by Karen Ranney
Logan sat back after giving the driver instructions to continue.
When she’d first met Mairi at Virginia and Macrath’s wedding, she thought the woman was striking but not as beautiful as Virginia. After being married to Logan, however, Mairi had begun to change. She rarely frowned, and when she did it was often followed by a smile. She was more relaxed, the look on her face one of deep contentment.
She was in love and anyone around her knew it, especially when she glanced at Logan. When he looked back at her there was no doubt of his feelings. Love for her shone through his eyes, softened his smile, and even seemed to change the air.
Would anyone ever look at her with such adoration?
“What have you there?” Mairi asked.
Ellice glanced down at the manuscript in her arms. Here was her chance. Here was what she’d wanted from the very beginning, and it was as if Providence, having tossed her to the Scottish hinterlands, was making amends.
“I’ve written a book,” she said. Before she lost her courage, she thrust the manuscript at Mairi.
Mairi took the book. “Have you?”
“Would you read it?” she asked. “I haven’t asked anyone else.”
Only one other person had read it and he’d been shocked. Was that a good thing?
“You want to publish it?” Logan asked.
Ellice nodded.
“Of course I’ll read it,” Mairi said. “Shall I give you an honest assessment or a family one?”
She looked at Mairi and considered the question. Did she want kindness? Or did she want to be a better writer? How could she bear it if Mairi thought the book without merit?
“An honest one,” she said, hoping she was brave enough to hear what Mairi thought.
Mairi nodded, her attention on the title page.
“The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela?”
To her horror, Mairi untied the string. She’d expected the other woman to read it in her spare time, not in the carriage. Not while she was watching.
Logan must have sensed her panic because he leaned over and patted her arm.
She had hidden in a carriage in order to go to Edinburgh for this exact purpose—having Mairi read her book. Yet now that the moment was here, she was terrified. Would she have frozen in the same way if she’d made it to the city and presented it to Mairi?
Not once had she thought she’d be afraid, but she was.
Mairi would immediately see how many mistakes she had made, how many rules she’d broken. How awful the story was and how improbable the characters.
“If your eyes get any wider,” Mairi said, “I’ll think you’re going to faint. Are you?”
“Must you read it now?” she asked as they approached the rear of Drumvagen.
Mairi glanced at her, then Logan. “No, of course not.”
She felt somewhat better when Mairi tied the string around the pages and placed them in the valise at her feet.
Mairi would read the book and think it terrible but not know how to convey that to her without words that wounded.
It’s truly terrible, Ellice. What were you thinking?
No, Mairi wouldn’t say something like that. Instead, she might return the manuscript to her and say something innocuous like, I applaud all your work, dear Ellice. It’s not what we normally publish, however.
Yes, she could see Mairi saying something like that.
The earl had thought her shocking, while Mairi might well think her incompetent.
Mairi would know every secret thought she had, every wonder and deeply held belief. She’d see her behind every one of Lady Pamela’s actions even though that wasn’t exactly correct. True, she’d become Lady Pamela, but it was like putting on a mask and being someone else for a time. Parts of her were there in the character but most of it was dreaming and letting her mind wander free.
How much would Mairi think was her, and how much was simply imagination?
Why hadn’t she considered those thoughts earlier?
Regardless of what Mairi thought, however, she was proud of the book, of the effort she’d put into it, of all the times she’d revised and thought, changed and reconsidered. This was her accomplishment and Lady Pamela was her creation, good or ill.
The Earl of Gadsden had already made his opinion known. What on earth would Mairi say?
Chapter 11
Sunlight glittered off Drumvagen’s windows and set the brick of the house to sparkling. The breeze smelled of damp earth, green growing things, and a faint hint of heather. Ross had rolled up his sleeves and was working beside the other men, as indistinguishable as one blade of grass from another.
The Water of Kinloch had returned to its banks, but the ground was so saturated that a day’s rain could bring a flood again. Instead of disposing of the sandbags, Ross and the other men lined them up at the highest point the water had reached. The villagers would keep the sandbags there until it was certain they weren’t needed again.
For two days he’d helped remove debris from the front of Drumvagen and down the road to the bridge. Branches and whole trees had to be carted away, along with the bodies of some farm animals caught in the current.
When he could, Macrath helped, but he spent most of his time with his wife and newborn son.
The activity kept Ross busy, made him think of precautions he could take at Huntly, and helped him avoid Ellice Traylor.
He was not as successful in banishing thoughts of her. She’d burred in like an insidious weevil and refused to leave. Worse, he remembered her literary creation, Lady Pamela. A woman too close to Ellice.
Should authors mirror themselves in their characters? He pushed that thought away and concentrated on dragging more branches from the road.
Today they’d finish clearing up the last of the debris. Tomorrow he would leave for home. He was eager to return, be about his life, the election, and put aside memories of this interlude at Drumvagen.
A carriage approached just as they were dragging the last trunk into the grass beside the road. Slowing, it entered the circular drive in front of the house. Curious, he glanced over as he worked, only stopping when he recognized the woman emerging from the carriage.
Mairi Harrison was a striking woman with brown hair and blue eyes that reminded him of Macrath. Ellice was the second person to exit the carriage, followed by Logan Harrison, the former Lord Provost of Edinburgh, an imposing man with a grin that made people underestimate him.
Logan caught sight of him, did a double take, then smiled broadly, striding across the grass to shake his hand.
“I never expected to see you here,” he said. “What brings you to Drumvagen?”
“A whim,” Ross confessed. “I wanted to see the changes Macrath had made.”
“That’s right, your father once owned the place.” Logan turned to look at the towering edifice of Macrath’s home. “What do you think of it?”
“He’s made it a home,” Ross said.
“It is, at that.” Logan grinned, clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Come, have a whiskey with me. Unless you need me to change and join you.”
Ross glanced to the staircase and the two women talking as they mounted the steps.
To anyone else, Ellice looked like a normal young woman, plainly dressed yet winsome. He knew better. She possessed the imagination of Ovid and was more than willing to thumb her nose at society.
She kissed too well for a virgin.
“We’re mostly done,” he said, directing his attention to Logan again. “I’ve a favor to ask of you.”
Normally, he wouldn’t have phrased the request so baldly, but he was aware that he might not get this opportunity again.
“About your election?” Logan asked. “Mairi would be pleased if you solicited her approval. She’s all for women having the vote. Until that happens, she’s determined to be an influence.”
“No, not about the election, although I would gladly accept your help and hers.”
He turned and began w
alking, Logan accompanying him. At the end of the drive, in a spot overlooking the sea, he stopped.
Logan remained silent, evidently a man who’d learned the value of patience. Ross wondered if the trait had been developed from his political life or if he’d always possessed it.
Now that the moment was here, he wasn’t sure how to explain so that Logan would understand.
His friend owned a chain of bookstores. Blackwell’s was so successful that Logan had recently opened a large store in London. The fact that he and his wife owned a publishing company put Logan in a perfect position to ensure that the books published by Gazette Press were successful.
He could just imagine what would happen if The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela ever saw the light of day.
Would people buy such a book? Or would they be horrified by its contents? He’d been horrified, yet fascinated as well, and so intrigued that he’d read every word.
The book would be a phenomenal success.
His friendship with Logan had been formed in politics; they rarely discussed personal matters. He would have to make an exception now.
“My father was a wastrel,” he said, staring out at the ocean, deeply blue this afternoon. “He was, using an exceedingly kind term, a skirt chaser. I’ve seven illegitimate brothers and sisters.”
Logan didn’t comment.
“I’ve spent the last five years attempting to eradicate what I can of my father’s memory or at least replacing it with something better.”
“I’ve knew your father owned Drumvagen at one time. The rest? I dismissed those tales.”
“I wish I could have. Prior to my father’s ascension to the title, the earls of Gadsden were known for their library, for Huntly, and for their generosity. My father changed that. Now the name is associated with debauchery, licentiousness, and wenching.”
Logan didn’t say a word. Nor did he ask the question some brave fools eventually asked: what about your wife?
Ross wasn’t going to expose that part of himself. Not even to save his political life.
“Is that why you’re standing for election?” Logan asked.
He shook his head. “No. That’s for me. Not him.” He was damned tired of being chained to his father. “I want to be a representative peer. I believe I could be an asset to Scotland in Parliament.”
“Your chances are good,” the other man said.
Ever since leaving office, Logan had acquired a reputation of being a kingmaker. It was said that if you wanted to succeed in political life, see Logan Harrison. He’d put you in touch with people who could help you, groom you, advise you. If he liked you, he’d stand behind you politically and ensure your success.
He hadn’t traded on his friendship with Logan, but now that same relationship might prove deleterious, especially if Ellice succeeded in convincing him and Mairi to publish her book.
“You’ve still got your share of competition, though,” Logan said, then named two men who also wanted to be representatives in Parliament.
Ross nodded. He knew both men well. Only one of them concerned him.
“The Earl of Dunfife is a neighbor,” he said. Or as close a neighbor as Huntly could boast.
“A fine man,” Logan said.
“With a fine reputation,” Ross said. “There are no ghosts in his past. His father was an honor to his name.”
Logan didn’t speak, an indication that he agreed.
“In order to have a prayer of winning the election, I have to ensure that not a whisper of gossip is uttered about me. Not a speck of innuendo can be attached to my name.”
“Is that a problem?” Logan asked.
“Normally, no, but Miss Traylor has written a book.”
“I just now learned that.”
Ross glanced at him. “Has she asked you to publish it?”
Logan nodded.
“If you do,” Ross said, “it will be the end of my political career.”
Logan frowned. “Why is that?”
“It’s a story of debauchery,” Ross said. “But I don’t care about that. Except that I bear a resemblance to the hero. In addition, the heroine lives in a place that’s reminiscent of Huntly. If you publish the book, people will wonder at the connection. There are too many coincidences, Logan.”
Logan didn’t say anything. Nor did he comment for the next minute.
“I’m asking you not to publish it,” Ross said, aware that he was pulling on the bonds of friendship.
“When Mairi believes in a cause, nothing on heaven or earth will stop her,” Logan finally said. “If she wants to publish Ellice’s book, you’ll need to convince her.”
His chuckle didn’t need to be deciphered.
If Mairi Harrison wanted to publish the book, Ross knew he might as well give up any thought of preventing another scandal.
“Well, what do you think?” Logan asked.
For the last hour Mairi hadn’t said a word. She sat on the bed in the room Macrath had set aside as theirs, turning page after page, transfixed by the manuscript Ellice had given her. She hadn’t even looked up when he brushed her hair back from her nape and kissed her there.
That surprised Logan. It was the first time he’d been unable to tempt her away from a task.
She glanced up, her cheeks pink.
“Oh, Logan.” Her blue eyes were sparkling.
“That good?”
“If we published this, she would be the most scandalous woman in all of Scotland, maybe even the world.”
“That good?”
She nodded. “But it’s shocking. Terribly so. We might be considered scandalous by publishing it as well.”
“You could always counter that you’re giving a woman author a voice.”
She smiled at him. “There is that.” Fumbling through the pages, she held one up. “But listen to this. This is what I mean.
“ ‘His fingertips were hot, touched with the fire of passion. He expected them to glow, so heated were they. He wanted to stroke them over her skin, mark her in some way so that any man who came after him would know her as his. When she bathed, she’d see the remnants of his touch and it would warm her.’
“Or this,” she said, looking through the pages. When she found the one she wanted, she cleared her throat and began to read again.
“ ‘He was the apex of joy, a man created for her delectation. His arms were thick and muscled, as were his legs. His chest was a pillow for her cheek, his buttocks soft and round, playthings for her hands. Her fingers teased in that spot behind his heavy testicles, cradled them in her palm, then paid homage to the hot and hard length of his cock. That, too, was hers, in the way it grew at her touch, shivered at her look, and when she kissed it, wept with joy.’ ”
“Ellice wrote that?” Logan said. “Our Ellice?”
She nodded, her eyes shining.
“You’re going to publish it, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, a delightfully impish smile appearing on her face. “I like the idea of being shocking.” She tilted her head and regarded him. “Have you any objections?”
“Would it matter?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, it would. I’d be disappointed. I’d try to convince you otherwise, but if you objected, I wouldn’t publish it.”
“Gadsden isn’t going to be happy.”
“I doubt it will affect him as much as he thinks.”
“He has a reason for being adverse to scandal,” Logan said.
“A pity women don’t have the vote,” she said. “I’d vote for Gadsden if he’s anything like Donald.”
He crawled up on the bed beside her, gently pushing her until she was on her back beneath him.
“Scandal delights you, does it?”
She smiled at him again.
“A touch of it from time to time.”
“Shall we be scandalously late for dinner?”
She dropped the pages and reached up, winding her arms around his neck.
“Please,” she said,
and smiled into his kiss.
Chapter 12
“He’s a widower,” her mother said, frowning at Ellice’s dress. “Tonight’s the last chance you’ll have to impress him. Not that you’ve done so until now, Ellice. Tromping through the countryside like a hoyden, getting buried in mud, sewing bags, of all things.”
As her mother bustled around her, inspecting every inch of her very boring person, she stared at herself in the pier glass.
He was a widower.
Did he still mourn his wife?
What had she been like?
Of course, she would have been beautiful, with radiant blond hair and bright blue eyes. Or perhaps clear green like the emeralds in the brooch Macrath had given Virginia last year. She’d have been soft-spoken with a voice that sounded like a gentle breeze over the glen. Her laughter would have charmed the birds and her most common expression would have been a smile.
People loved the Countess of Gadsden for her generosity of spirit, for her kindness in the midst of their pain. She would have remembered people’s names and those of their children. Each one of her staff adored her.
Had she died giving Ross a child?
Her death would have sent Ross hurtling into despair. Had he sat beside her casket with tall white candles lighting the night, unable to part from her, unwilling to say good-bye one last time?
Had he stroked her cold hand with his fingers, wanting to impart his warmth to her, wishing to give her life? He would never love again. Never look at the dawn without knowing that his beloved was gone.
But he’d kissed her, Ellice thought, not once but twice. He’d kissed her so passionately she’d almost begged him to take her.
Had his wife been a sickly creature who could give him no ease? Or was she really not dead but chained in the attic? A wild woman whose very presence in life made him a prisoner as well?
Had he visited her at midnight, praying outside the attic room that she had somehow changed, that circumstances had rendered her the beauty he’d known in earlier days?
Had he made her, Ellice, his Jane Eyre? Was the Earl of Gadsden a man to be pitied for his impulsiveness?
