Love Without Reason
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Alison Fraser
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CHAPTER ONE
‘IS IT mine?’ were his very first words, when they met outside the village store.
Riona stood a moment, caught by memories. It had been over a year and she’d never expected to see him again. She wasn’t ready for this.
She murmured a faint ‘What?’ in response.
‘The baby you’ve had—is it mine?’ he repeated coolly.
No ‘It’s good to see you!’ No ‘How are you?’ Just straight to the point for Cameron Adams.
‘No, it isn’t.’ She gave him the answer he wanted.
It was a surprise that he even bothered adding, ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded.
They stood a moment longer, looking at each other, remembering...
Then Riona turned to walk away.
He blocked her path.
‘In that case—’ his lips formed a contemptuous curve ‘—I guess Fergus Ross is the lucky man.’
‘You can guess what you like,’ Riona threw back, and pushed past him.
He let her go and she hurried up the road, turning a couple of times to check he wasn’t following. He remained outside the shop, watching her retreat. He probably thought she was running away from him—and he was right.
She was out of breath when she reached Dr Macnab’s house. She rang the bell with some urgency.
‘He’s back, Doctor,’ she gasped as the door opened. ‘I just met him. At the store. He’s heard about Rory. I have to go—’
‘Now, calm down, lass,’ Dr Macnab advised, leading her inside. ‘You mean Cameron Adams?’
She nodded, before going to pick up the baby lying on the living-room carpet. He gave her a beautiful toothless smile.
‘Cameron knows about the lad here.’ Dr Macnab was clearly less distressed by the fact. ‘Then he must have come to help you. I was certain he would. If only you’d let me write him—’
‘No, Doctor.’ Riona shook her head. ‘I don’t know why he’s come, but it’s not to help. More likely he’s scared I’ll bring a paternity suit against him.’
‘Ah, Riona, lass.’ The old doctor sighed at her cynicism. ‘I can’t think that’s so. He took advantage of you, it’s true, but he’s not a bad man. Now he knows he’s fathered Rory—’
‘Actually, he doesn’t,’ Riona stated, before the doctor’s optimism could carry him away.
‘But you said...’ Hamish Macnab tried to remember exactly what she had said.
‘Someone told him I’d had a baby,’ Riona explained. ‘He wanted to know if it was his. I said it wasn’t.’
‘What?’ The old man was plainly shocked.
‘I just told him what he wanted to hear, Doctor,’ Riona justified her actions. ‘You won’t tell him differently, will you?’
‘I can’t. You know that.’ As her doctor, he couldn’t break a confidence, even if he wished to. ‘But, lass, you can’t hope to get away with it. He just has to see Rory...’
Riona frowned at this mention of the likeness between baby and father. She adored her son, but that was how she thought of him—her son, and nobody else’s.
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t.’ Her jaw set with determination as she dressed the baby in his outdoor clothes and went to put him in the carrier she used.
Dr Macnab stopped her, saying, ‘Come away, lass, I’ll give you a lift.’
She accepted the offer. It was quite a walk back to her crofthouse and she didn’t want to risk a second meeting with Cameron Adams.
Unfortunately the doctor used the car journey to try and persuade her to tell the truth to the American. She listened politely and, on parting, agreed to think about it, knowing full well she wouldn’t. A year ago Cameron Adams had returned to Boston without a word or a backward glance. He’d left her with a breaking heart and a baby on the way. In time her heart had hardened and life now centred on her son; they needed no help from his father.
She carried young Rory into the crofthouse and sat him in a bouncing cradle close to the old-fashioned range. When they weren’t out on the hills, they inhabited the kitchen, because it was the warmest room.
Rory had actually been born in the house. He’d arrived a few weeks early, allowing no time to travel to hospital in Inverness, and Dr Macnab had delivered him in the bedroom upstairs. He had been a healthy eight pounds, the birth had been relatively easy, and love for her son had flowed through her from the moment he’d been placed in her arms. Giving him up would have been impossible.
Yet keeping him sometimes seemed an act of selfishness. She looked round her shabby kitchen, furnished with an ill-assorted collection of sideboards and tables from her granny’s day. Some work had recently been done by the estate to try and eradicate damp in the walls and warm up the cold stone floor with linoleum, but it was still a shabby place. It made her realise how little she had to offer Rory. She didn’t even own the small, cheerless house, and she barely eked a living from working the croft. She carried Rory with her when she herded the sheep, and, despite the doctor’s assurances, she worried that the fresh air was too bracing for a five-month-old baby.
It wasn’t just the practical difficulties, either. For herself, she could put up with the gossip and the disapproving looks, but what would happen when the boy was older? The peninsula of Invergair might cover a wide area, but its society was narrow. An illegitimate baby was still a talking-point, especially when the father’s identity was uncertain, and in time Rory would be the one to suffer. She had considered leaving the West Coast for Edinburgh, but she would have to find a place to stay and a job to do, and there wasn’t much call for crofters in the city. So she stayed in Invergair, living the life of a virtual recluse.
Of course she couldn’t do that forever, couldn’t keep her son hidden away from curious eyes. She just hoped that, given time, the likeness to his father would fade enough to pass unnoticed.
It seemed a vain hope, however, as she cradled her son in her arms. He had a shock of black hair, dark blue eyes and the hint of a dimple in his chin. All babies were born with blue eyes, she’d been told, but his would stay blue. She knew this because her son was a tiny replica of his father.
Cameron Adams. The thought of their meeting today sent a chill through her. His directness had always been disconcerting. Now it seemed brutal. She supposed he’d been angry about the baby; he’d done his best to ensure there would be no consequences from their brief affair. Even as he’d talked of a future together, he’d known all along it would never be.
Riona’s mind slipped back once more to last summer. It had mainly been a good summer, warm and dry and sunny, but not on the June day they’d met. Then it had been raining. She’d been returning from her weekly trip to Inverness and had caught the bus that went as far as Achnagair. She had started walking home the six more miles to Invergair, hoping for a lift from a local, when a car slid to a halt beside her. It was a posh car, a sleek black BMW. An electric window rolled down and the driver leaned over the passenger-seat to speak to her. She stood a cautious step or two from the door.
‘Hey, kid, am I on the right road for Invergair?’ the driver called to her.
She nodded in response, but didn’t volunteer more.
‘How far is it, do you reckon?’ he pursued.
She answered, ‘Six miles to the village,’ but was careful to keep her voice low. Dressed in jeans and hooded jacket, she’d been taken for a boy. It seemed wise to maintain the illusion.
‘So, it’s straight on?’ he concluded.
She nodded again, and, stepping back from the car, resumed walking.
Instead of driving on, however, he drew up in a lay-by slightly ahead of her, and, climbing out of the car, called back, ‘You might as well hitch a ride, kid.’
‘I...’ Riona hesitated, torn between saving herself the walk and the potential risk. She looked him up and down, struck first by his size. He was well over six feet and looked muscular in build, despite expensively cut clothes. Riona knew little or nothing about designer labels, but she could still recognise money even when it walked around in casual suede jackets and faded jeans.
He also happened to be the most attractive man Riona had ever met. Her eyes went from his clothes to his face and just stayed there. With thick dark hair above straight dark brows, a long nose and square, unshaven jaw, he looked both handsome and dangerous. Then, all of a sudden, his hard, beautiful mouth slanted into a half-smile and his dark blue eyes glittered with cynical amusement.
‘Do you want references, kid?’ he suggested at her lengthy scrutiny. ‘A ride, that’s all I’m offering. Take it or leave it.’
‘OK.’ Riona opened the passenger door and cautiously slid into the passenger seat, gripping her holdall to her.
‘Relax, kid. Boys aren’t my thing,’ he said with a short laugh.
Riona felt herself blushing and was glad her jacket hood hid much of her face. She decided to keep it on.
He didn’t seem to notice. He set the car in motion before asking, ‘Are you from Invergair?’
‘Yes,’ she replied simply.
‘How big is the village?’
‘Not very.’
‘A one-horse town,’ he remarked in a drawl. ‘That’s what we’d call it in the States.’
‘Really.’ Riona sounded less than interested in what an American would call Invergair.
Her reticence was noted, as he came back with a wry, ‘So tell me, are all the locals as gabby as you?’
‘I...’ Stuck for an answer, Riona glanced at him, then looked away as a mocking brow was lifted in her direction.
Of course he was right. She was being ungracious. Riona realised that. He hadn’t needed to offer her a lift. He didn’t even know she was a girl. It was she who was over-conscious of him as a man.
Silence descended until they approached the turn-off for Invergair, then she deepened her voice slightly to request, ‘Could you let me off here? My croft’s further on.’
He slowed down, saying, ‘How far?’
‘A mile or so.’ She nodded towards the road ahead.
‘Then I might as well take you.’ He shrugged, and, before she could object, picked up speed once more.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured reluctantly. She didn’t want to be the recipient of such generosity, particularly when she’d been so churlish herself. ‘You can drop me here, please,’ she said after they’d travelled the further mile.
He slowed down again, but, seeing no sign of habitation, asked, ‘Where do you live, kid?’
‘On the hill.’ She pointed at the rough dirt track leading towards her croft, then found herself protesting, ‘No, don’t go up it!’
‘Why not?’ He’d already turned on to the track.
‘Well...’ Riona searched for a reason, other than an unwillingness to let him see her home ‘...the track isn’t tarred. Your car might be damaged.’
‘So? It’s a rental.’ He casually dismissed the gleamingly expensive motor car and continued up the rutted road to the crofthouse.
The rain had ceased and, as they reached the top of the hill, they had a clear view of her cottage. Built of rough stone and slate tiles, it could be described neither as cute nor quaint. It was a drab, plain building, with a kitchen and sitting-room downstairs, and two bedrooms in the attic. Round it was a dry stone wall, half falling down, and a garden that had gone to weed. The air of neglect was emphasised by the fact that it was deserted.
‘Where are your folks?’ the American asked as they drew to a halt and no one came out to greet them.
‘I haven’t any.’ Riona’s parents had died in an accident when she was too young to remember them. The grandfather who’d raised her had died in the past year.
‘So who looks after you?’ he pursued, when she made to climb out of the car.
‘No one. I look after myself.’ Riona wondered how old he thought her.
He stared hard at her for the first time. She stared back. It was a mistake.
Before she could stop him, he pulled down her hood and announced with some disbelief, ‘Hell, you’re a girl!’
Riona could hardly deny it. Under the hood, her blonde hair was bound in a long, thick plait, and, though she wore no make-up, her soft skin and the full curve of her mouth made her utterly feminine.
‘Beautiful, too,’ he added under his breath.
Riona ignored it. Her grandfather had taught her to consider beauty a doubtful quality.
‘I’m also twenty and quite able to fend for myself, thank you,’ she announced rather briskly, and reached for the door-handle.
He caught her arm, detaining her. ‘You’re on your own here?’
Riona frowned at the question, not sure how to answer. He was still a stranger and it didn’t seem too clever to admit to being alone.
‘Not really,’ she eventually said. ‘There’s Jo. He lives with me.’
‘Jo?’ He repeated the name, before guessing wrongly, ‘Your husband?’
Riona didn’t contradict him but her blush gave her away.
‘Not your husband,’ he concluded drily, before shrugging. ‘Never mind. Who gets married these days?’
If he was trying to save her embarrassment, he drew a scowl for his trouble. Riona didn’t need his approval for living with a man, especially when she wasn’t—Jo was her collie dog.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ he continued at her hostile silence. ‘You want to get married and he doesn’t. Is that it?’
‘What?’ Riona couldn’t believe the nerve of him.
He went on obliviously, ‘Well, if you want my opinion, he needs his head examined...his eyesight, too.’
Once more he admired her beauty, his gaze warm and approving, but any compliment was lost on Riona.
Gritting her teeth, she retorted, ‘Actually, this may come as a surprise to you, Mr...’
‘Cameron,’ he supplied.
‘Mr Cameron, but—’ she tried to continue.
He cut in again. ‘No, Cameron’s my first name.’
‘Mr Whatever-your-name is, then!’ Riona snapped in exasperation. ‘The point is I don’t want your opinion. I’ll probably never want your opinion. In fact, I can’t think of anyone’s opinion I’d want less!’ she declared on a strident note and jerked her arm free.
‘Thank you for the lift,’ she added gruffly, and got out of the car before he could stop her. He climbed out, too, but remained on the driver’s side, returning her slightly alarmed look with a smile. The smile suggested he hadn’t taken offence. Riona thought that was a great pity.
She glowered back at him, and he drawled, ‘Say, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look when you’re mad...? Because if they have, I’m afraid they were lying,’ he declared in amused tones. ‘That incredibly sexy mouth goes into a thin, grumpy line. And your eyes, well, they go from a green reminiscent of—’
‘This is absurd!’ Riona finally interrupted the running commentary. ‘Look, I’m grateful for the lift, but it doesn’t give you discussion rights on my private life or my appearance. So if you don’t mind...?’
She looked from him to the track down the hill, and waited for him to take the hint.
He did eventually, concluding, ‘I guess that means I’m not being invited in for coffee.’
‘Astute as well as sensitive,’ Riona muttered under her breath.
He caught it and laughed. ‘Well, never mind, I’ll take a raincheck.’
Then, while Riona was still working on a reply, he gave a half-salute with his hand and climbed back into the car. She watched as he drove down the track, faster than he should, and found herself almost wishing an accident on him. Not a big accident. Just one where he and his flash car ended up in the ditch.
It was hardly a nice thing to imagine, but Riona didn’t feel very nice at that moment. Grumpy, indeed! And what about the conclusions he’d leapt to? Not only did he have her living with some man, but he’d also decided she was desperate for marriage.
That his conclusions were ridiculous didn’t matter. It was his sheer presumption that maddened her. She thought of all the clever things she might have said and hadn’t, and for a moment hoped they would meet again. Then she shook her head at the possibility. In a couple of days the American would have ‘done’ Invergair and be on his way, further north to Gairloch, or back down south to some posh hotel. No tourist ever stayed long in their area.
* * *
She’d been wrong, of course. Cameron Adams hadn’t just passed through. He had been there a month in all—just long enough to change her life for ever.
The next time she’d seen him was that night at the ceilidh in the village hall. It was a weekly event in the summer, a mixture of song, dancing and recitation that brought crofters from all over the peninsula of Invergair.
Riona had to attend the ceilidh because, when her grandfather had fallen ill, she’d taken his place playing piano in the band, the other members being two local fishermen on fiddle and accordion. Their repertoire consisted solely of dancing reels, but she’d never been a musical snob. She was needed to play, and play she did.
She’d just finished a Dashing White Sergeant and had come off stage for a break, when she spotted the American. She could hardly fail to, as he bore down on her, allowing no chance of escape.
‘I’ve just spent the last half-hour looking for you,’ he said without preamble.
Riona matched his directness with a flat ‘Really. Why?’
He laughed in response. She wondered if he ever took offence—and, if so, how she could possibly give it.
He went on obliviously, ‘I didn’t notice the piano player. As a rule, they don’t tend to be so beautiful.’
Riona ignored the compliment, but couldn’t ignore his eyes. They slid from her face to the dress she wore. A simple bodiced dress in white cotton, it left her arms and shoulders bare and kept her cool in the warm, crowded hall. It also hinted at the first swell of her breasts, a fact that she hadn’t really noticed until the American’s gaze lingered there.
Riona had always found her figure an embarrassment. She didn’t mind being tall—at five nine, she was taller than many Highland males. And, in her usual clothes of baggy jerseys and jeans, it hardly mattered what her figure was like. She just wished that, when she wore feminine clothes, her curves were less pronounced, less suggestive. It seemed a joke of nature when, in character, she wasn’t the ‘sexy type’ at all.
She felt only anger as the American’s eyes reflected his thoughts, and she snapped, ‘Perhaps I can have my dress back when you’ve finished.’
‘What?’ Distracted from their private fantasy, his eyes travelled back to her face, and he gave her one of his slow smiles. ‘I guess I was being obvious.’
‘Painfully,’ she agreed, and tried to walk past him.
He moved to block her path. ‘So can I buy you a drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, politeness forced. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘You’re kidding.’ His face expressed genuine surprise. ‘Next to bagpipe playing and caber-tossing, I thought drinking was the national pastime in Scotland.’
Not sure if this was meant to be a joke or what, Riona scowled in response.
She countered, ‘So why did you come if you have such a low opinion of the place?’
‘On the contrary—’ he shook his head ‘—I think it’s a wonderful country. Drunk or sober, no one can rival the Scots for their generosity of spirit. It makes you quite forget their occasional bloody-mindedness,’ he said on a wry note.
Again he was probably joking, but Riona wasn’t laughing. ‘Do you know what I like about you Americans?’ she rallied.
‘No, what?’ He actually smiled.
‘Your stunning diplomacy,’ she answered with dead-pan sarcasm, then smiled, too—before walking away.
She was intercepted again, but this time by Dr Macnab. ‘Well, good evening, lass,’ he greeted her, then added, ‘I see you’ve met him.’
‘Who?’
‘The American.’
‘Oh, him.’ Riona pulled a face.
‘You didn’t like him?’ The doctor frowned.
‘Not so you’d notice,’ she shrugged back. ‘I just hope the new laird isn’t like him.’
The Doctor’s frown changed to a look of puzzlement, before he sighed, ‘I’m rather afraid he is, lass.’
It took Riona a moment to catch on. They’d been waiting months for the new laird’s arrival, ever since Sir Hector had finally pegged out at ninety-five. They’d heard he was an American, a C H Adams from Boston, and that was about it. They’d worked out for themselves that he wasn’t too interested in his inheritance, having failed to materialise to claim it in person.
‘You don’t mean...’ Riona prayed she’d misunderstood.
She hadn’t, as the doctor went on, ‘Aye, that’s the man himself. Sir Hector’s great-nephew.’
‘Oh, God!’ Riona closed her eyes in despair. She had just cut dead the man who owned the cottage in which she lived and the croft she worked.
‘What’s wrong?’ the doctor asked.
‘Nothing really.’ Riona grimaced. ‘I was just rather insulting to him.’
‘Dearie me,’ Dr Macnab exclaimed in his mild way. ‘That’s not like you. He must have said something to prompt it.’
Riona nodded, before pointing out, ‘But that hardly matters. He’s laird and I’m just a lowly tenant...least, I was.’
‘Ach, lass,’ the doctor chided, ‘he’s no going to turf you out for a few hasty words. In fact, he’s probably laughed them off already. I’m told he’s got a fine sense of humour.’
Riona gave an unladylike snort. Fine wasn’t the word she’d have used—more like warped.
‘Who told you that?’ she asked.
‘Mrs Ross.’ The doctor named his housekeeper. ‘Her sister’s girl, Morag, helps with the cleaning up at the House.’
The House was Invergair Hall, the seat of the Munro family. It wasn’t quite a castle, but it did boast a turret or two and was fairly imposing in size.
‘Anyway, Morag thinks he’s very charming,’ Dr Macnab continued.
‘Yes, well...’ Riona wasn’t too impressed with Morag Mackinnon’s opinion. A nice enough girl, her head was easily turned by a good-looking male, and Riona supposed Cameron Adams was that.
She glanced round the hall and located him without difficulty. Over six feet, he was the tallest man there. His dark handsome head was inclined in conversation with Isobel Fraser, the secretary to the estate and Invergair’s resident vamp. At thirty-three, she’d already seen off two husbands in the divorce courts.
‘Isobel seems to like him, too,’ Dr Macnab chuckled. ‘Perhaps she’s measuring him up for number three.’
‘She’s welcome,’ Riona replied tartly.
‘Ach, you wouldna wish Isobel on him,’ the doctor said, still with gentle humour. ‘A bonny lass she may be, but she has a hard heart.’
Riona didn’t disagree, muttering instead, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about Cameron Adams, Doctor. He didn’t strike me as the vulnerable type.’
‘Perhaps not,’ the doctor conceded, before relaying, ‘At any rate, he told old Mrs Mackenzie, the housekeeper at the Hall, he wasn’t the marrying kind.’
‘Really?’ The news didn’t surprise Riona. She remembered his showing a healthy contempt for the married state the first time they’d met.
Dr Macnab went on to explain, ‘Apparently a Mrs Adams called from America while he was out and Mrs Mackenzie assumed it was his wife. He laughed at the idea, saying that Mrs Adams was his stepmother, and that acquiring a wife was something he’d so far managed to avoid.’
The doctor smiled, amused by the American’s phrasing, while Riona declared cynically, ‘I suspect they’ve avoided him—women with any taste, that is.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ The doctor gazed across to where the American was standing, having attracted another couple of ladies into his circle. ‘He seems to be charming the birds out of the trees.’
Riona glanced at the American again and made a dismissive sound. True, he appeared to be gaining a fan club, but they were women who would have fluttered round the new laird if he’d turned out to be the devil himself.
‘I hope he doesn’t expect us all to fawn on him,’ she muttered aloud, refusing to be susceptible to those powerful good looks.
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Dr Macnab said more reasonably. ‘At least, I can’t think he’ll be any worse than Sir Hector.’
‘Mmm.’ A non-committal sound from Riona. True, Sir Hector had been a terrible old autocrat with a variable temper and an almost feudal attitude to his tenants, but who knew what his successor was really like?
Feeling she’d already wasted too much time discussing the American, Riona excused herself and returned to the stage with the rest of the band. They continued through their repertoire of dance numbers. It was music Riona could have played in her sleep, which was fortunate as her attention kept wandering back to Cameron Adams.
She saw him dancing the Highland schottische with Isobel Fraser. They were both dreadful at it. Isobel was actually a lowlander from Strathclyde and normally considered herself too sophisticated for the weekly ceilidh. It wasn’t hard to guess what had brought her to this one.
When the other two band members suggested playing a slow, romantic air, Riona shook her head and led the music into an eightsome reel. Then, in an unusually spiteful mood, she enjoyed watching Isobel try to keep up with the energetic dance. High heels and reels did not go together. The couple eventually left the floor, mid-dance, and, losing sight of them, Riona assumed they had gone completely.
Only later, when the dance was over and she went in search of a lift from the doctor, did she discover the two men—Dr Macnab and Cameron Adams—making each other’s acquaintance at a table in the far corner of the hall. She stopped in her tracks and was about to retreat altogether when the older man spotted her.
‘Ah, Riona,’ Dr Macnab hailed her, and she reluctantly approached the table. ‘I was just about to come and look for you. You’ll be wanting a lift?’
‘Aye, Doctor, if it’s not too much trouble,’ she said stiltedly, inhibited by the American’s presence.
She didn’t have to look to know his eyes were boring into her. But she looked all the same and immediately regretted it.
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ the American said in a tone that suggested refusal wasn’t an option.
Riona’s heart sank. She’d sooner walk the four miles in bare feet.
It was Dr Macnab who answered warmly, ‘That’s good of you, Cameron,’ when Riona remained silent.
‘It’s on my way.’ Cameron Adams dismissed any kindness in the offer, then directed at Riona, ‘Are you ready?’
What could she say? Remembering her first lift with him, she’d no wish to repeat the experience. But he was the new laird, while she was just one of his tenants.
‘It is good of you,’ she echoed the doctor, ‘but it’s not really your most direct route. If you go west from the village, it’s about five miles to the House. You have to go in a circle to pass my croft and it almost doubles the journey.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ was his only response, as he placed a hand at her elbow, and, with a last, ‘See you around, Doc,’ to the older man, began steering her towards the door.
The hall was still busy with people saying goodbye and Riona felt every one of them was staring in their direction. By tomorrow it would be round the village—Riona Macleod had left the ceilidh with the new laird. She could imagine what the gossips might conclude from that.
Cameron Adams smiled disarmingly at people they passed and raised a hand in farewell to Isobel Fraser, who was trapped in conversation with the local vet. He swept on towards the door, without noticing Isobel frantically signalling in return.
‘I think Isobel’s trying to catch your attention,’ Riona told him. ‘Maybe she needs a lift. I could go with the doctor...’
‘Uh-huh, forget it,’ he dismissed, marching her towards his BMW. ‘Isobel has her own transport, and, even if she didn’t, I don’t think she’d be short of a man to take her home... So be a good girl, stop arguing, and just get in,’ he added, as they reached his car and he opened the passenger door for her.
Riona felt mutinous at his ‘good girl’ and wondered what he’d do if she took to her heels instead. She looked around for a bolt-hole.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’ He read her perfectly. ‘Unless, of course, you’d like to be dragged back, caveman style.’
‘You’d not dare!’ she retorted angrily.
He smiled. ‘Try me.’
Riona was tempted, almost certain he must be bluffing. It would be more embarrassing for him—the new laird seen accosting a local girl outside the village hall. That was assuming, of course, that Cameron Adams ever got embarrassed.
He continued to smile down at her until Riona decided he would dare, and got into the car.
He quickly climbed into the other side and switched on the engine. Then, before driving off, he turned to say, ‘Your safety-belt—put it on.’
It was definitely an order, not a suggestion.
Riona muttered rebelliously, ‘Why? Am I going to need it?’ remembering how fast he drove.
He ignored the comment and repeated, ‘Put it on!’
Riona, who had simply forgotten the belt, took exception, not to it, but to his tone. She decided she would do up the belt in her own sweet time.
But it seemed Cameron Adams wasn’t prepared to wait that long, as he leaned over her to grasp the strap and, drawing it across her front, locked it into position. In doing so, the back of his hand brushed against her breast. While Riona felt almost panicked by the contact, he didn’t seem to notice, and calmly turned back to grip the wheel and set the car in motion.
Riona seethed in silence. She had never met anyone so arrogant. Who did he think he was?
She asked herself the question and answered it in the same breath. He was the laird—and what in heaven’s name was she doing arguing with him? Did she want to be thrown off her croft, after trying so hard to keep it going for the past two years?
She’d lived there almost her whole life. Her parents, both music teachers, had died in a car accident when she was two, and her grandparents had taken her home to live with them. She was ten when her granny had died, and then it had just been her and her grandpa. Later she’d had the chance of a place at music college in Edinburgh, but she’d chosen to stay with him instead. He’d been in his mid-seventies by then, and growing frail. She’d nursed him through a series of debilitating strokes until a final one had brought release for him. She had not considered it release for herself. Six months on, she still missed the old man who’d brought her up and cared for her in his own tough, uncompromising way.
‘So where was Jo tonight?’ The American’s drawl brought her back to the present.
‘Jo?’ She didn’t understand.
‘You know—the boyfriend,’ he helped her out.
That Jo, Riona groaned inwardly, recalling the lie she’d told.
‘Doesn’t he like dancing?’ the man pursued.
‘Eh—no,’ Riona could say with some vestige of truth. Collies didn’t tend to go in for dancing.
‘Two left feet, has he?’ the American drawled on. ‘Or should I say four?’
Four? It was a second before Riona caught on. He knew!
‘Who told you?’
‘Dr Macnab... After some confusion, not to mention amusement, on the doctor’s side, I realised Jo was more into rounding up sheep than dancing.’
‘Oh,’ Riona muttered faintly.
‘Oh?’ he echoed this rather inadequate explanation.
Remembering who he was, she felt obliged to add, ‘I suppose I should apologise.’
‘Not if it’s going to kill you,’ he said at her forced admission. ‘An explanation will do. Like why you let me believe you were shacked up with some guy.’
‘I didn’t!’ Riona protested, quickly forgetting who he was. ‘You asked if I lived alone. I mentioned Jo and your imagination filled in the rest.’
‘You could have told me differently,’ he pointed out.
‘Oh, yes. That would have been very clever. Telling a complete stranger I lived in a lonely crofthouse all on my own,’ she retorted angrily, then, seeing they’d come to her turn-off, snapped, ‘You can let me off here.’
‘I can, but I’m not going to,’ was his answer, as he turned up the hill track and drove right to the door of the croft.
The moment the car stopped, Riona scrambled out with a perfunctory, ‘Thanks for the lift.’
But he climbed out, too, coming round to her side of the car. ‘You’re right about it being lonely up here. I’ll see you inside, check you have no intruders.’
‘There’s no need.’ She wanted him gone. He made her more nervous than any potential intruder.
He sensed it, saying, ‘Relax, this isn’t move one in a grand seduction plan. Even assuming I like my women hard to get along with—which I don’t—you’re far too young for me.’
In theory Riona should have been relieved at this announcement. In practice, she was stung into replying, ‘Or maybe you’re just too old for me.’
But if she’d wanted to offend him, she didn’t succeed. He gave a short laugh before drawling, ‘Strike that “hard to get along with”; make it “damn nigh impossible”.’ Then he grabbed hold of her arm and steered her towards the door of her cottage.
He breathed down her neck while she unlocked the door and didn’t give her a chance to shut it on him. Resigned, she led the way through the small front hall to the living-room, switching on lights as she went.
She turned to find him surveying the room with an expression of disbelief on his face. Riona understood well enough. Poverty was reflected in the threadbare furniture and carpets, the shabbiness of her home, but she refused to be ashamed of it.
She tilted her head and dared him to comment.
Instead he said simply, ‘If you’d like to make us a cup of coffee, I promise not to take it as an invitation.’
‘To what?’ she asked rather foolishly.
He smiled at her naïveté. ‘To outstay my welcome, let’s say.’
Riona continued to frown. As far as she was concerned, he already had.
‘I only have tea,’ she said ungraciously.
‘That’ll do.’ He shrugged in reply.
Left with no choice, Riona went through to the kitchen at the back, where her grandfather’s collie greeted her with much tail-wagging before taking an alert stance as the American appeared behind her.
If he’d thought the living-room bad, Riona knew he’d find the kitchen worse. The linoleum was peeling, the table and chairs rickety, and the cooking range large, ugly and ancient.
He looked round with a critical eye, but again refrained from commenting, nodding towards the collie instead.
‘Jo, I presume.’ He bent to offer the collie a hand to sniff.
‘Yes, but he doesn’t much take to strangers,’ she responded, as the collie backed away to his basket in the corner.
‘Like dog, like mistress,’ the American drawled in an undertone intended to be heard.
Riona refused to justify herself. No, she didn’t like strangers. Not over-familiar ones, at any rate, she thought, as he leaned his considerable length against her granny’s old dresser.
‘Jo’s my grandfather’s dog, actually,’ she replied coolly.
‘Your grandfather,’ he echoed. ‘Yes, Dr Macnab said he’d died recently.’
Busy with the tea things, Riona gave a brief nod that discouraged further interest in her private life.
Or would have done, if Cameron Adams hadn’t been so thick-skinned. ‘It must be difficult, running this place on your own,’ he continued, oblivious.
‘I manage,’ she countered, wondering what he was getting at. Perhaps it wasn’t just casual conversation. ‘I won’t fall behind in my rent, Mr Adams, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘Cameron,’ he insisted, ‘and no, I wasn’t worrying about your rent. From what I’ve seen of the accounts, I doubt it’s worth worrying about,’ he added with a short laugh.
Riona did not laugh back. What did he mean? Did he consider the rents too low? She could barely pay the present amount.
Her face revealed her thoughts, as Cameron Adams drawled, ‘Relax, kid. Whatever you pay for this place, it’s probably too much.’
He cast a disparaging glance round the kitchen.
Riona was caught between reactions: relief there’d be no rent rise versus anger at the insult to her home.
Powerless to argue, she confined herself to asking how he liked his tea, before placing it unceremoniously on the dresser beside him. She didn’t invite him to sit, and didn’t sit herself, instead taking a stance by the sink, as far from him as possible. Being a small kitchen, it wasn’t very far, and she felt overly conscious of him.
He stared back at her, without any attempt to pretend he was doing otherwise, and she dropped her eyes to the worn linoleum.
‘Does the boyfriend help?’ he suddenly asked.
‘What?’ She looked at him blankly.
He repeated, ‘The boyfriend. Does he help with the croft?’
She narrowed her eyes. How much did he know of her life?
‘Who says I have a boyfriend?’
‘It’s not a secret, is it?’
He smiled at her caginess. She frowned in response.
‘He’s in the Navy, isn’t he?’ he said, as if her memory might need jogging.
Of course she’d realised whom he meant. Fergus Ross. But who had told him? Surely not Dr Hamish?
‘So how serious is it?’ he asked, when she remained silent.
‘I...I...’ His directness was unbelievable. ‘Why do you want to know?’
He shrugged, before saying, ‘I guess I’m interested, after all.’
‘In what?’ Riona genuinely didn’t understand.
‘In you,’ the American replied simply.
He was joking. He had to be, Riona decided, as she gave him a disgruntled look and he flashed her a brilliant smile in return. He was just trying to disconcert her.
‘It’s against my better judgement, of course,’ he continued in the same vein. ‘I mean you’re really not my type. That’s not to say you aren’t beautiful. You are. Very.’
He paused to give her a look that made Riona wish she’d kept her coat on. ‘Do you expect me to be flattered?’
‘Hell, no,’ he said, clearly amused by the conversation, ‘I expect the boys have been queuing up to tell you you’re beautiful for a few years now.... I suppose all the practice has helped you perfect that put-down manner of yours.’
‘Why, you...’ Riona searched furiously for a suitable insult to trade, then remembered once more whom she was talking to.
He lifted a dark brow, prompting. ‘Yes?’
‘I...you...this isn’t fair!’ she finally protested.
‘Fair?’ he echoed.
‘You can stand there, saying what you want,’ Riona ran on, ‘and I have to stand here, taking it, because you’re laird, and I’m not.’
‘What?’ He’d obviously not thought of it from that angle, and, when he did, he laughed out loud. ‘How feudal. You think you can’t argue back, because I’m your landlord. What do you imagine I’m going to do? Throw you out on the street?’
Put like that, it did sound absurd, and Riona went on the defensive. ‘I don’t know. Your great-uncle wasn’t too keen on people disagreeing with him.’
‘So I’ve gathered—’ the American shrugged ‘—but I’m not Sir Hector. And, despite its attractions, I don’t believe in droit de seigneur.’
‘What?’ Riona had never heard the phrase.
‘Droit de seigneur?’ he repeated, and, at her clear ignorance, went on to explain, ‘In olden days, I believe the local lord in an area had the right to sleep with village maidens the night before they married. Unfortunately the custom’s been out of fashion for a few centuries. However, if you fancy reviving it...’ he suggested with a lascivious smile that definitely made a joke of it.
Riona felt she should be disgusted, but wasn’t. In fact, for a moment she actually pictured it, two figures entwined on a big four-poster in Invergair Hall. She blushed at the direction her imagination had taken her and looked away from those sharp blue eyes of his.
‘I don’t suppose you’re planning on marrying soon,’ he added with the same undercurrent of laughter.
‘No, I am not!’ Riona declared on an emphatic note.
‘Not serious, then,’ he concluded in reply.
‘About what?’ She was slow to catch up.
‘About Fergus Ross.’ He had brought them full circle back to the question he’d originally asked.
Riona had answered it, without realising, by denying any marriage plans. The smug look of satisfaction on his face was maddening.
It prompted her to claim, ‘You can be serious without wanting marriage. Maybe I don’t believe in it.’
‘That’s OK. Neither do I.’ He smiled as if they’d just come to some agreement, and straightened his length from the dresser.
He took a step in her direction and Riona found herself backed against the sink. She garbled out, ‘As a matter of fact, Fergus and I do have an understanding.’
‘Really.’ He sounded less than interested and took another slow, unhurried step towards her.
Riona told herself not to panic. She told herself he was playing some sort of game. It was just a pity she didn’t know the rules.
When he came to a halt before her, she resorted to an unoriginal, ‘It’s late. I think you should go now.’
‘Probably,’ he surprised her by agreeing, but made no move to leave. Instead he reached out a hand and touched her hair. ‘It’s a beautiful colour. Is it natural or out of a bottle?’
‘I...’ Riona was left gasping at the sheer cheek of the question.
He answered for himself, ‘Natural, I’d say,’ before his hand fell from her hair to her shoulder to lightly caress the skin left bare by her summer dress.
A breathless note crept into Riona’s voice. ‘I think you should—’
‘Go...yes, I know.’ His fingers spread to the base of her neck and felt her pulse beating a rapid tattoo. He frowned slightly. ‘You’re not frightened of me, are you?’
Rashly, Riona claimed, ‘No, of course not!’ too proud to say otherwise.
It put the smile back on the American’s face, as he suggested in return, ‘Then it must be love.’
‘I...don’t be absurd!’ Riona was more angry now than scared.
‘OK, sex, if you prefer.’ He gave a low, growling laugh as he caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. ‘Whichever, my heart’s racing to the beat of the same drum. Feel it.’
For a moment Riona could do nothing else. She felt his heart racing as he had said, and her own beat all the harder. She snatched her hand away, only for him to clasp her by the waist.
Her eyes flew to his, in appeal, in panic. He stared back at her, no longer smiling, intent.
Desire blurred his features. She shook her head. He took no notice. Small wonder.
The first kiss. His mouth lowered to hers, infinitely slowly. She could have escaped. She didn’t try. His lips on hers, a gentle caress at first, so light it was hardly felt. Oh, but enough. She betrayed herself. She opened her lips to him, opened her heart, her life.
He groaned his response, before his mouth covered hers, tasting her sweetness, desire turning to passion, demanding more, demanding all. She moaned, scared, excited. He drew her to him, close, closer, until it wasn’t enough any longer, and his hands slid to her hips, lifting her body to his, forcing her to acknowledge his need of her.
Too powerful, his maleness. Too frightening to feel this way. One kiss and she wanted to...
‘No...! No!’ She twisted in his arms, pushing away from him in sudden and total rejection.
It was a second before he understood, then a look of anger and frustration crossed his handsome face. But she didn’t have to struggle further. He let her go.
‘I’m sorry.’ Riona found herself apologising, only later asking why. ‘I can’t...I don’t...’ She shook her head.
Inarticulate mutterings, but he made something of them. The wrong thing. His dark look softened to wonder.
‘Hell, I didn’t realise...’ His eyes searched her face and saw the panic there. ‘I assumed...so few girls are these days.’
Are what? Riona could have asked, but she understood him well enough. She was just too embarrassed to say anything.
The colour was high on her cheeks, revealing, misleading, as he went on, ‘I should have known. It’s written all over you. I just didn’t want to see it.’
Riona remained silent, but she shook her head, trying to tell him. He misread the gesture, too.
‘OK, kid. It’s OK.’ He backed away from her, holding up his hands in truce. ‘No problem. I came on too strong. It won’t happen again.’
‘I-I’m not...’ a now acutely embarrassed Riona tried to explain.
He didn’t give her the chance. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Just show me the door, huh?’ he suggested with a smile that mocked himself.
He was being so nice, so reasonable that Riona felt worse. She opened her mouth, but no words came. It was easier just to do what he suggested and escort him to the door.
He left her with a wry, ‘Well, it was fun while it lasted,’ and a warning, ‘Keep your doors locked tight, kid,’ before walking off to his car.
Riona stood in the doorway, watching until he circled the car round and headed off back down the hill. She should have been relieved that he’d been put off. Should have been glad he’d deceived himself.
And she was a little, for she knew full well she couldn’t handle such a man. He was too...too everything. Different from Fergus Ross and the other young men round Invergair. Different from anyone she’d ever met. He jangled her nerves and assaulted her pride and filled her head with such thoughts that she was on the verge of screaming.
But oh, he made her senses reel, too, and relief was nothing compared to the longing as she touched her lips and felt the imprint of his mouth still.
Treacherous senses. Insane longing.
Feelings that had to be smothered before they could leave her open to pain and disillusionment much greater than any she had ever suffered at Fergus Ross’s hands.
She forced herself to remember her first and last disastrous attempt at love. To call it love, of course, was a deception in itself. Perhaps she’d thought herself in love with Fergus, but, in truth, it had just been need and fear and loneliness on her part. And on his? Sure, he had professed love until they had gone to bed together, but hadn’t much bothered afterwards.
Riona hadn’t complained, for her own feelings had proved insubstantial, dying even as he took her virginity with clumsy passion. The pain had barely touched her and was more bearable than the terrible emptiness in her heart. She had wanted to love Fergus, wanted to believe his promises, had slept with him rather than risk losing him. But there had been no real love there, just desire and desperation laid bare during an unloving act of intimacy. She hadn’t complained when it had turned Fergus from attentive suitor to arrogant lover, because her own love had proved such a poor, false thing.
She’d just heaved an enormous sigh of relief that Fergus had to return to his ship the next day, and done her best to forget the whole sorry interlude. She’d managed fairly well, too, which said a lot about how little she had really cared for Fergus. But it had left its mark on her, making her deeply distrustful of feelings, her own or anybody else’s.
Though her heart still beat painfully hard, Riona didn’t put words of love to its erratic rhythm. The truth was more basic.
Cameron Adams desired her. She desired him. It was that simple. It was that dangerous. And there was no doubt what she should do. Go to any lengths to avoid him.
Only a fool would do otherwise.
