Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

  Her hair was strewn across the pillow. She would fuss at him this morning for the time it took to comb out the tangles. He smiled. Perhaps she would allow him to be her maid.

  Watching her sleep made him melancholy for some odd reason. Was it because he felt closer to her now than he would when she was awake? She’d become the duke’s daughter then, a woman born to privilege, unlike him.

  He left the bed, grabbed his clothes, and dressed in the sitting room. A quick glance at the mantel clock assured him he had plenty of time before his meeting.

  Douglas left the chamber without disturbing Sarah, almost immediately regretting his chivalry and the fact that he hadn’t kissed her.

  When she awoke, Douglas was gone. Sarah sat up on the edge of the bed, realizing she was sore in places she’d never before felt. This matter of being a wife was a great deal more complicated than she’d believed. It wasn’t simply losing her virginity. She was not prepared for the emotions, either. She felt absurdly joyous, then just as oddly filled with sorrow, as if consummating her marriage had set her on a journey from one emotion to its extreme counterpart.

  Perhaps her confusion was due to her mother’s death and the fact that tears were never far away. Her grief was almost like a black miasma hanging over her head, surrounding her like a veil. Even in the midst of it, however, she’d smiled and felt amusement, and the layering of that emotion on top of her sorrow seemed to give it a different dimension.

  So did passion.

  He’d put his mouth on her. He’d kissed her just below her shoulder on the upper curve of her breast. He’d kissed her everywhere tenderly and lingeringly, then delivered her delight, offering it up to her with the knowledge that her body was capable of bliss.

  She stared down at her feet. How strange that they didn’t seem like her feet. But then, her body didn’t feel quite hers either. Nothing felt the same. Even the morning air was a little different, as if she’d never before noticed what it was like to feel chilled.

  She didn’t know what to do, how to behave, and in a lifetime of being told how to act, how to comport herself, she was left floundering. She wasn’t certain that what had happened last night was proper at all, but there was no one to ask, of course. There were some questions, evidently, that were destined never to be voiced.

  Perhaps she should simply ask Douglas. She would frame the question in a very desultory manner, as if she were not even interested, then pay great attention to his answer.

  “Does everyone do this?” There, that seemed like a proper enough question.

  “Does every woman want to do this?” A less proper question, but closer to what she truly wished to know.

  “How do you make me want to do this?” That question was devoid of pretense entirely.

  Why did she feel warm every time he came close to her? Why did her breath feel tight and her heart begin to pound so relentlessly even when looking at him?

  Slipping from the bed, she went into the bathing chamber and took care of those necessary morning ablutions. She really should ring for Florie, but she wanted a few more minutes to herself. Standing at the foot of the bed, she looked up at the mussed pillows. The sheets were tangled, and there was an impression on the side of the mattress where Douglas had slept.

  Why hadn’t he awakened her? Or had he been as strangely sensitive this morning as she felt? But then, he wasn’t a virgin, was he?

  After last night, almost any question should be acceptable to ask.

  Evidently, she wasn’t expected to observe a mourning period for her marital duties. Was it entirely proper to feel so delighted at that prospect?

  A knock on the door made her sigh, and she grabbed her wrapper and answered it. A young maid stood there, nearly bent over with a heavy tray, and standing next to her was her cousin, exquisitely gowned in a lovely emerald day dress Sarah recognized as French.

  She directed the maid to the sitting room and greeted Linda.

  “Grandfather says you should be shown Kilmarin,” Linda said. “Shall we meet in the Great Hall? In an hour?”

  Sarah nodded, and her cousin turned and walked down the corridor without another word. Did Linda resent her presence at Kilmarin? Or was she just short with everyone? The lamentable fact was that her cousin was not entirely likeable.

  Anthony, Duke of Herridge, surveyed himself in the mirror. He was not a vain man, yet for the first time in his life he was conscious of the fact that while he might possess an acceptable appearance, he was not handsome. However, he was the Duke of Herridge. A heritage of twelve generations preceded him. Chavensworth accompanied him.

  Soon, he would have to begin looking for a bride, one with a fortune to bring to their marriage. A fertile girl, as well, one who would give him a son.

  He went to the bureau, withdrew the jewelry box, and overturned it on the top of the bed. The pieces were small, inconsequential. Hadn’t he given Morna anything better over the years?

  He’d hardly had the money, had he? He’d married her thinking that her wealth would solve his dilemma. Instead, her family had disowned her, and he’d been left with a wife and the same problem: no funds.

  If he were a yokel, he could live well at Chavensworth. The family estate had always paid its way. But he was destined for better things, for cosmopolitan life in London, for entertainments. For that he needed money. An heiress was the answer. First, however, he had to bolster his bargaining position. What the hell had Eston been doing all this time?

  He walked to the door, opened it, and shouted for Simons.

  A half an hour later Sarah was dressed, her hair set to rights, and she was waiting in the Great Hall. Being perennially early was a fault, perhaps, but she’d been taught that it was rude to be late to any meeting.

  When she’d agreed to meet in this room, she’d not realized that the chamber would be so oppressive, even on a sunny day. Its dark shadows and weapons of death did not lend itself to pleasant thoughts. She was very much filled with pleasant thoughts this morning. In an attempt to retain her good mood, she wandered out a door she’d not seen the night before and into a portico that led, surprisingly, to a garden.

  Flowers blossomed along the path, their full-bodied heads bowing beneath the brush of her skirt. Sarah halted, taking in the wonders of this unexpected oasis of beauty: the birdbath in the shape of a giant lily pad, the gurgling fountain with a wolf’s head, the graveled walks adjacent to the walls and cutting through the internal square in an X. Lining the walks were hedges and more plants, left to grow as high as they wished. The whole of Kilmarin’s walled garden was a hodgepodge of types and heights of flowers, in abundant and glorious profusion.

  The sound of the birds was comforting although she couldn’t see them. Had they been rendered invisible in this enchanted garden? Or simply perched high in the branches of the trees? Sarah could also feel a soft breeze and suspected it came from another hidden corridor.

  Benches were placed against each of the four walls, as if to encourage the examination of the garden. Sarah sat, drawing her skirts around her. Dancing light filtered through the fully leafed branches of the trees and played on the stone path. This was a lovely place to be alone, and she reveled in the peace and silence.

  She needed the solitary moment.

  Even in the midst of the quiet, with the sound of the birds and the fountain to keep her company, her mind was occupied with recollections of last night.

  “You’re the Englishwoman.”

  Sarah looked up to find that the garden wasn’t solitary after all. A man dressed in dark brown trousers and a white shirt stood at the corner of the garden staring at her.

  Slowly, he advanced, stopping until he was only feet away.

  His eyes were the same shade as hers, and his hair the same color. His nose was not unlike hers as well. In fact, his features were so similar, it was almost like looking into a mirror, if the mirror had been a masculine one.

  “Aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I’m Sarah Eston,�
�� she said. “Who are you?”

  “Brendan Tulloch.” He hesitated, then spoke again. “You’re Morna’s daughter,” he said, studying her intently.

  Was he experiencing the same bewilderment she felt?

  “Did you know my mother?” she asked, moving aside so he could sit on the bench beside her.

  He chose to stand, instead, never moving his gaze from her face. His scrutiny was so intense that she felt herself begin to warm with embarrassment.

  “I didn’t know her,” he said, finally speaking. “My father did, though. He spoke of her often before his death.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s difficult to lose your parent,” she said. “I know.”

  He nodded. “Did she ever mention him? Michael Tulloch.”

  “She rarely spoke of Scotland,” Sarah said. “And never of him, I’m sorry.”

  He stared off into the distance, as if he were trying to decide on something. Finally, he directed his attention to her once more.

  “Are you going to be staying here, then?”

  “No,” she said. “We’re leaving soon.”

  “Back to England?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re Scots, you know.”

  Half, she almost said, but didn’t get the chance.

  He turned to leave. “If you were staying, we might be friends, you and I.”

  It was such a strange thing to say that she watched him as he walked away. When he was almost to the archway, he encountered her grandfather. They spoke, but they were too far away for Sarah to hear the words. Her grandfather leaned against his cane, looked first at Brendan, then at Sarah, and she wondered if he, too, were marveling at the resemblance.

  A moment later, Brendan disappeared, and her grandfather walked toward her. She stood, hands folded in front of her, a calm, pleasant aspect to her face—the same appearance she wore when summoned to her father.

  Donald stood in front of her, then sat on the bench, lowering his body with a sigh of relief.

  She sat beside him.

  “Dratted knees,” he said, folding his hands atop his cane. “Age is a series of failures. Failures of joints, and eyesight, and hearing.” He stared off into the distance, much in the way Brendan had done only minutes earlier. “Other failures.” He sighed.

  He glanced over at her, leaned heavily on his cane, then angled out one leg.

  Sarah looked away, glancing at the fountain with its wolf’s head.

  “Why do I see a wolf everywhere? Is it a family motto?”

  Donald smiled faintly. “You were telling the truth when you said you knew little of Kilmarin.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Wolves travel in packs, hunt in packs, live in packs. Wolves are a reminder to the Tullochs that we’re a clan, as fierce and loyal as any found in the Highlands.”

  “Except for my mother,” Sarah said. “Why did she leave Kilmarin?”

  Donald looked down at the stone beneath his feet.

  “It’s my fault she left,” he said. “Mine, and I’ve taken the brunt of that decision for all these years.”

  He didn’t look at her. Instead, it seemed as if his gaze was turned inward.

  Should she leave him to his memories?

  He looked over at her, his wrinkled face set in uncompromising lines, the face of a man who was not happy with his life but accepted it nonetheless.

  “Your grandmother loved this garden,” he said. “It was my greatest gift to her.” Several moments passed. “One of my few gifts to her,” he added.

  She glanced over at him, then at the pattern of sunlight on the flagstones.

  “I’ve got only a short time left on this earth,” he said, his lips curving in what might, possibly, be considered a smile. “I shouldn’t be lying in the face of the Almighty.”

  “Why is it your fault?”

  She wondered if he was going to answer her, and he finally did.

  “She was in love with a clansman,” he said. “A proper match, but I wanted more for my only daughter.”

  He turned his head and studied her. She wanted, suddenly, to pat her hair into place, or ensure that her face was not too flushed, but finally the intense scrutiny ended.

  “I told her she was destined for greater things.” He looked toward the wall, where a stone urn sat cradled in an embrasure. “I was a fool back then, thinking of only wealth and power. I arranged for the young man to marry.” He glanced back at her. “I can’t lie about that, either. It was a good match, but it was not well-done of me. I gave him a bit of land, and a dowry, of sorts.” He hesitated for a few minutes before continuing. “But I also gave him lies. It took me nearly twenty years and a promise to my wife on her deathbed to tell him the truth. He thought Morna wanted him gone because that was what I told him.”

  She waited in the silence, determined not to be the first to speak.

  “I told him that Morna had fallen in love with another.” He sighed. “After he married, she never mentioned him again. If her heart was broken, she never spoke of it.” He straightened his left leg. “But she was like that, with her pride and her stubbornness.” He sighed. “She showed me both when she came to me with her duke.

  “They’d met in Edinburgh. He was a rooster sort of man. I’d seen his type before, ridiculing the very society he meant to impress. This duke of hers thought we should be very happy to have him enter our family.”

  He glanced over at Sarah. “The man knew your mother was an heiress to the wealth of Kilmarin. As a Tulloch, she was well provided for.”

  Sarah remained silent.

  He folded his hands on top of his cane. “He only wanted her money. I knew that. Just as I knew he cared nothing for her. But we cared nothing for his title. Morna would not listen to me. When my words failed, I disowned her. My only daughter.”

  Was that why her father disliked her so?

  “And I almost did it again, God help me,” Donald said. “Maybe the Almighty sent you to me for that very reason.”

  She frowned, not understanding.

  “Did you ever ask that she return? Or did you order her back to Kilmarin? My mother had a great deal of pride.” Sarah knew that only too well, having observed her mother’s staunch silence in the face of her husband’s desertion.

  “I didn’t order her,” he said. “I begged her.” He smiled. “All these years, I thought it was Morna and her pride against me and mine. Until you came yesterday, I believed it true.”

  “Now it’s not?” she asked. A curious stillness passed over her.

  “Have you given no thought to the resemblance between you and Brendan, girl? If his father was still alive, I’d parade you in front of him and dare him not to see his face in yours.”

  Stunned, she could only stare at her grandfather.

  “Morna never came home because the world would see who you were, just as I’ve known ever since last night.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps she married her duke for pride’s sake,” he said. “But she did it to give you a name as well.”

  Chapter 24

  Donald Tulloch, Laird of Kilmarin, had arranged for this meeting to take place in Kilmarin’s chapel. Perhaps the atmosphere was meant to act as an impetus to any confession Douglas might wish to make. Or perhaps Donald thought himself God.

  The chapel had been recently constructed, which in Kilmarin terms, meant in the last hundred years. Evidently, the Tullochs had only recently come to an understanding with God. Plain and unadorned, the chapel was Calvinist in nature. Not one statue, like those found at Chavensworth, deflected the penitent’s attention from his pleas to God. Not one brilliant stained-glass window colored the air. Even the pews were rough-hewn, no doubt leaving splinters in the behinds of any supplicant.

  Douglas stood straight and tall, his hands clasped at his back. He knew, only too well, that this meeting was an inspection of sorts, and he was damned if he was going to fail it.

  The Laird of Kilmarin was a crusty old demon, one who knew how to intimidate those who might c
hallenge his command. But there was also a glint of humor in his eye, as if he knew only too well that he was being an ass about this meeting.

  Donald sat at a table in the front of the chapel, not far from the altar itself. Douglas wouldn’t have been surprised if the laird had chosen to use the altar as a desk. Again, the comparison to God occurred to him, and he knew it was one Donald encouraged.

  “Sit,” he finally said.

  Douglas slid a chair forward by hooking it with his foot, and sat, resting one ankle on the opposite knee and loosely clasping his hands in his lap.

  “Does Sarah know you’re here?” Donald asked.

  “She doesn’t. It was your request to keep our meeting secret.”

  “Not secret,” Donald said, “just not something to be gossiped about. Women always speculate, have to whisper about everything.” He sat back in his thronelike chair, one similar to those in the dining hall, and studied him from beneath bushy white brows.

  “It’s my opinion that woman are similar to men in that regard,” Douglas said. “Give a person enough information, and he will not have to speculate.”

  “Are you given to sharing your opinion all that often?”

  “Relatively often,” Douglas said. “It depends, of course, if I find myself in a friendly country or one ruled by a despot.”

  Donald snorted and leaned back, pushing himself up on one side, as if the hip pained him.

  ““Robert tells me you’re from Perth.”

  “I am.”

  “Who’s your family?” Donald asked, eyes narrowing.

  “No one you would know,” Douglas said. “They died from cholera when I was eight. Any family they had is scattered.”

  “Yet you somehow managed to marry the daughter of a duke.”

  “An event I will forever treasure,” Douglas said, looking straight at the older man. He had no intention of telling the old demon of the circumstances of his marriage.