What a blackguard, Ian thought. No one could better his father with the use of words. In one short speech, he’d managed to make Alanna appear guilty and soiled and deceitful, ungrateful and petty and promiscuous.
At some point her hands had clutched him. Now her fingers fell away, and she stared up and over Ian’s shoulder as pale as if she had seen a ghost. “The herbs,” she whispered.
Through her, Ian lived again the shock he’d felt on seeing his dying father returned to his former vindictive fervor. Had it been the herbs that had brought Leslie to his feet? Perhaps, but more likely the devil had resurrected him for one last destructive frolic.
Ian chafed her hand until she turned shock-glazed eyes on him. Then he smiled as if Leslie could be dismissed with a shrug.
She had blushed with mortification when he had pulled away from her. Now she blushed again in remembrance, and Ian could have cursed aloud. He was in an agony of wanting, but he had thought that with his father here, the condition would quickly be remedied.
Not so. Not with her cheeks flushed and her hair mussed from his fingers. He’d be lucky if he could ever stand again.
She seemed to gain strength from him, for she spoke steadily. “I’ve not been far, Mr. Fairchild. You could have found me if you’d looked.”
Ian twisted, careful not to display his erection to his father, and looked up. The old man was held upright by two trembling servants, and his eyes were narrowed on the two of them as if he could read in their faces the events of the last glorious moments. “You’ve come back prepared to honor our betrothal.”
Her hand jerked in Ian’s. “Nay.”
“No.” Ian spoke even more emphatically than she, but he did so pleasantly. “She’s mine, Father.”
One of the men who held Leslie gasped aloud, and Alanna tried to wrench her hand from his grasp. He held Leslie’s gaze, and he held on to her.
“Yours?” Leslie rapped. “By what right is she yours?”
“I take my rights, you know that.”
“Take your…” Leslie’s color fluctuated alarmingly. “You mean…you’ve had her?”
“Nay!” Alanna fought for her hand.
Ian wouldn’t grant her even that small victory. He pressed himself against her as she sat, and said to his father, “In every way possible.”
“How could you?” Leslie asked.
“I didn’t.” Alanna tried to claw Ian with her fingernails.
He wrapped her hands into fists and held them. “I was a thorough cad. She had no choice.”
“He didn’t,” Alanna reiterated.
Ian believed the drugs had muddled her memory of the previous night. The drugs, and her own denial—as if denying what had happened would change the truth. But he had taken her, and he would claim her. Catching her gaze, he compelled reminiscence. “Didn’t I?”
Her lids drooped, her lips opened; she looked for a moment like a woman recalling ecstasy.
“Damn it!”
Leslie’s curse snapped her back to the present, and she glared at Ian. “I don’t remember anything.”
“A likely story,” Leslie snapped. “You’re a prosperous piece of property, but I’ll have no goods used first by my son.”
Alanna shoved Ian aside and surged to her feet as if temper had cured her ankle. “I am not a piece of property. I am the lady of Fionnaway, a direct descendent of the first MacLeod. I will choose the man I wish to marry, and until I’ve chosen, you can both hang by your toes.”
From the door came a round of applause. “Brava, cousin!” Brice strolled into the chamber, Edwin on his heels. “Well said! Edwin and I are here to uphold you for as long as you need us.”
Brice was smirking like a cat with a day-old fish, but his jacket was rumpled and bespoke a hurried dash to confirm the rumor of her return. He didn’t demand to know where she’d been; that didn’t matter as much as how her return would affect him and his fortunes.
“With succor like that—” she began hotly. Then she took a step. She kicked the basin, and warm water splashed out.
Ian watched in fascination as she took a long breath. Her flush faded and her fists loosened. She glanced at him as if remembering his admonition about Brice and his intentions—was it only this morning he had spoken to her? She rearranged her features into a polite smile. She fought for control, and Ian approved. Her temper proved her passionate caring, and it could be turned to better uses.
But Brice stepped closer and grabbed her arm so hard she bruised. “Where have you been, cousin?” he asked in a low voice. “Have you disgraced the name of MacLeod?”
“Nay!” She tried to free herself, but he hung on and glared. “I’ve done nothing indecorous.” She raked him, and his London-style clothes, with a look of disdain. “Can you say the same, cousin?”
“What I do is of no concern to a woman,” he said. “What the lady of Fionnaway does is of concern to us all.”
“You haven’t changed, Brice,” she said. “You’re still a pompous ass.”
“Maybe so, but there’s a reckoning to be had,” he answered ominously.
At this confirmation of his warning, Alanna glanced at Ian, then turned her gaze away. She wrestled herself free of Brice’s grip, then beckoned to the least lethal male in the chamber. “Cousin Edwin! How good to see you. Would you perhaps give me your arm? I have sprained my ankle.”
Edwin beamed as he bounded forward and offered his arm. “Of course, cousin. I’d be delighted to assist you.”
“I’m glad someone here is happy to see me.” She glared at Brice, then leaned on Edwin heavily. “You always were the helpful one. Remember when we were children? When we’d fight, Brice could always beat both of us up.”
She was trying to exclude him, Ian realized, placing herself in the bosom of her family and making it clear he, and Leslie, were outsiders.
Brice swaggered a little. “Aye, I was always the better fighter.”
“You were always bigger than me and older than him,” Alanna said tartly.
“True.” Brice obviously saw no shame in either condition. “But the funny thing was, you could always thrash Edwin. Remember how he used to cry?”
“For God’s sake, Brice!” Edwin flushed a ruddy red.
“We used to have fun, didn’t we?” Alanna asked diplomatically.
“Sniveling coward, I thought,” Brice said.
Patting Edwin’s hand, Alanna tried to subdue her smile as she turned toward the door—and stopped.
Wilda stood framed in the doorway, her hair coifed, her dress pressed, wearing her pelisse and gloves for warmth.
Beside her, Alanna heard two simultaneous intakes of breath. She glanced at Edwin. His mouth hung open like a half-dead cod. She glanced at Brice. For the first time since she’d known him, she saw him with a man’s possessiveness adjoined to a mature determination.
Then the vision opened her mouth. “I wondered where the gentlemen had gone. I mean, it’s rather disconcerting to find oneself alone with the servants so suddenly when I have so much trouble understanding a word they say, although they try very hard to help me. So kind, they are, but my mother says my mind is less than brilliant and I suppose that’s true, although why she keeps telling me, I don’t understand, unless it’s that she thinks I didn’t understand the first time, which is silly, because I might not be too intelligent, but my hearing is very good.” She smiled at Alanna. “How’s your hearing?”
Buffeted, as always, by the flow of language, Alanna said only, “Excellent.”
“Oh, good. I think that’s so important for all your body to function, although, of course, I would never be unkind to those less fortunate than me. I mean, if I were a dog, I wouldn’t want people kicking me just because I didn’t speak English. Or maybe they do. I mean, I’ve never heard one speak it, but that’s not to say they don’t when they’re private.”
Ian chuckled with every evidence of delight, and Alanna glared as he smiled on his cousin.
In all her life, no on
e had ever called Alanna beautiful. Before meeting Wilda, Alanna had thought herself a practical woman, untouched by excessive vanity. She did not care if others saw her charm. But when Wilda was eighty, she would still have men fawning over her, and even now, Ian smiled at her, and Alanna suddenly, violently, wished to be beautiful.
But only a beast could be jealous of such a sweet woman. In desperation Alanna held out her hand. “I’m Alanna MacLeod, mistress of Fionnaway.”
Wilda curtsied, then grasped Alanna’s fingers with every evidence of pleasure and not an ounce of recognition. “Delighted to meet you. I’m Wilda Fairchild. I’m not a mistress or anything, but I’m a lady because my father is an earl, although you don’t need to call me lady because it’s so formal and I just know we’ll be friends.”
“Wilda.” Leslie used his most annoyed tone. “Stop talking!”
Wilda blanched and dropped Alanna’s hand. “Yes, Uncle.”
Leslie’s voice rose. “You are the most annoying—”
“To say Wilda is annoying when she talks is like saying the ocean roars during a storm.” Ian strolled over, took Wilda’s flapping hand, and bowed over it. “It is an injustice to the music of nature.”
Alanna tried to decide if Wilda had been insulted or rescued, but Wilda clearly had not caught any subtle nuance. She clung to Ian and smiled, showing perfect white teeth and a perfectly placed dimple. “You are so sweet to me. You’re always so sweet to me.” To Alanna she said, “He’s so nice. Isn’t he nice?”
Ian grinned at Alanna as she struggled to answer. What he’d done to her in this very chamber hadn’t been nice; it had been magnificent, and she could scarcely look him in the eye at the memory.
“Of course you think he’s nice,” Wilda said comfortably. “All women think he’s nice.”
Brice apparently decided the vision had ignored him long enough, for he hurried to Wilda’s side. “I’m nice, too!”
“And I!” Edwin dropped Alanna’s hand and shoved Ian aside so he could gaze soulfully at Wilda.
That left Alanna teetering on one foot and at the mercy of the still-grinning Ian, who abandoned his cousin quite readily to come to her side.
“Perhaps, my lady, you would allow me to escort you to the grand hall?” He presented his hand.
She looked at it. She hopped a little as her balance shifted.
“Just taking my hand won’t compromise you,” he said persuasively.
“No, you’ve already done that.” With his words. But more, he’d caressed her breasts right here in this chamber. He’d handled her as if he had the right, as if he’d done it before, as if he were confident she would enjoy it. By the stones, was she as easy as her cousin feared?
“I compromised you to save you from my father.”
“You compromised me so you would have a claim on Fionnaway.”
“I am the lesser of two evils, surely.” Ian wasn’t smiling anymore.
He hadn’t denied her charge. He wanted her lands, and unfortunately, she understood. Who wouldn’t want Fionnaway? Just walking through the door of Fionnaway Manor soothed an ache in her soul.
Glancing at Leslie, she saw that he scrutinized them. Slowly she laid her palm in Ian’s.
“She doesn’t act like a woman who’s been pleasured,” Leslie snapped.
Ian’s reply was uncompromising. “She’s mine.”
Alanna tried to jerk her hand back, but he held it firmly between both of his. He warmed it, then carried it to his mouth. The touch of his lips against her fingers, the way he watched her from beneath dark brows, reminded her of a dream, and to her embarrassment a blush worked its way up to the top of her forehead.
Ian observed, and his smile returned. “Mine,” he said for her ears only.
Leslie watched as Alanna limped out, leaning heavily on Ian. He watched as Wilda smiled at Edwin, as her smile widened when she looked at Brice. He saw Edwin’s expression as he realized that, once again, his older brother was winning all, and Leslie called, “Edwin!”
The lad was too polite to ignore him. “Sir?”
“These servants are so clumsy.” Leslie swatted them away. “Would you be so kind as to help me to my bed? I suspect I’ve overextended myself this day.”
“Of course, sir,” Edwin answered, but he couldn’t take his gaze off Wilda as she laid her dainty hand on Brice’s arm. Her eyes lowered modestly, then at a word from Brice, she glanced up and gurgled with laughter. Together they left the study, and Edwin’s expression would have done justice to an assassin—or a Fairchild.
“Your brother and Wilda make the couple, Edwin, eh?” Leslie smiled and tottered artistically.
Edwin leaped forward, arm extended.
Leslie took it and leaned heavily. “Do you have a home of your own?”
Edwin stiffened against Leslie’s side. “No, sir, why?”
“Obviously you won’t be able to live with them when they’re wed.” Leslie turned his head and smiled at Edwin, but Edwin’s shock was such he could not smile back. Leslie’s smile widened. “We need to talk, you and I. We have much in common.”
Alanna sat in her bedchamber, the account books in her lap, her foot propped up on a padded ottoman.
Armstrong stood before her, twisting his cap and waiting as her finger traveled down the line of debits and credits for the past three years.
“I don’t know why it should surprise me that more money has gone out than has come in.” She picked up a particularly galling dun from a tailor in London. “This bill is almost two years old.”
“’Tis from Mr. Fairchild’s last visit t’ England.” Armstrong looked as dour as she felt. “He hasn’t been well enough t’ go since, and it’s grateful we should be, m’lady.”
“How does a man dare come to a thriving estate like Fionnaway and use up its resources in such a flurry it can scarcely recover?” Picking up the wad of bills, she shook it, wishing it were Mr. Fairchild’s throat. “He’s spent thousands of pounds on every conceivable luxury and not put one cent back into the lands.” She plucked one particularly offensive charge from the stack. “Four hundred pounds on shoes in the last year when he can scarcely walk?”
“I know, m’lady, but what could I do? I canna restrain a man such as that.”
Her rage had made Armstrong feel at fault, and she never meant that to happen. “Of course not. He would have discharged you, or worse. No, Armstrong, I knew before I left that with you in charge, you’d do your best for Fionnaway.”
“I have tried. But begging yer pardon, there are things which need t’ be done. The horse barn lost a good portion o’ the roof in that last big storm o’ winter. It needs replacing before winter returns or we’re going t’ lose some prime horseflesh.”
She remembered Ian’s comment that the stables needed work. It seemed he had been right—and she hated that. He’d said more, too, so she asked, “I heard there was trouble with some of the crofters.”
Armstrong looked surprised. “Ye’ve been paying attention, haven’t ye, m’lady?”
“As much as possible,” she mumbled, embarrassed to be using Ian’s information but not enough to acknowledge the source.
“Aye, that same storm did damage t’ a lot o’ our farmers who live far out in the hills where there’s damned little cover. They’re scarcely scratching out a living, much less able t’ rethatch their roofs. And do ye remember the terracing I discussed with ye before ye left?”
Alanna did; Armstrong hoped to try terracing on some of the hills to see if they could increase Fionnaway’s arable lands. “Money existed for it once. But don’t tell me—it’s gone for shoes now.”
Her gaze dropped once more to the books, and nothing could change the grim truth. She’d told herself it didn’t matter that she had left. She’d told herself that Fionnaway was just as well off as if she’d been in charge. But she’d lied, created a falsehood to lighten her guilt. If she’d stayed, she would have had to marry Mr. Fairchild, true, but Fionnaway and her people would not have b
een neglected.
“Fionnaway needs an infusion of capital,” she muttered. “How much do we need?”
“Four stones worth,” he answered, then added bluntly, “Na little gems, either.”
Standing, she limped to the fireplace and counted the bricks. Twelve down. Four over. Using the poker, she pried a rough brick out of its place among the others.
Armstrong watched, as he always did; he was the MacLeod safeguard, one of a long line of serving men or women who knew the secret.
Taking the hot pad, she reached in and brought out the box. Carved of plain gray stone, it was as old as the pact, a remnant of the days when beasties walked the earth and man kept only a precarious toehold among the forests. Carrying the box to the table, she set it down.
Armstrong moved to shield her and the box from the view of any who would dare enter without knocking. “I’ve kept the fire burning here night and day. They should be warm enough.”
Wetting her finger, Alanna lightly touched the box. “It’s cooling.” While they waited, she said in a monotone, “You know what to do. Take the stones to Edinburgh. If he swears to keep quiet, sell them to the jeweler you sold them to before. Otherwise, find another man. And watch for treachery on your way back. They’ve tried to follow you before.”
“That’s why I’m the safeguard, m’lady. No one follows me if I dunna wish him t’.” He started to say something, then hesitated.
“Go on,” she encouraged him.
“Grace and I have the seven children, m’lady, and I’m getting on in age.”
She looked at him, surprised. Armstrong? Getting on in age? But he had always been her support: strong, firm, knowing his duties and helping her with hers.
“I’m na on my deathbed yet, so ye have no need t’ look at me like that.” He nodded at her. “But ’tis time t’ train a successor. Just as I am the safeguard who will pass on the traditions o’ the pact should something happen t’ the MacLeod, so there must be someone who can take my place.”
She saw the gray hairs, the wrinkles around his eyes, and realized he spoke the truth. He was in his prime now; in ten years he would not be, and the pact was too important to allow sentiment to disable it. “Have you picked one of your children t’ take your place?”
A Well Favored Gentleman Page 12
