Helen lifted her hand and beckoned. She bent over the side of the stand as they approached. “The final round is just about to begin. Ye must watch. There is a fight for the championship and my man, Teagan, is one of them.” Her eye fluttered closed in a wink, underneath her broad-brimmed hat.
Emma replied in Gaelic. Her command of the local language was swiftly improving and Helen beamed approval.
Emma and Kosta found perches upon plank-and-crate seating, among viewers who were shouting and clapping, as each competitor stepped up to take his turn.
The championship was fiercely fought, although Emma was pleased when Helen’s preferred favorite, a giant redheaded man called Teagan, won first place.
Teagan seemed humble when he accepted the ribbon from Helen, while the crowned screamed their approval, for Teagan was a local lad.
As the crowd dispersed, the thump and roll of drums sounded.
“What is that?” Kosta breathed.
“The music competition,” Emma guessed. “There will be bagpipes, too. Shall we listen?”
Kosta sniffed. “I can smell…what is that aroma?” he asked.
Helen came over to them, taking off her official’s ribbon and rolling it with flicks of her fingers. “There is a man making fish and chips and selling them,” she told Kosta.
“Fish…and…chips?” Kosta repeated.
“It is a new thing,” Emma said. “I’ve had them once before, at a supper. Chips are fried potatoes. The fish is fried, too. It is hard to explain.”
“Especially as the fish and chips ye ate were probably upon a china plate,” Helen said complacently. “At these games, they are wrapped in newspaper, to keep yer hands clean.”
Kosta looked amused. “Then we simply must try some. I am starving, anyway. Come, Emma. I will buy you your dinner. Will you join us, Mrs. Campbell?”
“I would, but I have a prior engagement,” Helen said. Her gaze shifted over their shoulders and she smiled. “And there he is.”
The redheaded Teagan stood by the stand. He had washed and changed and wore a quite proper suit and tie. His hair was tied back neatly with a piece of thong.
Helen smiled at Kosta and Emma and excused herself.
Kosta bought two servings of fish and chips, which they ate sitting on the plank-and-crate benches by the caber tossing field, which was now empty. The fish had been caught the day before, and the chips were last year’s potatoes. Both were excellent.
“I am not entirely sure eating with one’s fingers is acceptable in any company except here.” Emma took a chance and sucked batter from her fingertips.
Kosta’s foot was tapping in time to the roll of the drums they could hear. “When we are finished, let us listen to the music.”
They wound their way through the crowd to the marked off area where the drum players were finishing their competition. Kosta watched with rapt attention, even when the bagpipe players lined up.
The bagpipe playing competition drew a crowd. To Emma it seemed that everyone who attended the games had gravitated to here to listen.
As the sun set, torches were set burning around the big field. At the end of the solo competition came the closing ceremony of the night. Every bagpipe player, including local players who had not entered the contest, lined up in a slow parade around the field. They played traditional Highland tunes which had people cheering and some of them openly weeping with the glorious display.
“There is something quite moving about the music,” Kosta admitted as they moved across the grounds to where the coach driver, George, had agreed to return to take them home once more. “I am not a Scot and even I felt a swell of pride at the sound of them.”
The day of being outdoors in the sun had taken its toll. Emma felt a contented weariness as the coach drove them home. It was still warm enough that traveling in the open coach was refreshing.
Kosta smiled at her. “You look as though you might fall asleep at any minute.”
“It has been a lovely day, Kosta, thank you.” She hesitated. “It has been a nice summer, too. I think I will miss your company when you leave.”
Kosta’s smile remained in place. “I’m glad to hear it, as Will has insisted I stay until the end of July, and I have accepted.”
“You have? That is marvelous, Kosta. Only…will your family not need you back in Constantinople, soon? You have been gone for months.”
“I am a prince without a principality,” he reminded her softly. “There is nothing to return to but a silent house in a noisy city. A few more weeks here in this soft highland air, and I will be ready to face that life once more.” His gaze was steady.
“Then I am pleased you will linger here for a little longer,” she said truthfully.
When they walked into the grand front hall at Kirkaldy, with its black and white tiles, Emma paused upon the Persian rug and considered going straight upstairs. By normal standards, it was still quite early, yet she could feel exhaustion tugging at her.
Morgan appeared at the drawing room door. He wore an evening tuxedo, for he and Will always dressed for dinner, even if Bridget was too harried and too late to change out of her afternoon dress.
“Emma, may I speak to you a moment?” Morgan’s voice was low.
Kosta picked up her hand. “I will be in the library, if you would like a libation before bed?” he murmured.
“Yes, I may,” Emma replied softly.
He kissed her hand, his eyes twinkling, then strode over to the library and shut the door.
Chapter Fourteen
Emma clenched the handle of her folded parasol. “What do you want to speak to me about?” she asked Morgan.
He stepped to one side, clearing the doorway. “In here, where the rest of the household will not hear us.”
“Is Will already retired?” Emma asked.
“He and Bridget went to the games, too. You might have known that if you had paid any attention to the family lately.”
Emma’s gaze jerked back to Morgan. “Excuse me?”
“Come in,” Morgan said and moved away from the door.
Reluctantly, Emma moved into the drawing room. It had been a warm day. She longed to bathe and remove the soil of the day. The elegant drawing room and Morgan’s evening clothes made her feel even more improperly dressed. Appearing in inappropriate attire was a social sin, one she had taken great pains to avoid in her few seasons. Now she was self-conscious.
She stood before the sofa. Morgan leaned his elbow on the mantelshelf. He was tall enough to do it without straining. The fire was not burning, of course. It was mid-summer.
“You have a sunburned nose,” Morgan observed, his voice dry.
“I ate fish and chips out of newspaper, too,” Emma replied. “With my fingers.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard they taste better that way.”
“They do,” she said, her tone cool. “What is it, Morgan? I would like to retire.”
He didn’t react to her near-rudeness. “After Konstantin arrived, I thought it prudent to conduct a discreet investigation of my own—”
“You investigated Kosta?” she breathed, her anger building. “How could you?”
Morgan glanced at the open door, his brows coming together. “Blackawton, Emma. I found out more about Blackawton,” he shot back, his voice low and forceful.
Her anger chilled and dispersed, shoved aside by her surprise. She had not given Blackawton and the mystery of her past a single thought in weeks. She had been far too distracted by a social season unlike any other she had ever attended. A nice season.
She realized she had drifted closer to Morgan, drawn by his low voice and guarded glance at the door. “You learned something?”
Morgan let his arm rest along the shelf. The dull yellow gem in his cuff winked. “I have wondered if I should tell you at all,” he said softly. “Only, too many people have decided on your behalf what to tell you and what to hide from you. For that reason, I will share what I have learned. Only, I must warn
you, Emma…it is not pleasant.”
She drew a breath. Let it out. “Tell me, please.”
Morgan nodded. “Albus Thorburn was a bully at school. Public schools are full of bullies so he didn’t draw attention the way he should have. He didn’t stop his ways when he left school, either. There was an incident in 1856, which the family had hushed up. He beat a woman so badly she lost an eye, when she refused his advances.” Morgan’s gaze was steady.
“That is what you learned?” Emma asked, horror curling through her. “And…Lilly?”
Morgan shook his head. “The only reason the incident in 1856 emerged was because the police were involved before his family managed to dismiss them. My investigator found the police reports. After that event, I imagine Thorburn and his family grew more adept at keeping everything unofficial, especially once he’d inherited the title.” His tone was dry.
Emma brought her hand to her throat. “This man might be my father?” she breathed. She felt ill. “This is who I am?” She turned and moved over to the sofa and sank onto the front of the cushions.
Morgan followed her over. “No,” he said, his tone harsh, his voice soft so no one would overhear them. “It is not you,” he insisted. He sank to a crouch before her. “Look at me, Emma.”
She made herself look at him.
Morgan shook his head. “If we were identical to our parents, then every child of a murderer would become a murderer themselves, but they do not. Even if the man is your father, it does not mean you have inherited any of his qualities. You are so like Lilly, Emma, I am astonished the rest of the family have not made the connection between you before now.” He paused. “Perhaps they have, and in their usual way, have not said anything.”
Emma gave a soft, despairing sigh. “Everyone knows…”
Morgan lifted her chin, making her look at him once more. “It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly. “Lilly is a good woman. Kind. Gentle. You have those qualities, too.”
His fingers under her chin reminded her of the last time he had done that. A kiss had shortly followed. She shivered, unable to remove the memory from her thoughts.
Despite weeks of Morgan’s silence, despite him removing himself from her life in a way which was decisive and irrefutable, Emma still thought about the kiss and yearned for another. Now he was here before her, so close and touching her. Her chest and her belly ached. “You had best stand up and move away,” she whispered.
Morgan dropped his hand from her chin, as if he had been burned. He rose to his feet and moved back to the mantle shelf and rested his hand upon it. He kept his back to her.
Emma rose. “Thank you for telling me about Blackawton.” Her voice was strained. Her whole body seemed to pulse with the tension in the room. It was impossible to turn and walk away, now Morgan was right here in the room with her. They were alone. Surely she should say something? She desperately wanted to ask him about the kiss. The need to question him about it burned in her mind.
“Morgan—”
“Go to bed, Emma.” His voice was hoarse. “Better still, go and have your night cap with the prince.” He didn’t turn around.
Her chest ached. “Morgan, please! You have avoided me all summer. I have a right to know why you…why you…” She glanced at the open door. Damn propriety! It was snarling her life even here in the far north!
Emma did find the will to step across the rug and move to Morgan’s side. She could see his face in profile. The straight nose and the jut of fine locks over his brow, which she wanted to brush back into the rest of the soft mass.
Now she was on the verge of speaking the words, her courage stuttered. She curled her hand into a tight fist. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked, her voice strained and high and barely above a whisper.
Morgan’s eyes closed. He didn’t glance at her, not even in surprise. Then he had been expecting this demand for an explanation.
“I am sorry for that,” he breathed. “It was wrong.”
“It did not seem wrong,” Emma replied, without thinking. Her lips parted in surprise. Why had she said that? How could she speak so directly and crudely?
Only, it was true. “I have ached all summer for another kiss from you, Morgan,” she added. “I should not have—”
“No, you should not have,” he agreed, his voice as stressed as hers.
“You made it clear you meant nothing by it, that it was a passing moment which you regret. Only, I want to know why you kissed me at all.” Her cheeks heated, for this was the most direct conversation she had ever had in her life. “Did I misjudge you, Morgan? Are you really like every other man in London—insincere and concerned only about your own pleasure—”
His groan seemed to tear from deep inside him. Morgan turned and slid his arm behind her waist and pulled her up against him in a hard, fast movement. Her breath was pushed from her in a heavy gasp, as the length of Morgan’s hard body was pressed against hers.
He gave her no time to recover. His lips came down over hers, hot and as firm as the rest of him, with a yielding softness over the hard core. His long fingers thrust into her hair, holding her head still so he could plunder her mouth even more deeply.
No thought of protesting or struggling to escape occurred to her. Instead, pure delight washed through her in a warm wave. Oh, how wonderful it was to be kissed by him! She had not imagined the few heartbeats of pleasure his first kiss had given her.
This time, the languid warmth was even better. She savored every little detail. Morgan’s heat against her, which she could sense even through the layers of muslin and corsetry. His hidden strength. His skin gave off a warm scent which was very masculine and not in the slightest bit objectionable.
Morgan did not seem ready to stop. He did not release her and draw backward in horror. He gave another low growling sound, one which seemed to signal appreciation. The sound made her belly tighten and her body to throb.
He liked kissing her. It sent a thrill through her, making her tremble.
Morgan released her mouth, his own lifting only a few inches, as if he was reluctant to withdraw even that much.
Emma realized her arms were around his neck, helping her stay on her feet and keep her balance. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.
He let out a heavy breath. “If I do not…” He shook his head. “I already stand at the edge of control. I cannot bring myself to let you go. Not now you are where I have wanted you to be for far too long.”
Emma’s heart squeezed and beat heavily. “Then do not,” she whispered.
“You don’t know what you are saying,” he warned.
“I do not, but I would have you teach me.”
His eyes seemed to blaze with energy and heat as his gaze roamed her face. She could feel his quandary. The temptation to give in to her and take what he wanted. Only, this was Morgan. His better sense would win over his base instincts. They always did.
Emma didn’t know how else she might convince him to overcome his qualms. What she had asked for was far beyond the bounds of proper behavior and she didn’t have the courage to speak the words again. Only, she knew she must take this one chance to keep him by her.
She reached up and kissed him, pressing her lips against his mouth. She sensed his reluctance and a fine trembling in his body that hinted at the great need he was repressing. He wanted this too.
It gave her the courage to follow her instincts. She let her hand drift from his neck, up into his hair, to stroke and tease.
The other hand moved almost without her willing it, sliding down his back, to the shallow curve and the tight hips below. Then, her heart thrumming with her own daring, she dropped her fingers even lower, tracing the rounded curve underneath the hem of his jacket and the trousers beneath…
Morgan did tear his mouth from hers, this time, but not to thrust her away. He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling, pressing against her own. “God’s breath…” he groaned.
Emma plucked his arm from around her back and took his h
and. She turned and moved to the door, drawing him after her. Her heart thundered, booming in her head. Her breath was short and shallow, for her corset was far too firmly cinched to allow her the air she needed. She had the strength for this, though. She sensed it in her veins, a pulsing excitement that coursed through them, making every limb tingle. Morgan’s hand in hers was hot and heavy. He did not let go of her hand. Instead, he followed her.
They moved past the closed library door, with the narrow strip of orange light showing at the foot of it and climbed the stairs. Then along the wide corridor, where their bedrooms were.
She paused with her hand on the door to her room, as Morgan’s fingers squeezed. He stepped past her and put his finger against her lips and shook his head.
Silence. If she spoke, anyone on this floor would hear her.
Instead, Morgan moved along the rest of the corridor, bringing her with him. He turned the short corner at the end, moved up the bare wooden steps to the attic and silently opened the door at the top. She was pulled through and the door shut behind them.
It was not completely dark, under the eaves. Dormer windows let in moonlight. The air in the room was heated and still, bringing a gasp of surprise to her lips.
“I’ll open the windows,” Morgan breathed. “Wait here.” He released her hand and moved from one window to the other, lifted the iron handle and thrust them open to the night.
Emma looked around the big, L-shaped space. This was the original front section of the house. There were six windows, three on each side of the roof. In between were support posts and dusty floorboards, with neat piles of trunks and crates, old bureaus and dressing tables, the detritus of generations of the Wardell family. Everything was stacked carefully to give access to the dormers and leave a wide path down the middle of the room. The piles hunched in the dark as anonymous black shadows.
Morgan came back to her and picked up her hand, as the soft air of a hot summer night brushed her face. The dry, dusty aroma departed.
“You are not leaving the way I thought you would,” she murmured.
His fingers tightened. “You have made your decision. Who am I to take that choice from you?” His voice deepened. “Especially as it gives me what I want?”
Year of Folly Page 15
