A Scandalous Scot

by Karen Ranney

  “Fine,” he said, grabbing his shirt. “I’ll come with you.”

  He was donning one sleeve when he realized something was wrong. Jean was utterly still. Not one word emerged from her.

  He turned his head to see the housekeeper, accompanied by four other people, standing in the hallway, staring at him.

  Not a damn thing came to mind.

  He was still bare from the waist up. His shoes and socks had been removed earlier. He looked, for all the world, like someone who had just risen from his bed and donned his trousers in an act of semi-modesty. Exactly what he’d done, except his bed had not been shared.

  Mrs. MacDonald’s face was a thundercloud on an already dark horizon.

  “This isn’t what it appears,” he said.

  Mrs. MacDonald didn’t respond either by gesture or word. He’d never been as repudiated by silence as at this moment. Not even in London had he been so thoroughly rebuffed.

  “I think, madam, you misunderstand the situation,” he said.

  A quick desperate look from Jean silenced him. Evidently, she didn’t want him to announce the reason for her presence here. She’d rather be considered a harlot than cast aspersions on Catriona.

  He doubted if it would concern Catriona overmuch, as long as she achieved her aims.

  Perhaps Andrew had some gentlemanly instincts and would leave the girl alone. Morgan quickly pushed that thought aside—Andrew had never demonstrated any restraint in regard to women—and directed his attention to the farce before him.

  Truly, this was not happening. She was sleeping, and dreaming of a disaster that had befallen her.

  From the moment the earl had returned to Ballindair, her life had changed, become a disaster of monumental proportions.

  He stepped closer, reminding her that this situation was all too real.

  When was he going to put on his shirt? Jean noticed that Fiona was much too interested in the earl’s physique, and Aunt Mary was frowning at his bare chest.

  The two footmen, David and Tom, were looking at her with more interest than they’d ever expressed. She had the feeling she’d be garnering a great deal of attention from the male staff after this debacle.

  A loose woman was fair game.

  She couldn’t meet Aunt Mary’s eyes.

  “I’m waiting for an explanation,” her aunt said.

  What on earth should she say? The truth might make the situation worse than it was. Or could it get any worse?

  She wasn’t going to lie again. Silence was her only recourse, and when she lifted her eyes to her aunt, the disappointment on the other woman’s face made her stomach clench.

  “Go to your room, Jean,” Aunt Mary said. “With your leave, of course, Your Lordship.” By her words, she was indicating she knew there was an illicit relationship between Jean and the earl.

  When he only nodded, it was acknowledgment of that fact.

  Jean left the room, so ensnared by a lie she wondered if she’d ever cut herself free.

  At the staircase, she hesitated, wondering if she should go on to the Laird’s Tower. She’d already caused one disaster tonight. Let Catriona be responsible for her own actions.

  Once in her room, she readied for bed, but couldn’t sleep. Catriona hadn’t yet returned.

  When she came in, two hours later, Jean lit their taper and stared at her sister. Catriona’s lips were swollen and there were two marks on her face, one at her chin and the other higher up on her cheek.

  She knew, without asking—and how did anyone ask that kind of question?—that her sister was no longer virtuous. Had she ever been?

  She blew out the taper without saying a word.

  Chapter 12

  RULES FOR STAFF: Any staff member who notes egregious behavior or behavior in violation of these rules is honor bound to report it to the housekeeper, majordomo, or steward.

  Mary MacDonald had been employed at Ballindair for eleven years. For eleven years she’d given good service. Excellent service, some would say. She’d prided herself on the appearance of Ballindair as if it were her own home. No, more than that. As if the Queen would visit at any moment.

  She’d only employed the finest young women, those with an eye to a future at Ballindair. When a maid didn’t do her tasks as instructed, she was retrained. If a footman eyed the silver, he was sent to work in the stables. If she caught wind of fraternization, she stopped it immediately, ensuring the two involved knew she wouldn’t tolerate any such behavior.

  She had completely and totally missed the viper in her own nest.

  She walked into William Seath’s office and stared at the steward seated behind his desk. Whatever wasting sickness he had was not getting better. But he wouldn’t speak of it, even when he returned from his visits to the physician.

  “What is it, Mrs. MacDonald?” he asked.

  “Nothing of import,” she said, changing her mind. Jean was her problem and she’d have to figure out what to do about it on her own. “I merely came to wish you good morning.”

  He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and regarded her with solemnity.

  “Is it about the scene last night?”

  “You know?”

  He smiled, the amused expression odd on his gaunt face.

  “A great many people have stopped by my office this morning, each one wishing to impart the news. Besides, I’ve known you all these years, and not once have you ever come to wish me good morning.”

  He motioned to the chair in front of the desk, and she considered it for a moment before moving to sit.

  Had he always been so stubborn? Perhaps that’s why he was at his desk every day, despite the fact he was ill.

  She sat on the edge of the chair, placing one hand flat against the surface of the desk to steady herself.

  “I’ve come for advice,” she said. “And I don’t know what to do.”

  Then she proceeded to tell him the whole shocking story.

  Mrs. MacDonald had requested time to speak with him on this sunny afternoon. Morgan granted her a few moments, thinking she’d come to apologize for her actions the night before.

  After Jean had left, Mrs. MacDonald stared him down as if he’d been guilty of assault. He was so uncomfortable, he’d deliberately not spoken, merely donned his shirt.

  “Your Lordship,” she’d finally said, inclining her head as if she found him beneath contempt. She turned then, and the other three followed her like ducklings down the hall.

  He’d nearly slammed the door after them, thought better of it and merely closed it.

  Now, Mrs. MacDonald stared down at the floor. Just when he thought the woman had come to the library to act as a statue, she looked up him, her eyes, surprisingly, brimming with tears.

  “Did you know Jean was my niece, Your Lordship?”

  “No, I didn’t, Mrs. MacDonald. Which means, of course, Catriona is as well?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t share that fact with anyone, Your Lordship, but secrets have a way of being known, regardless. But I’ll have none say I treat either of them differently from the rest.”

  He kept silent, wondering at her point.

  “Jean’s a good girl, Your Lordship. Anyone would have told you that. I would have no harm come to either of them, either to their persons, or to their reputation. I run a decent household at Ballindair. None of my maids are allowed to fraternize with the men employed here. Only one girl has ever left Ballindair in a family way, and it was a great shame. I’ll not have it happen again.”

  “Nothing happened last night, Mrs. MacDonald.”

  But the housekeeper wasn’t listening.

  “How was I to know, Your Lordship, that Jean’s greatest danger would come from the very man we all labor so diligently to serve?”

  Now she was veering a little too close to the edge.

  “That will be all, Mrs. MacDonald.”

  “No, sir.”

  “No?” he said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms.

&nb
sp; When had he lost the respect of his staff?

  When he’d appeared bare-chested with a tearful maid in Andrew’s rooms.

  The thought sounded as if it had been uttered in his father’s voice.

  “When I came to work at Ballindair, Your Lordship,” Mrs. MacDonald was saying, “I was pleased beyond all measure.”

  “And now you don’t feel the same?”

  She could always be replaced, she and her troublesome nieces.

  “Your father was a man well loved throughout Scotland, Your Lordship. It was a pleasure to serve him.”

  The inference being, of course, that it wasn’t as enjoyable to be in his employ.

  “Nothing happened, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said. His body felt as stiff as if it were coated in iron. “Your niece’s virtue is still intact, I can assure you.”

  She heaved a great sigh, one that stirred her plenteous bosom. Slowly, she nodded, then raised her head to look at him directly.

  “You may know that, your Lordship. So might Jean. I might even come to believe it. But no one else will. From this moment on, Jean will be the subject of gossip and laughter. No good man will have her.”

  “A situation not of my making, Mrs. MacDonald.” Damn it, he hadn’t done anything. “What would you have me do, Mrs. MacDonald? Marry the chit? Make a decent woman out of her?”

  Her eyes never wavered from his.

  “Exactly that, Your Lordship.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He sat up straight, placing both hands on the blotter before him.

  “Jean’s father was a respected physician. Her mother was my sister. We have distant connections to a baron, and my great-grandfather was cousin to an earl.”

  “I haven’t any desire to hear your ancestry, Mrs. MacDonald. It doesn’t make a whit of difference to me. Are you not aware of my own history?”

  “Your divorce?” she asked, whispering the word.

  “Exactly.”

  She looked down at the floor again. “In all honesty, Your Lordship, I would have had Jean marry a man of honor, one with less shame in his past. But I don’t have a choice. People will treat her differently from this moment. They’ll think her without morals or dignity.”

  He forced a smile to his face. “Marrying me wouldn’t make her less a pariah, Mrs. MacDonald, but more of one.”

  She drew herself up, clasped her hands in front of her, her face frozen into a frown.

  “You have a title, Your Lordship. And wealth. It would go toward making her situation bearable.”

  Surprised at her honesty, he studied her. Was that sort of directness a family trait?

  “It would make her a decent woman before the world. Anyone would excuse her actions as a sign of anticipation of the marriage. But without a marriage, she’ll be labeled a slattern.”

  He didn’t have a thing to say to that impassioned argument. Did she know about Catriona? What was the solution there? Andrew was already married.

  She bent her head. “I thought you would answer as you have, Your Lordship. I know your father was a man of honor.”

  The inference being he wasn’t. She dared too much, but it seemed she wasn’t finished.

  “I know reputation means nothing to you, so I’ve given Jean a choice, Your Lordship. To leave your employ entirely, or to seek a position at one of your other properties. Mr. Seath says I can send her to Glasgow.”

  She smiled, a strange expression after insulting him. Without another word, she turned and left him. He raised his hand, as if to command her to return, then realized the housekeeper wouldn’t change her words.

  It was what she believed.

  It was what the whole of Scotland believed. The Earl of Denbleigh was a man of dishonor. To hell with wanting some decency in his own life, and a wife who didn’t tumble every man within scenting distance.

  He stared at the closed door long enough to see the carved panels long after he shut his eyes. How dare his housekeeper use words like “honor” to him. How dare she imply he had to make an honest woman of Jean.

  Nothing had happened. The girl would weather the storm well enough. In a few days people would forget what they’d seen.

  And if they didn’t?

  How many times had friends turned their backs on him? How many invitations had been carefully withdrawn? How many people were suddenly not at home?

  Would a society comprised of maids, footmen, and gardeners be any more forgiving? He doubted it.

  Would he willingly wish that on another human being? A woman who hunted ghosts and had tried to protect her sister?

  Damn it.

  Mrs. MacDonald had the temerity to address him in this room, of all rooms, where he’d stood in front of this very desk as a supplicant too many times, ready to disappoint again.

  The irony of the moment wasn’t lost on him.

  Jean was a maid. Yet her father had been a physician. If they’d met at another time, another place, a match might have been made between them.

  He didn’t want to marry ever again. He didn’t want to have anything to do with women. Especially one who manipulated a situation to her own advantage. But Jean hadn’t, he thought. She’d come to seek help from Andrew, not realizing they’d changed rooms.

  Why the hell had he ever suggested that idiotic plan? Who was the manipulator in this situation? The housekeeper, of course, but was she pushing him to do what she considered the “honorable thing” in order to gain some kind of reward herself? Or merely to protect Jean?

  Jean wasn’t beautiful. She wouldn’t turn men’s heads. She wouldn’t make a man stare at her when she walked into the room. She hunted ghosts. She read books.

  Would she be faithful? That was the question, wasn’t it?

  No, he wasn’t even going to consider it.

  Chapter 13

  RULES FOR STAFF: Respond when you’ve received an order and always do so with proper respect, using the appropriate address.

  The rain, so fine it was a mist, wet Jean’s face and curled her hair.

  In the spring, cheerful yellow daffodils lined the paths around Ballindair, their heads bobbing in greeting. Now, only mulch remained, and she missed the sight of the flowers. Someone had thought to place a few backless, rough hewn benches along the walk, but she ignored those in favor of approaching the edge of the pond. Herons stood in patches in the shallows, ignoring her. Feeding the pond was the River Tullie, burbling down a miniature waterfall and providing the sounds of the day.

  She turned toward the west, where the sun would be if it wasn’t hiding behind the clouds. The avenue here was lined with copper beech trees, their leaves shivering in the wet.

  In the winter the trees would be festooned with icicles. The entire panorama of Ballindair was magical then. One winter morning she’d awakened and stared out at the frozen countryside in awe. In that moment, only months ago, she was struck speechless by the beauty before her. The despair of the past year had been erased by the sight of the crystal decorations on the trees, and the pure white snow.

  On that morning, she fell in love with the castle. And, now, she had to leave.

  Aunt Mary had sent her outside, to walk off her misery. She was given a choice: to move to another of the earl’s properties or to try to find work elsewhere. Whatever her decision, she’d be separated from the only family she had left—Catriona and Aunt Mary. Hardly fair, since she’d done nothing wrong.

  But she’d seen the look of speculation in the men’s eyes that night in Mr. Prender’s room, and all this week. She didn’t want that kind of attention.

  Nor did she want to leave Ballindair.

  Jean turned and began to walk, away from Ballindair’s manicured beauty and into the wilder areas around the castle, stopping only when she came to Strath Dalross.

  The sky was gray, the color of an old woman’s hair and her own mood. Clouds hugged the top of the mountains, as if wishing to be earthbound.

  The valley was wide, the walls of earth high. Halfway up the side of the hill sat D
alross Kirk, a long rectangular building with a slate roof and a view of the village farther to her west. The lone tree was the sole living thing near the kirk. The only other neighbors were the inhabitants of the churchyard.

  This bend of the river, sometimes shallow, occasionally deep, curved through the basin of the strath. Gray and black rounded boulders sat at the bend of the river, as if offering a place for a picnic—nature’s banquet hall. On either side fertile ground supported both animals and crops. Or would have if the previous earl had allowed it.

  She stood for a moment, closing her eyes, listening to the river tumble over the rocks, smelling the sweet scent of the heather and feeling as if her heart were being squeezed.

  She turned and began to slowly walk back to Ballindair, uncomfortable within the shadow of the kirk.

  Had the builders thought to place the church just so, as warning to any who would act in a sinful manner? The minister would say she’d been a sinner indeed. Perhaps not for the deeds she’d performed as much as her thoughts.

  Twice now she’d seen Morgan MacCraig almost naked. Well, once naked and once half naked. Her mind had mentally stripped him of his trousers, and he was standing there just as he had that day in the bath.

  What kind of woman was she? She was shameful, loose. Nor was Catriona any better. Why, then, had she been singled out as a harlot and not her sister? Everyone evidently felt the same, or they wouldn’t be avoiding her with such assiduousness.

  The thunder sounded like God’s displeasure. Would he send a bolt of lightning to purify her? To strip thoughts of the earl from her mind?

  She’d heard of a farmer once, who’d been struck by lightning and survived, but his wits had been addled from then on. Is that what God wished for her, to scrub the sight of the Earl of Denbleigh from her memory?

  For a week no one had spoken to her except Catriona, and her sister’s remarks were cutting. Once Catriona heard that she and the earl had been caught in a compromising position, she lost no time in letting her know exactly what she thought of all her many lectures.