The Scoundrel's Pleasure

by Jane Bonander

  “No. Under no circumstances would I have returned. I hadn’t wanted to go there in the first place but Aunt Paula insisted, and I was only fifteen; she was my guardian. And then, when Ian was born…” She released a soft sigh. “He became my world. I had to protect him, don’t you see?”

  “So, now what?” Fen persisted.

  Isobel rubbed her hands over her face and took slow steps toward the window. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  Digging further, Fen said, “Duncan is afraid you will let that big fisherman adopt the lad.”

  Isobel’s laugh was short and harsh. “Don’t think it hasn’t been tempting.”

  “After all these years, why didn’t you go through with it?” Fen could tell something was fighting inside Isobel, something fierce.

  Isobel’s gaze went from the window to the floor. “I don’t know that either.”

  Fen wondered about that. She walked toward the door. “This isn’t a threat, please don’t take it that way, but we’re all very fond of Duncan. He’s finally come home and we want him to stay.”

  With that she opened the door, stepped outside, and went to her carriage to retrieve the salve. She returned and handed it to Isobel. “And please, send for me if you ever need to. I’m close by and I’d like to help.” She had come to do what she’d planned to do, but there was something else niggling at her now. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it was there, just the same.

  • • •

  Isobel slumped onto the settee by the fireplace. By the holy, now what was she supposed to think? That woman may not have thought she was a threat, but Isobel deemed all of them a danger to the quiet life she’d been living for the past ten years. Things were getting so messy.

  Lily came in without the dog. “Are you all right?”

  Isobel waved the salve at her and Lily took it, slipping it into her apron pocket. “I fear that soon I’ll be inundated by every member of that family.”

  Lily sat down beside her and took her hand.

  Isobel looked down at both hers and Lily’s, hers red and sore and Lily’s dainty and white. “And that’s another thing. Look at my hands. I’m a worker. I barely make a living. My hands are red and sore because I do my share of scrubbing and cleaning—” She sucked in a breath, hoping it wouldn’t become a sob. “And besides that, how can I compete? Once Ian discovers the truth, he’ll be enthralled. What lad wouldn’t be?”

  “But you’re his mother,” Lily encouraged. “He will always love you.”

  Isobel drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, he may always love me, but will he want to stay here when he could be living like the royal lad he is?”

  “Whatever happens, I imagine you can work something out.”

  Isobel twisted the linen until it looked like a tassel. “And what if after he learns the truth, he’s resentful because I’ve kept him ignorant about it?”

  “Oh, Isobel,” Lily soothed, patting her hand, “you’re only inviting trouble thinking that way.”

  “I’m not inviting it, but by the holy, it’s going to come calling anyway.”

  • • •

  Rain spattered the castle windows. The sky was the color of slate. Crashing waves pushed against the rocky shore below. Duncan looked out, studying the rugged landscape, remembering the many times he and his brothers had raced their mounts along the beaches, into the wind. He’d had a good life here. Had he wasted ten years by leaving?

  He turned away and watched the fire spit and snap as it roared up into the chimney. No. He couldn’t think that way. He may never have matured if he had stayed. He would never have taken over the ranch, discovering that he had a very good head for business.

  And he wouldn’t have joined the Confederacy to fight for the rights of Texans to govern themselves. That year, those horrifying memories, would be with him always.

  Louisiana—September 1864

  A short siege left them in a tiny town on the edge of a swamp. A man in a ragged black coat and top hat stood on a box, spouting rhetoric.

  “We’ve got to stop the despot, Lincoln! We want to govern ourselves, not be under his deceitful thumb! We’ve suffered enormously these past years; it’s time to put a stop to it!”

  Duncan had heard others complain about the northerners, invading and polluting their land. He had always believed in self-government; he was a Texan after all. But entering the fray when he did, so late in the game, he wondered if deposing Lincoln was just an empty threat, something to keep men from believing that perhaps for them the war was over. If it was, it would be a bitter pill to swallow for all of them.

  A log snapped loudly in the fireplace, bringing Duncan out of his reverie. The question of Isobel and Ian clogged his thoughts. He didn’t see any reasonable solution. Not one that would placate both him and Isobel. When the boy learned the truth, would he want meet the rest of his family, or would he refuse to have anything to do with the lot of them?

  But when the boy discovered what the twins took for granted, he could easily change his mind. A pony of his own. A whole new world to explore. What kid wouldn’t? If he and Isobel split their time with him, would he be content to return to the brothel after he’d stayed here?

  Another thought struck him. What if the lad wanted nothing to do with him, refusing to believe he was his true father? What if the boy resented him for not returning for him, even though Duncan hadn’t known the boy existed?

  He dug the pads of his thumbs into his eyes. Everything had to be in order before Ian was told anything. He and Isobel would have to hammer out the details so there would be no question that couldn’t be answered.

  Chapter Eight

  Fen glanced up when Geddes came through the cottage door. She still found him incredibly handsome. He was still blond, tall, broad shouldered, and when he looked at her, something flipped in her stomach. Every time. Even after ten years.

  He dropped his leather briefcase on the chair by the door, gave Ruby a scratch, then crossed the room and bent and kissed Fen. “Why is Ruby still here? Where’s Reggie?”

  “I sent him out for a few supplies. He’ll take her back to the clinic when he returns, I promise.”

  “Ah. What have you been up to today? Any patients?”

  “Just one. Fifi.”

  He arched a tawny eyebrow. “Ah, a French mademoiselle, oui?”

  She stood and went into his arms. “Speak to me in French, my dear, and you’ll find yourself being dragged off to bed.”

  He pulled her tight and answered, sounding wistful, “Too bad oui is the only word I remember.” He leaned away and looked down at her. “So was she French?”

  “Hardly. A floppy-eared mongrel that had a briar in her ear.”

  “Since when have you started treating animals? Other than that one,” he nodded toward the lamb.

  “It isn’t the first time, but today it was just by chance.” She wondered how much she should divulge about her trip to Sheiling. “I went to visit the school.”

  “What you mean, is that you went to have a good look at the mother of Duncan’s lad.”

  “Of course I’d met her before. I thought it unusual that she rarely summoned me when there was a medical problem, but now I guess I can see why she wouldn’t.”

  “And you saw the dog there?”

  Fen nodded, still resting her head against her husband’s chest. “The little makeshift school has a new young teacher. Her name is Lily Varga, and she was the one with the pup.” She pulled away and looked up into Geddes’s face. “Something is eating at me.” She shook her head. “I can’t put my finger on it, but the girl reminds me of someone.”

  “She looks like someone you know?”

  Fen shook her head. “No, it’s not that she looks familiar. And she speaks like no Scot I’ve ever heard, but still, there’s something about her. I know it sounds weak, and maybe I’m just imagining it, but something makes me want to really like her and I don’t even know her.” She stepped out from the c
ircle of Geddes’s arms and went to the kitchen to begin supper. Geddes followed her.

  “I suppose I could go over and see what you’re worrying about. I am the advocate in the case of the cannery, and it should be perfectly innocent if I stop by to conduct a tour of my own. In the meantime, perhaps I can get a chance to speak with this young lady and see if anything joggles my memory.”

  “You’re a love,” Fen said, and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss ignited a flame in her belly. “Supper can wait,” he said, drawing her with him toward the bedroom. “Ruby? Stay.”

  Ruby stayed.

  • • •

  Two days later, after Duncan had spent time at the castle with his family, he rode toward Sheiling, and the sunshine seemed a good omen. He had convinced Isobel to meet with him to decide just how they would tell Ian the truth about his father. She hadn’t been terribly approachable, but the idea that she would see him at all was a small victory. Now he had to watch himself. Behave himself. Be a man she couldn’t refuse.

  As he passed the wharf, he glanced at the boats moored there, noting how well kept they were, as was most of the town. There wasn’t much to Sheiling beyond the water, maybe three or four blocks of residences and shops and the pub, and today the water was blue and light bounced off it like brilliant raindrops.

  The brothel loomed in the near distance. Blue peat smoke snaked from the chimney. He had learned on his first visit to the island that peat was plentiful, but it smoldered and didn’t truly burn like coal, therefore wasn’t terribly warming. Was everyone who lived in that eyesore freezing at night? He glanced up at the window of the room he had rented. He hadn’t spent much time there so far.

  He dismounted, tossed the reins to a waiting boy, and went up to the front door. He was nervous. It was an odd feeling for him. Rarely was he under the kind of scrutiny he would be under today and from this day on.

  Isobel had seen Ian and Hamish off once again, this time for a trip to the wharf where Hamish’s fishing boat was moored. Of course, this time it was planned. She checked herself in the mirror by the door. Her gown, an emerald green with sprigs of white flowers, was homemade, and the cameo at her neck had belonged to her mother; it was not expensive. She had tried to tame her hair but gave up and merely smoothed her chignon into place. What did it matter what she looked like? Duncan had seen her before. Heat rose into her cheeks. All of her. Now they were supposed to “hammer out a deal” (his words) for Ian’s care. Isobel’s stomach was in knots and earlier she’d almost lost her breakfast.

  There was a knock on the door. She thought it odd that he would knock; he had a room on the third floor and could come and go as he pleased. She opened the door and thought, He looks almost contrite. She opened the door wider and stepped back so he could enter.

  Duncan nodded. “Good morning, Isobel.”

  She merely nodded, unsure of her voice, then took his western-style hat and his leather jacket and hung them on the coat tree near the door.

  “So,” he started. “Where do you want to do this?”

  Curt. Business-like. She appreciated that. She cleared her throat. “We can use the small room off the kitchen. No one should bother us there.”

  She led him to the room, which held a small table and two chairs plus a sofa and a table with an oil lamp on it. A single window looked out onto the back garden. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything grander for you to sit on,” she said. “I’m sure you’re accustomed to quite a bit more luxury than this.”

  “Isobel, Isobel, don’t be that way. I’ve lived comfortably in cabins and lean-tos. I’ve slept outside in all kinds of weather. I’ve slept in a hole I dug myself that filled with water, using two fence planks for a bed to keep from getting soaked. If you’re trying to make me feel guilty about being a MacNeil, you’re not succeeding.” He pulled out a chair and offered it to her. She sat and let him push her closer to the table. He was being such a gentleman; she almost let down her guard.

  He sat across from her and neither spoke. She reflexively touched her scar.

  “Don’t.”

  She blinked and looked at him. “What?”

  “Every time you’re nervous, you press your fingers to your scar.”

  Indignant, she asked, “Is there something so terribly wrong with that?”

  “I don’t want you to feel nervous when you’re with me,” he said softly.

  She hadn’t been bothered by her scar for years. Not until he came back into her life. “I admit you make me nervous, but only because I don’t know what to expect from you.”

  He leaned back in the chair, still handsome, still a bit roguish, and still the only man she had ever been with. How he would laugh at that! She might as well still be a virgin.

  “I’ve been thinking a great deal about our situation,” he began.

  Do tell, she thought. Who hasn’t? “And what’s your grand conclusion?” She frowned, unable to curb her wayward, sarcastic tongue.

  He smiled easily, his dimple sucking her in, apparently not injured by her jab. “You’ll have to marry me.”

  She sat there, stunned, unwilling to believe what he’d just said. “What?”

  “We will get married.”

  “But…but…but why?”

  He leaned across the table and took her hand. Once again, she cringed at the state of her skin, foolishly wishing she was soft and delicate. Surely he could tell she was not gentry material.

  “I’m the boy’s father. You’re his mother.”

  “Ian,” she said softly, her heart on her sleeve when she spoke of him.

  “What?”

  She cleared her throat. “If you are going to speak of the lad, use his name. He has one, you know.”

  His smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his big, brown eyes, and Isobel thought she might swoon.

  “I know his name. Ian. It’s a good, strong name, Isobel.”

  How could he sit there so calmly? He’d just asked her to marry him. Marry him. He must have been insane. How could he propose such a thing?

  “What’s going through that pretty head of yours, Izzy?”

  She expelled a huge sigh. “Don’t call me that.”

  “What, Izzy?”

  “That. And don’t call me pretty. I never have been, you know.”

  “Why, because you have red hair and it’s supposed to be bad luck?”

  “My hair is not red,” she said firmly. It still puzzled her that he would remember their conversation all those years ago.

  “Ah, yes. Ginger, isn’t it?” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can still remember our little argument—”

  “We didn’t argue,” she interrupted. “You tried to call it cinnamon and under my breath I called you a big oaf.”

  He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “A big oaf? Really?”

  “Aye, but that was before…”

  He leaned forward. “Before what?”

  “’Tisn’t important.”

  “Oh, but it must be, or you wouldn’t mention it. That was before what, Izzy, before I kissed you?”

  She was mortified. She gave him a slight nod, refusing to acknowledge the incident further.

  “You seem to think I wouldn’t remember anything about you, Isobel. If you were to ask, I could recall for you much of what we did that night.”

  She was overheating; she wanted to escape. Lord, why didn’t he just shut up?

  “I told you I think we should get married. What’s your answer, Isobel?”

  “You can’t expect me to give you an answer so quickly,” she cautioned, trying to keep from panicking. “I personally think you must be crazy to suggest such a thing.”

  “Why is it so crazy? Ian is our son. We are his parents.” He cocked his head at her. “I’ve already lost nine years. I want to be a normal part of my son’s life, not some peripheral figure who sees him only occasionally. I wouldn’t like that, Isobel, not at all.”

  She pressed her lips together. “You co
uld take him away from me, couldn’t you?”

  He raised his eyebrows, thinking. “That’s one solution, but I don’t want to do that.”

  “Is there no other way we can agree on?”

  “Is marriage to me so terribly unbearable, Isobel?”

  How could she answer that? “It just never occurred to me that you would…I mean, why would you want to marry me?” What answer did she want from him?

  “Marriage would legitimize Ian. Isn’t that something you want?”

  “Of course.” It had always pained her that Ian was a bastard. That’s why she had concocted the story about his father’s death all those years ago.

  “Then what’s stopping you?” he asked.

  She looked at him, confusion on her face. “You’re a MacNeil.” As if that explained everything.

  “So I am. So is Ian. You could be, too.”

  She bristled. “It isn’t my dream in life to become a MacNeil.”

  He actually laughed at that. “Our dreams change, Isobel. I know mine have.”

  She felt befuddled. Married to Duncan MacNeil? Had she ever thought of such a thing? Oh, maybe ten years ago when she was a foolish, stupid girl, pining for a lad long gone from the island. But not now. Really? Really. She had more belief in Nessie, the Loch Ness monster.

  “So? What are you thinking, Isobel?”

  “What arrangements would have to be made?”

  “Do you mean will we be married in name only, just to make Ian legitimate?”

  She felt herself relax. “Aye, that would do.”

  “Oh, no. That won’t do,” he said, his voice smooth as cream.

  Her heart rate suddenly doubled. “No? Then what are you saying?”

  “I will not force myself on you, Isobel, but we will live together as a couple who are raising a son.”

  “Where?” If he dared tell her they would live at that damned castle, she would upend the table on him.

  “Well, that’s the rub, I guess. Your building will be demolished, and the church will see to it that a new schoolmaster will be installed. They have also promised to do some work on the current schoolroom off the church.” His gaze rattled her. “You’ve done a remarkable job here, without any instruction. I should think you’d be relieved to have it come to an end.”