Lost in Your Arms (15 page)

Her desperate mind fumbled for an explanation.

She had forgotten his height as well as his face.

No, she hadn’t. A woman always remembered gazing up at her husband during their wedding ceremony, and the top of her head had reached Stephen’s chin.

He had grown.

Impossible. Stephen had been twenty-six when he’d wed her.

Only one explanation remained.

“What’s wrong?” MacLean caught her shoulders in his hands. “Enid, what’s wrong? You look as if you could faint.”

This wasn’t Stephen.

This man wasn’t her husband.

Chapter 16

“Is there anything I can do for you before you leave, Mrs. MacLean?”

Enid stared around at the controlled pandemonium in the secluded drawing room, at the maids folding clothes and placing them in trunks, at Mrs. Brown, who carried linens, at Harry, who stood by the doorway, arms crossed, the epitome of belligerent suspicion. Then Enid looked up at Mr. Throckmorton.

She wanted to shriek,
Yes, tell me why you’ve done this.

She breathed hard, trying to get enough air to save herself from fainting. Every time she thought of the dreadful deception, her stomach knotted, her hands shook, and she feared she would collapse in a blithering passion of hysteria. Because the man she had spent two months caring for, the man she had uprooted her whole life for . . . the man she had given her body to . . . wasn’t her husband.

Yet those eyes. Those eyes were Stephen’s. About that she could not be wrong.

But his face . . . not just battered from the explosion, but the wrong face. He was . . . he had to be . . . Kiernan MacLean, laird of the MacLeans. Kiernan MacLean, who on the occasion of her marriage to Stephen, had written to cruelly reject her.

She wasn’t sure Mr. Throckmorton knew. MacLean’s appearance had fooled her, so maybe . . . oh, she didn’t know. She didn’t know if she should tell Mr. Throckmorton. She didn’t know if her confession would cause more trouble and call forth more danger. So she said only, “I don’t understand. Why are we going to Scotland
today
?” The sun had scarcely peeked over the horizon, yet they had been packing since they’d arrived at the main house.

“These are our normal precautions in a situation such as this,” Mr. Throckmorton assured her. “Her Majesty’s government does not take lightly the murder or the attempted murder of her subjects by a foreign power.”

Perhaps, but with the far-flung borders of the empire growing ever larger, Enid had trouble believing Her Majesty’s government exerted itself quite so much for each death. “Couldn’t we at least wait until MacLean has recovered from the shock of the fire?”

Mr. Throckmorton seated himself in the chair opposite her. “MacLean seems to be thriving.”

True. MacLean’s color was good, his expression animated. He had demanded that his hair be cut, and the auburn locks she had slid through her fingers only the night before had been shorn to a more gentlemanly
length. Clearly the inactivity of the sickroom had worn on him, and he welcomed departure. Yet he glanced at her occasionally, checking on her as if he were worried about her.

Well. She had almost passed out in front of the burning cottage. He didn’t seem to know why. Indeed, she acquitted him of dissembling; he truly believed he was her husband.

But he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

“It’s you I’m worried about,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “Pardon me for observing, but you’re pale and have dark rings under your eyes. We have a bedchamber made up for you. Won’t you try to get some sleep?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” If she tried, she would see MacLean’s green-and-gold eyes before her and know . . . know that she had committed fornication.

MacLean caught her looking at him, and right there, in front of everyone, he blew her a kiss.

Silly, romantic gesture. She wanted to duck and hide, for when he found out the truth, he would be furious.

Dear Lord, she had fornicated with Kiernan Mac-Lean.

“You’re not to worry about your lost clothing.” Mr. Throckmorton seemed to be trying to reassure her on every level. “Celeste is packing for you, and I know some of the gowns are from her own trousseau.”

“I wish she wouldn’t.” Enid smoothed the skirt of the green tweed traveling outfit Celeste had insisted on giving her. Two seamstresses were sewing madly on a variety of costumes, clothes such as Enid had never
dreamed of wearing, altering them to fit Enid’s taller frame. “I can’t ever pay her back.”

Mr. Throckmorton looked pained. “Please, Mrs. MacLean. The fire which destroyed your belongings is my responsibility. I promise you I will replace every gown for Celeste.” He looked at Celeste as she consulted with the seamstresses. “My fiancée is generous and clever, and you must not try to get in her way in this matter or any other, or she’ll shoot you.” He turned back to Enid, his mouth twisted in sardonic amusement. “I have the scars to prove it.”

No matter what he said, no matter how hard everyone tried to make Enid feel as if this flurry of leaving was natural and wonderful, the rush of events battered at her. If only she could stop for a moment, think and reason, and decide the right thing to do. But Mr. Throckmorton wanted them out of here. Someone had attempted to kill MacLean.

She ought to send MacLean on his way, by himself, but if she did she would give up any right to know his fate. And perhaps, just perhaps, she acted as camouflage for him. After all, she appeared to be devoted to her husband. To Stephen MacLean.

Oh, why lie to herself? She
was
devoted to him.

Just . . . so frightened about what would happen if someone tried to hurt him again. And so appalled when she considered his justifiable rage when he realized he had lain with his cousin’s despised wife.

His cousin, who was dead.

Stephen MacLean was—had to be—the man who had died in the explosion. She was truly a widow now, free to do as she wished. Except . . . she wasn’t, because
she was going to Scotland. She wanted to cover her face and cry in desolation and confusion, but she had sworn she wouldn’t cry again.

She had one question. One question that desperately needed to be answered. In painfully polite tones, she said, “Mr. Throckmorton, I feel . . . peculiar about going to the Isle of Mull. As if I don’t belong there.”

Reading her confusion, Throckmorton examined her intently. “Mrs. MacLean, do you understand why I’ve wanted MacLean to recall, by himself, who he is and the events leading to his accident?”

“I . . . yes, I suppose so. You want him to remember without any prompting.”

“That’s right. I fear that if we tell him what to think, our influence will taint his memories.”

She knew he had issued a plea—and a warning.
Don’t tell MacLean about his past
. . . but what could she tell MacLean, except that he was not the man she had told him he was? That she was not the wife he believed? She didn’t relish that conversation, and it would have to come, for sooner or later he would remember. If he didn’t remember before they reached the Isle of Mull, she would face a highly uncomfortable situation. She would meet his family, and they would know the truth. They would tell the truth. More important, she might meet . . . She clasped her hands together, so hard her fingers tingled. “Tell me about the MacLeans. Who they are? What they do?”

Throckmorton answered readily enough. “They’re a large family on an immense estate, with cousins and retainers galore.”

Delicately, she angled toward the knowledge she wanted. “Is Stephen MacLean’s mother alive?”

“Yes, she is. As I understand it, she’s a beautiful woman who adores her son and thinks he can do no wrong.” Mr. Throckmorton’s face remained impassive. “Her name is Lady Catriona MacLean.”

“Lady Catriona MacLean.” Enid committed the name to memory. “But I know Stephen’s father is dead.” She found herself watching MacLean as she spoke.

MacLean caught her eye and grinned at her, a big, hairy man who thought her breasts brought him back to life, who had kissed her into ecstasy and made her his own.

She tore her gaze away. “What about . . . oh, his aunt?”

“That would be Lady Bess Hamilton. I met her once years ago. She’s quite eccentric. She wears turbans and smokes cigars. When I met her I thought her charming.” Throckmorton smiled. “Her son does not.”

Enid’s heart began a hard, steady thumping, as for the first time, knowing what she knew, she said his name. “Her son is Kiernan MacLean, the current laird?”

“Yes. There’s a daughter, too, Kiernan’s sister. Her name is Caitlin.”

A light sweat dabbled Enid’s forehead, and she leaned forward. “The laird himself? Is he . . . married?”

Throckmorton leaned back in his chair and looked hard at her. Slowly, drawing out the words, he said, “No. No, he’s quite the ladies’ man. He’s never been married.”

She sat back and let out a long, pent-up breath. “Good. That’s very good.”

* * *

The coach stood at ready with four matched horses to pull it. The trunks were loaded. MacLean stood on the broad steps, breathed in the fresh air and experienced the familiar sting of excitement. Then he laughed aloud. He didn’t remember why that sting was familiar, but it was, and he loved it. He felt grand, in control of his destiny once more. He would mold events as he wished; soon the mysteries would be all solved, he’d have his memory back, and everything would be right in the world.

Then he caught sight of Enid, dressed in a traveling costume of a sturdy bottle green wool, a bonnet, a black worsted skirt with a bottle green velvet jacket, a glorious, brick red cravat, and a serene expression. She carried a capable air about her, and a smooth concern for him. She had gone away from him; before the fire, she’d been flustered, warm, a wife who’d been well pleasured. Now she smiled at him with impersonal kindness, acted like the kind of female who allowed herself to be hired rather than one who gave from the goodness of her heart.

She had even asked him if he felt married.

He had leered with exaggerated lust when he’d answered, “I do now.”

She hadn’t laughed.

Indeed, she’d indulged in no honest emotion at all, yet he saw the signs of tension; she had draped a handsome matching green wool cape, trimmed with fur, over her arm, and she clutched a large reticule so tightly that he was willing to wager that, beneath her black leather gloves, her knuckles were white.

Enid. Last night she had been everything he’d imagined.
She had been wanton in her giving, generous in her caresses, and so heated in her loving that he had almost ignited with the pleasure. Of course, she had resisted his demand that she cleave to him, and even afterward she had not been convinced of the rightness of their union.

He was convinced enough for the both of them. While he knew on some level that she was not the most striking female in the world, when he looked at her, he saw perfection. She was his woman, and he would overcome her doubts. He only wished that when she looked at him she would manage a little affection. Her haunted blue eyes troubled him. It was almost as if she was saying good-bye.

In truth, he watched her closely, for he feared she would bolt.

Throckmorton strode up to him. “Ready?”

MacLean laughed a little. “Past ready.”

“The items you asked for have been placed where you can get them. More than one stash, just as you requested.” Observing him without a hint of amusement, Throckmorton said, “You’re acting suspicious and wary, just as you always have. Are you sure you don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember, but yes, this feels natural to me. And my wariness saved my life last night, and my wife’s.”

Throckmorton lowered his voice. “Sally has disappeared.”

“Sally?” MacLean remembered the girl who had waited on him, who seemed so eager to please. “The maid?”

“She came into the cottage last night to talk to the
guard. Harry found him unconscious, and the coals from the fireplace were spread across the wooden floor.”

Thinking out loud, MacLean said, “Someone paid her. Someone wanted me eliminated.”

“If they had known that you could walk, there would have been a more direct action.”

“No wonder you’re in such a hurry to get us out of here.”

Throckmorton stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at the step. “I’d go with you if I wasn’t getting married.”

“You must show up for the ceremony.” MacLean rubbed his palm across the scars on his cheek. “You have no idea who is after me?”

Throckmorton lowered his voice yet again. “Not yet, but we’re placing you in this carriage in full sight of anyone who might be watching. In a few hours, you’ll stop at an inn to change the team. You’ll remain there while another couple re-boards the carriage to go on. You—”

“And Enid.”

Throckmorton nodded. “—And Enid will be left behind, there to transfer to a private train and go on to Edinburgh. After that we’ll move you back to a carriage, and you’ll go to Oban. Then a ferry to Mull. We’ve got men with you every step of the way. I can’t promise nothing will happen—obviously, after last night, I cannot—but I’ve spread my protection as thickly as possible.”

“Will my family know we’re coming?”

“No one must know.”

“So we’re going to outrun trouble.”

“Retreat is our first line of defense.”

Belligerent with the need to know, MacLean said, “It’s time you told me the truth.”

Throckmorton hesitated, as if he were tempted. “You know most of the truth. You know what happened to you. You know that someone wants you dead. I harbor a great fear that if I tell you everything before you remember on your own, your memories will be confused. We need those memories. Whoever set the trap for you and killed the other fellow is very nervous, and if we could just find out his name—”