Free Emerald Embrace by Shannon Drake Page B

down the aisle toward the altar. It seemed he was bringing her to the priest, but then he paused and lowered his head, his whisper for her ears alone. “Have you decided to run and hide at last, milady? The wise course of action, I promise. If you wish it, I can have a carriage head you for a port this very evening.”
    She spun around, lifting her chin, trying hard to maintain the dignity and maturity she was determined to believe her apparel gave her.
    “I am not running, Laird Creeghan.” She spoke his name softly, in a long drawl that mocked the Highland accent. He smiled and inclined his head to her.
    “Not from ghosts, milady?”
    “Not from ghosts.”
    “And not even from the living—whom you do fear?”
    “Again, you flatter yourself, milord, if you think I am afraid. It’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to be afraid.”
    His smile deepened and even as he replied, he was stepping aside casually. “Forewarned, milady. Forewarned, and nothing more. Ah, here’s the good father—he’s been waiting for your appearance. You must meet him, of course. Come.”
    He took her hand. As always, she felt the heat and the all-powerful energy that seemed to exude from him.
    She was drawn up before the father, an elderly man with sharp brown eyes that belied the age in his snow-white hair. It was a wrinkled face, one well weathered by age and time, and yet a fascinating one, interested and interesting. “Ah, Bruce, so here’s our lass, eh?”
    “Aye, Father,” Bruce agreed. “I give you the Lady St. James. Martise, Father Fenen Martin.”
    “Lady St. James,” Father Martin said. “Welcome, welcome to the Highlands, though it be a sad occasion on which we do so. I knew your Mary and loved her well. So did all assembled here. She was sweet and dear.”
    His accent was not so pronounced, and Martise wondered if his religion hadn’t sent him about the world before returning him to his home.
    “Thank you,” Martise said, and added innocently, “Did you see—my sister, then, at the end, Father?”
    “Alas, she was gone when I arrived that night!”
    “Was she ill? Had she come to you?”
    “Nervous, perhaps, pale, wan. Aye, she must have been ill, but wanted no one to realize. When the end came, she was gone very quickly.”
    Martise was aware of Bruce Creeghan behind her—so supportively!—and yet she could not caution herself to silence. “Mary was afraid, Father, of something here.”
    “Was she now? But she needn’t have been, she had her husband. And she did not let on. I’m sorry I canna say that I was there in her final moments, but I am convinced she has taken a proper place in heaven. Aye, indeed, if ye’ve a mind, I’ll start with the service now.”
    “Of course,” Martise said.
    A hand landed upon her shoulder. Heat waves coursed through her as she found herself being led—or manipulated—into the front pew by Bruce Creeghan.
    And then Father Martin began his service.
    She should have been listening; she should have been paying grave attention, and yet Martise could not concentrate on the service going on before her. She was too keenly aware of Bruce Creeghan, kneeling by her side, and of Conar, to her left. And when she lifted her eyes when she should have been at prayer, she noted a young, dark-haired girl on the other side of the church.
    She was dressed in the simple clothing of a village girl, a full cotton skirt and well-scrubbed blouse, but that blouse sat low upon an abundant chest, and the charms of her physique were enhanced by the huge, dusky gray orbs of her eyes and the rich length of chestnut hair that curled lushly about her shoulders.
    Her eyes were upon Bruce Creeghan, and they seemed naked of shame and hindrance. One emotion reigned within them, and that emotion was adoration.
    Then the girl turned slightly and she was staring at Martise. Their eyes met and locked, and the emotion turned swiftly to a surefire hatred so intense it almost seemed a physical