An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  Soon, Matthew would begin to compliment her on her skill at cozening someone, or her adept handling of a certain delicate matter between two of his operatives.

  She was on her way to becoming his Mother Superior, while he had always been Machiavelli.

  “I know why you’re here,” she said. “I saw her arrive.”

  “Ah, yes, the Raven. Your son’s ship.”

  She would not allow him to see any reaction to his words. Instead, she sipped her coffee, wished him to perdition, and made sure her eyes met his over the edge of the cup.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” she said, placing the cup on the saucer and reaching for her napkin. “But, then, Lennox was always a talented designer. He far exceeded William in that.”

  “I told him about you.”

  She didn’t say a word. She’d had years of burying her emotions behind a calm facade. She was an expert at hiding strong feelings, especially those that would defeat another, less skilled actress.

  That’s what she was, when it was distilled to its finest drop. She was an actress on a stage of politics and upheaval and had been since she left Scotland.

  Ten years ago she’d been living a relatively pleasant life in New York. She’d taken up causes that had been important to her while living in sin with a man five years younger. He’d been an artist, an impecunious one with a love of opium which he believed summoned forth the greatness of his talent. All it had done was make him a blithering fool who depleted their available funds and made it necessary for her to find employment.

  She’d never been the millinery type. Nor had she any desire to work in a factory. She’d found herself in the curious position of becoming a whore.

  Not a common whore, by any means, but one with a growing clientele, some of whom were active in city politics. The more exclusive she became, the more she was sought after. Evidently, men’s egos were salved if they could say they’d bedded Margret, the name she’d taken in the role she played.

  Nothing more than Margret. Her notes had a single M embossed on them. When she sent one of them to a man who’d solicited an evening, it was both an invitation and a bill.

  She’d gotten rid of the artist, moved to a better address, and took up causes that interested her. The irony of working side by side in the abolitionist movement with the wives of some of the men she bedded amused her. So, too, the fact that occasionally she was invited to dinner, to sit at the table of a man who’d begged her to use a whip on him the last time they were together.

  She might have continued as Margret had she not met Matthew Baumann.

  He used blackmail like a woman used perfume. A spot of it there, a dot of it here. Despite her fluency with accents, he’d discovered that she was Scots. Her true name had taken longer, but he’d no qualms about using the knowledge to get her to work with him.

  “Do you think I care what ­people think of me?” she’d asked on that long ago day.

  She’d smiled at him, she recalled, amused that he thought she could be manipulated.

  “I don’t believe you give a good goddamn about the world, madam,” he said, his mustache twitching with amusement. “But I think you care what your children think. Hardly fair for them to have a whore for a mother, is it?”

  Time stopped in that instant, although such a thing was impossible, of course. Yet in those moments when she kept smiling at him and his agreeable expression hadn’t altered, she envisioned his death at her hand. She’d stab him with something long and wickedly sharp, pierce the heart that existed only as an organ and not as a source of compassion or feeling. She’d watch him die in the ticking of a second and feel not one shred of remorse.

  The only regret she had when leaving Scotland all those years ago was that she knew she’d never see her children again. A woman who abandoned her children, her life, and her husband had no rights. She’d never be able to explain that she was trapped in a marriage that could never be anything more than it was. William would never be a different man and she couldn’t be the woman he deserved. She’d left. She’d left her darling son and daughter, knowing they’d be better off without her.

  In that moment when time had simply stopped, she recognized that Matthew Baumann meant what he said. He’d have no difficulty telling either Lennox or Mary what she was, what she’d become. He might even take delight in it.

  Perhaps she’d also recognized a kindred spirit in him, a creature who would do whatever it must to survive and thrive.

  Over the years, she’d passed on information from dozens of men. She’d even migrated to Washington, then to Virginia. With the war’s escalation, she found it more amenable to move to Nassau, where the Confederacy maintained such an obvious presence. From here she learned all manner of secrets: which ships were bound for the still open southern ports, what their cargo contained, and who captained them.

  Her penchant for bed sport, as he so charmingly called it, might have abated over time, but nothing had diminished her intellect.

  She knew exactly why Matthew had suddenly appeared in Nassau, just as she knew that the long ago wish to murder him was once again at the forefront of her mind.

  One thing he didn’t understand. She might have left her children behind, but she would do anything to protect them.

  Chapter 16

  Rose had always tried to look her best. She knew her hair was a drawback It was too brazen to be natural, too outlandish to be entirely proper. Her face was average, her nose and mouth neither too large nor too small. Her eyes were, perhaps, her best feature, but even they didn’t make up for her hair.

  She wanted Duncan to think her pretty, and the very thought made her feel silly and vulnerable.

  “Do you think I’m vain?” she asked.

  “You?” He studied her for a long moment. “I don’t know of anyone less vain.”

  Warmth filled her at his comment. At least he thought her rational and practical, perhaps.

  His hand cupped her cheek. “Especially as beautiful as you are.”

  She was being given her wish. Even if he didn’t mean it, for a man like Duncan to say something like that was a gift she couldn’t have expected and one she’d always remember.

  She placed her hand on his, pressed against it as if to embed the texture of his palm on her skin.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “You’re very kind.”

  “I’m not exceptionally kind,” he said. “I’m known as almost brutally honest.”

  “Not brutally, surely.”

  “I’m not talented in giving compliments. I should practice more. Shall I tell you about your gorgeous red hair? It reminds me of a sunrise. Or a sunset. Or your green eyes that always sparkle.”

  He was the one who was attractive. The kindest, most intelligent. She wanted to tell him the truth, to let him know everything. Perhaps then he wouldn’t think her beautiful at all.

  They were in Nassau. Close enough to the ending of it all that she could speak.

  “Duncan . . .” she began, wondering how to start.

  “Rose,” he said, smiling. “You’re as uncomfortable receiving compliments as I am in giving them.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “It’s my upbringing. My three brothers were forever teasing me about my hair.”

  “Glynis made my life miserable following me around. Of course, it was Lennox she wanted to bedevil, but she was a pest.”

  “Oh, dear, I confess to being exactly the same. I think I was more obnoxious to Jeremy than to Robert or Montgomery.” She shook her head. “Why do things have to change? Why do ­people have to die?”

  “War,” he said, extending his arm around her shoulders. “Chance. The ticking of the clock. A hundred reasons. A thousand. However many you want to claim. That’s why life should be enjoyed each second, don’t you think? Each moment. Each opportunity for happiness should be grabbed, and held onto
for memory’s sake, if nothing else.”

  For memory’s sake, what a lovely way to say it.

  She’d had few moments of happiness in the last two years. They’d come because of ­people she’d known, but not the ones she would have thought would bring her joy. Even her time with her niece was limited because of Bruce. He didn’t want her to “corrupt his child.” She recalled the laughter she’d shared with Maisie and the wisdom she received from Old Betsy. She’d received countless other acts of care and love from ­people who had nothing to give but the kindness in their hearts.

  Yet the happiest she’d been was in the last two weeks. First, with the Scottish MacIains and then with Duncan. As her companion, he’d made her smile. Their conversations had left her with thoughts to ponder. Simply being with him had led to long stretches of contentment. Occasionally, she’d felt her breath catch on a perfect instant of joy.

  Duncan MacIain had given her memories to seize and hold close.

  She turned her head and knew that what she was going to do was possibly foolish and certainly scandalous.

  She leaned nearer while still looking at him. Slowly, she closed her eyes and placed her mouth on his.

  “Rose.”

  He spoke a caution against her lips, but she ignored it. She wanted more memories, wanted to grab everything she could in these days left to her. Give her something to hold onto in the dark times that were sure to come.

  She placed both hands on either side of his face, held him still. His hands came up and removed hers. He held her captive, his eyes intent.

  “Don’t think me a saint, Rose, because I’m not.”

  “Good. I should think kissing a saint wouldn’t be at all enjoyable, do you? First, you’d have to apologize. Perhaps even say a prayer. I have no intentions of doing either, Duncan.”

  “I want you, Rose. If you start something, I may not be able to stop.”

  No one had ever wanted her before. No man had ever shocked her with those words.

  Slowly, she pulled her hands free, and he let her. The next action should be that she stood and walked into the bedroom, shutting and perhaps locking the door behind her. Did the door even have a lock? She hadn’t looked. If she used the lock, would it be to shut him out or to keep herself contained?

  He was going to leave her here in Nassau. Or she was going to convince him to take her to Charleston. Either way, only days remained before she was back at Glengarden.

  They were alone.

  They were finally alone and no one knew. There were no seamen around or Captain McDougal. No friends to witness anything. No family to be shocked. No one either of them knew.

  They were alone and the bed was huge and empty, beckoning to her.

  She’d never considered herself wicked before. Nor did it feel especially wrong to consider loving Duncan. Only somehow right, as if this night, this place, this very hour was destined to happen.

  She didn’t know if they would, separate or together, make it through the blockade. Tomorrow was amorphous and uncertain. They might die. Or be caught and imprisoned. She might be put in a situation where she could be assaulted simply because she was an available woman.

  She couldn’t bear going back to Glengarden without memories. Scandalous memories, perhaps. Even shocking ones. Memories of her acting in a way she’d never thought to behave, shedding her virtue like an article of clothing.

  Standing, she looked down at him. She’d never known anyone who could be so direct with a simple glance. It felt as if he peered into her soul, then swept the space to find anything she’d hidden there.

  “Give me a few minutes,” she said, uttering the words with a calm she didn’t feel. She was trembling, either from fear or daring, she didn’t know which.

  Turning, she left him, feeling his gaze on her. When she closed the bedroom door, she leaned her forehead against it, her breath coming in dizzying gasps.

  What was she doing?

  Doing what she wished for one of the few times in the last year. Doing what she wanted from the depths of her heart. If she lived to be as ancient as Old Betsy, she would always remember moving to the armoire and removing her dress and undergarments, folding them away with a precision she’d never had before, as if to mark each separate act.

  She donned her nightgown and walked into the bathroom. A little while later she removed the pins from her hair and brushed it slowly, watching herself in the mirror.

  Would he come to her? If he didn’t, what would she do? Go and kiss him again? Beg him with words she didn’t even know?

  How did you ask a man to love you?

  If he didn’t come to her, would she be able to face him again? Perhaps it was best that he intended to leave her here to obtain her own passage back to Charleston. Most of the steamers running the blockade took passengers. The cost was prohibitive, but what was the price for humiliation?

  She went to the bed, staring at it as if she’d never seen a bed before. Perhaps not one as ornately covered, with a coverlet sprinkled with silver thread. Netting hung from the ceiling and she pulled it free, stretching it around the mattress. Only then did she go to the door and open it wide, an invitation as blatant as calling out to Duncan.

  Should she? Were words necessary right now?

  Ducking beneath the netting, she pulled the sheets back, considered the open door and shocked herself by taking off her nightgown. Naked, there would be no doubt. Naked, words weren’t necessary.

  In seconds, it seemed, he appeared at the door, his shirt half unbuttoned.

  Her heart was in her throat. No, it had fallen to her feet. She couldn’t breathe for the excitement. Either that or terror. No, she wasn’t afraid of Duncan, only what he represented, perhaps. The unknown. Masculinity defined by a towering frame, a broad physique and strength.

  He’d extinguished the lamps in the sitting room. Only one light was left, the one on the low-­slung bureau. Were lights left on when ­couples mated? Was that part of the ritual? She didn’t know so many things, but she wasn’t an innocent, either.

  There was no privacy on a plantation. No discreet places for a ­couple to love when the mood struck them. She’d been an accidental voyeur on many occasions, enough to appreciate what was happening to her now.

  Her mind didn’t care that she was being unforgivingly brazen. Her body ruled, and it demanded that he join her, that he was the one she kissed, who felt her body, with whom she was intimate.

  “Rose.”

  Don’t speak. Don’t spoil the moment. Don’t lecture. Don’t be wise or decent. Just come to me.

  She didn’t say a word, only pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed.

  “Damn it, Rose.”

  She sat up, baring herself to the waist. His eyes feasted on her, heated her blood, tamed her fear and escalated her excitement.

  Patting the mattress, she looked directly at him.

  “I’m no damn saint,” he said as he ducked beneath the netting.

  “Well, thank heavens for that,” she said as he came to her. “Because I’m no angel.”

  HE WOULD worry about going to hell later. He’d donate a wing to a church. He’d give to the poor. At the moment, his body was silencing his mind, and although he should walk away, he also knew he had no intention of doing so.

  What man in his right mind would refuse the temptation of Rose, naked in bed, inviting him to join her?

  Not him. Not when she’d been in his thoughts, his dreams, ever since he’d seen her.

  This moment shouldn’t be happening, though.

  He should be counseling her on restraint. He should be sitting on the edge of the bed holding her hand, patiently explaining that the situation was impossible. He was about to run the blockade, and although he had faith in Captain McDougal, there was danger that he might be captured or killed.

  He shouldn’t
be removing his shirt, shoes, pants, and underclothes in record time, sliding beneath the sheet and pulling her atop him. He certain shouldn’t be kissing her until his head swam and any reasonable, rational thought was lost in lust.

  He couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to kiss her everywhere but never leave her lips. He needed to touch her, his hands sweeping down her back to cup her buttocks, pull her hard against his erection.

  She made a sound and wiggled closer and he was almost doomed. Too fast. They were going too fast. He wanted to savor her, have her hair draped over his chest, kiss her breasts and take his time.

  He gently moved her off of him and rolled to his side.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

  “Wrong? You did everything right. You are everything right.”

  “Then why are you over there?”

  “I don’t have any control around you.”

  She raised up on her elbow, her glorious hair half covering her breasts. A nipple peeped out from beneath the reddish gold tresses to tease him.

  He brushed two fingers against it, watched it harden with fascination. He couldn’t resist and bent to kiss her there, pushing her hair out of the way. A second later his lips were tugging at it and she was flat on her back, her hands on his shoulders pulling him closer.

  “Are you supposed to have control?” she asked, her voice faint and breathless.

  “No. Yes. I don’t around you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He raised up. “Thank you?”

  She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, graced by the light from the lamp, a study of porcelain, red hair, pink cheeks, and smiling lips.

  “I like the uncontrolled you. It makes me feel the same.”

  Thank God for that.

  He kissed her. He would always be inarticulate around her, he suspected, especially when she was naked.

  Her breasts were plump, the areoles large and the most exquisite coral color. He saluted one nipple with a kiss, then the other before taking it into his mouth and sucking gently.

  She moaned, her nails gouging into his shoulders, but he didn’t complain. Nor did he when her hands began to explore him, sweeping down his arms, her palms planted flat on his chest.