A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  If she didn’t answer his first knock, he’d simply wait until morning. But just as he was beginning to turn away, she opened the door.

  Her coloring was somewhat better but she still looked tired.

  She held onto the edge of the door, and in the space, he could see that she was dressed for night in a filmy gown of black. Her widow’s nightgown.

  He resolutely kept his gaze on her face, congratulating himself on his resolve.

  He braced his hands on either side of the door, leaning toward her. “Would your maid have any reason to want to kill Bryce?”

  Confusion shadowed her face.

  “Juliana? Why do you ask?”

  “Because Bryce drank three bottles of wine. One of them was poisoned. The other bottles in the crate weren’t poisoned.”

  Her eyes widened. “None of the other bottles?”

  When he shook his head, she folded her arms in front of her, her gaze on the floor.

  “The chances are that Juliana poisoned the wine she bought in Inverness. Were you with her the whole time?’

  She shook her head. “I was with Bryce,” she said. “I’d sent her off to get food for the journey.”

  “So she would have had the opportunity,” he said.

  A moment later she looked up at him. “If you’re going to see her, I’m coming with you.”

  He waited in the hallway while she dressed. When she joined him, Emma was attired in Rebecca’s blue dress.

  “We must see about a seamstress for you,” he said.

  She glanced quickly at him and then ahead. “I hope not to be here that long,” she said. Abruptly, she halted and looked at him. “I do apologize for the bluntness of my comment. It’s just that, for a variety of reasons, it would be better if we continue our journey as soon as Bryce has recovered.”

  “To where?”

  Instead of answering him, she only shook her head.

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you wish,” he heard himself saying, the exact opposite of what he should have said. He should have bid her on her way, done anything in his power to ensure that she and his cousin were soon gone. Instead, he’d issued an invitation.

  “This is Bryce’s home,” he said. “The only one he’s known.”

  She halted again, and in deference to the hour, whispered the question. “If this is his only home, and you are his only family, then why does he seem to have such antipathy for you?”

  “Does he?”

  He continued walking, simply because it was easier to be about his errand than to answer her question.

  She caught up with him soon enough.

  “I would not have expected you, of all people, to avoid answering a difficult question.”

  “Why am I any different than anyone else?”

  “Because you are.”

  They were at the stairs now, and instead of taking them, he turned to face her.

  She looked up at him, her face cast into shadow. The scent she used wafted up from her body, warm and seductive, urging him to recall those hours when she was in his bed. He wanted, almost desperately, to kiss her, to grab her hand and pull her down the stairs and into his suite. He’d bar the door to everyone, say to hell with every virtue he’d learned. If it didn’t concern Emma, he didn’t care.

  Instead, he remained where he was and gave her a version of the truth, not about his need but about his past. “From the moment Bryce came to Lochlaven,” he said, “he resented us. We were prepared, Patricia and I, to consider him our brother. He didn’t want to be part of our family. Why?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was because he disliked feeling like a poor relation, even though none of us ever said anything to him about his parents. I can’t give you an answer. Dealing with scientific principles is one thing, Emma. Dealing with people quite another.”

  “Thank you,” she said to his surprise. “For your honesty. For answering me.”

  He began to mount the steps.

  “I didn’t give you an answer,” he said. “I gave you an explanation for not having one.”

  “Yes. But you might have just simply told me it was none of my concern. Men do that with women, sometimes.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Not at Lochlaven,” he said, faintly amused. “My mother and Patricia are extremely strong women. They’re Scots. They’re McNairs. They will not take a subservient role to anyone.”

  “I imagine Rebecca is the same,” she said softly.

  Since he didn’t know what to say to that comment, he remained silent.

  Juliana wasn’t answering her door.

  Ian knocked once more, as quietly as he could, so as not to disturb the other occupants of the wing. But after a few moments it was all too evident that Juliana wasn’t going to respond.

  Emma stepped forward. “Perhaps it would be better if I rouse her,” she said.

  “Is she a heavy sleeper?”

  “I don’t know. Whenever I rang for her, she appeared promptly.” He stepped back as she grabbed the handle of the door and swung it inward.

  Servants’ quarters were rarely equipped with locks, and this chamber was no exception. Although it was small, however, it was furnished with everything necessary: a narrow bed, a set of dressers, a ladder-back chair that served as a bedside table, and a series of pegs for clothing.

  Everything was neat and tidy, and quite empty.

  “She might be in another room,” Emma suggested. “Perhaps she developed an affection for one of the male servants.”

  He glanced at her. “In two days?” he asked. “Was she given to doing such things?”

  “I’m woefully unfamiliar with Juliana’s personal life, her habits, or her predilections,” she said.

  “She might be in another room,” Ian conceded.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Ian said.

  Emma turned to face him, her hands clasped together in front of her. She felt as if she were riding in the train again, her stomach none too steady.

  “If she left, that doesn’t mean she’s guilty. I came very close to dismissing her,” she said, conveying her last conversation with Juliana.

  “Nor does it prove her innocence,” Ian said.

  They left Juliana’s room, and as they descended to the third floor, Emma was consumed with worry.

  “How did she leave Lochlaven?” she said. “Where did she go? How?”

  “Why are you so concerned about her?” Ian asked, halting in front of her door.

  “She was in my employ,” Emma said. “Her welfare is my concern.”

  “Even if she’s proven to be a poisoner?”

  Emma considered his question for a moment. “Perhaps not.” A moment later she spoke again. “I don’t understand. How can some people do such egregious things? How can anyone place themselves in the role of God and decide who should live and who should die?”

  “How can anyone force another to do his bidding?” Ian asked.

  She looked up at him. “For power,” she said. “All despots crave power.”

  “Perhaps murder is no different.”

  He was standing too close.

  Her mouth trembled but she held it tight. Each of her hands gripped the opposite forearm, holding herself tightly. Her legs felt like liquid.

  She should excuse herself, close the door. Yet she didn’t leave, even now. She looked up at him, noticing that his deep brown eyes were ringed with a thick black border, and his lashes were full and thick. As she stared, his mouth thinned, his expression growing fierce, the Scottish warrior of his heritage becoming all too evident.

  She wanted to look lower, to take in the column of his neck, the shape of his shoulders beneath his white shirt, the width of his c
hest. But she kept her eyes on his. Something flared there, something that warned her to step away. Although her heart tripped in its haste, beating furiously and too fast, she didn’t move. How could she? Her breath was gone, and her will melted beneath the heat she felt. Her cheeks were flushed; her skin felt too tight.

  This was not right.

  “Ian, I’ve lost the mirror,” she said abruptly. “The Tulloch Sgàthán.” The fact that she’d forgotten, until now, to mention that fact to him was a blessing in disguise. Her remark altered the tension between them and caused him to frown.

  “The housekeeper at Chavensworth found the mirror and sent it to me. I placed it in my trunk, the one that was stolen.”

  If anything, his frown grew more thunderous.

  She didn’t know what else to say to him. There were no further explanations she could make, nothing that would ease the news she’d just conveyed.

  “If you would communicate with Lady Sarah,” she said, “and tell her that I would be more than happy to compensate her for the cost of the mirror.”

  What value could she put on such an obviously old object?

  “Did you steal your own trunk?” he asked.

  “Of course I didn’t,” she said. “Nor am I assuming too much blame. It’s simply that it was in my possession, and I feel responsible.”

  Ian took a step toward her and she was forced to move back until she could feel the door frame behind her.

  He bent his head until his lips were close to her ear.

  “You feel responsible for your murderous maid. You feel responsible for an act of thievery that you could not control. What else do you feel responsible for, Emma? The sun shining? The fog across the lake?”

  She raised her hand, as if to press it against his chest and push him back. At the last moment, however, reason returned to her. She couldn’t touch him. If she did, it would be like stoking a banked fire. Fiery embers would float in the air followed by flames.

  “You take too much on yourself,” he said.

  She welcomed the irritation she felt. Who was he to question her character?

  An honorable man, who, from what she’d observed, cared for those in his keeping. He was as responsible. Too much so, perhaps.

  “Perhaps I assume responsibility for those things I cannot control, in order to avoid shame for those actions I could have altered and didn’t.”

  For the longest moment he said nothing. The seconds ticked by like heartbeats, and she was conscious of each one.

  “What would he have done to you if you’d refused to play the part of Ice Queen?” he asked softly.

  She closed her eyes, unwilling to answer that question. But he was implacable.

  “Emma,” he said. “What would he have done? What would Anthony have done if you’d not agreed to appear in his revels?”

  She would not tell him. In the end, Anthony and her uncle had not been that far apart in their threats.

  “My father once beat me for telling a lie,” he said. “It was a lesson I learned quite well. I learned not to lie to my father and I learned something else.”

  He leaned closer, his forearm braced against the door. As if he were creating a shelter of his body in which she could feel secure.

  “I don’t like pain.”

  He was looking at her. She could feel the intensity of his stare.

  “So, to avoid being raped, you became the Ice Queen.”

  She nodded. She truly did not want to have this conversation. And if Providence insisted upon this conversation, she most especially did not want to have it with him.

  “See the facts as they are, Emma. Like it or not, you were no match for the Duke of Herridge. Not in depravity, or cruelty, or a dozen other character defects I’m certain he possessed. The situation was one of inequality. But even more than that, can you truly fault yourself for not seeking out pain?”

  “I should have done something,” she said.

  “Such as?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know but something.”

  “How many times have you asked yourself that question? How many times since he died have you chastised yourself for your behavior?”

  A faint smile curved her lips. “A great many,” she admitted.

  “Then I propose to you, my dearest Emma, that in all this time, and with all that thought, if you cannot think of a single thing that you might have done, there was nothing to be done. You simply had to endure, and you did that. Don’t fault yourself for surviving him.”

  She lifted her eyes to his face. His words eased her heart a little, but even more so was the fact that he’d called her “dearest Emma.”

  She turned and slipped behind her chamber door.

  “Good night, Ian.”

  “Sleep well, Emma,” he said.

  As she closed the door, she wondered why his words felt almost intimate, dangerously so.

  Chapter 27

  Rebecca sailed into the sickroom a few days later.

  “There you are, dearest Emma,” she said, unconsciously repeating Ian’s words to her.

  Following her was a stranger, a tall and striking woman with dark brown eyes and black hair. From the shape of her features, and her high cheekbones, Emma guessed that she was face-to-face with Ian’s sister.

  A moment later that guess was confirmed as Rebecca made a great show of introducing her future sister-in-law.

  “This is Patricia. We’re going to be sisters, soon,” she said. She looked confused for a moment, then smiled brightly at Emma. “But then, you and she are sisters already. Are you not?” She turned to Patricia. “Do you not think of Bryce as your brother?”

  Patricia glanced at her and smiled, leaving Emma to wonder if the expression was as forced as it appeared.

  “Of course we do,” Patricia said.

  She directed her attention to Emma.

  “I am so sorry to meet you under such circumstances, Emma. Ian refused to let me come and visit with you until today. Welcome to Lochlaven, although I can’t think that your visit here has been very pleasant.”

  “Which is the reason why we’re here, of course,” Rebecca said brightly. “You must come with us to the island.”

  Bryce stirred, and Emma stood and left the room, gesturing to the other women to follow. “I don’t wish to disturb him,” she said in the hallway.

  “How is he?” Patricia asked.

  Before she could answer, Rebecca spoke. “My father says that each day he grows stronger.” She turned to Emma again. “So there is no way at all you can refuse to accompany us. Patricia has promised to assist me in the planning of the ceremony, and I thought it would be an opportunity for you to see the island, first of all, and secondly, for all of us to become better acquainted.”

  “I really shouldn’t leave Bryce,” Emma said.

  “You’ve spent enough time in the sickroom of late. You never take your meals with us. It’s almost as if you’re hiding in here. Being in the fresh air would be good for you. Once Bryce has recovered, we will take him to the island as well and make a monumental family event of it.”

  “Glenna is truly a very good nurse,” Patricia said. “I’m sure Bryce would be fine, but we can verify that with Dr. Carrick.”

  Emma sent a grateful look to Patricia.

  “I do so want you to come with us,” Rebecca said. “There is so much to plan. Mother Barbara is coming for the wedding,” she added. “I want everything to be just perfect.”

  Patricia carefully studied the pattern of the runner below her feet, giving Emma the impression that her mother did not care for the appellation “Mother Barbara.”

  “Do I need anything?” Emma asked, capitulating.

  Today, she’d worn the yellow dress she borrowed from Rebecca, and it had lightened her
mood, somehow.

  “Just your bonnet,” Patricia said. “The sun is hotter than you expect.”

  She didn’t have a bonnet, other than the bedraggled black thing she’d worn on the trip to Scotland, but rather than mentioning the lack—and be given one of Rebecca’s—she remained silent. A few hours in the sun wouldn’t be a bad thing, especially since, as Rebecca accused, she’d been hiding in the sickroom.

  Hiding, and praying that Ian wouldn’t visit, that he wouldn’t come and inquire about Bryce or her. That he wouldn’t, above all, smile at her, or talk to her in that soft, low tone of his.

  Rebecca left, after providing the details about the outing, Patricia following in her wake, an amused smile on her face. She exchanged glances with Emma and her look seemed to say: I feel the same as you. Together, however, we might be able to tolerate her.

  The island was best viewed from Lochlaven’s herbaceous gardens, a discovery Emma made as she followed the procession to the dock. The gardens were beautiful in their splendor, and so filled with heady scents that she wanted to stay and savor the air itself.

  She had always wanted to have a garden just like this, to watch the plants grow and know that she’d had some small part in their existence. Circumstances had always prevented it, however. As the Duchess of Herridge, she was not allowed to toil in the earth. “That’s what gardeners are for, Emma.” In London, the only green space was in the rear of the house where the horses were exercised.

  Twice, Rebecca glanced back at her impatiently, as if questioning why she lingered. Twice, Emma smiled and followed, sedately but punctually, to where the garden sloped down to the dock.

  Patricia greeted her with a smile, then turned to a large man standing beside her.

  “Fergus, darling,” she said, “this is Emma. Our cousin Bryce’s wife.”

  Fergus turned and smiled at her. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache was the same shade of red as his hair. His hands reached out and encompassed hers, and Emma felt as if she’d been gripped by a giant.

  “A pretty little thing you are,” he said in a rough burr of a voice. “Bryce found himself a jewel, he did.”