Every day at sunrise, Laird Liam Mackenzie courted death.
He’d strap on his low-heeled deerhide boots and run the few miles across the moors until he had to scale Ben Crossan, the mountain which the river Crossan had to divert around to reach the sea. Though the way was rocky and treacherous at times, the true danger didn’t begin until he reached the abrupt pinnacle called Craeg Cunnartach, the Dangerous Cliff.
Many a tragic, lovelorn Highland lass had tossed herself to her death from this very place. It was said among the Mackenzie that these women became Fuathan, water wraiths, and should a man venture into their waters, the vengeful lasses would drag him to the depths of the sea, and devour him as he drowned, trying to fill the eternal void of their broken hearts. Even fishermen, divers, and merchants avoided the mouth of the Crossan River and the water beneath Craeg Cunnartach.
Liam, of course, didn’t believe in the superstition, but knew that a strong current lurked beneath the deep waters, as did sharks, rocks, and numerous other hazards.
The way he figured it, he owed the devil a chance to take him. He also understood that he was not an easy man to kill, and therefore sought the one place he could think of where he was not the alpha predator, the dominant warrior, or the Laird of the Land.
And so it was to the sea that he commended his life.
Almost.
Winded as he was once he climbed to the cliff’s edge, he never hesitated to leap, using his momentum to clear whatever juts and crags of the rock face that reached for him on his way down. For in his extensive experience with death, it was in the hesitation that a man often made his most fatal mistakes.
To say that he gave the Prince of Darkness a chance to take him didn’t suggest he meant to make it easy on the devil to collect his due. Warrior that he was, Liam fought the current with all his hard-won strength. Once he surfaced, he waited with patience for his breath to return to him—as the cold always stole it—before swimming with lithe, powerful strokes toward the Ravencroft Cove.
He’d never clocked the distance, precisely, but it took him a little over a half hour of hard swimming on most days. He’d performed this ritual since he was a lad.
Since the morning after he’d taken a whip to innocent flesh. His first true sin against another.
The first of many.
When abroad with his regiment, he’d plunged into any waters he could, when possible. He’d forged crocodile-infested jungle rivers, icy Prussian lakes, and just about every ocean on the map.
But this stretch of Highland coast was his favorite. Submerged in the sea that surrounded his home, the water which Druids had blessed and his Viking and Pict ancestors had profaned with the blood of the ancients, he turned his existential struggle into a physical one, as he battled against all that would claim him. That would pull him into the black depths and suffocate him. The guilt. The pain. The hatred. Burdens he carried every day.
He felt as though he invited the gods to strike him, or the devil to take him, and when they didn’t, he emerged from the briny water with a semblance of peace or, dare he say, permission. Not so much like a baptism, wherein his soul would be cleansed, but more like a figurative bath. He would live and toil another day, and the refuse, soil, and filth would paint his soul black again, and so he would repeat the ritual the next morning.
This particular morning, he made the journey in perhaps the shortest time since he could remember. A peculiar disquiet chased him up the mountain, and he fled from it with such speed, his legs burned as they propelled him to go ever faster.
You can’t know how wrong this is …
The autumn wind screamed her words through the canyon until they whipped against his scarred flesh, and stung lashes already healed. He ran and swam shirtless, even though the cold turned his skin white and pink as it drove the blood inward to protect his heart and vital organs.
There was a lesson to be learned here. He would do well to protect his heart. And hers.
She was safe here from everyone that would do her harm.
Everyone but him.
She’d been mistaken, his governess, he did ken how wrong it was to have kissed her, to have awakened these desires, almost violent in their ardency. This obsessive, wicked curiosity he had about her bordered on the profane. She made him want things. Dark things. Had him considering sins that would not just condemn his soul, but hers as well.
Mena Lockhart.
A name? A state of being? A woman with a locked heart.
Was it her innocence or mystery that drew him? Her keen intellect? Her troubling secrets? The depth of the understanding in her eyes, or the depth of her warm, lush body?
He wanted all of it. All of her. He wanted to uncover her, body and soul. To lay her bare and wide and make a conquest of her.
He wanted to own her. To claim her. To brand her skin with his mark and to see the same, violent desire mirrored in her eyes.
Aye, he knew how wrong it was. He knew that he must master these wicked thoughts and temper these sinful urges before they burned out of control and consumed him.
She made him hard, so fucking hard that he couldn’t think.
But she made him soft, too. In those spaces he’d built walls and fortresses, around those places where memories, sins, and pain lay scattered about like shards of glass in a dark room, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to venture forth. And therein lay the danger.
Every time her hand found his skin, or his lips found her mouth, something forged into cold steel by the heat of his temper … melted.
The problem was, he hadn’t erected those walls to keep those he loved out, but to keep something from escaping.
The devil is in all of us, I think, she’d said.
Nay, mo ailleachd. No, my beauty, he thought as he leaped from the Craeg and let the icy Atlantic steal the breath from his lungs and the fire from his arousal. Not all of us …
Only me.
* * *
Though she hadn’t slept in two days, a pervasive agitation drove Mena to haunt the halls of Ravencroft Keep like a restless ghost. She knew the cause, of course.
The inescapable Laird Mackenzie. An undefeated warrior with profound wounds and hidden depths.
It was as though he’d branded her. Seared his delectable, masculine taste to her lips and marked her skin with only the gentle hold of his large hands.
Mena had been marked and bruised by her husband, Gordon, many times over, and those wounds could last a week or more. The pain, of course, lingered even longer.
But the undeniable impact of Liam Mackenzie’s kiss was infinite. She’d live a thousand years and still feel the possession of his lips.
What distressed her the most was how he hadn’t allowed her a moment’s escape. When he wasn’t busy at the distillery, he seemed to be everywhere she was. Just yesterday, he interrupted her waltzing lessons with the children, sweeping his daughter up for a few dances. He proved to be a more than adequate dancer, but would occasionally trip Rhianna and catch her, cursing his clumsy feet whilst the girl berated him for obviously doing it on purpose.
Laughter had filled the keep with the most beautiful cacophony, and it made Mena’s heart ache for some reason she couldn’t define.
Ravencroft had also taken to having tea with them while they lounged in their favorite solarium, and read from The Count of Monte Cristo in French. He would listen with rapt attention, never asking questions or clarifying words as the children did. He merely sat and stared at her with those unnerving dark eyes, jaw perched on his templed fingers.
He prowled about her like a great, rapacious cat, his huge body filling every room so completely, she felt crowded and overwrought. In his presence, her own body was in a constant state of awareness. His gaze, as tangible as a caress, lifted the fine hairs on her flesh until they tingled and pricked with warning when he entered the room.
Here is a dangerous creature, her primitive instincts told her. A beast. A predator. She’d do well to run.
To hide.
Mena would often look up to find him fixated on her lips, or her breasts. The words would seize in her throat and she’d have to pause to catch her breath. A dark, sexual promise lurked in his eyes, and robbed her of her every thought. Yet he said nothing and hid nothing. When she caught his stare, he did not avert his eyes, nor did he try to hide his frank appreciation of her. He merely looked at her with enough heat to melt the stones of the keep, while remaining still and silent as a statue chiseled by the loving hands of an artisan. Hard. Smooth.
Flawless.
Damn him for kissing her!
Damn her for wanting him to do it again.
Despite all that, his constant presence likewise caused more difficulties when attempting to collude with Andrew about his care of the pup. They’d had to devise all sorts of inventive ways to excuse themselves from his company.
And then there was the incident this very morning, from which Mena hadn’t seemed able to recover.
“You have to tell him, Andrew,” Mena had reminded the boy as they’d taken Rune out for her morning romp and piddle. “Tomorrow is the third day.”
“I will,” he’d vowed. “I’ll go to his study with her in the morning.” Calling Rune back as she’d begun to follow her nose too far away, Andrew had said, “It’s going well with him, doona ye think? My father. These last two days have been … well, they’ve been good, havena they?”
“Yes, Andrew, they have.” She’d smiled fondly, drifting back toward him. “And you’ve done likewise, very admirable. How do you like The Count of Monte Cristo? Is it as promised?”
“Aye.” Andrew nodded. “It’s much more interesting and naughty than anything our other governesses would have allowed us to read.”
A worry had struck her then. “Oh, dear. Do you think your father minds that we’re reading it?” she wondered aloud as she watched the sunrise lick the amber autumn grasses with gold. “I would imagine that he’d say something if he had an issue with the content.”
“Miss Lockhart.” Andrew had the oddest look on his face, a curious mix between mischief and epiphany. “My father doesna know what the book is about.”
Her eyes had widened. “What do you mean?”
“He doesna ken a lick of French.”
He was there to see the children every day. That was the only possible explanation for why he joined them as they read from a book he didn’t understand. He’d taken the words she’d spoken in the chapel to heart. That was all.
Wasn’t it?
Had the alternative not already stolen her breath, Mena would have been rendered witless by Andrew’s next words. “Miss Lockhart, my father is coming this way.”
“What?” she squeaked.
Panicked, she’d scooped up little Rune and shoved her into Andrew’s arms, all but tossing them through the door before turning to ascertain if they’d been caught out.
He was only a specter against the tree line, but his form was unmistakable. Ravencroft ran with surprising speed and an astonishing amount of skin bared to the autumn elements. From her far vantage, Mena couldn’t tell where his burnished torso ended and his fawn trousers began.
He’d been an advancing leviathan of warm male flesh and hot Scottish blood. The closer he’d come, the more inevitable a conversation seemed to become. Considering how the last one had ended, with his mouth upon hers, Mena had known she should retreat. There was no shame in doing so, she told herself. Not when countless armies had done just that very thing upon the Demon Highlander’s approach.
He was not to be trusted. And, judging by the extra beats of her heart and the tremor suffusing her at the sight of him, even so very far away, neither was she.
She couldn’t help but watch for an unguarded moment as he jogged from the direction of the cove. His head wasn’t down, exactly, but tilted in a way that suggested he was intent on a place straight ahead of him, the next span of ground he was about to conquer.
He hadn’t seen her yet, but she could certainly see plenty of him.
The closer he came, the more detail Mena discovered. The visible ribbons of sinew and strength clinging to his heavy bones flexed and rippled with movement. The wide discs of muscle on his chest rebounded with each heavy footfall. Long legs ate up the distance between them with a flawless sense of rhythm. His hair was loose and clung to his shoulders with moisture, as though he’d been in the sea. She’d known that she should turn away, lest she be discovered gawking, but her shoes had seemed to be glued to the ground, and her eyes similarly glued to him. He’d saved her from a rather awkward altercation when he veered to the left at the hedges, and made his way down the west hill toward the distillery.
It was then that Mena had made a shocking discovery. The Marquess Ravencroft had, at some time in his life, been tortured. Long, horrific scars marred the otherwise smooth flesh of his back. They’d have to be rather large for her to see them from this distance. Her hand flew to her chest to contain an ache that had bloomed there.
Breathless, Mena had taken refuge in Ravencroft Keep, making certain Andrew had Rune spirited safely away, before starting her morning with the children. She’d attempted a regular day of instruction with them, but had proved utterly useless. Who had so egregiously wounded Ravencroft? Perhaps he’d been a prisoner of war at some point. Maybe he’d been tortured for information. Or whipped for insubordination. But surely, the army wasn’t in the practice of whipping peers of the realm, especially those as high-ranking as a marquess.
Mena couldn’t help it, a well of tenderness bloomed beneath the apprehension and suspicion she felt toward the Laird of the Mackenzie. Was the laird going to appear today, she’d wondered, full of lithe carnality and meaningful glances?
When he didn’t, she couldn’t tell if it was relief or disappointment that flooded her breast. But after a while, her nerves had threaded so taut that one more mispronounced French verb promised to make her snap. So she’d concocted a few vague excuses to the children, put a book in their hands, and wandered the halls of Ravencroft, grateful for a moment alone to collect the thoughts, fears, and fantasies threatening to gallop away with her.
Mena found herself at the top of the grand staircase that led to the front entry, as she closely perused the luxurious tapestries that warmed the cold stone of the castle walls. The sky outside had become an endless sheet of drab steel curtaining the sun as a storm pelted the earth with rhythmic hostility. She’d dressed in a heavy wool gray frock with tiny pearl buttons down the front. Piling her hair on top of her head in a loose chignon, she thought she’d made a perfectly macabre reflection. Half to match the weather, and half to match her mood.
Her gaze snagged on an imposing oil canvas located above the middle of the grand stairway. It was as tall as her and maybe ten times as wide. This one depicted a great battle, with a large and ferocious Mackenzie war chieftain leading a cadre of kilt-clad Highlanders into battle against the English. Their claymores brandished high, and their hair flying wildly about them, they looked awe-inspiring and inescapable. The battle of Culloden, perhaps? However had such fierce men been defeated?
She pictured the marquess rushing into ancient battles, a dark figure of retribution and prowess, incomparably fearsome because of his unrivaled strength and magnificent form. His fathomless black eyes would flash with rage in the heat of battle, and his thick ebony hair would gather riotously about his face as he vanquished his enemies in bloody and mortal combat.
Spellbound by the beauty of the illustration in this particular painting, she reached out trembling fingers and brushed them against the vicious rendering of the ancient chieftain.
He’d been painted with a heavy hand, all square angles and dark, rough strokes. Almost the exact image of the current Laird Mackenzie. The same fire. The same ferocity.
The same untamed beauty.
Mena realized, as she allowed her fingertips to absorb the insignificant striations in the paint, that a wicked part of her regretted not allowing the marquess a deeper kiss.
No other man had beckoned to her fingertips like the physical marvel that was Liam Mackenzie. She wondered, if she’d wrapped her arms around him, would she have felt the scars on his back through his shirt? Would he have shared with her another intimacy of his past, adding a thread to the cord of complex emotion he’d begun to weave?
Lord, he held all of the fascinating curiosity and thrilling peril of a lightning storm. Of course he’d garnered a mythical sort of reputation because myths were how the common man struggled to explicate someone so extraordinary.
She’d been a willing captive of his hands, of his lips. He’d cupped her face with utter tenderness, but it was her own desire, her own curious temptation, that had kept her a prisoner of the moment.
Because his hard mouth had been softer against hers than she’d imagined. And, Lord help her, but she’d imagined it happening again. More than once. Nothing her fanciful mind could have invented came close to the illicit and primitive heat that she hadn’t been able to rid herself of for two blasted days.
The disquieting warmth kept her awake more than anything else. A slow burn that would begin just below her belly and spread lower and out until her limbs smoldered and squirmed with needs she couldn’t begin to contemplate.
That she shouldn’t even consider. She had too many secrets. Secrets that would salt the ground, preventing anything from growing between them. Because even though she’d never return to her husband, she was a married woman, and would do well to remember it.
What had happened between them could never happen again. The consequences of such an entanglement were simply too disastrous.
But, oh, did she want to—
“English!”
Mena snatched her hand away from the painting with a guilty start at the pleased exclamation that echoed right next to her. She would have lost her balance and toppled down the stairs if a pair of strong hands hadn’t reached out to steady her.
Moss-green eyes smiled down from the alarmingly handsome features of Gavin St. James. He stood two steps above her, and Mena couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten so close without her noting his presence.
She couldn’t have been that entranced with the painting, could she? No, her distraction had nothing at all to do with the canvas, said a hateful inner voice, and everything to do with the laird who owned it.
“I told ye I’d be seeing ye again, English,” the Highlander purred in his silky brogue. “And let me tell ye, it’s a thorough pleasure to have saved yer life.”
“You did no such thing,” Mena argued, though she couldn’t hide the answering smile he elicited.
“Ye’d have toppled hide over head down the stairs had I not caught ye,” he bragged.
“Yes, but ’twas you who crept up on me in the first place and startled me half to death. That was very wicked of you,” she scolded.
“I wasna creeping. It was ye who was lost in yer thoughts.” He chuckled, his eyes glimmering with impish delight as he glanced at the painting. “That isna to say I’m not a wicked man.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” She laughed. “Not that it isn’t a genuine pleasure to meet you again, Mr. St. James, but might I inquire as to what you are doing here dressed to the nines?”
His expression turned sheepish as he brushed at the cravat of his fine suit. “A wee bit of distillery business is all. I just returned from London with some good news for the marquess.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Though it’d take a bleeding miracle to coax a compliment from the old goat, if ye ask me.”
“Oh, do go on with you.” Mena suppressed a nervous laugh, scandalized by his audacity.
“I gather no introductions are necessary.” Ravencroft’s cavernous voice could have turned the lush Highlands into a brittle desert.
Blood deserted Mena’s extremities as she noted that Gavin St. James still held her arm above the elbow from when he’d reached to steady her. She pulled away from him, reaching for the solidity of the stone banister to hold her up as her suddenly trembling legs no longer seemed to feel the need to fulfill their occupation.
The marquess stood at the top of the staircase, legs splayed and arms folded over his wide chest as he glared down at them both in contemptuous condemnation. Though he was dressed in an impeccable suit, his ebony hair combed back into a tight queue, he appeared as stark and sinister as ever. Mena found herself concerned over the integrity of his suit, as his tense muscles strained the seams.
Now she knew what beauty lay beneath, and had to look away.
“Ye’re actually mistaken, Liam, as yer lovely governess and I have shared a previous … encounter, but have yet to be formally introduced.” He winked at Mena, who considered hurling herself down the stairs rather than glancing up to see the withering glare Ravencroft surely focused on them both.
Who was this man to address a marquess in so informal a manner? And why did he insist on making playful insinuations about their previous “encounter” in the woods? She’d nearly been sacked over the whole ordeal.
Gavin didn’t give her a chance to recover from her astonishment before he took her hand again and bowed theatrically low over it. “Allow me to introduce myself, English, as Lord Gavin St. James, Earl of Thorne and half brother to the most illustrious Marquess of Ravencroft, Laird Liam Mackenzie of Wester Ross.”
He pressed his lips to her hand, but Mena hardly felt it as she could have sworn she actually heard a growl rumble from the top of the stairs.
Snatching her hand back, she winced at the perceptive glance the earl gave her from behind amber lashes.
“Brother?” She wagged an incensed finger at the smirking Lord Thorne. “You cad! You led me to believe you were nothing more than the foreman at the distillery.”
“I beg yer pardon, English, but I didna lie to ye.” He flashed her a devastatingly handsome smile, and Mena found herself forgiving him instantly, not that she’d been that angry in the first place. “I spoke the truth when I said I was the distillery foreman. Had ye inquired about me, ye would have learned that I’m part owner and the rest.” Thorne shrugged, his eyes glinting with mirth. “I admit to being a wee bit wounded that ye didna.”
“It was, nevertheless, a falsehood by omission, Thorne.” Ravencroft censured him as he descended the stairs, his glare jumping back and forth between the two of them, narrowed with suspicion.
Mena actually retreated down a step, inwardly cringing at his undeniable position on the particular subject of omission.
Brothers, she marveled. Though she supposed she could see the resemblance now that they stood close to one another. As far as she could discern, their height was similar, though Ravencroft was undoubtedly the larger of the two. Like Dorian Blackwell, Liam was swarthy, where Gavin’s hair shone even more lambent than before, now that it wasn’t darkened by sea water.
Something electric crackled in the air between the men, charging it with such masculine tension, she could scarcely breathe.
Blessedly, the half-hour-to-dinner bell reverberated through the waves of aggression rolling off the brothers, and Mena blessed the chef and his compulsive timeliness.
Perceptibly pulling an air of geniality about him like a cloak, Lord Thorne turned once again to Mena. “Will I be seeing ye at dinner, English?”
“I—I suppose,” Mena answered, glancing uncertainly to her employer.
“In my house, you will address her as Miss Lockhart, as is appropriate,” the marquess ordered. “And I never invite ye to dinner.”
“And yet I always stay to dine.” Gavin flashed his brother another of his roguish smiles. “Come now, Liam, ye wouldna deprive my niece and nephew of my charming company, would ye? Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’m going to see what culinary delights that French genius of yers has in store for me tonight.” Turning on his heel, he jogged down the stairs, and strode in the direction of the kitchens. Not a retreat, per se, but a strategic withdrawal, in Mena’s opinion.
Judging by the wrath glittering in Ravencroft’s obsidian eyes, she applauded Lord Thorne’s decision.
Knuckles white on the banister and a vein pulsing above his flexed jaw, the marquess captured her attention with his furious glare. He said nothing, but scrutinized her features as if searching for the answer to a question he dare not ask.
Mena watched in fascination as a narrow spectrum of emotion played across his savage expression. Irritation, suspicion, fury, and … bleak misery?
The last one caused her no small amount of confusion and distress.
“My laird, I—”
“Doona I pay ye to spend yer days with my children, Miss Lockhart?” The insinuation that she shirked her duties stung.
Dumbfounded, she could do little but nod.
“Well, then,” he clipped, and dismissed her by descending the rest of the stairs two at a time, as though one didn’t pose enough of a challenge for his long stride.
Mena couldn’t bring herself to move until she started at the slam of a door.
* * *
For the first time in as long as she could remember, Mena couldn’t bring herself to eat. Stomach churning with nerves, she kept glancing toward the obsequious Earl of Thorne who insisted on saying something flirtatious every couple of minutes. Then she’d peek at the ominously silent marquess, whose glare gathered more dark fire with every refill of his whisky glass.
The aroma of parsnip and leek soup with white fish in a cream sauce tempted her appetite, but Mena could hardly look at it without feeling ill. Not only was she nervous about this strange dynamic between her and the two Mackenzie brothers, but Andrew was perched on her right squirming with apprehension about whether Lord Thorne would bring up the puppy.
Everyone, it seemed, was wound tight as a bowstring. The sound of the rain lashing against the windows and the clink of fine silver were the only sounds that permeated the uneasy silence that settled around the room like a thick blanket.
Only Rhianna ate with vigor, oblivious to the tension around her as she sat across from Russell, who watched everyone very carefully, obviously trying to ascertain just what he was missing.
“Uncle Gavin,” Rhianna asked once her initial hunger had been sated and she slowed to allow conversation. “Did ye meet any refined, available ladies whilst in London?”
The earl smiled indulgently at his niece. “None I’d consider making a countess.” He wiped at his mouth with a napkin and revealed an impish smile that intensified the sparkle in his eye. “And none so refined as your Miss Lockhart, here.”
“Miss Lockhart is most sophisticated,” Rhianna readily agreed. “She’s the first governess who ever made Andrew read.” She elbowed her brother sharply.
“She’s not making me read, Rhianna,” Andrew argued, though he looked up at Mena with heart-melting admiration. “She just made me want to. We have an agreement.”
“A distinguished governess, to be sure,” Lord Thorne murmured. “Though she wasna so refined the first time I met her.”
“You didna mention meeting Uncle Gavin before,” Rhianna exclaimed, unaware of the supreme interest the conversation had garnered from all other occupants of the table. “When were ye two introduced?”
Had Mena been eating, she would have choked. She implored the unrepentant earl with her eyes, not even daring to glance toward the head of the table.
Her discomfiture only seemed to encourage the scoundrel. “I happened upon the lass exploring the Kinross Cove. She swam halfway out to sea like she’d done it a million times before, her skirts hiked to her knees, to save yer wee—”
“I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know he was your uncle at the time, and I thought it of little consequence.” Mena interrupted what might have been a reveal about the puppy. This was what came of deceit. A stomach full of guilt and a heart full of lead. She never should have allowed herself to be talked into it. If she could survive tonight, it would all be over in the morning.
Mena glared a warning at him, hoping it would work better than a plea. What in the devil did he think he was doing? Did he not understand that her position depended on the appearance of virtue and respectability?
“It wasna of little consequence to me.” He slanted her his own look full of meaning. “I very much enjoyed escorting her home. Yer governess is as witty and entertaining as she is lovely.”
“Ye should hear her read,” Andrew agreed. “She entertains us all the time.”
The child was an absolute angel.
“Aye, and she’s taught me to waltz,” Rhianna added, not to be outdone.
“Everyone here at Ravencroft agrees that Miss Lockhart is an excellent and bonny addition to the staff.” Russell joined the conversation, his beard splitting into a ruddy smile. “It’s good for us Highland heathens to see what real manners are like, eh, Laird?”
Mena gathered the fortitude to look at her employer and instantly wished she hadn’t. Ravencroft sat stock-still, a knife in one hand and his fork in another, a bite frozen halfway to his mouth. He glared at his brother, black eyes glittering with malevolence.
“You are all too kind,” Mena said in a breathless rush.
“Ye must tell me when ye are planning to take another swim in the sea, Miss Lockhart,” the earl said with no small amount of insinuation.
Ravencroft’s utensils clattered to his plate.
“Yes, and ye must take us with ye!” Rhianna insisted with palpable eagerness. “Ye can teach me how to swim.”
Mena also had to set down her fork lest everyone see how her hands trembled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so distressed by a simple dinner since her days at Benchley Court. “The weather will be much too cold for swimming for some time.” Calling upon her so-called refinement, she turned to a universally accepted topic for salvation. “Russell, is the climate in this part of Scotland always so unpredictable in the autumn?”
“I’m afraid so,” Russell answered slowly, seeming as relieved for the change of topic as she was. He studied the mottled red beginning to journey up from beneath Ravencroft’s collar with russet brows drawn low before turning to address her. “It’ll frost before long, but I hope the rain shadow of the Isle of Skye clears things up around Samhain as it’s like to do.”
“Samhain?” Mena asked.
“My favorite festival of the entire year.” Rhianna said, sighing.
“Aye,” Andrew agreed, his features the most animated Mena had ever seen them. “When the spirits of the dead rise to cause mischief and we call the Druid spells to keep the demons away.”
“Likely known to ye as All Hallows’ Eve,” Lord Thorne supplied helpfully.
“There’s a festival, you say?” Mena queried.
“It marks the end of the harvest, distillery work, and sowing of the winter crop,” Russell explained. “We open an old cask of whisky or two for all the Mackenzie of Wester Ross and a few visiting clans and their lairds, and have a feast and ritual.”
“There’s dancing and games!” Rhianna almost knocked over her glass in exaltation.
“And we sacrifice animals over bonfires,” Andrew chimed in.
“More of a roast and feast, than an actual sacrifice,” Russell corrected with a smirk.
Mena smiled for what seemed like the first time that evening. “Sounds delightful. I am so looking forward to my first Samhain in the Highlands.”
“Ye’ll have to save a dance for me, English,” Thorne said around a bite, offering her that cheeky smile of his. “Perhaps I’ll teach ye a thing or two.”
Ravencroft planted his fists on the table with enough force to rattle the china, causing everyone to jump. His chair made a sharp, grating sound as he stood and advanced around the table toward Thorne.
“A word,” he gritted out as he grabbed his younger brother by the shoulder and all but hauled him out of his seat.
Thorne’s smile barely faltered as he partly walked and was partly dragged toward the door by a furious Ravencroft. “Excuse us for a moment,” he called jovially as they disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Mena blinked profusely in sheer astonishment before Russell rushed to comfort her. “Doona worry, lass. The earl is always trying to get under the laird’s skin. Been that way since they were lads.”
“Oh?” Mena smoothed her hands over her waist and sat straighter in her chair. She found the entire exchange quite vexing. In fact, she didn’t know if she’d ever feel steady again. Not until she put this to rest with both the Laird Mackenzie and Lord Thorne.
“Miss Lockhart.” Andrew put his hand over hers. “I’d like to be excused. I doona feel well.” He gestured with his eyes to his room.
Rune would need to be let out before bed, and now was a perfect time. “All right, Andrew. I’ll accompany you.”
She said good night to Rhianna with a kiss on the cheek, and then excused herself from Russell’s company.
“You must tell him,” she fervently reminded Andrew once again as they found themselves alone in the hall. “Or I’m going to have to.”
“I will, I promise, but I think it’s best to wait until the morning.” Andrew gallantly offered his arm at the base of the back stairs and escorted her up. “Miss Lockhart, do ye know why my father would be so angry with Uncle Gavin over what he said?”
She truly didn’t understand what it was Ravencroft wanted from her. What he saw in her. Why he would be … be what? Jealous? Surely he could see that she didn’t return the Earl of Thorne’s flirtations.
“I can’t imagine,” she murmured.
Andrew flicked her a perceptive look from beneath his lashes and his slash of a mouth quirked up just a little. “I can.”
