Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

  For long moments, he didn’t speak, as if composing himself.

  “They grieved for her until the day they died, her mother especially. She spoke of her as she lay dying, but Morna never came. She delivered to them a cruel blow.”

  Sarah glanced across the table to find that Douglas was watching her grandfather with a curious expression, one she could almost interpret as compassion.

  Yes, Donald was old, and yes, he might be frail, but he couldn’t be permitted to say such things about her mother.

  “My mother was the kindest and the gentlest person I’ve ever known,” Sarah said. “Everyone loved her. If she never returned to Kilmarin, if she never wished to return, there had to be a good reason. Perhaps it was something you did that kept her away.”

  Linda glanced at her, wide-eyed.

  For some time, Donald studied Sarah’s face with great deliberation. Finally, and with great difficulty, he stood, but when Linda moved to help him, he waved her away. “Leave me be, child,” he said. “I’m old, and I move like I’m old.”

  “Grandfather, you aren’t old at all.”

  Donald ignored her. He took a deep breath, leaned on his cane for just a moment, then straightened to his full height. He left the room slowly, all four of them watching him depart. Neither Linda nor Robert spoke.

  Douglas glanced at her, and she nodded, understanding his unspoken question. He came around the table and pulled out her chair. When she stood, Douglas placed his hand at her back, guiding her down the hall to the grand staircase. She didn’t shake off his touch or move away.

  She couldn’t go to her mother and ask why she’d left Kilmarin and never returned. All she had were her grandfather’s words, and an ever-present feeling of loss.

  Anger was an acceptable haven, but even in that she was frustrated. Who was the worthy object of her anger? Her mother, for hiding secrets? Her grandfather, for his bitterness? Or even herself, for thinking only of reaching Scotland and not about her reception?

  “Are you all right?”

  Douglas hesitated on the landing, turning to her.

  She looked away rather than face his intrusive glance.

  “Sarah.”

  She nodded. Why must he always see her weep?

  “I’m fine,” she said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “I’m fine, really.”

  He didn’t speak, leading her to their suite in silence.

  Once there, he lit the lamp in the sitting room and led her to the sofa in front of the fireplace. She didn’t demur when he bent and renewed the fire. Although it was summer, it was chilly in the room. Or perhaps she was the one who was cold.

  She closed her eyes and wished herself away from Kilmarin.

  “I’ll draw you a bath.”

  She opened her eyes to find him standing over her.

  “You needn’t be my servant,” she said, remembering his earlier words. “Not my footman.”

  He smiled. “I don’t mind serving you occasionally, Sarah. I’m not constrained to certain behavior by a title. I just won’t be addressed as a servant.”

  “I frankly doubt you would have been constrained even as a footman.”

  She took his hand and stood, but instead of stepping back, he stepped closer, the tips of his shoes disappearing beneath the fullness of her skirts. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her forehead.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe again, but it wasn’t tears that held her silent. Instead, some other emotion, something startling bright, flooded into her mind as if he were sunlight, and just by standing so close to him, he illuminated all the dark corners inside her.

  “Oh, Douglas. I made a mistake coming here,” she said, so softly that he had to bend his head to hers in order to hear. His cheek, growing more bristly with his night beard by the hour, gently abraded hers, and she shivered at the touch. When he would have drawn away, she raised her left hand and placed it against his face, keeping him in place just for a moment.

  “Why haven’t you made me your wife?” she said, and a second later pulled back, horrified. What had compelled her to ask such a question? She looked up at him, dropping her hand to her side.

  He smiled. “Should I have seduced you while you wept? The time was not appropriate, Sarah,” he said. “But my desire hasn’t vanished.”

  She really shouldn’t have brought up the issue at all.

  “Doesn’t it say something to you, that I cannot sleep without your scent?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Or that my dreams, like it or not, are filled with you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

  “Because man was not designed to be a celibate animal, Lady Sarah,” he answered. “And I hurt for you.”

  He pulled back. “What else can I do for you?” he asked. “Besides your bath, I mean,” he added. His expression was somber, his eyes intent.

  Do not look at me as if you find me wanting. Do not judge me by your standards of honor, higher than any I could hope to achieve. Do not undress before me as if I’m so cold and unfeeling that I’m unaffected by it.

  “Nothing,” she said. “And you don’t even have to do that.”

  He held up one hand as if to forestall her objections.

  She answered with a smile.

  Douglas turned the cold-water tap, then the hot, thinking that he could easily become accustomed to this degree of convenience. He needn’t ring for the upstairs maid or summon any servants to their suite.

  He walked back into the sitting room where Sarah still sat in front of the fire, her gaze pensive and focused on the flames.

  “Your bath is ready,” he said, rolling down one sleeve.

  She looked up at him.

  “I found some bath salts and put them in as well.”

  “You’re quite well versed in a lady’s bath,” she said.

  “It doesn’t seem that difficult,” he said. “Put some water in the tub, sprinkle in something that smells good. You’re done.”

  She smiled and stood. “You’re right. It does sound simple enough. But thank you for your trouble all the same.”

  “Go take your bath,” he said. “Do you want me to find a nightgown and wrapper among your things?”

  She looked so horrified that he smiled. “I’ll do it,” she said quickly, and stepped aside, intent on her trunk. After selecting the top two garments, she held them close to her chest and slipped behind the screen and into the bathing chamber.

  “Can I wash your back?”

  Silence met his question, then Sarah’s laughing response, “No!”

  He walked back into the sitting room, banked the fire, and sat on the sofa. The sounds of water splashing made him smile. Preparing her bath had been such a simple act, and one she’d found difficult to accept.

  Why haven’t you made me your wife? Now there was a question, wasn’t it? Because, my lovely virgin, I wanted to seduce you, but Providence has thrown just about everything between us.

  With that thought, he went in search of a jot of whiskey.

  Chapter 22

  Sarah emerged from the bathing chamber to find that Douglas had disappeared. He wasn’t in the bedroom or the sitting room. By the time she’d braided her hair, cleaned her teeth, and finished folding her clothing and placing it in the trunk, he was still missing.

  Disappointed, she sat on the edge of the bed. She hadn’t slept beside her husband since Chavensworth. How foolish she was to anticipate it tonight.

  The bed was incredibly soft, and also so large that it felt as if she had entered an island. The mattress sagged slightly in the middle. She made a mental note to speak to the housekeeper about how that could be avoided with a few judiciously placed additional straps before catching herself. This was not Chavensworth, and she doubted the staff would welcome her advice.

  She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, even though she’d left the light on for Douglas’s use. She would think of something pleasing, something without memory, s
omething that only offered up a picture to her mind. Perhaps she’d recall an illustration in a book, a sunset over the hills, the swirl of storm clouds. Douglas, naked.

  Douglas, naked. That was a sight, but hardly conducive to sleep. More to examination perhaps. She closed her eyes and focused on the memory of him. His feet were long and narrow, and his toes, surprisingly, bore tufts of hair. His legs, too, had hair, but not so much that touching him had been unpleasant. His chest—her fingers had often threaded through the light dusting of hair there.

  There were at least a hundred things she could think of right now that would be more proper, but she doubted that any of them would be as interesting.

  His chest was quite lovely, actually, with all its muscles. His arms well-defined, almost as if he had once been a laborer. She’d never thought of a man’s shoulders being so masculine-looking, but his certainly were, as was the way his neck tapered down to his shoulders.

  His buttocks were surprising, too, and she clenched her eyes tighter as if to keep her thoughts hidden. Should she even be thinking of a man’s buttocks? Possibly not, but this wasn’t any man, this was her husband. Surely a wife had the right to think about a husband’s form?

  Even if it was vastly improper, she couldn’t stop thinking about it, and that was something she didn’t want to consider at the moment. His buttocks were round, yet taut, and she had the feeling that if she patted one cheek, that her hand would bounce. She rolled to her side, hiked up her nightgown, and ran her hand over her own derriere. She was much softer there.

  She untwisted her nightgown, lay on her back, and opened her eyes. The ceilings at Kilmarin were lovely, decorated as they were with murals and rosettes. Had any other bride lain here and contemplated her husband’s body? Or was she the first?

  All in all, it wasn’t a shocking inventory she’d performed. She’d studiously avoided thinking of a certain location that was even more fascinating than the sum of all his perfection.

  She was no stranger to desire, having felt a tingling in her midsection when a handsome man smiled at her, or a rush of heat when a man touched her bare hand with his. She’d accepted that such was normal and natural, that these sensations would be harnessed until she was married, then set free within the proscribed boundaries of the marital bed.

  What were the societal rules about passion during mourning? Was she to refuse her husband for six months simply because she was observing mourning for her mother during that period of time? She stared at the ceiling. Surely not.

  Douglas didn’t seem the type of man who would countenance waiting six months to claim his husbandly rights. But then, he didn’t seem the type of man who would be without female companionship for long. Look how the maids at Chavensworth sought to serve him.

  She really shouldn’t have started thinking about him. Sleep would have to wait. Sarah lay on her side, stretching her hand over to the area where Douglas would sleep. The sheets were cold, and she was instantly chilled.

  Their relationship was so very odd, almost tenuous. She had never thought to have a marriage like this one.

  She rolled over on her back, then sat up, thumping her pillow into a more comfortable shape. The housekeeper at Kilmarin could do well to mix a little lavender among the down in the pillows.

  Kilmarin was a very quiet place at night. The only sound in the entire suite was her breathing. She should go to sleep and not be curious about Douglas’s whereabouts. He was not required to stay by her side at all times.

  Sliding to the edge of the bed, she draped her legs over the side, bouncing her feet back and forth in the air. She’d been lonely so rarely in her life that it was a curious sensation to realize that she was lonely now. The only time she could remember being feeling this way was when she went to London. No, even in London there had been a sense of hope because she’d be going home soon, and that knowledge always colored her reactions.

  Here, however, at Kilmarin, there was no sense of an eventual homecoming. Granted, she would return to Chavensworth, but nothing would be the same again. The words spoken at dinner would forever be in the back of her mind. Why had her mother never corresponded with her family? Why had Morna simply turned her back on Scotland?

  Rather than remain in the bed, Sarah slid from the mattress, grabbed her wrapper, walked into the sitting room, and sat on the sofa. The fire had long since died, but she was not in the mood to light another. Nor did she want to rouse a maid to do it for her. Her father would not have hesitated. Douglas would not have disturbed someone else to do a task he could perform. Two men, both of whom had a profound effect on her life. One she couldn’t tolerate; the other she respected more each day.

  Where was he?

  The day she’d gone to London had turned out to be an excessively fortunate one for her, that was something she was just beginning to understand. What would the past few weeks have been like without Douglas at her side? The staff at Chavensworth might have stepped in to make arrangements for her mother, but no one would have held her in the night and let her weep. No one would have been there to warm her when she felt so chilled. No one would have sat with her in his arms and rocked her until she slept. Who would have accompanied her on this journey? Who would have protected her and defended her?

  What had he asked for in return?

  Her observatory and the time to make his diamonds. The first she’d begrudgingly surrendered; but he’d hardly had the latter, had he? First, with her mother’s death, and secondly, with this journey to Scotland.

  She’d not been a very good wife, had she?

  Had he sought comfort from someone else?

  She stood, uncomfortable with that thought.

  Returning to the bedchamber, she removed the wrapper and climbed into bed. Somehow, it felt even colder, larger, and emptier than earlier.

  She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling again.

  Would she know? If he’d been with someone else, would she be able to tell? What would she do if he had been? What did wives do in such situations?

  The door opened, so softly that she wouldn’t have heard the noise if she’d been sleeping. A figure hesitated in the doorway.

  “I’m awake,” she said. “It’s no use trying to sound like a mouse.”

  “Aw, Sarah darlin’, you missed me,” Douglas said.

  She sat up.

  “Are you foxed?” she asked.

  “Only the faintest bit. The world seems an extraordinarily friendly place with a few drams of Scots whiskey.”

  “Is that what you were doing? Drinking?”

  “I was mending fences,” he said, smiling faintly. “Your cousin twice or three times removed and a few other men. They wanted to know all about Lady Sarah.”

  “They did? What did you tell them?”

  He came closer to the edge of the bed.

  “Behold, the presence of a great lady, a most magnificent woman. I also told them that you were as strong-willed as Donald, as charming as a brownie, and as beautiful as a fairy princess.”

  “You did?” Warmth coursed through her.

  “I didn’t tell them you were still a virgin bride, or that it was my great fear you might be as cold as a Highland morning.”

  She stared at him, wishing she’d extinguished the light. If they had been in darkness, she wouldn’t have been able to see his boyish grin or that suddenly intent look in his eyes.

  What did he expect her to say? That she didn’t know, wholly, what he meant? That she had an inkling, but she was too inexperienced to know for certain?

  “Thank you for honoring me,” she said. What a weak and ineffectual response.

  But it seemed that he didn’t think so, because his grin disappeared as he reached out and cupped her face with one very large, very warm, hand.

  “Sarah darlin’, I honor you from the bottom of your feet to the top of your head,” he said, sounding like a Scot for the first time since she’d met him.

  “Oh.”

  He dropped his hand and tur
ned, before she could say anything further. He continued talking as he walked into the bathing chamber.

  “I’ll take a bath,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “I smell of smoke and whiskey, I’m afraid.”

  He sang well, she realized a few minutes later, and evidently he thought it necessary to continue singing as he bathed. The taps gurgled in accompaniment, and she found herself smiling.

  She reached over and extinguished the lamp, just in case he decided to come out of the bath naked. Did he have any toweling? Wasn’t there a cabinet in there? If she were a good wife, she’d take him a towel.

  Instead, she pulled the sheet up past her nose and closed her eyes. She should feign sleep. Resolutely, she turned to her side, away from the empty side of the bed.

  She knew the minute he left the bathing chamber. Rapid footsteps heralded his approach, and the mattress suddenly sank as he bounced onto it.

  “God’s knees,” he said, burrowing under the covers. “That Scottish water was damnably cold!”

  “Scottish water is no colder than English water,” she said, smiling into her pillow. “You’re the silly one who wanted to bathe tonight. Did you not use the hot-water tap?”

  “I thought a cold bath might suit me best,” he said, nuzzling against her, his cheek pressed against her back. Even through the nightgown, she could feel how cold he was.

  She turned and held out her arms below the covers.

  “You are a foolish man, Douglas Eston,” she said, pulling him into her embrace.

  “You have no idea, Sarah darlin’,” he said softly.

  “And you’re cold as ice.”

  “I really thought it would help,” he said. “But I’m very much afraid I’m past that.”

  His knee was suddenly pressing against her, his leg insinuating between hers. Her nightgown was twisted, leaving her legs bare, and she could feel every inch of his skin. Somehow, in the last minute or two, he’d embraced her as well, and now they were a tangle of arms and legs and very, very close.

  He seemed to be warmer. So much warmer, as a matter of fact, that she really should pull away. But she didn’t move. At this moment, it was impossible to force herself to the other side of the bed.