A Scandalous Scot

by Karen Ranney

  “I’ve been thinking about Lillian,” Andrew said.

  Morgan stiffened.

  “Oh? And why would you be thinking of Lillian?”

  “She’s the reason you’re here, isn’t she? After five years?”

  “It hasn’t been five years since I’ve been back in Scotland,” Morgan said.

  “But the first time you’ve been back to Ballindair,” Andrew countered.

  Morgan clenched his glass tighter in one hand, looked straight at Andrew and said, “You might as well tell me. Why is Lillian on your mind?”

  “I regret I ever said anything,” Andrew said. “If I hadn’t, you’d still be married, still in London.”

  “Did you think I didn’t know?”

  Andrew looked surprised.

  Morgan took a sip. “You weren’t the only friend to come to me and report my wife was having an affair. Or another affair. It got to the point I couldn’t enter a room without wondering how many of the men there she’d bedded.”

  “Do you still hate her?”

  Morgan sat back, studying his friend. “Why, exactly, are you so concerned about Lillian? I divorced her, Andrew. I didn’t kill her.”

  “No, but you wanted to.”

  For a long moment Morgan didn’t say a word. Slowly, he took another sip of his whiskey, then answered his friend.

  “Perhaps I did, once. She survived my murderous impulses, however.”

  “Marriage is actually very calming,” Andrew said.

  “I’ve never found it to be so.”

  “Perhaps, one day, you’ll marry again.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Morgan said. “I never want to repeat that experience.”

  “My own wife is a dear sweet soul.”

  “Your wife is a broodmare,” Morgan said.

  Andrew didn’t take offense. In fact, he only smiled proudly, no doubt reflecting on his five children, none of whom he saw very often. One day he would be faced with all of them grown. Morgan knew he wouldn’t be surprised if his friend took the males off clubbing and the females to one of his many mistresses for advice on dress and manners.

  “Is that why you’re here, Andrew?” he asked, keeping a check on his temper. “To make sure I’m no longer angry? Time has done that. I no longer care what Lillian does, with whom she sleeps, where, or how. It’s none of my concern.”

  Andrew studied the liquor in his glass, took a sip, then said, “She’s here, even though she isn’t here.”

  Morgan smiled, genuinely amused. “Lillian never came to Ballindair. Scotland was beneath her. But, I will agree, as long as my solicitor sends me correspondence, it’s impossible to completely forget her.”

  Andrew looked surprised.

  Before the other man could ask, Morgan said, “She wants the Paris house, and despite the fact that we’re no longer married, she thinks that repeated demands will make me change my mind.”

  “Really? Why not give it to her?”

  Morgan’s good humor vanished. “Because she’s not getting another thing belonging to me,” he said. “She took my reputation, I’ll be damned if she gets anything else.”

  He stood, nodded at Andrew, and left the room, unwilling to discuss his marriage or Lillian any further. Sometimes, the boundaries of friendship needed to remain strictly in place.

  Mary MacDonald hesitated at the entrance to the kitchen.

  Could this day have been any more disastrous? What had Jean been thinking? Not only had she been terribly afraid that she wouldn’t be able to save her niece, but her own position might be in danger.

  Jean, sensible, hard-working Jean, had acted completely out of character.

  What was she going to do about this situation? Other than counsel Jean on how to act as a proper maid, she didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t even go to the earl and ask for a little compassion for the girl. What would she say? Your Lordship, she’s had a terrible time of it. They both have. Please overlook her utter stupidity.

  No, he’d want to know about the girls’ past. God forbid anyone should discover it.

  For the first time, Mary wished she’d taken Mr. Seath into her confidence. She’d been afraid the steward would forbid her to hire her nieces. The actions of their father had been horrible, true, but neither Jean nor Catriona had inherited any of his tendencies.

  Now, foolishness, that was another thing entirely.

  Look at Jean, back to being her silent self, sitting with the other maids but not speaking. More than once she’d tried to advise her niece about such things.

  “You must try to get along with them, Jean.”

  “I do, Aunt. We just have nothing in common. No one wants to discuss books or things I’m thinking.”

  “Can you not try to find common ground? Catriona seems to do well enough.”

  “I am not Catriona, Aunt,” the girl had said, getting that mulish look.

  No, she wasn’t. Life would be so much easier for Jean if she were more like Catriona. Everyone liked Catriona, sought her advice and laughed at her jests. Jean just sat there like a mound of overcooked cabbage.

  Today was the only time she’d acted differently, and it had been with a shocking lack of decorum.

  Mary moved away from the doorway, knowing she couldn’t solve the problem tonight. Instead, she sought her suite of rooms, where she could close the door on Ballindair and all its problems.

  Chapter 6

  RULES FOR STAFF: Never make eye contact with your betters, offer a smile or any other expression.

  Morgan couldn’t sleep, especially after Andrew’s comments about Lillian. Perhaps he should thank his friend. For months, no one had mentioned his wife, but her presence had been felt nonetheless.

  At his last meeting with Lillian, he’d been able to let her words flow over him like water. A few of the droplets, however, had the effect of acid on his skin.

  “You’re the most hideously boring man I’ve ever known, Morgan. A pity, since you don’t look exceptionally boring. You’re quite a handsome man. But it’s a well wrought package containing nothing of any interest.”

  He hadn’t known what to say to that remark so he remained silent. A judicious approach to his wife’s verbal assault.

  “You’re so bloody gentlemanly. There’s a time to be a gentleman and a time to be something else more exciting.”

  “A satyr?” he asked.

  “Even a mythical creature would be better than you.”

  “You surprise me, Lillian. I didn’t know you even knew the meaning of the word. So it’s my fault you went from one bed to another, is that it, my dear?”

  “I didn’t always need a bed, Morgan, something you might have once considered.” Her smile was mocking, her beautiful, heart-shaped face twisted into a mask of derision.

  “Because I was exceptionally boring,” he said, pushing back his rage, “you were forced to seek out the company of other men.”

  “Yes!”

  Her blond hair swung from one side to another. For this confrontation, she’d chosen her attire carefully, a peignoir set no doubt from Paris. Of the palest yellow silk, to better set off her beauty.

  Was it a last, desperate, attempt to seduce him? He was so far from being seduced he might as well be in the Canary Islands.

  Where, exactly, had their marriage faltered? The only fortunate aspect of the entire union was they’d had no children. If Lillian had borne him a child, he would have doubted its paternity.

  At last count, Andrew had five children. And him? Nary a one. No progeny to inherit the earldom. No boy to take fishing or little girl to capture his heart.

  It was just as well.

  One less person to shoulder his dishonor.

  Catriona made a sound in her sleep. A murmur of pleasure that had the effect of annoying Jean tremendously. Was she dreaming of the Earl of Denbleigh?

  Jean was heartily tired of hearing about the man.

  Catriona sighed again, and Jean placed the pillow over her head. If the Earl of
Denbleigh was as wealthy as he was rumored to be, surely he could purchase better pillows. Something made in London, perhaps, and hinting of lavender, as the pillows on his own bed. These were thin and lumpy and smelled of mildewed hay. Of course, if she had any time at all, she would have stuffed the pillow herself, choosing pine needles or dried flowers.

  She would add it to her list of chores to be done when she had a free moment.

  Catriona murmured again. Jean threw off the pillow and sat up on the edge of the bed, staring across the small room. If she woke Catriona, she would be subjected to a barrage of complaints. Better to simply fall asleep herself, nature’s way of tolerating the intolerable.

  Except, of course, she’d been abed for two hours and hadn’t slept yet.

  She leaned back against the wall, her legs straight out in front of her. The cotton nightgown had been well laundered. In fact, it was over three years old and was a bit higher on the calves than it should be. It fit Catriona perfectly, but made Jean feel like a poor child who’d outgrown her donated attire.

  After several minutes of staring at her sister—an action that had no effect on Catriona’s pleased murmurs, Jean stood.

  She knew better than to leave the room in her nightgown and wrapper, so she donned the uniform she’d worn today, dispensing with any stays. She looked proper enough. During the day, she kept her corset as loose as she could, in order to give herself room to move while she worked.

  Who decided that a woman had to be so tightly confined when she was reaching, stretching, bending, and pulling all day? If she were a society matron, she could see herself sitting on a sofa doing nothing but needlework or reading, perhaps, staring into the fire considering how she might spend her millions of pounds. As a maid, a corset was a torture device.

  She sat and laced her uncomfortable shoes, wishing she had money to have a new pair made. Something soft in kid leather, perhaps. A pair of shoes that didn’t encourage the bulges on her feet and hurt her heels by the time the day was done.

  Her dress was a little too long now that she wasn’t wearing a petticoat, but who would see?

  She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. For a moment she stood with her back to the door, looking left, then right. Only women slept on this floor. Some of the men slept above them, in the attics. A few of the more muscular footmen occupied small rooms on the ground floor, the better to guard the treasures of the MacCraigs. Not that any family known for their murderous ancestry truly needed extra guards.

  The Earl of Denbleigh might well be a throwback to an earlier time. She could easily see him running someone through, if not with an actual weapon, then the sharpness of his gaze.

  Odious man.

  Jean waited, but no one stirred, not even when she walked down the corridor. The floorboards creaked, the gas lamps sputtered. Was night ever truly silent?

  The housekeeper’s suite of rooms was at the end of the women’s corridor. Aunt Mary had the hearing of a curious cat. Consequently, she felt like a mouse as she crept in front of the door, praying it wouldn’t suddenly open.

  She couldn’t sleep, but that didn’t mean she was allowed to roam around Ballindair as if she were family.

  Aunt Mary had still not questioned her as to her true purpose in the Laird’s Tower last night. Jean knew her aunt hadn’t believed the story of wanting to get an early start on cleaning.

  If her circumstances changed, if she ever moved back to Inverness, if she ever became a wife and mother, she would never again take for granted the cleanliness of her surroundings. She would thank her servants—should she be fortunate enough to be able to afford any—every day, and appreciate their work without reservation.

  Why hadn’t she noticed those things earlier?

  The same reason she hadn’t noticed her father’s acute sorrow at her mother’s illness.

  So many things were better seen through the prism of the past. What would she see about herself, looking back five years from now? Would she chide herself for being foolish and sad occasionally? Would she ridicule herself for being curious about ghosts? No one else at Ballindair wanted to know. Instead, they treated the ghosts as if they were a necessary nuisance, and any encounter with them was to be avoided, not sought.

  She slipped down to the back stairs, her destination a place she knew well. At the doorway, she hesitated. Tall, mullioned windows, rising to the ceiling, summoned the sun on even the dreariest day and illuminated the paintings along the far wall. Now, the Highland night had given way to darkness, and only moonlight entered, bathing the space in a bluish white light. Two benches sat in the middle of the room. A few ornamental urns were placed between each tall window.

  The wood floor was highly polished and echoed her footsteps, the sound announcing her presence in the Long Gallery.

  The maids had been industrious here, too. Twin smells of French polish and vinegar hung heavy in the air. The curtains had evidently been taken down to be brushed.

  She’d cleaned the Long Gallery herself more than once. The portraits, now only blurs of shadows in gilt frames, were to be dusted with care so as not to damage the canvases. Some of them were old, she knew, having listen to her aunt’s lecture.

  In daylight, she’d studied the faces of the men and women of Clan MacCraig, amazed that all the men were handsome and tall, and all the women beautiful.

  Suddenly, she felt as if something had pressed against her chest, a hand, a sensation. Abruptly, she stopped, wrapped her arms around herself and stood silent and attentive.

  Even though it was the middle of summer, the Long Gallery was chilly. As she watched, a shadow coalesced. Was it a ghost?

  She took a step back, and as she did so, chided herself for her cowardice.

  Something was there. Something made a sound, almost a breath. She shivered, wishing she’d brought her shawl, and took a resolute step forward.

  The French Nun was rumored to appear only to single women, and although it didn’t specifically say so in the book she’d read, she had the impression the ghost only appeared to warn them of the perils of losing their virtue.

  What a pity Catriona wasn’t here.

  She fisted her hands and pressed them against her stomach, forcing herself to breathe.

  At times, she felt as insubstantial as a ghost, as invisible. Perhaps that’s why she wished to see one, to prove to herself that she, too, existed. Although not as vivacious as Catriona or as beautiful, she still mattered, if only to herself.

  “Do you have anything to say to me?” Jean asked softly. “Any advice?”

  She dropped her arms, hands clenched at her sides.

  “Will you speak with me?” she said to the amorphous shape. “I’ve waited so very long to see you.”

  Jean took one more step forward.

  “Can you not find peace?”

  “Not if you are forever haranguing me,” the Earl of Denbleigh said, stepping out of the shadows.

  She bit her lips against a scream, and pressed her hand flat against her bodice. Her heart felt as if it was leaping right out of her chest.

  Several long minutes later she tilted her chin up and faced the shadow of the Earl of Denbleigh.

  “I do apologize, Your Lordship,” she said.

  “You thought me a ghost again,” he said.

  She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

  “Perhaps I am.”

  The comment startled her. From his position, he was standing in front of the portraits, one of them his father. Did he miss him?

  Curiosity she shouldn’t have felt.

  “Why are you such a resolute ghost hunter, Jean?” he asked.

  She didn’t know what surprised her the most: that he’d posed the question in such an amicable tone or that he remembered her name.

  She wished she could see him.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  He made a sound of disparagement, as if he knew she was playing for time and
didn’t know how to answer him.

  “Why do you seek out the ghosts of Ballindair?”

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said, stepping backward, as though he were king and she a lowly subject leaving the room.

  “You needn’t leave,” he said.

  Curiosity kept her in place.

  “My old nurse used to say there were ghosts aplenty at Ballindair, one for every season or mood. I’ve never seen one.”

  She didn’t tell him her efforts had been in vain as well.

  When he remained silent, she said, “I think they show themselves when they want, not when we wish.”

  “When I was a boy, I used to believe the ghosts would come to me, because I was to be laird.”

  The confidence surprised her.

  She no longer retreated. Instead, she stood where she was, half the room between them. Neither of them spoke forcefully. The hour encouraged a tone just above a whisper.

  His shadow suddenly moved, and she wondered if he was coming closer.

  “I’m not certain I ever saw one, either,” she said. “I think, sometimes, we see what we want to see.”

  His laugh startled her. “Indeed, you’re correct in that. Do you really want to see ghosts, Jean?”

  How did she answer that question?

  “Sometimes,” she said. “At other times, I wonder if I have the courage.”

  “Yet, you still seek them out. Why?”

  She turned, gripping her skirts as she walked to a window. If it were daylight, she’d see the approach to the castle. The long expanse of lawn was perfectly manicured. How could it be anything else? This was Ballindair, the jewel of the Highlands.

  “Must you know the answer to everything?” she heard herself say.

  Of course, why try to salvage her position after this ruinous day? He already thought her a foolish girl, given to rash and reckless behavior, and now a dolt, to believe in ghosts.

  “Is my question intrusive?”

  Yes, because it surprised her. Yes, because she hadn’t thought him the type of man to be interested in anyone other than himself. Yes, because she didn’t know how to answer him, the second time he’d confounded her in a few minutes.