by Karen Ranney
For the first time in her life she wanted something she knew she couldn’t have. No amount of effort, attention, or sheer work would accomplish this task. Nothing she did would make a jot of difference. Love was not something she could create. It existed without her cooperation and would live or die without her compliance.
In the interim, however, it would make her miserable.
Robert stood beside the refreshment table and wondered how soon he could politely excuse himself.
Why the hell had he agreed to host this afternoon soiree? Or any of the other entertainments in the past month? To prove something to himself? To demonstrate that he was putting his life back in order, that grief wasn’t the predominant emotion he felt?
The predominant emotion he was feeling at the moment was searing pain. His damn leg hurt. The night before, he’d danced with girls not long out of the schoolroom, as well as women who’d known Amelia and held either too much compassion or speculation in their gazes.
He’d smiled until his face felt numb and conversed on a great many topics, including politics. He’d fended off the flirtations of a dozen women, all of whom were thoroughly charming and ebullient.
None of them annoyed him. None of them angered him. Not one of them made him curious as to what they thought or how they would respond to his questions. Nor did he feel desire for any of them.
What was she doing now? Still practicing her shooting, no doubt. Still taking her endless walks. Who did she talk to? Janet? Who did she argue with? Tom? Poor man. When he returned to Glengarrow, he would instruct the older man to simply walk off when she began haranguing him. Someone like Margaret could never avoid voicing her opinion. Did she ever walk into the village and give the shopkeepers any difficulties?
He hadn’t been home in weeks, and now as he leaned surreptitiously against the wall, Robert wondered at his own reasoning. Did he somehow want to make her miss him? Or did he stay away from Glengarrow in order to purge thoughts of her from his mind?
She refused to leave. He could recall every conversation they’d ever had, envision every encounter. Try as he might—and he didn’t try hard—he couldn’t forget what loving her had been like.
She’d been shocked at the power of passion. At first, she’d tried to hide it, but surprise was there in her eyes, and in her reaction to her own body’s delight. Nor could he ever predict how she would respond. One moment she was reluctant and a second later eager.
He’d never thought he could feel this way about another woman. He’d never suspected that someone other than Amelia could occupy his mind with such tenacity. Margaret—Maggie—wasn’t beautiful, but she was fascinating. Looking out at the women crowded into his mother’s home—any one of whom could surpass Margaret in appearance—he knew that he could spend a year in Inverness and not be able to forget her. What he felt for Margaret had less to do with her appearance than her character.
Was that why he’d remained in Inverness so long? To give himself time to come to grips with the idea that what he felt was an emotion he’d never expected to feel again? Not simple lust, even though that was certainly pleasurable enough. Margaret fascinated him, challenged him, made him smile, and even more disturbing—had the capacity to make him angrier than he’d ever been in his entire life.
He was not a man given to excessive reflection. Instead, he’d set out to achieve certain milestones, unsurprised when he’d achieved each one. After all, weren’t goals to be accomplished? Why make them, otherwise?
For the last month, however, he’d spent some time evaluating his life honestly. What he saw didn’t please him. Yes, he’d become a member of Parliament. Yes, he was the Earl of Linnet, and a fair steward for his inheritance. Yet there were so many other things he might have accomplished had he put his mind to it.
He’d settled too easily. He’d not expected much of himself. He should have pushed himself to accomplish more, to achieve more. It was not enough simply to have one goal. A man must have a series of them in order to keep himself moving forward through life with enthusiasm.
Margaret understood that. She viewed each painting as a challenge. Each successive portrait was an opportunity to be better, to learn more, to achieve more, and to triumph over her last execution. It wasn’t enough simply to look at one portrait and say: this is what I’ve done; ergo, this is what I am. She’d always known her talent was fluid and must be captured, trained, and used.
So, too, was his talent, such as it was: an ability to persuade, perhaps. The ability to see the broad scope of a problem, then narrow it down to its infinitesimal details. The ability to communicate outward to a stratum of people with fire and passion—one of the reasons he’d been one of the youngest Scottish nobles elected to the House of Lords.
No wonder, then, his life had become slightly rusty around the edges. No wonder he’d been vaguely dissatisfied and unknowing why. He’d not challenged himself, not set for himself another series of goals.
Have your ships arrived? She’d challenged him that day in the churchyard, and the knowledge was there every day. What would he do? What could he do?
He’d finally figured it out, and for this gift of insight, which she probably didn’t know she’d given him, he’d procured a gift for Margaret. Quite an illicit gift, as it turned out. A man did not purchase articles of clothing for a woman not his wife. He’d taken his mother’s dressmaker aside and whispered instructions to her, promising her a monetary reward if she could have this particular garment finished by the time he left Inverness.
The garment was done, but he was still in Inverness.
Let her dismiss it and him. Let her tilt her very aristocratic nose up in the air and level that intense green gaze on him. He’d just demonstrate another of his assets—his incredible tenacity. He’d just present his gift to her again.
In his mind’s eye, he saw his home, a deep, shadowed glen scooped out of the earth in the shape of a giant’s thumb. The sharp cliffs of Ben Mosub glinted silver and black against a mourning sky. The scent of a winter’s day, the chill of the air so cold and pure that it almost hurt to breathe it, was laced through with the pleasant tang of smoke from Glengarrow’s chimneys. The trees were laden with ice; snow covered the lane, and in the midst of his mental picture, standing defiant and resolute, was a woman in a red-woolen cape.
Miss Dalrousie. Margaret. Maggie. Difficult, arrogant, and too invested in vengeance for his peace of mind.
Somehow, he would have to find a way to sway her from her task. Somehow, he must turn her face to the future, a future that seemed a great deal more promising than it had a month ago.
There was not a woman in Inverness who equaled her, and that knowledge should have disturbed him. Instead, he felt a curious sense of satisfaction, as if he was proud of her independence, her arrogance, and all those character traits that still had the ability to fascinate even as they annoyed him.
It was time for him to go back to Glengarrow. It was time to see Margaret again. What happened after that was something he didn’t need to contemplate at the moment. It was enough he returned home.
He left the parlor, signaled for a maid, and gave the footman instructions.
In less than an hour, he was packed, ready and waiting at the front door for his horse to be brought from the stable. The wind was blowing from the north, and any hint of spring had abruptly vanished in the resultant chill. Riding home was going to be miserable, payment perhaps for his impatience.
He strode back and forth across the tiled floor of the foyer, no doubt making the footman at the door a little nervous. Robert didn’t give a whit about the young man, and only noticed him when he turned and began to retrace his steps.
“Are they reshoeing the bloody horse?” he finally asked, stopping in front of the footman. They were the same height, another irritation since he was more familiar with towering over people.
But then, footmen were selected for their height, were they not? And no doubt their physical appearance. Every young man in h
is mother’s home was tall and physically attractive.
“Don’t badger the man, Robert,” his mother said, coming into the foyer. “He hasn’t done anything to you, and you’re intimidating him.” She flicked her fingers to the left, and the young footman melted away as all good servants do.
He turned to face his mother. “I was simply questioning the time it took to bring my horse around,” he said.
“And what would he have to do with it? Address your complaints to the stable master. Are you in such a hurry to return to Glengarrow, then?”
He walked to where his mother stood and surprised her by hugging her quickly.
“Yes, by God, I am,” he said, and found himself smiling.
Ten minutes later Margaret stood, making her way to the kitchen, brushing her hands over her face and hoping her eyes didn’t reveal too much. If anyone asked, she would claim she’d been walking so quickly, the wind had stung her eyes. Never mind the day was truly a temperate one, and there was only a gentle breeze.
There was no one in the kitchen necessitating she lie. She made her way up the back stairs to the second floor and to the Winter Parlor. No one had disturbed the painting. The drape was placed just as she had left it.
Carefully, she removed it from the easel and left the room. At the doorway, she turned and, placing the painting against the wall outside the room, retraced her steps. Turning right, she opened the connecting door leading to the suite Amelia had shared with McDermott.
Here, the sun did not shine so brightly, and the atmosphere was somber, as if gray netting had been placed across the air itself. Amelia’s perfume was strong here, as if the woman had just sprayed the scent.
The last time Margaret had been in this room, she’d been first shamed by her actions, then terrified when McDermott had discovered her. Now, she felt a curious sadness, as she said farewell to both Amelia and Glengarrow.
Margaret walked to the center of the room and turned slowly, viewing the bed and the twin armoires standing side by side. Amelia’s vanity as well as the two chairs beside the window were draped in shadow.
“Are you angry, Amelia? Are you angry you are dead and he is not? Are you determined, somehow, to keep him with you, to keep your memory alive, always in his mind?”
She walked to the vanity, stood looking in the mirror. The shadows were so deep, the light in the room so dim, that she appeared no more substantial than a ghost herself.
“Let him go,” she said softly. “Let him live again. Let him find love and happiness. Let him smile. Let him laugh. He has such a beautiful laugh, Amelia, and it is so rare.”
She turned in a slow circle, her hands pressed against her chest, feeling like weeping again.
“Let him find love, Amelia. If it isn’t with me, then let it be someone who deserves him. Someone who can bring him happiness. I know you loved him, and I know only too well how much he loved you. But you cannot keep him. Let him go. Please.”
Amelia was silent.
But then, Amelia had never been there.
She turned and left the room, gathering up the painting and her supplies and making her way back to Blackthorne Cottage.
Once back home, she put the painting in the room beside her bedroom, propping it up against a trunk she’d not bothered to open. Tomorrow she would gather up the easel and the rest of her belongings. And her heart? Where was it scattered? Another foolish question, another silly thought.
Closing the door to the trunk room, she descended the stairs, wandering into the kitchen to prepare her lunch. Something propped up on the table captured her attention, and she reached for it.
She had rarely received any letters, and only from her solicitor. She recognized his distinctive handwriting long before she crossed the room and picked it up from the table.
For the longest time she simply held it in her hands and wondered what news it could bring. Her parents? Her mother didn’t know where she was living, and she doubted if any of her siblings actually cared. They were busy with their own lives, and the actions of a sister who’d left home a long time ago could not possibly interest them.
Her solicitor had discovered the name of her benefactor. He had information about the coat of arms.
The best thing for her to do was to open the letter.
She sat at the table and arranged herself very primly on the chair. She slid the envelope across the table surface with one finger and stared at it for a moment before gathering up her courage and slitting it open with a fingernail.
Dear Miss Dalrousie,
I have been successful in the second task you gave me—that of identifying the crest. The coat of arms is that of an ancient and distinguished family, the Blanhelms, the family name for the Dukes of Harridge.
The words simply sat there, slowly registering in some far-off part of her mind. The Duke of Harridge. The name wasn’t familiar.
There was another sentence or two, self-congratulatory words, as if the solicitor was determined to applaud himself and his actions. She should write him to tell him she appreciated his efforts on her behalf, and the fact she’d evidently obtained good value for her money. She wasn’t going to write him, however. She wasn’t going to acknowledge the letter in any way.
“Miss Margaret?”
She turned to find that Janet had returned from Glengarrow. The older woman’s face was wreathed in concern; there was a look in her eyes that was far warmer than that of a mere servant.
When had Janet become a friend, an almost-mother? When she’d delivered a posset and insisted that Margaret drink it? When she’d fussed at her for walking each day, yet fussed even more when she didn’t? Or when they all sat in the parlor at night, and sometimes Margaret would look up from her book or her needlework. Janet would look over at that moment and together they would share a smile at the sight of Tom with his head back, mouth open, snoring.
“What is it, Miss Margaret? What’s wrong?”
There was no point in lying. Instead, Margaret folded her hands in front of her and faced Janet resolutely.
“I need to go to London,” she said. “Can you ask if Tom will take me to North Linten?”
“Is it bad news, Miss Margaret?” Janet asked, coming forward.
“No. Yes. It’s news I’ve wanted to hear.” She turned and looked out the window to the back of the cottage where the bales of hay stood, testament to her growing precision with her pistol.
Janet stood just a few feet away. Vengeance vying with friendship—what a strange and discordant thought. Could she banish one in favor of the other? A troubling question and one for which she didn’t have a ready answer.
“Janet,” she began, and unexpectedly found herself unable to speak. She stared down at the floor, gathered her composure, and continued. “I’ve given you the cottage,” she said. “If something happens to me, I want you and Tom to have it.”
“Miss Margaret, you can tell me what’s troubling you. I’ll never breathe a word of it.”
Margaret smiled. “I know that only too well. And whatever you do learn, Janet, you’ll not divulge.”
Janet looked away, then nodded.
“You know, for example, that the earl and I…”
Janet glanced back at her. There was no dissembling in the other woman’s gaze, but neither was there any condemnation.
“Have sought comfort from each other?” Janet suggested.
Margaret nodded.
“Tell him good-bye for me. Tell him…” She hesitated again, and this time, her composure was not regained so readily. When she finally could speak again, all she could say was, “Just tell him good-bye.”
Janet didn’t say a word as Margaret left the room.
What, after all, could she say?
Robert didn’t ride into the stables at Glengarrow, but turned left and made for Blackthorne Cottage, instead. Once he’d dismounted, and tied the reins of his horse to a branch of nearby pine, he unfastened the box from the back of his saddle and strode to the front door.
“I’ve come to speak to Miss Dalrousie,” he said.
“Your Lordship, she’s not here. She’s gone to London. Tom took her to North Linten not a few hours ago.”
“London?” he said, congratulating himself on the fact he’d been able to utter that one word.
She turned and retreated into the cottage. He slowly followed, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the low lintel. He’d only been in the cottage twice in his life, and both times had been with Margaret. He hadn’t paid much attention to the structure or its furnishings, but he looked around now as he followed Janet.
The front parlor was small but cozy enough, and warm.
He nodded to Tom, seated in one of the overstuffed chairs. The older man moved to stand, but Robert waved him back into place as he followed Janet into the kitchen, a room he remembered only too well.
“Why London?” he asked as Janet turned and handed him a letter.
By the churning feeling in his stomach as he began to read the letter, he knew. Even before his brain made sense of the words, he knew what she had done.
Maggie had gone after justice, and in doing so she had condemned herself to death.
Every single loss he’d suffered had happened without warning. He’d simply been left to deal with it. On this occasion, however, he had some foreboding, some warning. He was being given a chance to prevent a tragedy, and he was damn well going to try.
Without a word to Janet, he turned and retraced his steps, stopping at the door of the parlor. This time, when Tom tried to stand, he didn’t wave him back into place.
“Can you take me to London?” he said.
“London, Your Lordship? Me?” The older man looked stunned at his request.
“You’re still a coachman, are you not?”
“Aye, sir, I am. And I keep all the carriages in fine shape.”
“My horse is too tired, and I’ve not the patience to bargain for mounts along the way. Can you ready a coach?”
