His head snapped back. “You’re a countess?”
“Viscountess.” Stomach roiling, she edged away from the light. “Lucy knows, but I asked her not to say anything until I’ve told the others.”
“Why did you not say right away?”
She dipped her head as if being called out by the schoolmistress. “I don’t know.”
During the uncomfortable silence that followed, she considered telling Magnus that she would happily renounce her title to be free of Langley. But that could never be. Not in this world. Not in this lifetime.
At last Magnus rumbled, “I will take you to where the others wait.”
As he escorted her outside, she chastised herself. How could she have made such a mistake? What had made her lose her reason? She’d blundered horribly. She’d behaved like a Jezebel, and worse, she’d insulted Mr. Magnus, the last man on earth she wished to injure.
The ladies must have sensed tension between her and Magnus as they approached. Mary made no tart remarks nor did Charlotte make any flirtatious quips.
Virginia bobbed a curtsy. “Mr. Magnus.”
He bowed without a word.
She turned and walked away, wanting to flee and not caring if she ran into that bramble bush. Lucy was at her elbow a moment later, and the four of them proceeded silently at a clip for quite a ways. No one made mention of the wager.
At last Mary called, “Stop.”
They all pulled up short at the command. Mary circled around to stand in front of Virginia, fists jammed on her hips. “What the devil did that bastard do to you?”
…
Magnus trudged back to his cottage and paused outside the door. Ten minutes ago, he was the happiest he’d ever been. Virginia had visited him. She’d brought him dinner, checked his wound, and touched his face. She’d kissed him, for Jesussake. If he could have sent those other damnable women packing, he would have had her all to himself. He would have shared his gooseberry tart with her and kissed the jam from her lips, as he had planned to do.
Instead, she had destroyed him.
I have a husband.
She was married. As if that didn’t put enough distance between them, she was a noblewoman. Bloody hell.
He went inside and slammed the door behind him. It could have been his imagination, but the room still smelled of her. Or was her smell on him? He needed to bathe or he’d be fixed on her for days. Married. Damn. He grabbed the nearest object and tossed it against the wall. A pottery mug exploded into bits and littered the floor. Shite. It would do him no good to dwell on Lady Langley.
He huffed a bitter laugh. “Countess of…something.”
Countess. A titled English lady. So far above him he could hardly believe she’d stooped to deliver his dinner. Refined, polished. She reminded him of a delicate crystalline figure he’d seen in the curio shop when he was a boy—a miniature princess. He’d wanted to pick it up, handle it, but even as a lad, he’d been too big and clumsy. His mam had said, “You can look, laddie. But you cannae touch.” And so it was with Virginia. He could look, but not touch. He could never touch her again.
Jesus, that kiss. He’d never gotten so lost in a woman before. He’d come alive with that kiss, and she’d been hungry for him. He’d initiated the kiss, but she had definitely welcomed it—in an unpracticed way, as if she’d never kissed before, which was curious, because she was a married woman. Oh, yes, and then she had moaned with pleasure. Or maybe that had been him, but still, that had not been a stolen kiss. Probably toying with his affection. Highborn ladies did that, dally with men for their own amusement. Probably laughing at his foolishness right now.
Ah, hell. What did it matter? Ignoring the food in the basket and the grumbling in his belly, he tugged the cork from the ale and began drinking.
“It’s for the best,” he said, attempting to convince himself he was better off. “I’m not the marrying sort.”
He hugged the jug close to his chest and crawled back into bed. The spot that had tickled him earlier began to hurt. He rubbed at it, remembering his terrible dream.
“It’s for the best. I’ve got plans. My stud farm comes first. I cannae be spending money on a woman.”
He gulped down more ale, wanting to be drunk or asleep. He didn’t care which. As long as he didn’t have to feel like this. Raw. Like he’d been turned inside out.
Magnus finished what was left in the clay jug. He set it on the floor next to the bed, misjudged, and it toppled over. It rolled away making a low hollow sound, as hollow as he felt inside.
“Lucky for her. Had she been a maid, I would have ruined her.” He laughed. “Imagine a gentle English lady ruined by a bloody Scot.” He belched, closed his eyes, and settled onto his side. “Damned lucky for her.”
Chapter Three
With Lucy at her side confirming her story, the Sinclair family received Virginia’s confession graciously and without question. Likewise, Mary and Charlotte accepted her explanation about why she had kept silent all this time, and forgave her for not telling them sooner.
“Do we have to call you my lady, now?” Mary asked.
“Don’t be silly. We’re sisters. Nothing’s changed that,” Virginia said. “At least, I hope not.”
Charlotte and Mary hugged her. They, more than anyone, understood her fear. Having unburdened herself, she thought she might sleep easier. But no.
That night and every night after, she went to bed thinking of Magnus. As much as she regretted her egregious lapse in judgment, she needed to keep that kiss alive in her memory, keep it as immediate as the moment he’d pressed his lips to hers. His warm breath, his soft lips, his seductive tongue. She relived the kiss as if each second lasted a minute, each minute an hour. The raspy sound of his bristling beard on her chin, the deep, rumbly moan he’d made when their bodies had met, and, oh dear Lord, his hardened body pressed against her belly.
Her mind didn’t stop with memory. It continued imagining what might have happened had she not ended the kiss, had the ladies not been waiting for her, had she not been married. After a week, reality started to meld with fantasy. She no longer was certain which of the details of the kiss had actually happened and which she had made up.
On Monday morning, the sun filtered through a crack in her bedroom shutters and teased her awake. Haddie’s footsteps echoing up from the back staircase signaled the maid had begun her morning rounds. She’d visit the laird’s room first, then Lucy and Alex’s room. It would be another quarter of an hour before she came to her room to poke up the fire, refresh her basin water, and open her bed curtains. Virginia stretched and yawned and laced her fingers together over her stomach, the pose that worked best for serious contemplation.
Persistent Lucy had continued to make oblique inquiries as to when Virginia might consider writing to Langley, and she had continued to deflect the questions with sighs and headaches and assurances that she would “attend to it soon.” She didn’t dare tell Lucy that she suspected her husband had been behind her abduction. She had no proof, merely a suspicion. Pressed further, Lucy would want to know why she would suspect her own husband of such a diabolical act. She couldn’t tell her about Langley’s monstrous behavior. Virginia was mortally afraid anyone should discover her personal shame, and in any case, Lucy would think her bent for Bedlam. Gentlemen of Langley’s rank didn’t beat their wives like common laborers.
Yet, how could she return to London and be certain of her safety? How could she determine whether Langley or his men had been behind her abduction? She asked herself these questions every day, but ten days had passed and she had no better idea how to resolve her dilemma than she did the day of her rescue.
Part of her problem was this place—Balforss, the Sinclair family, Jemma, the men and women who worked here, the easy pace of life, the respectful relations between people of all stations—she loved all of it. Even the house offered a powerful feeling of safety and comfort she’d never known in her father’s home. Certainly not in the chilly halls of Bro
mley. This place had her dragging her feet. She’d been lulled into complacency. Didn’t want to think about leaving.
And then there was Magnus and his kiss, so different from Langley’s. Gentle, passionate, and thrilling rather than brutal, angry, and frightening. A part of her wished Lucy hadn’t recognized her. That she could have pretended to be Virginia Whitehouse forever and stayed here under Magnus’s protection. But that would have been wrong, and she would never want to hurt him with such an awful lie, Magnus, with his love of poetry and his dream of breeding the finest draft horses in all of Scotland.
Once, she had dreamed of saving the lives of orphaned boys and girls in one of the poorest parts of London. It was time to reclaim that dream. Mrs. Pennyweather needed her, was counting on her patronage. With Virginia’s help and financial backing, they could build a new and larger home. More children could be rescued from the streets, more children could be fed, clothed, trained for respectable positions. She had to find a way to return to London and make good on that promise. Which meant she had to recover her trust money from her husband.
Her solicitor, Mr. Begley, had released her money to Langley without her permission, clearly a mistake on Begley’s part. As such, it was Begley’s responsibility to set things to rights. She must demand he make restitution. Therefore, she would write to Mr. Begley, request his immediate action, and ask for the necessary funds for her passage home. Once she was financially secure, she could return to her father’s house in London and take up where she’d left off.
Oh dear. The St. James house. Aunt Mina.
There was a good chance Langley would try selling the townhouse. She should write to Aunt Mina, warn her, tell her to consult with Mr. Begley if Langley made any move toward casting her out of the house. Begley may not be able to stop Langley, but he might be able to slow him down. Yes. She’d write to Aunt Mina, as well. She could trust Mr. Begley’s discretion. That was, after all, his legal obligation. Could she trust Mina?
…
Magnus slumped into his comfortable chair. He’d been brooding over Virginia for a week. He couldn’t bear to think of her as Lady Langley, and he refused to address her as such. He wasn’t her footman. Bloody hell, he’d kissed her. He couldn’t bow and fawn over a woman he’d kissed. He wouldn’t my lady this and my lady that. He was her savior, not her servant.
Virginia was married. It hadn’t occurred to him when he’d met her to ask whether she was taken or not. Why did the news bother him so much now? And in any case, so what? She was a bloody countess—or viscountess. What the hell was the difference? Even if she hadn’t been married, she wouldn’t have fancied him. He was too large and too coarse for a woman like Virginia. He had no title. He had some land, some sheep, and soon he would own his own stud farm. But a countess and a horse breeder? Laughable.
He picked up a breeder’s manual, opened it, then slammed it shut.
Hell, even if she wasn’t a bloody countess or viscountess or tricountess, he wasn’t the kind of man to make promises. He was a bachelor. Marriage was folly no matter how sweet her kisses. Men who married thought they needed a woman to lead them around by the nose. Jesus. He had only to think of how Lucy had Alex by the bollocks to know married life wasn’t for him. He made his own decisions and didn’t need some woman harping at him day in and day out. Didn’t need to sleep next to a warm body every night, or have a woman look at him like he was a great man, or kiss him like she was starving. Oh, Jesus that kiss. That kiss was better than…better than the French thing.
“Shite!”
“Is this a bad time, man?”
The response to his curse came from outside his door. Damn. Alex. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him be?
“Go away.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk to me from out there.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Alex marched through his unlocked door. “You’re acting like you’re half-cracked.” Alex’s jaw slowly gaped open as he stared at his shaved face. He looked exactly like Auntie Flora.
“Go ahead and laugh.” Magnus snorted. “Get it out of your system, then say what you came to say and leave.”
“You shaved.”
“And you’re a numpty.” He launched himself out of the chair and punched the wall. A bit of plaster cracked off and fell on the slate floor.
“Have a care, man.”
He shook out the pain in his hand. “The doctor scalped me.”
“I forgot what you looked like.” One side of Alex’s mouth kicked up in a lopsided grin. “Havenae seen your face since we were lads.”
“I know, I know. I’m just as ugly now as I was then. Go ahead and say it, then say what you came to tell me and get out.”
“Well, I wouldnae say you’re as pretty as me, but—”
“Bloody hell, man, what do you want?”
Alex picked up one of the breeder’s manuals from his table. “Still dreaming about a stud farm?”
“It’s no’ a dream.” He swiped the book from Alex’s hand. “I’m buying Graham Ogilvy’s farm.”
“The one north of Latheron?”
“Aye. Seventy-two acres. He said he’d wait to sell until I had the blunt.” He ground out, “What do you want? I’m busy.”
“Fine.” Alex put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. “Can you take the ladies to Wick next week Thursday? There’s an itinerant comes on market day. He sells spectacles. Lady Langley needs some before she gets lost or walks off a cliff.”
Lady Langley. The reminder of her title fueled his irritation. “Why me? Why not you or Ian?”
“Ian and his new crew are attempting to sail the ship into Thurso. Hopefully, they willnae sink our investment. Friday next is quarter day for me and Da. And Declan…well, he’s new married, ken? You’ve got to give him time alone with Caya. They’re just settling.”
“They were handfast nearly two weeks ago. Does it take twelve days to bed a lass?”
“It’s Declan, remember?” Alex laughed at his own joke.
He couldn’t help being amused, too. They’d tortured Declan for years. He’d always insisted he understood women better than any of them because he had two sisters, but the man was clueless when it came to women. “God. If he hasnae figured it out by now, there’s no hope for him.”
“In any case, why would you pass up a chance to be with the ladies? They’re all fine looking, and keen to make time with you, it seems.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” He took three threatening steps toward Alex. If the man meant to rile him, he’d go home without his teeth.
“Nothing. Bloody hell, man. Have you got nettles in your trousers?”
“No, but you’ll have my boot up your arse if ye dinnae stop vexing me.”
“Forget it. I’ll ask Declan.” Alex left the cottage.
Magnus followed him outside. “Wait. Did you ken she was married?”
“Lady Langley? Aye. She told everyone Wednesday.”
“Why did you no’ tell me?”
“When? This is the first I’ve seen you since we took the ship.” Alex lingered as if their business wasn’t finished. “Lucy knew her from London. Did you ken that?”
His spine straightened. “Is that so?”
Alex smiled ruefully at the raspberry bush. “Lady Langley married the man Lucy was infatuated with—the frigging viscount.” Alex shook his head. “God, I was so jealous of that prat and I’d never even met him.” Alex kicked a stone and squinted up at him. “Funny thing is, Lucy thinks something’s amiss with the lass.”
“Oh, aye?” He stepped closer not wanting to miss anything Alex was about to reveal.
“Miss Mary and Lady Charlotte sent letters to their families as soon as they got to Balforss, they both being eager to return home. The viscountess has sent no messages. Every day Lucy asks her, and every day she thinks of another reason to delay. Lucy says it’s almost like she doesnae want to go home.”
“Why would she no’ want to g
o back to her husband?”
“Dinnae ken. But Lucy, the nosy wee bizzum, plans to find out.”
Damn if he didn’t plan to find out as well. He scratched his stubble. By next Thursday, his beard should have filled in well enough he wouldn’t feel so self-conscious. “I’ll do it.”
“What?”
“I’ll take the ladies to Wick.”
…
The Wednesday before their trip to Wick marked their nineteenth day of deliverance. Virginia had gotten used to counting her days of incarceration and couldn’t break the habit, so she continued by counting her days of freedom. Today, Flora was teaching them how to braid candle wicks. She and Lucy, avid beekeepers, made candles and honey for Balforss. According to Flora, in another month their summer work would begin.
“The bees will have made enough honey to harvest. In the meantime, we need to prepare by making plenty of wicks.”
“I hear a carriage,” Virginia said.
“I swear you have the hearing of a cat.” Lucy went to peer out the front window. “Are you expecting anyone?” she asked Flora.
“No. See anyone yet?”
“A gentleman. He’s driving a smart-looking gig.” Lucy turned back to the table of women and shrugged. “I don’t recognize him.”
The driver called out, “Whoa.” The gig squeaked and jangled to a stop. “Mary!”
Mary’s head popped up from her work.
“Mary Tucker!”
Having tossed what was in her hands on the table, Mary bolted from her chair, ran through the entry hall, and flung open the front door shouting, “Robbie!”
Flora, Lucy, and Charlotte raced to the entry with Virginia stumbling after them.
“Who’s Robbie?” Flora asked.
“I think that would be her brother from Edinburgh,” Virginia said. Peeking over Lucy’s shoulder, she could only see one big shape outside in the sun, but she heard Mary sobbing and a man, presumably Robbie, comforting her. In the whole time Mary had been aboard the Tigress, she’d never wept. Not one tear. Until now. Safe in her brother’s arms.
Forgetting the Scot Page 6
