The Highlander Who Loved Me (MacCallan Clan, #2) Read online

  Suddenly, a figure appeared in the doorway, eyes lit with an unholy glow.

  Everyone screamed.

  Chapter 14

  The Grim Reaper had arrived on the scene.

  One hand clasped behind his back, the other holding a large candlestick—the most welcoming sight. So welcome, in fact, that deep from within Isla’s chest came barreling laughter that burst forth from her lips. This was no half-hearted laugh but a full belly guffaw. Ye gods, how many years had she lost to fright in the last forty-eight hours? A precious amount.

  “Mr. Drummond!” Mrs. Drummond admonished. “You scared the wits out of us!”

  “My apologies, dear,” Mr. Drummond murmured. “Mr. Donnelly rushed past me in the hallway. I came to investigate.”

  His eyes flicked beyond them, and everyone followed his gaze, right to where Miss Walker hung on to the lapels of Mr. Shelby, both of them suspended in time, blinking at the other in shock.

  Isla’s jaw dropped.

  As did Lady Amanda’s.

  As did everyone else’s.

  It had to be said that if the undead existed and were as of yet undisturbed by the events that transpired in the establishment, Miss Walker’s shriek would have woken them all.

  Tonight’s calamity had arrived.

  Another bellow wrenched through the air, one that prompted Mr. Shelby to finally jump away from Miss Walker, arms raised high. “Gentle and delicate” Lady Amanda, to quote Miss Walker’s observation of the woman, seemingly leaped from the sofa right onto Miss Walker’s head.

  Isla had never seen two women fight, but it was nothing akin to two men coming to blows.

  A definite form of art.

  Lady Amanda clutched Miss Walker’s hair, tugging her backward into what seemed a most uncomfortable position. Poor Miss Walker, still shrieking, attempted to escape the talons of her attacker to no avail. In the end, she gave up on retreating and fought back, grabbing a fistful of Lady Amanda’s hair and jerking down.

  “Harpy!” Lady Amanda yelled.

  “Let go of me, you madwoman!”

  “I will once I’ve pulled every strand of hair from your head!”

  “Darling,” Mr. Shelby implored. “There has been a grave mistake.”

  “Do not speak to me, John!” Lady Amanda spit out. “I shall deal with you later.”

  Isla and Mr. Ross shared an amused look.

  “We should go before this gets out of hand,” he suggested.

  “Are you afraid I’ll jump into the fray to defend Miss Walker?” Isla teased.

  “Terrified.”

  Isla smoothed a hand over her hair. “I’m too fond of my hair.”

  They took a step back, though Isla’s attention remained rooted, eyes transfixed on the sight of Miss Walker and Lady Amanda wrestling. Everyone had gathered around them in a half circle; in a dance of sidestepping, the count attempted to pull Miss Walker away from Lady Amanda, full swing in the fight. Mr. Shelby tried to appease his wife.

  As soon as Isla and Mr. Ross cleared the room, they strode briskly down the hall, away from the commotion in search of a more peaceful spot, and found a small but quaint dimly lit library.

  “Goodness!” Isla exclaimed. “Can you believe Miss Walker? She thought Mr. Shelby was you.”

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “You must admit it’s a little bit funny.”

  “Nay, it is not.” His expression dour, he ran a hand through his hair for what must have been the seventeenth time that day. “If Shelby had not been married, he’d have been dragged to the altar.”

  “Aye, you are lucky you weren’t in her vicinity.”

  His eyes narrowed a fraction, though whether in affront or contemplation, Isla couldn’t be sure. She had to wonder whether he’d have followed direction and been dragged down the altar had Miss Walker succeeded in her stunt with the right man. She also wondered whether the pinch in her chest was jealousy or fear of being left to travel alone.

  “I wouldn’t marry that shameless woman even if it meant saving the world from an apocalypse,” Mr. Ross declared with a growl.

  Isla felt ridiculously pleased by that statement. At the same time, she also felt sorry for poor Miss Walker, who appeared to be in a tight spot. “Her father has betrothed her to the vilest sort of man; that is why she is hiding here,” Isla confessed. “I am sure she only wishes to find a way out, and that means marrying another.”

  “She should try and find a willing man,” Mr. Ross growled.

  “I agree.” Distracted by their new surroundings, she wandered over to the nearest shelf, inspecting the books. “These books must be a hundred years old,” Isla murmured, trailing her finger over the dust-covered titles.

  “Everything here must be at least a hundred years old,” Mr. Ross pointed out. “Including the proprietors.”

  “An impossibility.”

  “So you say.” He motioned to the books. “Do you enjoy reading?”

  “I prefer to pen my thoughts.” She offered him a faint smile. “Usually in the form of letters.”

  “I don’t read much,” Mr. Ross confessed. “Nor do I write.”

  “What do you enjoy, then?”

  “Horses.”

  “Ah.” She turned to him. “Is that why you became a groom?”

  He shook his head. “Nay.”

  The way Mr. Ross was staring at her . . . Isla’s breath caught. It was becoming harder and harder to dismiss him from her thoughts. No matter how much she had first set her mind against any temptation he created, he continued to prove himself to be a man of character who cared, considered, and listened.

  She couldn’t explain what it was, but when he looked at her like that—humor in his gaze, mischievous lips curved upward—a deep thrum of awareness gripped her belly. Her entire body responded as if, in some way, she recognized him, knew him . . . from a long time ago. Perhaps even a previous life. But that was downright silly.

  This was Mr. Ross.

  Groomsman to MacCallan Castle.

  And yet . . .

  “Why do you feel so familiar to me?” Isla murmured, her eyes searching his. “Why does it feel as though I’ve been looking into your eyes all my life?”

  “Lass . . .”

  “Nay, do not lass me,” Isla said, lifting her hand to keep him from answering. “Ever since we arrived here, there has been this feeling niggling at me, a sense of familiarity I cannot place. Do you think . . .” She shook her head. “Nay, it’s too ridiculous to contemplate.”

  “What is?” he asked. “Tell me.”

  She scrunched her brows together before lifting her eyes to his. “Do you think, perhaps, we might have known each other in a previous life?”

  “Nay?” Isla responded when his jaw dropped. “I thought as much too. Seems a bit far-fetched.”

  “That is the conclusion you arrived at?” Mr. Ross asked, flabbergasted. “Previous life?”

  Isla lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “It’s the only one that makes sense.”

  He marched over to her, and she had to crane her neck to keep his gaze. “You are a maddening woman, Isla MacCallan.”

  Isla chuckled. “I suppose there is another explanation.”

  He quirked a brow in question.

  “Och, well, we are both haunted in our own way, and as it appears the haunted are drawn to this place, we have that in common.”

  His brows snapped together. “So that’s it, lass? You feel a familiarity because we are both haunted?”

  “I thought about that. This place,” Isla murmured, “perhaps it’s not the fact that we are haunted that draws us here or makes you feel familiar. Perhaps it is our desire to be healed.”

  “This place,” he jabbed a finger in every direction, “is just a roadside inn, nothing more.”

  Isla started, taken aback by the testiness in his tone. But at the same time, the fire dancing in his eyes awakened the butterflies in her belly, tying her up in feelings she no longer had the strength to den
y, nor wished to deny.

  He had brushed his lips against hers, but he hadn’t kissed her. Isla wanted to be kissed, longed to be kissed. Right there. Right at that moment. So she did what any woman in her situation—tucked away in a library filled with old books—would do: she rose on her tiptoes, seized Mr. Ross by the shirt, dragged him down to her height, and planted her mouth firmly on his.

  Och, Isla was lost at the first touch of his lips. She didn’t care that she did not know what she was doing. There would be no brushing involved with this kiss. Her first real kiss. She would make it a memorable one.

  She melted against him and felt a low groan rumble deep in his chest. The strength and maleness of him were everything the woman in her imagined. He felt hard and solid against her. Fire raced down her spine, and a slow heat began to build inside her. To her disappointment, he used that absolute strength of his to push her away. A name suddenly came to mind.

  His gaze glistened with hunger, eyes fastening on her lips. Slowly, they lifted. “Why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to kiss you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Her hands dropped to her side, eyes alive with vivacity as she stared into his blue gaze. “I just knew I had to.”

  “Lass, this cannot happen again.”

  Isla pulled back in surprise. “Why not?”

  “Because I want you so badly it hurts to breathe when you’re this close.” His gaze burned into hers. “But I do recall you saying something along the lines of kissing and not knowing my name.”

  Isla almost snorted. “Nevertheless, a name came to me as we kissed.”

  “That was no kiss.”

  “Our lips touched, Mr. Ross. Ergo, a kiss.”

  “That was a mere peck, lass.” He brought his nose down to hers. “You will know a real kiss when I kiss you.” He straightened. “What name have you chosen this time?”

  “Granted,” she murmured, “the name is French—”

  “French?” His shoved away from her. “Christ, woman, are you trying to provoke me?”

  “Of course not.” Isla bit down on her lower lip. “I believe, from the little I know, it means ‘wise.’”

  “Wise?”

  She nodded.

  He folded his arms over his chest. “You were thinking about French names while kissing me. Tell me, lass, do you think that is wise?”

  “Och, you are reading too much into the origin of the name.” She raked him over with a suspicious glance. “Is it because of the count?”

  “Astute as ever,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “So this name means ‘wise.’ Does that mean you think me sage?”

  “Practical,” she corrected. “You must be the most practical person I’ve met.”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “I’m not practical at all, lass. I’m addicted, bewitched, overwhelmed. There is nothing practical about that or me. I have no practical bone inside me. Once you learn my name, you will know this. Until then, this,” he motioned between them, “will never happen again.”

  He turned and stalked from the room.

  “Dru.”

  He jerked his head around to stare down at her, stopping dead in his tracks. Isla shifted from one foot to another as he studied her for a long moment.

  “That is not a French name.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth. “Even if it is, it’s still a variant from Andrew. You already guessed Andrew.”

  “Not the French variant,” Isla said brightly.

  “I’m Scottish,” he bit out. “That’s . . .” Several seconds went by before he could complete his thought. “. . . insanity.”

  “Insanity? How is that insanity?”

  “You repeat another version of the same name and expect a different outcome.”

  “I did not expect a different outcome,” Isla admitted with a small shrug. “The name just felt right.”

  DREW’S THROAT CONVULSED.

  His breath had been knocked out of him, and he struggled to regain it. She had said his name. His name. And it didn’t count. It didn’t count because it wasn’t his name. It could only be his name when she could say it knowing everything.

  His brows furrowed as he studied her. The unseasonably cold weather had spurred color in her cheeks, or maybe he imagined it, so shocked had he been to discover she wanted to kiss him. But still no recognition danced in her gold-dusted eyes.

  He should rip the patch from his eye and shave his bloody beard and be done with it. He could do nothing about the scars the MacCallans had given him. So what the hell was stopping him? Dammit. He wasn’t ready yet.

  He turned and walked away, the disappointment in her gaze gnawing at his gut. Devil take it! He couldn’t stop himself. Possessed not an ounce of self-control. Clenching his teeth, he pivoted on his heel and stalked back to her with long, purposeful strides.

  Drew grasped her face between his hands and lowered his head, plundering her mouth with his. His tongue coaxed her lips apart, demanding nothing but full entrance. Desire, swift and knee-weakening, ripped through him, driving him to deepen the kiss. He held nothing back, gave her everything she knew she wanted but couldn’t yet comprehend.

  He gave her him.

  Drew Murray.

  He wrenched his lips away from hers, almost groaning at the loss of their touch. His gaze met and held hers. “That is a kiss,” he growled and stalked from the room.

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Ross was indeed the Devil.

  Isla had never been so hopelessly confused in all her life. How in heaven’s name could she share the most earth-shattering kiss with a man who refused to reveal his name? He had cast an everlasting spell over her. That served the only explanation. And there was no breaking free from his fascinating influence. But, oh, how she had tried. The whole of last night, alone on her lumpy bed, she had tried and failed in attempt after attempt. That had led Isla to spend the night curled up in a ball pretending she did not hear tapping, scraping, clawing, and every wild noise her mind was able to conjure.

  There was a lot.

  Which was why, this morning, she decided to avoid Mr. Ross and any form of calamity at all cost. His whereabouts unknown, she dashed past the dining room and averted her gaze when she passed the library—she was not stepping foot in there. The common room was blessedly empty when she entered it, hoping Mr. Ross would not think to look for her in this seemingly cursed room.

  Isla wondered if Miss Walker had walked away unscathed from the previous day’s fight. Had Mr. Shelby and Lady Amanda made up? And she still didn’t quite know what she’d done to anger Mr. Ross. Had she been too brazen in kissing him? Surely it couldn’t be because of the French variant of the name she’d guessed? Looking back, Mr. Ross did seem to dislike the count.

  Och, she dropped down onto the sofa, this is all so confusing.

  Would the storm ever end? Were her brothers counting the hours as well? This journey had started as a means of escaping their overbearing behavior to breathe in new, fresh air and release the old. It had become so much more.

  Her eyes flicked to the window. Snow still danced outside, though the whipping winds seemed to have settled down for the time being. It wouldn’t be long now. In a day or two, they would be able to retrieve the carriage.

  Beyond the window, something stirred in the snow.

  Isla squinted for a better look. Again she caught movement. Someone or something was out there. Snow demons better not be a thing, she thought as she advanced toward the window. Every strange incident that had happened since they had arrived had started in this room.

  She peered through the window, eyes widening.

  Ye gods.

  Was that the count plodding through the snow? In this temperature? The man must have lost his French marbles. Her brows drew together. Was he waving at her? Motioning her to the front entrance?

  Isla did not wait; she dashed from the room, certain the count to be in some kind of trouble. No one in their right mind would be ou
tdoors in this cold. She fumbled for the latch and wrenched the door open, rushing into the frosty weather.

  “Non!” the count cried in a hoarse, barely audible voice.

  The door slammed shut behind her.

  Isla jerked around. “What? What’s happened?”

  “The door is broken, chérie.” He gave her a pained look.

  She circled back to face him. “What?”

  “It cannot be opened from the outside.”

  “It worked just fine when we arrived.”

  “Oui, I do not understand it either. I knocked for fifteen minutes before I could no longer stand still.”

  “What?” Isla exclaimed. “I didn’t see a soul on my way to the common room!”

  The count nodded in agreement. “It’s early.”

  “What are we going to do?” Isla asked, venturing over to him, rubbing her arms to generate heat. She wasn’t dressed for the outdoors.

  “We must stay warm, chérie,” the count murmured, teeth clattering. “Until we are found.”

  “That might take ages,” Isla said, blowing air into her hands and glancing to the row of windows of the common room. “What were you doing out in this cold in the first place?”

  “I check on my horses every morning,” the count answered. “This morning the stables were locked.”

  “Could we not shatter a window and climb through?” Isla suggested, treading back and forth to keep her blood circulating. “Goodness, it’s too cold for this to work.”

  “I’m afraid damaging a window might do more harm than good.”

  Isla considered that. As rundown as the inn appeared to be, there was no telling what might happen after breaking a window. They could very well cast the entire building under a wintry spell.

  “On second thought, you might be right, Count,” she murmured. “What about dancing?” Isla suggested, recalling how Mr. Ross kept allowing her the use of his body for heat.

  Soft sky-blue eyes lifted to her. “What are you thinking, chérie?”

  “Dancing is the perfect way to keep active and share the warmth of our bodies.”