Och, she assumed he jested.
His fault for the piss-poor proposal.
That was what came of impulsiveness. He ought to have waited until she’d healed and then done the pretty. Went down on one knee and all of that twaddle.
Nae, she’d been through that folderol four times before.
This time ought to have been exceptional. Spectacular.
And like a ham-fisted baboon, he’d botched it.
“Gwenny, forgive me for speakin’ out of turn.”
He’d waited this long. A little while longer would give him time to contrive something truly special when he proposed again.
“Hmph.” Gwendolyn pointed her nose ceilingward and made a discomfited sound in her throat.
She’d not forgive his recklessness so readily. He’d trod upon previously bruised territory.
“I wanted to tell ye straightaway, that the man I hired to poke around Christie’s office was able to bribe a clerk to search through Christie’s records.”
The chap was only too eager to accept the offered purse in exchange for information, which he promised to deliver as soon as he had the evidence. He’d volunteered to testify in court too, if it came to that.
Apparently the fellow felt no loyalty toward his employer. From what the investigator revealed, Christie was a contemptible arse to his staff. A real pinch-penny.
A glint of hope sparked in her eyes. “I pray he uncovers something that proves Mr. Christie’s duplicity. If not . . .”
Dugall lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to the knuckles. He’d much rather kiss the frown from her lips. Instead, he pressed her palm to his cheek.
“You need a shave.” She gave him a you’re-overstepping-the-bounds-again look but stopped trying to escape his embrace. Before he could proceed with a proper proposal, she asked, “Did they catch the shooter this time?”
He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, mindful he couldn’t do much else with the door gaping open. Or with her arm freshly stitched.
“Aye.”
Reluctant to trundle down that path just yet, he laid his head against her hair and shut his eyes for a blessed moment.
A not so gentle poke to his ribs conveyed her impatience, and he sighed and opened an eye.
“And?” Exasperation crinkled her nose adorably. “Aren’t you going to tell me who tried to kill me?”
For all of her bravado, her voice quivered the merest bit.
“It was Miss Dolina.”
“Well, hush my mouth!”
Dugall couldn’t prevent his amused grin at the unusual expression.
Astonishment rounded Gwendolyn’s eyes and slackened her jaw. “Surely you jest. She’s a frail old woman. What motive could she possibly have?”
“Revenge.”
Almost ominous in its timing, a log exploded in the fireplace. The bevy of sparks churned upward, the glowing chaos similar to the incandescent golden flecks in Gwendolyn’s tumultuous eyes.
She shook her head, the silky cloud of her red hair billowing around them. “I just cannot fathom it.”
Dugall couldn’t resist gathering a handful of her hair and threading his fingers through the shimmering length. “She wisna the only one less than keen to learn an American inherited the estate. She considered Lloyd the son she never had and was livid he’d been cheated.”
“But that’s not even rational.” Gwendolyn pressed her fingertips between her eyes.
Did she have a headache? He ought to have waited to discuss this with her.
A wry grin threatened.
Not a chance of that when Gwendolyn set her mind to something. “Fenella did say Dolina was dotty, but I assumed she meant eccentric. Not mad as a kettle of frogs.”
“Gwenny, there’s more.” He’d spare her this, but she must know. “The first time, she hoped to scare ye enough that ye’d take the children and leave Scotland. Yesterday . . .” He tightened his embrace. “Jeremiah was the target.”
“Oh, my God! If I hadn’t . . . My God . . .”
Her voice caught, and she buried her face in Dugall’s chest. Shoulders quivering, she cried softly, not loud rasping sobs, but the hushed weeping of someone practiced at concealing her sorrow from others.
“Shh, my love.” He caressed her spine and shoulders, kneading the tenseness from her muscles. “She canna hurt ye or the bairns anymore.”
“How could she try to kill a child?” Gwendolyn shook her head against his chest, then turned her luminous tear-filled eyes to him.
He waded into those mesmerizing verdant pools, knowing full well he could drown in their depths.
“That’s more than greed and frustration. That’s pure evilness.” Outrage sharpened her voice and transformed her features.
Dugall handed her a handkerchief from the night stand, and waited until she’d dabbed her eyes and dried her cheeks. Even with a rosy nose and red-rimmed eyes, she was still the most exquisite female he’d ever set eyes on.
Once she’d tended to her face, he took the sodden scrap of linen and tossed it onto the floor.
“Dolina despised yer grandparents. Absolutely despised them. Her words, no’ mine.” Yesterday when McLean had hauled her, cursing and struggling, into Craiglocky’s great hall, she’d ranted and raged, spittle flying from her mouth like a mad woman.
“But why?” Gwendolyn scratched her neck, and the fire popped again. “Grandpapa left Scotland when he was barely nineteen. What could’ve possibly occurred to fester that kind of hatred for decades?”
After tucking a hank of her hair behind her ear, he cupped her pale cheek. Despite the cheery blaze, her skin felt cool.
The tale rather resembled a Shakespearean tragedy, and this part of the story paralleled Gwendolyn’s misfortunes too closely. What she’d learn might forever taint her memories of her grandparents.
“Dugall, I can see you don’t want to tell me, but isn’t it better I hear it from you than someone else?” Such trust she placed in him.
“It seems as a child, yer grandmother was betrothed to Gerard. The McClintocks coveted her title and the wealth that accompanied it. Had counted on it.”
“Poor Grandmother.” Gwendolyn pursed her mouth into a disapproving line. “Barbaric practice, forcing unions between children. What happened to make Dolina so bitter?”
“When your grandparents skedaddled off to the colonies, the family blamed her for leaving them alone during a Hogmanay celebration while she indulged in a tête-à-tête with her soon-to-be husband.”
“But it wasn’t her fault. Surely the family realized my grandparents had already planned their elopement and simply seized the opportunity.” Face drawn, Gwendolyn stared at the canopy overhead.
Had the similarity between her grandparents’ elopement and her sister and fiancé number three sparked painful memories?
“True, but her father didna see it that way.” Miss Dolina had spewed her venomous tale to him and Ewan, so altered from the sweet-tempered dafty dame he’d come to know, Dugall could scarce believe she was the same person.
“Her father confined her to her room for a month and afterward, refused to let her entertain any company or leave the house. He even terminated her betrothal, which turned out to be disastrous when she was found to be with child.”
Gwendolyn lifted her head, amazement etching her features. “She has a child then?”
“Nae, the bairn died soon after birth.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes and stifled a yawn.
“How awful,” Gwendolyn murmured, idly playing with the buttons on his coat. “And all these years, she’s blamed my grandparents. The bitterness had to have been incapacitating.”
“True, and it drove her to madness.” Dugall could barely keep his eyes open. He might very well nod off where he
lay if he wasn’t careful.
“Given what you’ve told me and the degree of the hatred she held for us, I’m beyond grateful that there weren’t more attempts on our lives.” She shuddered, and clutched the blankets higher. “To think, we lived beneath the same roof, and the whole while she plotted against us.”
“Ye can thank the diligence of the McTavish guards for yer safety.” Thank God Dugall had ordered round-the-clock surveillance. Dolina must’ve been frustrated beyond reason.
“Do you suppose she’s been sneaking out daily, looking for just such an opportunity as I stupidly provided her yesterday?”
Dugall considered her question carefully. “That’s somethin’ we’ll look into.”
Gwendolyn slumped into the curve of his ribs, all soft feminine roundness. “Has she been arrested, then?”
“Aye, but because of her age and ailments, she’s being temporarily held under guard at Suttford. Ewan and I both agreed she couldn’t be imprisoned here. No’ with the children present.”
Lashes spikey from her earlier tears, she blinked drowsily, covering her mouth as she yawned. “And you’re positive she won’t escape?”
Eyeing his boots, Dugall crossed his ankles. Mither would scold him for putting his feet on the bed. “No’ with McTavish guards posted. By the way, Hollingsworth didn’t ken anythin’ about this. He’s offered to leave Suttford house. Permanently.”
A miniscule smile pulled one side of her mouth up. “He’s not quite the ogre you made him out to be.”
Dugall acknowledged the truth of his prejudice. “He’s proof that a mon can change. I confess, I think I could like him given time.”
“I’m cold and tired.” Gwendolyn yawned again and scooted lower.
He pulled the counterpane over her shoulders, and kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep.”
“You should too.”
“I’ll find my mattress in a few minutes.”
The pillow’s softness, Gwendolyn resting in his arms, and nearly three days without rest lulled him. He shut his eyes and relaxed into the mattress. He’d get up in a minute and add a log to the fire, but right now, he wanted to savor this moment.
“Gwenny?”
“Hmm?” She was half asleep already.
“Did ye ken yer grandmither was older than yer grandfather?”
Chapter 24
Was she really?
Gwendolyn’s arm barely pained her, and snuggled in Dugall’s strong embrace, she’d almost drifted off when footsteps and the clanking of dishes roused her.
“Dugall, a messenger arrived, and Ewan has news of some importance he wishes to speak with you . . .” Yvette’s word trailed off in amusement, and she chuckled softly. “Well, if this isn’t a fine kettle of fish.”
Gwendolyn struggled to open her heavy lids. But she was so comfortable.
And tired. So very tired.
Just a few seconds more, and she’d rouse herself and tell Yvette she wasn’t asleep.
However, from the rhythmic breathing below her cheek, Dugall was. Had he truly slept in that dreadfully uncomfortable chair all night, refusing to leave her? Sweet, sultry heat, like thick hot chocolate seeped into her bones. This was how it would be if they were married.
Cocooned together as they slept.
Her heart had stopped for an instant when he jested about them being betrothed. He’d meant well, but hope clashed with hurt at his carelessly flung words.
“Are they both asleep, poor lambs?” Aunt Barbara whispered from the bed’s other side.
“Yes, I fear so.” Dishes and silverware clattered again, this time near the table before the window. Yvette must’ve put the tray down. “Though I’m loathe to wake Dugall—he’s utterly exhausted—it’s most improper for him to be in Gwendolyn’s bed with her.”
“Who’s to know but us, Sugah? We could close the door and take turns sittin’ in attendance to make sure that no compromising behavior takes place.” Had entirely proper Aunt Barbara suggested something so beyond the pale? And what, pray tell, did her modest maiden aunt know of compromising behavior?
“I assure ye, I’m awake and have heard yer every word. Compromisin’ and all.”
Dugall stirred, and Gwendolyn opened her eyelids, her gaze crashing into his penetrating turquoise eyes. Neither moved for a hypnotic moment.
“Ahem.” Her cheeks glowing rosy, Aunt Barbara cleared her throat and pretended absorption in the serving tray. Her censured gaze cut sideways to the bed several times.
Was this the same woman, who but seconds ago had scandalously suggested Gwendolyn and Dugall be permitted to sleep while she kept watch? Perhaps, now that they were awake and still lying entwined, neither making any attempt to put a proper distance between them, her finer sensibilities were offended.
“I do declare, these are quite the most temptin’ scones I’ve ever eaten. Gwendolyn darlin’, you must try some of these topped with marmalade. Why, I almost think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” She lifted a golden pastry.
She didn’t exaggerate. Sorcha made the most scrumptious scones.
“Dugall,” Yvette admonished, not unkindly but with firm expectation, “remove yourself from Gwendolyn’s bed before a passing servant sees you. I trust our staff’s discretion, but even so, there’s no sense tempting the devil. And Ewan is waiting for you. He says it’s important.”
Her intense look conveyed a silent message, and Dugall nodded.
With some effort, Gwendolyn levered herself upright as he heaved a sigh and swung his long legs off the bed’s side.
He scraped a hand through his hair, disheveling it even more.
She quite liked his untamed appearance. “Dugall?”
“Aye?” Fastening his coat, he swung his gaze to her.
“If the news pertains to Mr. Christie, I should like to be party to the conversation.” Cupping her injured arm, she held it to her chest. Thank goodness it wasn’t her dominant hand.
His eyebrows climbed high on his forehead before he gave a grudging nod. “Ye’ve the right, I ken. I just dinna want ye further troubled.”
Deep lines of fatigue furrowed his handsome face, and with his unkempt hair and dark beard shadowing his face, he resembled a fierce buccaneer or a wild Highland warrior.
When she’d first met him, she’d had a similar, less complimentary thought. Now she’d grown to prefer the rough and rugged Scot to the polished, refined southern gentlemen she’d once admired.
“Ewan’s in the study, I presume?” Dugall helped himself to a scone and took a hungry bite before washing it down with a gulp of coffee.
Had he eaten since this ordeal began?
“He is.” Yvette placed a brown paper-wrapped rectangle on the nightstand beside Gwendolyn, a piece of foolscap folded and tucked into the string securing it. “Gwendolyn, this just arrived for you from Suttford House.”
Had she forgotten something? Perhaps. They’d packed in such haste. Couldn’t have been important, or she’d have missed it by now.
After setting the lap tray across Gwendolyn’s thighs, Aunt Barbara balanced on the edge of the bed. “Sugah, the young’uns are ever so worried about you. Might they visit later?”
How terrifying it must’ve been for the children. Of course they must.
Gwendolyn took a sip of the strong tea, its heavy heat trailing clear to her belly. Heaven above. Was that whisky she tasted? She took a discreet sniff, and then a longer sip.
Yes, indeed. She’d never partaken of strong spirits, except that one swig when suturing Dugall’s arm, but Grandpapa had a penchant for scotch, and she recognized the aroma.
Before she realized it, she’d drained the cup and a second, which Aunt Barbara had been suspiciously quick to pour. A comforting, languid feeling, much like being wrapped in a fire-war
med blanket and tucked into bed, encompassed her.
She quite liked Scottish toddies.
Aunt Barbara had asked her something. What was it?
Oh, yes, the children. “Of course, the children are welcome.”
Dugall shook his head, his loose raven hair skimming his shoulders. “No’ until after ye’ve rested. Ye need to regain yer strength.”
“Thank you for your concern, Dugall, but I’m not so incapacitated that I cannot answer for myself.” Her tart response earned a quickly concealed smile from Yvette and a what-did-I-do-wrong befuddled look from him.
Why must she be so prickly all of a sudden? He’d meant well.
Propping a pillow beneath her injured arm, which despite the whisky throbbed with the devil’s own vengeance now, she said, “I confess, you’re right. I’m quite done in—and perhaps a trifle foxed—and could use a short rest once I’ve learned Ewan’s news. However, afterward, please bring them ’round.”
She checked a grimace when Aunt Barbara jostled the bed.
A barely detectable, satisfied smile kicked the edges of Dugall’s mouth upward, making her concession worthwhile. He’d noticed her discomfort, however. “Is yer arm painin’ ye?”
“Just a mite, but I don’t want any laudanum before seeing the children.” Didn’t want it at all, truth be known. Besides tasting the way the backside of a mule looked, it muddled her thoughts and made her tongue as thick as if she’d stuffed fleece into her mouth.
And after two cups of tasty whisky-laced tea, she’d be drugged senseless if she took laudanum, too.
Not really hungry after the toddies, but also not wishing to worry or offend Yvette or Aunt Barbara, Gwendolyn dutifully picked up the spoon and took a bite of the delicious soup.
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 20
