by Shana Galen
She didn’t know what made her do it—she supposed she was desperate for distraction—but she nodded.
His mouth had quirked up, and he’d pulled her against him. She’d gasped but barely had time to take a breath before he’d kissed her. And she’d no time to enjoy the kiss before his hand was on her breast. She knew she should tell him to stop, but it felt good. Rosemont knew how to kiss, and when she kissed him back, his thumb found her nipple and circled it. She might have stayed in the music room with him, doing God knew what, if he hadn’t broken the kiss to kiss her neck and whisper, “You like that, don’t you, little slut?”
All the heat coursing through her drained away, and she’d moved out of his arms. He’d let her go, a quizzical smile on his lips.
“I must return to the ball.”
He’d nodded. “Go ahead. You know where to find me.”
Emmeline had spent the rest of that evening resisting the urge to return to the music room. And she might have gone if he hadn’t called her a slut. Why should she be deemed a loose woman because she enjoyed a kiss?
“We should stop,” Stratford said now.
“I knew you would say that.” She sat back, her body still vibrating from the feel of his mouth on hers.
“You know me too well. We are friends. Good friends. I don’t want to ruin things.”
Emmeline supposed that was her cue to agree and shake hands and walk away. But she’d said she was tired of pretending. “Are we?” she said.
“Are we?” he repeated.
“Are we good friends? Do we know each other all that well? Certainly, we have known each other for a long time, but we were never close. We never spent much time together.”
He swallowed then raked a hand through his hair, making it stick up. “I suppose that’s because of the age difference and because I was a boy and you a girl.”
“So then we don’t really know each other all that well,” she said. “We’re not even true cousins.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you arguing that I should keep kissing you?”
She was not arguing against it. Emmeline raised her brows. “Do you want to keep kissing me?”
He hesitated then stood and paced away from her. “You might consider there’s a good reason we never spent much time together when we were younger. It might be wise to limit the time we spend together now.”
Emmeline stared at him. Was he implying he’d wanted to kiss her when they were younger? That he’d kept his distance to keep from acting on his attraction to her?
“Mr. Fortescue?”
Emmeline and Stratford both looked toward the stairway leading into the kitchen. Ines’s voice carried down. Emmeline wanted to tell him to keep quiet, to stay with her and kiss her again, but she knew that wasn’t possible. The moment had passed, and Ines might need help with Murray.
“We’re down here, Ines,” Emmeline called.
“Oh, good! I’ve found you.” Her footsteps grew closer as she started down the stairs, and Stratford crossed the room to the stove, where the potatoes Emmeline had quite forgotten about were cooking.
Ines appeared, looking rumpled and tired in her blood-stained dress. “Mr. Murray is awake and doing well.” She smiled, and Emmeline smiled too.
“Good. I imagine he is hungry.”
“Yes, and he is demanding whisky. That is a good sign, sim?”
Stratford lifted a potato from the boiling water and speared it. “That sounds like Duncan. I don’t have whisky, but I have potatoes. We won’t starve.”
“Oh, good! Mr. Murray needs food to maintain his strength. But I have come to tell you we need a carriage tomorrow.”
“Is Mr. Murray well enough to travel?” Emmeline asked.
“The surgeon did advise against it, but he can travel if he has a nurse. I have agreed to be his nurse.” Ines looked small and young. Murray could probably flick her away with one finger. Emmeline could not see her succeeding as his nurse.
“But you cannot travel with him alone,” she said because she knew Ines was as stubborn as she, and if she told the other woman she couldn’t do something, she’d be all the more determined to do it.
Ines nodded. “I confess, I did hope you would come too, Miss Wellesley. If he should become ill with fever, I might need help.”
Emmeline pressed her lips together at the understatement. “Of course, I will come.”
“Bloody hell,” Stratford muttered on the other side of the kitchen.
“Pardon, Mr. Fortescue?” Emmeline asked sweetly.
“I knew you would say that. But we cannot go to Scotland with Duncan. I have to take you back to Odham Abbey. I have to take Miss Neves back to London.”
“But I do not want to go back to London yet,” Ines said.
“And I do not want to go back to Odham Abbey,” Emmeline said. “So you may either return without us or accompany us to Scotland.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “Unless you think you can force us to go back against our will.”
Stratford blew out a breath and covered his eyes with a hand. Emmeline took it as a sign of resignation.
“Scotland is days away, and Duncan is a Highlander,” Stratford argued. “Who knows how difficult it will be to reach his home?”
Emmeline cocked her head. “That’s all the more reason to accompany your friend. He may need your help.”
Stratford shook his head. “Duncan is practically impossible to kill. But you two—I can’t send you off alone.”
Emmeline tried not to smile. No one liked when winners gloated. “Should you send another letter to your father?” she suggested. “I can finish the potatoes.”
“Fine.” He stormed away, muttering something about strangling Nash under his breath.
“Do not forget about the carriage!” Ines called after him. A door slammed in response, and Loftus raised his head momentarily before returning to sleep.
Emmeline fished the rest of the potatoes out of the water and began to search for something to use to season them. “Are you certain you want to travel to Scotland?” she asked Ines.
“I am not certain at all, but I am not ready to go home.”
“Then we leave tomorrow at first light.”
Emmeline did not add that their leaving was contingent upon Mr. Murray being well enough to travel in the morning. That was by no means a foregone conclusion.
DUNCAN
“Why is everraone so surprised I’m nae yet dead?” Duncan asked the next morning.
“I think it’s more that we are wishing you had allowed us to sleep a bit longer,” Stratford said, squinting his eyes against the rising sun. Duncan had roused the entire house just before dawn. He’d always been an early riser, and he figured that it was better to leave before Nash decided to kick them out.
Miss Neves had been easy to wake. She’d slept in a chair in the parlor. She’d spent half the night checking to see if he had a fever. That was before he’d yelled at her to go to sleep or he’d bite her hand off. Thinking about it now, that might have been a bit harsh, but he’d been tired and his arm had been hurting and he hadn’t wanted to be coddled.
He also hadn’t wanted her to stay with him all night. Why was she so caring, so kind to him? He’d done nothing to deserve it, and she was a wee thing who needed her rest. He should have told her to go to her own chamber.
But he’d been selfish and said nothing because he liked having her nearby.
Now she and Miss Wellesley had disappeared to gather supplies, and Duncan sat on the front steps watching the drive for the carriage Stratford had supposedly hired. The broad-shouldered smiling dog Miss Wellesley had brought back with her yesterday sat beside him, breathing his warm breath on Duncan’s shoulder. “The day is getting away from us,” he said.
“I wouldn’t call this day,” Stratford said irritably. He turned away from the sun. “I doubt the coach and driver I hired will arrive for another hour at least.”
“Then we should start walking toward the village.”
> Stratford gave him a disgusted look. “You are in no shape to walk anywhere, and I walked to the village twice yesterday. We’ll wait for a while longer.” Stratford sat next to Duncan, and the dog moved so he could breathe on both of them.
“I dinnae think Nash will take it too kindly if he finds us here when he wakes.”
“Then I’ll smash Nash over the head,” Stratford said. “That’s what I should have done yesterday.”
“Smashing over the heid isnae yer specialty.”
Stratford shrugged. “I learned a few things during the war.”
Duncan laughed. “So ye did. I dinnae suppose ye learned how tae talk the two lassies oot of coming with me tae Scotland.”
“I tried last night. They seem quite determined and have convinced themselves you will die en route if they do not accompany you.”
“More like they’ll see me killed. Draven will have my heid when he catches up tae us.”
“It’s not your fault the woman stowed away in your hired coach.”
“And I might convince him of that if he doesnae kill me first.” Duncan looked down the drive again, debating whether he should say more. But then why not? Stratford was good at plans and stratagems. He might be able to help. “The problem is that the lass wants tae ruin herself with me.”
Duncan could see Stratford’s head slowly turn until he was staring at Duncan. “Go on.”
“She wants me tae kiss her.”
“Tell her no.”
“I did tell her nae.” He rubbed his arm where the wound ached. “I dinnae ken if I can keep telling her nae,” he said quietly.
Stratford was silent so long that Duncan looked at him. “Well, do ye have a plan tae save me?”
“Kissing her is hardly ruining her,” Stratford said.
“It’s the first step on the path,” Duncan said. “And she’s a bonny lass. I wouldnae mind kissing her.” Duncan frowned. “What’s wrong with ye? Are ye nae supposed tae tell me not tae do it? Are ye nae going tae tell me how tae keep her at bay?”
Stratford stood. “I wish I had some advice for you, Duncan. But I think in your position, I would probably kiss her. Ah, there’s the coach now.” He walked away and waved a hand.
Duncan stared at his friend’s back. What the hell had gotten into the man? He was always the voice of caution and reason. In London, when Duncan had been on his bride hunt, Stratford had been the one to steer him away from the tempting widows and the beckoning courtesans. He’d told Duncan to stay focused on his search for a wife. But by the end, Duncan had been spending more time at gaming hells and the Draven Club than at Vauxhall Gardens or Hyde Park, places where the marriageable misses frequented. He’d always known the English looked down on the Scottish, but he hadn’t expected to have so many women turn their noses up at him or recoil in either fear or disgust.
His uncle was the Duke of Atholl. His mother was the daughter of the Earl of Montleroy. He was half-English. But to the eyes of the ladies of Society, he was an uncouth Highlander who wanted to steal their daughters and take them back to live with barbarians.
His pride had been hurt. More than hurt, shattered.
Duncan supposed he had expected the English women to behave like the women in Scotland. Duncan had been considered quite the catch at home, and he’d never wanted for female company. There were any number of lasses in Kirkmoray he might have married. He’d argued with his mother for months that a Scottish lass was worth ten of any English lass. His mother, though English herself, had agreed. But she hadn’t been swayed.
“Duncan, you know your uncle’s struggles with the British government. They take our land, our livestock, our men. Your cousins have found English wives—well, those who have half a brain have. You will do the same. That way we ensure the safety of our land and people.”
“But mother, an English lass will never survive up here.”
She’d held up one imperious hand. “Then you will find one who is strong and hearty. Bring her home and marry her here. If I find her lacking, I will send her back.” And she’d turned and walked away. Apparently, that had been her final word because the next time Duncan brought up the subject, she informed him she had hired a coach to take him to London.
On the trip south, Duncan couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Charlotte would send him back if he returned empty-handed. He knew his mother loved him, but since his father died, Lady Charlotte had to run the farm and take care of three small children all on her own. She was a strong woman, and when he’d been young, he had not thought anything could bring her to her knees. But the death of his father, James Murray, had flattened her.
Theirs had been a love match. She’d run away to Scotland with James and married him against her family’s wishes. Duncan could only imagine what her life had been like as the daughter of an earl. She had certainly never had to cook or mend or feed pigs before her marriage. And yet she did it all with grace and skill. She transitioned effortlessly from washing clothes in the morning to hosting one of the Duke of Atholl’s balls in the evening. It was no wonder that James Murray had fallen in love with her. There seemed to be nothing Lady Charlotte could not do.
Duncan had never questioned his parents’ love for each other. His mother had left all of her family, friends, and wealth behind to marry the younger son of a laird who lived on a farm—a rather large, prosperous farm but a farm—in Scotland. And Duncan had watched his mother rail about some problem or other only to end up laughing when James Murray had put his arms around her and pulled her into his lap.
Duncan had always wanted a marriage like theirs. He wanted the happiness he remembered from his house when he had been young. Before he’d killed his father and everyone had come to hate him.
Oh, his mother said she did not hate him, but why else had she urged him to go to war and then, only months after he returned, sent him away to London? Perhaps it would have been better if he’d died here at Wentmore. He was returning home without a potential bride and absolutely no prospects. His efforts at finding a bride had been dismal failures. His mother could add his inability to marry the daughter of an English peer to his long list of disappointments.
“Oh, good! The coach has arrived,” Miss Wellesley said as she stepped out of the house. Duncan had braced himself when he’d heard the door open, ready for Nash to take another shot at him and perhaps hit him in the head this time. He looked back at her. She was dressed in the same traveling clothing she’d been wearing, but her hair looked clean and neat. She set down a wicker basket to pet the dog who rushed over to greet her as soon as she stepped out. She looked down at him and nodded. “Last night I confirmed with Mrs. Brown that your trunks will be sent on to Scotland separately. You have all you need from them?”
“Aye.” Duncan had retrieved clean clothing as well as a few other necessities. He’d even made use of his razor.
“You look better this morning,” Miss Wellesley said.
Duncan did not want to look behind her for Miss Neves. He wanted to turn back around and watch Stratford converse with the coachman. He could tell the two men were discussing the best routes to take north.
But Duncan didn’t turn around. He watched the door until he spotted Ines. He shouldn’t think of her as Ines. She hadn’t given him leave to use her Christian name, but it was not a name he had heard often, and he liked the way it sounded in his head. She wore a clean dress now, one not covered by his blood. It looked like it might have been a maid’s livery as it was a plain, dark blue without any embellishment. But the simplicity suited her, showing her slender figure to advantage. Her hair was neat and swept into some sort of coil that tucked in upon itself. Duncan didn’t know the name of it. He knew he would have liked to unravel it, though.
She carried two bottles, and when she saw him, she lifted one with a smile.
Duncan rose slowly to his feet, aware that if he fell over now, it would cause a stir. “Dinnae tell me that’s whisky,” he said.
“It is for medicinal use,” she said
primly.
“It always is, lass.” He reached for it, but she swept by him, holding the bottle out of his reach. Of course, she only came to his shoulder. If he’d really wanted the bottle, he could have easily snatched it away from her. “Do ye ken what’s in the other bottle?”
“Gin,” she said. “To keep your wound clean.”
Duncan snorted. Now that he was feeling better, he wouldn’t allow anyone to waste gin cleaning the scratch on his arm.
“Mr. Murray, should you be standing?” Miss Wellesley asked.
“He should sit until we are ready to depart,” Ines said, giving him a disapproving look. Duncan couldn’t say why he liked it so much when she frowned at him and scolded. He supposed it was because he’d just spent months with women who ran the other way when he entered a room. He liked a woman who didn’t fear him.
“But he will not listen, Emmeline. He never listens.”
“I might listen,” Duncan said. “If ye tell me.”
Miss Wellesley looked from Duncan to Ines and then cleared her throat. “I had better bring this basket to Mr. Fortescue to load.” She went down the steps, the dog trotting after her.
Ines put her hands on her hips, the bottles resembling strange panniers. “Last night you threatened to cut my hand off if I touched your forehead again. Now you are willing to listen to reason, senhor?”
Duncan shrugged. “I can be a bit of a bawbag when I’ve nae slept enough.”
Her brow wrinkled.
“But I’ve slept now, and I’m in better spirits.”
“Fine. Then I suggest you sit down and rest until we are ready.”
“Och, lass. Where’s yer fire? A bairn wouldnae sit if ye spoke in that tone.”
“Sit down, Mr. Murray. Do not stand until I tell you,” she ordered. Oh, but the hair rose on the back of his arms when she spoke like that. Still, he didn’t sit.
“Come make me, lass.” He was playing with fire, and he knew it. She’d already threatened to make him the first man she kissed. Why was he flirting with her? For a moment she looked as though she did not know what to do. Then she raised the whisky bottle.
