Chapter 16
Fiona was so used to sleeping with one ear alert for danger, that she woke the minute she heard distant sounds in the castle. She opened her eyes to firelit darkness. After a warm, fine day, the weather had closed in. By the time she came upstairs, she’d been grateful for the blaze in her hearth.
She had no idea what time it was. Not late, she suspected. The exhaustion weighing her body hinted she hadn’t slept for long.
Before she thought what she did, she was up with a shawl wrapped around her borrowed nightdress. When she opened her door, the long corridor outside was empty. Had she imagined the sounds of doors opening and closing?
She retreated into her room to light a candle from her fire. As she stepped out once more, the house lay quiet around her, but instincts honed over years with the Grants told her something was afoot. Further down the hall, another door opened, and Diarmid emerged wearing breeches and his loose shirt untucked around his narrow hips.
“What is it, Fiona? Are ye all right?”
He, too, carried a candle. The frail light turned his chiseled features into a symphony of shadows. His hair was wildly disheveled, falling in charming disarray over that noble brow.
“Did I wake you?” she asked, telling herself it was idiotic to blush. “I’m sorry.”
He padded toward her on bare feet. His shirt was open over his chest, revealing a scattering of black curls. For the last two nights, they’d shared sleeping quarters. This midnight encounter shouldn’t feel so forbidden. But it did. Perhaps because Diarmid hadn’t undressed when they’d been traveling, and now it was clear that he’d woken and tugged on whatever clothing lay near to hand.
“I heard your door.” It seemed he, too, remained attuned to danger.
“Is it the Grants?” She clutched at her shawl, as if the soft wool provided some protection.
“I hope to God it’s not.” He strode past her toward the staircase.
“I thought I heard people moving about.”
“I only heard ye.” By now, voices rose from the great hall downstairs, too muffled for her to catch any actual words. “Stay there, and I’ll see what I can find out.”
For a moment, Fiona remained where she was, her eyes feeding on the sight of Diarmid retreating down the corridor. Heaven help her, the view from the back was almost as good as the view from the front.
The sheer shirt and tight breeches revealed every line of that powerful back and those taut buttocks. She licked her lips again, as something warm and liquid swelled inside her. Then she reminded herself that she had more important things to worry about than her white knight’s shapely backside.
She wrapped her shawl more securely around her shoulders and followed him. If it was the Grants, she wanted to know sooner rather than later. At Invertavey, their arrival had taken her by surprise. This time she’d be prepared.
Diarmid stood on the landing at the top of the imposing stone staircase that led down to the great hall with its medieval tapestries and displays of arms. She blinked at the brightness. Every light in the house seemed to be burning.
One of the maids who had served them at dinner scurried across the flagstones below and disappeared down a hallway. She carried a large china ewer. Mr. Mackinnon appeared from the opposite doorway.
“What’s happening, Fergus?” Diarmid called out. “Have the Grants followed us here?”
When Mr. Mackinnon looked up, the light was stark on his strained features. With a shock, Fiona realized he looked afraid. When she’d met him, he’d seemed as impervious to fear as a rock.
“No, it’s the baby. Damn it, Diarmid, it’s early. We thought we had until the end of August.”
“How is Lady Achnasheen?” Fiona asked, descending a few steps.
She recalled that her hostess hadn’t eaten much at dinner, and she’d been pale and quiet and in obvious discomfort by the time everyone went upstairs. Nobody had lingered over the meal. Fergus had helped his wife to climb the steps, and Fiona and Diarmid had both been exhausted and grateful to retire to their chambers.
“She’s…” He made a despairing gesture, and his rugged features tightened.
Fiona had already noted that the Mackinnons shared a rare bond. Now Mr. Mackinnon’s love and terror for his wife lay unconcealed in his face.
“Have ye sent for the doctor?” Diarmid asked.
“Aye. But ye know he’s miles away. Jenny’s up there with her. There’s nothing she doesnae ken about bringing new life into the world. I’d trust her over the sawbones any day.”
The words lacked conviction. Fiona descended until she was close enough to touch the man’s arm. They were strangers, but she couldn’t resist offering a moment’s comfort.
“Can I help? For the last ten years, I’ve helped with births at Bancavan, and your wife might appreciate another pair of skilled hands at her lying in.”