A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  She stared toward the island. The morning light was diffused; the island appeared more distant than it was. She’d been at Lochlaven for a month, and life had changed drastically here in that time.

  She’d not loved Bryce but she regretted his death. No one should be murdered. No one should be killed for the sake of greed. No one should have to die before his time.

  Ian had returned last night, which meant that she needed to meet with him this morning. A meeting she dreaded, and one that would be difficult. She knew what he would say, could predict his arguments. She would have to be strong, perhaps stronger than she’d ever been.

  A seamstress had been employed in the last few days and had somehow—and miraculously—managed to complete a dress and appropriate bonnet for her. The short, sparrowlike little woman spoke almost continually in a low, heavily accented voice, as if she were talking to herself. Not once, however, had she directly addressed Emma, merely moving Emma’s arms when necessary, or climbing atop a box to obtain measurements of her waist and bodice. The result was a perfectly acceptable mourning dress.

  Standing, she smoothed the skirt of her new dress, then took the graveled path back to the house.

  The laboratory door was open. Emma stood there for a moment, gathering her courage. The laboratory, with its view of the lake and light glistening off glass, was too bright. She wanted shadows and darkness for this meeting.

  She entered the laboratory and its warren of rooms. Ian was in the second room at the window, a view that looked out over the garden where she’d just been sitting. Had he been watching her? Sadness filled her and threatened to make speech impossible.

  “Your uncle is missing,” he said without turning.

  Startled, she said, “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been in contact with a firm of investigators in London. I received a telegram from them when I was in Inverness.”

  “Could he still be in Scotland?”

  “I frankly don’t care where he is, as long as it’s nowhere near you.”

  She didn’t want him to be kind to her or protective.

  He turned to face her. “I’ve news of your maid as well. Juliana has found employment.”

  “Who would have employed her without a reference?” she asked.

  “The Duchess of Meltonshire, I believe. Do you know her?”

  She looked away.

  “Emma?”

  “She was a particular favorite of Anthony’s.”

  “Perhaps Juliana is emulating Bryce.”

  “Extortion?” She smiled. “The duchess is a very proper personage. She prides herself on her parties, her charities.”

  “And her reputation?”

  She nodded.

  He turned. “There’s something else,” he said. He moved to one of the tables, picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to her. “Juliana telegraphed your uncle once she arrived in Inverness.”

  I know what you did. Mr. McNair still lives. I’ll not have anything to do with your plans.

  “It sounds as if she was afraid,” Emma said.

  “I came to the same conclusion.”

  “Perhaps I misjudged her,” Emma admitted, staring down at the paper. “I wonder if she knew what she did?”

  “Told him his plan failed, in so many words? He had no other choice but to find another way to kill Bryce.”

  “Why couldn’t he have waited until Bryce returned to London?”

  “He didn’t know when that would be. Perhaps he was afraid it would be months, enough time for Bryce to have told someone else what he knew.”

  “He wouldn’t have,” she said, certain of that.

  She glanced at him. How alone he looked, how separate and apart from anyone. The loss of both Bryce and Albert had shadowed his face, banished his smile, and stripped his eyes of any emotion.

  “I’m leaving for London,” she said in the silence. “Tomorrow morning.”

  For the longest moment, he didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him, directing her attention, instead, to the garden.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Ian, please do not pretend ignorance as to why I’m leaving. It wouldn’t be right for me to stay. Not now.”

  “No,” he said finally.

  “No?” She smiled. “For the first time in my life, I’m not obligated to listen to any man, Ian. Not even you. You have no power to keep me here.”

  He was silent so long that she finally stole a glance at him. He was regarding her somberly, almost as if committing her to memory.

  “Is that why you wish to leave? To create your own life?”

  No, but if it was an excuse that he’d accept, she’d use it. She nodded, wishing she didn’t feel so close to tears.

  “Very well,” he said. “If you’re set to go back to London, then I’ll accompany you. Or have you forgotten that your uncle is still a murderer? There are certain conditions I insist upon,” he said, in a voice she’d never heard from him.

  “What are those?” she asked coolly.

  “You allow me to obtain a security staff for you. You have all the locks replaced, in case your uncle has keys. A watchman will be stationed outside your house.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until such time as your uncle has proven not to be a threat.”

  “And when would that be?”

  “When he’s dead,” he said flatly.

  “Very well,” she said. It wasn’t very difficult to agree to his terms. She might have instituted the very same measures if he’d given her the opportunity.

  “Then your life will be your own,” he said.

  “Why does that seem to annoy you?”

  He didn’t say anything in response, only turned back to the window, effectively dismissing her. As he did so, she realized that he thought she’d chosen a life of autonomy over a life with him. No, not even that, because he hadn’t asked her to stay.

  She felt as if she were spinning off wildly in a hundred different directions like a dandelion puff set in motion by a windstorm. She stretched out her hand as if to touch him, then pulled it back.

  The world would not understand her remaining at Lochlaven, not so soon after Bryce’s death. It would appear as if the two of them feasted on his grave, as if they celebrated his demise.

  It wasn’t their time.

  For a moment she simply stood there, dressed in mourning, and filled with a terrible grief.

  Then she turned and walked away, intent on the preparations for her departure.

  Chapter 35

  At the Inverness Station, Ian left her for a few moments, returning only when the train was nearly ready to leave.

  “I’ve given the station master your address,” he said, “and asked him to redouble his efforts to find your trunk.”

  “That was very kind,” she said. “I should like to give the mirror to Lady Sarah.”

  The loss of the Tulloch Sgàthán weighed heavily on her. She decided to write Lady Sarah once she arrived in London, taking the chance that the other woman wouldn’t rebuff her attempts at conciliation. She would explain what had happened and apologize for her part in losing the mirror.

  During the journey, Ian was very solicitous, ensuring that she was warm enough, comfortable, purchasing some tea for her. At least once an hour he would ask if she needed something, and she would turn her attention from the passing scenery to him.

  “Thank you, no.”

  They sat opposite each other, a small square table between them. If the other passengers in the compartment wondered at the man with the black armband and the obvious widow accompanying him, they kept their curiosity muted and undetectable.

  Emma not only looked the part of proper widow but felt the part as well. She was truly miserable. However, the
harpies of society would be wildly gossiping if they knew the truth. The newly widowed Mrs. McNair was grieving, but not, shockingly, for her husband.

  She could recall everything Ian had said to her, every comment, every single word. She could see his face in her dreams, could envision each of his separate expressions and emotions. She could feel the touch of his hands on her, the slide of his body against hers, the laughter that bubbled up from the depths of her when he was being amusing.

  At Lochlaven she’d come too close to inviting Ian into her room, closing the door and forgetting the world. She’d wanted to smooth her hands up the broad plains of his chest to his shoulders, link her hands at the back of his neck and hold on. She wanted to marvel at the power of his body over hers, be fascinated at his strength and masculinity compared to her femininity.

  She ached for him now, not simply in passion but also in longing. A feeling that was tied to the inside of her, to the open, empty cavern in her chest.

  Once in London, a solicitous Ian led her through Kings Cross Station.

  “I don’t think you should return to your home,” he said after he’d hired a carriage. “If you have no friends with whom you could stay, then stay with me.”

  She smiled.

  “To hell with propriety, Emma.”

  He had not been whispered about, sent looks when she entered a shop, been shunned at a gathering.

  She reached over and placed her hand on his arm, the first time she’d allowed herself to touch him since Bryce’s funeral. “Ian, I’m going home.”

  His face closed up but he finally nodded.

  The carriage ride through London was as silent as most of the train journey back to England. Dusk had fallen by the time they reached her house, and when the carriage stopped, Emma let out a sigh, almost of relief.

  Being with Ian was the most perfect torture she’d ever endured.

  She wanted, desperately, to turn to him, to have his arms enfold her, to gain comfort from his embrace. Doing so, however, was so wrong that even the thought of it rang like a bell through her mind.

  Now was not the time for friendship, love, or passion.

  Before she could mount the steps, Ian touched her arm. She halted and turned to him.

  “Allow me to introduce your security detail to you,” he said.

  Three men exited an adjacent carriage, two of them tall, one of them short, but each possessing a muscular build that strained their jackets.

  “My security detail?” she asked.

  “One of my conditions,” he reminded her.

  She nodded.

  “They’ll be with you at all times,” he said. “They’ll also approve new hirings, and the entrance of anyone into your home.”

  “Something else you arranged in Inverness?” she asked faintly.

  “Yes.”

  She met Matthew Harrison, the man in charge of her security. He was nearly a foot shorter than Ian, and a foot broader, and possessed a large mustache that jiggled when he spoke. He was also Scottish, a fact that was immediately evident when he began to speak.

  “We’ll not be a hindrance, madam,” he said. “You’ll not see a whisker of us unless you wish to.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harrison.”

  “We’ll just go and search the house now,” he said, bowing to her.

  She turned to Ian.

  “Just how long will I have the services of Mr. Harrison and his cohorts?” she asked.

  “I told you at Lochlaven,” he said, standing at the bottom of the steps. “When your uncle is dead.”

  He and Mr. Harrison were deep in conversation. Evidently, that was the only farewell she was going to get from Ian.

  She opened the door, nodding to her majordomo.

  “Ask Cook to have a tray sent to my room in an hour,” she said to him. “Something light.”

  The man merely bowed, respectful and distant. Or was he disdainful? Perhaps she should be like Anthony and dismiss the whole of her staff. She would replace them only with people who chose to be in her employ.

  She turned to look back at Ian just once before the door closed.

  It’s not our time, dearest Ian.

  She wanted, almost desperately, to tell him that. Or to tell him how much she appreciated his care of her. Instead, she forced herself to turn away from him and mount the stairs to her room.

  When Emma entered her suite, she closed the door softly, leaning back against the carved panel, her hands behind her. The gas lamps were lit, illuminating the sitting room in a warm yellowish glow. Bryce had slept through his wedding night in that chair. Ian had entered through that window. Everything was exactly the same as it had been.

  She was the only one who’d changed.

  Emma closed her eyes, unprepared for the onslaught of memory.

  No one told me how beautiful you were.

  My home is near a lake, and on the lake is an island.

  I came back for you.

  Words Ian had said to her. Words he’d uttered in a teasing voice, a somber tone, with tenderness.

  How was she to bear this?

  Emma walked to the window and stood looking down at the street. Ian was still there, his carriage at the curb. The fact that he hadn’t left was both oddly reassuring and troubling.

  How was she ever to say good-bye to him?

  Why must she?

  For years she’d pretended that she could be part of society again. That, if she tried hard enough, people would accept her. That, one day, she’d be able to attend a tea or a ball and have people welcome her instead of staring at her with open dislike.

  For years she’d told herself that propriety was important, that rules were made to be obeyed, not broken.

  Society didn’t care about her, other than as fodder for gossip. Even if she were to be restrained, demure, and docile for the next twenty years, she doubted if any of the harpies in society would ever forget all the tales. Instead, she would forever be the stuff of rumors and innuendo. Someone new to London would be immediately regaled with stories of the Duchess of Herridge.

  She could never escape. Then why did she try? Why did she care?

  Why was she going to allow anyone to dictate her happiness?

  The rebellion had been fomenting since Scotland. She’d changed there, become someone else. She suspected she would never again be the Ice Queen.

  She wanted to laugh with abandon, or throw something at the wall or the window. She wanted to take off her shoes and walk barefoot in the grass. She wanted to bathe in the lake. She didn’t want to be decorous or proper. She wanted to be a hoyden. She wanted to picnic on the island. She wanted to let loose with all of those impulses she’d tamped down during her marriage. All of those un-duchess, impolite, thoroughly human emotions she’d never expressed.

  Emma pressed her hand against the glass, remembering that night when Ian entered her room. He’d come for the Tulloch mirror and left with her heart.

  What a fool she’d be if she turned down the opportunity to be happy.

  As she looked, he approached the carriage and glanced upward, their eyes meeting.

  She didn’t want to stay here. If she must, she’d defy propriety to be with him. She almost raised the window and called out to him. Stay. Wait for me. I’m coming!

  The smell of camphor was the only warning she had.

  Ian was damned if he was going to leave her.

  Her uncle might have departed for parts unknown but he could always return. He didn’t want to leave Emma at the mercy of a killer. Besides, he had the distinct impression that if he left her, she’d never again allow him into her life. She’d become an utterly proper widow, a woman who attempted, in her later life, to make up for all the sins of her youth.

  She would martyr herself for
propriety.

  Couldn’t she see the love right in front of her eyes? Couldn’t she see that there wasn’t anywhere else for her to be but right at his side? In his house, in his life, and in his arms?

  Ian knew he should get in his carriage, give the driver the address of his London house, and give her time. But he was reluctant to leave. Instead, he conferred with Harrison and spoke to Emma’s majordomo.

  He wasn’t going to marry anyone else. He wasn’t going to form an alliance with anyone else. He didn’t even want to talk to another woman. Emma was his and had been from the first moment he’d seen her. If she didn’t understand that fact, then he would simply have to do something or say something to ensure she did.

  His Celtic ancestors had been strong men determined to survive. He felt the same now, as if his very survival depended upon Emma being in his life. Each moment, he couldn’t help but feel more and more Scottish.

  No more so than now, when the woman he loved had repudiated him.

  Perhaps an abduction was in order again.

  “You’re looking well, Emma,” her uncle said, stepping out of the shadows.

  She turned.

  “You didn’t leave,” she said. How very composed she sounded.

  “I have no funds with which to do so,” he replied. “Let’s just say that I’ve expended all the available cash I had.”

  Her palms felt damp against the fabric of her skirt.

  “On a trip to Inverness, perhaps?” she asked. “Or was it the payment for murder that cost you?”

  He smiled agreeably. “Does it matter?”

  “They searched the house.”

  “They didn’t search the servants’ quarters,” her uncle said, smiling. “A sad thing, my dear, when I’m forced to hide in a maid’s room. She had more in her purse than I have in my pocket. An irony, is it not? I’m almost happy to see you. The wait was endless.”

  “People are looking for you, Uncle. Or do you think you should be allowed to get away with murder?”

  “Bryce? You should thank me for that, my dear. He would have proven to be a disagreeable husband.”

  “I’m speaking of Anthony,” she said.