Page 21 of The Passionate One (McClairen’s Isle #1)

The sun was full up when Fia slipped inside of the sumptuously appointed bedchamber where Rhiannon had slept. Though the girl entered on a light, furtive step Rhiannon came fully awake at once. She kept her breathing even and opened her eyelids to mere slits, studying the girl.

Today, Fia had eschewed last night’s dramatic midnight hues in favor of an exquisitely worked butter yellow dress of astounding indecency. The tight, square bodice pushed her young breasts high above the décolletage, barely maintaining modesty. Pearls draped her slender throat and dangled from her earlobes. A tiny black patch flirted with one smooth white cheek and rosy salve coated her lips.

She looked like a dressmaker’s mannequin, thought Rhiannon dispassionately, a dressmaker with a demimonde clientele.

A week ago a creature as exotic as Fia would have rendered Rhiannon tongue-tied. But when one was a prisoner such matters as another’s demeanor ceased to be important. Or even very interesting.

Besides, Rhiannon thought with a brittle inner smile, it was so patently apparent that Fia expected to unnerve her—and everyone else. Last night Fia had perched herself on the foot of the bed and watched as a maid stripped the filthy riding habit from Rhiannon’s back. In a tender, composed voice she had recited salacious stories about Carr and Ash and another brother named Raine. When her tales failed to invoke so much as a gasp, she’d become openly disconcerted. Her smooth white brow had knit with perplexity and she’d finally left Rhiannon alone.

It was a telling point and Rhiannon re-estimated Fia’s age to be much younger than she’d originally surmised. A faint memory came back to her, her uncle advising her to “know well one’s enemy.”

Enemy, lover. Sanctuary, prison. Home and exile.

Now that exhaustion no longer kept such notions at bay, they prowled through Rhiannon’s waking thoughts, mocking her with her own culpability. She’d succumbed to Ash’s potent magnetism. She’d sought his company and flirted with him, burning with curiosity over what his kiss would be like. And after discovering that, she’d still not been content. Knowledge had only fed the craving, consumed her until she’d felt she’d needed to know passion— his passion. Well, she thought, biting hard upon her inner cheeks, she now had that knowledge, too.

If only it had been a shabby, tawdry thing, an act that felt as sordid as she knew it to be. But it hadn’t. It hadn’t felt like lust or rank sexual appetite. It had seemed her soul’s imperative. It had been … wondrous.

If it hadn’t, she wouldn’t have hated him so much now.

It wasn’t only that he’d deceived her but that she’d deceived Phillip, that he’d robbed her of the opportunity to confess what she couldn’t explain. And though she knew that laying such blame on Ash’s door was unfair, she no longer cared.

It was unfair that Ash had ridden into her life a scant three weeks before her wedding. It was unfair that his eyes were dark, his wrists scarred, and his soul as tattered and patched as a gypsy’s cape—and that she recognized the cut.

A ruthless man, Fia had said. A dangerous one. Well, the Highlands had bred a rare, pure line of that sort. Hadn’t she been ruthless in getting what she wanted, never thinking past the morrow, or of where her headlong dash into pleasure would lead her? Or anyone else. She turned her cheek into her pillow, sickened with guilt. She could see again the knowledge of her betrayal in Phillip’s beautiful eyes, the disappointment, the hurt— She jerked upright in bed.

Startled by the sudden movement, Fia spun around. “You’re awake.”

Rhiannon seized on the distraction. “Yes. I’m sure you knew that, though. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come in, would you have?”

The girl tipped her head in calm agreement. “Of course.”

“You wished to see me?” Rhiannon settled back against the thick bolster of pillows. Calm. Breathe. Yesterday she’d been a victim but today she needn’t be.

“Gunna is outside. She wishes to see you.”

“Gunna?” Rhiannon asked. “The nanny? Why would your nanny wish to see me and why would she need you to act as a vanguard to that fact, Miss Merrick?”

“She’s brought some gowns for you to try on and I— Well, Gunna is most … unprepossessing. Actually quite hideous. But—” Fia hesitated. Whatever she’d been about to confide she decided against it. “She’s served me faithfully. I would not want her hurt.”

Fia smiled wryly at Rhiannon’s obvious skepticism. “She still has her uses,” she explained coldly.

“Bring her.”

The young woman’s eyes narrowed fractionally at the commanding tone and Rhiannon smiled. She was Rhiannon Russell and her distant cousin had been laird of McClairen. Ash had dragged her back to this place, rousing that long dormant knowledge. Let him see what he’d awakened. Whatever airs this hybrid English girl owned, she’d adopted. In Rhiannon’s warrior heart five hundred years of pride and audacity churned for expression. “Now, Fia. Before I fall asleep again.”

The girl smiled once more, this time an honest, rueful smile of such poignant charm and humor that in spite of every instinct that told her to beware of her, Rhiannon found herself warming toward the young girl.

Without a word, Fia drifted—there was simply no other term that adequately described Fia’s modus of locomotion—toward the doorway and opened it. “Gunna!”

A moment later a bent and twisted figure in black wool crept in, a half-dozen gowns filling her arms. A mantilla-like veil of black lace covered her head, pinned so that one side draped over the left portion of her face, concealing it. The open side exposed a deformed jaw, a large drooping eye, and a twisted caricature of a nose.

If poor Gunna had chosen this side of her face to present to the world, Rhiannon could only be moved to pity imagining what the rest of the veil concealed. The woman turned to Fia who hovered by her elbow in an oddly protective manner. “Jamie says yer father is looking fer you.” Gunna’s deep voice was thick with a Scottish accent. “Best be to him. Go on. Sooner gone; sooner back.”

With a disgruntled sniff, Fia twirled and departed. The old nurse chuckled at her ward’s flouncing departure before looking back at Rhiannon.

“Highlander, they said ye were, in the kitchens. What clan?” she asked, hobbling closer. Her tone was slightly brusque, the manner in which she regarded Rhiannon touched with enmity.

Rhiannon swung her feet over the sides of the bed and dropped lightly to the cold floor. “McClairen.”

A flicker of surprise passed over the exposed side of Gunna’s face. “McClairen? Ye don’t have the look of the McClairen. They’re a black-haired breed with white skin.”

Rhiannon tugged the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She didn’t want to be reminded of those old clan affiliations. She’d left them behind a decade ago.

Wordlessly, she moved past the old woman and went to the window. Below, a gunmetal gray sea battered the island’s base.

“Forgive me, miss,” she heard Gunna say. “I don’t know my place and that’s a fact.”

Pride and coldness had replaced the woman’s former grudging interest. Rhiannon felt ashamed. It wasn’t Gunna’s fault that she’d been brought here.

“I’m not a McClairen,” she said. “My father was a chieftain in his own right but when McClairen called for men to fight in forty-five, my father answered.” She closed her eyes. “And my brothers. And my uncles.”

“Yer an orphan then,” Gunna murmured, her manner thawing slightly. “No one left?”

“No,” Rhiannon said. “They were all hunted down and murdered. Out there.” She pointed at the bleak landscape outside the window. She stared at it unseeing. “Dear God, how I hate being here.”

A light touch on her sleeve begged Rhiannon’s attention. Gunna had moved to her side. Her hand was rough-skinned, the nails bitten down to the quick, but the long fingers were surprisingly elegant.

“Aye?”

“Of course,” Rhiannon said impatiently. “Who wouldn’t? This place is filled with ghosts and a bloodied lot they are.”

Gunna sighed, her one eye following Rhiannon’s gaze out over the sea. “I find,” she said carefully, “that the ghosts that follow closest are those we’ve fled.”

Rhiannon glanced at her and frowned. “There were no ghosts where I came from.”

It wasn’t strictly true, but those phantoms faded with the light. Not these. In one day she’d remembered more of her life in the Highlands than she’d thought about—or allowed herself to think about—in over ten years in Fair Badden.

The exposed corner of Gunna’s mouth tucked into a smile. “Not all hauntings are hurtful.”

She only meant to be kind and though Rhiannon doubted her wisdom, she appreciated her concern. “I hope so.”

Gunna tugged on her arm, leading her back to the bed where she’d spread out the gowns she’d carried in. She scooped up one shimmering leaf-green damask and held it to Rhiannon’s face.

“Ye’ll be a beauty in this and that’s a fact. Carr will be pleased.” She watched Rhiannon carefully. It mattered little to Rhiannon what Carr thought of her appearance. Apparently Gunna read her lack of concern in her expression for she shook her head. “You seem a fair bit unconcerned what yer groom thinks of yer appearance.”

“Groom?” she echoed dumbly, staring as the implications of that single word took hold. The woman’s former disapproving attitude suddenly made sense, wringing a harsh laugh from Rhiannon. “I’m not going to marry Lord Carr.”

“Truly?” Gunna asked.

“Truly,” Rhiannon returned, regarding the old woman dryly.

“They say Mr. Ash brought you,” Gunna said after a second’s hesitation.

His name brought a flood of warmth sweeping up Rhiannon throat and face. “Yes.”

“Carr’s beast of burden.” Both women spun around at the sound of Fia’s voice. She was standing inside the door, leaning back against the panel. “Poor Ash.”

Gunna ignored her charge’s smooth, false tone, replying to the words rather than the timbre—a course of action that Rhiannon thought she might do well to emulate.

“Carr best have a care,” Gunna said, returning the dress she held to the bed. “Methinks Lord Carr will get no more service out of that particular beastie until he gives up one of the carrots he’s been danglin’ in front of Mr. Ash’s proud nose. Here, miss, let me take that blanket from you. We best get you dressed.”

“Ash will do whatever he has to do,” Fia replied, coming forward as Rhiannon complied and Gunna scuttled across the room to fetch a water pitcher and basin. “Ash would never do anything that might harm Raine.”

“Raine? Carr’s younger son?” Rhiannon could not help but ask. The one that was supposed to have raped the nun?

“Ye dunna ken, do you, Miss Russell?” Gunna said. She dipped a soft towel into the water and rubbed it with soap and handed it to Rhiannon. “About Ash and Raine.”

“No,” Rhiannon said tersely, her voice muffled by the towel as she scrubbed at her face.

“It’s an interestin’ tale,” Gunna went on. She took the dirtied towel and splashed more cold water in the basin in preparation for a cold, but much needed hip bath. Even with just her face clean Rhiannon felt better.

“And one we don’t have time for right now,” Fia interjected. “Carr wants her in the gallery before the hour.”

“What?” Rhiannon asked, her gaze flying to the mantel clock. It was barely fifteen minutes before the hour.

Fia shrugged. “I told him I thought that would be fine.”

Rhiannon looked down. She still wore the same soiled chemise she’d had on for five days. She had no time to bathe now and Fia knew it. So much for last night’s concern about Rhiannon making a good impression.

But then, Fia was a Merrick. Doubtless she had her own agenda. Well, let her.

Rhiannon may have been over ten years from this land, but being reared on a Highlands battlefield produces a pupil well versed in combat—of all kinds.

At the end of another long corridor the footman finally opened a door. Rhiannon swept back the green skirts of her borrowed dress and entered.

Ash Merrick stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his black hair tied negligently at the nape of his neck. He regarded her watchfully. His stance was broad and challenging.

At the sight of him her breath caught. She hadn’t expected him and he was so damnably beautiful. “Your father sent for me. Where is he?” She sounded angry. Better than dazzled.

“Fia said you would have an audience with Carr. And so you shall.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” She forced the rising note of panic from her voice. “We have nothing to say to each other.”

“I miss you.” His words came out low, nearly inaudible, more whispered admission than declaration.

Her head snapped up in astonishment. Whatever she’d expected it had never been that.

Admission? Lie. He was a consummate opportunist. He simply wanted an accommodating prisoner, not a difficult one. Hadn’t she proven already how susceptible she was to him?

No more.

She lifted hot, angry eyes to his light, unrevealing eyes. “How unpleasant for you.”

“Tit for tat, eh?” His mouth tilted mockingly. “Standard practice in my family. I should tell you, in the interest of fair play, I’ve vast experience with payback.” The smile dissolved, replaced by an intent, hungry look. “I never meant to hurt you, Rhiannon. Use you? Yes, I admit to that. Have you? Definitely. But I never wanted you hurt.”

His eyes stayed locked on hers as he strove to convince her that he told the truth. She even half believed him. It didn’t matter. In Fair Badden, her soft heart would have turned to warm wax with his confession. But the Highlands bred no soft hearts or weak resolves. Only those who would fight for their survival rather than allow themselves to be used and cast aside had survived.

“Too late.” She watched for a telltale sign that she’d pricked his hard heart. “You should have gone away. I could have made some sort of recompense to Phillip.”

“I told you. Someone tortured that damn dog of yours on purpose.”

She felt the color bleed from her face.

“The same someone who scarred your face with a bullet and who hurled that knife at you at the Harquists’ party,” he went on in a cold biting voice.

She glared at him. “You misread Stella’s accident,” she insisted. “And as for the other incidents? Nonsense. And well you know it.”

His gaze flickered away from hers, the tiny involuntary gesture justifying her suspicions. But instead of the vindication she might have expected, she only felt hollow, emptied, and lost.

He had manufactured the whole story for whatever covert purposes of his own. Purposes he had no intention of revealing to her.

“It’s not too late,” she heard herself saying in a dull voice. “You can send me back to Fair Badden.”

His expression tightened. He sneered.

“No matter what Watt claimed, you would have ended an outcast. We were lovers and Phillip knows that. He’d never accept you now.”

How could he speak of it so unemotionally? But then, she reminded herself, he’d only been involved in the physical act. He’d given her nothing of himself that he hadn’t reclaimed the minute he’d left her.

“You didn’t offer me any choice, did you? Or Phillip,” she accused him. “You bludgeoned him with the knowledge of my betrayal. You lied to me in that, too.”

His eyes clouded. “I thought I was keeping you safe. I thought to make it impossible for—”

“Phillip to marry me?” Rhiannon finished coldly. “Well, as you so kindly have explained, you did that.”

“I thought to give him an excuse not to marry you.”

“I still want to go back,” she said, ignoring his fantastic rubbish. “You needn’t do anything but get me to a coaching inn.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing for you at Fair Badden. It’s done.”

Her breath felt hot in her nostrils but she made herself speak in a bell tone of coldness. “I do not know why you forced me here or why you even bedded me in the first place. Did the thought of a nameless orphan marrying into your English aristocracy so offend you?”

Amazingly, he laughed. “Now there’s as fascinating a motive for deflowering a girl as ever I’ve heard.”

She’d sought to shame him and instead he mocked her. Humor glinted in his dark eyes though his mouth remained hard. A mouth that had moved with exquisite tenderness over her skin, burnishing her nerves with pleasure.

“At least I’ve given you some plausible explanation for your actions. I have no excuse for willfully betraying my betrothed.”

His nostrils flared slightly. “You don’t consider lust motive enough? I assure you”—his gaze unraveled over her face, her mouth, her throat and bodice—“it’s a most potent imperative.”

He didn’t move but she suddenly felt as though he’d surrounded her. She drew back a step. Her pulse tripped thickly in her veins. “But why bring me here then? Not for lust’s sake. If forcing a woman could pleasure you, you would have forced me by now and you haven’t.”

Strangely, her words seemed to anger him. “I would not rely too much on such an assumption.”

Once more she backed away from whatever emotion he strove so hard to suppress. His hands shivered at his sides.

“Let us say for the sake of argument that you are right,” he grated out, “that I would find no ease in forcing myself on you. Now for one minute, just one, allow that I am astute enough to realize that in taking you from Fair Badden I could only secure your contempt.” The very rigidity of his posture bespoke his fervor, forcing her to listen.

“Suspend your disbelief just a bit longer.” He held out a supplicating hand—this man she doubted had ever been a supplicant—and confusion rippled through her resolve, shaking it.

“Say that I took you here for no other reason than the one I gave you. That I believed your life was in danger and that I suspected Watt of being responsible. If you can find no other reason for my act, could not that one, as fantastic as it might seem, be the truth?”

His voice remained firm, insistent. His eyes pleaded with her. But the notion of Phillip intentionally setting out to harm her, or that anyone could conceive him capable of such, was absurd.

“Please, Rhiannon.” She’d never heard so raw a tone before. “Please.”

But then, Ash did not know Phillip as well as she. He might mistake Phillip’s nature …

Her gaze raked his face, trying to see what his expression might betray. She moved closer, close enough to hear the ragged draw of his breath, so intent she was barely aware of a movement behind her.

A voice—cultivated, bored, and imperious—spoke. “Well, Ash, now that you’ve fetched her I suppose you’ll want the money I promised you for your trouble.”