by Fiona Neal
A thin, wiry maid bobbed a curtsy.
“Una,” Deirdre whispered, “send Connor for Dr. MacDonald immediately.” More loudly she commanded, “The master requests Duncan MacLeod to attend him immediately.”
“Aye, my lady,” the small elderly woman said and hurried away.
Deirdre left the door ajar and returned to her uncle. Relieved, she observed the grimace of discomfort had left his face. “Has the pain subsided?”
“For the most part it has, and the sensation feels like a hand squeezing my heart. I told you it would pass. These spells always do.”
“Would you like a glass of claret or a dram of whisky?”
“No, I prefer to take tea with our guests.”
“Uncle Robert! I forbid you to leave this room today. I shall entertain our guests.”
The sound of footsteps silenced her protest. Deirdre turned to see Duncan MacLeod standing on the threshold. The advocate’s dour face appeared even more serious beneath his iron-gray wig.
“Enter, Mr. MacLeod,” she ordered.
Posture stooped, the scarecrow-like man walked toward them on long legs, his clocked stockings sagging from his spindly calves.
“Lady Ballanross needs a witness for her signature,” her uncle declared. The man bowed and said, “Certainly.”
Terror gripping her, Deirdre moved to the secretary. She took up the quill from the inkwell and quickly penned her signature on the contract in big, bold letters. Her hand trembled, leaving a large inkblot on the document.
But Lord Kilbraeton had not signed yet! A chance still remained to avoid this marriage. Her knees shook as she relinquished her place to Duncan. The advocate placed his name beneath hers and replaced the quill.
In a matter of seconds, Deirdre’s life took an unalterable turn—if she did not find a legal way out of this match. Perhaps she could convince Lord Kilbraeton not to marry her. Still, the shock of the rejection could kill her uncle. “T-Thank you, Mr. Duncan,” she stammered.
“You are welcome, my lady.” The man bowed his frail body and made his exit just as Dr. MacDonald appeared.
Her uncle scowled. “You have summoned the busy physician for no reason.”
“I shall be the judge of that,” the old doctor announced. His blue eyes, the only color to break the sober black and white of his garments, glinted behind the rimless spectacles perched on the bridge of his straight nose.
Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dr. MacDonald. You have come quickly.”
The portly physician stepped over the threshold, black leather box in hand. “Fortunately, I was close by.”
“You’ll not bleed me, Angus,” Uncle Robert asserted. “I have no time for that. I’ve guests to entertain.”
“You know I do not hold with that practice very often, Sir Robert.” The physician shook his head, the powder from his wig dusting his shoulders. “But if I may be so bold, you are unqualified to dictate your own remedy, and I cannot treat you unless I have made a diagnosis.”
“I agree, Dr. MacDonald,” Deirdre added, “and do not let him befuddle you. He collapsed into that chair from a sudden pain in his chest, and his face turned the color of cold cinders.”
“Hmmm…” Dr. MacDonald stroked his chin. “Would you excuse us, Lady Ballanross? I wish to examine your uncle.”
“Certainly,” Deirdre said. She turned on her heel and exited.
* * * *
The grandfather clock in the corridor chimed, alerting Deirdre that she had been pacing before her guardian’s door for half an hour. She had no intention of allowing the doctor to slip away without a word about Uncle Robert’s condition.
Finally, the door opened and Dr. MacDonald stepped into the hall, toting his case.
“How is he, Doctor MacDonald?” She whispered.
The stubby man closed the door. “I left him resting. He reports the pain has passed.”
“Aye, he told me that earlier, but what caused the spell?”
He peered at her over the rim of his spectacles, reluctance in his eyes. “I cannot breach the confidentiality between physician and patient, my lady.”
“Dr. MacDonald, please. He will ignore your advice. Someone must ensure he follows your instructions.”
“Very well, my lady, I can tell you if it is for the benefit of the patient. He has a problem with his heart.”
Deirdre clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. She had guessed correctly. Her uncle could die!
“Now, now, my lady, your uncle is only forty-two and strong. He can live to a ripe old age if he is careful. I dosed him with a liquid I distilled from foxglove. In fact, I left the bottle. In the meantime, do nothing to upset him. He must remain calm, but he should walk every day. I am sure the Widow MacNeill will be glad to keep him company when you marry.”
“Aye, Doctor MacDonald,” she answered, knowing Lady Mary MacNeill would be eager to help. Everyone but her uncle knew that the Lady Mary loved him. Deirdre never understood why he remained oblivious to the beautiful blonde woman’s charms. “May he play host to the Campbells, or should he remain in bed?”
“Knowing Sir Robert, he will fret more lying abed. Besides, he is already much improved.” The doctor peered at her sharply. “Above all, he should avoid becoming overwrought.”
“Should his valet stay with him now?”
“Nay, but instruct the argentier that Sir Robert must not scrutinize those account books for hours on end. If he should suffer another attack, please dose him with the foxglove draught.”
“I shall.” But the thought of another spell terrified her.
The physician bowed and departed, and Deirdre knocked at her uncle’s door. He gave her permission to enter, and she approached his chair, noticing he seemed much improved.
“You are feeling better.” She smiled, relieved.
He nodded. “I told you it was nothing.”
His denial worried her, but she avoided confronting him. They had endured enough upheaval for one day.
“Uncle, I regret distressing you. I promise to do better.” She bent and kissed his wide brow and then straightened.
“Thank you, Deirdre. I may be demanding at times, but never doubt that I have your best interests at heart.”
With all her soul, she prayed her uncle’s health was better. She hoped his condition was controllable…as he and Dr. MacDonald let on.
“I have a favor to ask of you, Deirdre.”
“Anything, dearest,” she replied.
“I implore you to refrain from straying beyond the garden.”
The plea in his eyes tugged at her heartstrings. “Why?” Something was amiss—but what?
“Please, humor me.” He took hold of her hand.
“I shall do as you wish, Uncle Robert.” Deirdre nodded, refusing to upset him.
Still, she must break the promise. On their way home, she and Fergus had planned to deliver the money, stolen from Lord Kilbraeton and his associates, to Effie MacLean. Deirdre prayed her uncle would not discover the deception.
He exhaled a long breath. “Thank you, dearest child.”
Guilt assailed her for lying. Worse, she must deceive him further and find some way to avoid this marriage. But how was that possible?
* * * *
Bathed and wrapped in his brown velvet banyan, Ian sat in a straight wooden chair. Feet propped up on an ottoman, he held a barber’s bowl beneath his chin while his round-faced, burly valet, Padraig, expertly stropped a razor.
A knock sounded.
“Enter,” Ian answered.
Strathaven entered the chamber, looking freshly groomed in a grey wool jacket with matching breeches and a black silk waistcoat. A white lace jabot tumbled from his shirt and lace fell from his cuffs.
Strathaven raised his eyebrows. “You’re still not ready? I’m perishing from hunger.”
“Please give me a few minutes. I had to write a report about The Flame to Colonel Crawford at Fort William.”
Stratha
ven sank into the green velvet armchair by the fireplace. “I do not know how you do it. My brain refuses to work on an empty stomach.”
Padraig set down the razor, took up the soaking linen towel, and wrung it. “Are you ready, my lord?”
“Aye,” Ian answered as the valet placed the towel on his face.
The warm moisture had a soothing effect. Ian had tried to maintain a composed facade during the robbery, especially for dear Aunt Barbara’s sake, but his nerves had been drawn tighter than the head of a drum.
Deirdre had unsettled him even more. He had been unable to stop thinking about her or the sensations she evoked from his body. No wonder he had taken so long to complete his report.
Padraig removed the towel.
“You are uncommonly quiet, Ian,” Strathaven remarked. “Doubtless you are contemplating your intended bride. I must say Lady Ballanross has grown into a bonnie woman.”
“She is easy on the eyes,” Ian responded blandly, careful to avoid revealing his emotions. Strathaven would tease him mercilessly.
His manservant swished hot water into the shaving cup of lemon-scented soap. Swirling the brush, he built a thick lather, applying it on Ian’s face and beginning the shave.
Strathaven bobbed his brows. “She really filled out the bodice of that gown. Too bad those panniers hid the rest.”
Ian chuckled. Filled out did not come close to describing what Deirdre’s body had done for that dress. And her lips reminded him of a new rose. He anticipated savoring their taste—and soon.
“She is taller than average,” Strathaven added, grinning mischievously. “But then you like the statuesque types.”
“True,” Ian agreed. “I do not have to bend down so far to kiss them. Leaning over can be hard on the back.”
“Aye,” Strathaven agreed. “You must keep that healthy for, shall we say, more vigorous purposes.”
The three men burst into laughter as Padraig wiped away the last of the lather.
“Doubtless, you have already planned how you will renew your acquaintance with the fair countess.” Strathaven smiled rakishly.
Ian had—and much more. He pictured her reclining naked on a blue coverlet, eyes feverish with passion, lips parted, and the tips of her snowy breasts pink and erect. And, oh, to lie between those long legs!
He stifled a groan of frustration as lust sliced through him like the keen edge of a claymore. A woman had not affected him this strongly since… Come to think of it, no woman had ever caused a reaction this intense. The French called it a coup de foudre, a thunderbolt—an apt description.
“Speaking of the bonnie women, I am sure quite a few lovely ladies will attend the wedding.” Ian smiled. “Are you ready to come out of mourning and allow them to get to know you?” Ian hoped his cousin would. Strathaven’s betrothed had been dead for two years.
“Define the term know,” Strathaven joked.
“I admit the biblical definition briefly crossed my mind,” Ian rejoined.
“You mean ran riot in your imagination, Cousin Ian. Would you be speaking for yourself and Lady Ballanross?” Strathaven chuckled.
“Do not put words into the mouth of the witness.” Ian laughed.
“We are not in court here, Ian, and I know your inclinations. I recollect a certain Miss Catriona Fleming in Edinburgh.” Strathaven stood. “You had to escape her husband by jumping from her balcony. Padraig and I spent an evening pulling gorse thorns from your rump.”
“The woman never told me she had a husband,” Ian retorted with righteous indignation. “And for all my pains, I never enjoyed her favors.”
“Did you take the trouble to ask?” Strathaven smiled impishly.
Ian rolled his eyes. “I was eighteen—just a boy.”
“Aye,” Strathaven replied wistfully, “and we both had more joie de vivre back then.”
“True,” he said. But that was before Ian had been responsible for his sister’s death, and Strathaven lost the love of his life. Those events overcast their lives like storm clouds, blotting out the blue summer sky from their existence.
* * * *
Deirdre sat on the red damask settee in the drawing room, gazing at the reflection of the brass chandelier in the gilt mirror above the fireplace. Her foot nervously tapped the parquet floor as she waited for her guests.
All was ready for them. The kettle rested in its stand, keeping the water hot and ready to pour into the teapot. Before the hearth, the tea table stood, replete with sandwiches of roast beef, Dundee cake, scones, freshly churned butter, marmalade, and a pile of shortbread biscuits. The lovely china teacups shone like the pearly insides of scallop shells. The silver flatware gleamed in the combined light of the fireplace and the candles in the chandelier.
Her mouth watered. Nervous about the robbery, she had not eaten all day. Now, her stomach growled in protest. No longer able to resist, Deirdre leaned forward and ate one scone and then another, greedily stuffing them into her mouth. Then she arranged the rest of sweet treats so no one would detect her theft.
She felt ridiculous. Worrying that someone would discover her pilfering food paled in comparison to her other concerns: such as the price on her head, the cache of contraband hidden in her room, an uncle who may be seriously ill, and marriage to a man who wanted her dangling for a gibbet.
She had gotten herself into a fine mess. Still, she had no choice but to sign the contract. Legally, she must marry Ian unless she devised some means to keep him at bay.
An idea ignited in the darkness of her confusion like the evening star at twilight, giving her hope. Without consummation, she could petition for an annulment!
Still, at thirty years old, Ian likely eagerly anticipated the arrival of heirs, no doubt. Deirdre racked her brain. Oh, there just had to be a way out of this problem.
But could she keep her own heart in check? Denying her attraction for the man proved impossible. Nevertheless, when she remembered that his father had killed hers, or that Ian had sentenced Fergus to death for treason, her ardor cooled—if only momentarily.
Recalling the touch of his hand, her body reacted with a surprising shudder. She must quell her wayward emotions, or she would carelessly give Ian all the evidence he needed to hang her and Fergus, a poor victim of circumstances.
Perhaps she could postpone the nuptials. Later, when her uncle’s health improved, she could persuade Ian that they were not suited to each other. Aye, that would work. She would begin right now by acting like a country bumpkin, convincing him she needed time to learn the refinement needed to be the wife of a sober judge and a member of King George’s court.
All at once, she heard the men’s voices. “My lords,” she stood, and greeted them as they entered, several serving girls in their wake.
They bowed, and Deirdre’s heart fluttered as Ian’s moss green gaze collided with hers. His emerald wool jacket enhanced his broad shoulders to perfection. He approached, and taking the hand she offered, he kissed it. The touch of his lips sent a shock wave through her. The lemony scent drifting from him made her dizzy as his scorching gaze swept over her, making her insides melt. She fought to quell her hot reaction; and yet, the womanly part of Deirdre longed for a normal life with a husband and children.
Ian released her hand.
“Please be seated, my lords,” she urged.
Complying with her request, the men took their seats around the tea table.
Deirdre nodded to the maid who took the teakettle from the stand and poured the water over the leaves in the pot. A cloud of steam billowed, and the aromatic scent of the brew filled the air. “That will be all,” she instructed the maid, who bowed and returned to the kitchen.
When the tea had steeped for a few moments, Deirdre filled the cups, noticing Ian’s keen scrutiny as she handed him the beverage.
“I must say, Sir Robert, you are a greedy man to keep this gorgeous creature all to yourself.” Strathaven smiled at Deirdre. “I’ve not seen her ladyship in years.”
�
�I do not sequester her, Lord Strathaven,” her uncle answered. “Lady Deirdre accompanied me to France and the Netherlands two years ago. Last winter she visited Edinburgh at Hogmanay.”
“So you were there when Lord Glencorran encountered The Flame,” Ian mentioned as he shot a quizzical glance at Deirdre.
Deirdre almost spilled her tea. “Nay, my lord, my uncle went to the affair. I felt ill and stayed in our townhouse that night.”
Later, she and Fergus waited outside the mansion where the soiree had been held. Old Glencorran left first so they encouraged him—at gunpoint—to contribute to the poor.
Her uncle’s mouth drew into a hard line. “The Flame left the poor man and his entourage trussed up in the snow like a brace of moorhens. It was a filthy business!”
“Please, Uncle Robert, let us speak of something more pleasant.” She forced a smile as she set down her teacup with difficulty, for her hands were shaking.
“But why do you not allow us to see you more frequently, my lady?” Ian asked, smiling at her.
Now she would show him how uncultured she was and how marrying her would be a terrible mistake. “Uh, Edinburgh chokes me with its smoke. It is no wonder they call the place Auld Reekie. Nor do I care for Glasgow or Inverness. I walk about with a handkerchief to my nose when I must visit those cities. And the mud when it rains!”
“And how do you feel about Aberdeen?” Ian asked.
“I find that city no better than the others. I fear I am a simple rustic at heart.”
Her uncle raised his brows, shooting her a puzzled look.
Still she continued, “And some of the folk at the balls smell like a three-day-old herring.”
“My lady,” her uncle said, his tone holding a warning.
“It is true,” she continued. “Old Lord Kilrannoch stinks like offal, and his wig is so full of lice it nearly crawls off his head by itself. Why, he gives nits to every woman who braves his stench and dances with him out of courtesy.”
“Lady, you go too far!” Her uncle sputtered on his tea.
Had she upset her Uncle? She did not mean to do that. Dear God, please spare him from a spell.
Ian burst into gales of laughter, and tears streamed down Strathaven’s cheeks as he held his sides.
