by Karen Ranney
One of the Fortitude’s boats was returning, Rory sitting in the bow, a wide grin on his face. “I found a carriage and a driver, Captain,” he called up, and Alisdair nodded in response.
“Will you be ready to leave in a few moments?” he asked, turning to Iseabal.
“Where are we going?”
“To Brandidge Hall. The Sherbourne estate.”
“To refuse an earldom.”
“Yes,” he said.
“You’re leaving me in London, then?” she asked, concentrating on the sight of her trunk being loaded into a second boat.
The question grated at him, coming as late as it did. She should have asked her fate a day ago, or a week. Not now, not when they were set to disembark.
“With the amount of money I intend to settle on you, Iseabal,” he replied irritably, “you’ll be able to choose your own destination.”
Her glance was quick and shuttered, but instead of saying more, she moved to the side of the ship, peering intently over the rail. She looked, he thought sourly, as if she could not wait to leave the Fortitude.
The journey to the dock was uneventful, memorable only for its silence. Neither he nor Iseabal spoke, and even the voluble Rory remained mute, occasionally exchanging glances with the sailor at the oars. On the descent to the boat and in the ascent to the wharf, Iseabal merely took Alisdair’s hand, nodding her thanks. But not once did she speak to him, as if she’d already dismissed him from her life.
Behind them, two sailors carried their trunks, Rory leading the way to the coach he’d hired. The boy glanced back from time to time as if wondering at the delay. Alisdair had issued orders that every man was to be given leave, except for a rotating watch left aboard the Fortitude. Rory was evidently eager to be about the business of proving himself man enough to consort with his fellow crewmen.
London’s sky was gray, and the air seemed thick with the smells of a slaughterhouse, unwashed bodies, and smoke. Everywhere Alisdair looked there were people, crowds of them undulating toward their destinations. He took Iseabal’s elbow, navigated beyond a small group of men talking vehemently in the middle of the street, their arms waving toward the harbor.
Carriages, drays, large coaches, and carts sat nose to nose along the wharf, waiting either for cargoes to be unloaded from an adjacent ship or for the transport of their wealthy owners.
Soldiers attired in their distinctive red coats stood in strict formation, ready to board one of the ships. Alisdair didn’t doubt that their destination was the American colonies, their duty to act as a deterrent to the growing talk of rebellion.
Placing his arm around Iseabal’s far shoulder, he pulled her closer to him, his annoyance growing with each of the glances sent in her direction.
Finally they were at the coach, parked away from the main wharf. He and the driver exchanged a few words while the trunks were being loaded.
“It’ll take longer to get through London, sir,” the driver said with a gap-toothed smile, “than it will this place of yours.”
He nodded, his attention caught by the sight of Rory opening the door for Iseabal. She entered the coach gracefully and silently, her quick smile one of thanks.
She smiled at his cabin boy and watched him with studied caution, Alisdair thought in disgust.
Rory stood at attention beside the coach, the pose difficult to maintain since his eyes were darting from sight to sight and his feet were impatiently tapping on the bricked pavement.
“You’re eager to be off, then?” Alisdair asked with a smile.
“Yes, sir,” Rory replied, with no attempt made to disguise his excitement.
Alisdair bent, grabbing the boy’s hand and placing a few coins on his palm.
“Thank you, sir,” Rory said, staring down at the money in awe.
“Your wages for the next month, Rory,” Alisdair told him. “Have a care.”
“I will, sir.” Rory smiled brightly. In seconds the three sailors were gone, disappearing into the crowd.
Alisdair mounted the steps, settling himself into the coach with his back to the horses. As the vehicle lurched forward, the motion reminded him of a lumbering merchantman.
Flicking open the leather shade, Alisdair found himself unwillingly impressed at the sight of a large domed cathedral. He sat back against the cushions, feeling not unlike Daniel in the lion’s den. Daniel might admire the predator’s home, but it didn’t mean that he felt comfortable as a guest.
Iseabal, however, appeared entranced with the view of London. Her eyes widened; her breath seemed to stop before escaping on a sigh of enchantment. Not exactly Fernleigh, Alisdair thought, wondering at his foul mood.
“Have you never traveled before, Iseabal?” Alisdair asked. His voice sounded surly even to his own ears, so he forced a smile to his lips.
She turned her head slowly, her gaze measured. The hint of irritation, however, was in her eyes. “I’ve been to Inverness and Edinburgh, MacRae. But no farther than that.”
“Why do you call me MacRae in that tone of yours?” he asked. “Have you forgotten my name again?”
She looked startled at his anger. Well she might be, he thought, and at other responses he was feeling at the moment. He needed to obtain an annulment, he decided, then ease his need with some willing woman. A female who did not look as equally alluring in sunlight or in shadow. And who did not, he decided, hide her thoughts behind such rigorous restraint.
“I call you MacRae,” she said quietly, “because you’ve given me no reason to address you familiarly.”
Her dignity shamed him at the same time that it fanned his irritation.
He should not wish for her to speak to him, to divulge all those secret thoughts she kept hidden. Instead, he should be grateful for her reticence. The less he knew of her, the better.
Yet a more ferocious part of him, controlled not by reason but by the more elemental emotions, wanted to hold her steady, place his palms on both sides of her face, and peer into her eyes until he found all the answers he needed. Who was Iseabal?
Alisdair realized that he still didn’t know.
“We’ll reach Brandidge Hall in the afternoon,” he said.
She nodded, eternally accepting.
“My duties will take me no more than a few days to perform.”
She didn’t respond to that, merely kept her attention on the view.
“I’ll be back on the Fortitude in a week,” he added.
Still no response, almost as if he’d not spoken.
And Iseabal? What would happen to her? The thought was disconcerting. So, too, the realization that while it had been easy to make the decision to obtain an annulment, the execution was proving to be more difficult.
She was doing nothing to encourage him to remain her husband. She’d offered neither logic nor cajolery in an attempt to change his mind. Instead, her enticement was to irritate and confuse, to hide her thoughts and restrain her speech until he was mired in a curiosity that wouldn’t cease.
He should simply kiss speech from her. Open her mouth and inhale her unvoiced words.
“Have you given any thought to where you will live?” he asked abruptly. “I will take you wherever you wish to go.”
“You may as well leave me here,” she said. “My father will have no qualms about declaring me a widow and marrying me off again. You and he are alike in your greed.”
Startled, he stared at her, thinking that perhaps it had not been the wisest thing to wish speech from Iseabal.
“He would do anything for money, while you would do the same to obtain your freedom,” she said at his silence.
“I’ve never thought to be compared to Magnus Drummond,” he responded tightly.
She tilted her head, stared at him. “Outwardly you’re nothing like him. Or any of the other men he’s shown me to. My candidates for groom have all been wealthy, but few of them had their teeth or hair.”
“At least I have my hair and teeth,” he said, annoyed in a way he could not a
rticulate.
“Yes,” she agreed, glancing at him. Only that. Just that one word uttered in such a bland tone that it had the effect of being among the most insulting remarks ever spoken to him.
The carriage was suddenly too small, the space so confining that he felt as if the air itself pressed in on his skin. Alisdair frowned, leaned back against the cushions, and feigned sleep.
Time had evaporated, and no great ideas had occurred to Iseabal about her future. Because her father considered her mother’s relatives a drain on his finances, she’d not seen them often these past years. Yet word still flowed between Leah and her family, love having no barrier.
Her mother’s sister lived in Inverness, but she had been sickly of late and it did not seem fair to appear on her doorstep without warning. A cousin living not far away from Fernleigh had borne another child. Perhaps she and her husband could use an extra pair of hands to help with the chores or act as nurse.
There were pitifully few choices for an unmarried woman. Nor did Iseabal have any talents that might support her. She didn’t have her mother’s ability at needlework or tatting lace. The making of bonnets was a tedious chore. The only true talent she had was in carving stone, and that was considered a foolish occupation for a woman.
How strange to be so unwanted in all ways.
From time to time she glanced over at the MacRae, realizing that he was not asleep, merely distancing himself by his position. He sat in the corner of the carriage, his arms folded against his chest, his long legs spread out before him. In this confined space he was too imposing.
Words might sway him from his decision, but she could not say them. Let me stay. A simple sentence, but one that was held in her heart, not to be voiced. Pride, it seemed, was all she had left, and it was not easily spent. Perhaps she was as much a miser as her father, Iseabal thought wryly.
Moments lengthened into hours and the view changed from thickly crowded London to a more pastoral vista. Softly rounded hills undulated around them, creating small, shadowed valleys. A gentle land, England. There were few people on the roads, and even fewer dwellings, as if this fertile earth stewarded itself.
Clouds began to obscure the sky, darkening as if in preparation for rain. She was suddenly amused by the hint of another storm. They had left Scotland in a torrent; were they to be welcomed in England by yet more rain? Even the breeze tasted of it, but there was neither lightning nor thunder to mar the perfect scenery.
Rain marked their passage, drumming on the roof of the coach in a strangely comforting sound.
There, in the center of a glen, sat a house, a structure reminding her of a great white eagle, its wings stretching out on either side of its body. Like that proud bird, the house seemed to declare itself as worthy of admiration.
“Is that Brandidge Hall?” she asked in amazement.
Opening his eyes without hesitation, Alisdair pulled the shutter away from the window, looking down at the house. “If it is,” he said wryly, “I was not given to understand that it was quite so large.”
An enormous white dome, its leaded glass winking in the pattering rain, sat atop the center of Brandidge Hall. Above the bowl-like shape, a tall, golden spire seemed to point the way to heaven itself.
Flanking the house were great gardens, misted in the rain. Hedges trimmed to form curves and winding, almost impossible, designs were interspersed with gravel paths and flower beds rich with blooms. Iseabal recognized the pattern in the center of one formal space as a Celtic knot, similar to that found in her family’s crest.
The carriage began to descend toward the house, taking a road paved in glittering white stone. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the rain eased.
“It seems as if we’re being greeted,” Alisdair said as the carriage halted in the circular drive before the wide front door.
At the top of the steps was an ancient-looking butler, hair coiffed in an impressive white wig. Speaking to a footman standing beside him, he pointed toward the carriage before turning and walking back to the door in a shuffling gait. The footman went quickly down the stairs, throwing open the door and bowing.
Alisdair left the vehicle and held his hand out for her.
Climbing those steps would make one feel a penitent, Iseabal thought, as if entering a great and noble cathedral. The very last thing she wished to do was to set foot inside that imposing-looking structure. But she forced her lips into a faint smile and descended from the carriage.
Chapter 13
T he majordomo stood stiffly inside the door, an ancient sentinel for Brandidge Hall. Alisdair wondered if the old man had known his father, but before he could ask that question or give him his name, the other man turned, leading them through the massive foyer and into a hallway.
His grandfather, he’d been told, had been a collector of sorts and Brandidge Hall mirrored his interests. Outside one door was a statue of a slender black dog, sitting with paws outstretched, muzzle erect, eyes blindly staring in eternal watchfulness. Egyptian, if Alisdair wasn’t mistaken. Along one wall was a tansu, filled with dozens of tiny drawers, the key to each festooned with a golden tassel.
“It looks like the one in your cabin,” Iseabal said.
“A Japanese tansu,” he said, agreeing.
On an ivory pedestal stood a chest, a work of art intricately carved and lacquered in a brilliant crimson. Noting the dragons and the number of claws on each toe, Alisdair realized that the chest wasn’t Japanese, but Chinese.
The majordomo stopped, glancing behind him with an impatient look. Alisdair knew he’d just been wordlessly chastised for dawdling.
Stopping in front of a large, heavily patterned door, the old man motioned to one of the two footmen standing guard on either side. The servant bowed, opening the door silently, and the older man shuffled in, announcing their presence in a voice that cracked with age.
“Your grandson, my lady,” he said, standing aside. After Alisdair and Iseabal entered, he abruptly vanished, leaving Alisdair staring at the closing door.
“How did he know?” he asked, and heard a tinkling laugh.
“You’re the image of your father,” a woman said. “With your grandmother’s eyes.”
Patricia Landers, Countess of Sherbourne, was nothing like he had pictured her, Alisdair thought, glancing down at the diminutive woman who had been his grandfather’s second wife. Although in her seventies, she seemed much younger. Her brilliant silver hair was arranged in a simple bun, her face only lightly lined and now graced with a radiant smile and faded, twinkling blue eyes.
She sat on the settee in front of the fire, one hand clasping a brass bird fixed on the top of a cane. Her attire was simple, the pale gray mourning dress reminding Alisdair that the man whose death had complicated his life had been her son.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured softly, releasing Iseabal’s hand to bow slightly in front of the older woman.
She took him aback by placing a hand on his forearm and squeezing lightly. “David had a rich, full life, thanks to your father,” she said, her bright smile momentarily dimmed with sadness.
“Please join me.” She motioned to the space beside her. “I trust your journey was an easy one,” she added, glancing curiously at Iseabal.
Alisdair stepped back, also glancing at Iseabal. “May I introduce Iseabal Drummond to you, Countess,” he said.
At her inquiring look, he hesitated. “My wife,” he added.
“Not truly a wife,” Iseabal replied, looking over at him. “Alisdair wishes an annulment.”
Alisdair stared at her, unprepared for her candor and wishing she’d chosen another time to be so outspoken.
Patricia looked from one to the other, her brow furrowing. “I did not realize you were married.”
“It’s a recent event,” he said, annoyed.
Iseabal glanced at him, her gaze filled with irritation. “We’ve been wed but a week,” she contributed, turning to Patricia.
“I do not understand,” the old
er woman said. “Why should you wish an annulment? Is there some impediment to your marriage? Some relationship that has just become apparent?”
“Our marriage was not a question of choice,” Alisdair countered, “but of command. Her father’s,” he added.
He and his crew had fought bandits in the Orient and privateers in the Caribbean. Twice Alisdair had stared down the barrel of a pistol, certain he was about to die. But he’d never once considered that he might be at a loss with two women glaring at him as if he’d grown a horn in the middle of his forehead.
“What did you do, that he insisted upon marriage, Alisdair?” Patricia asked, her tone for all the world as if he were nine and had pushed James into the bay.
“It wasn’t what I did, but what I wanted,” he answered, disconcerted to see her lift an eyebrow imperiously at him. “MacRae land,” he explained stiffly. “Drummond was using it for sheep fodder.”
“You were married in Scotland, then?” Patricia addressed her question to Iseabal.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “At Fernleigh, my home.”
Patricia glanced at Alisdair once again and for a moment he thought she might say something else. But she clamped her lips together and reached up to take Iseabal’s hand, drawing her down to the settee.
She bent and spoke in a soft tone to Iseabal, leaving Alisdair with the curious feeling of being dismissed.
He walked over to the blazing fireplace, staring up at the paintings mounted above the mantel. To his right was a portrait of a man of middle years, his sweet smile of contentment and look of vacancy in his eyes revealing his identity. The recently deceased Earl of Sherbourne had been a man in form, but a child in mind.
On the left was a painting of a man attired in a brilliant red tunic, a row of medals aligned over his heart. He was pictured mounted on a white horse whose bridle and saddle were laced with silver.
“Your husband?” he asked Patricia. She had married again after his grandfather’s death. Due to the nature of David’s malady, he guessed that this man had been the true steward of the Sherbourne wealth.
