Every Time with a Highlander (12 page)

Undine swam full power against the current, losing herself in the life-giving exertion. Here, in the dark depths, she could forget the world and clear her head. She rolled on her back, taking in the oppressively spangled sky. The water was cold and bracing, and the world smelled of dirt and lilac.

He was out there.

She could feel Michael Kent, even if she couldn't see him, and she was deeply annoyed by it.

Her life was smooth and unblemished, like the skin of a fish, which allowed her to move freely between the north and south, Scotland and England, war and peace, water and earth. The people in her life were weights, holding her down, river weed that tangled in her fins, clouded her vision, and choked her gills.

She could endure some of it. Abby's sisterly love warmed her cold blood. Abby was sunlight in the darkness, and Abby's group of friends—Duncan, Serafina, Gerard—had made the light shine even brighter.

But Kent was other.

Male. Stinking, demanding, maneuvering, immovable male.

When she allowed her mind to turn to him, it was as if he blocked out everything else. Why did women permit this—desire it, even? How could one think clearly with such…egregious virility banging around in their heads, snapping at their thoughts?

She heard the sounds of splashing around the bend of the river, at the ford. Men again, determined to master the water. First the crossing by foot, then the ferry. There would be a bridge there in time. She could feel the unformed scar already growing in the earth beyond the bank.

Grrr.

She turned again, paddling with her arms now too. Hard and fast—as fast as she could move. The earbobs felt like ballast. She righted herself, furious, and pulled them off. She would have thrown them into the darkness had they not been Abby's.

“Undine?”

She jerked and dove under the water.
Kent
, she thought angrily,
somewhere along the bank.
She was embarrassed, which made her even angrier. She'd never felt shame for her nakedness till now.

“Undine?”

“What?”

“It's me. Father Kent.”

Father Kent. Ha.
“You're hardly a father, are you?”

“Well, er…no.”

The night was so dark and the tall banks so reflective of sound, she couldn't quite locate him. But his deep voice carried, disembodied, to the farthest edges of the water.

“In my defense, I did intend to tell you,” he said.

“I'm so grateful. What are you really?”

She couldn't see him in the dark, but the sound of his movement came at the highest point of the bank.

“Don't come any farther,” she snapped.

The movement stopped.

“I work in the theater,” he said.

His Bankside “congregation”!
Her cheeks warmed. “Oh, you certainly had your fun with me, didn't you?”

“It was not the sort of fun I intended—er, what I mean to say is, I had no desire to have fun at your expense. I was dressed as a priest and you needed one. I only intended to make myself useful to you.”

Hm.

“I'm sorry,” he added, rueful.

She sighed. “Thank you,” she said, shaking off her pique. “Now you must leave. Bridgewater's idiot corporal has been following me, and he can't find you here. Nor can Bridgewater. And one of the two will be here at any moment to claim me. I'm surprised we haven't been interrupted already.”

For a long moment Kent didn't respond.

“Did you marry him?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she said, touched by the plaintiveness of the question. “We had no priest. Do you think the Earl of Bridgewater jumps over a broom when he's taking his countess? You must leave before he finds his ascetic churchman has reappeared.”

“There's something I need to tell you,” Kent said. “About Bridgewater.”

“Don't say it now. There are ears everywhere. I'm getting out.”

She emerged into the cool air, and he gasped.

“Your clothes…” he said, panicked. “Do you want me to…?”

“
No
,” she said, stomping up the bank. No one would force her into shame.

Blood buzzing in her ears, she reached for her chemise, but before she could grab it, dry wool encircled her from behind, and Kent drew her into his warm arms.

“You must be freezing,” he said, rubbing her shoulders.

“Where did you get the plaid?” she said. It was too dark even for her to see if she recognized it.

“Your friend, Gerard.” The rubbing motion was sending sent tiny coals of fire through her.

“You met Gerard?”

She was used to drying by sitting until her bones ached with the chill. The advantage of drying by body warmth seemed dizzyingly obvious to her now. Why had she never thought to try it before?

“Yes. And Serafina. Nice people. They're the ones who told me Bridgewater searched your room.”

She turned to face him. “How would they know that?”

“They have a source in Bridgewater's circle. Someone who keeps an eye on things.”

Who was it? Damn them.

“You mustn't be angry,” he said. “They can't stop their caring.”

“They should have asked me.”

He laughed. “I can't imagine why they didn't.”

“Who is it?”

“They didn't say. And Bridgewater has sent for another priest.”

She turned. “
What?
”

Michael turned her back around and used a corner of the wool to rub the moisture from her hair. His hands were large and gentle, and the thrum of the motion was calming.

“Let's hope the bishopric has lost enough men for the day and refuses to toss another to the wind,” he said.

“If Bridgewater mentioned Father Kent by name in his note, they'll figure out something's amiss.”

“I know.” He released her hair and tucked the plaid around her neck. “What's that?”

“What?”

“There. In your hand.” He gently opened her fingers.

She'd forgotten she was holding the earrings. She was grateful the night hid the warmth that filled her cheeks.

“Pretty,” he said, though she could feel his eyes on her not the earbobs. “I can see why you wouldn't want to lose them.” He took one from her and held it up. “How does it work? I've never seen an earring with a spring.” Without waiting for an answer, he tugged her lobe lightly and slipped one into place. “I'll be damned.” He touched the stone with his finger, setting the iolite swinging and sending a vibration that ran all the way to her toes. “Now, get dressed and you can tell me what I need to do to help.”

He slipped away behind her, whistling as he went, until he'd put himself on the far side of a fat pine.

“Stop whistling,” she called. “You're inviting trouble.”

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made her smile. She was reluctant to remove the plaid. She'd also forgotten the pleasure a pair of arms could bring.

It didn't surprise her that Bridgewater had been in her room. Despite his promises, she knew he'd never intended to allow her to live without his oversight. The question was whether his intrusion into her privacy was driven by a general lack of trust or whether it represented some shift in his perception, one that might be the result of the receding effects of the spell.

She loosened the plaid and ran it over her breasts and shoulders, removing the last remnants of water. Spy business was not for the faint of heart.

The rustling Kent was making in the distance reminded her spy business was also not for innocent outsiders. It wasn't that he lacked the spirit—he'd shown himself to be surprisingly brave and true—but she wouldn't allow him to risk his life for her.

“What can I do for you?” he called. “Tell me while you dress.”

“What you need to do,” she said, twisting the other earbob in place, “is leave.”

Even in the dark, she could feel his disappointment.

“Why?”

“We don't know what Bridgewater's capable of. You don't know what I'm trying to accomplish. And—” She caught herself and stopped.

“And what?”

“I told you. I'd spend every moment afraid for your safety.” Her neck prickled with embarrassment. “Now will you please just leave?”

The silence between them grew in length, and her ability to overcome it lessened. She listened for anything—a breath, a sigh, the sounds of his retreat—that would help her interpret his reaction, but all was lost in a long gust that whistled through the trees.

Begone then
, she thought, irritated.
You're losing your focus. What are you letting this man do to you?

“Nothing.” She flung the plaid to the ground and reached for her chemise.

The pine boughs shook, and Bridgewater stepped into view.

“John!” She jerked the linen into place. Her heart was beating so hard she dared not say anything. What had he heard? Had he seen Kent?

“I beg your pardon,” Bridgewater said. “I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I'd ask you the same, but I know you well enough to know your affinity for water. Were you talking to someone?”

“Aye,” she said, stooping for her gown. “My mother.”

He made a show of looking around. “Your mother? I would very much like the pleasure of meeting her.”

“I wish I could offer it to you. She died many years ago. But I feel her presence whenever I'm near water. I'm very grateful you took a home on the river, John. Thank you.”

“I had only your happiness in mind. And you…speak to her?”

He wandered the edge of the bank slowly, hands clasped behind his back, peering carefully left and right. Undine hoped Kent had heard her exclamation and was putting as much distance as he could between him and this clearing.

“Do you never speak to your mother or father?” she said. “At their graves? Or perhaps in the places in which you feel closest to them?”

Bridgewater shook his head. “I confess I do not. My father and I weren't close. I doubt my voice would be much salve to him, or his to me. Did your mother make you angry?”

“Make me angry?”

“You spoke to her quite sharply,” he said, finishing his inspection.

“Oh, that.” She was relieved to see he did not intend to extend his search beyond the clearing in which they stood. “'Twas only her asking me what I'd done recently to help those around me and me responding as a sulky child. One tends to fall into childish ways sometimes. My mother was a good woman and has always guided me well.”

Bridgewater made a polite grunt, reflecting agreement or disbelief, she couldn't tell. His gaze fell on the plaid puddled on the ground, and she inhaled. He snagged it and held it out to her. “I didn't know you partook in the ways of the clans.”

“'Twas a gift,” she said tartly. “From Abby.”

“I have no objection to you having friends whose opposition to England is well-known, but even you must see that an English noblewoman—the wife of an English officer—cannot be seen wearing a plaid.”

She snatched it from his hand. “I have not worn it. Nor would I.”

“Thank you. Now I must entreat you to return with me to the house. Not only is it unsafe for a woman to be out alone at night, but there are things you must attend to.”

“What things?”

“I've received a note. We must take a journey. You'll have to give the maids instructions on what you want to be packed.”

“A journey? Where?”

“To the north, near Traquair. I've received word Wooler is flooded, which means the man from my solicitor's office won't arrive in time to accompany Morebright to York. I intend to do it myself.”

She didn't have the slightest interest in sitting in a carriage alone with Bridgewater for that long. “I must remain behind. I have things I need to do.”

“Tomorrow, do you mean?” He met her gaze, curious.

“Tomorrow, and every day,” she said, frowning.

“I cannot leave you here to face the unpredictable dangers of the borderlands alone.”

“One imagines the guards on your estate might provide some help in that—or the army if it comes to that.” She smiled sweetly. “I know the families of the borderlands would be relieved to see the regiments watching me instead of going about their usual unpleasant business.”

“I will not marry you and then immediately appear to abandon you,” he said, impatience growing. “'Twould be unseemly.”

“Then I fear we will have no problem. Lacking a priest, 'tis unlikely in the extreme we shall be able to marry before you leave.”

He caught her by the wrist and she gasped. She focused her thoughts like a pinpoint of white light on Kent.
If you heard this, do not turn around. You'll sacrifice us both.

“Undine, I'm getting the impression you're not quite as certain of your feelings as you have led me to believe.”

The pressure of his grip was like a red-hot band of steel.

“Then you should be a fortune-teller yourself. I'm on the verge of ending our engagement this instant. Whatever my feelings for you are, I could never love a man who forced me into anything,” she said, furious. “Now release my wrist.”

Bridgewater did, and she slapped him. As hard as she was able.

The shock delayed the inferno for a moment or two, but it exploded, full flamed, in the inky black of his pupils. He would either strangle her then and there or curb his impulses, but she didn't know which.

He fought to master his voice. “You…you…”

She braced herself for the blow.

“Y-you are perfectly correct,” he said, making a choking noise and beginning to weep. “I'm so sorry. You must see I can't leave you behind. You must see. You must.”

“John.” It was the effect of the spell, not regret, though she was surprised how unhinged he'd become. She patted his back. “'Tis not worth your worry.”