The burning of the schoolroom attached to the kirk and the disappearance of the schoolmaster had given Isobel a chance to hold things together until everything could be resolved. Reverend Fleming was grateful that she’d stepped in, and although many of the children were waiting for things to get back to normal, a few came to Isobel’s little dame school in the interim. There were perhaps no more than a half dozen attending at a time. “Maybe I’m just borrowing trouble.” She gave Delilah a self-effacing smile. “I have a habit of doing that, don’t I?”
Delilah nodded, then looked over Isobel’s head and scowled. “Henry! I asked ye to clean up that corner by the fireplace; it doesna’ look any different now than it did before.”
Isobel’s handyman was a wiry black man whose parents had emigrated from Jamaica before Henry Blossom was born. And Delilah never let him forget that her ancestors had come across the Atlantic from Africa as tradesmen even before the Vikings. Whether it was true or not, no one knew, but it made for interesting conversation. Although, Isobel had learned in school that hundreds of years ago there was an African king in Scotland named King Kenneth Dubh.
Compared to Delilah’s “huff and puff or I’ll blow your house in” attitude, Henry was as laid back as an exhausted fox hound. He raised a huge hand to fend off her peppering of words. “I’ll get to it after I fix the leak in the roof,” he announced, and languidly made his way through the kitchen and out the back door. The door never banged shut when Henry left a room; not so with Delilah. The slamming of a door was to Delilah like an exclamation mark.
Most likely, he would gather some materials that he would need, and then eye a cozy spot under a tree, the work forgotten as he napped. But she hadn’t the heart to let him go; where would he end up? Along with everything else—the condition of the building, the leaky roof and the warped floor—she had to worry about Henry. He was sweet and old and arthritic. Someone had to care for him.
Now Duncan MacNeil was back, and every secret she’d been harboring for the past ten years was being threatened. Isobel was happy she had never let herself get too close to the duke’s wife, even though she had been kind and generous with supplies for the children after the school’s accident. And in the beginning, she had often lingered, as if wanting to stay and help, but Isobel always told her she had plenty of that, and surely the Duchess of Sheiling had more important matters to attend to. There was always the chance that Ian might be home and accidentally be seen by Her Grace, and she might wonder…Isobel was a bit sad she wouldn’t ever know her better, for she seemed like a lovely woman, one Isobel could easily have something in common with—outside of that.
But sweet as the duchess was, Isobel couldn’t help remembering the one and only time she had been anywhere near that castle. It had not been pleasant.
Chapter Two
Island of Hedabarr—October 1862
Isobel stepped out of the bathtub and took the towel her aunt offered her. Paula eyed her up and down, her face pinched into a frown and her hands on her hips. “Ye be pregnant.”
Isobel’s heart leaped into her throat as she shook her head, her aunt’s words falling on her like icy water. “Nae, I…I’m not.” How could she be? She had valiantly blocked out that one night of her life, hoping it would be erased from ever happening.
Paula pulled in a sigh. “Isobel Crawford, I wasn’t some fool born yesterday. I be knowin’ a pregnant belly when I see one, and I’m lookin’ at one right this minute. And your chest be twice the size of normal.” At Isobel’s gasp, Paula replied, “Don’t get starchy on me, sweet girl. Now is not the time.”
Isobel brought the towel in front of her, over her breasts and stomach, as if she could protect them from her aunt’s tirade. Her teeth began to chatter, either from the cold or from fear. “But how can that have happened?”
Paula studied her, her expression cynical. “How, indeed. Unless ye’re going to have only the second virgin birth in the history of the world, someone got ye pregnant.”
Isobel flushed and turned away. The embarrassment came flooding over her. She swallowed several times to keep her dinner down. “But…but I still bled, Aunt Paula. Truly, I did.”
Paula drew in another deep breath, releasing it quickly. “I guess there aren’t any hard and fast rules about that, my dear.” She frowned again. “Ye haven’t been sick?”
Isobel shook her head. If anything, she’d been ravenous. “I feel fine.” She bit her quivering lip and looked eagerly at her aunt. “Maybe it’s not real.”
Paula still stood before her, arms now crossed across her ample chest, an angry V between her eyes. “Who be the father?”
Isobel had the sudden urge to sob, to wail and scream and cry. “I’m serious as sauce, Isobel, who be the father?”
“It was only one time,” she whispered.
“One time with who?”
Isobel shook her head, the dreadful reality hitting her, filling her chest with panic. “I can’t tell ye.”
Aunt Paula swore. “By God, girl, ye will tell me or I’ll take a switch to your backside, pregnant or not. Understand?”
Isobel bit down on her lower lip again. It didn’t help. She dissolved into tears and collapsed into the chair by the fireplace, drawing her knees up to her chin and burying her face.
Paula was at her side immediately, a dressing gown over her arm to clothe her niece. “Ocht, my dear, this is terrible,” she insisted, wrapping Isobel in the soft, flannel gown. “Was it rape? Lord, child, why didn’t ye tell me? Something could have been—”
“Nae,” Isobel said. “He…he didn’t…do that. I…I thought he loved me.” She burst into tears again.
Paula drew her into her arms and rocked her. “He told ye that, did he? My poor, innocent lass. I guess I’ve kept ye too ignorant in the ways of the world. This is my fault as well as yours.” She sat up and brought Isobel’s face between her palms. “Please, dear. Tell me.”
For all of her aunt’s sputtering, Isobel knew her to be a kind soul. And she’d kept her dark secret for five long months. She wanted to let it out, get rid of it. So she told her aunt everything.
“That scoundrel of a half breed. I know exactly who ye mean. Both Delilah and I have had to turn him away from here time after time. Maybe if I’d let him in, this wouldn’t have happened. Well,” she said resolutely, “we’re going to make a little visit to that castle, Isobel. They might own the blasted island, but that doesn’t give them the right to use young lassies and then leave them as if they were nothing.”
Now, ten years later, Isobel could still remember the rebuff they encountered on the steps of that grand, red structure. How would she have proved that the shining young sire of the manor wooed her and lured her and coaxed her into believing he’d instantly fallen in love with her? Aunt Paula had been so upset she’d threatened to sue them. She was told that she hadn’t been the first person to try to extort money from the duke; scams had abounded when he first arrived to take control of the castle.
Isobel recalled the doddering old servant they’d dealt with. He was bent and skinny and had only a rim of white hair just above his ears. He did tell them to come back after the family returned from holiday, but Isobel was sure they wouldn’t, and he wasn’t very convincing anyway. They returned to the brothel with nothing, not even Isobel’s fragile self-esteem. And four months later, Isobel had her beautiful son; she was glad no one at the castle knew of his existence, because then they couldn’t come and try to take him away from her.
There had been that ordeal about conjuring up a reason for her condition. If nothing else, Paula had been a very creative woman. The story was that while in school on the mainland, Isobel had met a dashing young soldier named Robert “Rabbie” Dunbar. Robert or Rabbie after Scotland’s favorite son, Robert Burns, and Dunbar after an obscure Scottish poet from the sixteenth century, one that Isobel had studied in school. The two married hastily when Isobel discovered she was pregnant, lying about her age, for she was not yet sixteen at the time.
And shortly after that, the story went, poor Isobel learned that her new young husband was killed in a freak accident while practicing with his mount.
And now, Ian’s real father was back. Could she keep him from learning that he had a son? She must. After all, she had been one of many that he had seduced, she was certain. There was no way he would ever remember her. Without thinking, she raised her hand to the scar below her ear.
• • •
A cannery. Fletcher wanted to build a cannery, and he offered Duncan the job of finding a site for it, recruiting the men and overseeing the building of it. Duncan took the opportunity happily.
He rode Miley, a gray gelding with a white face, which he had picked out at Fletcher’s stable. It reminded him of his favorite horse, Lucky Boy, back on the ranch in Texas. Just before he entered the village, he stopped and took a sharp look at the buildings and how they were built, each attached to the next by adjoining walls. That wouldn’t do for his purpose.
As he rode into town, he noticed the sign above the pub was different. No longer the Potted Haugh, it was now called Danny’s by the Glass. The exterior was freshly painted and there were pots of flowers beside the door. Just then, the owner stepped out into the street with a broom and began sweeping away debris.
Duncan dismounted, tossed the reins over a post, and called out, “Danny McKay isn’t it?”
McKay stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. “Aye, ’tis. And I’ve been hearin’ you’d be back soon enough. Word gets around fast.”
Duncan came forward and the men shook hands. “The place looks fine, indeed.”
With a harsh chuckle, McKay said, “Aye, that good-for-nothing MacNab drove the business into the ground, he did. ’Tisn’t nice to speak ill of the dead, but that nasty bastard got what he deserved, being thrown from the horse he was trying to steal.”
“My brother’s horse.”
“Aye,” McKay replied.
Duncan looked up and down the street. “I don’t suppose any of these buildings are empty.”
McKay tilted his head. “What’re you thinking?”
“Can we talk inside? I’ve got a bit of a thirst.”
“Aye, my treat,” McKay said, and ushered Duncan into the pub. A long polished oak bar stood along one wall, behind it a mirror and dozens of bottles of scotch from McKay’s distillery. “Tessa,” he called to a pretty young woman who was tending the bar. “Two pints to the back table, if ye please.”
Once settled, McKay asked, “Now, what’s on your mind?”
Duncan told him of the plans for a cannery. “We’d like property close to the water, of course. I thought you might know if there’s any land available.”
McKay pulled out a pipe and, without lighting it, stuck it between his teeth. “A cannery, you say?” He shook his head. “None of the row house buildings would work, but…”
Sensing interest, Duncan said, “But?”
The bartender, Tessa, set two big pints of ale in front of them; she gave Duncan a warm smile and left.
McKay noticed. “Tessa used to work for the madam. Nice girl, even so.”
Duncan merely nodded.
“Now mind ye, I don’t know if the place is for sale or if the owner would sell if offered a good price.”
“What building is it?”
“Ye do remember the old brothel, then?” It seemed a rhetorical question.
“How could I forget? I was tossed out of there more times than I could count.”
“’Tisn’t a brothel anymore; the old madam died some years ago. I don’t know exactly what it’s being used for now, but it’s close to the water, it’s a free-standing building, and you just might find it to your liking. The building itself is in poor shape. Even so, the owner may not want to sell.”
Duncan finished his pint and stood. “Fine ale, McKay. Thanks for the information, too.” He rode to the brothel and sat astride as he studied it. It looked to be in pretty bad shape. The roof slanted and the place needed a good paint job. But, it was in perfect proximity to the water. Duncan could almost envision the new building now.
A black woman came out with a rug and shook it; Duncan recognized her as the one who had often turned him away. She glanced at him, nodded, then tucked the rug under her arm and hurried inside.
Duncan didn’t dismount, but stayed astride and continued to study the building.
• • •
Delilah came in and slammed the door. “Don’t look now, Izzy, but himself is out there, sittin’ on a horse, studyin’ the place.”
Isobel’s heart bumped against her ribs. She crossed to the window and carefully pulled the curtain aside. And there he was, bold as brass, staring at her building. Closer now than he was at the docks, she realized he had matured into quite a fine-looking man. “What in the devil is he doing?”
With an indelicate snort, Delilah said, “Maybe he’s reliving all the times I escorted him out of the building. I should have booted him in the arse.”
Isobel dropped the curtain. “What will I do if he comes to the door? What in the name of heaven could he want from me?” There was no way he could have discovered her secret; at this point Delilah and Hamish were the only ones who knew.
Delilah continued to stare out the other window. “Want me to go out and shoo him away? I could use the broom.”
“That would only make him more curious.” She pulled in a breath as she watched him turn his mount. “He’s leaving. Thank God.”
She sank into an overstuffed chair by the fireplace. Ian was coming home from school early, and his biological father had turned up, practically on her doorstep. She felt her carefully woven life of lies begin to unravel.
• • •
Duncan joined Fletcher in his study and accepted the snifter of brandy. “I rode into the village to have a look around. McKay has done a nice job with the pub.”
“And MacNab’s widow is living out her life without being used as a punching bag,” Fletcher answered.
“McKay mentioned that one of the few free-standing buildings in the village is the brothel, which I understand is closed. Have you any idea what it’s being used for now?”
Fletcher shook his head. “Not really. Whoever owns it now rents out rooms. Our rag man stays there on occasion when he passes through. And it’s close to the water.”
“Perfect location.”
“What are your thoughts?” Fletcher asked.
“You say they rent rooms? If that’s the case, maybe I should rent a room for a while, just to get an inside look before I make a decision. I realize the condition of the building is moot, for we’d tear it down anyway. The woman who used to kick me out of the brothel recognized me as I was studying the place. We don’t know if the owner is willing to sell, either.”
“We can always sweeten the deal; if the location is perfect, money isn’t an object.” Fletcher refilled his snifter and raised the bottle in Duncan’s direction, but he waved him away.
“How do you want to do this?”
“Geddes is still your solicitor?”
“Of course; he and Fenella are doing well. That was a match no one but my wife anticipated.”
Duncan put his empty snifter on the table beside him. “I’d like to get in there, but the owner deserves some kind of warning. I was thinking Geddes could send him a letter in advance, make him an offer, or at least propose an offer. What do you think?”
Nodding, Fletcher said, “I’ll have Geddes get right on it.”
• • •
Less than a week after Isobel’s life took a turn for the worse, rather like a boil that needed lancing, she received a letter from the local law office. Curious, she opened it and scanned the contents. The words that jumped out at her were “meeting,” “Thursday next,” “condition of property,” and “lucrative offer.” After reading it thoroughly, she understood the entire meaning and fear thrummed through her veins. Someone wanted her building and its close proximity to the water. She dropped into a chair and broug
ht shaky fingers to her mouth. Hadn’t she thought that this day might come? Hadn’t she been waiting for it? Well, here it was, and still she wasn’t ready to consider such an offer. She had never even toyed with the idea of selling.
Determined, she stood and stuffed the letter into her apron pocket. She had two days before the meeting. There was nothing she could do in two days but fret and stew and worry, which she undoubtedly would do. She was good at that. But she would keep the news to herself. No need to stress Delilah, Henry, or Lily, her new young teacher. Whatever happened would be common knowledge sooner or later. Isobel would deal with it then. In the background, she heard Delilah nattering at poor Henry. It was time to intervene. Again.
• • •
Fletcher leaned back in his chair and studied Duncan. “Forgot to mention when you first arrived that you looked like hell.”
Duncan returned his brother’s gaze, noting the lines that bracketed his mouth were deeper and the hair at his temples was salted with gray. Small wrinkles fanned out from his eyes. Duncan wasn’t surprised, but he was taken aback a bit. What had he expected? That time on the island would stand still for him? He quickly scanned the den, the bookshelves, the cribbage board that sat on a nearby table. No matter how many times he and Gavin had played, Gavin beat the pants off him. And this was where he could always find his brother, his nose in a book so dry Duncan was surprised dust hadn’t dropped into his brother’s lap as he read.
“Three months on a ship will do that to a person,” he responded. They had met with some foul weather that had taken them far off course. “If I remember right, you didn’t ever develop your sea legs, or anything else on board a ship. At least I kept my food down.”
Fletcher threw his head back and laughed. “Touché. The first thing I saw after I was carted upstairs was the face of that huge beast of a dog. And then Rosalyn burned my buckskins.”
Duncan had heard the story many times before, but after ten years, it was like hearing it anew. “Rosalyn is as beautiful as ever.”
The Scoundrel's Pleasure Page 3
