The Highland Countess

by M C Beaton

  Why had the French actor not reported Lord Rotherwood to the authorities? The actor had given a Gallic shrug. Milord was definitely mad. Anyone could see that. He had paid him not the slightest attention.

  “Why didn’t I guess?” wailed Morag. “I even considered marrying him. And to think I told him about Cosmo and he went out and shot the poor laird just like that!”

  This was said to Lord Toby Freemantle who was lounging in a corner of her drawing room and admiring her figure as she paced up and down.

  “I haven’t known which way to turn,” went on Morag. “It has been two whole weeks since that dreadful evening and you did not call. Now the patronesses of Almack’s have withdrawn my vouchers. I am ruined.”

  “They’ll have forgotton the whole thing by next Season,” said Lord Toby with cynical indifference. “Had I realized you were become a Nobody, I should certainly have called. I thought my unfashionable presence would ruin your Season.”

  “To leave me alone…” went on Morag angrily, but he interrupted her with, “Did you miss me?”

  She stopped and stared at him, her mouth open.

  “Ah, no!” she cried at last, her voice husky. “You are not to flirt with me, my lord. I am in no mood for dalliance.”

  He stood up and walked quickly over to her and jerked her roughly into his arms. “I am not flirting. Listen to me! We will continue to shock society by proceeding north together where we will be married unfashionably over the anvil at Gretna. Dear Rory will stay with us until the end of summer when we will send him to Brown’s seminary in the King’s Road to cram for Eton which should keep his mischievous brain well occupied. Now, what do you say?”

  “I-I c-can’t…” she began so he kissed her, quite savagely and long until she had no breath left.

  “Try again,” he said, raising his mouth from hers.

  “It’s no use, Toby,” sighed Morag. “There is something I have to tell you. No, leave me. Sit over there. Don’t touch me until I’ve finished.”

  He saw that she was indeed serious so he did as he was bid. Morag studied him for a few moments as if to say good-bye. The square handsome face, those odd green eyes, the strong athletic figure shown, at the moment, to its best advantage in a pair of skintight Inexpressibles, a pair of shiny Hessian boots with little gold tassels, a blue swallowtail coat and an intricately tied cravat.

  Morag began in a faltering but determined voice to tell him of her lack of success as a marriage partner to the earl. “So you see,” she finished looking away, “you will find that there is something repellent in me.”

  Hamish pressed his ear to the drawing room door, the sweat running down his face. He wanted his mistress to marry Lord Toby more than anything. Furthermore, he wanted to go home. He seriously considered bursting in and telling Morag the truth—that the earl would have been the same with any gently bred girl. But grateful though he might be, Lord Toby would never forgive him for such familiarity.

  Then he heard Lord Toby’s great shout of laughter.

  “Oh, my foolish love,” he cried, sweeping Morag up in his arms and striding to the doors of the drawing room. “We are going to lay your fears to rest.”

  Holding her tightly with one arm Lord Toby reached down to the door handle. But the doors were promptly thrown open and Hamish stood there, executing a low bow.

  Toby raised his eyebrows in faint surprise but nonetheless marched past toward the stairs, holding Morag as tightly as he could.

  “What are you doing with my mother?” came a sharp, imperative, childish voice. Rory stood blocking the stairs, his eyes snapping with jealousy.

  “She needs to lie down,” said Toby calmly.

  At that moment, Hamish saw The Beastie trundling slowly across the hall and quickly scooped it up, opened the door to the kitchens and threw the animal down the stairs where it let out a loud yell.

  “Beastie!” cried Rory, his attention immediately diverted. He shot past Morag and Lord Toby and vanished down the steps to the kitchens.

  “Put me down, Toby!” cried Morag as he kicked open the door of her bedroom. “What will the servants think?”

  “To hell with the servants!” said Lord Toby Freemantle, kicking the door shut behind them.

  Down in the kitchen, Rory was murmuring sweet nothings to his cat. Having assured himself that the animal had come to no harm, he turned purposefully toward the door again—to find his way blocked by Hamish and Mr. Service. Mr. Service was now as fanatically loyal a retainer as Hamish, having been overwhelmed at the magnanimity of Lady Murr for having kept him in her employ despite the fact that he had allowed himself to be tricked at Astley’s like the veriest greenhorn.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” demanded Mr. Service, who had been in hasty consultation with Hamish.

  “I am going to see my mother,” said Rory with a glint in his eye that reminded Hamish of the Rory of pre-cat days. “I fear she may wed Lord Toby Freemantle and, although he is very well in his way, we are quite happy without my mother becoming married.”

  “If your mither disnae get marrit,” said Hamish slowly, “then you’ll never get tae school. It’s Lord Toby’s idea that ye should cram for Eton come this autumn.”

  Eton! Other boys. And books, books, books.

  “You mean it?” breathed Rory.

  “Aye,” grinned Hamish. “But we’re goin’ hame tae Perth first. I’ve been thinkin’, ye ken thon tree? The one you said you liked tae climb?”

  Rory nodded.

  “Well, I could help ye build a wee house up in the branches. You could play up there with The Beastie.”

  “Oh, Hamish, truly?” cried Rory.

  “Yes, truly. Now if you wash your hands over at the sink there, Mr. Service and me is going out for a walk and we ken a good sweetie shop round the corner, so…”

  Rory scampered to the sink and Hamish mopped his brow. Master Rory was going to be taken for a very long walk indeed. Long enough for Lord Toby to persuade the mistress to marry him.

  “You’ll have to marry me now,” Lord Toby said smiling down at her. “My dear delight, you were made for love. Are all your fears at rest?”

  “Except for one,” said Morag, a small frown creasing her brow. “Rory.”

  “I will adopt him. What else?”

  “Are we… I mean, am I… doing a dreadful thing by cheating Lord Arthur out of his inheritance?”

  “No,” he said gently, smoothing the frown away with one long finger. “The earl was sensible, you know. Arthur would be a bad landlord. Think of all your tenants and how many farms would be mortgaged across the gaming tables of St. James’s. Furthermore, if you had all the bastards in the top ten thousand exposed, my dear heart, the British aristocracy would fall to rack and ruin.”

  Morag opened her mouth again and he closed it with a kiss.

  “It is getting late,” said Rory fretfully, “and my feet hurt.”

  Hamish pulled out a large turnip watch and then winked at Mr. Service over the boy’s head.

  “I bring to mind,” said Mr. Service, clearing his throat, “that Madame Saqui is to walk the slack wire at Vauxhall tonight. Perhaps ’er ladyship might give this ’ere limb permishun for to go.”

  “Aye, it’s a fine sight that,” said Hamish. “But it means the lad would be out ower late. Still, it’s worth seein,’ Rory. She walks up there above the crowds with all the Golden Drops and Bengal Lights flashing around her.”

  “Oh, please let me go! Please take me!” cried Rory, his sore feet forgotten. “I will not complain. I will do anything. Only persuade my mother to let me go.”

  “Ah, well,” grinned Hamish. “My leddy’s probably restin’ so we’ll leave a wee note on the hall table. Dinnae fash yersel,’ my lord. My leddy won’t worry about you this night.”

  “You called me ‘mylord’ for the first time,” said Rory, staring up at the butler.

  “Oh, aye, so I did,” said Hamish, tucking the boy’s hand in his own and smiling down at him.
“So I did!”