17
A
nne was toasting her minor triumph with a small glass of the whiskey Patrick had brought the night before when he entered her room.
She was standing by the window in her smock, drawers, and riding boots, and her smile froze in shock as she recognized his tall figure in the mirror.
She also recognized that black expression. According to Nellwyn, Patrick rarely lost his temper, but when he did it was as if a snowstorm had blown down from the Cairngorms, chilling everything it touched.
The only time Anne had seen that look on his face had been four months after her wedding when they had seen each other at an auction house in London. Patrick had not been home long, and Anne had no idea how he had taken the news of her marriage until that day. David had kissed her in front of all their friends and announced that she was expecting their first child, which she had lost soon after.
For an unspeakable moment, she had feared Patrick was going to kill David on the spot, but instead he had cornered her at the edge of the crowd, not caring that his strange behavior could be watched.
"Is it mine?" he asked in a furious undertone.
She brushed his hand away, shocked by the question. "No, it isn't. Now stop looking at me like that. People can see us. Please, Patrick."
"Why did you marry him?" He was too arrogant and angry at her to care what anyone thought, if anyone overheard them, or if he might ruin the remnants of the life she had salvaged.
And she was too terrified by his reappearance in her settled life to give him any sort of explanation. "He wanted to marry me. I can't believe it would matter to you."
She didn't know what he had said after that but she did remember the way his eyes had raked over her, as if he actually dared to claim as his a child conceived months after their encounter—as if by a simple act he owned her and had the right to destroy her marriage.
And he was looking at her that same way now, only David was gone, and there was nothing to protect her from all that lay unfinished between them; he could not possibly understand how she had struggled to overcome the emotional pain of the past.
She reached for the silk dressing robe on the bed. "I did not summon you, Sutherland."
He slammed the door, and a shudder seemed to
resonate through the soles of her feet. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"I am not dressed properly, Patrick."
"I don't give a damn."
"You never did," she said tightly. "I just didn't understand that."
"What were you trying to prove by taking that jump?"
"If my husband didn't try to interfere with my riding, why should I care what you think?"
He was walking her back into the wall, swearing to himself and struggling not to acknowledge that she was beautiful and half-dressed, and that if she were his wife, he'd have locked her in the tower before he let her risk her life.
"David obviously couldn't control you."
"You mean he couldn't dominate me the way you want to."
He backed her into the dressing table, both of them breathing hard as they battled with their
emo
tions. "He was probably afraid to try," he said heartlessly. "Perhaps he knew you'd never loved him."
She closed her eyes and felt the heat of his body invading hers. Her voice broke. "I want you to leave before this goes any further. What I shared with my husband is none of your business."
"It is my business if you ride like a she-demon with no damned concern for your safety. I have not forgotten my promise to Her Majesty to protect you."
She pressed the heels of her hands down on the
table, more trapped by the emotional power he wielded over her than by his show of physical strength. "I did l
ove David. I did." Which was a lie h
e could never disprove—it was more a half-truth than a lie.
"How did you love him?"
She opened her eyes. His face was unyielding, and for the first time, she realized that either he had truly changed or she had underestimated him all along.
"Did you love him as a father?" he persisted. "Or was he more like an older brother and a good friend? There are many forms of love, Anne."
He was so close to the truth that she felt tears filling her eyes, but anger came to her rescue. "Do you know what's really sad, Patrick?" She pulled back as he put his arms around her shoulders. "It's not what happened to us. The saddest thing is that David was a genuinely good man, and he trusted you. Sometimes I used to think he suspected what had happened between you and me, but he never said a word, and that's just a quality, a maturity neither you nor I can claim. He never hurt a single soul in his life."
"I always will harbor a fondness for David," he admitted. "I confess I was not happy to hear you had wed my own cousin, but I acknowledge a debt of gratitude to h
im for keeping you safe for me.
"
"For you?" Resentment surged through all her tender memories, and she was so astonished by his arrogance, she began to laugh. "You are suffering from delusions, Sutherland."
"I'll show you something that is not a delusion, Anne. Something very real."
"You better not—"
"Aye, I will. You have always tempted me beyond my powers of resistance."
His kiss brought an end to the argument, proving again that time had only strengthened their attraction to each other. His large hands cradled her head; she heard him groaning her name into her hair but suddenly he wasn't
bullying, he was begging.
"Why can't we simply begin all over again?" he said quietly. "Woman, must I carve out my own heart for you to give me the chance to make amends? I've never forgotten you, Anne."
She couldn't answer, even if she knew what to say. How could she speak when the most basic physical function like breathing was so beyond her? How could she think when his long fingers were walking down her shoulder, slipping inside her smock to make her shiver and hope that he would take her right against the dressing table until the horrible ache of desiring him was appeased?
Her body remembered his mastery. Within a matter of seconds, he had reduced her to nothing. With a kiss he resurrected all the needs and pleasures she had hidden away when site had married a man she did not love. His touch reawakened all the wonder and terror a woman feels when she gives herself to a man she fears will end up hurting her.
"Nothing is different, is it?" he whispered. His mouth lowered to her breast; her head fell back as
he untied her smock and nibbled the dusky nipple, and his powerful hands moved over her body, sculpting her curves as if he owned her, as if he could crawl inside her soul, finding his scent and imprint where he had put it years ago.
She lifted her hands to his neck, intending to push him away. Instead, she twisted her fingers in the crisp black hair at his nape, kissing him back with a desire that took them both by surprise.
He lost control—it was Anne who held the power in her delicate lady's hands now even though he knew he could press the point; he could probably make her do anything he wished. But he was too excited to think it through, and he dragged her by her wrists to the bed and decided to let fate take its course. She seemed so fragile and vulnerable when he pulled her down between his legs, and even more than he wanted to make love to her, he wanted to reassure her he would never hurt her again, that his intentions were not to dishonor her.
"Trust me." He ran his strong hands up her belly to her breasts; she was straddling him, trembling uncontrollably as she shook her head, and her long hair fell down around his hips like a mantle.
"I'll never trust you again," she whispered. "This doesn't mean a thing except that I'm weak and lonely and—"
"It does mean something," he said. "Do you really believe it is by accident that we are together again?"
He sat up to wrap his arms around her, but from the hallway cam
e the clamor of voices and foot
steps; the footmen Fergus and Allan arguing about which angle to carry the tub into Anne's room. Patrick cursed softly, not willing to let her go.
She pulled her robe on, covering her swollen breasts, and gave him a stricken look before she got off the bed. His glazed eyes traveled over her from head to toe. He was
so aroused it was like a physi
cal ache, and his heart was pumping like a piston, but despite his discomfort, he hadn't forgotten why he had come to her room in the first place. He cared for her feelings more than satisfying his own lust.
"Don't ride like that again," he said, rising from the bed at the same time as the knock at the door announced her bath. "I mean it, Anne. So help me God, I will drag you by the hair off your horse if you take another jump like that."
"Thank you so much for your help moving the wardrobe, Sutherland," she said in a clear voice. The two lower manservants bustled between them, their presence defusing the heated threat in the air. "You may see about dinner now. Remember to set a place for Sir Wallace and Miss Flora."
He raised a brow, and their gazes clashed in the mirror as she moved to her desk and began sifting through a pile of old papers, her hands trembling. Without a word he walked up beside her, took a pen, and began to write.
You are mine, Anne.
You always were.
You always will be.
He closed the door with a rueful smile, leaving her alone with his message. She wanted to put her head down and weep, but what good would that do? She could not continue this way—she was fighting something in herself as much as against him, and the most terrifying thing was that even her quarrels with Patrick had a sense of rightness to them. His presence in her room, his anger at her recklessness had seemed so natural, and oh, God, oh, God, she had never forgotten him.
She folded his note in half and stuffed it into the desk, bewildered at how easily she had allowed him to provoke her again. The man did not understand the rules of polite behavior. He refused to understand that he was basically banished from her heart.
Mistress and servant, the balance of power was precarious and liable to shift at any instant if she did not strengthen her guard. Aye, she would have to. She would simply have to work harder to put an emotional distance between them. She would
not
repeat the sins of her past.
18
P
atrick banged into the blue drawing room a few hours later, a man
not happy with his position and
making no bones about it. "Dinner is served," he shouted, taking great pleasure in the startled way Sir Wallace fell back from Anne.
Anne rose from the sofa where she sat between Flora and her father. "Thank you for that subtle announcement, Sutherland. As soon as the walls stop shaking, we will make our way to the dining room. I trust you've made arrangements for Sir Wallace and his daughter to spend the night."
He frowned. "What for?"
She gave him a look. "It is raining. They cannot possibly ride home in this weather. At least not at night. In fact, I have invited them to stay a few more days if they like."
"Raining?" He strode over to the window and peered out. "Hell, it's barely a drizzle. In the infantry we'd call it midge piss. They—"
"We wouldn't want anything to happen to our neighbors, would we?" she interrupted him in a brittle voice.
Actually, we would, Patrick thought, turning to scowl back at her.
Flora gave a nervous giggle. "The Black Dwarf of the Bog might trap me on the way home. They say he comes out on rainy nights to waylay unwary travelers, and carries them off to his underground lair."
"The Black Dwarf?" Nellwyn glanced up from her game of solitaire. "I believe he only comes out to trap virgins. My goodness, dear, I shouldn't think you'd need to worry on that account."
Patrick shot his aunt an appreciative grin, at which point Anne could have cheerfully throttled the pair of them. There was definitely a streak of wickedness running through that family, and she still wouldn't be surprised to discover that she was the victim of some horrid scheme their two evil minds had invented.
I
t was Patrick's job as butler to oversee the table setting and to approve of such matters as whether the footmen had polished the nuts to perfection. The first thing he did, however, was to change the seating so that Sir Wallace sat at the opposite end of the table from Anne. Intent on this task, he forgot to trim the wicks and the guests arrived in utter darkness before he fig
ured out how to light the cande
labra without burning down the house. He realized suddenly that he had always taken his own servants for granted, not bothering to appreciate the countless tasks they undertook to make his life more comfortable. He had never paid attention to the functions of his aging butler and felt ashamed of himself.
"You make a terrible butler," Nellwyn informed him as she fanned a cloud of smoke from her face. "What are we having for dinner, Sutherland?"
He stared at her from the huge Gothic sideboard. "I can't remember."
"Well, when are we eating?"
He cast a dark glance at Sir Wallace moving his setting next to Anne. "I have no idea. Mrs. Forbes said dinner was ready, and that's all I know."
"Sutherland." She beckoned him over to her chair with her finger. He leaned down to hear her amused whisper. "The butler is supposed to bring up the first course. The footmen are waiting to follow you."
He looked up and saw Fergus and Allan flanking the door, grins on their homely faces. "Hell. What do I do after that?"
"Remove the covers and serve the wine," she whispered. "You may stand behind Anne's chair during the meal to attend her needs if you like. You must certainly remain there while we say grace."
He straightened, watching Sir Wallace scoot his chair closer to Anne's. "Allow me to help you with that, sir," he said, springing forward to wedge Sir Wallace's chair right back where it belonged. "There. Now isn't that better?"
Sir Wallace glared at him. "Hardly."
The meal proceeded quite well in Patrick's opinion, considering the fact that he wasn't paying attention to his butler's duties. His primary objective was to intrude every time Sir Wallace made a questionable move in Anne's direction until finally the dessert course arrived, and the baronet settled back in his chair, thwarted in the romantic overtures he had attempted.
Patrick leaned down next to Nellwyn on the pretext of handing her a fresh napkin. "Can you keep an eye on Anne while I see to something outside?" he said in a quiet voice.
The woman sighed. "You haven't taken to drink again, have you?"
"No, Auntie Nellwyn," he said in irritation. "I haven't, but I don't think anyone could blame me if I did. And by the way, it's nice to know both you and Anne have such great faith in me."
"You were a regular Lucifer
in your youth," she whispered behind her napkin, but she didn't sound exactly disapproving. "Will you be back in time for tea?"
"Probably not," he said. "I don't like tea, so it isn't exactly a sacrifice."
"I wasn't asking you to drink it," she said wryly. "It's the butler's job to serve tea and cake a few hours after we dine."
He straightened. "Keep an eye on Anne. I don't trust the walrus."
She caught his hand, her eyes gleaming. "It has something to do with the investigation, doesn't it?"
He backed away from the table. "I'll be back in an hour."
"Do you want me to sneak along to help?" she whispered eagerly.
"I've got Richard's dueling pis
tols in my room."
He winked at her. "I'll send for you if I need you."
P
atrick stared through the border of larch trees at the light rain falling on the black waters of the loch. For his own part it seemed plausible that an aging man had suffered a heart attack during a strenuous bout of rowing such a distance, especially after a week of shooting and an excess of rich food.
Still, that did not explain why Uncle Edgar's bank account had been so mysteriously depleted, but neither did that mean he had been murdered. All Patr
ick had to go on so far was Graci
e's unreliable rumors of his ghost, and Sandy mentioning Edgar had seemed distracted the night of the party.
He walked to the end of the pier and back, studying the dozen or so fishing
boats that waited on the moon-
silvered shore. A few bats flittered across the treetops, but all in all it seemed too peaceful a setting for foul play.
Then a movement on the hill above caught his eye. A lone horseman rode down the stony path toward him, and Patrick thought it strange to find another rider at this hour in such a secluded spot.
The gray-haired man, in a dark coat and trousers, dismounted. Patrick waited. They assessed each other in the silvery drizzle.
"Sir," the man said at last. "I do not know you. Are you lost perhaps? This is a private estate."
"I'm Patrick Sutherland." He hesitated. "I'm staying at Balgeldie House with Lady Whitehaven and Lady Invermont."
"Anne is back?" The older man offered his hand, "Forgive me. I am Doctor Daniel MacDonald, one of the family's physicians and long-time friend. I admit I never thought her ladyship would return after her husband died. David was passionate about this place, but I always thought Anne visited only to please him."
Patrick looked out across the water. It brought him no pleasure to be reminded that she'd shared so much of her life with another man, that she had cared about making David happy. She had created an entire world for herself, and there was no changing that, nor should he waste time wishing it were different.
"Her ladyship is planning the annual shooting party in less than a fortnight," he said. "There is to be a ball at the end of the affair and the torch-lit fishing contest here, which I assume has come to be a tradition."
"It's grand fun," Dr. MacDonald said.
"Except for the unfortunate death last year
…
I assume you were the physician in attendance?"
Dr. MacDonald looked puzzled. "The—ah, you mean poor Lord Kingaim."
Patrick wasn't sure how far he could probe without arousing suspicion. "I would hate for another such accident to befall one of Lady Whitehaven's guests. That is why I am here so late at night, to inspect the loch for potential dangers."
"A man's heart can fail at any time," the doctor answered, "especially during times of high exciteme
n
t—what did you say your exact relationship was to Lady Whitehaven?"
Patrick hesitated. "I am in her ladyship's employ," he said evasively. "I
t is my duty to ensure that nei
ther she nor her guests are endangered in any way."
"The new gillie, are you? Well, my good fellow, I did not attend Lord Kingaim myself—Sir Wallace's personal physician did—but I read the report of autopsy. The man died of heart failure. There were no peculiar markings on his body, no sign of internal injury. His shirt was missing a button, which indicates he may have struggled when he felt the crushing pain in his chest. But other than that it is a very classic case."
"So it would seem," Patrick said. "And will this physician also be in attendance should the unfortunate need to call upon him arise?"
"You'll have to make do with me, I'm afraid. I understand he took a position in Aberdeen a few months ago, which is why I am out at this ungodly hour visiting a patient. We could use another doctor in the parish."
There was a pause, the rain barely audible on the trees.
"I see," Patrick said.
MacDonald said, "There is always the risk of drowning when people drink, or an accidental shooting, but as they say, a stitch in time saves nine. I am relieved to see you're a man who takes pride in his position."
Pride in his position?
Patrick had to smile at that.