Chapter 9
Madelyn
eased her way off the bed, clutched the sides of the window, and pulled herself carefully to her feet.
She gasped only once—a great improvement over the day before.
Once she was certain she could stand, she leaned her head against the window to rest a bit.
It was conceivable that she perhaps should have seen a doctor wearing a lab coat instead of a witch wearing bits of forest in her hair.
Then again, Moraig’s tea had at least relaxed her.
What could a doctor have done? Put her butt in a sling?
She wasn’t sure it wasn’t there already.
She sidestepped her way around the bed, then paused before she gathered up her clothes to gather her strength. While she was leaning against the wall, she noticed her notebook lying unused and unappreciated on her bed. Thursday already and so few sights seen.
Except, of course, for that exquisite vista of Patrick MacLeod’s rugged face, but that was another story entirely.
That had been but a brief sight, soured by the haste with which he’d dumped her in Bentley’s arms and disappeared.
She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Bentley had been vociferously staking his claim to her person, and she’d been in too much pain to protest.
She thought about reaching down for her notebook, but didn’t bother. She didn’t need to look to know what was on her list. Castles, gardens, ruins. How in the world was she ever going to get to any of them when she could barely sit, much less walk?
It was tempting to blame Bentley—in fact, that was a damn good idea—but it wasn’t all his fault.
Well, all right, it was all his fault—except for falling off the horse, but reminding herself of that didn’t make her feel any better.
She was injured and time was slipping away.
She needed to move past the havoc Bentley had caused and get on with life.
But first things first. She couldn’t hobble from place to place until she was dressed.
She dragged the sleeve of Miriam’s mother’s frilly peignoir across her eyes and turned to open the door.
It would have been too great an effort to step over the shopping bag, so she stepped around it.
The sack contained clothes Bentley had bought for her, clothes which were woolier versions of what she’d been robbed of.
She knew this because she’d peeked in the sack briefly the day before, hoping that perhaps Miriam had found her something of her own era, perhaps in tie-dye.
Unfortunately the glimpse had revealed nothing but things appropriate for court, and that alone had immediately told her who the purchaser had been.
No chance in hell she’d be wearing anything from that bag any time soon.
She shuffled to the bathroom. A gentle shower, a comb through her hair, and the foregoing of makeup later, she inched her way back to her room.
She dressed very gingerly in lime capris and the accompanying too-small lime green sweater.
Her hair had all the charm of a tangled mop, so she gathered it all up at the back of her head with a ponytail holder.
She didn’t care what she looked like. She was just concerned about how she was going to sit in the car.
She looked at her violin. Take or leave?
Roddy’s was probably safer than her car.
She left her room, locked it securely, then hauled her bag up over her shoulder and limped slowly down the hallway toward the foyer.
Damn Bentley. It was his fault she’d ever had to take a perilous ride on a stupid horse.
It was his fault that he’d bewitched her with his freckles.
It was also his fault she was wearing clothes made for a woman five inches shorter and twenty-five pounds lighter than she.
Yes, it was all his fault and he deserved whatever Fate had in store for those who took the perfectly good vacations of others and put them in the toilet.
And he’d better not have blocked her car. If he had, he’d best be prepared to fork out money for a hefty towing fee.
She hobbled out into the foyer, cursing Bentley thoroughly with the most grumbly mutter she could manage, then pulled up short. Her hair stood on end.
She was not alone.
There were deep shadows in the foyer near the door, shadows that the faint morning light coming in from the front door’s high window door didn’t illuminate. And in that dark space, looking just as dark and forbidding as a shadow, sat none other than Patrick MacLeod himself.
Despite her not-quite-formalized plan to thoroughly ignore him the next time she saw him as punishment for abandoning her to Bentley’s foul clutches, she felt her knees grow weak. What was it about the man that rendered her unfit for anything useful?
Side effect of a bruised backside, she reassured herself quickly.
Patrick didn’t move. She couldn’t make out his expression. The rest of him was equally as hard to discern. What in the world could he possibly want? To mock her riding skills? To torture her with potential rescues from Bentley when he fully intended to ditch her with the jerk later?
Well, whatever he wanted, she wasn’t interested. She frowned in his direction.
“Do you always wear black?” she asked, trying to sound cool and aloof. Aloof was good. Aloof didn’t leave any room for any softer, romantic feelings. And if there was anyone who had neither the time nor the inclination for romance, it was she.
A boot came down from its perch atop his other knee and made no sound as it met the floor. “Black?” he echoed. “Aye, I suppose I do.”
“Why do you do it?” she demanded. “So you can more easily intimidate your serfs?” She’d given a lot of thought to his status during her hiatus in bed.
The man had to have some variety of servants, didn’t he?
If his brother owned the castle up the way, that brother most certainly had servants.
It was a sure bet that Patrick had grown up in the lap of luxury himself.
Moving away from home couldn’t have blunted his need to be waited on.
“Intimidate my serfs?” he asked, sounding almost appalled. “I don’t have any serfs.”
“Paid servants, then.”
What could have been mistaken for a mild snort of humor came from the dark. “I fear I have none of those, either.” He rose and stepped forward. “Would such a lack prevent you from allowing me to act as your tour guide for the day?”
Damn her knees. Where were they when she needed them to be rock-steady beneath her? Madelyn reached out to hold herself up against the wall. “Tour guide?” she asked, trying to sound doubtful. “I already have plans, actually. You would be bored with them.”
“The Highlands never bore me.”
She scrutinized his expression, looking for any indication that he was lying. Well, he wasn’t lying, but he didn’t look overly eager, either. He would probably drop her like a scalding spud the next time Bentley reared his ugly head.
Though she was incredibly tempted. Tour guide? And she was saying no? What was she, insane?
Well, better insane than heartbroken. She put on her most independent smile.
“Thanks anyway,” she said brightly, “but I think I’ll be fine.”
Patrick didn’t reply. He merely clasped his hands behind his back and stared at her.
Madelyn wanted to look away, but she just couldn’t.
The man was nothing short of stunning, in a majestic, breathtaking kind of way, yet he somehow projected an accessibility that made it very hard for her to remember why she shouldn’t just slip her arm through his and go in to breakfast with him.
“Good heavens, Madelyn, what are you wearing? I bought you a handful of perfectly lovely things. Go back and put something suitable on immediately.”
And thus the spell was broken. Madelyn sighed deeply. She looked at Patrick. He looked almost disappointed. Either that or he was about to sneeze due to the tsunami of Eternal Riches that had arrived seconds before Bentley had.
“Breakfast anyone?” Roddy asked cheerfully, popping in from the dining room.
“Yes,” she said.
“Lovely,” Patrick said at the same time.
“Will it be fried?” Bentley asked.
Madelyn rolled her eyes and pushed off the wall. A black-leather-covered arm came into view. She spared it a brief look of surprise before reaching out to take hold—
Of a tweed-covered arm. She jumped back, yelped in pain, then threw Bentley a glare.
“Haven’t you done enough?” She hitched past him and watched out of the corner of her eye as he muscled his way into Patrick.
Patrick merely stepped back and let Bentley rumble past. Madelyn scowled.
There he went again, letting Bentley push him around, letting Bentley push her around.
Patrick looked like he should be tough. Obviously, looks were deceiving.
Roddy saw her seated. Bentley pushed Patrick out of the way to plop himself down next to her. Patrick looked at him mildly and went to sit down across from Madelyn.
“What are your plans for the day?” Patrick asked with only a vague-sounding interest.
“I’m not sure yet. I’m working on a list.”
Bentley snorted. “Of course you are. I wish I had a dime for every list I watched you make.”
“I’ll give you a dollar,” Madelyn said tartly, “if you’ll watch me make one about all the reasons you’d make a lousy husband.”
Bentley clucked his tongue. “Slanderous words, my dear.”
“Sue me.”
“You have no assets.”
“Thanks to you.”
He patted her hand. “I could remedy all that—”
She jerked her hand away. “I’d rather starve, thanks just the same.” She took several deep, cleansing breaths. She had to get away from this man. The irritation of his mere presence was beginning to get to her.