Then, without further ado, she grabbed his arm and dragged him to a quiet stretch. Colorful lanterns swung lazily above their heads in the warm summer breeze, the haunting sound of the young soprano’s voice and the low rumble of conversation and laughter carrying to them. Yet they were essentially alone in this one small corner of the walkway.
“We will have this out here and now,” she said, her voice quiet yet sharp as she turned to face him. Her jaw jutted out, her eyes narrowed to hard slits, her entire body fairlyvibrating with anger and determination. She was taller than most women, had always seemed able and willing to go head-to-head with him. Now was no different. If anything, she appeared more of a Fury than ever.
To his surprise and ire, his blood stirred at the glorious sight of her.
But no, he would not be distracted by his seemingly intact desire for her.
“Aye, let’s,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “The sooner I get off this blasted island and return to Scotland, the better I’ll be.”
“For me as well.” A strange gleam entered her eyes, magnified to a disturbing degree by the lenses of her spectacles. “But before we begin, I want to know how you found me.”
The question gave him pause. Not because it was unexpected. If he were in her shoes he would wish to know as well.
But there was something almost fearful in the asking. He was reminded of the last time he saw her, just before her friends rescued her from him. She had been fearful then, too. No, more than fearful; she had been damn near terrified. A disturbing question rose up in his mind: What the hell had happened to her?
A moment later and he pushed the question aside. Now was not the time to be blinded by concern for her. He had a purpose here, months in the making; he would see it through, come hell or high water—or delectable wives who made him remember things he would rather forget.
“To tell you that,” he murmured, liking her much better when her hackles were raised, “I must begin with a story.”
She scowled. “And if I don’t wish to hear your story?”
“Why, then, lass, you shall miss out on just how I foundyou. Beginning with how I learned that I wasnae a widower, as I had believed myself to be all these years.”
Her scowl deepened—so much better than that frightened look in her eyes that had him worrying for her—and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Very well. Have out with it. But quickly, for I haven’t got all night.”
He leaned against a light post. “You recall Mrs. Mary Campbell, I presume.”
The only physical response she allowed to show was a slight flicker of her eyelids. “My father’s old housekeeper? Yes, I recall her.”
“She wrote to me, told me your father lied about your death. You can imagine my surprise.”
“I did not realize Mrs. Campbell was privy to my father’s secrets,” she replied acidly.
“It has been my experience that most people born into wealth and privilege do not realize that the servants know much more about their lives than even they do.”
She pressed her lips tight but did not respond to his little jab. “And where is Mrs. Campbell now?”
“Dead.”
He expected a reaction of sorts from her. Maybe a murmured word of regret, a slight tilt of her head to acknowledge the passing of a woman who had spent the majority of her life serving Lord Farrow and his ilk.
What he had not expected was how deeply his one word seemed to affect her. Her face paled and her arms, which had been crossed belligerently over her chest, slid down to cradle her middle, as if she would hold herself together by sheer force.
But the moment of vulnerability did not last long. Drawing in a slow breath, she straightened and turned the fullforce of her glare on him once more. When she would have spoken again, however, a group of young women came their way. They were talking animatedly with one another but quieted when they spotted Iain and Seraphina off to the side of the path, their eyes bright with curiosity. Though Iain did not know if it was because of him—he stood out, after all, with his uncommon size and quite possibly being the only man in a kilt on the whole bloody island—or Seraphina.
Apparently, Seraphina was not about to wait around and find out. Pointedly ignoring the women, she surreptitiously grabbed his arm and pulled him down the brightly lit path away from the group. Then, giving a quick look around to make certain they were no longer being observed, she yanked him out from under the lights of the lanterns and to the dark beach beyond, behind an outcropping of rocks, until they were quite cut off from the rest of the world.
Out of the circle of glowing lights, everything altered. The laughter and conversation quickly faded, the dulcet sounds of the soprano no more than a backdrop, the hush of the surf watering it all down until he felt as if he had stepped into a completely different world. The sand shifted under his boots, making his feel as unsteady as Seraphina’s hand on his arm did, and he was hard-pressed to pull his sleeve out from under her touch. How the blazes could she still affect him?
Blessedly she stopped and pulled away herself, saving him from acting a fool and showing his hand.
“But you have not answered how you located me,” she said, her voice haunting in the dark, the husky tones of it wrapping about him like a caress. “I managed to evade my father’s men for years. How was it you managed to find me out?”
Pull yourself together, MacInnes.Crossing his arms over his chest, he put all thoughts of his totally unwelcome attraction for Seraphina far from his mind. “Well now, that took a bit of doing. You were not an easy one to track.”
“Wholly on purpose, I assure you,” she muttered under her breath.
“If I hadnae chanced to see a copy of a particular periodical,” he drawled, ignoring her comment, “I wouldnae have found you at all.”
