She didn’t ask him that. Instead, she followed him down the steep hillside in the dark, and neither of them spoke a word all the way down.
Seventeen
FOUR WEEKS LATER
“I have it,” Rowena said excitedly as she held aloft a thick stack of writing paper. “But I haven’t read it yet. I waited for you.”
Melanie smiled in gratitude at her sister-in-law, who had become her close friend. It had been four long weeks since she’d had a proper letter from her daughter. Oh, she’d had letters all right, but each was colder than the last, telling absolutely nothing that was going on in McCairn. The only real information that Temperance had divulged was imparted when she told her mother to stop sending prospective brides for James, as he was never going to marry anyone.
By the end of the third week, Melanie had gone to her sister-in-law and asked her advice. What had followed were daily visits with each other. And every day there were tiered trays full of delectable cakes for Melanie and a full bottle of single-malt whiskey for Rowena, all devoured while Melanie had read Temperance’s past letters aloud to Rowena so they could compare then and now.
“Something is desperately wrong,” Rowena had said after just one letter had been read to her.
“Angus is planning to tell James about the will,” Melanie had told her on the third visit. “Angus says that James must know what’s in store for him. James must either find himself a pretty little wife or Colin gets the place.”
“You don’t know my nephew,” Rowena said, as she emptied her glass. “James is so stubborn that he’d hand the keys to that horrid house to Angus and tell him Colin was welcome to the place.”
“Sounds like Temperance,” Melanie said with a sigh. “If she wanted to get married and have children, she’d not do it because it would give too much satisfaction to too many people. Every man in New York who had any dealings with her said that what she needed was a man in her life.”
In the end, it was Rowena who came up with the idea of writing Grace to find out what they could. “I knew her husband. He was always into what he shouldn’t be into, so let’s hope his widow is the same way.”
So this morning Grace’s reply had arrived, and Melanie had been almost frantic as she tried to get Angus off to work so she could go to Rowena and hear what Grace had to say.
“Settled, dear?” Rowena asked when Melanie had a plate full of cakes, a cup full of tea, and Rowena had a water glass full of whiskey.
Melanie nodded as she took her first bite.
“ ‘A lovers’ quarrel,’ Grace wrote. ‘That’s all I know how to describe it: a stupid, childish lovers’ quarrel. No one knows what happened, but we all know how it started. It was the fault of my daughter and James McCairn’s son.’ ”
“His son!?” Melanie said and nearly choked on the pink icing of a lemon cake.
“Ramsey is James’s son,” Rowena said in surprise. “Didn’t you know?”
“No. And I don’t think that Temperance knows either. She uses that boy for a lackey, to send messages back and forth.”
“Good for him,” Rowena snorted. “He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. Now where was I? Oh, yes, James’s son.”
Alys and Ramsey decided to play Cupid. They thought to get James and Temperance in a, shall we say, compromising situation, with the result being a marriage, but, being children, they didn’t know what to do to make the adults admit that they were in love. Note that I say, “Admit to love,” because everyone used to think that James and Temperance were in love.
What the children did was Alys’s idea. They “researched” love. They asked the villagers how they got their spouses to marry them. I must say that there were some amazing and, sometimes, rather shocking replies. I had no idea such things went on in McCairn. But, somehow, there was a mix-up and the village women were telling their lurid stories to Temperance.
“And she had no idea what they were talking about?” Melanie asked, amused.
For a moment both women thought about that, remembering things that had gone on in their own lives that had been done to snare the man they wanted.
“Hmmm,” Rowena said after a moment, then picked up the letter again.
It seems that what the children came up with was to send notes to James and Temperance as though each desperately needed the other. Life and death, that sort of thing. The notes seemed to work, as both of the adults went running up the side of the mountain to where the children had equipped an old sheepherder cottage with wine, chicken, and a fire. As far as I can get out of them, the children saw Temperance and James go into the cottage, close the door, then come out hours later.
Rowena put the letter down on her lap and poured herself more whiskey. “I think we can assume what went on inside the cabin during those hours.”
“Not Temperance,” Melanie said in disgust. “You don’t know my daughter. Her high morals would put the pope to shame. She is upstanding and infallible.”
“But she’s never before been confronted with a Scotsman in a kilt on a moonlit night,” Rowena said seriously, without a hint of humor in her voice.
Melanie paused with a forkful of cake halfway to her mouth and remembered twice when Angus had donned his clan’s kilt. “Perhaps you’re right. Read on.”
. . . hours later. They haven’t spoken to each other since except in monosyllables and then only when necessary.
“Yes,” Rowena said, “only a man you’ve been to bed with can make you that angry.”
Melanie nodded in agreement on that issue.
Rowena looked back at the letter. “Oh, no, listen to this!”
The next day James went to Edinburgh and talked to Angus. As far as I can find out (and please do not ask what unscrupulous methods I’ve had to use), Angus told James the truth about Temperance, that Angus never meant for James to marry her. She was just to find James a wife.
Rowena looked up at Melanie in question.
“I knew nothing about this. My husband told me nothing of a meeting with James.”
Rowena looked back at the letter.
So now James stays away from the house almost all the time, and Temperance has occupied herself in helping the village. She wrote a publisher about Brenda’s stories and contacted a brewery about making Lilias’s liqueur.
On the surface one could say that nothing has changed, but it doesn’t take much to see that everything has changed. My hats have become a business but nothing more. Temperance does the negotiating, but she doesn’t laugh over the bargains she’s made as she used to do.
I’ve tried to talk to James about what’s going on, but if anything, he’s worse than Temperance. He says that Temperance chose her punishment and now she must bear it. No one can figure out what he means by that.
Truthfully, no one on McCairn knows what happened or what was said the night the children decided to play matchmaker. But we all know the results. Both James and Temperance are two very stubborn people, and they are both doing their jobs, but neither is giving an inch.
As for the rest of us in McCairn, life goes on as before, but this argument between Temperance and James affects us all. We would appreciate any help or suggestions you have.
Yours very sincerely,
Grace Dougall
“So it looks like there’s no hope of a marriage between those two,” Rowena said as she looked across her glass at Melanie. “What do we do now? Do we let Colin have the place? Get rid of it once and for all?”
Melanie bit into a strawberry tart and pondered the question for a moment. “I’m not sure, but I think this may be my one—and probably only—chance for grandchildren. I think that my daughter may indeed be in love with your nephew.”
“No doubt about it that James is in love with your daughter.”
“But you can’t force people to marry,” Melanie said with regret in her voice. “But it will be a shame for James to lose McCairn. If he doesn’t marry Temperance, maybe he could marry someone else. Isn’t there anyone he has ev
er been in love with?”
“Actually, there was a girl long ago, but it was a perfectly unsuitable match.”
“You mean, like his childhood sweetheart?” Melanie said, eyes wide.
Rowena thought for a few moments. “Kenna. That was her name. I don’t remember much about her, except that she was an extraordinarily pretty girl, much too pretty for her own good. If that girl had had the right parents and the right backing, she could have made a match to royalty.”
“But, instead, because she was born in a crofter’s cottage, she wasn’t allowed to marry the laird’s eldest son.” Melanie, as an American, had disgust in her voice.
But Rowena had no such feelings. “Exactly,” she said firmly. “But James’s mother sent her to school in Glasgow and I seem to remember that she found a good husband. James’s mother was always too generous for her own good.”
“Oh,” Melanie said. “Married.”
“No, I believe she was widowed long ago. In fact . . . yes, now I remember, Angus and I approached her years ago, but she turned us down.” Rowena took a drink. “I told you that we’d been sending lots of women to James. But perhaps now that she’s had a taste of widowhood . . . Hmm, perhaps I should write her a stronger letter. I’ll emphasize that if she ends up married to James, it would be a giant step up in the world for her.”
“But what about love? James must love the woman he marries, but I think he loves my daughter.” There was a bit of a whine in Melanie’s voice.
“Fiddle-faddle. Land and inheritance are involved. If James is too stupid to know that he’s in love with that rapscallion daughter of yours, then he deserves anything he gets in the way of love. Whichever way it goes, at least I’ll know that I’ve saved McCairn for future generations.”
Rowena put down her whiskey glass. “But I’m confused. Why would you suggest bringing in another woman?”
“When Temperance was a child, the only way to get her to do anything was to tell her she couldn’t do it. I would say, ‘Temperance, dear, you cannot possibly wear your new pink dress today, and when your great aunt arrives today, you are to stay in your room. She thinks children are messy and noisy.’ Of course the result of this was that Temperance would sit in the parlor in her pretty dress in absolute silence, and my husband’s old aunt would say what a darling, polite, obedient daughter I had raised.”
“I see,” Rowena said, but she was frowning in puzzlement; then she smiled. “Oh, yes. I do see. Why don’t you stay and help me compose the letter to Kenna? I’m afraid my hand isn’t as steady as it used to be.”
Melanie smiled demurely and said she’d be glad to help.
Kenna Lockwood was in bed when her maid brought the letter to her. The sheets were silk and perfumed, and she was wearing the same. She well knew that when she was surrounded by yards of champagne-colored satin, she looked her best. The heavy damask curtains at the windows were closed even though it was bright noon outside. In Kenna’s bedroom it was always night; candlelight was much more flattering than the sun.
Beside the bed Artie was undressing. He was one of Kenna’s younger lovers, nearly ten years younger than she was, but he didn’t know that. One of her older “friends” as she preferred to call them, had teased Kenna, saying that with each year her bedroom grew darker and, as a result, Kenna never aged. That was the last time that Kenna saw that man.
Now, lounging on the bed, turning her head so her best side faced this boy, she was curious about the letter. It had the McCairn crest on it.
When Artie took forever unfastening his trousers, then sat down on a satin-covered chair to untie his shoes, Kenna gave a sigh. What had happened to romance? What had happened to urgency? To that mad passion that she used to feel? And that men used to feel for her?
Hearing her sigh, Artie looked up at her with a smile, so she turned away so he couldn’t see her frown; then she picked up the letter off the table, slit it with one long nail, and opened it. She scanned it quickly.
It the next second, she sat up in bed, forgetting all about keeping her sultry, provocative pose.
“Lord in heaven!” she said in astonishment. “They want me to return to marry him. Or at least they want me to pretend to marry him. Heavens, but I think the old biddy believes I owe her.”
When she looked up at Artie, she saw the most interest on his face that she’d seen in weeks. Was she losing her touch?
“Who wants you to get married?” he asked, at last getting off the chair and walking to the side of the bed.
“No one,” Kenna said, as she put the letter aside, then stretched up her arms to him.
“But that’s good paper. Who wrote you on that?”
Kenna dropped her arms and turned her face away for a moment. It didn’t matter that she’d married well and her late husband had left her a small fortune (all of which she’d spent instantly). Nor did it matter that she’d spent two years in Glasgow University. These young snobs always seemed to know where Kenna had come from. And it wasn’t because she gave them favors in return for a few “gifts.” There were a few down-on-their-luck countesses she knew doing the very same thing, but boys like Artie always knew who was what class.
Kenna gritted her teeth. “No one,” she repeated. When Artie tried to reach around her, she drew back; then she saw that he was more interested in the letter than he was in her, and, well, interest was interest. “It’s two old women. I met one of them years ago, and now they want me to marry a man I used to know. Or at least they want me to pretend to want to marry him. Truthfully, the letter doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“They want to use you?” There was sympathy in Artie’s voice, and Kenna hated it.
“I think they want to, but I’m not going back there.”
“Why do they think you would go?”
“They seem to have the absurd idea that I owe them something. James—that’s the man’s name—his mother paid for my education, so they think I should repay the family by doing this favor for them now.” As she thought of what was in the letter, her voice began to rise in anger. That woman Rowena McCairn wouldn’t have so much as walked her horse around the likes of Kenna.
“But you owe them nothing, right?” Artie said as he lifted Kenna’s arm and began kissing the back of her wrist.
“Bloody right I don’t. James’s mother knew I didn’t love her son, and she threatened to expose my . . .”
“Indiscretions?” Artie asked, his lips moving upward.
“Yes, my indiscretions to her James. James was always blind to women.”
“So what did you say to his mother to get an education out of her?”
Kenna smiled at the memory. “I told her that if she didn’t send me away—in style—I was going to persuade her son to elope with me.”
“So she sent you to school and now they think you owe them.”
At that Kenna moved her arm out of his grasp. There was amusement in the boy’s voice, and she remembered that he was one of “them.” “Not now,” she snapped as she threw back the coverlet and got out of bed.
The boy leaned back on the pillows and watched her walk across room.
Kenna went to the dressing table against the far wall. With each year the number of pots of oils and creams on top of the table increased. “There was only one man who interested me in that godforsaken place. Gavie Dougall,” she said as she rummaged about in the drawers.
Moments later she got back into the bed, sat by Artie, and opened a little red leather box, then gently emptied the contents on top of the silk duvet. “I haven’t looked at these things for years,” she said softly as she picked up a necklace of dried heather. It started to crumble in her hand, so she carefully put it back into the box. There was a little book with a tiny pencil attached, the kind that girls have at dances to record their partners’ names. There was a little rock made smooth by water.
Kenna’s hand closed over the rock, and her eyes became dreamy. “Gavie gave me this rock on the first night we made love,” she said sof
tly. “We were both fourteen, and I can still smell the heather.”
“And he didn’t marry you? The cad.” Artie’s voice was teasing.
Kenna put the rock back into the box. “No, he wanted to marry me, but I was ambitious. I decided I was going to marry the chieftain of the clan’s eldest son because he had more money, so Gavie ran away to work in Edinburgh. Later I heard that he married some orphan and returned home years later. But by that time I’d been sent off to school and James was married to someone else.”
“What’s this?” Artie asked, holding up a thin piece of brass and ending Kenna’s reminiscences. The brass ornament had holes cut in it so that it was as lacy as a paper doily.
“A trinket from my first lover,” Kenna said, smiling at the lovely memories that all the objects brought back.
“He wasn’t a gambler, was he?”
At that Kenna’s head came up sharply, and her mind left its reverie. “Why?”
“I saw one of these things when I was a child, and my father explained it to me. A famous gambler had one of these in a fan. It looked like decoration, but when he held the fan in front of his face and looked at the other players’ cards, he saw a pattern that told what cards the other players held. Of course being able to use the template depended on the cards. They had to all come from the same printer, but the man had paid the printer to adjust the design on the back of the cards.”
Kenna’s heart was pounding so hard that she could hardly speak. “You wouldn’t remember the name of that gambler, would you?”
Artie smiled as he held the thin piece of brass. “I can’t remember the family name, but would you believe me if I told you that it was some old family? Mile-long lineage, that sort of thing. The family fought with kings. My father used to say the most amusing thing. He said the men in that family either died in honor or were killed in—”
“Dishonor. McCairn,” Kenna whispered. “Clan McCairn.”
“Yes, that’s it. How did you know?”
“So that’s what they fought over,” she said softly. “One of the old man’s templates for cheating.” Slowly, she took the piece of brass from Artie, then held it as though it were something evil. “A woman died because of this little piece of brass,” she said, then tossed it back onto the bed near his hand.
Temptation Page 20
