by Julia London
“No,” Catriona scoffed. “There were scads of servants, aye? And his secretary. And the man from Dungotty.”
“I told the earl he ought to have insisted that his man bring you home, and straightaway,” Mrs. Templeton said. “Those servants will talk, you may mark my words, and they will not speak kindly of you, Miss Mackenzie. Many assumptions will be made.”
This irked Catriona, but she made herself laugh all the same. “I’ll no’ care if they are,” she said gaily, then pinned bloody Mrs. Templeton with a dark look. “You seem surprised, madam. Do you think no one speaks unkindly of me now? Or that no one has made untoward speculation as to why I’ve never received an offer of marriage?” She shrugged. “What is one more tale?”
Mrs. Templeton was clearly aghast. She gaped at Uncle Knox, then at Catriona. “You are a Philistine, Miss Mackenzie!” she exclaimed.
“Mrs. Templeton!” her uncle said sternly. “How dare you speak to my niece so harshly!”
The woman looked about her with wild disbelief, then turned and flounced from the room.
Lady Orlov chuckled with amusement. “She ought to have returned to her blessed England with Lord Furness.”
“She ought never to have come,” said Vasily. He was dressed to go out, his boots highly polished and his coat freshly pressed. “I am happy to see you safely returned to us, Miss Mackenzie, but if you will excuse me, I still have an appointment at the gaming hell.” With a click of his heels, he bowed, then strode out the door.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilke-Smythe, having seen for themselves that Catriona was alive and well, likewise wandered out of the salon.
“I have business to attend,” her uncle said, and leaned over to kiss the top of her head. But he lingered a moment. “I am very glad you are safe at home, where you belong, darling,” he said, and then followed the others out.
When everyone was gone but Chasity and Lady Orlov, Chasity pounced on Catriona. “I must know everything that happened,” she said. “Did you learn anything about his wife?”
“No,” Catriona said. “But he offered that she was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Quite gone, from the look of things.”
“He said that? He said gone?” Chasity pressed. “Did you ask him what he meant?”
Catriona collapsed onto the settee and shook her head. She longed for a hot bath, and a change of clothes, and to sleep, ah, yes, to sleep and dream of what had happened to her in the last twenty-four hours. She was in the midst of a grand adventure and these women were interfering with it.
“But what does that mean?” Chasity asked of both of them.
“I should think it means gone,” Lady Orlov said. “Why must we persist in this charade? If we were in Russia, and the man was accused of killing his wife, he’d have hanged by now.”
“What! You think he should hang?” Chasity cried. “But he’s a duke!”
“My point, dear girl, is that he has obviously not killed his wife, because he is walking among us, and I see no point in belaboring it, time and again.”
“I agree,” Catriona said.
“But he’s a duke,” Chasity said again. “My father says that dukes may behave as they please with no consequence.”
Lady Orlov muttered something in Russian.
“I think I will rest now, aye?” Catriona said, and stood. She smiled at them in what she fervently hoped they would understand was her way of asking them to leave her be, but, unfortunately, both women rose and followed along behind her, arguing about what sort of privilege a duke in Scotland might truly possess.
Catriona didn’t listen to them. She was preoccupied in admiring the vision of Hamlin she carried in her mind’s eye. That was all she wanted, to think of Hamlin.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY was sunny and warm, and the only sign of the heavy rains was the rushing river. Catriona quietly bid her time, lingering over breakfast with Vasily, playing Whist with the Wilke-Smythes. But shortly after luncheon, she dressed for riding. Her boots clomped along the floor as she made her way to the front of the house—loud enough, apparently, to alert her uncle that she was leaving. He stepped out of his study before she could pass it. “Riding, are you?”
“Aye,” she said. “I’ve been cooped inside for too long, I have. I mean to take some air.”
“I see. And where, exactly, do you mean to ride?”
What had come over him? He had never cared a whit about where she went or what she did.
“Ah...” She glanced at the door. “No particular place.”
His gaze flicked over her, and she wondered if he noticed she was wearing a new riding habit. “A letter has come to you from your sister, Vivienne,” he said.
“Vivienne?” A letter from her sister filled her with joy.
Her uncle gestured for her to come into his study and handed her the missive.
Catriona eagerly broke the seal and read her sister’s familiar scrawl. She reported on the activity at Balhaire. Her oldest children, Maira and Bruce, were to France, to visit an old friend of Vivienne’s husband, Monsieur Leclair. Catriona’s father had suffered a bout of croup but was recovered. One of the dogs had died quite suddenly, and it looked as if he’d gone in his sleep near the hearth.
Vivienne also wrote that Mr. Stephen Whitson had come round again, and had delivered the royal decree that Kishorn was forfeited, signed by the Lord Advocate, and must be vacated by the end of the year. Father believes we should waste no time in finding them suitable situations, Vivienne wrote.
“Oh, no,” Catriona whispered, and glanced up at Uncle Knox. “Pappa wants to find the women places to go. He means to let Kishorn be seized. Uncle Knox, what will we do?”
“Are the terms the same?” her uncle asked.
“Aye. We must vacate before the end of the year.”
He nodded and looked thoughtfully toward the window for a long moment. “I inquired as to the Lord Advocate’s plans after you arrived. What did he say? That he would be in Edinburgh and should like to see Dungotty, was that it?” He sifted through some papers on his desk. “Ah, here it is,” he said, and held up a letter.
Catriona smiled. “Is there anyone you donna know, uncle?”
“Oh, I’m sure there is, tucked away here and there,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I’ve made it my life’s work to know. You didn’t know my father, but had you known him, you’d understand why. Now, I propose we call on Mr. Dundas as soon as possible. We may ask him what can be done and arrange a visit to Dungotty at the same time. Two birds, one stone, as they say.”
“Thank you, Uncle Knox,” she said, and stood from her seat. She walked to him and kissed his cheek.
“Perhaps you ought to ride with someone,” her uncle suggested. “Isn’t Chasity a passable rider?”
“Chasity has informed me that she doesna care for horses and will only ride if a handsome caller comes round with a saddle for her. And anyway, I prefer to ride alone. No one to tell me to have a care.” She smiled.
Her uncle sighed wearily, as if they’d had this conversation before. “I can’t persuade you?”
What an odd thing to say. Uncle Knox had always encouraged her independence. “Why would you want to persuade me, then?”
“Catriona.” He took her hand in both of his. “May I speak frankly?”
No. She didn’t want him to speak frankly, for whatever it was would not be good. “Uh...”
He gestured for her to resume her seat. He smiled sadly at her and leaned forward and touched her knee. “My darling, I’ve always held a special place in my heart for you. You know that, do you not?”
“Of course.”
“I have loved your spirit since you were a child. Admired it. Protected it where I could.”
She laughed anxiously. “A dearer uncle I could no’ have had,” she agreed.
“I suspect that you hav
e developed...feelings for Montrose—”
“What?” she sputtered, and could feel the heat flooding her face. “No, uncle—”
“And if you have, I’ll not condemn you. Esteem comes upon a person when he least expects it and at times when it is not convenient. I know this to be true, for it happened to me, many years ago, before you were born. Your aunt Zelda and I—”
Catriona shot to her feet. “What?”
“It was a brief affair, but a passionate one,” he said, and for a moment, he looked a wee bit misty-eyed. “Unfortunately, for many reasons, it was not meant to be.”
Catriona was shocked. She knew something had happened between them, but she’d assumed it was a bit of bad business. A deal gone wrong, perhaps. But lovers? “Does my mother know?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I would imagine that at the very least, she suspects it. Your father knows,” he said with a snort. “It was he who put an end to it.” He gazed thoughtfully at the window.
“Mi Diah,” Catriona whispered, and put her hands to her face.
“Arran understood it would not end well, and that his cousin would be the injured party. I didn’t agree with him at the time, but in hindsight, I know that he was quite right. Zelda would never have been happy in England, and I never in Scotland, and the longer we dabbled at our affair, the harder it would’ve become to disentangle without harm.”
“Did you love her?” Catriona asked in a near whisper, as this revelation had opened up a door through which she was almost afraid to walk.
“Oh, I loved her, but not in the way you mean. I think we both agreed it was enchantment. Which brings me to you, darling.”
“Me?” Catriona cried. Then gasped. “Am I your love child?”
“For heaven’s sake, of course not!” he thundered. He caught her hand and squeezed it. “Heed me now, Cat. I fear you are heading down a similar path. The duke...he may say things that sound lovely to you, that might even sound like promises.”
Her face was all at once on fire, and she tried to take her hand back, but Uncle Knox held tight. How could he know? How could he possibly know?
“There are two things I beg you to keep in mind. One, we don’t know what happened to the man’s wife. No matter what he says, no one knows, and it’s not difficult at all for the diabolical to lie.”
“Uncle Knox!”
“Two, and I say this with great love, my darling, but even if he loved you beyond compare, he would never be at liberty to make an offer to you.”
Catriona’s heart seized and lodged in her throat. She was dumbfounded. She’d not even thought of it, but now that her uncle had said it, she felt a swell of indignation. If only she could summon the words she needed to tell him so, but her shock was so great she was speechless.
“It’s not to do with you, do you understand? Montrose needs a different sort of woman on his arm in London. There would be too many questions about a Highland lass, and the abbey, well...it hardly recommends you. Not to mention the rumors of smuggling with your brothers, and my own father’s treason. Well, I’ll say the list is quite long and leave it at that.”
She gaped at him, her mind rushing almost as hard as the blood in her veins.
“Oh, dear, I’ve hurt you,” he said, and stroked her cheek, but Catriona jerked away from him.
“I don’t say these things to distress you, love. I say them so that you might put your expectations in line with cold, hard truth. I mean to be as honest with you as your father was me. Painful though it was to hear, it was for the best. Your aunt would have agreed.”
She shook her head. She stood up.
“Catriona!”
“Aye, I understand, uncle.” She started for the door, walking almost blindly, her mind anywhere but in her head.
With a weary sigh, her uncle rubbed his forehead. “Please, darling, have a care. For your heart and your virtue.”
Oh, aye, her bloody virtue. She wanted to scream at him and ask him what use her bloody virtue was to her? What use was her heart, for that matter, if she would keep it all to herself? She walked out the door and carried on, marching, really, toward the stable.
She wasn’t angry with her uncle—she actually appreciated his honesty. But she was livid with her fate in this life. It stung her to know that, because of where she was from, and the actions of her family before her, and the help she had tried to give women less fortunate than her, she would be considered unacceptable for a duke. Aye, and what had she expected?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
Her expectations had been so degraded over the years that she rarely expected anything. And she certainly hadn’t been thinking of what she expected when Hamlin had kissed her. She certainly hadn’t been concerned with her expectations when she’d made love to him.
Her thoughts were spinning as she waited for a horse to be saddled, and then hurting her head as she set out across the meadow.
She ought to ask herself what she expected now. Did she really have no expectations? She ought to think about what would happen now that she had given herself to him—and he to her. Had she maybe thought of a future with him, if only for a fleeting moment? Or was she being purposely dull-witted, pretending to want only the experience?
Catriona didn’t want to ask herself those questions. She didn’t want to think about anything other than how happy she had felt these last two days. She didn’t want to notice anything other than the feel of the wind in her hair, and the sun on her skin.
Hamlin had made no promises to her, and she’d asked him for nothing. She’d been swept up in the sensations and the thrill of his adoration, in her own deep feelings for him. She understood Uncle Knox’s warning to her, but at this moment in her life, she chose to ignore it.
She would rather have the experience of Hamlin than not.
Her horse was laboring when she finally spotted the ruin at the curve of the river. A remnant of a wall circled around what looked like an old, crumbling keep, and in the middle of what she assumed was a bailey was an enormous yew tree, grown so tall that it covered half the keep. She could see a black horse tethered beneath a copse of trees outside the wall, and sent her horse to a walk up the hill. When she reached what was left of the wall, she slid off her horse, picked her way through the rubble and stepped through what had once been a door or window.
Hamlin was here. He stood with his back to her, at another opening that had surely been a window to the glen below, the hem of his coat flapping in the breeze.
“Hamlin.”
He jerked around. Myriad emotions skated over his handsome face—relief, she thought. Happiness. And esteem, true esteem. For her. Her heart swung off its mooring and sailed, and Catriona ran, leaping into his arms, her lips landing on his. He kissed her hungrily, as if he’d not seen her in days, then set her down and ran his hand over her head. “Catriona, thank God.” He swept his hands down her arms, his gaze following the path. “Thank God. You came.”
She laughed, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again.
Of course she’d come. Nothing would have kept her away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AUBIN HAD LOOKED at Hamlin with wild disbelief when he’d asked him to prepare some food that he might take with him on horseback.
“Oui,” he’d said slowly, as if he suspected Hamlin had lost his mind. “For le petit porcelet and yourself, then?”
Hamlin had never heard Aubin refer to Eula as the little piglet before—perhaps he’d left the lass too long in the man’s company, even if he had spoken the words with affection. “No,” he’d said. “For me.”
“Ah,” Aubin had said, and shifted his gaze to the wooden table where he was chopping carrots, as if to avoid Hamlin’s direct stare. “Oui, your grace. At once.”
Was it so hard to believe that a man might want to stop along a riverbank a
nd have a bite to eat? Apparently it was, because Bain had been waiting for Hamlin in the foyer, his arms folded across his chest, his weight on one hip, looking quite impatient. Hamlin had wondered idly what thing he’d left undone that would have put his secretary in high dudgeon, but he chose to ignore him rather than ask. He’d accepted his hat from Stuart and fit it on his head.
“Might I inquire as to when you’ll return, your grace?” Bain had asked, clearly unwilling to be ignored.
“I donna know.”
“There is a matter of the meeting with the Duke of Argyll,” he’d said snippily.
“What meeting?”
“The one I mentioned to you yesterday after your guest had left, aye? He would like to speak with you about the upcoming vote.”
Hamlin had not recalled, but then again, he’d been staring at the window, his mind on Catriona and the extraordinary night they’d shared. He’d been thinking about how deep his attachment to her went, or reliving those moments with her, or summoning up the sound of her laughter from somewhere deep in his heart.
Perhaps his isolation for more than a year had somehow led to an addling of his brain.
“When is the meeting?” he’d asked, refusing to acknowledge whether he recalled or not.
“Friday morning, in Crieff, your grace. We should discuss our objectives, aye?” he’d said as Hamlin put out his hand for his riding gloves.
Just at that moment, Aubin had appeared, carrying a bundle wrapped in a cheesecloth. “Your food, your grace.”
Hamlin had snatched the bundle from him. “Aye, thank you.” He was not blind—he’d seen the look that Bain and Aubin had exchanged, and he’d suddenly wanted away from Blackthorn Hall, from all the people who thought he ought to act a certain way because of who he was and the things that had happened to him. Well, Hamlin was weary of putting up a façade around his life. He had fit his hands into his gloves, then turned to face the men gathered behind him. “Inform Miss Guinne I shall join her for supper,” he’d said to Stuart. “We’ll have something light, Aubin. Her stomach is tender yet.”
Aubin had bowed his head in acknowledgment.
