye. Irritation and revulsion.”

“I think a good, upright Christian girl like you should know
better than to tell falsehoods. You seem to believe things that are not true.”

“They are true.”

“Let’s see,” he said, turning her to face him. “Kiss me and
let’s see if what you say is true. Kiss me, Cathleen, and we’ll decide
afterward if it is revulsion.”

He saw the anger that flared deep in her eyes. He puzzled
her, that much he knew, for it was as obvious to her as it was to him that he
had laid bare her lame excuses.

He made no move to kiss her, and he saw the confusion on her
face, confusion that gradually gave way to embarrassment. Tears formed and
shimmered in her eyes, but she did not cry. “It isn’t just you,” she said at
last.

“I know,” he said softly. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Aye. Afraid I might cry. Afraid I might end up feeling
sorry for myself. Afraid I might make a fool of myself. I don’t know you,
Fletcher Ramsay…not well enough to speak of such. Sharing that which is private
is not my way.”

“Perhaps you will feel differently before long.” He kissed
her then, drawing her firmly against him, allowing his tongue slowly to
penetrate her mouth.

At last he broke the kiss, then chuckled. “At least you
didn’t slap me this time, Cathleen. I would say we have made a little progress
here and that you now know a few things you did not know before.”

She shoved against him, breaking his hold. “Aye, I know
plenty. I know enough not to trust you again,” she said, coming to her feet.

He reached for her hand, but she was quicker. “My
grandfather always taught me that we cannot change our past, but we can learn
from it.”

“And have you learned something?”

“Aye, I have learned you are a man who likes to take hold of
a woman.”

“Not just any woman, Cathleen. Only you.”

She looked away. “I cannot change what has happened, but I
can prevent its happening again.”

“You really want that?”

“Aye. It would be best for both of us if you would keep your
mind on the reason you came here. I like you, Fletcher Ramsay, more than I
should, I ken, but willna tolerate your advances. To persist will only ruin our
friendship.”

She turned away, picked up her straw bonnet, and dumped the
flowers on the ground. Without a word, she put the bonnet on her head, tying
the strings as she started walking back to the house, cutting across the
meadow, scattering sheep as she went. A moment later, the bonnet slid from her
head and hung down her back.

For a moment he watched her go, her body a black silhouette
against a backdrop of brilliant sun. He rose to his feet then and went after
her. When he caught up to her, the two of them walked along in silence, until
they came upon a ewe that had separated herself from the rest of the flock.
Seeing that the ewe was down, Cathleen ran toward her.

Ever the helper, Fletcher thought, when suddenly she jerked
to a stop. There was something quite strange about the way she stopped, the way
she looked down, and he paused for a moment to watch her. Even from where he
stood, he saw that her body was rigid and trembling.

“Cathleen,” he said, and ran until he reached the place
where she stood. The moment he reached her side, he started to put his arm
around her, but she whipped around, pure terror in her eyes.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, backing away. “Don’t ever
touch me again!”

Before he could decide what to do or ask what was wrong, she
whirled around and ran back the way she had come, scattering the flock of sheep
once more.

For a second, Fletcher stood there watching her, then he
looked down at the ewe. He wondered what she had seen that terrorized her so.

There was nothing wrong with the ewe—aside from the fact
that she was giving birth. From what he could tell, she was about halfway
through the process. Seeing that things looked to be going along in a normal
manner, he glanced in the direction Cathleen had taken, just as she climbed
over the fence they had sat a few minutes before.

With one more glance at the ewe, he turned and went after
Cathleen. He might not have found her, had it not been for the dew that was
still upon the meadow, which made it easy to see which direction she had taken,
for her skirts had brushed the top of the grass, absorbing the moisture and
leaving a dark trail for him to follow.

He walked the length of the field before he came upon her.
She sat upon a jagged rock that hung over a small pool formed by a bubbling
burn. She seemed forlorn and terribly lonely, more isolated than he knew he had
ever felt in his entire life. As he went to her, his only thought was to
comfort her. He dropped to his knees beside her.

“Go away,” she sobbed. “G-go away and leave me alone.”

“I can’t. You know that.” He spread his hand out across her
back and began to rub, consoling her in the only way he knew, and feeling
supremely clumsy and inept. However, this had worked with his mother and his
sisters, so he thought Cathleen, being a woman, couldn’t be much different.
“What’s wrong? What upset you so?”

She said nothing, but she did shake her head, as if even the
act of speaking were too much for her. He sat upon the ground next to her,
massaging her back in silence as she cried. He hoped this would show her that
he wasn’t a heartless, lecherous bastard, as she supposed.

After a while, her sobs became hiccups, and after a time,
those too began to grow quiet. When she was calmer, he thought that perhaps she
was too shy or embarrassed to look at him, and he toyed with the idea of
leaving her here alone to salvage her scarred pride.