by Karen Ranney
The air was thick and heavy, the pattern of light filtering through the trees almost magical. Emma wondered if she’d stumbled onto an enchanted spot. If she remained motionless, would the castle rise up, the ruins reforming into walls and rooms and roofs until the structure was whole again? Then the structure would speak to her in a thickly burred voice, in an accent from an earlier time. A voice with sorrow in it, or even anger that it had come to being this: a blight upon the landscape, when it had once housed warriors.
She walked through the nearly knee-high grass, scrunching up her skirt with both hands.
The McNairs of an earlier day must have had to bring in all their food by boat, along with those items they could not make themselves and for which they’d traded.
From here she could see the promontory of land on which Lochlaven had been built. How long ago had the McNairs left their island fortress? When their fortunes improved? When they longed for more civility, and less barbarity?
She would ask Bryce. Surely he would know of his family’s history.
As to her own history, she could not imagine her uncle a murderer. Perhaps, if the poison was in only one bottle, it had been an accident of some sort.
Emma bowed her head, the silence surrounding her. In this place, peopled only by ghosts, she felt curiously at peace. Not happy or content but resigned.
Perhaps she was not destined to know love, not the way she’d always longed for it. Yet there were other compensations to life, and she would have to find them, list them, review them daily so as to gain hope and wisdom and the courage to live completely and without resentment.
“I cannot blame you,” Patricia said.
Emma whirled to find that Ian’s sister had followed her and was standing only a few feet away. For once she was not accompanied by Fergus.
“You’ve escaped us,” Patricia said. “Quite well, too. If I didn’t know for certain you’ve never been here, I might think you know your way around the island.”
She advanced on Emma, smiling. When she reached her side, Patricia’s voice softened. “Is it Rebecca? She can be cloying, can’t she?”
“I just wished a few moments to myself.”
“I’m always a little concerned about women who are excessively sweet,” Patricia said, as if Emma hadn’t spoken. “I haven’t the temperament. All you need do is ask Fergus—he will verify that only too quickly.” She raised an eyebrow at Emma. “Are you sweet, Emma?”
Emma smiled, amused. “Unfortunately, I’m not. There are times when I would truly like to be. But I haven’t the temperament, either.”
“I think we shall be fast friends, you and I. Now, if we could only convince Rebecca to do something utterly wicked.”
“Wickedness is overrated,” Emma said.
Patricia laughed.
“Have you known Rebecca long?” Emma asked.
Patricia considered the question before answering. “I have. Nearly ten years. Ever since she was a little girl, coming with her father to Ian’s laboratory.”
She leaned closer to Emma. “I think this marriage is a bit of convenience, myself. There she was, of marriageable age, the daughter of someone my brother respects a great deal. And there he was, quite a catch, an earl, wealthy, intelligent, and beyond handsome.” She smiled. “He’s my brother but I’m as good a judge of masculine beauty as anyone. Do you not think him handsome?”
Emma didn’t quite know how to answer that question. If she gave Patricia the truth—that every time she saw him, her heart beat faster—that comment would give her feelings away, would it not? So she settled for a smile that assuaged Patricia well enough.
“I wish he’d find someone to love,” Patricia said, her voice growing pensive. “Someone not convenient at all but to match his temperament. Instead, I think he halfway offered for Rebecca because of money.”
It was quite ill-bred to speak of money, having it or not having it. Still, Emma couldn’t quite tamp down her curiosity.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Ian has plenty of it. But she has nothing. Dr. Carrick doesn’t practice as a physician any longer. If it wasn’t for Ian’s money, I don’t doubt they’d be in dire straits.”
She looked a little shamefaced. “There I go. At least I told you I wasn’t sweet. I have a termagant’s temper, my Fergus says. Of course, I fuss at him sometimes, only to apologize in the most appropriate way.” She smiled again and the same look came into her eyes that Emma had seen earlier that day—the look of a completely satisfied woman.
Emma followed Patricia back to the path. A few minutes later she and Patricia reached the summit. Their luncheon had been arranged, and everyone but the two of them was sitting on a large cloth Broderick had spread on the ground.
There were no formal seating arrangements, as there might have been at dinner. Rebecca sat beside Ian, and on Ian’s other side, Broderick. Beside him was Fergus, who Patricia joined. Emma sat on Patricia’s right side, with no one next to her, feeling as out of place now as she had earlier.
Rebecca began to speak of the wedding ceremony, how Ian would be wearing a kilt, and she a sash across her dress.
“There isn’t a McNair tartan, per se,” Rebecca said. “But I found one that I think will do.” She tilted her chin down and looked up at Ian. A coy look that Emma had seen performed more than once by women of Anthony’s acquaintance.
She looked away rather than watch the spectacle.
Perhaps she simply needed to be in Rebecca’s company a little longer. After all, the girl had done nothing to her. Rebecca had gone out of her way to be charming and welcoming.
Her own character, mottled and filled with holes, was to blame for her irritation and no doubt the reason she was getting a spearing pain over her left eye.
Sitting here under a cloud-filled blue Scottish sky, the breeze from the lake blowing gently across her face, it was almost possible to believe that nothing was amiss in her life. The day was bucolic, the company charming, but just below the surface pulsed too many questions for which she had no answers.
Who had poisoned Bryce? Had it been an accident or a deliberate and evil act?
What was she supposed to do about these unwanted and unwelcome feelings for Ian McNair?
Would Bryce be so easily convinced by a few fluttering lashes? She’d have to attempt it. Anything to get him quickly out of his sickbed and into a carriage.
In this lovely setting, with the breeze brushing against her cheek with the tenderness of a lover, Emma made a vow. She would do everything within her power, with no reservations, with patience and determination, to be a good wife to Bryce. If he was unhappy in their marriage, it would not be because of any lack of effort on her part.
Ian glanced at her from time to time. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, thank you, and that he should not express any concern as to her health. He mustn’t be tender, or considerate, and above all he should not talk to her in a low tone, the one that made her feel as if his voice were caressing her.
Patricia suddenly looked up, then spoke to Ian. “Do you see that?” she asked, pointing toward the house.
All of them looked toward Lochlaven. For a moment Emma didn’t know what Patricia meant but then another flash of light came from an upstairs window, as if a mirror had been angled to reflect the light. The flash came again, then a third time.
Ian stood. “Something’s wrong,” he said. He glanced down at Patricia, then the rest of them. “It’s our signal to come home,” he said. “Our parents used it when we stayed too long on the island.”
“Ian,” Patricia said, joining him. “Look.”
Emma stood and walked to where the others were congregating.
A woman with bright blond hair—Glenna?—stood in the garden, waving her arms over her head.
“Something has happened to Bryce,” Emma sa
id.
Everyone was looking at her with various degrees of compassion. Finally, she glanced at Ian.
“I’ll take you back, Emma,” he said.
A look of displeasure slipped over Rebecca’s face. “Nonsense, Ian. Broderick will be more than happy to do so.” She nodded at the young man and he smiled in response.
Emma started toward the path she’d taken earlier, beginning to descend the hill, paying no attention to the tracery of shadows from the overhanging trees. The silence of the forest was not a fitting backdrop to her tumultuous thoughts.
“Emma,” Ian said from behind her.
Evidently, he’d won the battle on who would row her back to the house. She wanted to ask him if Rebecca was angry that he’d accompanied her. Doing so, however, would be petty.
Instead, she said, “You’re going to tell me it could be anything,” she said. “That it doesn’t have anything to do with Bryce at all.”
“I was,” he said, smiling lightly. “I take it you wouldn’t have listened.”
“What else would be important enough for people to signal you on the island?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Nothing.”
Soon she was at the rocks. Ian untied one of the boats and helped her in, then sat opposite her. Although he was the equal of Broderick in strength, it couldn’t have been easy to row against the lake’s current. Yet there was no sign of exertion on his face, as if he had done this many times before and was accustomed to it.
The look in his eyes, however, was almost as turbulent as the waters beneath them.
“I should have kept you in my room,” he said.
He looked at her, as if he knew quite well that her heart was suddenly racing, the blood heating her skin throughout her body. “You wouldn’t have wed, and we could have been together.”
“For a little while,” she said.
The water lapped against the side of the boat, as if vying for attention.
“Nothing would have changed,” she said. “I would have still been forced to marry Bryce.”
“Not if I had spirited you away to Scotland,” he said. “I’ve a fortune of my own. There is nothing your uncle could have done if I’d married you in Scotland.”
Why was he doing this? Why was he heaping misery onto misery?
She looked directly at him, almost daring herself to tell him the truth.
“If you’d taken me away to Scotland, I would have been horrified.”
Then, perhaps, but not now. She’d learned too much in a matter of weeks, not the least of which was what she felt for him.
They were almost back at Lochlaven and she glanced at the dock in relief.
“It’s too late now, Ian. It’s too late to be a brigand, and too late to wonder what would have happened, and too late to feel regret. It isn’t our time.”
“It’s never too late to feel regret, Emma,” he said, pulling to the dock. “It’s never too late for that. I’ll feel that for the rest of my life.”
“Your Lordship! Your Lordship!” Glenna shouted, running to the end of the dock. “It’s Mr. Bryce.”
“What is it, Glenna?” Ian was calmer than she, if his tone of voice was any indication.
“He’s awake, Your Lordship, and calling for his wife.”
Chapter 29
“Will you come with me?” Emma asked, turning to him.
“I think it best if you greet Bryce alone.”
They exchanged a look, one that revealed her reluctance only too easily.
“Send word to me if he’s feeling well enough for visitors,” he said. “I’ll visit him later. There’s something I need to do right now.”
A task he should have performed the moment he returned from London.
If Glenna had not been standing there, he would have bent and placed a kiss on Emma’s forehead and whispered that she was stronger than she knew. Instead, he only smiled at her, watched her walk away with Glenna, then turned and headed for his laboratory.
He’d been groomed to be the Earl of Buchane, as well as the Laird of Trelawny. His heritage had been taught him by a succession of good men, each of them handpicked first by his father, then his mother. He’d been grateful to each and every one of them for the knowledge they’d shared. Albert Carrick, however, was the teacher he’d selected in his adulthood, the man who fed his mind and inspired his enthusiasm.
For years he’d been Albert’s apprentice, fascinated by Albert’s quick and dexterous mind. When he’d first begun to investigate the theory of spontaneous generation, Albert had played devil’s advocate, questioning every one of his hypotheses. If he was considered a man of science, it was because of Albert.
Yet the words he would speak today would probably destroy that strong bond between them.
Albert was hunched over his microscope, his attention on what most people couldn’t see and didn’t know—would never know—existed.
When Ian entered, Albert looked up and grinned. “I think you need to see this last batch of water from the spring,” he said. A moment later his grin slipped. “What is it, Ian? Bryce?”
“He’s awake,” Ian said. “Thanks to you.”
“Then what’s put that frown on your face?”
“I’ve come to ask you to release me from our arrangement,” Ian said abruptly. “I realize you have no obligation to do so, Albert, but I ask because I believe it would be the best for both Rebecca and me.”
“You don’t want to marry my girl, then?” Albert asked.
There were so many ways he could phrase the next words, so many excuses he could give Albert. But the man was the closest he’d ever had to a father since his own had died. Besides, Albert deserved the truth.
“There’s someone else,” he said. “If I cannot stop thinking of her now, when I’m engaged, how will I stop when I marry?”
“And if she’s married?” Albert asked, his voice deceptively calm.
Ian had seen Albert in a temper, and he was capable of destroying a room. Nevertheless, he answered him, again with honesty.
“Then that makes me a fool, doesn’t it?”
“I must tell you, Ian, that I’m disappointed.”
Ian moved to the stool next to Albert and sat. He leaned forward, clasped his hands between his spread knees and nodded. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Are you sure about this, Ian?” Albert asked. “Thoughts can change, feelings can be altered. ”
“I’m sure,” Ian said. “I cannot marry one woman when I’m thinking of another.”
Albert nodded.
“Then you’ll tell her? As soon as you can?”
Ian nodded.
“Will this hurt us, Albert?” Ian asked.
Albert slowly straightened his shoulders.
“I would miss you, if you decided not to work with me anymore,” Ian said. “At the same time, I would understand if you chose not to.”
Albert studied him for several moments. “Is that what you want, Ian?”
“I want what’s best for you, old friend. We can always communicate by post. And we’ve had enough experience working separately during those times I travel to London.”
Albert bent his head, his intense gaze fixed not on Ian but the brass microscope in front of him. For the longest time, he didn’t speak.
“She’s my girl, Ian. My only child. I’ll need to take her home.”
“I know you think that I haven’t acted with honorable intent, Albert. If so, then I’m sorry. But I couldn’t be false to Rebecca. I have too much admiration for you, and fondness for her.”
Albert nodded, as if he’d expected Ian’s speech, and paid it as little heed as he did the sight of the lake from the window.
“I’ll finish up this series,” he said, his voice curiously devoid
of emotion. “And then I’ll take her home.”
“What about the work, Albert? Our partnership?”
“That I’ll decide as I go,” Albert said. “As I go.”
Albert said nothing further, only retreated to his microscope. A moment later Ian did the same. Sometimes, science was easier than dealing with people.
By the time she and Glenna made it to the sickroom, Bryce was half propped up on two pillows, looking not completely well but certainly less ill than he had yesterday.
Emma halted in the doorway and regarded the tableau with surprise.
In the intervening days, Bryce’s beard had grown. Now, a young man was shaving him, having arranged a towel around his neck, and equipped with a wicked-looking straight razor, a cup filled with lather, and a bowl of hot water.
“Good afternoon,” Emma said, entering the sickroom fully. Although it might have been expected to feel shy around the man, they were, after all, married. And had been for nearly two weeks now. Yet in all that time, she’d exchanged less than a few dozen words with Bryce.
He glanced in her direction.
“I understand we’re at Lochlaven,” he said.
His voice came slowly, as if he were unaccustomed to words. Or perhaps it was simply painful for him to speak.
She walked to the end of the bed, clasping her hands in front of her.
Glenna took over for the young man, rinsing the soap from Bryce’s face and then drying it, each of her motions quick and efficient. The woman did everything with an economy of movement, as if she reasoned out each task beforehand, to determine the best way to bathe a patient’s face, or fold a sheet, or even to care for a patient’s more intimate needs.
“You were poisoned, Bryce. Who would wish to do such a thing?”
He looked unsurprised. Had Glenna already told him?
“Dare I think that that is genuine emotion I see on your face, Emma? Were you worried about me?”
Her years of experience in not revealing her emotions served her well. If she’d not crumbled when facing Anthony, she certainly wasn’t going to do so in front of Bryce McNair.
“Yes,” she said. “I should not like to think of anything happening to you. Especially arsenic poisoning. You were very ill.”
