Enraptured (8 page)

“I will.” She extended her hand.

He had no choice but to take it. In truth, though he suspected it was not wise, he
wanted
to take it. Her hand in his was small and soft and feminine despite the firmness of her handshake. He would have liked to slide his fingers up onto her wrist, discovering the steady beat of her pulse, the tenderness of her skin. And higher, under the full, loose sleeve of her dressing gown.

Coll dropped her hand and stepped back. “I trust you found everything at the ruins to your satisfaction.” He cleared his throat. “I told two of the gardening staff to report to you tomorrow morning. I sent a message to Dougal as well.”

“Thank you.” She gazed at him in her disconcertingly level, candid manner.

“You're welcome. I was rude earlier, and I apologize.”

Violet smiled, her face lighting in a way that made his chest tighten. She had, he saw, a most alluring dimple in her cheek. “No, do not apologize. We have agreed upon a general truce, have we not?”

“Yes.” He smiled back at her. “That we have.”

He cast about for something else to say, something that would keep her here and talking with him in this easy way. It turned out he did not need to.

“I went by the barrow when I started home,” Violet told him. “By the circle of standing stones.”

“Aye? Are you interested in it as well?”

“Oh, yes. Its entrance—the narrow end, where there is that great jumble of large rocks—lies in a direct line to the two stones standing beyond either end of the ring. That had to be purposeful; it is too exact to be happenstance.”

“That is unusual?”

She nodded. “In my experience, it is. Barrows vary in size, some large, some small, some oval, some rectangular. But I have not seen this alignment with the standing stones before. I should very much like to study it.”

“Instead of the ruins?”

“Oh, no! I meant, in addition to the ruins, I want to open the barrow. Does it belong to the earl as well?”

“The ring and barrow do not ‘belong' to anyone, to my way of thinking, but to everyone.”

“Yes, of course. It is our common history; it's important to everyone. But the land must be owned by somebody.”

“It's on Duncally lands. But Damon gave that part, where the stones and barrow lie, to his wife as a wedding gift. He knew Meg holds it dear.”

“What a wonderful thing to do! The earl must be a very
forward-thinking man.” Coll thought somewhat sourly that this woman, too, was probably enamored of the handsome earl. Mardoun was the sort a lady would swoon over—for that matter, women of all sorts tended to fall at the man's feet. Violet went on, “How—I mean, when she married Mardoun, the land would have become his property again.”

Coll nodded. “Aye. So Damon gave it to the Munros—to the trust that he set up, that is. Meg and I are the ones who direct the trust.”

“Then it is to you that I must make my appeal.”

Coll looked at her a little warily. “I suppose it is.”

“This could be a very important site. The arrangement is unusual, and in a remote area such as this, it may have been little disturbed over the centuries.”

“But it is sacred ground. It doesn't seem right.”

“Knowledge is sacred.” Violet looked at him intently. “We could learn so much from an untouched site.”

“But surely the dead deserve some respect.”

“I don't mean any disrespect.”

“Opening up their graves? Poking about among their bones and such?” He frowned. “How could it not be?”

“I would exercise the utmost care, I assure you.”

“I do not doubt that. Still . . .”

“I shall not give up,” she warned him.

He smiled ruefully. “I am sure of that.” He shrugged. “I'll write Meg and ask her opinion. 'Tis the Munro women who are the keepers of the old ones.”

“The ‘old ones'? Who are they?”

“It's just the name some give to the stones—and to the ones who built them as well.”

Violet fell silent. Coll studied her. She was clearly lost in
thought; he could almost see the ideas chasing one another across her face. He would like to draw her—a study in charcoal, with her looking into the distance, the breeze catching a strand of hair and tossing it across her face, as it had this morning. He remembered how he had wanted to reach out and move the stray curl back, his fingertips gliding across the smooth skin of her cheek.

He turned away abruptly. “Well, I must not keep you from finding a book to read. There's enough here, whatever subject interests you.” He gestured vaguely toward the multitude of shelves and went back to his seat at the table.

“What is that you are reading?” Violet nodded toward the book open before him. “It looks quite old.” She craned her head. “Is it handwritten?”

“Aye. It's not one of Duncally's books. 'Tis Meg's. It was our grandmother's journal.”

“Really?” He supposed he should not have been surprised that Violet's eyes lit up with scholarly fervor. She came around the table, leaning in to read the yellowed pages.

Her hair fell forward, brushing his hand on the table, and Coll jerked reflexively. He curled his fingers into his palm, resisting the urge to take the silky strand between his fingers. Her scent teased at him, faint and surprisingly feminine and flowery. His tongue had welded to the top of his mouth.

“This looks like a recipe.” Violet looked at him.

Coll knew he should say something. Had to say something. But all he could think of was how soft and rosy and inviting her lips were and what it would feel like to sink his mouth into hers.

“I . . . um . . .” He shifted, tearing his eyes from her face
and focusing on the journal. “Yes. Faye wrote down remedies in there as well. It's a mix of things, really—what she did, what she thought, recipes for some of the cures that had been handed down for generations through the Munro women. I was looking for a salve for one of Meg's patients. Since she's not here, he came to me.”

“Your sister is a healer?” Violet stared at him. “The countess?”

“Aye.” Coll stiffened. Now, he thought, she would pull back; after the surprise would come the condescension that had been amazingly missing this morning when he'd revealed his low birth. He had been prepared for it then, but now he dreaded it.

“Your ancestors were healers as well? It has been handed down from mother to daughter for years? This is wonderful.”

“It is?”

“Yes, of course. I told you how interested I am in the customs and traditions of a people. Knowledge that has been passed through generations like that is remarkable.” Violet dropped into the chair beside him. “There are so few written records of folk remedies.”

“My grandmother was the first of her family to read and write.”

“Not surprising. When was this written?”

“Seventeen forty-seven.”

“Sixty years ago! It is more astonishing, really, that she was literate.” Violet ran a finger lightly along the edge of the cover. Coll watched her, his nerves tightening. It was far too easy to imagine her finger trailing over his skin. “This is very precious. May I?” She glanced inquiringly at him, her hand poised over the book.

“What? Oh, yes, of course.”

She began to turn the pages slowly, even reverently. She commented and asked questions, and Coll answered as best he could. It was difficult to concentrate with her only inches away. It was too easy, too pleasurable, to watch the way her eyes lit or to notice the shadow her lashes made upon her cheeks, to gaze at the movement of her lips, the velvety softness of her skin. He could not help but imagine how her skin would feel beneath his fingers, how her lips would taste.

He realized that Violet was watching him expectantly, and he knew that she must have asked him a question. He swallowed, his mind a blank. Her eyes were locked on his, dark and fathomless, pools a man could fall into, he thought, and never again surface. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. It would take so little to kiss her, to lean in and take her mouth . . .

Coll pulled back abruptly. “ I . . . um, I'm sorry. I was not . . . I did not hear what you said.”

A flush rose in Violet's cheeks. “I asked—I hoped I could look at this journal again.”

“Yes, of course. Whenever you'd like . . .” He was sliding into far too dangerous a territory here. It had been one thing to kiss her the other night on the road. Then it had been merely flirtation and she a woman whom he would not see again. But now . . . now he knew she was a lady, and if that did not place her far enough beyond his reach, she was a guest of the earl's, which put her under his care.

He made himself stand up. “I am sorry. I am keeping you from your bed.” That was foolish. The mere mention of her bed was enough to send fire shooting through him. “I
should go.” Feeling inordinately clumsy, he pushed back his chair and closed the journal. “Good night, my lady.”

He walked out, doing his best to keep his pace slow, as if he were not running away.

Three men waited for Violet at the site the next morning, just as Coll had promised. One of them was the young man, Dougal, who had seen her at Coll's table the morning before. He watched her with a combination of embarrassment and curiosity. They leaned on the handles of their shovels, picks lying on the ground around them.

“You won't need your tools,” Violet told them, and began to pull implements from a sack. “I brought the things you will use to excavate.”

The men frowned down at the trowels, gardening forks, and brushes of varying sizes spread out on the ground. “We hae our shovels. We dinna need those wee things.”

“This is a different sort of digging. You must be careful how you go about it.” She knelt and began to show them the proper way to excavate. “Here around the stones, you must be especially precise.”

The men watched her. “I dinna see why we maun gae sae slow,” one of the gardeners said. “They're already auld and in pieces.”

It took her a moment to figure out what he had said. “No.” Violet shook her head emphatically. “That is exactly why you must be cautious. We cannot cause these stones any more damage. They are fragile.”

“Fragile! But they're rocks.”

“Very
old
rocks,” Violet countered.

They continued to stare at her doubtfully. “But I dinna ken—”

“I realize that you do not.” Violet fixed a firm gaze on them. “However, that is the way you must do it.”

With a shrug, the men picked up the trowels and began to dig where Violet directed. Her own work went slowly, for she repeatedly had to stop one or the other of the men to correct his work. Still, she was pleased with the progress they had made by the time they stopped at noon. The men tromped off, presumably going back to Duncally to eat, but Violet had brought a cold lunch for herself in a basket, and she ate in solitude, sitting on a rock at the top of the cliff and watching the ceaseless roll of the ocean.

Her mind went, as it had several times today, to Coll Munro. Last night, for a moment, she had thought he was about to kiss her. Obviously she had been wrong. He had not even been listening to her, and at the first opportunity he had bolted. Thank goodness she had done nothing to embarrass herself. At least, she hoped he had not sensed that she was leaning toward him, ready to give her lips to him.

Her cheeks flooded with heat. What if he had been aware of her reaction and that was the reason he left? Had he guessed that her eyes had been drawn to the sight of his bare arms, sleeves rolled up? That while she talked, she had been studying the golden hairs curling on his arm, the bony outcroppings of his wrist, the wide, capable hands? Had he guessed she'd wanted to trace the lines of bone and sinew with her fingers?

Violet prayed she had not been so transparent. Otherwise, she did not know how she could ever face the man again. She could only hope that he had merely been bored
or that he thought her distinctly odd. She was accustomed to both reactions.

Shoving aside these humiliating thoughts, she plunged back into her work. She was soon so absorbed in it that it was almost midafternoon before she realized that her workers had not returned to the job. Violet let out a sigh. She was not surprised. Over the years, she had found that few men were willing to take orders from a woman. It was one reason why her uncle had always dealt with the workers.

It would take a long time to do all the work herself, but she had little expectation that Coll would give her more workers, given how little time she had been able to hold on to these. At least working alone would assure her of many months, even years, of activity . . . provided that the earl did not take the project away from her and give it to someone else when he returned.

It was all a very lowering prospect. The best thing was to get back to work and not think about it. As she picked up her trowel again, she spotted a man walking toward her. Coll Munro. An increasingly familiar flutter began in her stomach, and she rose to her feet, watching him.