A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  “Anthony?” His smile broadened. “I always thought you knew what I’d done and approved. You never told anyone that Anthony was murdered. I’d not expected an accomplice, Emma. It made my life so much easier, and I thank you.”

  He smiled, and it was then she noticed the gleam of madness in his eyes. Or perhaps it had always been there, and she only just now saw it. He strode toward the chair, a bottle of wine in his hand.

  “Now, regrettably, it’s your turn.”

  She took a step backward.

  “You don’t even seem to know that you have money, Emma,” he said. “You would probably be content not to have any money at all. No funds for little Emma.”

  He grabbed her arm. She jerked away, but he only seized her again, pushing her down into the chair, her skirt and hoop billowing.

  “We’ll have a toast, you and I. To Anthony. To Bryce.”

  He pulled the cork from the bottle and held it out to her.

  “Drink it, Emma. I promise you, all your problems will vanish if you do so. No more onerous wealth to manage. No more worries about husbands. No more concern for your reputation.”

  “I don’t want any,” she said, pushing the bottle away.

  “Ah, but I insist.” He held out the bottle again. “Oh, you think it’s ill mannered to drink from the bottle? Shall I get you a glass?”

  “Only if you join me, Uncle,” she said. “And drink first.”

  He laughed. “You’ve become brave, little Emma.”

  “I’m not drinking any of your wine.”

  “But I’ve learned from my mistake, Emma. It’s not the same dosage as Bryce’s wine. It’s much stronger. You’ll not be able to survive like poor Bryce. You’ll simply go to sleep.”

  “You can’t think to get away with this,” she said. “People know about Anthony. They know about Bryce.”

  “Do they?” He smiled. “Then they’ll just have to know about you as well, little Emma.” He held out the bottle. “Drink it.”

  “No.”

  “No? Come now, Emma, you’ve always been such an obedient girl.” His smile vanished. “Drink it,” he said, his easy manner disappearing. “Or I shall have to force you to do so.”

  With one hand on the bottle, the other on her chin, he forced her mouth open. She clawed at his wrists with both hands as he tipped the bottle, then angled her head and bit his thumb.

  He swore, then backhanded her.

  Emma lunged forward, half falling toward the fireplace, wishing her corset wasn’t laced so tightly or her skirts weren’t so fulsome. She grabbed the poker from its stand, but he was right behind her. He hit her again, and she collapsed to the floor, the side of her face burning. A second later she scrambled to her knees and swung the poker at him, catching him on the shin.

  He swore at her, grabbed for the poker, but she managed to stand and swing it again. Her first blow struck his shoulder. The second hit him on the side of the head. He staggered, dazed, and she ran to the sitting room door. Before she could reach it, he grabbed her arm, pulled her around and struck her again, this time with a closed fist.

  The poker fell to the floor.

  Later, Emma wondered if that horrid sound had really come from her. Mr. Harrison said that it sounded like a wounded animal. One of the men in her security detail said it was the cry of a Scottish banshee.

  All Emma knew was that she wasn’t going to be poisoned. She wasn’t going to die. She was not going to be powerless again.

  She raced toward the chair, grabbed the bottle and swung it at him. It struck his cheek but didn’t break. He lunged for her, both arms outstretched, fingers like claws.

  She bent, scrambled for the poker, then stood facing him, breathless.

  “Emma,” he said in a singsong voice. “Little Emma. Drink the wine, little Emma. You’re proving to be as great a problem as Bryce.”

  He was Death, and she wasn’t going to die. Not before she’d truly lived. Not as the Duchess of Herridge. Not as Bryce’s wife. But as Emma, simply Emma.

  She could feel the strain of each muscle, the blazing heat of her blood, and the fierce pounding of her heart as she raised the poker with both hands and, with every bit of strength she possessed, struck her uncle again.

  This time the blow landed on his neck. He fell to his knees, one hand on the wound. She raised the poker again, ready to strike him again as the door opened.

  “Emma,” Ian said from behind her. “Emma, it’s all right. You’re safe.”

  She still held the poker aloft, aiming for her uncle’s head. He wasn’t just her uncle at that moment, he was Anthony as well. He was every man who’d ever frightened her or abused her or threatened her.

  “I want to kill him,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “I know,” he said softly. “But you won’t.”

  Slowly, she lowered the poker, releasing it from her numb hands and hearing it clatter to the floor.

  Ian turned her, saying words she couldn’t understand in that beautiful voice of his with its hint of Scotland. She grabbed him with both hands, closed her eyes and held on, feeling his arms wrap around her and knowing he was right. She was finally safe.

  * * *

  In another time, she would have been a warrior beside him, this shocking former duchess. She would have defended the island at his side, worked to build a castle to shelter their children, wielded a sword with expert skill.

  A Celtic woman, for all that she’d been born in England.

  A moment later he left her and went to help her uncle up from the floor. Once the man was on his feet, Ian shook him gently, just to ensure that he was fully conscious.

  “Are you with us, Your Lordship?” he asked pleasantly.

  The man nodded faintly, just before Ian struck him again. He watched with pleasure as the Earl of Falmouth fell face first onto the floor, sliding over the floorboards until he was stopped by the wall.

  Ian clenched his fist and released it, shaking his hand. The pain in his knuckles was worth it.

  “What will happen to him?” Emma asked from beside him.

  He glanced at her. “He’ll be given over to the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Will he go to jail?”

  “If I have anything to say about it,” Ian said. “For the rest of his life.”

  She was still trembling, but when he reached for her she moved farther away.

  “I’m taking you home, Emma. To my home. You can scream and shout and do anything you wish, but I’m taking you home.”

  “No, not until we talk,” she said.

  “Then we’ll talk, but you’re still coming home with me.”

  He wasn’t leaving here without her. He was never leaving her again. She filled every cell of his body, every crevice, every empty place. Couldn’t she see that? Didn’t she know? If she didn’t, he would spend the rest of his life proving it to her.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and resolutely faced him.

  “I’m a shocking woman, Ian,” she said. “I’ve come to understand that, for the rest of my life, rumor will follow me. You have to know that as well.”

  “Must I?”

  “I could damage your reputation. It could harm you irreparably to have your name linked with mine.”

  He leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

  “Would it?” he asked.

  “I will never be received in proper society again, not after being the Duchess of Herridge, the Ice Queen,” she said, her eyes swimming with emotion.

  “Does that matter to you? Being received in proper society?”

  She walked to the fireplace, looked with loathing at the bottle of wine now laying on the carpet nearby.

  In the stilted silence, he refused to speak. Nor would he beg, althoug
h he came damn close.

  She turned to face him. “That’s what I’m trying to say, Ian. I realized that it doesn’t. All that’s important to me is what you think. To blazes with my reputation or those who would judge me.”

  “Shall I tell you what I think?”

  She looked startled at his vehemence.

  “I don’t give a flying farthing about your reputation, Emma. I never have since I learned who you were. If it disturbs you not to be received in London, we’ll spend all our time in Scotland, with occasional visits to France.”

  “We will?” Her eyes widened.

  They didn’t need to talk anymore. He reached her side in three strides and lifted her up in his arms. He was through the door, down the stairs, and into his carriage before she could utter a word of protest.

  She smiled up at him.

  “You’re abducting me again,” she said as he settled her on his lap and reached over to close the door.

  “I am. Know one thing, Emma, if you know nothing else. I’m proprietary. You’ll need to get used to it.”

  “I am, too,” she confessed. “I was horribly jealous of Rebecca. Not simply because she was going to be able to share your bed, although there was that. But she was going to share your life.

  “I may be a pariah, Ian, but I would also be a partner. I would be there to listen to you complain, to hear your theories, to tell you that you’re marvelous.” She smiled, and cupped the side of his face with her palm. “You are, you know.”

  “You’re going to marry me, Emma,” he said, feeling as if his heart was filled with emotion.

  “Am I?”

  “We’re also going to shock the world further, you and I. We’ll marry within the week. That will give the harpies something to talk about. The scandalous Earl of Buchane and his countess.”

  “It might be entertaining to be married to someone I like for once.”

  Ian pulled his handkerchief free and dotted at the cut on her lip. The side of her face was bruised. If she hadn’t pummeled the Earl of Falmouth herself, he would have gone back to finish the job.

  Emma wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and raised up to kiss him.

  He pulled back. “Emma, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Then kiss me,” she said, and smiled.

  What other choice did he have?

  Once at his house, he greeted Patterson with a nod, all the while carrying Emma up the stairs. Inside his room, he closed the door and slowly lowered her to her feet before lighting a lamp.

  He stood there looking at her. Not touching her, because he didn’t quite trust himself at the moment, but simply studying her, knowing that he wasn’t ever going to let her go again.

  Nothing else mattered but Emma.

  She took a step toward him. Something broke inside of her, some last bond holding her prisoner to the past. His arms enfolded her, caught her up close. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, held on as if he were the greatest treasure, one she’d sought all her life. Let the world fade away but for Ian, precious Ian.

  Ian would demand all of her, from her thoughts to her passion. She would be his, as he would be hers. He allowed no duplicity in himself and, therefore, none in her. Yet with that realization came another: she could never hide again. She could never again shield herself behind pretense, behind an iron control.

  Ian would know all of her.

  Could she be that courageous? The answer came swiftly—with Ian, yes.

  “It wasn’t our time,” he said, repeating her words to him. “Before. It wasn’t our time. But it is now.”

  His finesse was gone, his fingers were clumsy, his breath was coming too fast. When they were both undressed, they tumbled on the bed, Ian on top. Naked and smiling, she was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. His hands caressed her skin, slid over the whole of her in a sense of wonder.

  “Ian, please.”

  She held out her arms to him.

  Her eyes were huge, the pupils dark. A flush suffused her face. Even with the bruise on her cheek, she was still beautiful. A last thought before he tenderly kissed her and lost the ability to reason or think.

  Her hips moved back and forth, as if she couldn’t bear the heat between them. His hand dove between her thighs, explored the soft, swollen folds. His fingers stroked across her dampness, and her thighs clamped against his hand, trapping him, needing him. His fingers moved, gently at first, then bore down with more pressure, circling the opening of her body with such delicate care that her sudden, indrawn breath interrupted their kiss.

  He smiled, then bent and drew a nipple into his heated mouth, arousing her with sharp little bites, then soothing her with the tip of his tongue.

  Emma could hear the breathless sound of her own voice, feel the grip of her hands on his shoulders, her fingernails scraping gently down his chest. She writhed in his arms as he kissed his way between her breasts and down her stomach to hover at her navel.

  He slipped into her heat, clenching his teeth when she closed around him like a fist. A soft cry escaped her as her hands beat against his shoulders, then gripped him with possessive fingers, a push and pull of desire that drove him nearly mad.

  “Ian,” she whispered, nearly sobbing in her need of him.

  Overcome with love, desperate with arousal, he began to withdraw, push himself inside, then withdraw again. He fought his way to sanity through levels of pleasure.

  Emma wrapped her arms around his neck, arched up to bite gently at his throat.

  “Now, now, now,” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion.

  He closed his mouth over hers, absorbed her shuddering breaths.

  One arm supported his weight as his other hand reached under her, slipped under her beautiful bottom and lifted her up to him. A gasp escaped her, and she clung to him, her lips pressed against his throat.

  This was not simply lovemaking. This was mating. This was elemental and fierce and as right and proper as the sun rising or the moon hanging above the earth.

  Her surrender summoned his own. He emptied himself into her, barely conscious as he collapsed half on top of her. Her hands slid weakly to the mattress as he murmured an incoherent apology, rousing enough to roll to the side. She turned her head and softly kissed his chest.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I know.” She patted his chest possessively. “You always have.”

  “I always have,” he admitted. “And you?”

  “My dearest Ian,” she said, emotion thickening her voice. “Must you ask?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I find I must.”

  “I love you,” she said, placing her palm against his cheek. “I love you,” she repeated, rising up to kiss the curve of his ear. “I love you,” she said against his lips when he turned his head to kiss her.

  He looked at her, grateful that he’d left the lamp burning. His memory would forever furnish the beauty of her shadowed face.

  Ian bent his head and touched his lips to the space between her breasts, a benediction with a kiss. He kissed her throat, then the edge of her jaw.

  “I used to believe in science to the exclusion of all else,” he said. “Science has rules. Science is measurable. Science can be proven, repeatedly. Fate is something else entirely, but Emma if . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  Her hand cupped the side of his face. He turned his head to kiss her palm.

  She had the strangest thought, a faint recollection of a woman in a mirror, the laughing, loved woman in the Tulloch Sgàthán. She’d been reaching for someone beyond her sight, and as Emma looked at Ian, she knew it had been him. Later, she’d tell him about the mirror, but for now, she only smiled.

  “I believe in you. Must we believe in anything else but each other?”

  He smiled. “No,” he
said, and kissed her again.

  Author’s Note

  Victorian society has always fascinated me because of its duplicity. On the one hand, Victoria was a virtuous—and staid—Queen. On the other, the Victorian age produced a great deal of pornography, both written and photographic. What went on behind the scenes was often as informative as what happened in public. The orgies at Chavensworth are based on rumors and innuendo of the time.

  In Greek mythology, a Maenad (translation: raving one) was a female follower of Dionysus. The Maenads were often depicted as being in a drunken, ecstatic rapture in which they lose all self-control.

  Until the Married Women’s Property Act of 1870, any money a woman earned, or inherited, automatically became the property of her husband.

  The music hall Bryce frequented was modeled on an actual club functioning in 1866.

  “I Once Loved a Lass,” also known as “The False Bride” is a folk ballad dating from the seventeenth century.

  A Collection of Strathspey Reels With a Bass for the Violoncello or Harpsichord, by Alexander McGlashan, 1778, 1781, features “The Highlanders Farewell.”

  We truly do stand on the shoulders of giants, men who worked in relative obscurity with only an idea. John Tyndall is one of those giants, and Ian’s work is patterned after his experiments. In Tyndall’s lab, he came up with a way to create pure air by coating the inside of a box with glycerin. What he discovered was that there were no signs of floating microorganisms in the air of the boxes so treated. His work verified Louis Pasteur’s demonstration that the presence of germs—or microorganisms—were necessary to the decomposition of flesh. Tyndall developed a method of killing germs that was known as “Tyndallization.” He and Pasteur communicated often during the latter half of the nineteenth century.

  Aristotle (384 B.C.–322 B.C.) proposed the theory of Spontaneous Generation. According to his theory, all living things are generated from nonliving things. The creature generated was dependent upon properties of the nonliving pneuma—or vital heat—and the five elements he believed comprised all matter: fire, air, earth, water, and aether (the divine substance that makes up the planets and stars). This theory lasted until Louis Pasteur proved it false in 1859.