Operation Page 11

  Sam froze in her seat. Duncan’s face faded three shades to a ghostly white.

  “It’s finally happened,” he said after he recovered his poise. “You’re the one who’s away with the fairies.”

  “Ach,” Old Mag spat, holding out her hand to Sam. “I know what I know.” She had the grip of a strong young man as she helped Sam from the car. “I see what’s there before it comes to be.”

  “Rubbish,” Duncan said. He’d regained some of his color, Sam noted. “If you have the gift, why didn’t you know we were coming?”

  “I know what’s important,” Old Mag said, studying Sam from head to foot. “You’ll have a boy.”

  Sam’s hands went to her belly instinctively, although she admitted nothing. “A boy?”

  “Aye, there is no doubt. The look is in your eye.”

  “Well,” said Sam, “that’s quite a statement to make.”

  Old Mag’s fiery gaze met her eyes. “You’re a bonnie lass, as well, and that comes as no surprise.”

  “Th-thank you,” Sam managed. “I’m Samantha.”

  “Old Mag to you.” She motioned for Sam to bend down close. “Be good to him, lass,” she whispered, “or you’ll know the back of my hand. I’ll not see him suffer like—”

  “Enough, old woman,” Duncan roared as he took their bags from the trunk. “Is the supper ready? Tell Robby to start a fire in the library.”

  Old Mag muttered something Sam couldn’t even pretend to understand, then flew into the house in a swirl of white apron and long black skirt.

  “Weren’t you a little rough on her?” Sam asked as they started up the flower-lined pathway to the door.

  “’Tis our way,” he said.

  “You can’t blame her for being surprised, Duncan. I mean, I’m still surprised we’re married, so you can imagine how she must be feeling.”

  “Tell me that this time next week after she’s made your life a living hell.”

  “A living hell?” She forced a laugh. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  The look he gave her made her wonder. “Old Mag has the heart of a lioness and the claws to match. Take care with her and you’ll do well.”

  “You make it sound like I’ll need a whip and a chair,” Sam muttered.

  His laughter surprised her. “No whip or chair,” he said. “Just keep your wits and you’ll be fine.”

  Sam felt an unexpected pang of disappointment as she crossed the threshold and stepped inside. Not that she’d been expecting anything in particular, but you’d have to have been raised on another planet to miss the significance of a brand-new bride, a brand-new groom and a threshold. Duncan, however, seemed oblivious to it all. He dropped their bags in the hall and bellowed, “Robby!” at the top of his lungs.

  Sam winced and clapped her hands over her ears. “You’ll wake the dead.”

  “Good,” he said, “then maybe the man will hear me.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a tall white-haired man strolled down the hallway toward them. Sam had seen scarecrows with more meat on them. She almost swore she could hear his bones clacking together as he walked. The scarecrow looked at Sam, and his smile was so big and bright she found herself smiling back at him.

  “Aye, a bonnie lass you are,” the man said, with a nod toward Duncan. “As if he’d be bringin’ home anything less.”

  In Texas a comment like that would have prompted her to start World War Three, but somehow, in this place, she found herself charmed. Even if the comment did make her feel like a prize trout. “Thank you,” she said, extending her right hand. “I’m Sam.”

  The man took her hand in his as if it were made of the most delicate, translucent porcelain. “Robby Graham, and if ever you need something done, I’m the man to call.” He said it with the rapt expression of a man declaring his undying love.

  Sam was so touched she almost wept. “I’ll remember that, Robby,” she said, gently extricating her hand from his. “I’m very glad to meet you.”

  Robby’s smile stretched so wide, she wondered it didn’t split his face in two. “You’re what we’ve needed,” he said. “Not like the other one—”

  Duncan stepped between the two of them. “The library,” he said. “We need a fire.”

  Robby nodded, but his attentions were still focused on Sam. “A nasty one she was. Never time for so much as a—”

  “Are you going to lay the fire, old man, or do I have to do it myself?”

  “In a mood, he is,” Robby said, not cowed in the least by Duncan’s temper. “Been this way all his life if you ask me.”

  Sam did her best to hold back her laughter, but failed. Robby started to laugh, too, and she knew their friendship was sealed in mirth. Duncan, however, found no humor in the situation.

  “You’re a worthless man,” he bellowed, picking up the suitcases and starting for the stairs. “It’s a wonder I don’t turn you out.”

  “You’d be lost without the likes of me,” Robby said, with a wink for Sam. “I’ll lay the fire for you, missus.”

  “He’s wonderful,” Sam said as Robby disappeared down the hallway.

  “Ye think so because he’s cow-eyed for you.”

  “I think so because he’s delightful and has a sense of humor,” she said, still grinning. “Which is more than I can say for you right now.”

  He didn’t exactly smile, but Sam knew it was only a matter of time.

  “Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll show you the living quarters.”

  She grabbed her tote bag and followed him down the corridor to a surprisingly elaborate staircase that led upstairs. The steps were wide and shallow, and it took her a second to find her rhythm. One day these steps would be as familiar to her as the elegantly carpeted steps of her town house. Right now, however, that seemed impossible to believe. Sights, sounds, smells—everything was strange to her. Her country’s history would be nothing more than a footnote compared to the richness found in Duncan’s lineage.

  Dozens of portraits in ornate gold frames stared at her as she climbed the stairs. Women in Elizabethan dress. Men in ruffles and velvet. A parade of handsome young men in kilts with swords slung diagonally across their chests. She paused before a small oval portrait of a woman with hauntingly beautiful eyes, and a wave of the familiar dizziness washed over her.

  “Lassie?” He was by her side in an instant. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m simply overwhelmed.”

  “You’ve gone pale.”

  His expression shifted for an instant, but before she could identify the emotion in his eyes, he put down the bags and swept her into his arms.

  “I had no intention of fainting,” she said.

  “You had no intention of fainting the last two times, either.”

  He climbed the rest of the stairs with Sam cradled against his chest. “Do you plan on carrying me around until the baby is born?”

  He pretended to stagger under her weight, and she laughed. It was these unexpected moments of connection between them that kept her so off balance.

  They reached the landing, and instead of setting her on her feet, he carried her down the second floor hall, all the way to the last door on the left. The door was closed. She wondered if he just might carry her over this particular threshold, but he put her down then reached for the doorknob.

  Wrong again, Sam. He’s not going to carry you over this threshold or any other one. Get over it!

  He swung open the door and motioned for her to step inside the room. She did and was instantly struck by the flood of light pouring in through the mullioned windows that lined two walls. The room was austere but no less beautiful for its simplicity, with lots of dark wood paneling, a chair and table near the far window, a bed the size of her office back home in Texas.

  It dominated the room and her attention.

  “Mag will unpack for you,” Duncan said, placing Sam’s big suitcase on the bed.

  “What about your bags?”<
br />
  “I take care of my own things.”

  “About the sleeping arrangements,” she began. “I was wondering—”

  “This is the master suite,” he said. “The two fireplaces keep it warm in winter.”

  “I’m sure they do,” she said, “but that’s not—”

  “The north side is windward. You don’t want—”

  “Damn it, Duncan, are you sleeping here, too?” She hadn’t meant to say it with quite that sharp an edge, but there you had it.

  “Where did you think I’d be sleeping?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “This is my bed,” he said. “This is where I sleep.”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding. “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do, Samantha.”

  “We’re married,” she said, as if it was no big deal. “We sleep in the same bed. No problem.”

  He placed the palm of his hand against her belly and she thought she would go up in flames from his touch. “That’s mine,” he said in a low and thrilling voice. “We made that together.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice suddenly husky. She felt herself swaying toward him, melting like a quick-burning candle. It was like this that first time, she thought. So fast. So crazy.

  He cupped her buttocks in his hands and pulled her close to him, fitting himself against her. He was rock-hard. She could feel his heat burning through their clothes.

  “We’re married,” he said, moving his hands over her hips, her waist, her rib cage. “Is this part of the bargain?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Is it?”

  “That’s for you to decide, lassie.” He released her and took a step backward. “You set the boundaries.”

  He sounded so businesslike, as if he could turn on and off again at will.

  “Maybe we should have had our lawyers work out the details for us,” she snapped, stung by his abrupt change of attitude.

  “What happens in our bedroom is nobody’s business but ours.”

  “And what if nothing happens in our bedroom?” she countered, unable to control her voice.

  “Then that is your decision,” he said evenly, not rising to her bait.

  “You could live with that?”

  “You draw the boundaries, lassie, and I will live within them or without them as I choose.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

  “We’ll love the child,” he said. “We canna ask more from marriage than that.”

  She knew he was wrong but couldn’t find the words to tell him how or why.

  They stood there in awkward silence for a few moments. Sam vowed it would take an act of God to get her to speak first.

  Duncan cleared his throat. “Would you like to see the other rooms on this floor?”

  “Thank you,” Sam said, “but maybe some other time.”

  She could almost see the dark storm clouds gather over his head. “You can find your way downstairs?”

  “I think I can manage.”

  He turned and left the room without another word.

  Sam considered going after him and apologizing for her sharp tongue but sheer stubbornness held her back. She hadn’t insulted him or his country or violated any international laws. All she’d done was refuse an offer to explore her new home. Considering the fact that this would be her home for the rest of her life, there’d be plenty of other opportunities.

  Why not go for broke, she thought, looking at the suitcases stacked on the bed. If she unpacked her own clothing, she could dig herself an even deeper hole with Mag—if that was humanly possible. The old woman’s whispered threat still echoed in her ears. Be good to him, lass, or you’ll know the back of my hand I’ll not see him suffer like—

  Like what? Like he suffered the last time he had a cold? She knew that couldn’t possibly be what Mag was hinting at. No, it had something to do with a woman. And she’d almost be willing to bet her stake in Wilde & Daughters Ltd. that it was his ex-wife who’d made him suffer.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER Sam joined Duncan in the library for supper. Mag had set up a card table in front of the fire and laid it with a dark green cloth and the best china and silver.

  “She hates me,” Sam said as Mag and Robby left the room. “Did you see the way she threw my food at me?” One of the roasted new potatoes had bounced off Sam’s plate and rolled under her chair.

  “She doesn’t know you, lass,” he said. “How can she hate you?”

  “I unpacked my own things.” She pierced a carrot with her fork then popped it into her mouth. “That’s one reason.”

  “I told you she’d take care of it.”

  “It wasn’t a difficult task, Duncan,” she said tartly. “Besides, that’s only the half of it. She also doesn’t think I’m good enough for you.”

  The furrow between his eyes deepened. “She said that to you?”

  “She didn’t have to say anything. It’s the way she looks at me.”

  “Old Mag looks the way she looks. ‘Tis nothing unusual.”

  “She probably thinks you should have married a Scotswoman.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, “she would think that.”

  “And she’s probably scandalized that I’m already pregnant.”

  “She doesn’t know that.”

  “She knows.” Sam’s laugh was brittle. “I don’t know how she knows, but she has it all figured out”

  “You read too much into an old woman’s ways,” he said, but there was something in his voice that piqued her curiosity. “She hasn’t the gift of second sight, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood abruptly.

  “Duncan?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of Mag.” Before she could protest, he left the room.

  * * *

  SAM FINISHED her supper then curled up in her chair to watch the fire dance in the hearth. She had no idea where Duncan had disappeared to, and for the moment, she was just as glad. He’d been gone for the better part of an hour with not so much as a word of explanation. She’d heard Old Mag’s voice in the hallway, but it was Robby who cleared away the trays and brought Sam a pot of tea and some shortbread. He positively beamed with pleasure as he poured the dark brew. It was nice to know someone in the castle liked her.

  When you came down to it, she had no idea at all if her husband did. In truth, how could he, when he didn’t know her any better than she knew him. She didn’t know his birthday, his favorite foods, what kind of music made him feel like dancing. Or if he danced at all. Was he kind to animals and small children? Would he care if she told him she had no idea what she was supposed to do with her life now that she was queen of the castle? Once the baby came, her role would be more clearly defined, but right now she felt downright rudderless.

  She poured herself another cup of tea and drew her chair closer to the fire. Back home in Houston she’d be wearing shorts and a tank top, wondering if it was time to turn on the central air-conditioning. Home, she thought. Houston wasn’t home anymore, was it? Glenraven was her home now, as it was her husband’s home, and would be their child’s home, as well. She waited for the word to resonate inside her heart, but that sense of rightness never came.

  Maybe it never would. It wasn’t as if she’d ever felt a deep spiritual connection to the place where she was born. Oh, sure, she had the same loyalty all Texans had for their home state, but that overwhelming sense of pride and belonging had somehow eluded her, as if she had been waiting all this time to find out where she was meant to be. Was this wild and beautiful place what she’d been searching for?

  She glanced around the library and found nothing of herself anywhere she looked. The books were strange to her, beautiful old leather volumes of poetry and history and art that smelled like salt air and heather. The photographs on the desk were of people
she’d never met The needlepoint cushions featured a coat of arms that had nothing at all to do with her.

  A rush of anger brought her up short. Why wasn’t Duncan there with her, helping her settle in? This was worse than being stood up for the high school prom by Cal Hutchens. At least then she’d been able to run upstairs to her own room and slam the door closed on the world. Here, she was expected to sleep with him.

  She glanced at her watch, which had been reset to local time. Nearly nine o’clock. That wasn’t too early for a pregnant woman to go to bed. If she hurried, maybe she could bathe, brush her teeth and be sound asleep before he joined her.

  It was the coward’s way out but it was the best she could do tonight.

  Chapter 9

  Duncan stood by the window of his studio and stared at the castle. An open bottle of Glenraven’s best rested on the sill. He’d watched the lights go off one by one until the only light remaining was the one in his room. He wondered what she was doing, what mysterious female nighttime ritual she was performing.

  This stranger, his wife.

  He imagined her rising from her bath, a cloud of perfumed steam billowing about her knees and thighs. He could see droplets of water sliding down the curve of her belly, down the sleek line of her thighs. He could see himself dropping to his knees in front of her and capturing those drops of water with the tip of his tongue. She would taste warm and sweet and female and he—

  Whiskey was a poor substitute for a woman’s body, he thought, as he lifted the bottle to his mouth and drank. That sweet, soft welcome for which men fought wars. He hadn’t been with a woman since Samantha. Not since that afternoon in the spring rain when he’d come closer to heaven than any man had the right to. She’d branded him, and he’d not been the same since.

  And she would probably never know.

  That was the one thing they hadn’t provided for in the endless reams of paper detailing the specifics of their marriage.

  She had his heart. She’d had it from the first moment when she came to his arms beside the loch.