The Lass Wore Black Read online

  A minute passed, then another, and she was as quiet and still as a statue. The girl he remembered had flitted about like a butterfly.

  She pushed back her chair and stood, before he could kiss her again.

  “I must go,” she said softly. “I have duties to attend to.”

  “Off with your aunt again?” he asked, standing now, too. She’d surprised and pleased him by her actions in Old Town.

  “How did you know?” she asked, then answered her own question. “Your watcher.”

  “Why did you start accompanying her?”

  “I’ve grown tired of my own company,” she said, the truth shining in each of her words. “I find that I can pity myself for only so long. Either I have to change my life or end it.”

  He reached out and grabbed her shoulders with both hands, giving her a shake.

  “Don’t say things like that,” he said. “Don’t think things like that.”

  She reached up and put her hands over his.

  “You heal,” she said. “It’s your calling in life, Mark. What do you do when you can’t?”

  “I keep trying.”

  She smiled, as if she’d expected that answer.

  “Some causes are worthless.”

  He matched her smile. “Some aren’t. You aren’t.”

  “You can’t heal me.”

  “Maybe I’m the one who needs to be healed,” he said. “From you. Because of you. I’ve decided the only treatment is to be around you more than I have been. That way, I won’t miss you so much.”

  Her eyes widened. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  “Marry me.”

  She took a step back, away from him.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Possibly,” he said. “I know my life hasn’t been the same since I walked into your room.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Marry me.”

  She shook her head.

  He’d expected her to be obstinate, and she didn’t disappoint. He took a step closer, and she retreated.

  He grinned, suddenly liking this chase. What she didn’t understand was that he had every intention of catching her.

  Before he could say something that linked them further, a chain of words he couldn’t call back, she moved backward, away from him.

  He couldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t push her past the boundaries she’d erected to protect herself.

  He couldn’t say things like that to her.

  Marry me.

  She wanted to weep.

  If he understood who she truly was, he’d leave her alone. She wasn’t good like he was. She definitely wasn’t selfless. She had, in her past, been grasping, greedy, and mean.

  Even if she’d changed, what did it matter? She would never be a saint. Nor did she truly wish to be, a confession that should shame her.

  “Is there no one else who has caught your eye?” she asked. “No one who would be more acceptable to marry? A society miss, perhaps?”

  “There was,” he said. “Or perhaps it’s more correct to say that I caught her eye.”

  She frowned at him. She was being perfectly serious, but he was smiling.

  “What happened to her?”

  “I decided that she wasn’t as interesting as someone else I knew.”

  “Are you talking about me?”

  Her heart began to beat too rapidly again. He needed to stop doing that to her. Surely it couldn’t be a healthy phenomenon.

  “I am.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t,” she said, suddenly annoyed.

  What did he expect from her? That he would marry her out of pity? “Will you tell your man not to follow me?”

  Instead of escorting her from the room, he walked toward her, one stalking step at a time. She backed up until there was nowhere else to go.

  He braced himself with a hand on either side of her, leaning his head close. She could feel his breath against her forehead. He created a protective and warm bubble around her, whispering against her ear.

  “What’s the matter, Catriona? Passion is only acceptable if it’s on your terms? Or if you instigate it?”

  She could hardly breathe.

  With one hand she grabbed his arm as he moved even closer, pressing against her, making her aware of every inch of his body.

  “I seem to remember a time in my bedroom that wasn’t at my instigation.”

  “No,” he said, nipping at her neck. “It wasn’t.”

  She closed her eyes, sighing as he moved his lips over her jaw, then kissed her again. This time the kiss demanded her cooperation and her surrender.

  She willed herself to feel nothing, but her body recognized him, heated for him, and her lips—traitorous lips—softened for his mouth.

  The man kissed like a demon; who was she to refuse him?

  His tongue slid between her lips, touched hers before retreating to tease her bottom lip.

  Somehow, she reached up and gripped his shoulders with both hands, and when he moved, she wished she were naked instead of protected by innumerable layers of cloth.

  Where had her resolve gone?

  She’d missed him so much. Not simply his touch, but his smile, and that twinkle that came into his eyes when he was being outrageous and knew it. She’d missed his kiss, and his acerbic comments, and the way he dared her and challenged everything she knew to be right.

  He had not flinched at her face. He hadn’t expressed his condolences once or made a hasty retreat from the sight of her. Instead, he’d examined her closely, separating the damage from the whole of her. To him, her scars had been nothing more than an afterthought, an accessory, a physical reminder of the accident but little more. Up until now, no man had been able to see her for the damage to her face. No man but Mark.

  Now, he was kissing her as if he desired her. As if he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  Marry me.

  She pulled back, pressing her hands against his chest. They were both breathing hard and his heart was booming against her palm.

  “Is it because you’re a physician?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Because you’re familiar with deformity?”

  He dropped his hands from her waist.

  “Deformity?”

  She nodded, not looking up at him. Instead, she concentrated on his shirtfront.

  “Catriona, you have to be the most infuriating woman I’ve ever known.”

  She glanced up at him. He was frowning at her.

  “Then you can’t possibly want to marry me.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Am I one of your good works?” she asked.

  He drew back. “Good works?”

  She nodded. “A project to prove that you’re compassionate and kind.”

  “Marrying you is supposed to prove my compassion?”

  It was her turn to frown at the amusement in his voice.

  “I am not being ridiculous.”

  “Yes, you are,” he said.

  “It was a perfectly valid question.”

  “Then let me give you a perfectly valid answer,” he said. “No, you’re not a pity project.”

  He kissed her again, and she came close to agreeing to marry him right then and there.

  “No,” he said, drawing back.

  “No what?” she asked, trying to come back to the present.

  “I’m not going to stop Mr. MacLean from following you. It’s either him or me, and I doubt my patients would understand. Or you could accompany me on my calls.”

  She shook her head, not taking him seriously.

  “You would be a good companion, I think. You’d be good with patients, and you’ve a great deal of compassion for others.”

  Was he talking about her?

  She frowned at him.

  He ran his finger down her nose, then tapped the end of it.

  “Edeen liked you. Said you were bossy like Mrs. MacTavish but that you had as good a heart.”

  “She did?” She slid along the
wall until they weren’t so close. “I’m not surprised. I’m likable.”

  He grinned at her.

  “Very well, I haven’t always been pleasant to you,” she said. “But I was goaded.”

  His eyes were twinkling at her. He had to stop doing that.

  “You threw a tray at me,” he said.

  She looked away. She’d forgotten about that.

  “Very well,” she said, pushing past him. “If you insist on spending your money on Mr. MacLean, do so.”

  She moved to the doorway, turning for one last glimpse of him. He looked tired, and she had the most absurd desire to tuck him up in bed, make him soup, and kiss him senseless.

  Whatever was he doing to her?

  “Catriona,” he said, his voice making her name sound entirely too sensuous.

  “Yes?”

  “I won’t give up,” he said, smiling again.

  She nodded, not entirely certain if he was talking about her watchdog or something else entirely.

  “I can’t do this no more, sir,” Artis said, wringing her hands.

  Andrew smiled and opened the back door wider. He was too close to success; she couldn’t rabbit on him now. He led her to the table, took her raggedy cloak, and hung it on the peg beside the door.

  “What is it now, Artis?” he asked, pretending a compassionate air.

  He was glad he was almost quit of Scotland. He hated the country and would be glad to see the last of it—and this woman especially.

  She slipped across the square every morning to report on Catriona, and of late he’d had to reassure her that she was doing the right thing, the honorable thing, in assisting the course of true love.

  He’d come close to gagging when he told her that.

  Catriona Cameron was incapable of loving anyone but herself. He’d be doing the world a favor by eradicating her.

  Did the maid see the rifle on the table behind her? He’d made no effort to hide it. He might well be going to the country over the weekend and needed to ensure it was in proper order. She wouldn’t know that the only hunting in this part of the country was normally done with a shotgun.

  Any fool could aim a shotgun and hope to hit something. The Pattern 1853 was a treasure of an instrument, a rifle possessing a deadly beauty. He’d become proficient with it in the last few years. It had become an extension of himself, an extra limb or a tool.

  “Where is she going today?” Andrew asked, demonstrating a patience he didn’t truly possess. He’d had years of practice feigning various emotions, however. With his amiable smile, the maid would have no reason to be nervous or afraid.

  After all, she wasn’t the one he was trying—unsuccessfully, so far—to kill.

  Twice Catriona had foiled him. She wouldn’t do so again.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t pay you not to know, Artis,” he said, still affable. “I pay you to give me Miss Cameron’s schedule.”

  “Why, sir?”

  She stood before him, shoulders drooping, twisting her hands until they were red. Her brown eyes were flat with fear.

  “Why?” he asked, not revealing his anger over such a daring question. Who was she to question him? “I’ve told you that I’m a cast-off suitor. I’m seeking a way to convince her of my love.”

  She looked doubtful, but at least she’d ceased twisting her hands.

  “I don’t think she feels the same, sir.”

  He kept his smile anchored by sheer will.

  “Why do you say that, Artis?”

  She shook her head.

  “Perhaps she doesn’t know her own feelings, Artis. Perhaps she will change her mind once I plead my case. I need your help.”

  She nodded, which meant that she’d continue to be his eyes and ears as long as he paid her well.

  He wondered if she’d ever know how close she came to dying first.

  Chapter 32

  Dina sat in the parlor, folding clothes once again. For some reason, her smile wouldn’t fade. Well, she certainly had enough reason to smile, hadn’t she? The donations for the poor had been pouring in of late. She had witnessed the transformation of Catriona’s character, becoming as sweet and kind as she’d always thought the girl could be. One day, perhaps, she would rid herself of her veil entirely, and venture out into the world.

  There would be times when Catriona would be rebuffed, no doubt. Although she believed in aiding her fellow man, sometimes her fellow man left a great deal to be desired. People would hurt the girl’s feelings, but Catriona must rise above that. The alternative was to remain as cloistered as a nun, and Catriona, with her loving personality, was not destined for dark corners and silence.

  The only thing she would have changed was that the two of them—Dr. Thorburn and Catriona—would be more intelligent in their secret courting. But people in love rarely thought of the outside world. Foolish young people to waste so much time on posturing.

  Dr. Thorburn was a definite catch, and so was Catriona, as soon as she realized that her appearance was not all she had to offer the world.

  “Mrs. MacTavish?”

  She looked up to see Artis standing in the doorway. Even Artis had changed over the past few weeks. She wasn’t nearly as surly as before, and had taken her punishment so well that it ended.

  “Yes, Artis?”

  “Have you a minute, ma’am?”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “I need to speak to you,” Artis said.

  She frowned. Was the girl going to complain about either Elspeth or Isobel again? She had enough of Artis’s complaints, and here the girl had been doing so well.

  “I need to tell you something I’ve done, Mrs. MacTavish.”

  A strange request, but she nodded, moving a stack of clothing aside so Artis could sit beside her. Instead, the girl remained standing in front of her.

  “You were kind to give me a position.”

  “I’d do it again, Artis.” She sent a smile in the girl’s direction, but Artis was still studying the floor.

  She didn’t have a good feeling about this.

  Artis twisted her hands in her apron and bit her lip between words.

  “I like having a roof over my head, and clothes to wear that smell good,” she said. “I like that you don’t tolerate drunkenness in your house.”

  The girl looked as if she were about to cry, and kept looking down at the floor other than at her.

  “I like it here, ma’am. I just want you to know that, and if you give me another chance, I’ll never do something like this again.”

  “Have you stolen the silver, Artis?” she asked, half in jest.

  The girl’s head rose, and Artis stared at her. “I haven’t. I’d never steal from you, ma’am.”

  “Well, if it’s not theft, what has you so worried? Your new duties?” She’d put Artis in charge of the inventory of all the linens. They had more sheets than they truly needed, but since they didn’t belong to her, but to her nephew, all she could do was count them, launder them, and ensure they were kept in good repair.

  “I’ve done a bad thing. She doesn’t deserve it, I’m thinking. I’ve put her in danger, and myself, too. I’ve dealt with the devil, Mrs. MacTavish, and he won’t be denied.”

  At the end of that impassioned speech, Artis burst out weeping.

  She stood and enfolded the girl in her arms.

  No, she really didn’t have a good feeling about this.

  Mark left his bag on the carriage seat and told Brody, “Go around to the kitchen. There’s no need for you to freeze waiting for me.”

  “I’ll do that, sir. Mrs. MacTavish’s cook makes a fine scone, she does.”

  He grinned, since he and Brody shared a love of anything sweet.

  He turned back to the steps, taking them two at a time. Today he was beginning his courtship in earnest. If he delayed, Catriona would have enough time to put up all sorts of objections to his suit. He wasn’t going to be denied.

  He’d
wanted to be a physician and had overcome all objections. Perhaps the obstinacy he demonstrated then had only been preparation for this moment, his siege on Catriona Cameron.

  After knocking on the door, he rocked back and forth on his heels. What mood would she be in today? Would she allow him to massage her leg again? Had she known that his pulse escalated when he’d touched her? Or that he’d had a hard time letting her leave him yesterday?

  His house had seemed emptier without her.

  Sarah, bless her, had decided not to comment on Catriona’s arrival, his comment, or his sudden silence at her departure.

  The door opened, and his smile immediately vanished.

  “Thank God it’s you,” Mrs. MacTavish said, reaching out, grabbing the lapel of his coat and dragging him inside.

  Would she always be frightened in a carriage? Would her heart always race? Would she always hear the shattering of glass, the screams of the horses?

  Catriona’s hands trembled and she clutched them together, the black leather feeling cold and constricting against her fingers.

  She was on an errand for her aunt. That’s what she needed to remember. Not that night in London. Not the fog outside the window, and Millicent’s smile.

  Did Mark feel the same way whenever he had to travel in a carriage? As if he were trapped, confined, and a prisoner?

  How horrid to have had such a tutor and a father, too. She was not going to be polite to Mark’s father when she met him.

  Her thoughts stumbled to a halt.

  She was not involved with Mark Thorburn. She was not paired with him. She would not be meeting his father. He’d pretended to be someone he wasn’t and insisted on being a nuisance now, that’s all, but there was nothing more to their relationship. His offer of marriage was just an act of kindness.

  Marry me.

  Her heart stuttered at the thought.

  They’d been lovers.

  Somehow, she was going to have to forget that. She shouldn’t recall the shape of him, his beautiful, strong back, the column of his neck, or the angle of his stubborn chin.

  Of course you’re sad about your changed circumstances. How she’d disliked him when he’d said that.

  You’re only seeing a part of you.

  How arrogant he was. Did he always get his way?