No Other Woman (No Other Series) Read online

  Paralyzing.

  He thought he saw her. Her eyes, sky blue above his. Her face. Angelic in its beauty.

  Then the bitter realization hit him. The MacGinnises never would have confronted him face-to-face. They knew his temper, his sense of honor—and his strength.

  Just as they had known his weakness. Shawna.

  Oh, God, never again.

  No, never, for seduction had not been their true intent, he saw with startling clarity. Their true intent had been murder.

  Suddenly he realized that the burning pain in his skull had been caused by something other than the blow to his head.

  He was surrounded by heat.

  And fire.

  Oh, God, yes. Fire! Flames, shooting all around him. And he couldn't move, couldn't twist or turn, he could only feel the bursting agony within his head. He could see nothing except for the shooting red tongues of flame that rose against the blackness.

  No, more.

  He could see what a fool he had been. And that he had been betrayed. Oh, God, yes, with what must be his dying breath, he could see so clearly what a fool he had been and that she...

  Aye, she, had damned him. To all the fires of hell.

  Horses neighed and shrieked; from somewhere in the darkness of a never-ending pit, he heard her, heard her screams, rising, sweeping, tearing from her throat...

  Then, despite the flames and the heat, darkness began to encompass him. The void of death would come to claim him before the searing fires of hell and damnation reached out to fire his soul again... Blackness settled upon him.

  And all around him the flames continued to rise, until the crackle of the blaze rose to a roar. And the fire consumed the night.

  Chapter 1

  Castle Rock

  The Highlands

  Fall 1875

  Night had fallen. Mist was rising over the moors, and a strange golden moon sat high in the night sky. Shawna could see the moon through one of the ancient arrow slits in the tower office wall as it played a spectacular game of hide-and-seek with the clouds. It was a fey moon, glorious, mysterious, the type that gave the Highlands a reputation for strange powers, a hint of magic, a haunting beauty.

  She should have been asleep, but Mark Menzies had sent her a message, begging a moment of her time when his work was done. She sat behind the giant oak desk in the office, listening intently to his words. He was the foreman of the coal miners, and a good, fine man.

  "The men will not go into the left tunnel, milady; they are convinced that there is evil within."

  Shawna nodded. She well understood his words. They were all Christians in this parish in the Highlands, but they were a people quick to believe in the power of myth and spirits, and she wouldn't force any man to work against his fear. The mining business was dangerous enough without adding a man's spiritual torment to the brew. "Perhaps," she suggested, "the men will not be so uncomfortable if we have the Reverend Massey bless the opening of the new shaft...?"

  "Perhaps," Mark said without conviction. "They claim they hear hangings and the like. They think that something dangerous may reside within the earth, something we don't know so well as men, don't understand, and should not taunt." He was a big man, broad-shouldered, craggy-faced, with gray-dusted long hair and lines grooved into a face made handsome by integrity and pride. Shawna had liked him all her life; she had only come to know him well in the last five years. What the people in this part of the Highlands referred to as The Fire had taken place five years ago. Laird Douglas's elder son David had died in it and the laird had begun to spend more time in America, placing his castle and his lands in the care of the MacGinnis clan. Traditionally, though the Douglas laird had held the greatest wealth and power in the area, his distant MacGinnis kinsmen had been his right-hand men. When Douglases were unable or unavailable to lead, the MacGinnisses did so in their stead.

  The night of The Fire, however, had changed everything. It had, perhaps, changed her more than anyone or anything else. She had remained at Craig Rock—the walled village in which both Castle MacGinnis and Castle Craig stood—in horror and misery for some months after the terrible night, then had fled to Glasgow. But she'd been home now for nearly four years, and during the last two years she had asserted herself as the head of the MacGinnis clan and taken a hand in the affairs of Craig Rock. The recent death of the elderly Laird Douglas had further altered the situation. While Laird Douglas had left an heir—his younger son, Andrew—that young man was half-Sioux and deeply embroiled in the affairs of his own country. Shawna knew that Andrew's heart remained in the American West and the wild terrain of his mother's own "savage" people. When he had asked her to continue to manage the Douglas estates for him, she had agreed to do so. As "The MacGinnis," the Lady of the clan, she had responsibilities to the people who lived and worked on MacGinnis as well as Douglas land. Although she had many male relatives—her great-uncles and cousins and second cousins—the title and the MacGinnis property, which bordered that of the Douglases, had become hers upon her father's death. She'd been young at the time and had been willing then to take her lead from her great-uncle Gawain. Then the night of David's death had nearly destroyed her; the months following his demise had been hell. But she had discovered in Glasgow that there was no running away from oneself, and there was nowhere in the world like home—especially when home was the Highlands.

  "We all fall prey to superstition now and then," Shawna said with a smile. "It's part of our character as a people, part of our charm, in my opinion," she told him, ruefully grinning. "We are near the Night of the Moon Maiden, when the November orb rises full and the demons may fall upon the virtuous lasses if they don't take care. Once, it was a time to fear, and now we do our best to celebrate and feast. Mark, you and I know that there are no ghosts, goblins, pookas, or the like living in the mines. We must convince the men that the banging is some natural occurrence, as we know that it must be. But tell me, have you spoken to my great-uncle Gawain about this problem?" she asked.

  Mark nodded. "I'm afraid your great-uncle does not understand the hearts of men as you do, my lady. Gawain says that I should tell the lads to work the tunnel or forget their pay. You know as well as I that the men must have their money in Order to live."

  "Aye, I know."

  In Shawna's opinion, there was no place more beautiful on all the earth than the Highlands of Scotland. No place wilder, more unique, finer. But the Highlands were losing her people. Industrialization was causing them to desert the lands they struggled to farm, and to seek better livings in the cities. Still, the Highlanders remained fiercely bound to their families, and many stayed because they were responsible to older parents, injured relatives, or young children. Many stayed as well because the Highlands were home as no place else could be.

  "The blessing of the coal mines is that so many may live on account of them," Shawna told Mark. "We must make the men feel it is quite safe to work. As safe as we can make mining, at that. Well, I shall see to it that the Reverend Massey comes out first thing in the morning. I'll talk to the men."

  "And to Gawain? He is distraught already that you have set limits upon the time the children may work."

  Shawna nodded without saying anything. Gawain did not much appreciate her interference with what he considered men's affairs. She didn't want to fight her great-uncle, and she didn't want to hurt him, but she was determined to have her say in how the mining business was conducted. "Leave it to me, Mark Menzies. I will see you, and the men, tomorrow at the site."

  "Thank you."

  He rose to leave; even as he stood, the office door banged open and Gawain strode into the room.

  In his late fifties, this younger brother of her grandfather remained a tall, broad-shouldered, able, and powerful man. His dark MacGinnis hair was still only peppered with gray, falling long and thickly to his shoulders. He dressed in the Highland manner, kilted each day, and Shawna could well imagine him as one of the war chieftains of old, entering into ruthless combat w
ith any enemy who dared threaten the sanctity of their homeland. He was a fierce man, bound strictly to the land. He knew how to wrest the best crops from their land, how to raise the best cattle. He was equally able as a businessman, and though Shawna was titular head of the family, it was the nineteenth century, and she, Gawain, her other great-uncle, Lowell, and her cousins Alistair, Alaric, and Aidan were all involved in managing the family's interests.

  "Ah, Uncle," Shawna murmured. "You're in good time. Mark has come to talk to me about the new shaft. I've suggested that we could have a service—"

  Gawain waved a hand impatiently. "Put on whatever pretty show you must, my dear. Menzies, you shouldn't bother Shawna with these difficulties, man, you should be coming to me."

  "Beggin' your pardon, sir—" Mark began, but again, Gawain waved a hand in the air.

  "The matter is settled for the moment then, eh? Get on with you then, Menzies, back to your own doings if you will, I'm a busy man and I need a moment with my niece."

  "Aye, then, tomorrow, Lady MacGinnis," Menzies said, and quickly quit the office.

  "That was quite rude," Shawna commented.

  Gawain merely replied, "I've other matters of greater importance at the moment."

  "Such as?"

  Gawain tossed a letter down upon the table. Shawna looked at her great-uncle, arching a brow. "Take a look, girl. It's from America."

  Shawna picked up the letter and saw the American postal marks on it. She started to read, but Gawain's hands landed suddenly on the desk, and her eyes were drawn to his. Blue, like her own. There was a startling resemblance among MacGinnis family members. Ink black hair with an exceptional cobalt gloss and startling blue eyes marked them almost irrefutably as MacGinnises. Family members had, as well, high, cleanly defined black brows and a way of lifting them that connected them all as kin.

  "Read!" Gawain commanded, his "r" rolling especially deeply with his irritation.

  She knew instantly, of course, that it was from Andrew Douglas. As she touched the letter, great waves of guilt seemed to wash over her. She had been in a sorry state herself the last time she had seen him, but she would never forget his pain at his brother's death.

  She quickly scanned the words on the paper, trying to keep her fingers from trembling. He had always reminded her a great deal of David. Although Andrew had definitely inherited certain features from his mother's family, he still looked like a Douglas and had his father's build. The brothers had been of the same height and muscle structure, both of them like lions, so powerfully built, so sleek, so agile. Capable of great courtesy—and great violence, she believed, if thwarted.

  If known to have been betrayed.

  Every word of this letter was polite and courteous. Andrew was coming to Craig Rock. He didn't know how long he would be staying, nor exactly when he would be arriving. She wasn't to make any changes in the management of the estates; she had done so well in his absence thus far. She was not to vacate the master's chambers of Castle Rock, nor depart that residence for Castle MacGinnis. He had recently married again, and was happy to be attended by his new wife and friends on his trip to his father's ancestral home. "If you've kept up with newspaper accounts of events in America, you will be aware as well that my mother's people are involved in disputes with the American government. As this makes my own plans rather complicated to say the least, and since I might have to leave Scotland at any time, I especially hope you will not be inconvenienced by my return. I am, at the moment, visiting as any traveler from America, and beg you not to be put out by my arrival. I look forward to seeing you."

  Recalling that Andrew's first wife, a Sioux woman, had perished from disease a couple of years ago, Shawna looked, up at Gawain with a pleased smile. "He has married again. I'm so delighted."

  Gawain exploded with impatience. "Delighted? Why, in God's name? Now he can produce little brown savages to come and make claim to the property here!"

  "Douglas property has never been ours, though we prosper from it."

  "Douglas property should justly fall to you. Andrew Douglas—is he called Laird Hawk, I wonder?—has no dealings here. He's American, and half-savage to boot. He should have stayed with his mother's kith and kin, his bows and arrows and buffalo! He should have lived and died on his savage plain, and the property should have rightly fallen to us."

  "Uncle, it is his property."

  "Aye—his property. But hundreds of years ago, my dear girl, before Robert the Bruce, Highlanders defied what would have been the rule of conquering English kings, and they kept these Highlands free by the sheer brutal force of their fighting power. Douglas and MacGinnis came together then, locked in wedlock, so it was said, and as it has always been, if the Douglas line should die out, then the property goes—by law—to the ancient Douglas kin. The MacGinneses."

  "Uncle Gawain, Laird Hawk Douglas seems to be quite alive and well in America."

  Gawain didn't seem to hear her. "Trouble in America!" he muttered. "Aye, the Americans intend to decimate their redmen. Their newspapers talk continually of great confrontations. Andrew Douglas should be caught in such a confrontation before he gets a chance to breed!"

  Shawna shook her head in amazement. "Uncle, he's a young man who has probably taken a young bride, and I wouldn't doubt that another generation of Douglases of Craig Rock might already be on the way."

  "Andrew Douglas is an American, but I have worked and breathed life into this land for all my years."

  "When the late Laird Douglas had his heart broken here and returned to America, I promised to care for his property in his absence—as your tradition would have it. But we also agreed to take on the additional work in order to create more wealth for the MacGinnis family," Shawna said quietly. "And God knows, after the night of The Fire, we haven't really the right—"

  Andrew slammed a fist on the table, staring at her. "You challenge an act of God, Shawna MacGinnis?"

  "Did God suggest I lure David to the stables?" she asked softly.

  She thought for a moment that her great-uncle was going to strike her, he looked at her so furiously.

  "The Fire, girl," he bit out, "was an act of God. And if you'd drag your whole family down to wallow in self-pity, then God should have taken you in that inferno as well!"

  "I don't believe that The Fire was an act of God," she said determinedly.

  "Are you accusing me of setting The Fire? I tell you, girl, I did not!" Gawain declared, his eyes narrowed in fury. "And what is more, the authorities came, specialists all the way from Edinburgh—at the request of your Laird Hawk Douglas, if you'll recall. No arson was proven, lass."

  "Then what did happen?"

  Gawain planted his hands on the desk and stared into her eyes. "An act of God!" he said with firm fury.

  She stared at her great-uncle, shaken by his vehemence. Gawain felt no remorse for David's death, but at least she was convinced of his innocence as far as The Fire went. Perhaps he could put that night behind him. She had tried to do so, but could not. It would haunt her until the day she died.

  "Would it have been more convenient for you if I had died in The Fire as well?" she queried.

  He exploded again with an oath of impatience. "Good God, lass, that you could accuse me so! But the night is past, and your kin live, and these miners live, and two hundred souls make their livings on these lands. If you want to be part and parcel of the future of Craig Rock, then you must get beyond the past. And live for the future."

  Shawna watched him and nodded slowly. She looked back at the letter on the desk once again. "I wonder why he is coming now."

  "Well, that, girl, I cannot tell you," Gawain said, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at her where she sat in the chair. "Or perhaps I can tell you. Every fool one of us sent condolences to him at his father's death. He must have got the idea that he should come home and claim his property, though God knows what he'd rightfully be doing here, or why any MacGinnis would express concern that he come. Unless someone ha
s a different reason for wantin' him here," Gawain mused. "But be forewarned that he is due. Due—with his new wife and 'friends.' A pack of violent, heathen, dangerous savages, I imagine."

  "Uncle, Andrew Douglas may be half-Sioux, but he is an intelligent and extremely well educated man. Whatever his beliefs, he's certainly not a heathen. He mourned his brother's death with what we could certainly consider to be Christian anguish—"

  "And demanded an inquest and had us all with our throats bared to the hangman, girl. I had thought that we were well and good done with him." He wagged a finger beneath her nose and warned, "You keep your wits about you, Shawna MacGinnis."

  "I'll certainly do my best," she murmured dryly.

  "You think before you open your mouth, eh?"

  "What could I tell him, Uncle Gawain? What in bloody hell do I know?" she demanded angrily.

  "Don't talk to me in that tone, girl."

  She knew he didn't like her tone. He didn't like the entire conversation, especially her references to the events of the night of The Fire. Those events had been swept into the dark recesses of their minds.

  Coming back now, it seemed, to haunt them all.

  "You provided the wine, Uncle," she reminded him with sudden quiet determination.

  He stared at her for a long, hard moment.

  "Aye, lass, I provided the wine. You were confident you could charm the man to sleep. We needed the documentation of your fool cousin's thievery. I tell you this—I didn't want the man dead."

  After all this time, she was startled by the pain that could still seize her. "Then who did?"

  "It was a fire, girl, a sad, pathetic thing, nothing more. Have y'not heard a word I've said all night? The Fire was an act of God! And don't you go letting the Douglas make more of it, do you be understandin' me, girl?"

  He didn't wait for her reply, but exited the office in a blur of MacGinnis plaid.

  When he was gone, Shawna looked down at the letter again, and at her fingers, which were still trembling. She let out an oath of impatience against herself. There was brandy in the lower right-hand corner of the desk. She pulled it out and started to search the drawer for a glass. She gave up the search, taking a long swallow straight from the bottle. It seared her throat, but warmed her body deliciously. She started to drink more.