Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  Charlotte sent a look of irritation toward George.

  “I’ve been doing my meditations, master. I’ve heard nothing that would disturb me.”

  There were a dozen things Charlotte could say—or should say—but for some strange reason she’d lost the ability to form a coherent sentence.

  “Do you need me, master?”

  “I’d be grateful for the loan of one of your jackets,” George said.

  Matthew disappeared for a moment, returning with a lit candle and a beautiful burgundy robe that he handed to George.

  He helped her on with the garment, rolling up the sleeves so her hands were visible. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how very cold she was. She remained silent as George buttoned her from neck to ankle, and then tied the sash tight around her waist. It was one thing to aim to seduce one’s husband, and quite another to appear almost naked in front of his servant.

  “There is another floor,” George said looking from one end of the corridor to the other.

  “It’s only used for storage. No one ever goes up there. I haven’t gone up there in months.” She only went reluctantly, when she needed to inventory the furniture or give orders to one of the footmen to bring down a table or an extra chair for the dining room seating. To her consternation, however, George was bent on exploring the area.

  There was nothing to do but follow the two men up the narrow steps. She didn’t suffer from a dislike of small spaces, but she could see how someone might when traversing the stairs. It was like entering a cave. The steps were shallow, designed for one person at a time. The shadows from the candle cast eerie shapes along the wall. Without much imagination, she could envision a wolf with snarling teeth.

  At the top of the steps she moved closer to George, wishing he’d not chosen to come up here. This was the tallest part of Balfurin, higher than even the tower rooms. Had there been any windows up here, she’d be able to see the expanse of Balfurin land.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a shape moved toward them. George swore and swung the lamp. It shattered against the figure, fiery oil spilling on the floor. The fire might have spread had Matthew not thrust the candle he held into Charlotte’s hand, before slipping past her and beating at the flames with his robe.

  Charlotte turned away, shocked. But it wasn’t the sight of Matthew’s nakedness that she’d forever recall, but the image of his back, scarred with deep, long gouges. As if he’d been whipped, and often.

  The writhing shadows played across the wall. The sound of blows made her wince, a prayer coming quickly to her lips. Please don’t let George be hurt.

  The sound of the struggle gradually subsided, and slowly one shadow disengaged from the other. She turned to find that Matthew had disappeared, and only George stood there, his arms around another figure.

  “George?”

  She held the candle aloft.

  He turned his head to look at her. “I’m all right,” he said. “I’m not so certain about our intruder.”

  George pushed the man down the dark stairs in front of him. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned toward George and only then recognized the intruder.

  “Spencer?” She stared at him, shocked.

  “Your admirer?” George asked.

  “Hardly that,” she said. “A friend.”

  “Your solicitor.”

  “Yes,” she said, frowning at him.

  Matthew emerged from his room, once more properly dressed. He took back the candle from Charlotte, and she willingly relinquished it, stepping into the shadows. Even though she was decently covered in Matthew’s robe, she felt almost naked, especially since Spencer was staring at her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It would have been all right, Charlotte, if he’d never returned,” he said, sending a look of derision toward George. “She was going to be my wife. And all my money problems would have disappeared.”

  Charlotte stared at him, annoyed. Didn’t the idea of poor timing occur to the man? Now was not an opportune moment for him to mention their previous relationship.

  She brushed at the front of Matthew’s robe, carefully avoiding both George and Spencer’s eyes. “Perhaps once we did mean something to each other, Spencer. But my husband has returned, and that has changed everything.”

  “Are you saying you feel something for him, Charlotte?” Spencer asked.

  George folded his arms and looked from one to the other as if he were inordinately amused. If she had shoes on instead of her flimsy slippers, she might have kicked him in the shins.

  “I think you should answer questions instead of asking them, Spencer. What are you doing here in the middle of the night? For that matter, how did you get in?”

  He remained silent.

  “Perhaps he’ll talk to the authorities in Inverness,” George said. “Are you up for a trip to the magistrate, Matthew?” George asked.

  “You’re going tonight?” Charlotte asked.

  “Have you other plans?” George asked. The humor was still there in his eyes, but something else flickered there. Was it simply the candle’s flame or her own wishful thinking?

  “Not at all,” she said, and turned and left them. She descended the stairs, walked down the corridor, and entered her room, closing the door softly behind her.

  An altogether ladylike journey, giving no hint of the desperate disappointment she felt.

  Chapter 21

  T he day was chilled enough that it felt like snow again. Perhaps the weather would halt George’s exploration for today. He’d have to remain inside, and engage in conversation like a normal person. Unless, of course, he was like a winter hare and capable of walking atop the snow.

  Charlotte blew out a breath and stared out the window. The servants were being very quiet, and the only sound in the room was the spitting and hissing of the fire. Someone—Maisie?—had thought to toss some dried flowers among the wood and the result was a delightful floral scent.

  The Green Parlor was a pleasant place in winter, warmed by an eastern sun so that even the mornings were comfortable. Today, however, her thoughts were disturbing, marring her sense of peace and even troubling her determination.

  “I found what Spencer was looking for,” George said, entering the room. He crossed the room and handed her a drawstring bag.

  “You’re back,” she said, turning to face him. Did she seem as eager as she sounded? When had she lost the ability to control her emotions?

  “It’s not all that long a journey.”

  She nodded.

  “Spencer was silent throughout,” he said. “So Matthew and I went exploring when we returned.” He dropped a canvas bag on the table between them. “There had to be a reason he was on the fourth floor.”

  If there was, she couldn’t think of it. The fourth floor was the only place where the castle and the recently constructed dormitory met. A covered walkway connected the two buildings, in case of fire or weather so bad the students couldn’t use the courtyard.

  She had a thought, and looked at him in horror. “He wasn’t used to getting into the dormitories, was he? He didn’t go there while the girls were sleeping?”

  “On the contrary.” He bent forward, opened the bag, and sent the contents tumbling onto the table top. She stared at the assortment before her.

  “It’s Juliana’s brooch,” she said, fingering the marcasite and pearl ornament. “And Penelope’s ring.” One by one, she listed the items, all reported lost or stolen in the last month of the term.

  “I thought the girls were careless,” she confessed. “At the most, I thought perhaps there was a student with sticky fingers, but not to this degree.”

  “Oh, I think she had sticky fingers all right, but I think she was Spencer’s accomplice.”

  “Among my students?”

  “Someone who actually stole the items, and hid them there for Spencer to recover. Since he was in Edinburgh for a month, he couldn’t get to them until now. I’ve no doubt the snow held him up as
well.”

  “Someone silly enough to be flattered by his attention,” she said, thinking of more than one girl who would have been pleased to have attracted the attention of the blond-haired solicitor.

  “I think it goes beyond flattery, Charlotte,” he said. “The girl who did this stole from her fellow students for him. Or perhaps for herself. Either way, they conspired to rob your students.”

  Charlotte looked up at him. “How will I explain this?”

  “You don’t have to,” he said easily. “Simply return each item to the girl with a note that it’s been found.”

  She nodded. “That would be the wisest course.” She replaced each of the items back into the bag.

  She should have known that Spencer wasn’t interested in friendship. Or even in marrying her, despite what he’d said. He’d be concerned with what she’d owned and in what he could steal.

  She glanced at George, but he’d left her to stand by the fire. “Did your journey go well?”

  “Well enough. The magistrate was impressed enough with my title and Matthew’s appearance to need no further witnesses.”

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “I’ve no reason to be. I’m the Earl of Marne.”

  “And I’m the Countess of Marne.” Now why had she said that?

  “Yes, you are, aren’t you?” He turned and studied her. “A comment guaranteed to put me in my place.”

  “You are annoyed. At me? I’m not responsible for Spencer’s feelings for me.”

  “Aren’t you? I’ve always been amazed at women who say that. You entice, and flirt, and charm a man, and then act entirely surprised when he’s captivated.”

  “I did not entice and flirt with Spencer.”

  “Perhaps I wasn’t talking about Spencer.”

  Silence, while she gave that comment some thought.

  “It looks like snow. Not a day for walking,” she said, changing the subject. She didn’t know why he was irritated with her, and it was best, perhaps, to avoid the topic of Spencer. Or of men and women.

  Perhaps she should just come out and address the issue directly.

  Come to my bed, George. Let’s pleasure each other. We have some feelings between us, I think, some common way of thinking. We make each other smile, and there are no pauses in our conversation. You fill in my hollows, and I soften your edges.

  What would he say? What if he said no? Could she bear it? Quite possibly not.

  “No,” he agreed. “Not a day for walking.”

  “Will you stay inside, then? Or will you go exploring? There isn’t a treasure, George. It’s a tale, nothing more.”

  At his look of surprise, she continued; “From the moment I arrived at Balfurin I was accused of coming to steal the treasure. I grew heartily tired of hearing about it.”

  He smiled. “It’s something I have to find,” he said.

  “An enigmatic statement. You were never before given to mystery.”

  “A man can change. Will you allow me that?”

  “You’ve plenty of money, do you not?”

  He glanced at her and then back at the fire.

  “Then why this desperate search?” she asked.

  “It keeps me honorable.”

  She sat back in the chair, still clutching the cloth bag.

  “It’s a tattered thing, my honor. I would prefer to hold it close and keep it safe, allow it to mend, perhaps. Do not ask me to give up my search, Charlotte. It reminds me of who I am and what I must find.”

  “What must you find, George?” she asked softly, not understanding his words.

  “Myself. Answers. Dignity. Forgiveness.”

  “What have you done that you wish forgiveness with such earnestness?”

  “Adopted greed as my way of life, perhaps. Coveted another man’s possessions. Damned him to hell for everything he had and threw away.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “Hint at something but never say it outright.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. But something flickered over his face, some emotion she couldn’t quite read. She was adept at discovering the secrets of nearly grown girls, but she doubted she was up to the task of deciphering George MacKinnon.

  He smiled again, his features becoming less hard, his face more approachable. Geniality favored him. She had the feeling that she didn’t know him at all, only what he allowed her to see.

  Who was George MacKinnon? Not the first time she’d asked that question, but she was no closer to an answer than she’d been from the day he arrived.

  Except, of course, that she’d fallen in love with the parts she had seen.

  She stood and forced a smile on her face. “If you’re going exploring, then I’m coming with you,” she said. When he didn’t speak, didn’t turn, she repeated herself.

  He finally nodded, and faced her. “Then come, damn it.”

  As she stared, he left the room. She hurried to catch up with him, wondering why she bothered.

  The last thing he wanted was Charlotte accompanying him. She didn’t understand, and he wasn’t about to illuminate her, that her presence was both a blessing and a curse. More curse than blessing lately, because his conscience was losing no time reminding him exactly who she was.

  He wanted to touch her, so damnably much that he clenched his hands into fists every time he was around her in case his mutinous fingers reached out to stroke an auburn lock of hair or measure the curve of her smile. He wanted to watch her walk slowly toward him, allow him to nestle his cock right in that spot nature had carved for it. He wanted to cup her breasts and suckle her nipples, and swallow her surprised little cry when she found her release. He wanted to fill her with his seed, hold her when she sobbed aloud in the aftermath, and cradle her when she grew round and plump with his child.

  Despite the sin and dishonor, he would not have traded these weeks for any other memory. To meet her, to know her, to lie with her, to love her—he would recall these memories until the day he died, however soon or far-flung that event.

  But he couldn’t trust himself with her.

  The night of the bath he’d come too damn close to pulling her out of the tub and throwing her on the bed and keeping her there until her lips were swollen with his kisses and her body bore the imprint of his.

  He knew what she didn’t. He wasn’t George, Earl of Marne. He was just plain Mister MacKinnon, a wealthy importer, a land owner, and proprietor of many businesses located in various places in the world. But he wasn’t Charlotte MacKinnon’s husband, and it wasn’t right to be her lover.

  Damn George.

  Dixon, on the other hand, was a man who’d carved a future for himself from the dregs of his envy. A man filled with flaws, not the least of which was greed. He’d proven that, hadn’t he? And he was no better now, wanting Charlotte so much that he was half tempted to tell her the truth and beg her to escape Balfurin with him. He’d keep her safe and in luxurious comfort for the rest of her days. She’d need for nothing, especially love.

  He bent and retrieved a branch from the ground, stripped it free of leaves, before digging it into the snow at his feet, all for something to do to appear occupied until she caught up with him. It would never do to be honest with Charlotte. He had difficulty even looking at her lately, risking a glance into those expressive green eyes of hers. There was something about her look, as guileless as a summer day, that pulled at him. As if she were part angel, and could implore his better self to honesty.

  What would she do if he told her that being with her on this day was both a complete joy and a source of great pain? She didn’t know anything of his conscience, of the fact that he had not been able to sleep well lately, that he’d spent most of the night pacing back and forth, trapped in his web of lies as completely as a dying spider.

  He stood on the crest of the hill, the twig held like a staff at his side. Abraham, welcoming the tribe. Or a shepherd waiting for a recalcitra
nt lamb. Charlotte, attired in her burgundy cloak, stood at the base of the hill looking up at him, a somewhat perplexed smile on her face.

  “You’re not wearing your kilt.”

  He smiled. “Even a Scotsman knows there’s a time for a kilt and a time for trews. Are you disappointed?”

  She didn’t respond, and he didn’t force the issue.

  The day was a splendid one, the clouds overhead being pushed away by a fierce wind. If anything, it had grown colder, but the sky was a brilliant blue, as if Mother Nature had sprinkled it with lapis lazuli at dawn.

  She grabbed her skirts in both hands and lifted them slightly so that she might climb the hill with greater grace. He could watch her walk all day, the undulation of her limbs beneath her skirts reminding him of the vision of her unclothed. She had a beautiful body, and he suspected, was only recently becoming aware of that fact.

  Who would help her realize who she truly was? George? He doubted it. George had never realized her worth. If he had, his cousin would never have left her. Instead, he would have kissed her feet every day and blessed his good fortune.

  He reached down for her hand, and pulled her to the crest of the hill.

  “I’m surprised you waited for me,” she said. “You haven’t been very welcoming of late.”

  He didn’t answer her but stared out at the vista in front of him. To his far left was the old castle half hidden by another hill. The river arched around and passed some distance away. To his right was Balfurin. The builders of the castle had taken the precaution of placing the new structure on an elevation above the level of the River Tam.

  “Are you truly looking for the treasure?”

  “I am,” he said.

  “Why?”

  She’d asked that question before and he couldn’t answer her then, either. Because he had no other clues to George’s whereabouts. Because he didn’t know if his cousin had ever located the treasure. Because none of his efforts in Edinburgh or London had born fruit, and he had no other ideas. Because it was there, because he wanted to accomplish something before he left Balfurin, because it kept him occupied and away from her.