A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  He really shouldn’t smile like that. He really shouldn’t look at her with that expression in his eyes, as if he knew quite well what a temptation he was.

  “Your Lordship,” she said, startled when the words sounded like an endearment rather than some measure of propriety. “Please.”

  “I don’t like leaving you alone. Bryce might sicken still further.”

  “Ian. Please.”

  He studied her, as if he meant to imprint her face on his memory for all time.

  “I’ll send a maid to you,” he finally said. “To help or just to keep you company.”

  She should thank him for understanding. Instead, she remained silent, all too afraid that she’d revealed too much to him already.

  At the door, he turned and faced her once again.

  “Why did your uncle agree to this marriage?” he asked. “Why Bryce? He hasn’t a title or any wealth to speak of.”

  They exchanged a long look.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I knew they were acquaintances, and thought they had some degree of friendship for one another. But they were arguing the morning we left for Scotland.”

  “What about?”

  “Money,” she said.

  “If it was a Scot he wanted, I was available,” he said, words that were as explosive as pouring lamp oil into a fireplace.

  She held her hands tightly clasped, feeling her heart swell and ache.

  “You weren’t available,” she said. “You’re to be married.”

  Had he forgotten?

  “I would have changed my plans,” he said softly.

  She didn’t think she could bear any more. She felt the tickle of one small tear trailing down her cheek, and turned her head so that he couldn’t see.

  “Please leave, Ian,” she said. This time her voice didn’t sound so calm or untouched. This time it sounded as if she were grieving.

  Ian left her because she asked, not because he wanted to do so. He stood at the window in his bedroom, unable to sleep. The night was deeply shadowed, cast into relief by a midsummer moon, full and pendulous like a woman’s breast. The shape of it, the size of it, the sheer magnificence of it jeered at him, reminded him of how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman.

  Hell, since he’d been desperate for a woman.

  Only since London. A matter of days, not weeks or months. Mere days, and yet it felt like a lifetime, a very long and very celibate lifetime.

  She was in his home. Emma, the Duchess of Herridge, rumored to be among the most dissolute women in London, now married to his cousin. A complicated, fascinating, mysterious woman who intrigued him, nested in his thoughts, kept him awake.

  Emma, his cousin’s new bride.

  His ill, possibly dying, cousin.

  Guilt knifed through him.

  In his youth he’d been a sensualist, well on his way to dissolution himself. His curiosity had saved him, and he’d channeled all that force and energy into scientific discovery. Tonight it was as if he were twenty again, hot blooded and yearning, as needy as a bull in rut.

  He slammed his hand flat against the pane of glass, daring it to break, almost welcoming the resulting injury. Instead, it held, shimmering with the force of his blow, defying him.

  He wanted his wife to be a partner, needed someone to be with him, to listen to his frustrations, to accept those gifts he wanted to give, to share his dreams, and the successes of the future. He needed someone to stand hand in hand with him and create a perfect circle, or perhaps a wall. A bulwark against the world, in the shelter of which he could receive support and provide it as well.

  Ian knew, deep inside where he’d always known, that Rebecca was not that person. Rebecca wanted a charmed life, one in which there were no challenges, one in which her husband did not go out and actively seek problems to solve.

  In his heart he wanted a woman who knew life itself, who’d been through enough and experienced enough that each day was recognized as the gift it was.

  He wanted Emma, and she was the one woman he couldn’t have.

  Yet despite her name, despite the fact that there were documents proclaiming her to be his cousin’s wife, despite anything she might have signed, despite the damned entry in a London register, despite anything or anyone, she was his.

  The knowledge was like a shard of glass embedded in his skin.

  Despite the presence of the young girl seated beside her, and Bryce in his bed, Emma felt as if she were totally and completely alone.

  Perhaps she would become as inured to loneliness as she had to fear.

  Fear had been a constant and unremitting companion during her marriage. Fear was Anthony’s sword, and he had no qualms about wielding it.

  At first Emma thought she would always be afraid, but then she learned that human nature grows only too comfortable with strong emotion. Fear dulled her, smoothed all her emotions to one level. She was never so afraid again, but then she was never so happy, either.

  As for now, she was very certain that she wouldn’t continue to be so miserable or so lonely. In time, perhaps, it would ease, and she wouldn’t feel very much at all.

  Bryce’s condition began to worsen an hour later. If Ian hadn’t been true to his word and sent a sleepy maid to sit with her, Emma didn’t know how she would have cared for him alone.

  Thankfully, the young maid took the bowls away to empty them, but there was nothing they could do about the miasma that hung over the sickroom. When Bryce wasn’t moaning and becoming wretchedly sick, he was attempting to pull the covers from his body. Either the poison or the antidote had made him acutely sensitive to any touch, so much so that when she brushed his hair from his forehead, he arched his head back and nearly screamed.

  She didn’t know what else to do other than continually wipe his face and hold his head when he became sick. In a little while she had to remove his nightshirt and change the bedding since it had become so soiled.

  An hour passed, then another, and just when she thought he couldn’t become any sicker without dying, Bryce began to rally. His face, up until now chalk white, showed some traces of color. His lips were no longer blue. His stomach did not revolt as much, giving her some hope that he might be able to drink some water. One sip at a time was all he could tolerate but at least he’d begun to drink something.

  The maid left the room with the soiled linen, returning in the next quarter hour with a supply of fresh linens and some lavender to help sweeten the air. Mrs. Jenkins followed her, taking in Emma’s appearance with one swift look.

  “I’ve brought you some tea, Mrs. McNair,” she said, placing the tea on the table.

  Emma smiled her thanks and sipped at it, finding the tea so strong it nearly etched her teeth. Still, it would keep her awake.

  “He survived the night,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “That’s a very good sign.”

  Emma glanced at the gap in the curtains. Dawn had come an hour earlier.

  “Can you sit with him a few minutes?” she asked. “Long enough that I can change and wash?”

  Mrs. Jenkins looked shocked at the request. A moment later Emma understood why.

  “I haven’t even shown you to your room,” the housekeeper said, obviously discomfited. “Forgive me for being so inhospitable.”

  “I’m right where I should be,” Emma said, hoping to ease the other woman’s embarrassment. “Has my maid been seen to?” How very odd that she’d forgotten Juliana’s presence until just this moment.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “We have servants’ quarters in abundance at Lochlaven. She was given a choice of rooms.”

  “And my trunk?” Her lone remaining trunk. She’d not had time to open it to see what belongings she had left.

  “Taken to your room, of course.”

  Mrs. Jenk
ins gestured to the young maid who’d been so helpful in the last three hours. “Take Mrs. McNair to her room, Isobel, then get some rest for yourself.”

  The young girl nodded and left the room, glancing back to ensure that Emma was following her.

  “Glenna’s returned,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “She can look after your husband while you sleep.”

  Emma shook her head. “I’ll be back as soon as I wash and change.”

  Caring for Bryce would be penance, of sorts, for her thoughts and longing for a man not her husband.

  Chapter 23

  The room Emma had been given was a lovely one, the equal of her suite in London. The furniture might even be finer than what she owned. The secretary was small and feminine, ornately carved, with legs that tapered to small lion’s feet. The carpet had been loomed with such detail that the woolen roses looked as if they carried a scent.

  Her remaining trunk sat on the carpet in front of the armoire. Juliana had not yet unpacked it. Since all her trunks looked the same, Emma had no idea what clothing she had left until she withdrew her key and opened it.

  The answer stared her in the face, prompting a sense of sorrow so deep it startled her. She’d lost the mirror. The Tulloch Sgàthán had been in the bottom of the second trunk, the one now lost, the one holding her dresses.

  In the back of her mind she’d not quite believed what she’d seen in its reflection. Instead, she wanted to look again, knowing full well that it was foolish. Knowing, too, that what she was doing was not far removed from scrying, and wasn’t that practice more suited to witches than to former duchesses?

  Now she would never know if what she’d seen had been real. She would never again see that look of utter joy on her face, or wonder at its cause.

  Sighing, she stood, staring down at all her intimate garments, her nightgowns and chemises, her sewing kit, all items that she could have done without. How did she replace her dresses?

  Perhaps there was a town nearby, and a seamstress with time to spare.

  She looked down at herself. Not only was she endlessly tired of black, but the dress was stained to the point of being ruined.

  How hypocritical of her to still wear black. As if being proper now could ever mitigate the past. Anthony still lived as long as she talked of him. He still lived every time she recalled one of his entertainments. He still drew breath whenever she felt shame.

  Since she couldn’t change, she washed as well as she was able, brushed her hair and rearranged it in the snood.

  Before she returned to the sickroom, she went in search of Juliana. She found her maid, escorted to the fourth floor by Mrs. Jenkins herself. The housekeeper smiled when Emma expressed her thanks, turned and walked back the way she’d come.

  “Have you been treated well?” Emma asked of Juliana.

  Her maid looked quite rested. Emma bit back her annoyance.

  “I have, madam.”

  Juliana said nothing further but her gaze encompassed Emma’s soiled dress. She looked down at herself.

  “The trunk that is missing is the one containing my dresses. I have nothing into which to change.”

  “Perhaps I could take the garment to the laundress,” Juliana said. “Honestly, madam, I do not believe that it could be assisted by sponging it.”

  “I don’t have the time for you to sponge it now. I’m due back in the sickroom.”

  Juliana’s expression of disgust was so fleeting that Emma might well have imagined it, but she didn’t think so.

  “Mr. McNair cannot help being sick, Juliana,” she said. “He was poisoned.”

  She related the events of the night before and the results of the tests Ian had done.

  “I’m very sorry, madam,” Juliana said. The words were proper but her tone was jarring. As if she didn’t feel anything for Bryce except dislike.

  Even Emma could feel pity for the man’s suffering.

  “If you’d like to return to London,” she said bluntly, “I’m sure there would be no difficulty arranging transportation for you.”

  Emma wasn’t entirely certain she could do without a maid, but perhaps there was a girl at Lochlaven who might wish to be in her employ. Someone whose loyalties wouldn’t be devoted, unambiguously, to whichever man held the purse strings. Except for Bryce, for whom Juliana had seemed to have some antipathy.

  “Have I given any displeasure, madam?” Juliana asked stiffly.

  She was tired, and not inclined to enumerate all of those occasions in which her maid had undermined her. “Unpack my trunk if you would,” she said, turning to leave. “My room is the second on the left on the third floor,” she added.

  “After I’ve performed that task, madam? What can I do to further assist you?”

  In London, she would probably have a list of chores for Juliana. However, this was Scotland, and she neither wanted to impose upon her host or take the time to find some tasks for her maid.

  “I think you should offer your services to Mrs. Jenkins. While you’re doing that, I think it might be wise of you to consider whether or not you wish to remain with me.”

  Whenever Emma was this tired, she had a tendency to say exactly what she thought. Perhaps this conversation with Juliana was overdue. She turned to face her maid.

  “I don’t like sly people, Juliana. I don’t wish to be in the company of those who go behind my back. I’ve embarked upon a new marriage, a new life, and I don’t wish to continue with behavior that has disturbed me in the past. If you cannot be loyal to me, then I wish you’d leave. I shall give you a good letter of recommendation, and a list of women who would value your many services.”

  “I should not like to go back to London, madam,” Juliana said, staring at the floor.

  Emma noticed that the other woman conveniently avoided mentioning her loyalty or lack of it.

  “Very well,” she said, and turned away, not quite able to banish the feeling that something wasn’t right, that there was something she needed to know. She pushed the feeling away and descended the staircase.

  The layout of Lochlaven was very strange, and evidently designed for the pleasure of its inhabitants and not its visitors. The second floor was where the drawing room and dining room were located. She’d learned that much from her conversation with Mrs. Jenkins yesterday. The bedrooms were located on the third floor, while the servants’ quarters were above, on the fourth. While the public rooms took up all of the second floor, the first was almost entirely converted to Ian’s laboratory.

  A wide corridor led from the front door to what she thought was the main door of the laboratory. It was open, and she stood just beyond the threshold for a moment, clasping her hands together. The view to her right captured her attention, and she began to walk toward the wall of windows.

  The land where Lochlaven sat curved inward, a bay sheltering the house. A small island lay in the center of the bay, its contours forming an exact opposite curve, almost as if a giant had sliced the island from the mainland, casting it adrift.

  On the island sat a structure of some sort, and the longer Emma stared, the more she could discern its shape. A castle, perhaps. Or a fortress once used by the McNairs, in days gone by.

  The lake was golden, a repository for the rays of the morning sun. She could smell the clean, fishy odor, see the enormous kelp bed shimmering in the water, almost as if nature had placed it there as a natural barrier to the island—a moat of seaweed.

  The room in which she stood was nearly empty, except for two long tables sitting against adjoining walls. Stacks of papers covered most of the surface, along with a series of crates, their markings clearly indicating they’d come from Germany.

  The next room was as cluttered as the previous room had been empty.

  Men were always surrounded with possessions that proved they belonged somewhere. Here, in this la
boratory, Ian had marked his place in the world. The microscopes and tables, the beakers, tubes, and odd, squat little bottles with soot-darkened wicks stated as clear as a placard that he was the master of this domain.

  What did she have? What did any woman have? A corner of a room outfitted with a small and comfortable chair. A basket filled with needlework and a lamp that could be adjusted for the task at hand. A home, lent to her by a husband, a father, an uncle. A place in society that she hadn’t wanted.

  She heard voices in the other room, and she approached slowly, uncertain whether she should call out and announce her presence, or simply retreat.

  The decision was taken from her the moment a woman turned and saw her in the doorway.

  “Oh, how long have you been standing there? Come in, come in.”

  The woman, barely older than a girl, approached her, hands outstretched, her auburn curls pinned in an array of ringlets at the back of her head that bounced when she walked. Her warm gray eyes sparkled with welcome, as did her smile.

  “You must be Mrs. McNair. May I call you Emma? We are soon to be relatives, you see.”

  Emma didn’t know whether to stretch out her hands in return. She gripped her hands together tightly and pasted a smile on her face, hoping she appeared more convivial than she felt.

  The girl glanced behind her. “Oh, Ian, please introduce us properly, I beg you.”

  “Emma,” he said, “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Rebecca Carrick. Rebecca, Emma McNair, Bryce’s wife.”

  “How horrible that such a thing should have happened on your wedding journey, Emma.”

  Emma exchanged a glance with Ian. Was his fiancée so innocent that she didn’t realize that Bryce’s poisoning had to be deliberate? This was no accidental ingestion. Someone wished him dead.

  Or perhaps he hadn’t told her everything.

  She instantly and acutely disliked Rebecca’s innocence, whether feigned or not. She, herself, had never been quite that naive. Or perhaps what she was feeling was simply jealousy, because no one had wished to protect her to the degree they evidently sheltered Rebecca. Not even her father, who’d been so eager for her to marry the Duke of Herridge.