Undressed (Undone by Love)

by Kristina Cook

  “Nearly there, Hera,” she whispered to the cat who slept in the traveling case beside her. She glanced over at Celeste, dozing with her head tilted in what appeared to be a terribly uncomfortable angle, her lips parted slightly. Thank goodness the girl had agreed to accompany her to Glenbroch; she’d never have been able to endure the long journey alone. Besides, she’d grown used to her company, the nearest thing she had to a friend, besides Jane.

  Her heart wrenched painfully at the memory of Jane, begging her not to leave, pleading with her to give Colin another chance. Yet she couldn’t, not even for Jane. She’d no choice but to travel home, to tell those who lived on what had been Hampton’s lands that she’d been wrong, that the lands were not secured, that she’d no idea whether or not the current landlord would allow them to retain their crofts. She would offer Jenny Cannan and her husband a place at Glenbroch, but she could do little else. There were far too many of them to burden Glenbroch with. She would do what she could to help, but she could make no promises.

  The coach hit a rut in the road, and Celeste snuffled loudly, her chin dropping to her breastbone. What ever would Mrs. Campbell think, her bringing along a lady’s maid to Glenbroch? Brenna nearly laughed aloud at the thought. She’d no doubt think her time amongst the English had addled her brain, that’s what. And perhaps it had.

  Beside her, Hera awakened with a loud meow, as if sensing they neared home. Brenna watched the cat stretch languorously, arching her back while reaching forward with each slender paw. For several minutes, the cat smoothed her fur with her tongue. Her ablutions at last complete, Hera sat looking out the case expectantly, her pink nose twitching as she sniffed the air.

  Brenna quickly glanced back out the window, sucking in her breath at the sight that greeted her tired eyes. There, just beyond the next rise, the gray stones of Glenbroch rose from the mists. The untidy pile of stones had never before looked more beautiful, more welcoming, than it did at that very moment, and Brenna feared she might begin to weep. Instead, she took several deep, calming breaths, then reached over to pluck at Celeste’s sleeve.

  “Celeste,” she whispered, her voice quaking with emotion. “Wake up. There’s Castle Glenbroch, just ahead.”

  The maid’s head snapped upright, her eyes flying open. “Wha...what?” she stammered, then licked her lips.

  “We’ve reached our destination. Look.” Brenna pointed toward the window on her right. “There it is. Och, ‘tis the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in ages.”

  Celeste blinked several times. “But...but that’s no castle.”

  “Nay, the original castle fell on hard times many generations back. Much of it burned after Culloden. ‘Twas rebuilt as a manor house, with only the original south tower remaining. Yet the name endured.”

  “Hmph. Seems misleading,” Celeste muttered. “Calling it a castle when it ain’t.”

  “Ye will find it far more comfortable and less drafty than a true castle, I think. And Mrs. Campbell, the housekeeper, ye will adore her.”

  Celeste looked skeptical, at best.

  Soon, Brenna thought, watching Glenbroch’s walls loom larger as they approached. Brenna allowed herself to feel the first twinge of happiness she’d felt in days, temporarily lifting the oppressive heaviness from her heart.

  Soon, in the familiar surroundings of Glenbroch, she’d put Colin from her mind, forget his betrayal—forget that she’d ever loved him. And then she’d decide what to do about their marriage. One day, perhaps sooner than she’d supposed, she’d have to face him again, perhaps even forgive him. But not now. Now while the pain of his betrayal was so fresh, so raw. So painful.

  She pushed the unpleasant thoughts from her mind as the coach turned off the main road and began to slow. She’d figure it all out later, once she was settled, once the wound began to heal a bit.

  At last, the coach jerked to a halt. The door swung open, and the cool, damp Scottish air assaulted her senses at once, bringing a bittersweet smile to her lips.

  Glenbroch! Home at last, where she belonged.

  Chapter 22

  Brenna stepped into the front hall, peeling off her buff gloves and depositing them on the long wooden table by the door. She sighed heavily, glad to have settled back to a familiar routine. More than a fortnight had passed since her arrival, and she was back to her usual duties as the Maclachlan of Glenbroch. The day had been long, yet pleasant, visiting tenants and hearing their complaints and concerns.

  As she began to unbutton her overcoat and shrug out of it, Jenny Cannan rushed in, a smile brightening her narrow, gaunt face.

  “There ye are, mistress. Here, let me help ye out of that.”

  Brenna smiled at the reed-thin woman, allowing her to remove the garment from her shoulders. “Now, Jenny,” she scolded. “I told ye, didna I? Ye are a guest here, not a servant. I no longer require a nursemaid.”

  “Bah.” Jenny dismissed her comment with the wave of one hand. “Never too old for a wee bit of coddling, especially a fine lass like yerself. And look at ye, mistress, out with no bonnet. Ye’ll be freckled by morn.”

  “And what if I am?” Brenna answered with a shrug. “Perhaps I like the freckles. Some might say they lend character to my face.”

  Jenny shook her head, clucking noisily like a mother hen.

  “Besides, there is no sun today. Look”—Brenna gestured toward the window—“’tis damp and gray as can be.”

  “Well, dinna stand there catching a chill, wearing naught but that silly little frock. Go, find your woolens.”

  Brenna glanced down at her muslin gown, the hem now stained with mud. Jenny was right—it was a silly garment, utterly ill-suited to her life there at Glenbroch. What had she been thinking when she’d slipped it on that morning, then allowed Celeste to dress her hair as if she were setting out for Mayfair’s finest drawing rooms rather than the manor’s modest tenant farms?

  “I’ll go and change, Jenny, if ye will grant me one favor.”

  “Anything, mistress.”

  “Would ye find Mrs. Campbell at once and tell her that Angus Ferguson’s boy has taken ill? Poor Mrs. Ferguson is busy enough with an infant at her breast. Mrs. Campbell should have Cook make her special broth and have it sent round to the Fergusons’ croft straightaway, along with any fruits and vegetables she can spare.”

  “Verra well, mistress. I’ll tell her straightaway.”

  “Oh, and how is Mr. Cannan getting on with Mr. Moray?”

  “Quite well, quite well. I canna thank ye enough for givin’ him such an opportunity, lass.” She reached for Brenna’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Dearest Jenny, I’m only sorry—”

  “Nay, ‘tis not yer fault, wee one. Besides, naught has come of it yet. Mayhap ye were mistaken.”

  “I truly wish I were.” There had been no word yet of a new landlord at Hampton’s estate, though Brenna knew that soon enough the man would make his position known. Give him time, she reminded herself. After all, it hadn’t been a month since... Brenna shook her head, unwilling to remember the night in question.

  “Go on, off with ye.” Jenny hooked her thumb toward the stairs.

  Brenna obeyed with a sheepish smile, becoming suddenly aware of the cold dampness that permeated the folds of her gown. Goodness, after the warm, pleasant weather in London, it seemed she would never get warm here at Glenbroch.

  Wearily, she climbed the stairs toward her room. Hera came racing up beside her, following closely at her heels.

  “And where have ye been off to? I havena seen ye since this time yesterday, Hera. Out enjoying yourself? Glad to be home, I suppose?”

  The cat raced ahead, darting into her bedchamber. Brenna followed suit, closing the door softly behind her. A pang of guilt shot through her, catching her suddenly off guard. She should be glad to be home, and yet she wasn’t, not entirely. As loath as she was to admit it, she missed her newfound family— Jane and Lady Rosemoor, even Lucy. A part of her even missed Lord and Lady Danville, despite th
eir awkward attempts at familial relations. While she’d never entirely felt as if she’d belonged in London, a new, uncertain feeling had crept into her heart here at Glenbroch. She didn’t entirely belong here, either.

  Had she imagined it, or had the tenants looked at her slightly differently today? Now that they knew the truth about her—that no Maclachlan blood flowed through her veins—did they no longer think her worthy of their fealty, their respect? The easy camaraderie she’d once felt with them was gone. They now seemed slightly uncomfortable in her presence, as if they were entertaining a near stranger rather than the woman they’d known since she was naught but a girl. Of course, this fancy frock hadn’t helped matters, she thought, glancing down at it with a scowl. They’d no doubt supposed she thought herself better than them now, decked out in her finery from Madame Vioget’s shop while they entertained her in their homespun.

  She tugged the damp dress down, not caring if she ripped the fabric or fastenings. She had no need for such fine things now. Reaching up, she viciously tore the pins from her hair, allowing it to spill across her shoulders. She had no need for such elaborate hair arrangements, either. A simple plait, coiled and pinned against her head, would suffice as it always had. She would be sure to speak with Celeste about such matters.

  Sighing heavily, she moved to the window, peering out the drapes wearing naught but her shift. Dear Lord, but she’d hoped he would come for her. As each day dawned, she’d lain in bed thinking that perhaps this would be the day that Colin would appear on the front steps, begging her forgiveness. Declaring that he could not live without her.

  She’d confided in no one save Jenny about her marriage, though she assumed that Celeste had let the news slip below-stairs—that Brenna was in fact a married woman, the Viscountess Rosemoor, estranged from her husband less than a sennight after they’d wed. Shocking news.

  ‘Twas what she deserved for marrying an Englishman, they no doubt whispered amongst themselves.

  With each passing day, it became more and more clear that Colin did not love her. To be fair, he’d never claimed such tender feelings. Still, she’d thought...Well, she’d thought that perhaps he had. She was made hopeful by her own imprudent feelings, like a silly, foolish girl. ‘Twas exactly why she’d never wished to marry for love. She’d never wished to be made a fool of, mooning after someone who did not return her affections.

  Aye, if Colin had loved her, he would have come for her by now. At the very least, he would have sent a letter. After all, she’d received two such missives from Jane, cheerful letters that were careful not to mention Colin at all.

  She shook her head in confusion. Was she ready to forgive him? How could she, after the words he’d spoken just before she’d left? A coward, he’d called her. A fraud. Cruel words. Had she had let her desire for him outweigh his betrayal? How else could she explain the fact that she yearned for him, despite his actions? She glanced down at the betrothal ring she still wore on her finger, along with her wedding band. Unbidden.

  A knock sounded on the door, startling her.

  “Mum? Lady...Rosemoor?”

  Brenna sighed. She’d so many different names that poor Celeste didn’t know what to call her anymore. “Aye, Celeste. Come in.”

  The maid came in on silent feet, closing the door behind her. “Shall we start preparin’ you for dinner now?”

  “Nay, I’m not...not feeling well. I think I might go up to my observatory instead.”

  “Again? The mists are so thick, yer not likely to see a thing tonight.”

  “The moon, perhaps,” Brenna answered. It didn’t really matter what she saw through her telescope. Just sitting there, in her favorite spot in the tower, would bring her the peace she could not seem to find elsewhere.

  “Mrs. Cannan will be sorely disappointed, mum. You’ve not been down to dinner more than three times in a sennight.”

  ‘Twas true. While she still took great pleasure in the day-to-day duties of managing Glenbroch, evenings were a whole different matter. She simply wasn’t good company, and the strain was too much for her to bear. “I...Ye must send my regrets, Celeste.”

  “Shall I at least have a tray sent up?”

  “Something light, perhaps. Truly, I’m not hungry.”

  “If you say so, mum.” With a nod, Celeste turned toward the door. “If only the Rosemoors’ cook were here,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder.

  “You dinna think the cook here at Glenbroch is sufficiently talented? Why, I’ve always thought—”

  “No, mum, it’s not that. She’s a fine cook, indeed. I only meant that the Rosemoors’ cook makes a tonic that is known to cure anything from the ague to gout. Even heartbreak, I’m told,” she added, boldly meeting Brenna’s gaze.

  A tonic to cure heartbreak? If only it were true, ‘twould be worth its weight in gold. “Well, no matter. I suppose I shall have to make do without, won’t I?”

  “I should have asked for a vial before we left, is what I should have done. Well, good night, mum.”

  “Good night, Celeste,” Brenna answered, reaching for her dressing gown. She shrugged into it and tightened the belt around her waist as the maid scurried out.

  “Come, Hera,” she called to the cat who sat perched on the wide stone sill, watching her. “I would verra much like your company tonight in my observatory.” The cat, at least, didn’t ask questions. Or expect her to carry on cheerful conversation, something she no longer seemed capable of. Time, she reminded herself. She needed naught but time.

  ***

  “Must you come in here and begin banging around like that?” Colin muttered, keeping his gaze firmly trained on the Times he held in his hands, even though the words were nothing but a grayish blur.

  “Must you continue to snap at me like that?” Jane retorted, thumping a book on his desk for emphasis. “I’m not the enemy, you know. Just because you managed to make a veritable mess of things—”

  “I suggest you hold your tongue, Jane.” The all-too-familiar rage welled within him, nearly suffocating him.

  “Or what, Colin? I’m tired of tiptoeing around you, not allowed to so much as utter her name. She was my friend, and you’ve driven her away. I must know why.”

  “In case you have forgotten, she’s the one who left me.”

  “Hmph. I’m sure she had her reasons. What I cannot understand is why you have not gone after her.”

  “You think I should chase after her like a spurned schoolboy?”

  “Well, she is your wife, after all.”

  “Believe it or not, I do have a measure of pride left.”

  “You would allow yourself to suffer so for the sake of pride? Look at you, Colin.” She planted her fists on her hips. “Just look at the state you’re in. You look as if you have not slept or bathed in days—nor eaten, judging by the fit of your waistcoat. Neither have you joined us for dinner in more than a fortnight. Instead, you sit here for hours on end, in Papa’s—in your study,” she corrected, “doing”—she waved her hands in the air—“something.” She eyed him suspiciously. “I have no idea what it is you’re doing in here.” Her gaze slid toward the cart where their father had kept his spirits.

  Now empty. The day Brenna had left, he’d poured it all out. Every last drop.

  “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I’ve been familiarizing myself with the Rosemoor estates and holdings.” Going over the books was all he could do to take his mind off the constant, excruciating suffering. If he allowed himself one moment of peace, of rest, he’d go mad with it. Still, he refused to permit himself to dull the pain with spirits. No, he’d suffer through every last torturous second—sober. This was his penance, his punishment, for allowing the single best thing in his life to slip through his fingers. “Quite interesting, really,” he lied, his voice betraying him by breaking on the last syllable, revealing him to be the weak fool that he was.

  Jane did not miss it. “Oh, Colin. Colin,” she repeated, her voice full of anguish. “You must
do something. I cannot stand to see you sitting there, acting as if nothing is wrong when it is clear your heart is breaking.”

  He neatly folded the paper before responding. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Jane. It isn’t becoming.”

  With a sigh, she perched on the edge of his desk, inadvertently toppling the stack of books she’d deposited there only moments before. Colin bent down to retrieve them, his gaze drawn to an unfamiliar, leather-bound volume.

  “What’s this?” he asked, flipping open the cover.

  Charts. Page after page of them. Stars, planets, constellations, all labeled in what must be Brenna’s surprisingly childish scrawl. His breath hitched, burning his lungs. Dampness threatened his eyes, making his neck warm with mortification. He couldn’t speak, not a single word. Instead, a strangled cry escaped his lips as he slammed the book shut.

  Jane leapt to her feet, her brows drawn. “What is it?” She snatched the book away, quickly flipping through the pages. “It’s only one of Brenna’s chart books. She must have left it behind. Why do you look so stricken?”

  Colin’s heart thumped painfully against his ribs. “Leave me, Jane. Now.”

  “No, I can’t. I won’t. Besides, Lucy and Mandeville will be here shortly, and—”

  “I said leave me,” he said, his voice a strangled whisper.

  “You’re frightening me, Colin. You’re pale and trembling, and—dear God, no. Not like Papa...” She hurried to his side, reaching for his hands.

  He snatched his hands away, turning from her so that she would not see the tears pooling in his eyes. “Devil take it, Jane, just leave me be.”

  His stubborn sister held her ground. “No. You must go after her. Whatever you’ve done, tell her you’re sorry; tell her that you were wrong.”

  “I can’t, don’t you see?” he shouted. With the sweep of one arm, he pushed everything from the desk to the floor, sending papers and books flying through the air. “There’s nothing I can do to make it right again. She’s better off without me.”