Unraveled By The Rebel

by Michelle Willingham

  Had anything ever happened between them? Mr. Sinclair was a good man, yes, but he’d bent the law on more than one occasion. She couldn’t imagine Margaret sparing him a second glance.

  But now, she wondered.

  “Mr. Sinclair has to find her,” Margaret said softly, her expression turning sad again. “Toria is too frightened to travel. And now that she’s going to have a baby… He has to help her.”

  “He will,” Paul promised. “If there’s one man I trust, it’s Cain.”

  The mood in the room had grown somber, and he began examining the wound on Margaret’s head. When she saw the blood, Juliette turned away, wincing.

  Margaret inhaled sharply when he touched it. “It hurts, Dr. Fraser.”

  “I suppose it does at that. But I’m no’ thinking it’s serious, since you’re able to sit up and speak with me. You may have headaches for a few days, but ’twill likely go away on its own.” Juliette kept her back turned while Paul asked questions about where there was pain and if Margaret was dizzy.

  “Who put the bandage on you?” he asked.

  Juliette heard the sound of water being wrung out, and she guessed he was washing the wound.

  “Mr. Sinclair did. I was bleeding dreadfully, you see. I hit my head when Victoria was taken.”

  “You were lucky no’ to be hurt worse,” he commented. Juliette heard him setting the basin aside, and when she risked a look, he was stitching the cut closed. After he tied off the sutures, he bandaged the wound again and said, “Are you hurting anywhere else?”

  “Just a few scrapes and bruises.”

  “Good.” He spoke to Margaret with a calm air, confident in his abilities. Juliette was startled to see him like this. It was like the night he’d stolen into Aunt Charlotte’s gathering, pretending to be a gentleman. He’d slipped seamlessly into another role, and his very presence unnerved her.

  Juliette could no longer think of him as a crofter’s son. No, Paul Fraser had transformed into someone else entirely. Not only a physician… but a man who held secrets of his own.

  As he treated her sister, she felt herself calming. Margaret was growing drowsy, and in time, she succumbed to the laudanum.

  “I would no’ have given her the sedative so soon,” Paul said. “Although it doesna seem that she has suffered beyond that cut and some bruises, someone should stay with her for the night.”

  “I’ll stay,” Juliette agreed.

  He started to pack up his bag, his demeanor professional. There was no trace of the man who had kissed her, almost as if it had never happened. When it occurred to her that Paul was walking out and she might not see him again, she blurted out, “Wait. A moment, if you please.” She moved away from her sleeping sister and stood by the door. Thankfully, her aunt Charlotte was no longer there.

  Paul stood with his bag in his hand, not moving at all. His dark blue eyes held weariness, and she couldn’t find the words. He’d talked of returning to Scotland… and that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

  No. No, it wasn’t.

  Although she’d pushed him away, trying to live her life alone, she’d grown accustomed to seeing him here. He was always near, like a quiet stone she could lean against for support. If he left now, he would move on with his life—she was certain of it. And she no longer wanted to stand in the shadows, watching her life go by.

  She wanted to let Paul court her, to smile and spend time with him. She wanted to laugh again, to press her cheek against his heartbeat and feel his arms around her.

  Time and distance hadn’t changed her feelings for Paul. Instead, they’d made them stronger. And despite the protests of her conscience, she decided that the truth was better than silence.

  Fumbling for something to say, she remarked, “Thank you for looking after my sister. It was good of you to come.”

  “You’re welcome.” He waited a moment longer, but when she said nothing, he started to leave.

  “You did frighten me that night when you kissed me,” Juliette blurted out, keeping her voice so low, he had to lean in to hear her. “Something changed between us.” A ripple of anticipation swelled up inside, and she felt as if she were about to stumble off a cliff, afraid to say too much.

  “It did change,” he agreed, setting his bag down as he regarded her. “But I fear you’re becoming like Victoria was once, lass. Hiding yourself away from the world.”

  His words knocked the air from her lungs as she recognized the truth of them.

  “If you’re wanting me to leave and ne’er bother you again, that I’ll do. But if it’s fear holding you back, that’s another matter.”

  It was fear, along with a terrible guilt. But his accusation, that she was becoming just like her sister Victoria, held the ring of truth. She had hidden herself away in London to be near her son. Although she’d gone to balls and soirées, her heart was never in them. Was he right? Was she letting her life slip away because she felt she didn’t deserve a better one?

  “I can heal many wounds,” Paul said, nodding back toward Margaret. “I can sew together torn skin and mend broken bones. But there are some wounds that can nae be seen. They hurt as deeply as any other. But those canna be patched with bandages or medicines.”

  Juliette’s hand moved to touch her heart, and it was beating so fast, she couldn’t calm it. He was right, though. She’d been wounded and scarred from losing Matthew. And now, she was beginning to lose herself.

  “You’ll have to be healing those wounds yourself, lass. The question is whether you’ll run away… or try to start living by facing that pain.”

  He reached for her hand again and said, “I’ll pray that your sister Victoria returns home safely.”

  “So will I.” Her stomach was knotted with so many emotions. Fear for her sister… and fear that she was becoming just like her. She didn’t want her life to slip away into the shadows, and she sensed that if Paul left, it would be too easy to retreat from the world.

  She took his other hand in hers, wishing she’d had more courage on that night in the garden. He studied her but revealed none of his thoughts. “Thank you for looking after Margaret.”

  He nodded, and she glanced over and saw that her sister’s eyes were closed. Now was her chance to make things right with Paul. Slowly, she took his hands and guided them to her waist. Though it wasn’t exactly an embrace, it was an invitation.

  She wanted to rest her cheek against his. She wanted him to say that everything would be all right with Victoria. That he would always be there for her. His palms were warm against her ribs, and his midnight-blue eyes held an enigmatic expression.

  But instead of pulling her close, he let his hands fall to his sides. “Tonight is the last night I’ll be staying at your father’s house. I’ll bid you farewell, and I hope that one day you find your own happiness.” He bowed and departed, leaving her to stand alone.

  This was it, then. He was leaving her. Why, then, did she feel like running after him, demanding that he stay? Inside, she was torn apart with regret.

  He’s right. You have been hiding away like your sister.

  She’d let herself fade away, in a living death. Paul was right to leave her, for she’d given him no hope at all. He’d left his family and friends to be with her, and she’d continued to push him away during the past few months. Now that she’d reached out to him, it was too late. He’d made his choice.

  A wetness spilled over her cheeks, and she was startled to be crying. She deserved this, didn’t she?

  Deep inside, her anger stirred, for by hiding herself away from the world, she’d allowed Lord Strathland to defeat her. Why? Why should she let his violence destroy everything she wanted? Her shoulders shook as she wept silently, gripping the edges of her gown. She hated her life, hated the woman she’d become. She was an empty shell, someone who had fallen into despair because of a single night that wasn’t her fault.

  She didn’t want to continue the rest of her life in the shadows. It was cowardice, pure and simple. She
was too afraid to let anyone touch her again, and instead of facing her fear, she’d retreated into a cocoon of her own making.

  Paul had only spoken the truth. She had been hiding from her own life, trying to bury her shame. But more than that, she was afraid to ask for more. Afraid to reach for the dreams she wanted.

  But if she could have even a few years of joy, would it be worth it? Did she dare to try?

  “You should have kissed him,” her sister remarked in a sleepy voice. “Men like kissing.”

  Juliette came to sit at Margaret’s side. The haze of laudanum was dictating her sister’s thoughts, for she knew Margaret would never say such a thing. “But that would not be proper.”

  “You shouldn’t be a spinster, Juliette. Every woman needs a man to manage.” She yawned and held on to her pillow, curling up to sleep again. “And kissing is rather nice.”

  Juliette’s mouth softened into a smile, though she wondered who Margaret had been kissing. As she tucked in her sister, she thought of how Victoria had fought against vivid fears to step outside and live again. She’d won the heart of a duke and was now expecting her first child.

  She voiced another silent prayer that Mr. Sinclair would find Victoria and get help from the duke to save her.

  And in the meantime, it was time for her to break free of her imprisonment and live again.

  One month later

  Dear Paul,

  I know I stopped answering your letters a long time ago. I believe these answers are past due.

  Paul held the bundle of letters Juliette had begun sending him over the past few weeks. The first few were filled with small bits of conversation, telling him about her morning, offering news about her cat, Dragon, and asking him questions about his work at the hospital. Nothing of great importance. Sometimes she confessed to him how worried she was about her sister Victoria.

  He felt like an adolescent boy, reading the letters more than once at night. But her message was clear—she didn’t want him to return to Scotland. Instead, it seemed she was trying her best to move forward with her life instead of hiding behind closed doors.

  He’d composed his own letter, answering her questions, and then he’d sent her a packet of cherry comfits from the apothecary shop.

  The letters had kept him from returning to Scotland, for it meant there was a chance at winning her heart. And they gave him something to look forward to. He learned that her favorite color was green and that she couldn’t sing at all. She loved mathematics and was terrible at sewing.

  He told her that his favorite color was blue, and he was quite good at singing.

  Braggart, she’d accused, claiming that she wanted to hear him before she’d believe it. And then she’d sent him a sprig of dried heather. It’s not blue, but I thought you would like it, she’d written.

  The sight of the heather made him homesick, and he wondered where she’d found it.

  He wanted to see her again. An occasional dance at Lady Vaughn’s ball or a glimpse of her at an assembly wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to kiss her again, to press beyond friendship.

  The best letter had come only a few days ago.

  Dear Paul,

  I’ve just learned that my sister Victoria is safe. I cannot tell you how relieved I am.

  In reply, he’d sent her a simple invitation. Meet with me on the southern banks of the Serpentine. I want to hear about it.

  Juliette had agreed to come, and after an hour, he saw her strolling down the gravel pathway. She was accompanied by her sister Margaret, and the late April sunlight shone against their parasols. A maid and a footman followed them at a discreet distance while Paul stood waiting for them.

  As soon as Juliette caught sight of him, she offered a tentative smile. It warmed him, and for the first time, she seemed eager to see him. He waited patiently until the pair of them drew close.

  “Hello, Dr. Fraser,” Juliette greeted him.

  Margaret nodded and murmured her own greeting, but she was kind enough to slow her pace, walking behind them. Paul gave Juliette his arm, and she took it.

  “You look well,” she said.

  “No’ like a puir Highlander?” he teased. “I’ve taken to wearing my finer clothes so they willna throw me out of London.”

  Her face flushed, and she admitted, “They suit you. I would never have known you weren’t part of the gentry.”

  One day I will be, he thought to himself. That is, if he remained Donald’s heir. Though he hadn’t minded revealing his future title to the ton, he knew Juliette didn’t believe him. She believed he was taking a risk, lying to everyone. But if he ever lost the inheritance, he would feel like an even greater fool.

  “Tell me what happened with the duchess,” he said.

  Juliette’s mouth parted in a slight smile, and she said, “I learned that Mr. Sinclair and the duke saved Victoria. She’s well, and so is her unborn baby.” She went on to tell him all the details about the carriage accident and how the duke had ridden for hours to find her. But Paul barely heard a word of it. His eyes were locked on to her features, with her golden brown hair tucked inside a rose-colored bonnet. She wore a gown of the same color with a matching spencer.

  He studied her soft mouth, and after a few moments longer, she murmured, “You’re staring at me.”

  “I ken that, aye. You’ve a bonny face to look upon.”

  She looked down at the gravel, but she moved her hand from the crook of his arm to lace her gloved fingers in his. Though she studied the reflection on the waters of the Serpentine, she admitted, “Your face has always been handsome to me, too.”

  “Your sister is watching us. I can feel her glaring at me. ’Tis a wonder my coat hasn’t caught afire.”

  “She’s likely afraid that you’re going to ruin me by holding my hand.”

  Though her words were spoken in jest, he caught the undercurrent of irony beneath them. His thumb edged at her palm, stroking it lightly. “I am weary of having naught but a single dance with you, Juliette. We used to spend hours walking through the glen.”

  “I remember.” She glanced behind them at Margaret. “But there are no glens here.”

  No, but he had another idea in mind. “Find a way to leave your aunt’s house tomorrow evening. There’s a cèilidh a friend of mine is hosting. We could go together, if you’re wanting to spend some time with me.”

  She hesitated. “I would like to, but I’m not certain how I’d manage it.”

  “There willna be anyone who’d ken who we are,” he promised. “Wear a gown that a merchant’s wife might choose. For one night, you can pretend to be a wife instead of a miss.”

  She seemed to think it over. Keeping her voice low, she offered, “It sounds like a place that Margaret would loathe.” Then her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I can’t wait.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  Brandon Carlisle, the Earl of Strathland, ignored his sister’s shrewish outburst. Sarah had no concept of what he’d been trying to accomplish.

  “You tried to kidnap a duchess,” she accused. “Why would you ever consider such a thing?”

  His sister behaved as if he were a common criminal, when his actions had never been about harming the young woman. Her Grace was a bargaining piece, a pawn in a game where he intended to control the board.

  He wanted the lands—not only his former property of Eiloch Hill where the duke now resided, but also the Lanfordshire estate. He intended to gain possession of the entire region, no matter what the means.

  “My factor, Mr. Melford, took matters too far,” he corrected, cutting her off. “As far as anyone knows, he acted of his own accord, thinking he could ransom the duchess. And he died for it.”

  The loss of his overseer was an annoyance, but there were other men who could take his place. For now, Brandon knew he had to lie low, in order to keep the blame firmly pointed toward the dead man. He’d left Scotland and had traveled to their family’s town house in London. His original plan had failed, and i
t was time to reconsider his next move.

  “Don’t you realize that your scheming could have ruined us both?” she accused. Her voice was like shards of broken glass, irritating his mood until he wished he could be rid of her. But then, Sarah had to live somewhere, and he wasn’t about to bring her into his home in Scotland. There, he was a king in his vast estate, while here, the house was a modest dwelling that boasted only a dozen rooms and four servants. It wasn’t nearly enough for him.

  “I believe you already ruined yourself, dear sister.” Brandon took a sip of brandy, his gaze fixed upon the fire. “When you threw yourself at that earl who refused to wed you. My actions have little bearing on you.”

  Sarah wasn’t an attractive woman, and she’d tried everything to land a husband. But although she’d been caught alone with an earl, he’d refused to offer for her. According to Sarah, the man had done nothing to compromise her, but no one would believe the story. Now, she rarely showed her face in society and hardly ever attended assemblies or balls.

  That needed to change. Brandon would use her to help open doors to him, in order to get closer to Lady Lanfordshire’s daughters.

  “I intend to stay in London for the next few months,” he informed her.

  “Because you have to avoid His Grace, to keep him from killing you?” she taunted. “After the trouble you caused for his wife, I’m not surprised. You’re fortunate that neither she nor her baby were harmed.”

  “I need to meet with the wool buyers,” he continued, ignoring her comments. Despite the ongoing war against Napoleon’s forces, the orders had decreased. Although he suspected it was partly due to the duke’s interference, he had to do whatever was necessary to bring back the orders. He’d spent hundreds of pounds buying up more sheep, and he fully intended to profit from the wool.

  “You ought to seek a wife,” she suggested. “Wed an heiress, if you can find one.”

  Oh, he intended to seek a wife. The woman of his desires had avoided him in the past, but no longer.

  “You also need to mend your relationship with the Andrews family,” Sarah insisted. “If you don’t, both the Duke of Worthingstone and the Countess of Arnsbury will use their influence to keep us both out of society.”