Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (13 page)

Shaking his head, Fletcher went into the kitchen. Once
there, he spied the basket Mrs. Tawesson had left, sitting on the table. A
white cloth covered the top. Lifting the cloth just enough to peer into the
basket, he saw two little owlets blinking their eyes against the sudden glare
of light, staring back at him in a drowsy sort of way.

Take away their head and there wasn’t much to them, for they
were mostly gray balls of fluff with big yellow eyes surrounded by a ruff that
gave them a dish-shaped face. “Well, hello there,” he said. “Fancy meeting you
here. Are you fellows hungry?”

Buttery yellow eyes blinked at him, as they began to swivel
their heads to look at him in a manner that made him think his clever attempt
at conversation was not enough to forgive him for waking them. As if worried
that he would not get the message, they began to chatter in a high-pitched way
that sounded remarkably like a scolding.

He smiled and looked around the room. “We seem to be fresh
out of mouse meat,” he said, eyeing a pot left on the hob. Going to the pot, he
lifted the lid and peered inside. “I don’t suppose you like porridge, so it
seems you will have to wait until your mother comes home.”

That set them off into a fresh round of chattering, so he
covered the basket again, then he realized he had left the door open when the
orange and white kitten hopped into the chair beside him. Picking up the
kitten, he carried it from the kitchen, then closed the door.

He passed over the porridge for a meal of cold potatoes and
mutton. Once he finished, he peeked at the owls again and, finding them asleep,
returned to his work.

But his task was not what his mind was interested in, and
before long he found his thoughts drifting to Cathleen.

She was such a private person who ministered tirelessly to
others. He felt anger at her mother and father for dying and leaving her to the
cruelties of the world, and even a little anger at David, for being too old and
out of touch to see what the kind of life she led was doing to her. God, she
deserved so much more. Once, just once, he would like to see her put on a
scarlet dress and let down all her glorious hair.

And then he remembered why he was here, why he had come. Attracted
to her though he was, he could not, would not, allow anything to come between
him and his work. Closing his eyes, he searched the deep reaches of his mind,
calling up bits and pieces of memory, scenes of happier times, times he had
shared with his father.

There were glimpses of a father’s loving arms lifting him
into the saddle of his first pony, of the silvery flash of a salmon jumping out
of the water and the sound of splashing water when the fish proved to be more
than Fletcher could handle and he fell into the river.

He could hear the faint echo of a gunshot—the one he had
taken at his first grouse; the gentle instruction of his father teaching him to
butcher a deer he had just shot. There were memories of Bruce Ramsay’s broad
shoulders and how the world seemed ever so much larger when he observed it from
their lofty heights, and the pride in his father’s eyes when Fletcher had
gotten all of his Latin phrases right.

And he could remember gentler times, when the family
gathered near the fire and his sisters clustered about his mother’s feet as he
climbed into his father’s lap. Even now he could feel the comforting weight of
his father’s hand stroking his head, and falling asleep with the rough texture
of his father’s tweed jacket against his cheek, the scent of tobacco reminding
him that his father would always be there for him. Always.

Only he hadn’t been.

Bruce Ramsay had been ripped from Fletcher’s life as
savagely as a wolf tears out a deer’s throat. Fletcher had been robbed of his
father’s presence, his love, his guidance, and
these
were the reasons
why Fletcher wanted back his title.

Not for what he would gain, but for what he had lost.

He had never forgotten his vow to avenge his father’s death.
He had lived with it for a long time, and it was as much a part of him now as
the blood that flowed in his veins. Nothing would come between him and his
goal. Nothing.

Not even Cathleen.

It was much later that evening when Cathleen came home and
found the house dark, save for a stingy wedge of light beneath the kitchen
door.

Hanging her cape and bonnet on the peg by the door, she went
to the kitchen door and opened it just a little. Inside, she saw Fletcher
crouched near a chair, his hands in the basket that held the baby owls.

She stared in wonder at the gentleness in the way he cupped
his hand to hold a tiny owl that seemed bent upon giving him a good fussing,
and how his finger found the right place to stroke behind its head.

The owl grew suddenly quiet, and for a moment Cathleen was
distracted by the memory of seeing Fletcher with the children in the village,
and how they had left her to cluster about him for a moment, a crippled little
boy with bent legs tugging on his coattails, and how Fletcher had lifted him
onto the back of his horse and given the boy a ride. She smiled, remembering
how afterward the clamoring children would not be quiet until he had promised
to visit again and give each of them a ride. And then she remembered the sight
of him playing shinty with the older boys.

She remembered the faces of even those boys, whom she had
not been able to reach, as they looked up at Fletcher with expressions of both
delight and awe—expressions quite similar to the way she looked at him now.

Children and owls loved him, it seemed.

The yellow tabby bounded across the floor, jumped into his
lap, and came to a screeching halt when it saw the two owls. Arching its back
high, the fur that ran along its backbone standing straight, the kitten hissed.

Cathleen put her hand over her mouth but apparently it
wasn’t enough to completely stifle her laugh, for Fletcher turned his head
toward her.

“Hello,” he said, giving her a welcoming smile. “I’m glad
you’re home. I could use a little help. I seem to have more than I can manage
right now.”

“Aye,” she said, “so it seems.” She went to him, leaning
over the yellow tabby in his lap to peer at the owls in the basket. “Oh, how
darling,” she said, taking the tiny balls of down in her hands. The owlets
began chattering again, voicing their displeasure in being separated from the
warm spots they had occupied moments ago. “They are so small. They must be
verra young.”

“And very hungry, I think. I didn’t know what to feed them,
but they kept making such a ruckus, I couldn’t work. The only way I could keep
them quiet was to hold them.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Here in the kitchen,” he said. Then, seeing her surprised
look, he laughed and went on to tell her how Mrs. Tawesson had left them with
David. “What will you feed them?”

She cradled the blinking babies against her. “Dried buffalo,”
she said, laughing.

“And if you can’t find that?” he asked softly.

“Then I’ll chop up some raw mutton.” Giving him a shy but
friendly smile, she asked, “Would you rather hold or chop?”

He eyed the owls. “I’ll hold. I’ve more experience at that.”

He sat down at the table.

“Here,” she said, coming to stand beside him and handing him
the owlets. Suddenly she realized how close his body was to hers, how warm his
thigh was as it pressed against her leg. The shocking pleasure of it caused her
breath to catch. Her gaze dropped unconsciously to his legs, and she found
herself fascinated at the way his lean muscles seemed to rub at the fine fabric
of his pants. She followed the tight line upward…until she realized what she
was doing. Feeling the heat rushing to her face, she knew her cheeks flushed
red.

She might have run from the room, had he not had the decency
to ignore it by giving the owlets a questioning look and saying, “Uh, don’t
they need something—that is, do I need to put a cloth under them?… Aw, hell,
you know what I mean.”

Then she was laughing so hard that she forgot all about her
embarrassment.”They dinna need to wear nappies, if that is what you are
asking.”

He eyed the baby owls again. “Couldn’t we just drop them
back in the basket?”

“No. I want them to get accustomed to being held.”

“Shouldn’t they get used to
you
holding them?”

She turned, a knife in her hand. “I don’t think it will
matter much to them who does the holding.” Then, turning around, she cut a
wedge of mutton from a joint. “A fine father you will make.”

He knitted his brows together. “I don’t plan to have baby
owls.”

“There isn’t much difference. Babies or owls. They are both
helpless.” She gave the mutton another whack. “I must admit that I am rather
surprised at you.”

“Why is that?”

“I would have thought you the type to catch all sorts of
animals when you were a boy.”

“I did,” he said, giving her a little grin, “when I was a
boy. Unlike you, I outgrew it…much to my mother’s eternal gratification.”

Her gaze flew to his and held there for a moment, suspended
in the awareness, the tenderness, the inviting light she saw dancing in his
eyes. Turning away, she began working, filling her mind with the rapid tempo of
the knife chopping the meat.

When she finished a few minutes later, she carried a bowl of
finely chopped meat to the table. “You hold and I’ll feed,” she said, taking
the chair next to his and offering one of the owls a bit of meat on the handle
of an old wooden spoon.

It did not take the owls long to figure out that although it
was a mighty strange-looking contraption that came at them, there was something
good to eat at the end of it. Soon, both owlets were gobbling down bits of
mutton.

“They may be owls,” Fletcher said, “but they eat like pigs.”

“They were starving, poor babies.” She finished feeding
them, stuffing them until neither of the owls would eat any more, then she
watched as Fletcher returned them to the basket. “I’ll fix them a better place
to stay tomorrow,” she said. “But for now they will have to make do with the
basket.”

She drew the cloth over the top of the basket, feeling
suddenly awkward when he reached out to take her hands in his. Beneath the
sturdy strength of them she felt her own hands trembling, and as if he sensed
her uneasiness, his gaze came to rest upon her face, searching her eyes as if
looking for the reason.

“Do I frighten you?”

“No.” She whispered the word and tried to tug her hands from
his, unable to decide if it was the holding of her hands that made her so
uneasy or the warmth of his leg pressed against the length of hers. “Please
stop. I don’t want this.”

He released her, watching her as she crossed the room and
busied herself with cleaning up the chopped mutton. She glanced at him once,
and, seeing an odd expression on his face, she found herself wondering if it
was because he was a man unaccustomed to being told no. But even as she thought
it, she knew that had no bearing here. Somehow she knew that no matter how many
women there had been before her, it did not alter or detract in any way from
what had passed between them.

She turned away to wash her hands, then dried them. She
heard him rise, heard the chair scrape. She closed her eyes, listening to his
footfalls as he crossed the room. He was standing behind her now, close enough
that she could smell him, close enough that their bodies touched, ever so
lightly. She fought against the urge to lean back against him, to feel the
warmth and strength of him, the security. She felt the caress of his hands as
they cupped her shoulders, the strange feel of his body as he pressed closer to
her. She tried to pull away.

“Bonnie Cathleen, why do you have to make this so
difficult?”

She did not say anything, and soon she felt the pressure of
his hands as he turned her around so that she was facing him. She melted
against the welcome feel of him, aware of the sensation it caused when his body
aligned with hers. He lowered his face, then just at the moment she thought he
would kiss her, he said, “When you decide you can trust me, come into the
parlor and I’ll tell you what I’ve found.”

She watched him go, stopping to pick up the yellow kitten,
then carefully closing the door behind him. He had left her with weak knees and
a hammering pulse, the image of his body permanently engraved upon her mind. He
wasn’t going to force her. He had given her the choice. Only it wasn’t the
choice she wanted. Trust him? How could she, when the very thing he was here
for would provoke the duke? What would happen to her and her grandfather then?

She turned around, bringing the back of her hand up to her
mouth and squeezing her eyes shut, hoping she would not cry. She liked
Fletcher. She desired him. But could she trust him? It seemed that the pull,
the attraction of him, was greater than her fear, for without really realizing it
she had crossed the room.

It was only when she had her hand on the door that she heard
herself say, “Well, perhaps I can trust him…just a little.” A moment later she
stood at the table in the parlor, waiting until he moved a kitten from a chair
so she could sit down. She took her seat. “What did you find?”

“I found a paper with Douglas Ramsay’s name on it, but the
rest was water damaged and I was unable to make it out. A little while ago I
found another paper with Bride Ramsay’s name on it. It appears to be some sort
of a record of a ladies’ church meeting, but there was no mention of any
members of her family, nor that she was even married. It is, at least, proof
that Bride Ramsay existed, but precious little more than that.”

Hearing the disappointment in his voice, she searched her
mind for a way to give him encouragement and consolation, finding it odd that
she knew all about caring for kittens, rabbits, and owls but nothing about
caring for a man, other than her grandfather. “I know you are disappointed. I
wish I knew what to say.”