She sighed, but turned to face him.
“She is afraid of me,” she whispered, then turned her back, likely to hide tears.
“We will find you a new maid, lass,” he whispered and began to fasten her buttons. He felt his hands trembling and took a deep breath. He hoped she could not feel his reaction to her, or she would shy away. She shivered at his touch, and he pulled away as soon as he had finished.
“I could attempt to dress your hair,” he teased.
She shook her head and walked to the dressing table. With deft hands, she quickly managed to somehow pull her cascades of black silk into a loose knot—quite impressive, considering one of her hands was bandaged. She turned and looked at him expectantly. She must be wondering why he was gaping at her in her room. He cleared his throat.
“Wallace said Iain kept his books in the dungeon. I thought you might wanna come with me to look.”
“Yes,” she whispered with a glorious smile.
“Have you broken your fast?” he asked, glancing toward a cup of chocolate sitting by the bedside.
She nodded.
“More than a cup of chocolate? You must eat to heal properly, lass.”
She looked guilty.
“Does it hurt you? To swallow?”
“A little,” she confessed with a raspy voice.
He walked over toward her and placed his hands on her throat gently and felt around.
“Swallow for me, lass,” he directed, and felt her neck as she did so. “Everything feels normal, but it takes time to heal on the inside.”
She tugged his hand and began to pull him toward the door. He laughed.
“Not so fast.” He hurried up behind her and playfully swept her off her feet. “It is a long way to the dungeon,” he explained. How else was he to be close to her?
He inhaled the smell of lavender and some other mystery scent he could not identify, but which he associated with her. She leant her head against his shoulder as he carried her down the separate flights of stairs. The first was covered in a luxurious carpet. The second was wooden and bare in the servants’ stairway, and when they reached the heavy wooden door to the dungeon, he set her down in order to unlock it. It was positively medieval.
Gavin had not been in the dungeon since he was a boy. It was silly how he still became excited and nervous at the same time. He knew there were no ghosts or prisoners awaiting him, yet he could not escape the memories of hunting for them and screaming with fright as he and Iain had done as boys.
The door opened and the stone stairs appeared slick as he held up the lantern to light the path. He hesitated about carrying Margaux.
She squeezed his arm from behind as she leaned forward and saw the stairs.
“I’ll walk. I can, you know,” she teased, even through her whispers.
“Verra well, but you must hold on to me.”
They crept slowly down the musty stairs and Gavin led them to a room which looked similar to the barn, but on a much smaller scale. He set the lantern down and looked around. It was very much the same as it had looked when his father had been alive.
Margaux was also looking around and was waving him over to the work bench. There sat one of the leather-bound journals his father had used, and then Iain. He fingered it gingerly, and looked through the pages. His brother had added considerable notes and there were several recipes, which he had labelled with names.
“It looks as though Iain had a number of different recipes. I have my work cut out for me.”
“I can help.” His beautiful wife looked at him with those large, enchanting eyes of hers.
“Be certain you mean that, lass. I will need all the help I can find. We are to have several hundred tons of barley at our disposal in a matter of days.”
“Then we best start.”
She turned to head back to the passageway, but stopped as she found several smaller barrels labelled as Iain’s recipes.
She looked at him with curiosity.
“We should taste them.”
“Aye. I didna ken you had a taste for whisky.”
“I don’t know if I do or not. But I may as well start now if I am to be of any help.”
“Your father should be here for this,” he decided.
She nodded her agreement.
“Let us find him and we may bring the samples upstairs to a better room,” Gavin suggested. He did not wish to point out that her breathing had become more laboured and wheezy in the damp cold of the basement.
He held out his arm to escort her, and she snuggled close so they could climb the narrow stairs together. She was struggling by the time they reached the wooden door, and Gavin scooped her up and transported her to the luxury of the parlour, where her mother was in counsel with the housekeeper.
Gavin bowed to the ladies.
“Would you happen to ken where Lord Ashbury is, madame?” he asked.
“Oui. He only came in from his ride a few moments ago. He is changing upstairs.”
“Verra good. I will return shortly with the samples.” He winked at his wife before bowing himself out of the room.
Margaux’s mother raised an enquiring eyebrow at her and she had to fight a blush. She had largely been avoiding her mother, not wanting to experience again the humiliation she had felt when her mother had screamed at her appearance. She didn’t blame her maman, but she felt her parent ought to be able to control her emotions around one’s children. She was disappointed in her mother, though she knew she loved her—perfect or not.
“Bonjour, chérie.” Her mother sauntered across the room to kiss her cheek.
“Bonjour, Maman,” Margaux rasped.
Her cheek was healing, but she still covered it so no one would have to see it. She had taken care to cover her neck and hand at all times, too, but she could still hear the screams.
“You are enjoying your husband, non?” her mother asked innocently.
What did she mean by enjoying him?
“I suppose so. He is very kind,” she whispered.
“There is a modiste to arrive soon from Glasgow. She is not Madame Monique, but we will have to make do.”
“I do not need a new gown. Lady Craig left beautiful gowns and we are of a size,” Margaux protested, though it pained her to do so.
“I will not argue, Margaux. You must have a proper gown for your first appearance as Lady Craig.”
“But I cannot dance!” she squeaked.
“Do not try to argue, chérie,” her mother said more softly. “It is hurting your voice. Allow me only one dress, please.”
Margaux did not like to be made to feel guilty, but her mother would be gone soon, and she would miss the badgering.
Her father entered the room with her handsome husband. She could watch Gavin all day, she realized. His eyes, his dark hair, his dimpled smile, the lilt in his voice…
He cleared his voice. He had caught her staring. She blushed, but smiled directly at him.
“I asked if you want to try them all?” He held out his hand to indicate four decanters he had brought from the casks in the dungeon.
She nodded, but held up pinched fingers to indicate only a small amount. Her mother stared at her with open shock. Her husband placed four small tumblers of amber-coloured liquid in front of her, and he and her father joined her with their samples, looking amused.
Her father took over the proceedings. Gavin had brought a quill and paper and began to take notes.
“Notice the colours are all different,” Lord Ashbury instructed.
Gavin nodded and wrote something.
“Next, smell the different aromas.”
They all lifted each one.
“This one is especially peaty,” her father remarked as he swirled the liquid and wafted it under his nose, though Margaux had no notion of what peat actually smelled like, or why he was making strange movements with the glass.
“Smell the smoke in this one.”
“Do I detect orange in this?” Gavin asked curi
ously.
She was clearly out of her depth. All she could smell were strong spirits, and they burned her nose. She would blame the fire for damaging her sense of smell. She remained quiet and tried to learn.
“None of these are the signature Craig whisky I have been receiving from Iain,” her father remarked.
“He must have been trying to make something new.”
“Shall we taste?” her father asked, with unrestrained excitement.
“Aye.” Gavin set down his quill. “First, the one marked Lomond.”
Margaux’s father took a small sip. Her husband followed. She did the same.
Fire and burning. She could not take it! She swallowed some, some went up her nose, and the rest of the tumbler spilled on her arm, causing her to yelp with pain.
Her husband was instantly at her side, tearing the bandages off her arm and yelling for water. She tried to protest, but there were suddenly people everywhere, trying to help, and all witnessing her shame—including the modiste who had arrived and stood there staring at her charred arm with disgust.
She could not even speak loudly enough to ask everyone to leave. Her husband was rinsing the offensive whisky from her arm and she began to shake with sobs.
When Gavin saw she was crying, he immediately carried her away from the madness. He felt like an idiot. Why had he not realized how the whisky would feel to her raw throat? He had been so enthralled with her eagerness to help him and learn, that he had not been thinking. When everyone had gathered around her and he had attended to her burns, they had sat there gawking. The servants, her family, the modiste. No wonder she had not been letting him attend to her dressings. She was ashamed—and very private. She had been courageous to continue showing her face and trying to learn the estate.
Gavin was, of course, used to seeing wounds. But he still found her beautiful—breathtakingly so; and the more time he spent with his wife, the more he found himself wanting to know more about her. He placed her on the chaise longue in her room and looked into her eyes.
“Are you all right, lass?”
She looked up at him with a glassy stare, but nodded.
“I need to look at your arm.”
She held it out for his inspection, but looked away, obviously not wanting to see his reaction. He could not blame her after the response she had received downstairs. The arm was healing better than he had expected. Her hand was the most severely injured, and the arm was still pink with denuded skin.
“It looks verra good.”
She looked at him with incredulity. He saw a spark of anger in her eyes, yet she said nothing.
“I think the arm will not scar too much. The hand, you must start to move more or it will become too stiff.”
She cocked her head with question. He took her hand and began to massage it. She winced in pain, but allowed him to continue.
“We need to do this at least morning and night to keep it from becoming permanently tight.”
Her eyes looked at him with fear. He pulled her into a loving hug. How could he make her understand? He held her for a few minutes and stroked her hair. He could offer meaningless words of encouragement, but he did not think she would appreciate it. All he could do was try to understand how she felt and be there for her.
He reluctantly pulled away and smiled at her.
“It is early yet. I doona think it will look like this forever. If it does, we will keep it covered when we go in public.”
He reapplied salve, placed another bandage atop and smiled at her as he stood.
“Shall I send the modiste to you?”
She shook her head vehemently.
“Would you prefer your mother?” he asked, mildly jesting.
Her eyes grew round. She was contemplating.
“I suppose. I will not see the modiste.”
“Verra well.” He could not blame her.
Chapter 14
It was some time before her mother came to her. Margaux had stayed in her room, pondering her future. She could not hide away forever. She would surely go mad. They could not send everyone away who was frightened by her appearance. Or could they? The thought amused her as much as it saddened her.
“Chérie.” She heard her mother’s voice.
She looked up to see Lady Ashbury looking in on her. Margaux looked behind, hoping she was not going to force the seamstress upon her.
“I sent the modiste away. I gave her your measurements and asked her to create something to hide your injuries. I also ordered several dresses for Catriona and Maili.”
Margaux was too tired to protest. She nodded instead. She was mostly relieved she would not have to face the modiste who was frightened of her. Why could people not see beyond the injuries? She was the same person she had been before.
“I believe everything is set for the ball. Your father and I will be returning to London the next morning, if you are agreeable. We have secured a new house-mother, who will be arriving with the veterans from Easton. We expect them on the morrow. We should see everyone settled at Breconrae by the time we depart.”
Margaux nodded. She felt guilty at her relief on hearing the announcement. She needed privacy to heal. She was holding out a small fraction of hope that she would not be marred forever.
“Merci, Maman,” she whispered.
Her mother took her uninjured hand.
“Are you happy, chérie? Gavin has told us that the marriage can be annulled if you wish for it.”
Margaux could not describe the sense of anguish that filled her heart at hearing those words. Did Gavin wish to be free of her now? She knew she had married without love, but she had thought their relationship had promise. But still, she had no wish for an annulment. She had been happier in her short time as Lady Craig than she had the entirety of her time as a single miss in London.
“Oui, Maman.”
She would discuss the annulment with her husband, but she would not with her mother. If he wished to be free, then she would grant him that for everything he had given her. It was the very least she owed him, not to mention her life. Margaux did not think her parents would argue this time about giving her her freedom. She would not leave without a fight, however. She would fulfil her end of the agreement with Lord Craig, and if he wished for her to go, then she would depart knowing she had done her best. She would also be leaving her heart behind.
Margaux set out to complete her tasks. She was breathing better and had more energy than she had, even yesterday, but she was determined to be the wife Gavin needed. She had no time for being an invalid. As she surveyed the running of things, she found Mrs. Ennis directed the household without a hitch—she brought Margaux the menus for courtesy approval, the linens were superb, each maid knew her duties and performed them admirably—save hers—she thought unkindly, and tried to erase the thought. Even the bookkeeping was in perfect order.
She was little help with the girls, though she did allow Catriona to minister to her wounds and Maili to brush her hair. Her mother was working on their French with them, and Aunt Ida was teaching them some piano. Aunt Ida had not been as affected by the fire as had Margaux, thankfully. She likely would not have survived, at her age.
Margaux passed by the drawing room and saw the baskets were prepared, ready to be filled with gifts for the tenants. The tables and chairs were in place, with crisp linens for the supper. She next sought out the ballroom, where the floor had already been polished to a high shine and fresh candles were waiting. It was too soon for the flowers. She fought her fatigue. There appeared to be nothing whatsoever for her to do. She was not actually needed, as Gavin had thought. Perhaps when her mother left there would be something, she tried to remind herself. In the meantime, she should try to help her husband with the whisky.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk to his study, but he was nowhere to be found. Wallace, the old steward who had married them, looked up at her.
“Guid day, milady,” his thick brogue greeted her.
; “Hello, Wallace. Would you happen to know where Lord Craig is?”
“Aye. He is down seeing to the barley. Left sprouting, ‘twas. He is trying to see if it is salvageable.”
That did not sound good at all to Margaux.
“Thank you.”
She had not the energy to walk to the barn, so she asked Tallach to have the gig brought around for her. The horse was old and accustomed to making its way to the barn. She did little driving and was grateful. If the horse had been lively, she would not have been able to cope with her hand bandaged.
The horse began slowing without being checked when it reached the barn. Margaux climbed down and left the gig where it was. She was certain it would not wander far.
She entered the barn and her cheeks flushed at the heat. It was painfully warm in there. She was wearing more clothing than was normal for the summer, but the late Lady Craig’s gowns had high necks, long sleeves, and were made of fabrics suited to winter—and to covering her wounds.
The kilns were fired for roasting the grain, and several men, all shirtless and dripping with sweat, were loading it into them. Margaux tried not to stare at them, and their bodies that were so different from her own: hard, muscular, and many were covered with hair almost like fur. When she saw her husband was one of the loaders, she could not take her eyes from him. He looked like a statue come to life. Her heart began racing and she realized her feelings must be written on her face. She turned away and wondered if she could sneak off before they saw her, but Gavin looked up as she began to back away.
“Margaux?” he asked with concern. He walked toward her with no self-consciousness at his state of undress. She wanted to reach out and see if his skin felt like hers. She didn’t think it would. She stopped herself before doing such a thing. He would be horrified if he knew her thoughts.
“Margaux?” he asked again. His eyes were twinkling when she looked up.
Her face was on fire, from the heat and embarrassment. She needed to find a way out of there. It was becoming difficult to breathe. Gavin’s expression changed and she found herself in his sweaty arms. She placed her head and hand on his chest as he led her outside. His skin definitely felt different from hers, but she was too dizzy to notice more than that.
Through the Fire Page 13
