by Karen Ranney
“He’s offered to give me money for the school,” she said. “I understand he’s quite wealthy now.”
Spencer didn’t say anything, but she could tell just by looking at him that he doubted her words. Or George. A month ago, she might have agreed. But in the last month, she’d fallen under the spell of an increasingly fascinating man.
The door abruptly opened and Jeffrey entered, nearly staggering under the weight of a tray piled high with dishes and cups and an ancient tea service.
Since Jeffrey was not given to subtlety, she frowned at him to indicate that she’d received his message only too well. He’d treat Spencer like a king but not because he valued the man. Nor would he do so for her sake. Balfurin, however, had a reputation for hospitality, however poor their circumstances, and he would maintain that reputation even if it meant swallowing his pride.
“The Scots are a very difficult race,” she said, deliberately overlooking the fact that Spencer was a Scot. “They’re a very stubborn people. Abnormally so, I think. Given to their own opinion, even to the exclusion of common sense.”
“Do you think so?” Spencer asked, reaching for one of the cups. Instead of waiting for her to pour, Jeffrey grabbed the teapot, sloshing the liquid in equal measure in the cup and saucer. Then he delivered the cup to her, as if challenging her in her hostess duties.
She frowned at him again but once more he blithely ignored her.
Perhaps now was not the correct time to continue her eternal battle with Jeffrey. She decided to ignore him, an easier task to think than to do. In the next five minutes he dropped a biscuit on her skirt and managed to sprinkle her with tea. But in the end, Spencer was served, and Jeffrey finally took himself off, no doubt to sulk in the kitchen.
“Is he the reason for your dislike of my nationality?” Spencer said when the door was finally closed—too hard—behind him.
“I don’t dislike the Scots as a group,” Charlotte said. “Most of the people in Scotland have been beyond polite to me. They welcomed me when I had nowhere else to go. But any country has its malcontents and its irritating individuals.” She, unfortunately, had been blessed with two of them—Old Nan and Jeffrey.
“Is George here to stay?”
How curious that certain questions could actually sting, as if the words had little barbs that twisted themselves into her flesh.
“I suspect that George will do whatever George wishes,” she said, answering him with the truth.
“What will you do, Charlotte? Welcome him as your husband?”
“Do I have any other choice?”
“I’m certain there must be mitigating factors. Do you want me to pursue the subject?”
What a very difficult question.
She brushed at her skirt, wondering if she’d be able to clean the stain. Thanks to Jeffrey, she may have to discard this garment entirely.
“He should be dismissed,” Spencer said. “Pensioned off.”
“Thanks to the old earl’s will, he can live here until his death.” Charlotte sighed. “And bedevil me until that day comes.”
He reached out and covered one of her hands with his. “Do you want me to find a way to rid you of George, Charlotte? It might still be possible to divorce him.”
How could she answer that question? She’d spent hours in contemplation of it. Last night, in the darkness of her room, illuminated only by the brief shadows of a lover’s moon, she’d asked herself what she wanted. George. What did she truly wish to do? Have a real marriage. The two answers frightened her because they relied not on what she was capable of doing, not on her strengths but on the whims of a man she didn’t know well.
She’d never yearned for love, never wished for it like her younger sisters. She’d never giggled over a casual glance or a bestowed flower. True, she’d sighed over sonnets, and shed a tear for the anguish and tragedy of star-crossed lovers, but she had never actually believed that it might be possible to feel the same way.
But love and desire had somehow come into her life and she didn’t quite know how to act.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, hearing the hope in her own voice as well as the despair. Did Spencer note it as well? “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You would be better off sending him away.”
“How do I do that, Spencer? He’s the Earl of Marne, Balfurin’s laird. I can’t simply banish him as if he were one of the footmen.” She sent him a chiding look, but he only stared at her steadily as if attempting to convince her to banish George with the strength of his will.
“Then encourage him to leave, Charlotte. Do not give him a reason to stay.”
His look was so intent that it wasn’t difficult to interpret his meaning. Did he know? Did he guess that she and George had shared a bed?
“He’s my husband, Spencer.” There, a simple enough thought. A declaration.
She forced herself to match his stare with one of her own. Looking into his eyes was not particularly easy, and she couldn’t tell if it was anger she saw there or only disappointment.
He stood, placing the cup and saucer on the tray between them so hard that the china clanked against the silver.
“I think you’ll regret your kindness toward George,” he said. “He hurt you once, he’ll do so again.”
“Forewarned,” she said, standing, “is forearmed. I can’t forget what he did, Spencer. But is it fair to think a man can’t change?”
He looked as if he would like to say something else. Instead, he turned and left the room, leaving the door ajar. A moment later, Jeffrey appeared in the doorway.
“Is he gone, then?”
“Yes, Jeffrey, he’s gone.”
“Is it going to be like this all day? I thought what with the hooligans gone I’d have a chance to rest.”
With some difficulty, Charlotte kept her comments to herself and forced a smile to her face. “I doubt we’ll have any more visitors, Jeffrey. If nothing else, the snows will keep them away.”
“Good,” he said, and shuffled away.
Thank Providence that George hadn’t returned this morning. Otherwise, instead of simply dealing with a surly servant, she’d have had a confrontation on her hands. She’d have been forced to explain to each man who the other was, a task from which she was blessedly saved.
Chapter 17
L ondon was an exceedingly lonely place, a discovery Dixon made with some degree of surprise. Perhaps it was because his mind was filled with images of Charlotte. He couldn’t quite forget that look on her face when she thought he was leaving her. Again. Then, too, Matthew was not cowering in the corner of the carriage, alternately shooting him looks of aggravation or being wide-eyed at the scenes outside the window.
Armed with a list he’d compiled of George’s friends—those he’d known before leaving for the Far East a decade ago—he began his search for his cousin.
“Haven’t seen the chap,” the Earl of Dorset said when Dixon found him in his favorite gaming hell. The man hadn’t aged well in the last ten years, a discovery that made him wonder what George would look like now. Would he, too, have lines of dissipation on his face? Would his nose be florid and his eyes bloodshot? “Tell him to call on me when you find him. Forget the money he owes me.”
The earl was the last person Dixon met to be as sanguine about George’s debts. In order to obtain any information, Dixon ended up paying a princely sum to settle what his cousin owed.
George had taken himself off to London not long after his father died, amassing a surprising number of hangers-on. Unfortunately, none of them had seen him in the last few years. The closest Dixon came to finding his cousin was the drunken ramblings of the brother of a duke.
“Saw him not too long ago. A year? Two? Damned hard when they all roll together. Wouldn’t speak to me, of course. Gone up in the world. Or I’ve gone down, either one.” He’d finished a full glass of wine during the course of that speech, leaving Dixon to wonder if he’d actually seen George at all or if
it had only been an effect of the alcohol.
At the Port of London, Dixon met with the Harbor Master, leaving his name and the promise of a reward for anyone who could provide him with a copy of a manifest listing George MacKinnon as a passenger on any vessel in the last five years. Because his cousin had occasionally spoken of Australia and America, although not in flattering terms, there was a chance George had emigrated to those countries. However, it was possible that he’d also traveled to the Continent, so Dixon was careful to include the packets and channel-crossing ships in his reward.
By the end of the first week, he’d lost hope of finding George in London, and traveled north to Edinburgh. There, he’d met with his solicitor, and finished the business he wished to transact with his firm. Following the meeting, and on the recommendation of his solicitor, he found a prosperous inn, asking for the best room.
The Edinburgh day was a gray one, filled with sleet, and promising more ice before nightfall.
Dixon took his valise from the innkeeper and thanked him.
“The room looks fine,” he said, surveying it quickly. It wasn’t Balfurin, but it would have to do. At another time, he’d be impressed with the pristine bed and the massive furniture. Another time, perhaps, he’d notice the steam from the hot water and congratulate the inn keeper on his timing.
“Would you like to have a tray, sir? A selection of meats and cheeses?”
He nodded in agreement, and the innkeeper left, closing the door behind him before he began shouting orders.
Dixon threw the valise on the bed and joined it, sitting on the edge and pulling off his boots. He’d learned in the last few years that comfort was something to be sought without apologies. He’d spent winters in soaking rains and summers sweating in tropical forests. He’d survived oriental fevers, being attacked by pirates, and a snakebite or two. Each day of health was to be relished as was a warm, dry bed, and a good meal.
Pleasant as it was, though, something was missing in this room and he knew exactly what it was: the scent of roses and Charlotte.
Slowly, he stripped off his travel-stained clothes, folding them and placing them on the chair. As he stood and washed, he noted his imperfections. The scar on his left side from a bullet wound. In Penang, one of his men had been aiming for a snake. He’d killed it, but in the process had also struck Dixon. Then there was the time he’d been climbing down a cliff and lost his footing. He’d forever carry the imprint of the rope on his stomach. A mishap as a child had left a scar on his left thigh. He and George had climbed out of their room on some adventure. Curious, he couldn’t remember exactly what they’d done, but he recalled only too well the tree he’d used to climb down from their third-floor room. A branch had gouged into his leg, and because he’d gone against his uncle’s wishes, he’d not mentioned the injury or even sought treatment for it even after it had become swollen and inflamed. Consequently, he now had a scar to remind himself of his youthful nature.
Too bad other scars weren’t so obvious. Perhaps he would be a better man if they were visible.
What color was a dirty soul? Gray? Or was the soul such a delicate organ that it was tinted black for any kind of sin? And a troubled heart? What kind of scar did it reveal?
He dressed in a clean shirt and trousers, and then sat on the edge of the bed.
He’d grown accustomed to silence, to the tranquility of his garden at the end of day, to isolation when he chose it. Sandalwood and incense were his chosen scents, along with the smell of tropical flowers. Penang could be frenetic with activity, but it also offered him peace, unlike Edinburgh. Outside his window he could hear the rolling wheels of carriages, carts, and coaches as well as the neighing of the horses and the clopping of their hooves.
True, his history was in Scotland, but he felt invisible here. Since he’d come home only Nan had recognized him. In Penang he’d built a house so large that it occupied the top of a mountain. In Scotland, there was nothing that belonged to him, only those things he’d borrowed.
Even Charlotte.
One good thing about being in Edinburgh was that some distance separated them. At least here he couldn’t invite her to his bed, couldn’t say something asinine that would only serve to humiliate him in the morning. He was prevented from demonstrating to her the exact degree of his need and his fascination, and perhaps even deeper emotions.
Adultery. An ugly word for the pleasure they’d shared. But he couldn’t take her to his bed again. Doing so might well prove to be disastrous. Twice, he’d wanted to confess his identity to her, so she’d know whose name she’d murmured softly in her pleasure.
What kind of shame would he bring her with the truth? She would never forgive him. At the moment he wasn’t sure he’d be able to forgive himself.
Even now he could recall how she looked when he’d left her, her fingers stilled at the base of her throat, and her stricken look as she stared up at him.
She was intelligent and yet protective about that fact, witty and uncertain of it, and beautiful but unaware. She had the ability to strip even the most rudimentary thought from his mind, and when Dixon touched her, he trembled.
For that reason alone he wanted to find George. He’d have her choose. He’d ask her to look at each of them and take a step toward the man she wanted. Honor might keep her rooted to the spot, but he’d know. Somehow, he’d know when she chose him. Then, he’d do something rash and unwise, something that would earn him clucks of Matthew’s tongue. He’d steal her away to Penang and love her for eternity.
Or perhaps she’d simply walk away from him, knowing the enormity of his sins.
He should say to hell with George, and leave Scotland. Matthew would be pleased. And, in a month or two, he would no doubt forget about Charlotte MacKinnon.
He shook his head at his own thoughts. He might be able to lie to someone else, but he’d never been able to lie to himself. He wouldn’t be able to forget her. Ever. The thought of her, the memory of making love to her would rank among the most important memories of his life.
He stood, walked to the window that overlooked the street, and stared outside. The freezing rain seemed an apt accompaniment to his mood.
Why had he returned to Scotland?
“I want to go home, Dixon.” A plaintive voice from his memory. “Papa said that you’d take me home.”
“In a few months, Annabelle. It’s not convenient to take the time for a voyage to Scotland now.”
“You never say anything’s convenient, Dixon. It’s always tomorrow or the next day or next week or next month.”
What had he said in response? Something calming, no doubt. Or he had simply left the room, nearly desperate to quit his wife’s company.
His character was too flawed for comfort.
He removed the miniature from his valise, and set it on the bureau. Matthew had slipped the portrait of his wife into his case when he wasn’t looking, thinking that it might be soothing on the long voyage to Scotland. The other man hadn’t known that he didn’t need a picture of Annabelle. She existed, full-bodied and never silent, in his mind.
For a few moments, he studied her face, set in an oval frame dotted with diamonds. A wedding present from his bride. She was a lovely woman, someone who deserved to find happiness in her life, despite the fact that she was occasionally annoying. Her character might have changed with the years; she might have become less strident, more patient. Now she would never have the chance.
He’d been desperate to obtain her father’s influence, hungry for the beneficial terms of the new trading agreement. He’d acquired all he’d wanted, as much income as he’d desired. Everything he’d planned for, he’d obtained, along with a few other, less pleasant encumbrances: a troubled conscience, and a guilty spirit.
He’d wanted money and power and over the years, he’d acquired both. His word was respected in Penang; his name had a certain cache.
Was that why he’d come back to Scotland? To become simply Dixon again, without the notoriety, t
he prestige? To walk through the streets of Edinburgh without people bowing to him? Without people currying his favor?
Or had he simply come back to Scotland to hide?
George had been gone exactly seventeen days, and in all that time, Charlotte had caught up on the paperwork she needed to do. She’d paid all her bills, made a list of courses she’d like taught in the near term, wrote recommendations for the teachers who wouldn’t return to Balfurin, looked over the qualifications of the applicants for the posts, and generally satisfied herself that she’d nothing left to do.
Then why was she feeling as if something was left undone?
She’d been in the library for four hours without interruption. Maisie hadn’t even bothered to peer inside the room to see if she wanted anything. Of course, Maisie was being very coy lately. She would much rather see if Matthew required her assistance than her employer.
George’s servant had taken to going to the top of the hill and looking down the road to Edinburgh as if he were a lost cur seeking its master. Maisie, more often than not, joined him, the two of them standing there, Matthew’s embroidered robe and Maisie’s gray wool cloak blowing in the cold wind. A strange pair, one that looked remarkably as if they belonged together.
She would not allow Maisie to be hurt by an odd Oriental man. Matthew Mark Luke and John. What sort of name was that? When she’d asked the question of Matthew a few days ago, he had only bowed to her, folding his arms within the voluminous sleeves of his robes.
“I had no say in my naming, your ladyship. I was but a child,” he said. His face was devoid of expression, as if it had been made of clay and a celestial sculptor had smoothed any emotion from it.
“Did you never think of changing it?”
“To what purpose, your ladyship? A man is who he is.”
Now she pulled on the bell rope summoning one of the footmen. When he arrived, she gave him instructions. A few minutes later, Matthew appeared in the doorway.
