Enlightened

by Joanna Chambers

  Afterwards, they lay in companionable silence for a long time. At last, though, Murdo turned his head on the pillow.

  “So, what did Chalmers want?”

  David repeated what Chalmers had told him about Kinnell’s visit to Charles Carr, and his request that David deal with moving the trust administration.

  “I have to get to London as soon as possible,” he said when he was finished. “I want you to take me with you tomorrow.” He noted Murdo’s faint frown and added, “I cannot rest easy until I’ve fulfilled my promise, Murdo.”

  “David Lauriston to the rescue once again,” Murdo observed, his tone very dry. “You’ll be wanting me to saddle my best white horse for you, will you?”

  “I’m merely undertaking the duties of my office as trustee—” David began, breaking off when Murdo sighed.

  “All right, all right,” the other man said. “I know better than to try to dissuade you once you’ve made your mind up. You’ll have to pack your things this evening though. We leave at first light.”

  Chapter Eight

  Another carriage journey. This one, though, was farther than David had ever travelled before. Until now, he’d had no cause to go anywhere that involved more than two days by carriage. London was taking the better part of a week, and it felt like the longest week of David’s life.

  Murdo had assured David that if the inns Murdo had reserved had no spare bedchambers, no one would blink an eye at the two of them bunking together. David had almost looked forward to the prospect, only for it to turn out that, by some twist of fortune, the inns all had spare bedchambers. Not to mention nosy landlords and fellow guests who traipsed the corridors at all hours of the night. Consequently, David and Murdo had spent the last five days in torturous proximity—together all day in the swaying, closed-in carriage, knowing they could be interrupted at any moment, only to be separated each night.

  They’d passed the time talking. At long last, Murdo began to break some of the careful conversational rules he’d set months before, when David had first gone to Laverock House. Not that David could really call them rules. Murdo had never explicitly said there were things he would not discuss. He was just good at making it plain when he wasn’t happy talking about a particular subject. And he was never happy talking about his family.

  Until now, it seemed. On this journey, he finally began to speak about them—about his siblings, anyway. About his older brothers, dutiful Harris and pompous Iain, neither of whom Murdo much liked, and about his three younger sisters, all of whom were married to men handpicked by Murdo’s father. He learned about Murdo’s late mother too, a kindly but distant figure from Murdo’s childhood who’d had no time for her youngest son as she coped with pregnancy after pregnancy, a succession of new babies and stillbirths, until she finally succumbed to the rigours of childbirth when Murdo was thirteen.

  He barely mentioned his father, though, beyond alluding to him as the strategist of each of his children’s dynastic marriages or as the architect of his sons-in-law’s political careers. Murdo didn’t need to say much, though, for David to understand that the Marquess of Balfour cast a long shadow over his son’s life. Nor to realise that the marquess had something to do with this journey. He’d worked that out weeks ago.

  The marquess was a prolific letter writer. Each week, at least one, sometimes two letters arrived at Laverock House. David had quickly come to recognise the heavy, off-white paper, the lavish seal and the precise pen work that marked the marquess’s correspondence. Whenever David arrived at the breakfast table and saw one of those distinctive letters waiting, he knew that Murdo would take it away to read it privately. And that soon after, the subject of Murdo going to London would crop up.

  “Susannah’s far too young for Lansbury,” Murdo was saying now. Susannah was his youngest and favourite sister. “She never got the chance to go to balls and have admirers, and, of course, now she wants to do it as a young matron, except Lansbury won’t have it.”

  “Why did your father select a man so much older than her?” David asked. “Surely there must’ve been at least one man closer to her in age who would’ve been suitable?”

  Murdo snorted. “It wouldn’t even have crossed his mind to wonder. He wanted to align himself to Lansbury, and Lansbury wanted a wife. Why not his eighteen-year-old daughter, even if Lansbury was thirty years older?”

  “I’m surprised he’s not managed to marry you off yet, if he’s so ruthless,” David said. He’d begun mentioning the marquess more directly over the last day or two, curious to see if he could coax Murdo into saying more about his father.

  As was usual when David mentioned the marquess, Murdo’s jaw tightened and he looked away, out of the window of the carriage. But just when David thought that was it, that the conversation was at an end, Murdo said, “It’s not for want of effort.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Murdo kept his gaze trained on the flat, dull landscape outside. “My father’s like a spider,” he said eventually. “His web goes on and on. I’ve been snipping at the threads all my life.” After a pause, he turned his head to look at David again and smiled, though it was no more than a tightening of his lips. No warmth reached his eyes. “Let’s not talk of him. It makes me peevish.”

  It made him more than peevish, David thought. It made him unhappy.

  To distract him, David began to ask questions about their surroundings and soon enough Murdo was telling him all about the county of Buckinghamshire, reciting the names of the local families who owned the greatest tracts of land in the area. He did it almost by rote, as though he’d learned it a long time ago. David listened, occasionally asking a further question, more interested in Murdo’s immediate yet oddly disinterested way of answering than in the answers themselves.

  He’d been tutored in this.

  After a little while, the carriage began to slow. David stuck his head out of the window, ascertaining they were approaching their next stop, an old, rambling coaching inn. Its roof looked recently thatched, and it had a sturdy, prosperous look about it. It was by far the nicest inn they’d stayed in since they’d left Edinburgh. Curling wisps of wood smoke trailed from the chimneys and hung in the darkening sky, not seeming to know where to go.

  As though alerted to the proximity of food, David’s stomach let out a tremendous rumble, making Murdo chuckle.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “I’ve had nothing since breakfast,” David pointed out, his tone faintly defensive. He’d refused food at their previous stops, nauseated by the long hours in the swaying carriage. The afternoon leg of the journey had been easier on his stomach, though, and now his belly was complaining at its emptiness. Loudly.

  The coachman expertly swung the team of four and the broad carriage through the inn’s narrow gate without so much as grazing a corner. And then it was the same routine they’d followed for the last few nights. They got out of the carriage while their trunks were unloaded by the inn’s servants and the ostlers unhitched the horses, and headed for the main body of the inn in search of the innkeeper.

  They found him in the hallway, on his way out to meet them, a small, wiry man of indeterminate age, his thick, nut-brown hair belied by a deeply wrinkled face. David wondered if he wore a wig.

  He had an obsequious manner that grated on David. It was probably necessary in his line of work, given the number of well-to-do customers he’d have who’d expect to be treated with proper respect, but there was something about his manner that verged on grovelling.

  He introduced himself as Mr. Foster, and his eyes lit up when Murdo confirmed his own identify.

  “Ah, Your Lordship,” he said, with relish. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “You’ve been expecting myself and my coachman,” Murdo corrected. “But not Mr. Lauriston here. Are you able to assist us with an additional bedchamber?”

  Foster smiled, displaying a set of strong-looking, yellow teeth, and, disappointingly, confirmed a second bedchamber presented no
difficulty all. Murdo—ever accustomed to giving orders and expecting them to be carried out—demanded that hot baths be prepared for both of them and dinner served in a private parlour. Foster smoothly agreed to all of Murdo’s commands.

  Within twenty minutes of their arrival, David was stripping off his travel-rumpled clothes and lowering himself into a blessedly hot bath, his first in days. The heat eased his pinched knee—always made worse by inactivity—making him sigh with pleasure and relief.

  He stayed in the water till it was practically cold. When he finally got out, he quickly dried himself off, then gave his leg a brisk rub with liniment before dressing again. When he ventured out of his room, he felt cleaner and more relaxed than he had in days. He made his way to the private parlour Murdo had reserved, sniffing appreciatively as he went—the scents emerging from the kitchens were very promising—to find the innkeeper himself waiting outside the parlour door.

  When Foster saw David, he greeted him with the same servility that had made David shudder earlier, even tugging at his forelock before opening the door for him. David gave him a curt nod and passed him.

  The parlour was a cosy room, twee even. Murdo looked quite out of place in it, surrounded by floral china and Toby jugs and framed needlepoint pictures. He was too big, too male. A wolf in a woodcutter’s cottage. David smiled at his own whimsy and walked farther into the room, noticing with pleasure that Murdo’s expression warmed when he saw David. He suspected his own did the same.

  The door closed behind them and immediately Murdo’s expression became less guarded. He quickly stepped up to David and captured his mouth in a quick but thorough kiss, his big hand resting at David’s waist. When he pulled back, his eyes were dancing.

  “We shouldn’t,” David said, as though Murdo had posed a question. Despite his reluctant words, though, he was grinning, almost dizzy with happiness at Murdo’s brief, seemingly helpless show of affection. They’d shared little more than a few such kisses since they’d left Edinburgh, and this was the first night they’d managed to secure a private parlour for dinner. The closed door and drawn curtains made their privacy feel more secure than it possibly was.

  “Probably not,” Murdo agreed merrily, adding, “Did you enjoy your bath? You look as though you did. You’re all pink-cheeked and shiny.”

  “The bath was wonderful,” David assured him gravely. “I stayed in so long my fingers were like prunes when I got out.”

  “Me too.” Murdo grinned. “And I have high hopes for dinner. The food doesn’t smell half-bad.”

  As though he’d heard them—and perhaps he had—Foster chose that moment to enter, bearing a basket of new-baked bread in one hand and a dish of butter in the other.

  “Good evening, my lord,” he said with a deep bow to Murdo. He looked odd, bowing like that with the basket and butter dish still in his hands. He turned to offer a smaller bow to David. “Sir.”

  David nodded and murmured a “good evening” of his own, but it was lost as Murdo bit out angrily, “I thought you said this was a private parlour?”

  The innkeeper blanched, freezing in the midst of straightening from his bow. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “You damn well ought to!” Murdo continued. “Haven’t you heard of knocking before you enter a private room?”

  David swallowed, suddenly mortified. Could Murdo make it any more obvious that they craved privacy? Then he dismissed his own thoughts impatiently. Murdo was right. It was meant to be a private parlour, and Foster wouldn’t necessarily assume that, just because his male guests wanted privacy, they wanted one another. They could simply be discussing private business.

  “Well?” Murdo snapped.

  “Please accept my apologies, my lord,” Foster stammered. “I forgot myself for a moment. It won’t happen again.”

  It didn’t. Foster stayed away after that, and the nervous young serving maid he sent in his place nearly knocked the door down each time she brought a new dish, her hands shaking as she laid the rattling crockery down. Murdo was polite to her, though. Gentle even.

  There was a bit of a disaster when she brought the gravy. She was balancing too many things, and the sauce boat overturned, upsetting its contents all over the white tablecloth.

  “Oh no!” she gasped. “Mr. Foster’ll have me guts for garters!”

  Flushing scarlet, she began trying to wipe up the mess with her apron.

  Murdo put a hand on her arm to still her. “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Peggy, m’lor’,” she said, looking at him obediently, though her anxious gaze flitted back to the table.

  “Right then, Peggy,” Murdo said firmly. “Go back to the kitchen and tell Mr. Foster that His Lordship overturned the gravy boat, and now he wants a fresh tablecloth brought and this one burned. And the cost is to be added to my bill, if you please.” He said it all in his most supercilious tone, giving the girl the right words to parrot to her master, then he smiled his most coaxing smile. “Do you have that?”

  She stared at him, eyes wide, and repeated what he said. Twice through, at Murdo’s insistence. When he was satisfied, he released her, and she scurried away.

  Once she was gone, Murdo turned to David. “What?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “That was kind,” David said simply, then he chuckled. “And not a little devious.”

  “Devious?” Murdo’s tone was outraged, but his expression was amused, the winsome dimple that David loved making a rare appearance.

  “I wouldn’t have approached it like that. I’d have spoken to Foster on her behalf instead.” David paused, then admitted, “I’d probably have made it worse for her.”

  Murdo chuckled. “Honest to a fault, that’s you.”

  David chuckled too, ruefully. “That’s what my mother’s always said about me.”

  “You’re direct,” Murdo said. “Uncompromising.”

  “You think me inflexible,” David accused without heat.

  Murdo inclined his head. “At times. Sometimes I hesitate to tell you things because—” He stopped, his gaze suddenly troubled.

  “Because what?”

  “You’re very black-and-white about everything. I’ve never met anyone who has such a strong sense of right and wrong.”

  David considered that echo of Chalmers’s words from a few days before. “I’m not sure that’s true,” he said, frowning. “I struggle more than anyone I know with what’s right and wrong.”

  “That’s just it, though,” Murdo said. “Most people don’t worry about it all that much. Most people are adept at convincing themselves that what they want—what suits them—is right. Or at least, that it isn’t really wrong.” He smiled. “I’m adept at that.”

  David sipped his ale. “I really don’t think I’m as principled as you imagine,” he said at last. “Over the last year or two, my views on certain things have altered significantly—in ways that have suited me very well.”

  Murdo’s gaze gentled. “If you’re talking about us, I know you didn’t alter your view without a struggle. In fact, I know you still struggle with it, still question yourself.” He paused, then added, “I know that, even now, when you give yourself to me, you hold a part of yourself back.”

  David’s heart clenched at that, and at that bleak look in the other man’s eyes. What Murdo said was true, but he hadn’t realised Murdo knew it.

  “I feel as though—” Murdo began, then stopped, seeming to debate with himself whether to continue. When he started up again, his tone was careful. “I feel as though we’re fighting over that part of you. I want you to give it up, give it to me. But you’re still not convinced that what we have together is—right. And I don’t know what I can do to convince you.”

  “Murdo—”

  The knock at the door was different this time, harder, with a flourishing rhythm at the end, tat-tat-te-tat-tat.

  They glanced at one another, both frustrated by the interruption. “Come in,” Murdo called out.

/>   It was Foster this time, with Peggy trailing behind him, a clean tablecloth over her arm and a miserable expression on her plump face.

  “Your Lordship requested a clean tablecloth?” Foster said with unctuous smile.

  Murdo gave the little man a long look, before he confirmed. “I did,” he said. “And that you proceed to burn this one, if you please.” He flicked a disdainful finger at the stained one.

  “Of course,” Foster assured him, and began to remove the silverware from the table before adding casually, “I must apologise for Peggy’s clumsiness.”

  He had guessed it was the girl, David realised, and had come to prod out the truth.

  He had made a grave error.

  “I beg your pardon?” Murdo’s incredulous voice was pure ice.

  Foster stilled in what he was doing and looked up. Seeing the expression on Murdo’s face, he swallowed hard.

  “What exactly do you mean by that comment?” Murdo demanded.

  “I was merely apologising, my lord,” Foster said, licking his lips nervously. “I’ve no doubt the girl caused you to spill the gravy, and I wanted to assure you—”

  “What did she tell you?” Murdo demanded.

  It was plain that Foster took Murdo’s swift question as evidence that his suspicions were warranted—his eyes gleamed with triumph. “Merely that, my lord. That you spilled the gravy and wanted a new tablecloth.”

  “And to add the cost of the ruined one to my bill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you bothering me?” Murdo roared at him, eyes flashing and nostrils flaring with temper.

  Foster quaked in the face of Murdo’s impressive anger, while Peggy, who stood behind the innkeeper, looked at the floor, biting her lip against a tiny smile.

  “Perhaps,” Murdo went on, “you think to chide me for my clumsiness? Is that it? Are these apologies a backhanded way of giving me a scold?”

  “No! No, my lord! I would not presume to criticise!” the innkeeper babbled.

  “I’ve already said I’ll pay for a new tablecloth. Is that not enough for you?”