Forgetting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Afterward, he remained seated in the shade of the oak, she kneeling behind him, raking her fingers through his hair into a queue, a sensation almost as good as sex. He hated himself, but only a little. He’d behaved like a huge, rutting beast, but he wasn’t sorry. Not really. Not as sorry as he should be.

  “Let me see your neck, love.” He tipped her chin up and looked for the telltale markings of his coarse beard.

  “Do I have another rash?”

  “Nae. I was careful this time.”

  She laughed at him. “Well, you were careful not to scratch my neck with your beard.”

  His heart tripped over a lump of shame in his chest. “Was I too rough?”

  “I wouldn’t call it rough. You were ardent,” she said in her bedroom voice. “I like that.”

  And he got hard all over again.

  On the walk back to the coach, she used the dunny while he ducked into the inn and refilled his whisky flask. When the men climbed into the coach, she was waiting inside, spectacles on her nose, bonnet on her head, all put together, but underneath those skirts, he had marked her, and the knowledge made his insides thrum with satisfaction.

  FitzHarris held up a bundle of four meat pies. “Something for the road. We’ll probably miss our supper.”

  “Thank you, Mr. FitzHarris,” she said.

  The driver cracked his whip, and the coach lurched into motion. Leaning an elbow on the ledge of the open window, Magnus rested his cheek on his fist, smiling to himself. Her scent still lingered on his fingers.

  The passengers fell silent on the final leg of the journey. The roads were relatively good and the coach well sprung. Before long, all but Magnus had dozed off. He stayed awake, enjoying the slight weight of Virginia’s head on his shoulder. But the closer they got to the city, the more he tensed. He’d never been entirely comfortable in large cities like Inverness or Edinburgh, but at least the faces, the speech, the customs, the food—they were familiar. This place, London, was something altogether different. Bigger, darker, dirtier.

  If he was at home, he’d feel confident. At home, he knew the rules. He was in command of himself and others, had the support of his cousins, his family, his clan. At home, he could blend in with the heather if he needed to. Here, in this city seething with people, air so thick with smoke you could hardly breathe, he stuck out. London made him seem clumsy. He was big, often misjudged the boundaries of his body, but he was never clumsy with a sword or a woman in hand.

  The sound of the road changed as the coach rolled over Blackfriar’s Bridge, rousing the other passengers to wake and stretch.

  “Are we here?” Snowdon asked through a yawn.

  “Just crossing the Thames,” Magnus said.

  “What is the time?” Virginia asked.

  “About half eight.”

  FitzHarris made a grand show of removing his gold time piece. “It’s…eight thirty-one exactly.”

  “That’s what I just said.” Magnus gave him a look that would make most men flinch, but it had no effect on Goo. Jesus. Did being in this blasted city sap him of all his power?

  “I’ll get out here, actually.” Snowdon banged on the ceiling. “My rooms aren’t far. I can walk the rest of the way.” When the coach pulled to a stop, Magnus followed Snowdon out and helped the clerk retrieve his valise from up top.

  FitzHarris leaned out the coach window. “Snowman, we’ll pay a visit to your law shop tomorrow morning. Let Bagley, or Bugley, or Whatsit know.”

  Magnus shook Snowdon’s hand. “I owe you.”

  Snowdon stood at attention, adding an inch to his boyish frame. “All in the line of duty, sir.” He bowed to the coach. “Good night, Your Ladyship, Mr. FitzHarris.” He bowed to Magnus. “Good night, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Magnus climbed back into the coach. “Will the wee one be all right on his own?”

  “He should be fine. It’s us I’m worried about,” FitzHarris said. “My father’s London home is shut up tight, for the Season is over. Sinclair and I can stay at my club, but if your aunt Mina doesn’t receive us, I’m at a loss as to where to take you, Lady Langley.”

  “It’s not Mina you have to get past. It’s our butler, Garfield. He’s wary of strangers. He’ll let me in, of course. He likes me.”

  Goo added a cheery, “I’m sure he’ll let me in. Everyone likes me.”

  “Is that so?” Magnus said. “Tell me, is it that fool grin they like or your irritating personality?”

  Goo leaned back and laughed. “Both, I should say.”

  Virginia gave Magnus a cursory look. If she was assessing his ability to impress Garfield, she looked doubtful.

  The buildings got taller, the streets got narrower, and the smell got more rank. The stench of cack and dead things made him want to hold his nose. Just when he thought he might lose his meat pie, a blessed gust of wind sprayed them with cool rain. He leaned his face out. “Thank God.”

  “Sinclair, fasten the shade before Lady Langley gets soaked and catches her death.”

  “I’ll be fine.” The sound of Virginia’s low chuckle took the edge off his nerves. “Just close the windows on your side, Mr. FitzHarris. The rain isn’t coming in on Mr. Sinclair’s side. It’s so hot, we need to breathe.”

  A quarter of an hour later, the coach jangled to a stop, and FitzHarris lifted the shade. “Ah, here we are.”

  …

  Virginia remained in the coach while Magnus and Mr. FitzHarris helped the driver unload the bags. The light summer shower had become a driving rain, and the men’s shouts were partially lost in the deluge. She stared up at the black lacquered door to 28 St. James Street. Home. And yet she felt like a stranger.

  Shuddering waves of trepidation left her insides vibrating. What if Langley had sold the house or rented it to another family? What if Aunt Mina and Garfield weren’t here? Worse, what if Langley was?

  Magnus flung open the coach door and reached in for her hand. As soon as she stepped out, he removed his coat and held it over her head to shield her from the rain. The climb up the four steps felt like forty, her legs having gone weak and trembly like jellied fruit. Everyone in London, everyone she’d known before, believed her a fraud. Even she had begun to doubt if she was real. She didn’t feel like herself. Would Garfield know her? Would he turn them away?

  Please, let us in.

  Magnus banged the knocker hard three times. It echoed down the darkened street.

  Please, let us in.

  He tried again.

  Let us in, let us in, let us in.

  Mr. FitzHarris jogged up the steps behind them. “Have you tried the knocker?”

  Magnus growled and reached for the brass ring again, but the door swung open and the tall silhouette of a man appeared. He said nothing. Just stood there.

  “Garfield, it’s me, Virginia.” Her voice thin and childlike. Still he didn’t answer.

  FitzHarris shouted, “Dash it all, Garfield, let us in. We’re drowning out here.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Garfield stepped aside and they stumbled in from the rain. The men stomped and shook out their clothes, but Virginia fastened her gaze on Garfield. In the narrow and dimly lit entry, she saw his normally inscrutable face ripple.

  “Lady Langley.” His old voice warbled slightly. “You’re back. We thought you lost forever.” He sniffed and straightened, regaining his butlerish demeanor. “Welcome home, Your Ladyship.” He turned to Magnus and Mr. FitzHarris and raised a fluffy white eyebrow.

  Still stomping and shaking, Mr. FitzHarris handed Garfield his hat without looking. Garfield wordlessly took it and hung it on the tree. The rain seemed to have missed Mr. FitzHarris almost entirely, for he didn’t look much worse for the wear.

  Magnus, however, looked like a wet bear. His shirt and trousers were soaked through, his hair clung in damp ringlets to his forehead and cheeks, and water dripped from the chin of his beard. He offered Garfield his coat, now looking more like a wet blanket. Garfield took it with two fingers and dangled
it away from himself as if it held vermin, then resignedly draped the coat over his arm and mumbled something about hanging it to dry.

  The driver set the last piece of luggage inside the door, and Mr. FitzHarris handed him coin.

  “Who are these people, Your Ladyship?” Garfield asked, as if she’d brought stray dogs with her.

  Mr. FitzHarris stepped forward. “Lord Bulford.”

  Virginia turned, surprised. “Forgive me. I…didn’t realize.”

  Bulford, as she should correctly refer to him, gave a shrug of modesty. “Courtesy title recently bestowed. Even I’m not used to it.”

  Garfield tipped his head back and stared down his nose at Bulford.

  “Lord Bulford is the brother of a dear friend of mine,” she continued, “and this man is Mr. Magnus Sinclair. He rescued me. I owe him my life.”

  She smiled her adoration up at the big Scot, but Magnus had fixed on the old pewter button Garfield always had pinned to his coat. “A memento,” was all he would say when she had questioned him about it as a child. Garfield must have noticed, too, because his brow had knotted into a furious frown.

  Magnus pointed an accusing finger at the button with the number “71” etched in the center. “Fraser’s Highlanders?” he asked incredulously.

  Surprised, Garfield clicked his heels to attention and rattled off, “Sergeant Percy Garfield, 71st Regiment of Foot.” He glared at Magnus as if challenging him to doubt it.

  Magnus lifted his chest. “Corporal Magnus Sinclair, His Majesty’s Royal Highland Regiment, 42nd Foot.”

  They remained motionless for a half second, then relaxed and shook hands, smiling as if greeting a long-lost friend. Magnus never ceased to amaze her.

  “How is it you served in a Highland regiment?” Magnus asked. “You’re English.”

  “After my parents died, I went to live with my aunt in Aberdeenshire. My cousin and I took the king’s silver in seventeen seventy-seven. Eleven years combat, all in America.” In less than a minute, Garfield had disclosed more about his personal life to Magnus than he had in the entire twenty-odd years he’d worked for the Whitebridge family.

  “Two years in Spain was all I had the stomach for,” Magnus said.

  “I say now, could we tell our war stories somewhere closer to a fire. I’m deuced cold, and Her Ladyship must be exhausted.”

  Magnus and Garfield cut Bulford a withering look, but being who he was and what he was, the lethal gaze simply bounced off the man just as the rain had. Still, he deserved a bit of rescuing. “Lord Bulford is right, Garfield. We are road weary and hungry.”

  She’d rarely seen Garfield smile, but tonight, his cloudy eyes crinkled when he said, “I’ll tell the household you’ve returned. They’ll be very pleased.”

  “And Aunt Mina?”

  “She’s retired for the evening, my lady.”

  “Just as well. Will you ask Cook for tea and something warm?”

  “Right away, my lady.”

  “Oh, and it’s very important the servants not tell anyone I’ve returned. No one must know.”

  Garfield flicked a look at Bulford and back before bowing. “Of course, my lady.”

  Virginia led the way to the parlor, headed straight to her aunt’s favorite chair, and sank into its upholstered cushions with an unladylike sigh. She removed her spectacles and massaged the bridge of her nose.

  Magnus went immediately to poke up the fire while Bulford prowled the perimeter. “I could really use a drink. How ’bout you, Sinclair?”

  Virginia pointed to a cabinet. “Aunt Mina keeps her brandy in there.”

  Magnus set the poker aside, propped his hands on his hips, and cocked his head at an irritated angle. “You’re a bloody viscount, too?”

  “The rank is more like the younger son of a marquess. Like I said, courtesy title only.” He poured a splash into three glasses. “Although, I do expect a barony very soon. House of Lords, and all that.” He handed her a glass and then one to Magnus. “What shall we toast to?”

  “Victory,” Magnus said flatly.

  As if Magnus hadn’t said anything, Bulford said, “I know. Let’s toast to the beautiful Lady Langley, may she prevail. Cheers.”

  “Slainte mhath.” Magnus swallowed what was in his glass and made a face. “Och, that’s sweet.” He left the parlor and returned with a small silver flask. “Whisky.”

  “Ah, yes. The preferred spirit of the Scots,” Bulford announced.

  Magnus offered her some but she demurred. He poured a finger in Bulford’s glass. “Uisge-beatha. The Water of Life.” He poured another in his. “Slainte,” he said, and swallowed the golden liquid.

  Bulford tipped the contents of his glass into his mouth and took a bold swallow, then bent over and wheezed. “My God,” he choked, “that’s dashed powerful.”

  Magnus flashed Virginia a smile and winked.

  After a moment, Bulford straightened and the pained expression on his face cleared. “I say, that stuff is quite the restorative. I feel much better, actually.”

  …

  A belly full of tasty leek soup and cheese sandwiches kept Magnus’s nerves at bay. Logic told him that, until Langley was notified of Virginia’s arrival, she was safe. Yet, she had written to her aunt Mina. The woman might have mentioned something to Langley. He could have spies watching the house.

  Tomorrow’s plans were set. He and Lord Bullhead—or whatever the hell his new name was—would meet with Snowdon first thing in the morning. Once the letter was finished and approved, they would deliver it to Langley personally. Magnus was looking forward to seeing the prat with his own eyes. A chance to size up his opponent.

  When Garfield entered the parlor to collect the tray of empty plates and tea cups, Virginia held the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. He’d watched her sleep last night aboard Gael Forss. It seemed like days ago, so much had happened since the sun had risen on England.

  “Go on to bed,” he said in a low voice, one meant for her ears only.

  “I’m for Bedfordshire, as well.” Bullhead butted in. “You can stay at my club in town tonight, Sinclair.”

  “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

  “But you need to sleep,” Virginia pleaded.

  “I can sleep here, in this chair. It’s comfortable enough.”

  Garfield set the tray down. “My Lady, may I speak?”

  “Of course.”

  The old soldier turned to him. “I gather you believe Lady Langley is in danger, sir.”

  “Langley is responsible for her abduction. He sent men to Scotland to try and kill her.” He added for Bullhead’s benefit, “They’re dead now.”

  “I know it may be difficult for you to believe,” Virginia said to Garfield. “But it’s true. We don’t know all the details, as yet. But it is abundantly clear, Langley is guilty of wrong-doing.”

  Garfield silently crossed the room to the bookcase and took a large wooden box from the top shelf. “You only confirm what I’ve long suspected, my lady.” He set the box down on the writing desk, opened it, and withdrew one of two dueling pistols. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I have never liked your husband. I knew from the start he was unworthy of your hand.” They all three watched in quiet fascination as Garfield quickly and skillfully loaded the firearm. “Rest assured that I will be on guard tonight. Nothing and no one will harm Lady Langley. You may take the watch tomorrow evening, if you wish, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Normally, Magnus would have objected, but he respected Garfield. He was a fellow soldier, and he obviously knew how to handle a weapon.

  “Thanks. I’ll sleep well knowing she’s safe in your hands, sir.”

  Garfield wordlessly acknowledged the gift of trust.

  Bullhead launched himself from the sofa where he’d been stretched out for the last half hour. He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Now that that’s settled, let’s be off, Sinclair. Grab our bags and I’ll go find a hack.” He bowed to Virginia. “Good night, Lady Langley.
With any luck, at this time tomorrow we will be celebrating your victory.” He sauntered out of the room.

  Virginia hadn’t put her spectacles on again, and dark circles under her eyes had appeared. Magnus marveled at her strength. Another woman would have whined and moaned about the hardship of their day. But she hadn’t made one complaint. “I’ll be going then.”

  “I’ll see you to the door.” She went to him and twined her slender arm in his, not even caring that Garfield saw the affection she showed him. At the door, she smiled up at him. “Try not to give Bulford too hard a time. He means well.”

  “I’d rather sleep on your doorstep in the rain than set foot in some English gentlemen’s club.”

  She rose up on her toes. “I bet they have whisky there,” she said in a sultry voice.

  “The only thing that would make me like it is if you were there.” Magnus leaned toward her sweet lips, but the maid came trompsing down the staircase. Virginia stepped away from him.

  “Your room’s ready, m’lady.”

  “Thank you, Iris.”

  “Glad to have you back.” Iris bobbed a curtsy and scurried off.

  As soon as he resumed his quest for her lips, the front door opened and Bull stuck his bloody head in. “Chop-chop, Sinclair. I’ve found us a ride.”

  Quickly, before another person interrupted them, he bent and kissed her until she came up breathless. Just how he liked her. “Dinnae fash, a leannan. I will fix this. I will set things right.”

  She clutched his shirt sleeve. “Magnus, please. Remember your promise. Don’t do anything rash.”

  He punched his way into his wet coat and collected their bags. When he opened the door to leave, she tugged on his sleeve.

  “I’ll return tomorrow. Sleep well, love.”

  “Magnus, I…I…”

  “What?”

  Her delicate eyebrows drew together. “Good luck.” Ah, she was worried for him, bonnie lass.

  “I’ll take it, even though I dinnae need it.”

  Bull waited for him in a small coach. He tossed the bags inside and took a good long look up and down the street. No shadows. No dark figures lurking about. Christ, he hoped Garfield knew what he was doing. He squeezed inside the pathetically small space and sat knee to knee with Bull. He had to admit, the man was well set, tall, though not as tall as him, and fit, though not nearly as strong as he was. Bull had that artificial elegance that titled Englishman affected. They all looked like they were walking with a stick up their arse. In Magnus’s opinion, true elegance was in the masterful handling of a sword.