Page 28

Feeling Felicity writhe and moan her pleasure in the sculpture garden had Rollo musing she was no less than a gift from those very marble gods.

And the notion had given him just the idea.

He’d left before dawn for the journey to Perth, arriving during peak market hours, making it back to Duncrub in time for a late supper.

He wanted to give her a gift, somehow show her how much she’d come to mean to him. Though no gift on earth would be adequate to the task, Will found he wanted to buy her something all the same.

He hurried from the stables, patting the flap of his sporran over and again, making sure he’d not somehow lost the bundle he’d tucked in there. He hoped she’d like it. Rollo smiled, thinking she might.

He hesitated in Duncrub’s entryway. Should he find Felicity first, or eat first? He’d not eaten since before noon—and that while horseback—and he found he was fair starved.

But he wanted to see her. Needed to see her. He’d spent the better part of the day fantasizing about the give of her flesh under his grip and the feel of his mouth on hers.

Debating the needs of his loins versus the needs of his belly, he heard his mother approach. He’d grown up hearing the telltale elegant skim of fabric over stone and the unwelcome sound never failed to identify her.

Rollo realized he was not overly fond of that sound. He girded himself.

“You dare bring such filth into my home?”

“Mother,” he said, facing her. “I’d expected your usual frost, but this . . . venom, this is a surprise.” He forced a casual smile. “To what do I owe such an uncharacteristic display of emotion?”

“What?” she sputtered, staring trembling at her son. “Who do you think you are to speak to me so? If your father were here, you’d never dare to speak thus—”

“Father is here, Mother.” He’d spent his life avoiding his mother. His brother. But if Felicity had taught him anything in the past weeks, it was that life was too precious not to speak one’s mind and one’s heart with the same single voice.

“Mostly, Mother, I speak so, because it’s high time somebody addressed you truthfully.

My brother has spent his life tiptoeing around you.

But I never have, and there’s the rub, aye?

It wasn’t that you couldn’t stomach a broken son, it’s that you couldn’t abide a willful one.

It’s no secret you harbor few affections—”

“Affection?” Her voice was a strained hiss. “You speak to me of affection? What do you know of it, when all you’ve done lately is bring your . . . your witch whore into my home?”

Fury crackled through him, ice crystallizing his veins in a single, rapid wave. Rollo stepped to his mother, stopped, checked himself. He’d not threaten her. Never could he stoop to that.

Despite the vitriol, despite the twisted charade that was their family, Will would never raise a hand to one of his parents.

His free hand balled into a tight fist at his side. The feel of his nails digging into the meat of his palm gave him focus. “You will not speak of Felicity—”

“ Nobody will speak of Felicity,” she interrupted, her tone a carefully modulated chill.

“And if you hope to call even a single farthing of the Rollo fortune your own some day, you will keep her presence a secret. The fact that she spent even a single hour here, a secret. You will take it to your grave, young man.”

“Felicity is where she belongs now.” Jamie’s voice came from the doorway, where he’d been standing, hovering in silence.

“Skulking about in the shadows again?” Will sneered at his brother. He should’ve known. Jamie would’ve seen Will’s attachment to Felicity, and now he’d worry it like a dog his bone.

“You may get as testy as you like,” Jamie said. “It won’t save your pretty little witch.”

Will grew utterly still. “What do you mean?”

“She is where she belongs,” his mother chirped.

But Will’s eyes didn’t swerve from his brother. “What are you saying?” White noise buzzed in his head. “What have you done with Felicity?”

Jamie only shrugged. “She was a peculiar bird, your woman. It was only a matter of time.”

“A matter of time before what?” Will faced his brother, strode to him, but his fury seized his muscles, made him awkward, and his approach was labored, wooden.

Jamie eyed his younger brother with disdain. “Before she was imprisoned, cripple.”

“Imprisoned?” Will’s world went red. “What have you done?”

“I’ve not done a thing.” Jamie casually rested his head back on the doorjamb.

“The minister and his men came for her,” his mother said. “For witchcraft . Never have I felt such shame.”

“Alexander Robertson?” The thought of the man touching Felicity, of any man touching her . . . Horror swept him, turned his belly to ice.

Foreboding followed quick on its heels. Robertson was a madman with a taste for the smell of burnt flesh, his favorite pursuit throwing women on a witch’s pyre. Dozens of them. “And none of you tried to stop him?”

“Well,” Jamie chuckled, “your woman tried. A wee spit-fire that one. She’d scald any man.” He raised his brow in a lewd smirk. “Or have you already discovered that?”

“Where did they take her?” Will’s voice sounded like the edge of a knife blade.

Jamie only shrugged.

“You can’t bear to see me happy, can you?

Or is it you can’t bear that she chose me over you?

” Love for Felicity had stoked something to life in his soul.

And this time, rather than weathering his brother in bitter silence, Will raged.

Plainspoken words his seven-year-old self would’ve cheered to hear.

“Horses, women . . . they all seem to prefer me, don’t they, Jamie? ”

“You bloody bastard,” Jamie hissed, and in three great strides, he had his sword unsheathed.

But Will was ready for him. He whipped his cane, slashing at Jamie’s sword, sending it clattering across the foyer.

“Boys,” their mother shrieked. “You will not shed blood in my home.”

Will cast a cold eye on his mother. “You’d not look ill on it spilt elsewhere, though, would you?”

He turned on his heel, away from his detested family, grateful for once that purpose gave ease to his gait.

He’d leave Duncrub, at once. He’d not have time to gather his things. Who knew what more mischief Jamie might rain down.

He’d see his father, one last time. Then leave. Forever, if need be. Fortune be damned. His family be damned.

But first he needed to find paper, pen a letter.

Rollo needed help, and he knew just the place to find it.

Alexander Robertson was a creep. Felicity couldn’t believe she’d actually thought he was cute at first.

She eyed that blond hair, pulled back in a little ponytail. She hated little ponytails on men.

At least she wasn’t tied up. The guards had wanted to tie her up, but apparently the minister fancied himself quite the gentleman. Creep.

“You could marry me,” he told her.

“So . . . let me get this straight. My options are to be burned for witchcraft or . . . get down and dirty with you ?” Felicity looked around at the barren walls. Cold stone smelling of dank and urine. “I hate to break it to you, but your little pad isn’t exactly a date-getter.”

Aboveground it hadn’t looked so bad. In fact, Keltie Castle seemed quite the spread, with tapestries on the walls and a blazing fire in the hearth.

But Robertson’s lackeys had whisked her, screaming, down a ladder into an underground chamber where torchlight flickered on walls too shallow for her to stand upright.

She was terrified he might leave her alone. It was so still down there, with the black shadows threatening. She was frightened to death of that darkness, that utter silence, and of the memories it stirred.

Cold, black silence was too like the inside of her parents’ car, right after the accident. She’d shoved the memories away long ago, burying them down deep. But just two minutes alone in a place devoid of light or movement, and she was slammed back into the past, a terrified kid again.

And so she kept talking, because the sound of her voice was better than being left alone in this dungeon, quiet like a grave.

Robertson, unfortunately, seemed to be finding all her talk charming.

It had struck her that maybe this could be the thing that could save her: chattering on, using her feminine wiles to convince the minister to change his mind. Except she’d changed his mind too much, because now he seemed smitten.

She studied his features in the dim light. What she’d first thought was benign charm now seemed oily, smarmy, and just plain gross.

She just had to hold on. Will would come and save her. She knew he would come.

He was her Viking, after all. This whole escapade was writ in stone somewhere, on some grand tablet, kept by the fates, marking the ways of the universe.

Robertson reached for her, tried to stroke his fingers down her cheek. His touch disgusted her. Sneaky and ticklish, it reminded her of a spider.

Gross. She shuddered, flinching away.

“I’d be careful if I were you. Will is coming for me, and he won’t take very kindly to this. You sure wouldn’t want him to use that cane of his to open up a can of whoop- ass on your sorry minister hide.”

“What a strange wee creature you are,” he murmured, obviously not understanding half of what she’d said. “Like an exotic bird in a cage.” He edged closer on the narrow bench. “But I’m afraid only I can save you now.”

“Man, you are such a total creep.” She scooted away, her bottom half hanging off the cold stone now. “You and that Jamie both. Total creeps. I gotta ask, does this kidnapping thing work for you guys? I mean, generally speaking?”

She had to keep his attention, keep chattering. Keep that torch lit until Will came for her.

“Is that what this whole witch thing is about?” she continued. “Women who you think are, I don’t know, too cute, or too independent, or strong-willed, they won’t date you, so you call them witches instead?”

“You silly chit. I’d watch your tongue were I you.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not me,” she snapped, thinking she’d found his Achilles’ heel. Seems the guy probably didn’t have the best track record with the ladies. “Because then you’d be sitting in a dungeon getting hit on by a nasty loser. An unattractive, unappealing, stinky dog of a man.”

His eyes narrowed, and Felicity worried that she’d gone too far. She was sure he couldn’t have understood all of what she said, but she imagined a phrase like stinky dog must resonate on some level.

“I’ll ask once more,” Robertson said in a menacingly tight voice, “where are you from?”

“I told you. Glasgow.” Too bad she’d never been there in her life. Hadn’t the faintest idea what the place was like at all.

“I cannot believe it.” He peered at her, as if her features held some clue. “From which part? Who is your father?”

Uhhh . . . She and Will hadn’t planned that far. She decided to wing it with the truth. “My father’s dead, you jerk.”

“Dead. A dead Wallace,” he mused. “Your father . . . was a Royalist, I think.”

“I . . .”

“He was,” Robertson shouted triumphantly.

“I can see it on your face. Listen well, girl. Royalists find no ally in my parish. Though I am more . . . discreet than others. Your death, should it come, won’t be some tedious political commentary.

” His gaze grew fever bright. “My dear, your destiny will be a spectacle greeted by a cheering crowd.”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb once more, and this time the grip of his hand held her in place. “I will not tell you twice. One way or another, Felicity Wallace, you shall submit to me. Or you shall perish in flames.”