Part 11 (2/2)
”Is the la.s.s callin' us ig'nrant?” one of the men demanded, looking more wounded than outraged.
Bon snorted. ”If ye weren't so bluidy ig'nrant, ye'd know, wouldn't ye?”
”Perhaps a more apt word might be uneducated, uneducated,” Emma said gently, extending the jug of whisky to the man as a peace offering. Before he could take it, an eerie cry splintered the night.
No amount of fine Scots whisky could have burned away the chill that shot down Emma's spine in that moment. For a tense eternity, there was no other sound except the fitful crackle of the fire and the echo of that unearthly cry. They all held their breath, scanning the shadows that surrounded them. Emma had to fight a treacherous urge to leap over the fire and into Jamie's arms.
”There's no need to wet your breeches, lads,” he drawled, leaning back on one elbow. ”'Twas naught but a bird, or perhaps a wildcat. Now pa.s.s that jug over here before our wee Miss Marlowe drains it dry.”
His men hastened to obey, more than one hand betraying a lingering tremor as the jug traveled their circle. When it arrived at Jamie's hand, he tipped it back and took a long, deep swig. His gaze met Emma's over the leaping flames of the fire, as if to deliberately remind her that his mouth was where hers had just been. And to remind her just how tender and persuasive that mouth could be.
He lowered the jug. ”You might as well continue with your tales. You heard Miss Marlowe. She's not some nervous Nell afraid of her own shadow. I'm sure she's as eager to hear more of your gruesome gossip as I am.”
Jamie's men took a sudden and keen interest in the cleanliness of their boots, looking as if they wished themselves anywhere else in the world-including the Hepburn's deepest dungeon.
Emma cleared her throat, the whisky giving her even more courage than she had antic.i.p.ated. ”It's been my experience that the only weapon strong enough to still the wagging tongues of gossips is the truth.”
Jamie's eyes narrowed to frosty slits. She had allowed herself to forget-if only for a moment-that he just might be more dangerous than whatever was lurking in those woods. At least to her. ”This isn't some Lancas.h.i.+re sewing circle or London drawing room, Miss Marlowe. Out here the truth can be a dangerous thing. It can even get you killed.”
”Is that what happened to your mother? Did the truth get her killed?”
The hush that had fallen after that eerie cry seemed like a cheerful hubbub compared to the silence that descended over them now. It was as if the night was holding its breath along with Jamie's men. Emma refused to relinquish Jamie's gaze.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but edged with reluctant admiration. ”Apparently ghosts aren't the only things that don't frighten you. If my men were half so bold, we'd have routed the Hepburn long ago.”
Emma swallowed, thankful he couldn't hear her heart hammering in her throat.
”If 'tis the truth you want, la.s.s, then 'tis the truth you'll have.” While his men exchanged shocked glances, he took another swig of the whisky, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ”When my mother, Lianna, was little more than a girl, she was out collecting mushrooms in a wood very much like this one when she met a bonny young stranger who had lost his way. Their flirtation was probably harmless enough until they both made the greatest mistake of their lives.”
”What did they do?” Emma asked.
Jamie was gazing at her as if she was his only audience and his men were as insubstantial as the ribbons of mist curling around them. ”They fell in love.”
It was impossible to mistake the note of warning in his voice.
Emma shook her head. ”I don't understand. Why was that such a terrible mistake?”
”Because they were born to be enemies, not lovers. She was the daughter of the last surviving Sinclair chieftain... and he was Gordon Hepburn, the only son and heir of the Hepburn.”
A wave of shock rippled through Emma but it was clear from the bleak expressions on the faces of Jamie's men that they were already all too familiar with this chapter of the story.
Jamie went on in his hypnotic burr. ”Every time she could escape her father's watchful eye, she would steal away to meet him. This went on until the inevitable happened... she realized she was with child.”
”But... but...” Emma stammered, ”wouldn't that make you-”
”A b.a.s.t.a.r.d.” Jamie's glower warned her to tread with care. ”And a Sinclair. Just like my mother.”
Emma snapped her mouth shut, reeling with astonishment. She searched Jamie's face-his regal cheekbones, his strong blade of a nose with its lightly flared nostrils, the rugged planes of his jaw-but could find no trace of the wizened old man to whom she was promised. A man she now knew to be Jamie's paternal grandfather. For the first time she understood why their enmity was so personal... and so bitter.
”They both knew their fathers would be outraged if they discovered the truth,” Jamie continued. ”So they ran away together and set up house in a crofter's hut deep in the forest with only her loyal auld nurse to tend to them. They were determined to keep her safe and hidden from both their families until after the babe was born.”
It was all too easy for Emma to imagine the two young lovers playing at domestic bliss in some cozy cottage, desperately trying to ignore the storm clouds gathering over all of their hopes.
”After the babe was born, they left him with the nurse, then set off down the mountain in the dark of night. Their plan was to elope, then come back, retrieve the babe and break the news to both their families after it was too late for them to be stopped. They truly believed their union would put an end to the feud between the Hepburns and the Sinclairs once and for all. That their love was strong enough to defeat the hatred between their clans.”
Resting her chin on her hand, Emma sighed wistfully. ”Such a romantic dream.”
”Aye, it was.” Jamie agreed, his voice so dispa.s.sionate he might have been talking about a pair of strangers. ”But also a hopelessly naive one. They died in a misty glen not far from here that very same night. They were found lying on the ground with their hands outstretched toward each other, yet still a fingersbreadth apart. She had taken a pistol ball to the heart. He was shot through the head.”
Emma might have felt self-conscious about the tear she was forced to dash from her cheek if Malcolm hadn't tugged a grimy kerchief from his pocket and honked loudly into it before pa.s.sing it to his brother.
”Who would do such a thing?” she whispered when she could speak again.
Jamie shrugged. ”The Hepburns blamed the Sinclairs. The Sinclairs blamed the Hepburns. Accusations flew and the feud continued, more bitterly and violently than before.”
”What happened to the poor ba-” She hesitated, knowing he was more likely to scorn her pity than appreciate it. ”To you you?”
”The Hepburn despised the very fact of my existence so my mother's father took me in and raised me as his own.” Jamie's gaze traveled the circle of his men's rapt faces before returning to Emma. ”So now you all know why there are some who say my parents' shades still drift through these woods, calling out to each other on misty nights. 'Tis still whispered they're doomed to wander this place where they died-together yet ever apart-until their murderer is revealed.”
His words sent a fresh s.h.i.+ver dancing down Emma's spine. ”Is that what you believe?”
”Of course not. As you pointed out so eloquently, Miss Marlowe,” he said, lifting the jug of whisky to her in a mocking toast, ”we live in the Age of Reason. And the Hepburn has certainly proved there are more turrible monsters to fear than ghosts.”
IT WAS FAR TOO easy for Emma to believe in ghosts-and even more sinister agents of darkness-while lying on her side in the middle of a strange wood and watching the mist come creeping out of the trees toward her. The spectral tendrils seemed to ripple and curl, weaving themselves into forms that were alien and yet all too recognizable-a hollow-eyed skull, a snarling wolf, a beckoning finger, inviting her to rise from her bedroll and come meet her doom. easy for Emma to believe in ghosts-and even more sinister agents of darkness-while lying on her side in the middle of a strange wood and watching the mist come creeping out of the trees toward her. The spectral tendrils seemed to ripple and curl, weaving themselves into forms that were alien and yet all too recognizable-a hollow-eyed skull, a snarling wolf, a beckoning finger, inviting her to rise from her bedroll and come meet her doom.
She flung herself to her other side, starting to feel like some overly fanciful heroine from one of the Gothic novels Ernestine would sneak between the pages of her Bible when their mother wasn't looking.
She'd been kidnapped by a gang of Highland ruffians. She had far more substantial threats to fear than a pair of restless ghosts.
Like the man who still sat gazing into the dying flames of the fire, the empty jug of whisky dangling from his strong, tanned fingers.
Jamie's men had been snoring in their bedrolls for quite some time now, leaving him to face the night all alone. The flickering shadows played over his strong jaw and the stark planes beneath his cheekbones. Emma could not help but wonder what images he might be seeing in those waning flames.
Did he see the face of an innocent young girl foolish enough to trust her heart to a man born to be her enemy? Or did he see the wizened visage of the Hepburn-a vindictive old man who would deny his grandson's very existence before admitting his son had fallen in love with a Sinclair?
Was it truly a ransom Jamie was demanding from the Hepburn in exchange for her return? Or simply the inheritance that rightfully belonged to him?
And if the Hepburn refused him, would she be the one to pay the price? Would it be her body found in some deserted wood? Her ghost doomed to wander the misty night without even a lover to drift by its side?
Or would Jamie's revenge be even more diabolical?
This time, her s.h.i.+ver had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with the dangerous power a mortal man might wield over a woman. The breathless moments they had shared in Muira's bed had only given her a taste of that power. If he unleashed its full might against her, she wasn't sure her body-or her heart-would survive.
Yet here in this dark and forbidding wood, she was oddly comforted by the sight of him, by the knowledge that he was watching over them all. Her eyes began to drift shut as her weary body succ.u.mbed to exhaustion.
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