Return of the Highlander (Immortal Warriors) (14 page)

She knew she was staring at him, she couldn’t help it. “You saw him?”

“Aye, I cut him down, but then he was gone. Has such a thing happened to you before?”

“Never. Not until you came. I thought I must have imagined it, but he was so real. And then…” The pale brown pony, watching from the hilltop.

“Mabbe the door isn’t closed as it should be,” Maclean murmured. “The between-worlds is a dangerous place, Bella.”

“Is that where that man came from, the between-worlds?”

“’Tis something I must find out. Dinna fear, though, woman, from now on I will stay verra close.”

She smiled.

The dark shape of him seemed suddenly alert. There was a tension in the air that had nothing to do with talk of ghosts and everything to do with physical attraction.

“You asked about my name,” Bella said, a little breathlessly. “It is a—a pet name. My real name is Arabella. Arabella Ryan.”

“Arabella.” She heard the smile in his voice as he said it, rolling the
r
, turning it into a thing of beauty. “Do you want me to tuck you in, Arabella Ryan?”

She bit her lip, composing her expression. “No, thank you, Maclean.”

He laughed, and for a moment she was certain she could see his face through the dark mist, wild and handsome and dangerously appealing.

Bella did the only sensible thing under the circumstances.

She fled upstairs.

Maclean stared at the glow in the Aga. It
had been a mistake kissing Bella Ryan. Even a ghost-man such as himself could feel desire. Lust. It throbbed in his blood, in his sinews and muscles, until his whole body burned. Two hundred and fifty years without a woman was a long time for a man like Maclean, but there was more to it than that. Bella was the sort of woman he had always dreamed of in his secret heart, that soft part of him he kept locked away from his father’s sharp eyes. He had kept those emotions hidden for so long he had forgotten they existed, until he was compelled to be kind to Ishbel. And look where that had gotten him.

And now here was Bella, who wasn’t afraid of him, who burned beneath his hands and mouth like a bright flame. What he had said to her tonight was true—he wanted her, but he was beginning to think he did not deserve her.

He remembered the terrible gaze of the
Fiosaiche
with a shudder. The images in her eyes. And the unsettling possibility that Ishbel was loose in the present with vengeance on her mind. Such things had nothing to do with sweet Bella, and although she had been generous enough to help him in his quest so far, it would be wrong of him to put her in the path of danger. Bella belonged to this world and Maclean wasn’t at all certain where he belonged.

There was a strange ache in his belly and he rubbed at it as he stood in the shadows. It felt oddly familiar, but he couldn’t work out what it was. He grimaced as his stomach made a loud rumble and the ache intensified. He found himself thinking of roasting beef over a crackling fire, of salmon, and fresh baked bannocks, and whiskey that warmed him from the inside out.

And that’s when he realized he was
hungry
.

Upstairs, Bella was curled under her quilt and blankets, only the top of her dark head showing. Maclean felt other parts of him ache, remembering the swell of her breast beneath the tight nightshirt, and the warmth of her woman’s body as she arched against his hand. He wanted to crawl into her bed and wrap his arms about her and show her what she had been missing with her ruddy-faced Brian. She had kissed him tonight as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her, but he knew he mustn’t force her. Aye, she had a heat and passion to match his, but she had told him she did not want him to touch her and he had agreed to abide by that, and Maclean was a man who did not break his word lightly.

Maclean gave the bed a shake, to try and wake her,
but she didn’t move. Glancing around, he could see the pile of books on the bedside table. Was she researching the past so energetically for the sake of her book? Or was it possible she cared about him?

His stomach grumbled.

Impatiently, Maclean shook the bed again. Bella moaned, ducking her head even farther under the covers. “Go away,” she said, her voice muffled. “I don’t want your magic bridle.”

“Bella?”

“Maclean? What’s wrong?”

“Bella, I’m hungry.”

There was a pause, and then she lifted her head and squinted in his general direction. Her hair was messy and her face was crumpled with sleep. Maclean thought she was gorgeous, and he was enjoying the sight of her when his stomach gave an extra-large rumble.

Bella laughed. “You
are
hungry. Is this another good sign?”

“Mabbe I am becoming a whole man again.”

“Maybe you are.”

“Will you cook me something to eat?”

Bella pushed her hair out of her eyes. Maclean was asking her to cook for him? She had the feeling that he would consider cooking to be a woman’s work. She hoped he wasn’t expecting her to take over the role of his personal servant—that would never do—but neither could she let him starve.

“I’ll cook for you this time, and I’ll teach you to cook, Maclean, so that you can look after yourself. In this world men need to learn to cook and clean and
wash, unless they can pay someone else to do it. And you are currently unemployed. All right?”

He was silent as if mulling over what she had said. “Aye, all right,” he sighed. “It seems verra strange, but if that is how men behave now, then I will learn to cook, Bella.”

She threw the covers back and swung her legs out of the bed. The floor was cold and she flinched, quickly huddling into her robe and slippers. Maclean thumped after her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where it was much warmer. Bella set about preparing scrambled eggs on toast, and then Maclean set about eating them.

Watching the food vanish from the plate into nothing was very disconcerting, so she tried not to watch.

“I’ll need more,” he said, a few minutes after she gave him a second helping.

Bella turned to stare over her shoulder. “More?”

“Aye, I’m as hungry as a stag in the winter, Bella.”

He sounded so mournful that she set about frying some sausages and bacon, with tomato and mushrooms, and toast. He ate that, too, so she heated up some soup and rolls. He finished that off with a slice of carrot cake with lemon icing, and the bottle of Australian wine.

“At the rate you’re eating, Maclean,” she said, peering into the cupboard, “there’ll be nothing left in a couple of days. Not that I mind. It must mean you’re returning to normal. Maybe you’re making up for two hundred and fifty years of hunger.”

Maclean gave a sigh of repletion. “It does feel good.”

“I’m glad.” She smiled. It
was
a good sign, this
hunger of Maclean’s. Did this mean that very soon he would be completely visible again? She imagined having the Maclean in the portrait on the wall striding about the cottage. He was so domineering and handsome—altogether rather overwhelming. Before he arrived she had already been attracted to the image of him, so when he was whole again would she lose it completely, or would she be able to hang on to her self-control?

There was a thought. Maclean as her lover. Waking up in the morning with Maclean, and going to bed at night with his arms about her. The images made her feel hot all over.

“Well”—she took a breath, and tried to distract herself by glancing about at the mess—“I think I’ll leave this and go back to bed…eh, sleep.”

“Goodnight, Bella.”

She hesitated in the doorway. “I was reading one of the books I found in the library today. It’s a history of the Macleods of Mhairi, cobbled together by someone who’s related to them. It isn’t very well written, but it made me realize something I should have known. The origin of the Black Maclean legend must have been Auchry Macleod. There’s no other explanation.”

“Ishbel’s father?”

“Yes. When the authorities eventually got around to investigating the massacre, it was him they spoke to.
He
seems to be the starting point in all of this. Didn’t he like you very much, Maclean?”

“He was a sly weasel of a man,” he said coldly. “It doesna surprise me he would do something underhanded to hurt me when I was dead and couldn’t accuse him of the lie. That would be Auchry’s way.”

“He must have been very fond of his daughter if he’d forgive her for abandoning her useful marriage to you and running off with Iain. I would have thought most fathers in your day would have given the girl a sound beating and dragged her back to her future husband.”

“Auchry was always weak when it came to Ishbel. Once she got home she would turn her sweet smile on him and he’d do anything she asked.”

“So do you think he…killed you?”
Cut your body into pieces and threw it to the four winds.
She shuddered at such barbarity.

“No, not Auchry.”

Bella waited. It sounded as if he had more to tell her, but when he remained silent, she said lightly, “Then it doesn’t surprise me that Ishbel’s father would use your death to blacken your memory. If he could turn you into such a villain that she had no option but to leave, then there’s no stain on her character, or his.”

Maclean pondered a moment. “Aye, you’re right. Blackening my name would suit him. But I dinna understand how he overcame me and my men. He was a thief, a man to sneak up in the dark and rob his neighbors, no’ a soldier.”

“He wouldn’t have gone to Loch Fasail afterwards, then?”

“Even Auchry would hesitate when it came to the murder of innocent women and children, even if they were Maclean women and children. No, there is more to it, Bella.”

“Then I’ll have to dig further.” Again she hesitated. She had a feeling that Maclean was remembering something, but he was keeping it to himself. Bella
wished he would tell her, but she could hardly force it out of him; she didn’t think Maclean was a man who could be forced to do anything against his will. He would open up to her when he was good and ready.

“Goodnight, Maclean.”

“Goodnight, Arabella.”

Bella closed the door. She was tired and longing for her bed, but still she took a moment to stand in the cold hallway and think of Maclean. To try and make sense of what was happening to her. And to wonder why, in the midst of all this craziness, she was so happy.

“Take care, Bella.” She whispered the warning. “Remember, he could vanish again as quickly as he appeared.”

It was better to shield herself from being hurt, she had learned that much from Brian. She would be a fool to trust Maclean implicitly. The unfortunate thing was, she wanted to. Despite all her precautions he had slipped beneath her guard, and was dangerously close to making a captive of her heart.

When Bella woke it was to the smell of cooking. Surprised, she made her way downstairs, realizing she had slept far longer than usual. The flush of dawn had come and gone, and now there was a soft misty rain falling over the loch. When she opened the door into the kitchen she was immediately enveloped by a haze of smoke and steam and the smell of meat sizzling.

Maclean was busy playing chef.

“There you are!” he said when she came through the door. “I couldna wait any longer, woman. My belly was pressing against my backbone.”

Bella cast an eye over the scene and decided he didn’t need any immediate help. She sat down at the table, trying not to notice how pans and pots were moved by his invisible hands.

“You really are becoming a man again, Maclean. The
Fiosaiche
must be very pleased with you.”

“I want to please her. And you, Bella. I want to be a man again, so that I can please you.”

Bella cleared her throat, an image of Maclean and herself flashing into her mind with hot, sharp clarity.

He seemed to read her thoughts because he chuckled, and for a moment, just a moment, she could see a man-shaped cloud. Not black, like his silhouette against bright light, but bluish and green. Perhaps the color of his plaid? A pan crashed into the sink, he cursed, and now she could definitely see him. All of him. Enveloped in a fuzzy white mist.

“Maclean,” she breathed, afraid that saying it aloud might make it go away. “I can see you…I think. I can see something.”

He froze. As she stared he moved toward her, becoming bigger, and then part of the hazy shape reached out and she felt Maclean’s fingers wrap about her wrist. Staring down, she could see the vague outline of his arm and hand, but no detail; he was very poorly defined.

“I can see you,” she said. “Not clearly yet, but I can see you.”

His fingers trembled. “I really am becoming a man again,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Behind him a pot boiled over with a violent splutter.

With a curse he turned back to the mess he was making. But nothing was damaged and a moment later he
had served up two plates of bacon and eggs with half-burnt toast. Bella thanked him, finding it touching that he had not just cooked for himself, but had gone to the trouble of thinking of her, too.

“This cooking business is simple,” Maclean announced around a mouthful of food. “I dinna know why women fuss about it so.”

Bella narrowed her eyes at him. “So you’re an expert now, are you, Maclean?”

“I’m a man.”

“Your point being?”

“A man is naturally better at everything, apart from bearing babies.”

Bella itched to throw something at him. Instead she said, “You’re medieval, Maclean. A medieval despot. A feudal lord.”

He munched a moment in silence. “Do you know, Bella, I’ve been to the homes of some of the nobles of Scotland, and I tell you that just because they dress in lace and wear wigs and have people to wait on them doesna make them good landlords and chiefs. ’Tis my opinion that the more money a man has, the more he wants. He forgets his people and the reason he was born to be a leader of them, and thinks only of having as much fine furniture and gold plate about him as he can get hold of, and wearing as many jewels on his fingers as he can bear.”

“Hmm, very Calvinist of you, Maclean.” But he impressed her with his thoughts, and the depth of frank feeling behind them.

“I never wanted to prance about Edinburgh in high heels,” he retorted crossly. “I liked it fine here in Fasail.
This was my place and my people, and I was born to protect them from harm.” He stopped. After a moment he pushed his plate away, food still on it. “Aye, and look what a mess I made of it,” he said bitterly.

Bella spoke gently. “Maclean, when you returned from Culloden and Ishbel was gone, did you ever have any doubts about going after her?”

“No,” he said stiffly.

Bella leaned forward. “Why not? I mean, if you didn’t love her and she was desperate to go, and you were certain of your authority over her father, what did it matter if she left? Was the land that important to you that you’d forgo your own happiness and hers for the sake of it?”

“
I am the Maclean.
Do you think my people would respect me if I allowed my future wife to run off with a scrawny wee laddie?”

His voice dripped ice and an arrogance that chilled her blood. He didn’t sound like the Maclean she had come to know. He sounded like the man in the legend, and capable of anything.

Bella swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. “I don’t know, Maclean. Perhaps in hindsight your people would have preferred to forgo the respect and keep their lives. What value do you place on their ‘respect’ for you after all?”