He locked the door behind her and turned to Hermoine. “Don’t tell me you didn’t find that interesting.”
She glowered at him, her breasts heaving wonderfully. He began to grow hard again.
“You’re going to pay for what you did to me tonight,” she said.
Horace went to her, hauled her from her feet, and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Have you forgotten how strong I am?” he asked.
“Leave me alone.”
“But you haven’t had what you want, what you deserve.”
“I’m going to the countess.”
He impaled her, and bounced her up and down, alternating his attention between the exquisite satisfaction on her face, and her jouncing breasts. Within seconds it was all over and she rested her head on his shoulder.
Horace carried her to the bed, stretched her out, and arranged himself beside her, where he could continue his play.
“I don’t understand you,” she said sleepily.
“You do if you think about it.”
She opened her eyes.
“Max Rossmara has the journal we need. Do you think he hasn’t studied every page?”
“Mmm. What does it matter as long as we get the book?”
“We both saw today that he’s got a little friend he’s rather fond of.”
“A peasant,” Hermoine said with disdain, “a nobody.”
“Not to him.”
“He’s going to marry me, and I won’t stand for any peccadilloes.”
“Coming from you, that’s rich.” He snickered. “I wonder how many women have made themselves that promise.”
She turned her face away.
“All I need is for you to listen, my lovely one,” he said. “This evening’s exercise has been my insurance. Try to cheat me of my fair share and the fair Zinnia will come forward to tell Mr. Rossmara all about how you’ve been at his private possessions and how you’ve put some interesting ideas into practice.”
“What if he’s hidden the journal? He’ll know I couldn’t have found it.”
“Well, he’ll go to check on it, won’t he? And I’ll be ready to follow him.”
“He may not look for it at all,” Hermoine pointed out.
Horace buried his face in her belly and smiled. “Then I’ll have to implement my second plan and borrow his little friend.”
“He won’t care,” she snapped. “Once he’s got me, he’ll forget her.”
“Mr. Rossmara will not abandon the girl. He’ll be told how she’s going to be used, and he’ll come after her.”
“And then you’ll have Max Rossmara and the peasant. What a nuisance and a bore.”
“Hardly,” Horace said. He rolled Hermoine over and slapped her bottom until she reared up and fought. He liked his women to fight. Once he’d restrained her, he said, “With your help—and after all, you’re practiced now—we’ll give Mr. Rossmara a demonstration. How far we get with the demonstration will depend upon how quickly he agrees to give us the journal.”
“He’ll call in the law.”
“Dead men can’t call the law.”
Chapter Eight
Black.
Max hesitated in the doorway to the breakfast room and studied Kirsty’s back. She wore a black gown of heavy serge. An apparently huge gown, and entirely unsuitable to the occasion, and to the season. She had overcome the problem of the garment being too long by pulling the waist as close to the level of her own as possible and tying a brown velvet ribbon about it. If the front looked even mildly as bad as the back, then she had accomplished a truly frightful outfit in which to make her first appearance as his assistant.
And this was the day on which he intended her to encounter people he wished her to impress.
“Good morning, Kirsty,” he said.
With a terrible clatter, she dropped the cup and saucer she was carrying to the table, and whirled around.
The front of the gown wasn’t as bad as the back: it was worse. A fichu of dull purple lace covered the place where the bodice probably gaped. Max managed to cover his anger with a smile, and to go to his knees to retrieve the broken pieces of china. A servant had already appeared, and took over the task of cleaning up the mess.
“Sit down, sit down,” Max said with false cheer, trying not to look at her ensemble. “I’m sorry I surprised you. Tea was it?”
She subsided into a chair, gripped the edge of the table, and nodded.
“Good. I’ll join you.” He poured for both of them and carried the cups safely to the table. “Now, will you have toast, perhaps?”
She shook her head.
“Eggs? Kidneys? Kippers?”
At each suggestion she shook her head and became more pallid. Too afraid to be hungry, he decided, and brought her a piece of toast and a pot of marmalade. “At least eat a little,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you’re nervous, but an empty stomach will not help.”
She smiled at that, and his heart lifted. Kirsty Mercer was a survivor, and she would survive this.
At that moment Arran entered, surprising Max since his uncle made a habit of dining alone in Revelation when Grace and their children weren’t at home. “Good morning,” Arran said. “And good morning to you, too, Kirsty Mercer. What a charming start to a morning to find you at our table.”
Max saw her relax a little. She looked at Arran with complete trust. “Good morning, your lordship. I hope I’m no’ in t’way here.”
“Not a bit of it,” Arran said heartily. “Max has told me how you’re going to help him get organized. Long overdue, I can tell you. The rascal is a clever one though. He knows potential when he sees it, and he’s seen yours.”
She lowered her eyes and blushed.
“I’m off to take a look at things myself today,” Arran said. “I’ll be stopping in on your parents. Can I given them a message from you?”
Gratitude all but overwhelmed Max.
Kirsty said, “I’m no’ sure,” very quietly. “Would ye mind sayin’ I love them? And that I’ll be vistin’ after my work’s done this day, perhaps?”
“Of course I don’t mind. Glad to do it.”
Arran poured himself some coffee and emptied his cup in a swallow. “Well, I’d best be off. Look after her, Max. It’ll be an intimidating thing to face down some of our fine, but old-fashioned men. But if anyone is up to the task, you are, Kirsty. Welcome to you, my girl, welcome. I look forward to having you as a member of our team.” With that, and one of the grins Max understood were so irresistible to women, his uncle left.
“He’s a braw man,” Kirsty said, her voice still nothing more than a whisper. “We’re all verra lucky t’be his tenants.”
“You’re no longer his tenant,” Max said. “You’re a member of this household, a very valued member.”
She didn’t respond.
She didn’t drink tea.
She didn’t eat toast and marmalade.
Max glanced at the servant who stood, eyes straight ahead, at one end of the sideboard. Young, with sandy-colored hair and a narrow, ruddy-complexioned face, his pale stare was anything but disinterested in what unfolded around him. “That’ll be all, thank you, Wilkie,” he said. “Kindly close the door as you leave and make it known in the kitchens that we will not need further attention.”
A deferential bow, and Wilkie removed himself.
Max studied Kirsty, and then he began to pace.
That she was here at all was his doing—entirely his doing.
He’d plucked her from familiar surroundings and planted her in a foreign place.
He paused to look at her. She laced her fingers tightly together in her lap and kept her eyes directed at them.
Whatever he did, he must not lose his temper with her.
The decisions he’d made, his inability to give up everything for the love of her, were not her fault.
“You didn’t find that gown in the closet, did you?”
She raised her troubled eyes, and shook her head.
&nb
sp; “Answer me when I speak to you.”
“No, sir.”
“Damn it all. You were never a mousy creature. Don’t turn into a mouse on me now. I’ll not have it. Do you understand?”
She flushed bright red. “Yes, sir.”
A feeling he knew too well began to overcome him.
“Where did that monstrosity come from?” He’d do well to leave her, to come back when he could be calm.
“I’ll no’ get someone in trouble for tryin’ t’help me.”
“Mairi, I suppose. She’s not in trouble. You must have asked her for it, so why should she be in trouble?”
“Aye, ye’re right. She’s a bonnie one. Kind.”
“Why didn’t you do as I told you to do?”
He saw her swallow, and saw how hard it was to do so. He opened and closed his fingers. She should be his wife. They should be married, with a child or two, and living a quiet, loving life. He need only have returned as he’d promised, and gone to her, and she would have accepted whatever he had to offer. But his parents would have been devastated, and he and Kirsty wouldn’t have belonged anywhere but among strangers.
“I asked you a question.” Why couldn’t he stop himself from berating her?
Kirsty inclined her head. “Lady Avenall’s gowns are verra beautiful—”
“I told you she doesn’t want or need them anymore.” He went to stand over her. “They are gowns from when she was younger. She has probably forgotten they even exist. That is not the point. I have employed you, and I told you to choose one of those gowns, not that ridiculous thing you have pinned and tied upon you.”
“It’s no’ my fault!” She stood up and all but knocked over her chair. She caught it and set it steadily on its legs again. “How can ye think I should go about as your assistant dressed in silks and satins, with pearls and feathers on me? What impression would I make wi’ all that lady’s finery? Am I t’learn about the estate with satin slippers on my feet? Ye’re no’ thinkin’, Max Rossmara. And your temper needs attention. It’s the talk o’ the land. Your black moods they call them.”
Max’s head pounded. “You’re angry with me.”
“I’m angry?” she said, hitching at her skirts.
“Yes, you’re angry because I didn’t keep a silly promise made when we were children.”
“Oh.” She took a backward step and put her hands on the table behind her.
“Yes,” Max said. “Oh. If you’ll think about it, you’ll know I’m right.” He didn’t seem to have any control over his tongue.
“If ye’re talkin’ about promises we made when ye were twenty-two and I was sixteen, well then, we weren’t children, were we? Not that I’m wantin’ to discuss such things—things gone by—but dinna try to make your conscience clean by pretendin’ things were other than they were.”
“You never overcame that low mode of speech. You’ll have to work on it. I’ll hire an elocution teacher for you.”
She raised her head. “Ye can hire an elocution teacher, sir, but no’ for me. I speak t’way my people have always spoken. Is it ugly?”
It was his turn to swallow. “No. But it’s not educated.” He had always delighted in her soft speech.
“Am I educated?”
“Yes, you are. Very educated.”
“Then the manner o’ my speech doesna matter, does it? After all, I’ve no’ got t’impress anyone wi’ it. I’m no’ a fine lady. I’m not the woman at your side who has to entertain the highborn, am I? I’m goin’ t’be your assistant. Your servant. It’ll stand me in better stead if I’m one o’ the folk I’ll be dealin’ with. Once they accept me, that is.”
The fury overflowed. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
She shook her head slowly, but didn’t move away from him.
“It’s because you’ve never forgiven me for not throwing everything up to marry you.”
“No!”
“Don’t argue with me. The sooner we get this into the open and get rid of it, the better.”
“There’s nothin’ t’get into the open. I’d be grateful t’get t’work, sir.”
“We’ll get to work when I say we’ll get to work.” Breathing hard, he went around the heavy, richly polished mahogany table and poured himself some coffee. And into the coffee he splashed a generous measure of brandy. “There are things you must understand. The past must be forgotten. The things of childhood are the things of childhood. They have no place in the adult world.”
“No, they don’t.”
“That black shambles of a thing makes you ridiculous.”
“No doubt, it does. It’s far too big, but I didna have time t’work on it.”
Her audacity inflamed him. “Silk and satin and feathers would have been fine for today, miss. And you should have worn them because I told you to. A modiste will be here by evening.”
“I’m t’visit my family this evenin’.”
Never a crack in her determination. “Then the modiste will await your return if necessary.”
“I’m sorry I’ve made ye angry,” Kirsty said. “But ye’re unreasonable.”
“Don’t presume to tell me I am unreasonable.” He took a drink. The brandy warmed him.
“This is no’ the time o’ day for strong liquor,” Kirsty said.
He stared at her, amazed. “What did you say?”
“It’s too early t’be drinkin’ strong liquor. Ye’re an angry man who’s tryin’ t’drive away his demons. Ye’ll no’ do it that way, sir. My father had to speak to Mungo Dunn—”
“Damn you. Damn your nerve.” He tossed off the rest of the laced coffee. “Mungo Dunn? A drunken sot laborer. What has he to do with me? When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Get back to your rooms and change. Now.”
She started for the door.
“I saw a blue taffeta dress in the wardrobe. Put it on. It will suit you—match your eyes.”
Kirsty turned back and said, “I must make sure ye understand somethin’. I’m here because I want to advance myself. I’m grateful for the opportunity, sir.”
“Good.”
“I’m no’ pinin’ for love o’ ye. As ye said, the blatherin’ o’ children is just that. Blatherin’. And best forgotten.”
He snorted. “A different story from the one you told a few minutes ago when you reminded me of our age when we made those promises.”
She raised her pointed chin. Her hair was as flaxen and fine as ever. “I wasna thinkin’ how it would sound—just set-tin’ matters to rights. After all, we decided we were t’have a club, too, didn’t we? A wish club.” Her laugh didn’t convince him. “Well, then, we must have been children to make up such silly things. I don’t pine for ye, sir. I’ve no intention of marryin’. I’ve no intention of marryin’ anyone unless I meet a man who’ll treat me as his equal, and always be kind t’me as I’ll be kind t’him. And mayhap I’ll meet such a man. He was never meant t’be ye. So don’t trouble yoursel’ more about the subject.”
Kirsty left the room.
Max poured more brandy into his cup. He didn’t bother with coffee.
• • •
Arran drew back into an alcove until Kirsty passed and ran up the staircase. He looked at her straight back. She made no sound, but he’d swear there were tears in her eyes.
If this was any man’s business but Max’s, then it was Struan’s. God knew there had already been too many times when Arran had clashed with his brother. Theirs was a strong bond, but a fiery one, and he had no wish to bring about another battle.
Struan wasn’t at Kirkcaldy. Arran was. And he’d just heard Max shouting at Kirsty Mercer as no rational man should. Arran waited until he was certain Kirsty was well away, tried again to persuade himself to leave well enough alone, failed, and went into the breakfast room.
“I put an envelope down on the sideboard,” he said, giving Max the briefest of glances. “Or I thought I did.”
Max didn’t answer.
“There it is.
”
Max grunted. Arran looked at him, then and cursed himself for not having walked away. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Max mumbled. He sat at the table looking into his cup.
“Don’t lie to me. And look at me when I speak to you.” Arran kept his voice low and even. “In case you’ve forgotten, you may be my nephew, but you do work for me.”
“And I work for you bloody well,” Max snapped back. “I give you all the hours of the day—and a good many of the night. Every day. What more do you want?”
“Civility would be a pleasant addition.”
Max rose and went to a row of decanters on a trolley. He poured cognac into the cup.
“Why not use a glass?” Arran said, but fear curled in his belly. So the rumors were true. Max’s evil tempers did coincide with bouts of drinking.
“You’ve got your envelope,” Max said, resuming his seat. “Don’t let me detain you.”
“I want to call in a doctor,” Arran said. “You aren’t yourself. You haven’t been yourself this past year or more, and you’re getting worse.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Max said through his teeth. “Nothing wrong that wouldn’t be cured by being left alone to decide what’s best for me. But thank you for your concern.”
“How long have you been drinking in the morning?”
“I—” Max pushed the cup away. “It makes me feel better. Or it did.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“It’s the only answer you’ll get. I’ll deal with my own affairs.”
Arran looked about the beautiful room. Since he preferred his quarters in Revelation, he’d spent little time here, but he saw its appeal. “Are you unhappy here?”
“No.”
“Too fast with your answer,” Arran said. “Why were you shouting at Kirsty Mercer?”
Max raised tormented eyes to Arran. “I . . . She made me angry.”
“Why?”
“I’d asked her to use some of Ella’s old gowns. Kirsty has very little, of course, and I want her properly dressed. She defied me.”
“Defied you? Surely you’re harsh, Max.”
“What would you know about how I feel . . . I’m beset. I apologize for my foul humor. There’s unrest in the land. But you know that.”
The Wish Club Page 11
