She didn’t dare allow him to touch her again. When he’d covered her hands with his, she’d bitten her lip to keep from clasping his fingers and snuggling next to his delicious smelling warmth.
Well, she wasn’t having any of it, ever again. She’d been scorned twice. Thrice made her a daft nincompoop.
Erecting a deliberate wall of indifference, she firmly banished her emotions and girlish behavior to a remote corner of her heart, kicked the door shut, and locked it.
Lifting her drenched skirt and pelisse, she ran into the keep.
Fairchild, their immensely tall butler, stood beside the entrance’s open door. A guard must have alerted him to her approach. “Miss Seonaid, your mother awaits you in Lady McTavish’s chamber.”
He didn’t as much as blink at her deplorable state.
“Thank you, Fairchild. Is the doctor here yet?”
“No, miss.”
She lightly rested her hand atop his strong forearm. “How are you, Fairchild? I know Yvette’s like a daughter to you.”
His countenance wavered before he stoically schooled his noble features. “Lady McTavish is strong, and I trust you and the physician to care for her.”
“I shall do my utmost to help. I promise,” Seonaid said, unfastening her pelisse.
“I have no doubt, miss.”
He assisted her from the sodden garment, and though she still shivered, it was a blessed relief to have the cumbersome weight gone. Her ruined bonnet followed, and his nostrils flared the minutest bit upon seeing her hair.
“Hot bathwater awaits you. I’ll request cold water for your face at once too, Miss Seonaid.” He accepted Jacques’s sopping greatcoat, dripping rainwater and pooling onto the stone entry. “There’s bathwater for you as well, sir.”
“Much appreciated,” Jacques murmured, unusually subdued.
“I’m afraid mine will have to wait until I’ve seen Yvette.” Seonaid shoved grimy hair from her face. “I would be grateful if you’d have someone fetch a high-necked spencer or a fichu from my chamber. Also yam root and cramp bark from my store of herbs and boiling water. Oh, and my pestle and mortar, along with a teacup.”
She touched her damaged cheek. “I’ll need my salve for cuts too.”
“At once, miss.” Gingerly holding the saturated garments before him, Fairchild marched from the entry.
She grabbed Jacques’s arm, fairly dragging him toward the stairs. They left a trail of muddy footprints in their wake, but she must speak to him before her family realized they’d returned home.
Had it been this morning she’d acted a child and jumped up and down these stairs? Only this morning he’d crushed her heart with his merciless, callous words?
She’d dwell on that unpleasantness later. Right now, she must stop Yvette’s contractions.
“I don’t want Yvette to know what’s happened to me. She mustn’t be upset further.” Rushing up the stairs, Seonaid cast a swift glance over her shoulder. “I think we should wait to tell Ewan too.”
“Seonaid, one has merely look at you to know something dreadful has occurred.” He plucked a chunk of mud from her temple. “I suggest you take a few minutes to tidy up. If you walk into Lady McTavish’s chamber looking like that, you’re sure to cause more upset, non?”
Drat, he was right, though it irritated her to her sore feet to admit it. She didn’t want to give him that measure of credit.
“Very well, then.” Still charging up the risers, she conceded. “Would you please have Fairchild send word to my family that I’m home but chilled and wet, and I need to change my clothing or become ill? He can have hot water sent to my chamber immediately, and I’ll also need Una to help me wash my hair.”
“Seonaid?” Jacques touched her elbow, sending a jolt streaking to her chest. She shut her eyes against a rush of desire.
Blasted, traitorous body.
No. She wouldn’t respond. She wasn’t good enough for him. She paused at a bend in the stairs, snapping, “What?”
The question resounded, unyielding and unforgiving.
Angst sharpened the angles of his chiseled face. “I . . .”
He searched her eyes, and she swore remorse blazed in his before he dipped his head. Surely the light played tricks. A man didn’t say the horrid, cutting things he had but hours ago, and then have an abrupt change of conscience.
Once hurtful words were spoken, like milk from a cow’s teat, they couldn’t be returned.
“I’ll see to the things you requested.” His gait descending the stairs seemed slow and measured. Had he hurt himself?
First tend to Yvette, then worry about Jacques.
Seonaid let her shoulders slump as she trudged up the remaining stairs. Much transpired today, none of it good. She’d made her bedchamber door before Mother called her name.
“Seonaid. Thank goodness you’re home. Come quickly, chérie. Yvette asks for you.”
Slowly, dread clamping her lungs, Seonaid faced her mother.
“Mon Dieu,” Mother gasped clutching her throat, her gaze sweeping Seonaid’s face and neck. She rushed forward. “What in the world has happened? Have you been attacked?”
She settled an arm around Seonaid’s shoulder, but Seonaid stayed her with a raised hand. “I’m filthy, and if you hug me, you’ll soil your gown.”
“Do you think I care?”
“No, but you need to return to Yvette as soon as possible, and if you arrive in a different gown, someone is bound to question why.”
“That might be true, but you will tell how you came to be in such dishabille, Seonaid. I’m not moving an inch until you do.” Her mother’s tone brooked no argument. Giselle Ferguson might be a petite woman, but she was a formidable force when her temper was stirred.
Surveying the empty corridor, Seonaid relented. “Vicar Fletcher did this, Mother, but I don’t want Yvette or Ewan to know yet. Monsieur le baron and Douglas arrived in time to save me.”
Outrage snapped in Mother’s sea green eyes. “He accosted you? Your father and Ewan will see he is punished, le démon.”
Seonaid clasped her mother’s hands. “I’m going to take a quick bath, and then I’ll be right in to see Yvette. In the meanwhile, have her slowly sip a glass of wine and lie on her left side.”
Blinking back tears, Mother nodded once. “How will you explain your poor face?”
“I’ll think of something.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “I have news that will make you happy.”
Mother raised a skeptical sable brow. “Oh?”
Seonaid produced a cheerful smile, though pain and worry tattered its edges. “Yvette carries twin girls.”
A brilliant smile wreathed her mother’s face, quickly followed by a worried frown. “But this early, she might lose them. Oh, how tragic to lose two précieux bébés.”
Seonaid shook her head, wincing as tendrils of mucky hair slithered across her shoulders, like the fat, wiggly worms Ewan used to catch brown trout.
God, please let only mud be in my hair.
Fabulous. Now her head itched unbearably.
“I had a vision. The bairns and Yvette will be fine.” Footmen bearing pails of water approached. She gave her mother a little shove. “Now go. I must hurry.”
Twenty minutes later, her wet hair braided and twisted atop her head, Seonaid, wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved gown, stood beside Yvette’s bed. She’d cleansed the blood from her face and applied a salve, but the bruising and cuts she hadn’t been able to hide.
She gave Ewan and Yvette a contrite smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my vision sooner. I didn’t want you to worry, and I have been wrong a few times.”
Relaxing amidst a mound of jonquil and cream pillows, and wearing a delicate blue rose embroidered robe, a slightly pale Yvette clasped Seonaid’s hand.
“I feel much better knowing what’s to come. I’m grateful for your gift, Seonaid.” She sent a loving smile to Ewan, perched beside her atop the bed. “And I’m sure Ewan is too.”
>
He bent and kissed Yvette’s creamy forehead. “Aye, that I am.”
For the first time in a long while, Seonaid was also grateful. “Where’s Mother? I expected to find her here clucking and fussing.”
Ewan chuckled and pulled his earlobe. “She’s escorting a belligerent Hugh to bed. Naturally, a servant let slip Yvette was having contractions, and when no one took it upon themselves to inform him of the details, he assumed the worse. He hobbled here using two canes.”
Yvette clasped Ewan’s hand and giggled. “I feared Mother was going to throttle him. I’ve not heard her curse in French.” Her deep blue eyes filled with amusement, she grinned. “I’ve never heard Gaelic cursing before either.”
Ewan and Yvette wore delighted expressions.
“Who swore in Gaelic?” Seonaid asked.
Slapping his thigh, Ewan laughed outright. “Hugh. When, on Mother’s orders, a half dozen of our largest clansmen picked him up and carted him to his room. She told him if he protested the minutest amount, he’d sleep alone for the next six months.”
“That silenced him rather quickly.” Yvette tittered again. “Except for peculiar noises he made in his throat. Somewhere between a growl and a smothered oath.”
“I should like to have seen that, actually.” Seonaid sat on the other side of Yvette. “Have the pains stopped or slowed?”
“Yes. They’re coming irregularly now. Not like they did a few hours ago.”
“Thank God.” A white line rimmed Ewan’s mouth, and his pallor was wanner than normal.
“I’m sorry you took a tumble from the dogcart.” Yvette murmured, sleepily. She yawned delicately behind her hand. “Pardon me. That bruise on your face looks quite painful, Seonaid. So does your poor mouth.”
Guilt pricked Seonaid for lying, but surely her reasons for doing so outweighed the untruth. “As long as I don’t smile, it doesn’t hurt much.”
Not so.
A maid bustled in with the tea Seonaid had requested. Thankful for an excuse to hide her face, she set about preparing a dose of tincture for Yvette. “Six drops in diluted tea, not more than once every two hours.” She gave her sister-in-law a sympathetic smile as she passed her the teacup. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay abed until the bairns’ birth.”
“I don’t mind, if it means they’re healthy.” Yvette cradled her stomach lovingly and sipped the tincture, then grimaced slightly. “Not the tastiest brew I’ve ever sampled, rather like licking a damp tree.”
“That’s the cramp bark.” Replacing the tincture’s cap, Seonaid offered an apologetic smile. “It helps ease contractions and relaxes you.”
A sweet smile curved Yvette’s mouth. “I’ll be quite the slugabed, sleeping my days away.”
“It’s best for you and the bairns. I’ll speak to Mother about cancelling the house party.” At least something good might come of Yvette’s confinement. Seonaid would be spared the Valentine folderol. “Surely the guests will understand given the circumstances.”
“No, I won’t hear of it.” Yvette shook her honey blonde head, a determined set to her small chin. “Naturally, you must still host the party. It would upset me greatly if you canceled on my account. Mother has gone to such work already, and perhaps by then, I might be permitted to recline upon a couch and observe the merriments.”
Bother and rot. There went that idea.
“I do hope you’re that much improved.” The agreeable smile Seonaid dredged up and managed to force her lips into would’ve done an actress proud.
Ewan rose and after stretching, kissed Yvette’s hand. “I need to speak with Seonaid, my love. If you’ll excuse us?”
“Certainly, dearest.” Another yawn escaped Yvette. “I’m feeling rather drowsy.”
The maid took the cup, and then helped her mistress lie down once more.
“Ewan, I believe I should stay with—” Before Seonaid finished speaking, Doctor Paterson arrived.
“My lady.” He winked and set his physician’s bag upon the bed. “I heard a rumor your babe is eager to leave his warm nest. Exactly like an impatient McTavish.”
Seonaid retreated into the shadows, turning her good cheek toward him.
By mutual agreement, no one mentioned her vision about the twins. Though Doctor Paterson was a forward thinking fellow, he was a man of science, and informing him Yvette carried two girls might put him off a mite.
Still smiling, he addressed Ewan. “I need to examine her ladyship. If you will please wait outside?”
“I had her drink a small glass of wine, and gave her a tincture of cramp bark and yam root.” Indicating the small blue bottle atop the night table, Seonaid scooted past the doctor.
“Both of which I would’ve recommended. Excellent, Miss Seonaid.” Opening his bag, he glanced at her as she passed, his keen gaze passing from one injury to the next. “I’ll take a look at your face when I’m finished with her ladyship, though it appears you’ve done an admirable job of treating your injuries yourself. Might I ask how you came by them?”
His voice held no hint of suspicion, yet Seonaid couldn’t help but suspect a man in his profession must know exactly what caused injuries like hers.
“I, er had a mishap with the dogcart. It’s quite slick outdoors, and I wasn’t as careful as I might have been.” Now she lied to Doctor Paterson, and from the skeptical slant of his white brows, he hadn’t believed a word.
“Hmph.” He rummaged in his bag. “Well, I’ll want to take a look anyway.”
“Oh, and Doctor, a guest wrenched his ankle. If you wouldn’t mind examining him as well?” That relieved Seonaid of the task. Trying to remain impervious to Jacques’s animal-like, altogether too masculine attraction while touching his bare ankle and foot. No, the good doctor could deal with Jacques.
“I’ll see him after I examine your injuries.” Doctor Paterson withdrew his pocket watch, then lifted Yvette’s wrist.
The maid dipped a curtsy and after she left, Ewan took Seonaid’s elbow, guiding her from the room. He toed the door closed before spinning Seonaid to face him.
“You walked with Maeve to Craigcutty today. And Mother sent McLean to fetch you in the dogcart. Do you want to tell me what really happened to your face?”
Chapter 20
Bother.
Leave it to Ewan to remember those details.
“Let’s go to your study.” Seonaid darted a glance behind her. “I don’t want anyone to overhear.”
He cocked a raven brow, and extended his arm, indicting she should precede him. “By all means.”
Once settled in an armchair, she pursed her lips. Ouch. Her mouth hurt worse than she’d admitted. Fletcher had struck her several times, “while casting out the devil,” he claimed, and she had cuts inside her cheeks too.
Soft foods for her for the next few days.
The fire roaring in the hearth did nothing to heat the far corners of the study or her chilled flesh. Even the gown she’d chosen, as much to stay the drafts as to conceal the purplish finger marks marring her neck, didn’t keep her warm.
Sitting opposite her, Ewan bent forward, his elbows resting atop his knees, his intense turquoise gaze demanding the truth.
“Your face?”
“Fletcher did this.” She swept her hand over her face. “I had a vision in the village about him. We’d been arguing, because he accused me of bewitching the children and brewing potions.”
Ire evident in his hands gripping his chair and the crinkling at his eyes’ corners, Ewan straightened. “He dared to strike you?”
“And choke me.” Careful not to disturb the tender, bruised flesh, she pulled her neckline down a few inches. “He claimed I had the devil in me.”
Ewan surged to his feet, hands balled, a feral snarl contorting his mouth. He stomped to the door, then back to tower over her. “That’s why your voice is hoarse. I assumed you’d caught a chill from your soaking.”
A single rap echoed at the study door.
“Come.” Ewan rake
d a hand through his hair, issuing a near-growl of ill-concealed frustration. As he strode to a brandy decanter atop the liquor cabinet, Fairchild ventured in.
“My lord, Monsieur le baron de Devaux-Rousset insists he must speak with you. He was loath to interrupt you when you were with her ladyship, but would like to inquire if you’re available now?”
“He might as well come in, Ewan.” Then perhaps, she could finally be done with Jacques’s presence. In her current state, maintaining the appearance of indifference taxed her beyond her reserves. Seonaid flopped back onto the comfortable, worn leather chair, stretching her cold feet toward the frolicking flames. “He and Douglas rescued me.”
She’d never been so happy to see Douglas in her life. He, unlike Jacques, made her laugh and feel special. She wiggled her toes, welcoming the heat soothing her soles and ankles.
“I expect a detailed explanation of what occurred, including what you saw with your second sight, Seonaid.” Ewan poured a finger’s worth of brandy into the crystal tumbler. “A man, cleric or nae, putting his hands on my kin will suffer serious consequences.”
She rubbed her arms, loathing the terror Fletcher stirred in her. “He’s a despot, Ewan. A perverted, despicable blackguard.”
Quaffing back the amber spirit, he motioned for Fairchild to bid Jacques enter.
Seonaid rested her head against the chair’s back and closed her eyes. Sleep beckoned, and she welcomed the oblivion in order to forget this wretched day had happened. Her head ached, probably a combination of strain and the ether. Vile stuff, that.
Jacques’s slightly uneven gait alerted her to his presence before Ewan greeted him.
Forcing her lodestone heavy eyelids open, Seonaid sighed and sat up, plopping her feet to the floor. Couldn’t have her calves showing for Jacques’s perusal.
He saw much more than that earlier today.
“Did you get injured in the fray with Fletcher as well, Devaux?” Ewan remained by the spirits. “Sit. I cannot stand the pinched look on your face.”
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 17
