He believed their marriage had been consummated, or he would never have consented to wed her. And now she was charged with the task of keeping him convinced they were truly wed, without arousing suspicion that they were not.
That angry pride might well prove an advantage. A way of keeping him from her bed. But how long would it continue? She must somehow find a balance so she could hunt for the Circle without him knowing it. She must charm him just enough that he would not become suspicious, yet all the while keep him at bay. If he discovered her virtue intact, he would discover the truth.
He would discover her ruse.
An hysterical laugh bubbled up inside her.
How very impossible it seemed!
It didn’t help knowing that all this had occurred as a result of her machinations. She’d thought herself so clever when everything had come off without a hitch in Ireland.
But they were in Scotland now, and she was no longer sure of anything. And one thing was becoming excruciatingly clear.
Alec McBride was no fool.
It was late before Maura finally slipped into the land of dreams. But they were not pleasant dreams. Quite the contrary.
She was racing through the forest, darting between the trees. Shadows loomed all around. Someone was behind her, calling. Giving chase. Her pursuer grew closer. The Black Scotsman, she realized. His image loomed in her mind. He wore his pirate’s garb, a feathered hat over hair that was black as the night. Beneath a dark, heavy moustache, his lips pulled back. Chilling laughter spilled forth, for he was almost upon her now. On his hand—his right hand only—he wore a black leather glove. It snatched at her, that black-gloved hand, yet she eluded him.
Then all at once she saw the Circle of Light. It was small. No larger than the span of her fingers spread wide. It hovered, floating and aglow, slowly turning, the most beautiful myriad of colors reflected on beaten silver. And somehow she knew that she had only to touch it to reach safety.
Almost there. Almost there. With a cry she stretched out her fingertips, just as the black-gloved hand of the Black Scotsman seized hold of her skirt. Then she was falling. Falling a very great distance.
Down into the arms of a wild, wicked Scotsman with eyes like chips of icy blue…
“Wake up, Irish. Wake up.”
She woke with a strangled gasp. Alec sat on the bed beside her, gently shaking her shoulder.
The strangest thought popped into her mind. Alec on the bed was not dangerous.
Alec in the bed was quite dangerous indeed.
He stopped when he realized she was awake. “Good heavens, Irish, you’ve frightened half the staff with your shrieking.”
Maura was still half dazed. “I—I was dreaming.”
“Yes, I gathered that.” His gaze resided on her lips. She felt her face heat up, remembering the way he’d kissed her last night.
The way he’d made her stand naked before him.
And now he regarded her again, this time with his head cocked to the side. “What were you dreaming about?”
She certainly had no wish to tell him.
A finger beneath her jaw, he brought her gaze to his. “What were you dreaming about?”
“A pirate,” she admitted grudgingly. “A pirate was chasing me.”
“A pirate, eh? Why, I wonder why that could be.” A rather wicked gleam flared in his eyes. “Handsome, was he, your pirate?”
Something—a good night’s sleep perhaps?—had lightened his foul mood of the night before.
The lack of a good night’s sleep had soured hers. “No,” she said with acid sweetness. “He was quite the most wretched, ugly pirate you could ever imagine.”
One corner of Alec’s mouth slanted up—a wicked smile without doubt. “And were you rescued from this wretched pirate, Irish?”
Maura frowned. It was discomfiting that he was fully clothed, while she lay beneath the blanket wearing only a nightgown.
