The Scottish Companion Page 12

  “You ignored me at the ball, Miss Cameron. Why?”

  “I thought it prudent.”

  “Do you always take the most prudent course?” he asked.

  She had not been a model of restraint for all her life, but for the last two years she’d practiced it diligently. Yet he seemed to beckon her to forbidden places with his questions and tempt her to be foolish enough to say what she truly thought.

  She was no wiser at this moment. “I attempt to do so, Your Lordship.”

  He motioned his hand toward a pew. When she hesitated, he smiled. “We are in a chapel, Miss Cameron. In the sight of God. Surely you can relax your guard sufficiently for a moment.”

  She sat down, drawing her skirts around her ankles, placing her hands on her knees, and exhibiting the posture of which she’d always been so proud.

  He came, sat in the pew in front of her, and turned to face her, his arm on the carved back. “Shall we pretend that we have never met each other?” he asked.

  “To what purpose, Your Lordship?”

  He didn’t answer her question.

  “I shall be an acquaintance of your father’s. And you shall be someone he has long wished for me to meet.”

  “Will you still be an earl, Your Lordship?”

  “I think I shall be a plain mister,” he said. “But we knew each other before, as children. You shall call me Grant, and I will call you Gillian.”

  “Your Lordship,” she began, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “I am Grant,” he said, “and you are Gillian. Where did we meet for the first time? At a gathering for your grandmother, I recall.”

  “No,” she corrected, entering into his game, “a very ancient friend of hers, I believe. A woman who was very taken with your father, as I remember. Being, as he was, a bookseller in Inverness.”

  His smile broadened. “A bookseller in Inverness?”

  “You aren’t an aristocrat,” she said. “But I often remember thinking that, as a boy, you were insufferably proud.”

  “Did you truly think so?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “But I believe it was an affectation only, and not a true reflection of your character. After all, you went to school with boys who were destined to serve in the House of Lords.”

  “I wonder, did I make their life miserable in school?”

  “Was yours?”

  “No worse than for anyone else in a similar position,” he said easily. “I learned to defend myself and to not mind being away from Rosemoor.”

  He was telling the truth, she was sure of it, and she wanted to give him something of herself in return.

  “I was very studious when I was young,” she said. “Perhaps you remember that I used to hide in the corner of my father’s library.”

  “A well-read man, I’d often thought.”

  She shook her head. “I suspect that my father wished other people to think so. Unfortunately, I think he bought the books by the yard to impress others, rather than to read any of them. But they suited me, and I vowed to make my way through each and every volume.”

  “Did you?”

  “I confess to having no interest whatsoever in horticulture or farming methods, and there were several philosophers who bored me beyond belief. But I adored the novels. I could have read novels endlessly. In fact, I was often accused of wishing to read my life away.”

  “Because the one you lived was too difficult?”

  The questions were becoming too personal, but she answered him anyway. “My father remarried when I was ten. My mother had died at my birth, you see. My stepmother was a very nice woman, and very civil, in her way. But she had a child quite soon after they were wed, and their attention was rightfully directed to the baby.”

  He didn’t say anything, merely stood up, went into the aisle, and then surprised her by sitting in the same pew she occupied. He didn’t look at her, merely stared ahead at the altar.

  “Were you a fanciful child?” he asked

  She thought about the question for a moment. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I was a lonely child, though, so perhaps I was.”

  “So, not fanciful as much as forgotten.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “You seem reluctant to speak of your youth. Why?”

  “Perhaps I don’t wish to revisit it,” she said, looking at him.

  “Was the question rude?’

  “Not excessively so,” she answered. “But I prefer to live in the present, Your Lordship. Not a fabricated past.”

  He stretched out a hand, and captured one of hers.

  “I would have liked you as a child,” he said. “I might’ve teased you out of your quiet. I might’ve told you my deepest, darkest secrets.”

  “Did you have so very many back then?”

  “I had a few,” he said. “But like you, I had no confidantes. I was the heir, you see, and treated differently from my brothers. More was expected of me than James and Andrew, so our paths in life were not the same.”

  “I’m glad that I didn’t know you as a child,” she said. He glanced at her but didn’t speak.

  She gently pulled her hand away. “As an earl’s heir, you would have intimidated me. I would have said to myself: There is a boy, a quite handsome boy, who seems to be as alone as me. If he wasn’t to be an earl, I would talk to him. But, of course, you were, and I would never have escaped my shyness.”

  For a few long moments they sat in companionable silence. Just when she thought he must be impatient to leave, he spoke again.

  “I see you in my mind, Gillian. A very bookish, silent child who no doubt looked at the world with very wide eyes, marveling at everything and commenting on nothing.”

  “I was indeed that child,” she said, smiling.

  “And now?”

  “Perhaps I am less wide-eyed, but I still marvel at a great many things. This chapel for one,” she said, tilting back her head and examining the shadows of the buttressed ceiling. “What an absolutely glorious place this is.”

  “I think I hate it,” he said, staring straight ahead.

  Surprised, she lowered her head and looked at him, remaining silent and wondering if he would comment further.

  “The funeral for my brother was the last ceremony to be held here,” he finally said. “There was a soloist, a young boy, and his voice traveled through the entire space as if he were an angel exhorting us to be silent and think upon our mortal souls. I can still hear his voice. Or maybe it’s only the faint screams of angels.”

  Startled, she stared at him. “Why would you say that, Your Lordship?”

  “Perhaps it is my conscience speaking. An overused organ, that. Perhaps I’m simply tired and talking nonsense.”

  He dropped her hand and stood.

  She wanted to approach him and then place her lips so very sweetly, so very gently against his.

  “I was wrong to tell you to relax your guard, Miss Cameron. It was not wise of me,” he added, his voice clipped and stern. In a matter of seconds he’d gone from being an affable companion to reverting to his role as an aristocrat.

  “Am I being chastised for being here? You didn’t seem to scorn my company a moment ago, Your Lordship.”

  Perhaps it was better if he didn’t regard her as any more than a servant. Let him see her as an urn, a set of fireplace tools. Even a log in the grate. Let him be very surprised when she deigned to speak from time to time, that an inanimate object might be given voice.

  “I apologize for disturbing you,” she said, her voice sounding remarkably calm, almost disinterested. “I won’t visit the chapel again.” She stood, drawing her shawl around her shoulders, clutching it tight.

  “Miss Cameron,” he said. “You misunderstand.”

  Oh, she understood quite well. She was Arabella’s companion. What more was there to say?

  “Miss Cameron, you are unattached, with no male relatives to protect you. I am not yet married, although my intentions have already been announced toward Miss Fento
n. The world would not understand our being alone together.”

  She really did understand. But she had been so captivated by the man that she’d forgotten her vow to be decorous.

  “Besides all that,” he said, his voice holding a note of what sounded amazingly like tenderness, “you are a very attractive young woman, Miss Cameron. And you have a mouth that looks made for kissing.”

  Shocked, her gaze flew to his. The grip on her shawl lessened, and it almost felt the floor before she caught it with one trembling hand.

  “I found myself wanting very much to kiss you, Miss Cameron, and that would, regrettably, dishonor both of us.”

  “You want to kiss me?”

  Another woman, a wiser one, perhaps would not have asked that question.

  His face changed. Whereas a moment ago there had been sternness, now there was a softening of his features, a curve to his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  She really should leave this place. She really should run away, as far and as fast as her feet could carry her. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could simply forget for a moment, and indulge in a little wickedness? Oh, but a little wickedness had nearly ruined her. She could not endure any more scandal.

  “I think it would be a very good idea if you left now, Miss Cameron. And please, do not look at me with such somber gaze, as if you’re actually giving credence to the thought of our kissing.”

  “Would you prefer I looked shocked, Your Lordship?”

  “I think it would be wiser.”

  He took one step toward her, and she took a precautionary step back. A curious dance to be held in the aisle of the massive chapel.

  Did God witness their thrust and retreat, and was He amused? The distant thunder indicated that perhaps He was not.

  Her heart felt as if it were racing, attempting to match the pace of her indrawn breath. Where the blood beat close to the surface of her skin she felt heated, but her extremities were as cold as if they’d been encased in ice.

  How could a simple man cause such damage to her equilibrium?

  Because he wasn’t a simple man. He was an earl, the owner of everything she could see. Yet he was mortal, and not imbued with the qualities of angels. Nor was he a monster, however fierce his frown. He was neither misshapen nor ill formed. His physique was truly magnificent, if she allowed her thoughts to travel in such a direction.

  Ah, but then, she was supposed to be ruined, was she not? A man’s physique was not an entirely forbidden subject.

  His eyes were, by degrees, either very warm or they were cold, as cold as snow. His mouth was as capable of revealing his emotions, tight with irritation, or as now, smiling slightly.

  She’d begun to look for his smile.

  The wind blew the door ajar, and for a moment she was startled into looking beyond the earl to the entrance. Were spirits adrift in this place, or had she simply not fastened the door well enough?

  She turned back to him, to find that the distance had closed between them. He breathed quietly if a little rapidly, as did she. She wondered if his heart beat as quickly as hers.

  She wanted so desperately to be kissed.

  No, she wanted him to kiss her.

  “Miss Cameron. Gillian,” he whispered.

  Now would come the condemnation. Now he would lecture her about her comportment. Now he would issue her a warning, or even worse, he would dismiss her from Arabella’s employ. All those horrible things traveled through her mind in a flash of a second.

  “I want to put my mouth on you,” he said instead.

  And then he did, so softly that his lips felt like a breath. She inhaled a sigh, and leaned toward him, placing both palms against his chest. He extended his arms around her, pulling her closer, and she, fool that she was, walked eagerly into his embrace.

  A kiss should not be magic. A kiss should not feel like the spark from Volta’s engine. But this one did. This kiss was a gate, swinging open slowly, beckoning her to part her lips, and angle her head just so. His face seemed to be a magnet for her two hands, her fingers gently touching his jaw as if to keep him from ending the kiss.

  Slowly, softly, endearingly, he lured her to passion. His mouth promised delight as he deepened the kiss; his hands slid to her waist as if testing her receptiveness. Through it all, as her body warmed, her mind remained carefully numb, her thoughts blanked by the taste of desire.

  He was the one to end it.

  She could hear his breathing, as rapid as hers.

  Now was the time for recriminations, but she felt none. She missed passion, regretted the absence of it in her life, and understood the eagerness she now felt. In a strange and remarkable way, the shadows seem to approve. The air was warmer, and perhaps even God, if He had entered and lingered here, was more inclined to forgive them their human frailties. But the world looked askance at sybarites, and she was not the type of woman who endured society’s censure with ease.

  She bent and retrieved her shawl from where it had fallen, leaving him before she could beg him to continue, before she could say the words to lure him to her bed.

  He remained silent as she walked down the aisle, perhaps knowing that a word would have held her there.

  She closed the door to the chapel and ran all the way back to Rosemoor, needing the exertion, needing something to overcome the panicky feeling deep inside her chest. She was out of breath before she reached her room, her stays digging into her side.

  Twice she stopped in the hallway to regain her composure, and more than once she waved away a solicitous footman. When she reached her room, she closed the door and sagged against it.

  Tonight, at least, regret would fuel her dreams instead of grief.

  Chapter 13

  The countess was escorting Arabella from room to room, explaining the history of Rosemoor and the duties she would need to assume. Dr. Fenton was occupied writing letters. Everyone seemed to have a purpose, duties to perform and tasks to do.

  Gillian had only her thoughts for company.

  She was tired of seeking refuge in her room. Five days had gone by since the night of the ball and she’d barely seen the earl, except for catching sight of him in the corridor occasionally. She’d always slip into an adjoining room to avoid him. She refused to attend dinner, claiming that she wasn’t hungry. Thanks to the complicity of a maid who brought her a nightly tray, she didn’t miss a meal. What had she gained for all her efforts? A healthy dose of misery, and the approval of Dr. Fenton.

  “I commend you on your taking our little talk to heart, Gillian,” he’d said, just this morning. “I trust that you will continue to remember your place.”

  “Of course, sir.” Fallen woman. Foolish woman. She’d forced a smile on her face and left the room as quickly as she could.

  Today, however, even nature seemed to chide her for hiding. The sky was a cloudless deep blue, the air was cool, and the morning promised a lovely day. She escaped to the rose garden, slowly walking the graveled paths, admiring the various species of roses the countess had collected over the years.

  “Buon giorno.”

  Startled, Gillian turned around to find her herself the object of a stranger’s regard. She stared at him for a moment, as her mind tried to make sense of what, exactly, she was seeing.

  A man was standing in the middle of the path grinning at her. His waistcoat was scarlet, embroidered in gold thread. His jacket was black and a longer style than what was popular, but expertly fitted over trousers that looked to be the same fine wool. His shoes were nearly eclipsed by bright silver buckles. But that was not the only place he sparkled. The man was a walking jewel case. A gold fob on his waistcoat was sprinkled with diamonds, and he wore a very large ruby ring on the third finger of his right hand. To top off the picture, his left hand rested on the jewel-encrusted top of a mahogany walking stick.

  “You are a vision of loveliness, a rose in a common English garden.” He placed one hand over his heart and bowed.

  “I beg y
our pardon, sir?”

  Her tone was, perhaps, too sharp, but he’d surprised her, and she didn’t like being surprised, especially when she was indulging in a bit of silliness like feeling sorry for herself.

  “He is one of my friends, Miss Cameron, and a man with whom you should be appropriately cautious.”

  Grant came into view, almost as if he were waiting for her in the rose garden. A foolish thought and one she immediately pushed away.

  The stranger laughed, sending a smile toward the earl. “It is true, my dear,” he said, turning his attention once more to Gillian. “I am not given to English sensibilities. I have too much passion. Count Paterno, at your ser vice,” he said, bowing once more.

  “Scottish, Lorenzo. If you must insult my nationality, at least get it right.”

  The other man laughed. “I meant no insult, my dear friend. But I am simply not as rigid as you. Especially when it comes to the women.

  “Tell me,” he said, turning back to Gillian once more, “are you to be Grant’s bride?” He cocked his head, regarded her, and smiled.

  When she didn’t answer, he laughed again. “Grant, she is a very pretty girl. With some spirit, if I do not mistake that look of ire in her eyes. I am delightfully surprised. Shocked, perhaps, by your wisdom. I approve of your choice, my friend.”

  “Lorenzo,” Grant began.

  “I know, my friend, I know. I wander where I do not belong. You’ll have to forgive me, my dear, for my frankness. But you see, I think my friend is a fool. He has many responsibilities, and he works very hard. Too hard, perhaps. But he has no fun while doing it. But now, perhaps, he can have some fun, true?”

  “Miss Cameron is not my bride, Lorenzo.” Grant’s tone was sharp. “She is, however, under my protection.”

  “Not your bride? Is this true?” Lorenzo asked, turning to her.

  Gillian nodded.

  “What a pity. I hope your bride is as lovely, my friend.”

  Lorenzo smiled at her. “I notice he is very protective of you, is he not?” he said in a low voice. Grant, however, could still hear him, evidenced by his frown. “I wonder if he’s as careful of the maids in his employ?”