He mentally crossed his fingers. “Much too long. Oh, Baker did say that massage would assist in healing the injury. To stimulate the muscles and increase circulation of the blood, I believe.”
“Are you sure?” she asked in a dubious tone. “I wouldn’t want to, um, aggravate anything.”
As far as he was concerned, she could aggravate anything she wanted. “Absolutely. But it would be very helpful for the healing process, apparently.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” She brightened, obviously warming to the idea. “It did seem to help before, didn’t it?”
“So much so that I would be grateful for another—”
The door swung open and Angus stomped in, carrying a stack of mail. Royal had to clamp down on his impulse to leap across the room and throttle him. The old fellow had an infallible knack for intruding at the worst possible moment.
“Ah, here ye be,” said Angus, inspecting him with a concerned eye. “What did that old sawbones have to say? Is all well?”
“Dr. Baker feels there is no lasting damage,” Ainsley jumped in before Royal could reply. “But he’s to rest for at least a week and not strain himself.”
Angus shook his head. “That canna be right. The limp seems fair nasty to me.”
“We’re going to try massage again,” she said. “The doctor said that will be helpful.”
“Aye, that makes sense. Brody sent down a new ointment for Royal to try. Mutton fat, mustard paste, and camphor, rubbed three times a day into the bruises. Works like a charm, Brody said.”
Ainsley wrinkled her nose. “That sounds quite awful.”
“He won’t be smellin’ of roses, I grant ye, but if Brody—”
“I don’t give a hang what Brody says,” Royal interrupted. “I am not rubbing blasted mutton fat on my thigh. And may I remind you both that I am actually in the room? You needn’t act as if I’m invisible or deaf.”
“Sorry,” Ainsley said with an apologetic smile.
“Of course we ken yer in the room,” Angus said. “Do we look like a pair of jinglebrains?”
“You might not want me to answer that,” Royal said.
“Now, see here, laddie—”
“No, Grandda, you see here. I am perfectly fine, and perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“Not with rushin’ home like ye were. Canna be good for yer leg, all that stompin’ about.”
Hell. “Who told you I was rushing home?”
“Young Willie. I asked him to keep an eye out for ye. He saw ye come home just now, cuttin’ through the park instead of takin’ a hackney.”
“Splendid. A network of spies tracking my every move,” Royal said, trying to ignore his wife’s huff of outrage. “This is getting to be ridiculous.”
“Well, at least now we have the truth instead of an out-and-out fib,” Ainsley retorted.
He waggled a hand. “I didn’t really fib, my love.”
Her violet eyes narrowed to irritated slits. “You just failed to tell the truth.”
“A small omission. So as not to worry you.”
Her answering scowl suggested that a massage—with or without mutton fat—was out of the question for the foreseeable future.
“I think we’ve discussed my leg quite enough for one day,” Royal said. “Now, would someone please tell me how Tira is feeling? She was still sleeping when I left this morning. Have the sniffles improved?”
“Och, the wee lass is as right as rain,” Angus said. “It’s the teethin’, that’s all.”
Ainsley shook her head. “The poor dear has not improved, in fact. I’m convinced it’s another cold.”
“Yer daft, woman. She’s no more got a cold than I do.”
Naturally, that launched a fractious debate about Tira, who Royal was convinced was fine. But at least Ainsley’s ire was now directed at Angus instead of at him.
“Why don’t you give me the mail to sort while you two insult each other,” he said to Angus.
His grandfather handed over the small stack, not pausing for breath as he lectured Ainsley on the finer points of drooling babies. She, in turn, rolled her eyes and reminded Angus that she was Tira’s mother, and that a mother could always tell when her child was sick.
Despite the loud discussion, Royal couldn’t help smiling. His wife never backed down, which meant she was a perfect match for the Kendricks, whether she realized it yet or not.
He quickly shuffled through the mail, putting aside business correspondence for Nick or Logan. There was a note from Graeme, confirming that he would be returning to Glasgow in a few days, as well as a lengthy missive from Braden, which he would read later. There was also a letter from Grant to Angus and a few invitations to parties and assemblies.
At the bottom of the pile was a rare letter for Ainsley.
Estranged as she was from her family and most of her friends, his wife received little correspondence. It infuriated him whenever he thought of how quickly she’d been abandoned by those who claimed to love her. Ainsley put on a brave front, doing her best to ignore both slights and nasty gossip that filtered up from London. It mattered not that she was entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. In the eyes of the world, Ainsley was a jilt and a fool, giving up wealth, position, and status to marry a penniless, crippled Scotsman.
But the letter Royal held in his hand appeared to be from her mother, the one person who could have helped her after the rape and yet had refused to do so. And while one could always hope that Lady Aldridge was regretting the callous rejection of her only daughter, he found it hard to believe.
For a moment, he debated withholding the missive from Ainsley, hating to distress her or, worse, send her into a panic. But his wife was no fragile miss and wouldn’t thank him for treating her as if she was. Nor did he have the right to control her in so high-handed a fashion. That’s what Cringlewood had tried to do, and Royal was determined she never feel such a loss of power over her own life again.
When Ainsley happened to glance over at him, she frowned, turning her back on Angus. “Royal, is something wrong?”
“This appears to be a letter from your mother,” he replied.
She stared blankly for a moment before a hectic flush reddened her pale complexion. “Oh, well, that’s a surprise. I wasn’t expecting to hear from anyone in my family.”
“Best throw it in the fire, lass,” Angus said. “That mother of yers is a right—”
“That’s enough, Grandda.” Royal leaned forward and took Ainsley’s hand. It trembled slightly. “I can read it for you, sweetheart, if you’d rather.”
She mustered a lopsided smile and took the small, folded packet from him. “I’m not such a faint-heart that I need my husband to read my mail. It might be about my father, you know. He’s not been well, and Mamma did promise to write if he took a turn for the worse.”
Royal nodded before glancing at Angus, who looked ready to leap out of his chair and snatch the paper from her grip. “Grandda, would you mind getting me another whisky? My leg is a bit twitchy, and I’d prefer not to get up right at the moment.”
Properly diverted, the old fellow trotted off to the drinks trolley. “Aye, lad. Don’t fash yerself. I’ll fetch it for ye.”
When Angus returned with drinks for both of them, Royal handed him the letter from Grant. His grandfather settled into his chair to read it, while Royal pretended to peruse the missive from Braden. In truth, though, he watched Ainsley, who was worrying her lower lip as she read. He couldn’t fail to notice that the bright blush of a few minutes ago was draining from her cheeks, leaving her pale as chalk.
“Ainsley, is something wrong?” he asked.
She jumped in her seat. “Um, what?”
“Did your mother say something to upset you?”
Her gaze appeared fastened on him, but Royal got the distinct impression that whatever she was seeing, it wasn’t him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
“Ainsley, something is wrong, isn’t it?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered.
“Are ye sure, lass?” Angus asked. “Yer lookin’ fair hipped, ye are.”
Her gaze darted nervously between them. Then she drew in a breath and dredged up an entirely artificial smile. “My mother simply wished to pass along some news about the family. My brother’s wife is with child, and Mamma thought I should know, since it’s unlikely that my brother or his wife will write to inform me that such is the case.”
“Nincompoops,” Angus said in a disgusted tone.
“Indeed.” Ainsley briskly folded up the letter and rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I must write a reply, then check on Tira. I’ll see you both at dinner.”
Royal pushed himself up. “Ainsley, wait just a moment.”
But she was already halfway out the door.
Angus stared after her, tapping a thoughtful finger on his chin. “I do believe something’s amiss with your lady. She lit out of here like a pack of hellhounds was snappin’ at her arse.”
“Just one hellhound, I think,” Royal said in a grim tone. “And I have a good idea of who it is.”
Chapter Twenty-One
She’d forgotten about the Scottish marriage laws.
All these weeks, Ainsley had thought she and Tira were finally safe from discovery, from scandal, and, most importantly, from Cringlewood. She’d convinced herself they’d pulled it off, and that she and Royal would finally have the chance to create the life they both longed for.
How naïve she’d been.
Clutching her candle, Ainsley snuck down the quiet hallway toward Royal’s bedroom. She’d heard him pass by her door five minutes ago, recognizing the quiet but unmistakable hitch in his tread. He’d hesitated outside her door for several long seconds, while she’d waited with bated breath, half wishing he’d barge in and demand an explanation for her odd behavior this afternoon. But he didn’t, of course. Royal never demanded or pushed, though sometimes she thought it might be better if he did. If he forced her to tell him the truth, she imagined that somehow she’d be absolved of the consequences of her own stupid behavior.
“Almost like going to confession,” she muttered. “And I’m not even a Catholic.”
But no one could absolve her of her sins or fix the mess she’d created. She needed to think, and then she needed to act. And she had to do it in a way that didn’t make her husband even more suspicious than he already was.
Sinking into one of the chairs in the corridor, Ainsley put her candle down on the small table next to it. She covered her face and sucked in slow, steady breaths, trying to quell the panic that had threatened to overcome her after reading her mother’s letter.
Royal had known something was wrong, and she’d had to exert every ounce of willpower against the urge to run into his arms and tell him everything. But if he ever found out how foolish she’d been, both with her own safety and with Tira’s, he’d never forgive her. In fact, he just might decide to make use of those liberal Scottish marriage laws to be rid of an exceedingly troublesome wife. So far, she’d brought nothing but trouble to the Kendrick family, and she might bring down a great deal more if she didn’t find a way to protect all of them, especially Tira, from the potential mayhem thundering their way.
Ainsley knew what she had to do, even though the idea made her cringe with guilt. As far as she could tell, it was the only thing that could potentially protect her from Cringlewood’s threats. Divorce was all but impossible in England, but not in Scotland, as her mother had triumphantly pointed out in her letter.
The fact that Cringlewood still wished to marry her was something Ainsley had never thought remotely possible. Her former fiancé was a proud, arrogant man, and should have been mortally offended to be thrown over in favor of an untitled and relatively impecunious Scotsman. Once she married Royal, it should have been inconceivable for the marquess to want anything to do with her again.
Yet according to her mother, he did. If anything, Leonard was more terrifyingly obsessed than ever, although Ainsley wasn’t sure if he had the leverage needed to fully bend her to his will. Mamma, unfortunately, had been frustratingly vague about what she’d actually told Leonard about Ainsley’s circumstances, and what he intended to do about it.
“My lady, are ye all right?”
She jerked upright, almost knocking over her candle. William stood a few feet away, gazing at her with consternation.
“Do ye wish me to fetch Mr. Royal?” he asked when she gaped at him like a booby.
She mustered a bracing smile. “Indeed no. I’m perfectly fine.”
William looked even more concerned. “Or I can fetch yer maid if ye’d like, my lady.”
Sighing, Ainsley picked up the candle and rose. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
The footman flicked a gaze over her figure, his eyes widening with alarm. Even in the dim light of the hallway, she could see the poor fellow blush, no doubt unused to a lady wandering around the hall in a frilly wrapper and nightcap. Ainsley had always thought of herself as a rather dignified person, but her recent behavior would suggest otherwise.
“Are you on your way to Mr. Royal’s room to help him get ready for bed?” she asked, trying to regain control of the situation.
William’s cheeks blazed an even deeper red. “Aye, ma’am. I usually pulls his boots off for him at the end of the night.”
“I’ll help Mr. Royal tonight, William. You may retire.”
He seemed flummoxed. Like all the servants in the household, he was aware that she and Royal did not share a bed.
“Um, but Mr. Royal—”
She shooed him. “Good night, William.”
“Yes, my lady. Good night, my lady.”
The footman scurried off, likely to share a juicy bit of gossip about Mr. Royal’s wife preparing to storm her husband’s bedroom to pull off his boots. It all felt suddenly rather ridiculous.
But it’s what you want, isn’t it?
She did want it, desperately. But not like this. Not when it felt like a lie.
But a necessary lie. You’re protecting him, and Tira, too.
Ainsley marched down the hall. She could spend all night dithering, but there was only one course of action—to make her marriage a real one. It was the only way she could protect the Kendrick family, whether Royal ultimately approved of her tactics or not.
So make him approve.
Ainsley tapped on his door.
“Enter.”
She slipped inside and put her candle on the chest of drawers.
Royal was comfortably ensconced in a claw-footed armchair by the fireplace, apparently deep in a book. Clad only in breeches and a flowing white shirt, with his long, booted legs propped against the firedogs, he looked more a rugged Highlander than a respectable Glasgow businessman.
“Ah, Will,” he said without glancing up. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”
“I dismissed William for the evening.”
Royal carefully marked his place and put the book aside. Then he glanced over, his gaze tracking from the tips of her feathered mules to the top of her frilly nightcap. By the end of his perusal, his dark eyebrows were all but touching his hairline.
“Is this a social call?” he finally asked. “Or is there a matter you need to discuss that couldn’t wait until morning?”
Ainsley realized she hadn’t thought of a way to open up what was sure to be an awkward discussion. As she searched for an answer that sounded at least somewhat reasonable, her gaze snagged on the decanter on the table next to his chair.
“Cannot a wife visit her husband’s bedroom for a small brandy before bedtime?” she brightly asked.
When Royal’s mouth dropped open, she had to repress the impulse to groan. The poor man must think her entirely demented. One moment she was pushing him away, and the next she was charging into his bedroom like a brazen hussy.
She almost fainted with relief when his glance slid over her once more, and a slow smile replaced his be
fuddled look.
“Indeed a wife can,” he said, rising to his feet. “But I’m afraid this husband only has whisky to offer. Do you want me to ring for Will to bring brandy?”
“Whisky is fine. Besides, I’ve already shocked the poor fellow enough for one evening. He looked ready to swoon when I ran into him in the hall.”
“I can imagine, especially with you dressed in such delightful dishabille.”
“I’m sure I looked ridiculous, wandering around the halls like Ophelia or one of the Kendrick family ghosts.”
“We don’t have ghosts. And ridiculous is not how I would describe your appearance, my love.”
She blushed at the heat in his gaze, but then remembered why she’d come to his room in the first place.
“Oh? And how would you describe me?” She mentally cringed at her squeaky voice.
Once, she’d been very good at flirtation, but the travails of her life had destroyed the innocent fun of it.
Royal pretended to give the question serious thought, although his mouth twitched with amusement. “Charmingly delectable would best describe it. I’ve never seen you in a nightcap before. It makes you look . . .”
Ainsley sighed. She hadn’t really thought through her attire, either. A beribboned nightcap and a wrapper with a ridiculous amount of silk, ribbon, and lace was not an ensemble calculated to turn a man’s mind to seduction, especially not a man like Royal. Yards of frilly nonsense would strike him as expensive foolishness.
“Rather like a bag of laundry exploded when I walked by, I expect,” she said.
He closed the distance between them and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. “You look incredibly sweet. Almost like an angel escaped from heaven, bent on a spot of mischief. With me.”
She had to smile at his nonsense. “Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Kendrick. You just might get it.”
“Then I will be sure to wish very hard, Mrs. Kendrick,” he murmured as he handed her to the chair.
She sank down, happy for the chance to perhaps settle her wayward heartbeat.
The Highlander Who Protected Me (Clan Kendrick #1) Page 32
