Page 30 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

Looking at him, she wondered if he could hear how her heart throbbed thunderously, making each breath she drew an act of labor.

She knew it, she knew it—just how wrong and improper it was to be out here with him, alone and unchaperoned.

She had been raised like a flower, planted and nurtured in a walled garden, while he had always been as free from worry and restraint as the wind, and truly, that was what they were: the wind and the flower.

And saints above, it was a warm, tempting wind blowing through her petals tonight.

She looked into his lazy eyes and thought, This is how women get a bad reputation.

She wondered what he would do if he knew what she was thinking, if he had any inkling of just how curious she was about the mysteries he obviously knew so much about.

She lifted her hand and touched her lips, remembering the dampness from his kiss that had lingered there only moments ago.

Too much, she thought. Too much and too soon.

And then she remembered Huntly, and knew it wasn’t only too soon, it was too late.

He was so close—too close—and the warm play of his breath upon her cheek too disturbing. His voice was low and throbbing, his words throwing back the lid to Pandora’s box. How could she resist?

“Why don’t you leave me alone?” she asked. “Why must you persist? You’re only making it more difficult for me.”

“I know,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

“What I am is uncomfortable, and it’s your fault I feel that way.”

“I’m sorry about that. I could make you feel better,” he said. “If you’d let me.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Sweet Annabella, surely you know what happens between a man and a woman,” he said with a hint of humor. “I couldn’t possibly do that out here. We’d get sand in our drawers.”

“Of all the despicable…” She jerked away from him, but he held her fast.

“Why are you so angry? You know why I followed you.”

“Don’t think for one minute you can seduce me.”

“Then why are you so disturbed by the possibility?”

“I’m not in the least,” she said reproachfully.

“Good. Everyone,” he said softly, “has to start sometime, somewhere. I always feel there is no time like the present, don’t you?”

“I…I…I’m not sure,” was all she could manage, for by this time she was so rattled she wasn’t sure of anything save her own name.

“Aren’t you just a little curious?”

“Curious?”

“About the things that go on between a man and a woman?”

“No!” she said with such fervor he laughed.

“Are you afraid?”

She nodded her head violently in agreement. She was more than afraid. She was terrified. Terrified of what he might do. Even more terrified that she might like it.

“Are you afraid of your parents knowing,” he asked softly, “or of me being the one to show you?”

This conversation was going nowhere fast, for she had no inkling of the things he hinted at. Truly, whatever she knew about those things was innocent enough to be discussed in church—and the things that weren’t so innocent were wee enough to be inscribed in flowing script upon the head of a pin.

Cleverness and mother wit having deserted her, she said nothing, but merely looked away, her mind filled with thought.

True, she was wrong to be out here. True, if she were caught with him like this the things her father said about “those kinds of women” would be whispered about her as well.

At any other time in her life, Annabella would never have allowed such things to happen.

But her life was suddenly different from what it had been. A deep sadness filled her.

She couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that with the announcement of her betrothal she had been sentenced to death.

It wasn’t that dying was so very, very bad, but just the timing of it.

She regretted the thought of dying before she had really had a chance to live.

And she wanted so desperately to live—if only for a season—like a butterfly.

Without thinking, she stared at him again. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t stop.

Everything about him fascinated her. What’s it like, to live?

she wondered. To really and truly live? This man had lived.

Signs of it oozed from his pores and gleamed like the bluest fire deep within his eyes.

And the moment she thought it, she knew it was the truth.

There was something wild and free about him, something that made his clothes carry the fresh scent of the outdoors, that made his hair look windblown, even when it was not.

Awareness slowly creeping upon her, she saw his amused look.

She knew she must be looking at him in such an enraptured way he was sure to laugh.

She could not bear to have him mock her, or to hear him suggest that she “run along like a good little girl”.

It was fear of humiliation that prompted her to jerk away from him and run up the hill, stepping out of her right slipper as she ran. Ross watched her go. He wanted to go after her but was uncertain as to why he didn’t.

When the whiteness of her dress was no more than the luminous flutter of a moth in the mist, he started up the sloping hillside toward Dunford Castle, walking slowly, his mind on Annabella, who by now had completely disappeared from sight.

He had walked only a few yards when he came upon her slipper, a tiny white satin thing lying on its side in the damp grass that edged the stone path.

He picked the slipper up. It wasn’t much bigger than his hand.

He looked at it, turning it over and over in his hand, tracing with his thumb the line of dampness that had turned the color dark.

He looked back toward the castle; though he saw no trace of her, he had never felt another person’s presence so strongly.

What was wrong with him? Was he going mad?

Is this how it was done, just a few strange feelings that distorted truth and gradually consumed until there was naught left of reality?

He had no answer for that, just as he had no answer for his strong attraction to this slip of a lass.

He wasn’t the most patient man, but perhaps—perhaps in time he would understand.

Percy had taught him that patience often surpassed learning, but Ross wasn’t sure this was true in his case.

Perhaps his mother had known him better than anyone else, even though she had died when he was just a lad.

More than once, when his father said, “Ross, you dinna climb a ladder by beginning at the top,” she would soothe the frown of impatience on Ross’ brow.

Even now, he remembered what she had said: “Ross, my wee laddie, your father dinna ken patience is a flower that grows not in everyone’s garden. ”

The night closed around him, misty, dark, and full of mystery.

He stood there for a moment in the gathering gloom, content to stare at the last place he had seen Annabella running up the path that wound and coiled like a snake across the grass toward the castle.

For quite some time he remained there, her slipper in his hand, his mind reliving everything that had happened only moments before.

He thought about this woman whose destiny he knew lay intertwined with his own.

He lifted his eyes to the haunted mountains that lay just beyond a stand of pines and wondered how many of those who had come before him had stood at this very spot…

names that were lost and no song or legend remembered them.

He felt the past reach out and call to him, and the thick cloak of mist was rolled back, and he beheld a soft gray light.

From out of the light he thought he heard a voice, but knew he couldn’t have.

The light faded and the evening deepened to darkness once more.

I can’t be hearing voices. Unless I’m going mad, he thought and turned away.

As he looked about him, he saw only a fleeting shadow pass over the waters. The waves softly lapping the shore seemed to sigh and fall silent.

Ross dropped the small slipper into his pocket and began walking up the path.

The lights from the castle were barely visible now, but he knew he could have found his way back blindfolded.

He felt—no, he knew—something stronger than himself guided his steps now.

He thought about Annabella, knowing the lass was part of all this; he was eager to know how it would all come about.

The future stretched before him, hidden and gray and still, but the lass was his.

He knew that now. And the joy of it flooded his heart like a burst of sunshine.

It wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t come quickly or without its price.

The way would be wild, and dark, and full of mystery.

But it would come, at its appointed hour.

And when it was over, it would, he knew, be well worth the price.

He reflected upon that. He thought about Annabella. And then Ross Mackinnon whistled a few bars, feeling his soul flood with laughter.

If he had been a coyote he would have thrown back his head and howled.