Her Scottish Groom

by Ann Stephens

  Barclay took his mother’s arm. “I say, that’s out-of-bounds!”

  “What is out-of-bounds is the stream of insults Diantha has suffered from all of you under her own roof.” He glared at everyone impersonally. “The matter is now closed.”

  “Go get dressed, Granny. I have some things to attend to.” Diantha made her way toward her room. Her unsteady voice alarmed him, but he stared down the others until they retreated to their rooms.

  Only Mrs. Helford remained, her habitual vigor extinguished. One hand clutched the door frame for support. “This is all my fault,” she whispered.

  Kieran helped her into her room and onto a chaise. He sat down at her side. “How can you be to blame here?”

  The old woman pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “Don’t you understand? I failed my daughter, and she failed hers.” A sob escaped her.

  Kieran rather desperately wanted to go to Diantha, but he could not turn his back on her grandmother. He tried to think of comforting words. “I do not see any of you in your daughter’s nature.”

  Tears slipped down the wrinkled cheeks and she sought her handkerchief. “No, you see her father.” To his relief, some color returned to her face. “Although he could be charming in public, my husband was a beast. Amalthea was our only child, and he alternately praised and intimidated her.

  “I wanted to protect her but my husband beat me when I tried to interfere.” She pressed the laceedged square of white lawn to her lips. “I was too cowardly to protect my own child. Needless to say, Mally handled her children the same way her father treated her.”

  Kieran patted her shoulder as she dried her eyes. “I’m sorry. You must have been terrified for years.”

  “Did Diantha ever tell you she tried to run away before the wedding?”

  Stunned, he shook his head. His wife disliked him that much?

  Mrs. Helford sighed. “She bribed a servant to purchase a train ticket to Boston. When her father and brothers caught her, they found she’d forged her own references to teach French at an academy there.”

  A weight settled in his gut. “What did they do to her?”

  “Her mother took a dogwhip to her to force her to name her accomplice.” She shuddered. “When that failed to work, her parents locked her in her room and did not let her out alone until the day she married.”

  Unable to bear immobility when he wanted to pound her family to a pulp with his bare fists, Kieran pushed himself off the chaise. “How could they do that to their own child?”

  “She was never a child in their eyes, only a bargaining chip to be used to their best advantage.” Her mouth twisted. “I tried to make up for my sins by providing her with the affection they should have given her.”

  Kieran paused before the old woman. “You succeeded in that much, ma’am, I assure you.”

  She shrugged, a barely discernable lift of her shoulders. “I supported her marriage to you because I hoped it would take her far away from that house.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I hope I was right.”

  Under the intensity of her silent plea, he retreated to the bellpull and tugged. “Do you feel well enough to remain alone until your maid comes? I should go to Diantha.”

  He left before she finished nodding yes.

  A bitter smile twisted his lips as he strode through toward Diantha’s chamber. He hadn’t the least idea what to say to her. I know you don’t want me, but I’ll look after you anyway sounded as if he’d adopted a stray dog.

  She deserved a true husband, one who did not have infidelity in his blood.

  He realized he stood before her door and still did not know what he could say or do that would offer her comfort. He had to try, though.

  She replied as soon as he tapped on the wooden panel. “Come in.”

  He squared his shoulders and entered.

  She sat at her dressing table. Her glance flickered to his reflection in the mirror, then back to her swollen cheek. “I don’t know how I’m going to hide this at dinner.”

  “Never mind dinner.” He approached her gingerly, prepared for tears. “May I?”

  She allowed him to turn her about on the chair until she faced him. A livid, hand-shaped welt rose on her fair skin. His throat closed. “Oh love, I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? You’re the one who stopped her.” A half-smile faltered on the undamaged side of her face. “Luckily I don’t bruise easily.”

  He eased her to her feet and into his arms. He stroked her hair as he murmured, “For everything. For ruining your life with a marriage you didn’t want. For not telling your family to go to the devil when they sent that arrogant telegram. For permitting Iona to run roughshod over you.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder, unmoving. Then she took a deep breath. “You’re not the man I thought you were.”

  Kieran swallowed. He deserved no better, but the assessment still hurt. “I know, but perhaps we can come to some arrangement where you would not have to see me—”

  Her finger against his lips stopped him. “You don’t understand. I thought this marriage would be hopeless. It’s not. You don’t tell me what I must do or say or wear. This house party proves that we can work together when we need to.”

  She touched her cheek. “You stopped Mama from hitting me. Even Granny could never accomplish that.”

  Then she sighed. “Speaking of the house party, I must find a way to cover this up. Florette is bringing ice, but I’m not sure it will work quickly enough.”

  “I shall tell our guests you’re indisposed.”

  She nibbled her lip, an expression of longing on her face. “An evening alone sounds tempting.”

  “Then turn around. I’ll unfasten your stays and you can crawl into bed. MacAdam can send up a tray.”

  “Kieran, I did mean an evening alone. By myself.” She regarded him anxiously. “My face hurts and I truly have a wretched headache.”

  He brushed her mouth with his. “That is exactly what I meant, my dear. With a houseful of guests, one of us has to appear at dinner.”

  He freed her from her corset and even helped her with her nightgown, amused at the idea of helping his wife into her garments.

  When Florette arrived, bearing a bowl of ice and a clean towel, she gave a nod of approval. “It is very good, milord. Her ladyship needs a night of quiet. I shall convey to MacAdam the request for a tray and bring it up later.”

  “Would you also ask Poole for some of the dowager’s salicin? We always keep a good supply on hand and it will ease her ladyship’s headache.”

  He left her to change for dinner, then returned. Diantha drowsed, curled up on her side beneath the sheet. On a chair beside the bed, the ice-filled towel now rested in the bowl in easy reach of her hand.

  “Is there anything else I can send for to make you comfortable?”

  She lifted her head slightly. “Would you—would you mind brushing my hair?”

  Wordlessly, he collected her brush and seated himself on the other side of her bed. She closed her eyes and sighed as he carefully drew the bristles through the long brown strands.

  “That feels lovely.” A smile played about her lips. “I thought so the first time you brushed my hair.”

  The morning after their wedding, when he’d decided to seduce her. As her shoulders relaxed under his ministrations, he realized that he found the action far more gratifying this time. Perhaps he should brush her hair more often. His cock hardened as he recalled the sensation of warm silk flowing over his skin when they made love.

  A soft snore broke the silence. Diantha had fallen asleep.

  * * *

  He looked in on her again before retiring, expecting that she slept on. Instead she sat up in bed, working on her sketch pad. She closed it and tucked it beside the bed. “I was sound asleep for hours, now I’m wide awake.”

  “Have a brandy.” So saying, Kieran slipped into his own chamber and filled two snifters with the amber liquid. He returned, giving one to her.

  “Yo
u look much better.” As she had predicted, the mark had faded without leaving signs of darkened skin.

  “I feel better.” She sipped carefully, then sighed. “But I don’t look forward to spending the day with my mother and Iona tomorrow.”

  “You could come watch the shoot.” He blurted the words out without thinking, but the idea pleased him considerably. “If you are not too squeamish.”

  “I fear I’ve never fainted at the sight of blood. Most indelicate of me.” Her face clouded. “But I cannot leave the other ladies, it would be uncivil.”

  “It would guarantee a reprieve from the two dragons.” He leaned forward, using his most coaxing smile. “I’ll make it clear that I, the lord and master, insist that you come watch.”

  She wavered. “I should feel more comfortable if I had another female. Could I invite your Cousin Francesca?”

  “A first-rate idea! She herself learned to shoot as a girl; she can tell you what’s going on.”

  “Never mind that, she can tell me what to wear.”

  * * *

  Diantha woke up in a much better mood than she had expected. Her face still felt stiff, but all visible sign of her mother’s abuse had disappeared. The quiet evening and Kieran’s kindness had restored her peace of mind.

  She needed it, for when she went down to breakfast, she discovered the exquisitely appointed salon awash in tartan. Her Scottish guests nearly all sported some form of the pattern, in a variety of colors. The women wore sashes diagonally across their torsos and pinned at the shoulder, which was unexceptionable. The men however—

  Diantha swallowed. She had seen portraits of Kieran’s father and grandfather in their kilts, but that did not prepare her for the sight of an entire room filled with males in a state of half-undress. Even covered with stockings, the myriad of calves exposed by the knee-length kilts unnerved her.

  Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned her head to find Francesca Urquhart regarding her with twinkling eyes. “If you’re just going to stare, don’t block the entry. Some of us wish to eat.”

  Diantha accompanied the other woman to the sideboard. “Is someone playing a joke?”

  Francesca repressed her laughter. “Don’t say that too loudly. Wearing tartan on the first day of shooting is a Duncarie tradition.” She helped herself to eggs and smoked salmon. “Gives the Scots a chance to show off before the English.”

  Diantha nodded at the sash of muted blue and green draped over her friend’s shoulder. “You’re from Yorkshire.”

  “But my husband was an Urquhart.” The other woman stroked the woolen length tenderly. “He had this cut from his own plaid and gave it to me after we married. It means as much to me as my wedding ring.”

  They found places beside Diantha’s grandmother. Due to her age, she was the only person waited on at breakfast. As the footman presented the elderly woman with a heaping plate, Diantha realized even the servants wore kilts. “This is dreadful! I don’t know where to look.”

  Granny’s gaze rested on the retreating servant’s legs with every evidence of pleasure. “I think it’s a splendid notion.”

  Francesca nudged her. “You could try looking at your husband.”

  Diantha did, and forgot about food. The gray background of the Rossburn tartan suited his dark hair. The plaid on his upper body emphasized his broad shoulders and the belt at his middle showed off his narrow waist.

  As he strolled to the sideboard, she noticed nearly every other female eye in the room riveted on him as well. Diantha stabbed at a kipper. She was not leaving her husband unwatched until he changed into something that inspired less attention.

  Some of her guests expressed surprise or even outright disapproval when he announced that Diantha would accompany the men. He ignored everyone, however, and at ten o’clock sharp, a footman assisted Diantha and Francesca down from the carriage onto the immense moor.

  The shooting party itself disappointed her. Kieran and his guests stood at designated spots and waited for the beaters to drive the birds in their direction. The constant blasts nearly deafened her and smoke from the powder used to fire the cartridges formed a miasma around the gunners.

  “How can you stand the noise?” She had to raise her voice to ask the question of Francesca.

  “I got used to volleys of all sorts while married to a military man.” She shook her head. “And this is only a small party. It’s amazing that the entire sporting community of Britain can hear anything at all.” The two women wandered far enough behind the guns for rational conversation. Diantha occupied herself with her sketchbook while Francesca pulled a crochet hook and thread out of her pocket. When he approached them some time later, Kieran burst out laughing.

  “The ground doesn’t look very suitable for such ladylike occupations.”

  Diantha grasped his outstretched hand for assistance as she got to her feet and waited for him to help Francesca. “Nonsense. We had this comfortable blanket to rest upon.”

  “I hope you aren’t too bored.” He offered each of them an arm. “I should have thought before I invited you.”

  “A morning spent in fresh air is far more attractive to me today than staying in the drawing room.” Kieran grinned down at her. “I thought you might say that.”

  They approached a small table set with cold meats and bread. Everyone would gather for a picnic lunch later, but the men hailed Diantha for considering their masculine appetites. Archie and the loaders relaxed and ate near a cart set aside for their use. At the other end of the moor, the beaters ate a similar snack.

  Afterward, servants packed up the remains of the meal. Kieran escorted her to a line of unloaded guns with their breeches open. They had been cleaned during the break. “Would you like to shoot one?”

  “Mama will be horrified when she finds out.” She hesitated. “Would it be safe?”

  “An excellent concern. We’ll be sure to point you away from the others.” He picked up a shotgun with an inlay of polished steel on the butt. “My father gave me this one.”

  Barclay strolled up, holding his own weapon. “Kieran said he might try to coax you to fire a round. Bravely done, Cousin.” He eschewed a kilt, but looked very fine in trousers and a tailored shooting jacket. He fell in with them.

  After showing her how to carry it safely, with the barrel pointed to the ground, they guided her to a spot several feet away from the others. Nervous at the stares in her direction, she drew comfort from Kieran’s solid warmth as he walked beside her.

  While she watched, the two men showed her how the breech mechanism worked, and how to load and unload cartridges. Finally Kieran handed her his gun. Diantha did not expect it to weigh so much, but managed to hold it properly.

  Barclay held out his own. “That’s rather heavy for a lady, Cuz. Would you like her to use mine?”

  “Good of you, Barclay, but she’ll need help bracing any shotgun correctly. I’d prefer to handle the one I’m familiar with.”

  Kieran pushed a cartridge with a handpainted B into the chamber. “This is a blank, so you needn’t fear hurting anyone. Now, keep your finger away from the trigger and lift the gun to your shoulder.”

  Diantha did so as Kieran moved behind her. His arms came around her to help steady the piece. “Ow! It’s digging into my shoulder.”

  She felt his chest shake with laughter. “It’s supposed to. If a gun recoils against your shoulder the pain is far worse. Take a breath, put your finger on the trigger, and squeeze.”

  An explosion thundered in her right ear so loudly she thought she saw flames and smelled something dreadful. The next instant someone ripped the gun out of her hands and threw Diantha flat on her back. Before she could protest, folds of heavy cloth smothered her face and upper body.

  Through the ringing in her ears she heard indistinguishable shouts.

  “Dina! Oh God!” She clawed her way out of the encompassing wool to find Kieran kneeling beside her.

  “Stop that!” She tried to bat his hands away as he pressed his
plaid against her.

  “Lie still, love!” White-faced, he spoke gently but forced her back to the rough grass. “I have to smother the sparks.”

  Kieran ran his hands over her neck and down her arm before hauling her onto his lap. Scorch marks darkened his plaid and she realized that the gun must have misfired. Looking down, she traced burnt material to the shoulder of her gown. Exploring further, her fingers encountered a singed clump that had once been a curl.

  “My hair!”

  Francesca placed an open flask to Diantha’s lips and urged her to drink. She smiled in between gasps of breath. “I’m sure that clever maid of yours will be able to do something modish with it.” Shivering, the older woman handed the flask to Kieran. “I saw it from a distance. Thank God you have nothing worse than a ruined coiffure.”

  Normally Diantha enjoyed it when Kieran held her close, but not when he shouted in her ear.

  “Green!” She cringed as he roared the ghillie’s name in a voice that echoed across the moor.

  Archie pounded up, his face gray. “Dear Jesus, is Lady Rossburn safe?”

  “No thanks to your carelessness she is.” He bit the words out. “It is impossible that so much flame could be produced by one blank cartridge.”

  “No, my laird.” The ghillie wrung his cap in his hands. “I swear, I looked over your piece myself in and oot and there was naught in it.”

  “Well, something bloody was, and it near killed my wife!”

  “Kieran! That is enough.”

  He finally looked down at her.

  “You checked the barrel yourself. So did Barclay. I distinctly remember watching you.” She cupped his cheek, her heart melting at the anxiety in his aqua eyes. “It was a frightening accident, but I don’t see how anyone could have foreseen it. And we are both whole, if somewhat crispy.”

  Kieran’s arms tightened about her for a moment. “Thank God.” He looked around and raised his voice. “Fetch a carriage. I’m taking Lady Rossburn home.”

  Despite her repeated demands to walk, Kieran did not let go of her until he placed her on her own bed at Duncarie. He sat beside her, silently stroking her hair until Florette arrived. Still without a word, he leaned forward and kissed her, then left for his own room.