A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  Albert donned his laboratory coat, settling beside him on a neighboring stool. His microscope was older than Ian’s but as much an extension of the man as his hands.

  In addition to the laboratory at Lochlaven, Albert had a small lab set up at his home in Inverness. Ian had thought nothing of giving him the funds to do so. Albert was an invaluable collaborator. Without his assistance, Ian knew he couldn’t have achieved as much as he already had or as much as he wanted to in the future.

  In his experiments, Ian was very quick to discard a hypothesis when it was clear it could not be proved. He was a nimble thinker, focused forward, and not spending any appreciable time mourning what had not been or could not be.

  His personal life was proving not to be that simple.

  Ian looked through the eyepiece of the microscope, but instead of viewing the bacterium he expected, only saw only a blur. He hadn’t yet inserted the slide.

  Placing both hands flat on the table, he stared out at the view of the lake. The day was a bright and sunny one, calling to him as it rarely did.

  Emma was here. Emma, to whom he’d been cruel. Emma, who was wearing a blue dress and had smiled at him.

  Dear God, he was losing his mind.

  “Have you told Emma what you think?” he asked.

  Albert looked up from his microscope. “I didn’t. Do you think it’s necessary?”

  “I think she should be warned,” Ian said, standing and removing his lab coat and placing it carefully on the stool he’d occupied.

  Albert, intent on his own work, merely waved him away without taking his gaze from the eyepiece.

  The curtains had only been opened an inch or two in the sickroom, the morning light muted. The maid was nowhere in sight, and he was annoyed by her absence.

  Emma sat in the corner, her gaze on him as he entered. He concentrated on Bryce for the moment. Today his cousin’s face was not as pale. There was color in his cheeks, and he was breathing easier than yesterday.

  Ian fervently hoped that Albert was wrong and that Bryce was recovering, and quickly.

  “Where’s Glenna?” he asked.

  With someone else here, if she insisted upon staying in the sickroom, she could at least doze in the corner.

  “She went to get some lunch,” she said.

  “She should not have left you alone.”

  He felt like an utter fool. But then, that shouldn’t be any surprise to Emma. From the moment he’d met her, he’d behaved unlike himself. Or—and this was a thought he put away to examine later—perhaps more like the person he’d always secretly been.

  “I want you to rest.”

  Evidently, those were the wrong words to say. Belatedly, he realized that it might have sounded like a command rather than concern.

  She stood, the movement so slow that he suspected she was as tired as she appeared. She hadn’t slept last night, and he doubted if the night before that had been restful.

  “If you do not sleep soon,” he said, “we shall have to bring in another bed for you. Bryce will not be the only one who’s ill.”

  She walked to the opposite side of the bed, fiddling with the edge of the sheet that covered Bryce. As if putting Bryce between them might moderate his thoughts, or keep him from wanting her.

  What had she said the night before? Something about not being like the women she’d seen at Chavensworth? No hedonism, then. No loose morality for Emma. Despite the look in her eyes, despite the memory of that night and that day together, there could be nothing between them.

  But dear God, he wanted to stretch his hand out and touch her shoulder, measure the smooth curve of her arm. He wanted to hold her hand and stare down at the back of it, studying the knuckles and the small, almost invisible tracery of veins. Then turn it over and kiss each line on her palm.

  Perhaps he was no better than the Duke of Herridge with his appetite and his lack of honor.

  “Will you promise me to get some rest? I worry about you.”

  Her glance focused on the actions of her hands as she smoothed the sheets.

  “Is it wrong to tell you that I worry about you?” he asked. “Is that, too, forbidden?”

  She raised her gaze to him finally. “It should be. If it isn’t, it should be.”

  Emma had been at Lochlaven two days, and already his life was upside down. He’d been catapulted into emotions he wasn’t prepared to feel, hungers he’d never known.

  A lie, and he wasn’t used to lying to himself. He’d felt the hunger ever since meeting her.

  “I’m going to see Mrs. Jenkins,” he said, angry at her, at himself, and mostly at the circumstances. “I’ll find someone to watch Bryce. Right now, however, you’re going to get some rest.”

  She looked surprised at his vehemence. He waited for her to protest, to argue with him. He anticipated an argument, perhaps even welcomed it.

  To his surprise, she only sighed, looked down at Bryce, then back up at him.

  “You’ll stay with him until then?”

  “I’ll stay here,” he said.

  She was so pale he was afraid she’d faint. If he could have trusted himself alone with her, he would have escorted her up the stairs and to her room. But he only stood where he was, watching as she left the sickroom. At the door, she hesitated and glanced back at him. For the longest moment, they exchanged a look, one filled with memory. He wanted that glance to mean something, an admission, a conciliation, a surrender.

  He needed to ensure that Bryce grew as healthy as quickly as possible and that his cousin and Emma went somewhere else for their honeymoon. Otherwise, he was quite certain he was going to do something to shame his family name.

  Chapter 25

  Ian’s sister and her husband arrived shortly after Glenna returned to the sickroom. He arranged for another girl to replace her an hour later, then left the room to greet his sister.

  Their carriage rolled up in front of Lochlaven but no one exited. He watched them from the front door knowing, from prior experience, exactly what was happening inside the carriage. Fergus was kissing his sister and his sister was reciprocating with great enthusiasm.

  If he didn’t like his sister so much, she would have embarrassed him with her adoration of her husband, Fergus.

  Although they’d been married for two years, their passion for each other showed no signs of lessening, a fact that gave him—until London—some hopes for his own union.

  Now, however, he knew that the only chance for his marriage was to change the bride. Unfortunately, the woman he had in mind was already wed.

  He gave Fergus and Patricia a few more minutes before striding down the gravel drive and opening the carriage door himself.

  The two of them pulled apart, not looking the least embarrassed for being found in such circumstances. The entire world could have faded away, and as long as Fergus and Patricia were in the same room, they would be equally content.

  Their marriage was one he envied. In strength and emotionality, it easily equaled that of their parents.

  “Shall I go away for a few moments?” he asked, smiling at them.

  “An hour or so might suffice,” Patricia said, smiling back at him.

  He laughed, helped Patricia from the carriage before embracing her.

  Marriage suited her. She’d always been a pretty girl but she was radiant now, her black hair a perfect complement to her fair skin and brown eyes.

  Fergus, on the other hand, would never be anything but what he was, a big redheaded bear of a man with a full beard. Rumor had it that he was a master negotiator in addition to being a very prosperous merchant. Fergus owned a fleet of ships as well as numerous business concerns in Edinburgh and London.

  “Bryce is here,” Ian said as he walked with both of them to the door.

  Patricia stopp
ed and looked up at him. “Bryce? Why ever for?”

  He exchanged a long look with Patricia. “He’s married.”

  “But why has he come back to Lochlaven?”

  “We’re his only family,” he said.

  Patricia made a most unladylike sound. “You know better than that. We’ve always tried to be family to Bryce. He’s the one who refused us. At every occasion, he pushed us away. Why now?”

  “I think it’s because he married well,” he said.

  “And he wanted to show her off?” In the middle of the foyer, Patricia stopped, folded her arms and stared at him. He realized that she wasn’t going to advance upward until he answered her questions.

  “I think that’s exactly why he came, to show her off.”

  “The poor thing,” Patricia said.

  Not exactly the description he would give the former Duchess of Herridge but he didn’t illuminate his sister either to Emma’s nature or his feelings for her.

  “Where are they?”

  “He’s very ill,” Ian said.

  That comment drew her up short.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He decided to give her the brief version. “Bryce became ill on the journey here,” he said. “I’ve put him in the sickroom. Dr. Carrick is treating him.”

  She glanced at Fergus. “Is it something that we should be concerned about, Ian?” she asked.

  Evidently, the brief version wasn’t going to be satisfactory.

  “He was poisoned,” he said. “Arsenic.”

  She returned to Fergus’s side. Her husband wrapped one arm around her shoulders but Patricia didn’t seem to notice.

  “Poisoned? By whom?”

  “We haven’t been able to determine that. Bryce hasn’t awakened yet.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  He gave her the truth. Patricia would ferret it out anyway. “I don’t know. Dr. Carrick doesn’t know. He’s survived this long, which is a good sign.”

  “Where is his wife? Is she with him?”

  Before he could answer Patricia’s questions, she began to walk toward the sickroom.

  He exchanged a glance with Fergus. Once Patricia was in the mood to do something, little stopped her.

  “She’s not there,” he called out.

  She halted so suddenly that her skirts swung around her as she turned.

  “Where is she?”

  “She was up tending to Bryce all night, Patricia. She’s gone for a well-deserved rest.”

  She advanced on him, and once again he exchanged a glance with Fergus. What had he revealed? Something important, or Patricia wouldn’t be looking at him with that calculating gleam in her eye.

  “You can meet her later,” he said.

  “Tell me about her.”

  Now that he was not going to do. He saw Mrs. Jenkins lingering in the hall, and summoned her to his side.

  As the two women greeted each other, he took the opportunity to slip away, retreating to his laboratory. He was only postponing the inevitable. Patricia would find a way to assuage her curiosity, one way or another.

  Perhaps he should warn Emma.

  Emma sat on the edge of the bed. Although she was tired, so tired that she felt empty inside and incapable of speech, sleep felt as far away as a distant country.

  Juliana hadn’t been in her room when she’d entered it. Nor had her trunk been unpacked. Rather than summoning the girl, Emma simply opened her trunk, withdrew a nightgown, and undressed herself.

  She wasn’t up to dealing with Juliana at the moment. She wasn’t up to dealing with anyone else, either, especially Ian McNair.

  Emma pressed her hands against the edge of the mattress, staring at her bare feet.

  For the four years of her marriage, she’d held onto a sense of decency. Even if propriety had only been a façade, she’d clung to it in desperation. Yet here she was, of her own accord, admitting to wanting to be immoral.

  The fact that her union was legal and binding dictated that she act in certain ways, despite what she wished or felt or wanted.

  She needed her sleep. But for the first time in a very long time, she lay back on the bed, her hands folded atop her stomach, and wished for dreams. Let her recall that day in London. Let her remember those hours in Ian’s arms. Let her body feel that passion, that fevered longing, once again. Let her feel all of that desire, if only in her sleep.

  Dinner that night was a boisterous affair, with Patricia and Fergus relaying tales of their recent travels. Despite the company, and the conviviality, Ian found himself irritated. The cause wasn’t hard to determine—Emma was not at the table.

  He directed his attention toward his fiancée. Rebecca’s cheerfulness had never been grating before, and he knew quite well why it annoyed him right at the moment. Because a woman with calm, assessing blue eyes was not seated across from him. A woman whose expression was more often solemn than happy, whose smiles were so rare that he ached to coax them from her.

  Rebecca was of such an amiable disposition that she rarely frowned. There was nothing mysterious about her past, nothing that she wished to keep hidden. She was just as she appeared, a doctor’s daughter excited about her future, planning on becoming a countess, and overjoyed at the prospect.

  At the moment, she was looking at his sister fondly. Did Rebecca think that their marriage would be as warm and loving as Patricia’s?

  He should warn her now, pull her aside and tell her, in words that would no doubt be hurtful, that he couldn’t demonstrate that same type of feeling toward her. He didn’t have it in him. He didn’t possess the capacity for such emotions any longer.

  They’d been stripped from him by a certain woman with soft blue eyes.

  He forced his mind away from those thoughts and concentrated on his dinner. Because Patricia was a particular favorite of the staff, most of the people employed at Lochlaven had appeared in various guises during this dinner.

  Duties that would normally be performed by a footman in London were easily done by young women at Lochlaven. As one of Cook’s helpers began to serve the courses, another decanted a bottle of wine, pouring each glass half full.

  He stopped her when she came to his side, took the bottle and inspected it. Something niggled at him. Something he’d forgotten or not noticed.

  Ian stood and pushed back his chair, glancing at the four of them. Albert was concentrating on his dinner. Patricia and Fergus were speaking in low tones to each other. Rebecca looked up at him in surprise.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “There’s something I must do.”

  “Now, Ian?” Rebecca asked.

  “Most assuredly now,” he said.

  He entered his laboratory, went to the rubbish bin and carefully picked up the three wine bottles he’d discarded. He hadn’t been paying attention at the time, but one of the bottles was different, the slope of its shoulder not as pronounced, and the punt deeper. Two of the wine bottles were the same.

  He knocked on Mrs. Jenkins’s door, apologizing for the intrusion when she answered a moment later.

  “You’re never an intrusion, Your Lordship,” she said with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “My cousin brought a case of wine with him. Do you know where it is now?”

  She thought for a moment. “I believe all his belongings were taken to his room. The one that he’s always used,” she added. “Would you like me to see?”

  “It’s not necessary,” he said. “I’ll check myself.”

  “If you’re certain, Your Lordship,” Mrs. Jenkins said.

  He smiled his thanks and left her, taking the stairs to the third floor. Bryce’s room was across the hall from his own suite.

  What had Bryce done to get himself poisoned? Ian su
spected it had its roots in London.

  He opened the door to Bryce’s room, to find two trunks and a crate stacked in the corner. He rang for a maid and when she arrived instructed her to have one of the stable lads carry the crate to his laboratory.

  He should have examined the crate before. Maybe it wasn’t a suitor, an admirer of Emma’s, after all. Maybe the answer to who had poisoned Bryce was closer to home.

  Chapter 26

  Thank God Emma didn’t care for wine.

  Ian couldn’t help but wonder if her avoidance of spirits had something to do with having been the Duchess of Herridge. No doubt she’d witnessed the effect of alcohol on others, and didn’t wish to experience the same lowering of inhibitions in herself.

  Except with him.

  He pushed that thought away and motioned to the young man to place the crate on the table next to his microscope. The lid of the crate had been opened, then carelessly fastened again.

  Ian opened each full wine bottle in order of its placement in the crate. When each bottle had been tested, he discovered exactly what he’d suspected. None of the other bottles in the crate contained arsenic, which meant that the contaminated bottle was one of the three. Which one?

  He glanced at the mantel clock. Hours had passed since he left the dining room, and thankfully, everyone had left him alone. At the moment, however, he needed to see Emma.

  After leaving the laboratory, he strode toward the sickroom. When he saw Glenna there, sitting in the glow of the lamp and evidently comfortable with her knitting, he only smiled in greeting, then glanced at Bryce.

  “How is he?”

  “He stirred a little while ago, Your Lordship,” she said. “I think, in a few days, he’ll come out of it completely.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding. “Good.”

  Without another word, he left the sickroom, heading for the foyer of Lochlaven and the grand stairs that led him to the upper floors.

  He walked to the door of the room she’d been given, hesitating only slightly before rapping on the door with his knuckles. She was probably still asleep, and he had no right to disturb her.