A Borrowed Scot Page 17

  Her palm cradled his head, her thumb brushing his cheek as he rested his head on the pillow next to her.

  In a moment, he would leave her. His face would close, his expression unreadable, but she would feel a hint of the pain leaking through his control.

  When he would have spoken, she placed her fingers against his lips, turned her head to kiss him, willing him silent.

  What the hell was that?

  Montgomery moved, rolled on his back, away from her.

  Pleasure wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what had happened, but he couldn’t think of another at the moment. He wasn’t sure he could think at all. He wiggled his toes to make sure they were connected to his feet and the feet connected to his legs. He knew his left arm was still intact because that was over his eyes. Experimentally, he flexed his hand, surprised to find it was still working.

  He thought his lips might be numb but knew his manhood was still firmly intact. Everything he was feeling radiated outward from that one spot.

  He’d seen Veronica dressed in her blue wrapper, and beneath, a nightgown so diaphanous he could see the curves of her breasts and the darkness at the apex of her thighs. Lust had taken him unawares. Instant, raging lust, as if he were some rutting beast. He had to have her, and reason or rationale or thoughts of an overdue apology hadn’t stopped him.

  Thank God Veronica, his surprising wife, hadn’t allowed herself to be forced. Nor had she succumbed. She’d demanded. She’d been as wild as he. He had a bite mark on one shoulder to prove it. And possibly some scratches on his buttocks.

  What the hell had come over him? Over her?

  He slitted open one eye. Veronica had her eyes closed, her face upturned. He wished he knew what to say to her. Did a husband thank a wife? Did he especially thank her for being a virago in bed?

  She’d urged him on, as he recalled, and he doubted he was going to forget that anytime soon. The memory of this night, every night with her, might well live on until his deathbed.

  God, he felt good.

  Veronica should get up and go back to her room. Tonight, he’d sleep. He might be hard-pressed to stay awake until she left. Except she wasn’t leaving. She was turning toward him, her hair spread over the pillow, marking it as hers.

  He should speed her on her way, say something to her that he could apologize for in the morning. A statement to get her out of his room.

  Instead, and counter to everything he thought wise, he rolled over, pressed a kiss to her temple. She opened her eyes and quickly closed them again, avoidance in a gesture.

  “Stay,” he said softly. “Please.”

  Without waiting to hear her answer, he drew the sheet over them.

  What the hell was he doing?

  When Veronica awoke, it was dawn.

  Montgomery was dressing, and she watched him for a few moments from beneath half-closed lids. He was so handsome it was a pleasure simply to look at him. Each action, from drawing on his shirt to fastening his cuffs, was done with deliberation. He didn’t look at himself as he dressed. Instead, his gaze seemed focused inward, as if mentally ticking off a list of things he needed to do.

  He sat, pulling on his boots, and remained there a moment, both hands on the arms of the chair, head bent, as if he’d been given a problem requiring a weighty decision.

  Veronica closed her eyes and tried to sense what he was feeling, but all that came to her was a cloud of confusion, colored gray and black.

  She heard him walk to the door, then pause. She pretended to be asleep, not from shyness as much as reluctance. They dealt so much better with each other in the act of passion than when they tried to talk. She didn’t want her questions left unanswered, or see the flat expression in his eyes or the set look on his face.

  Better to love the lover than try to talk to him.

  When certain he was gone, she opened her eyes again and rolled to her back. A moment later, she sat up on the edge of the mattress, found her wrapper lying neatly at the foot of the bed, and dragged it on. Gathering the remnants of her nightgown in case one of the maids found it, she bunched the fabric in a ball in her hands and left Montgomery’s room. Once in her bedroom, she tossed the ruined nightgown into the rubbish, hoping Elspeth wasn’t all that curious.

  At least the seamstresses were preparing a few more nightgowns for her.

  She walked to the bed, picked up the mirror where Montgomery had tossed it the night before, and pressed the drawstring bag against her chest. If she were truly courageous, she’d open the bag, examine the mirror again, and look at the image she’d seen there.

  Instead, she went to the bureau, placed it in the bottom drawer, and slowly closed it.

  The present was confusing enough.

  Chapter 17

  The morning she’d awakened in Montgomery’s bed marked the beginning of a pattern. Veronica rarely saw her husband during the day. Whatever Montgomery did in the distillery with his airship was a secret shared only with Ralston, the majordomo, who was found more often working with Montgomery than at his post, and the other men from Doncaster Hall.

  Nor did Montgomery join her for meals. Every morning, she sat at the family dining table, staring across the expanse of the grand mahogany table, set with a white damask tablecloth, two place settings, and an assortment of fine china. On the sideboard was a selection of chafing dishes, all filled with more food than she could possibly eat. Dinners were taken alone in her sitting room. Sometimes, after dinner, she’d wander down to the library and select a few books to read, including one of the history of Doncaster Hall and the Fairfax dynasty.

  Only at night did they come together, sharing a passion that never failed to surprise her.

  She’d discovered she liked being touched. She especially liked being touched by Montgomery. His hands were expertly talented at doing just that. His kisses were drugging, intense, and she found herself craving them.

  The previous night, he’d not come to her, and it was the first time he’d ever stayed away for two full nights other than the time she’d had her monthlies. She’d wanted to go to him. She’d even left her bed and entered her sitting room, staring at the connecting door.

  If they’d only shared themselves a little more, she might have knocked on the door to see if he needed her. Not her physical self as much as her emotional one. Did he need comfort? Was he in pain?

  Why did he walk the grounds of Doncaster Hall? Every night, no matter the weather, he walked, taking the same route. No doubt the servants thought themselves haunted by a dark specter, a shadowed man. Not a drummer, but a warrior, home from war and evidently still pained from it.

  They didn’t communicate, and other than their kisses and the pleasure he gave her, they didn’t share anything else.

  As the days passed, she became more and more desperate to fill them. She decided to devote herself to good works, perhaps visit all the nearby villages to see if anyone needed assistance from the Fairfax family. Once, she’d written poetry. Perhaps it was time to take up that interest again. She might even plan a visit to those people at Lollybroch who’d been so kind to her a few years earlier. Or take up her needlework again.

  She might begin cataloging the precious objects in the Blue Parlor or the Long Drawing Room, ensuring the records of those possessions were as detailed as the weapons in the Armory. Altogether, she could find occupations for her time, none requiring Montgomery’s approval, assistance, or presence.

  If she tried, she might be able to block all thoughts of him from her mind during the day, thereby replicating his attitude toward her. He didn’t tell her what captured his attention in the distillery. Nor did he ever discuss his airships. The only comments she ever heard were from Elspeth about the laundry maids fussing at the oil stains on his clothing.

  This morning had been the same as each of the previous mornings for the last three weeks. She met with Mrs. Brody to discuss what needed to be addressed by the lady of the house. Mrs. Brody was expert at her position. The housekeeper
managed to feed them all well, and for less, Veronica suspected, than most great houses. The maids worked diligently; the supplies required for the upkeep of Doncaster Hall were purchased with an eye to cost.

  In other words, Veronica wasn’t needed.

  She halted on the staircase, the wood warm beneath her fingers. How much of this was she expected to endure? The rest of her life? Her spirit rebelled at the thought of spending hours each day attempting to find a purpose for herself. Better she should simply find her own way, her own purpose in life.

  She would treat Montgomery exactly as he treated her, as an ornament, perhaps. A prize for a good day’s work. Passion would be a reward, a sweetmeat. The mutton of her life would have to be discovered on her own.

  Montgomery stared at Edmund Kerr, annoyed that the solicitor had interrupted his work.

  The carpenters had provided the six tables he’d needed with remarkable speed, and they’d been set up in a U shape in the middle of the building. Now, Edmund was standing in front of one of the tables, looking at Montgomery as if he were found wanting.

  “You do not wish to tour the factories in Glasgow, Your Lordship?”

  “I can’t imagine a greater waste of my time,” he said, glancing down at his notes.

  He wanted to fix the propeller to the steering wires, a delicate task requiring his concentration. He’d have to wait until Edmund left.

  “Or the fisheries?” Edmund asked.

  “Do they require my presence?”

  He’d spent hours today bending the fins of the propeller into shape. Converting his written plans for a steering mechanism into a prototype had been easier than he’d imagined. For years he’d worked on this design. Being able to build it and fit it to the top of the envelope was cause for celebration.

  He didn’t have anyone to tell.

  He’d never divulged to anyone other than his superior officers in the War Department that he was attempting to devise a way to steer a balloon. Doing so would enable them to command the air currents rather than be at their mercy. No longer would they have to remain tethered in place.

  He’d never discussed his plans with Alisdair or James. Neither of them would have been interested. Nor would they have understood. Caroline was the only person with whom he’d ever discussed his ideas, and that conversation had taken place only because she’d discovered him working late one night in Gleneagle’s library.

  Success without an understanding audience was still success, however.

  If he opened a baffle on both the port and starboard sides of the ship, he could have a positive airflow, enough to give him more control over altitude. He made a notation about tilting the fins just a few degrees before glancing over at Edmund.

  “Is that all?”

  “You don’t care about Doncaster Hall at all, do you, Your Lordship?” Edmund asked. His voice held a befuddled amazement, robbing the words of their sting.

  He glanced up from his notes and focused on the other man.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “May I ask why not, sir?”

  He smiled. “No, you may not.”

  “Is it that you have no intention of remaining in Scotland, Your Lordship?”

  He regarded the man steadily until Edmund took the hint, turned, and left the distillery.

  “Those that board with cats may count on scratches, sir,” Ralston said from behind him.

  He turned to see his majordomo, now budding Balloon Master, staring at Edmund’s back.

  “I take it you don’t like the solicitor, Ralston.”

  “I’ve no fault with him, sir. He thinks like a lawyer. What cannot be helped must be put up with.”

  He decided not to tell Ralston that he, too, had studied law with every intention of practicing. Life had interfered, however.

  “He’s got good intentions, sir,” Ralston said. “But he’s all for the estate. Never mind that people are more important.”

  He doubted Edmund would see it that way. From the moment he’d met the solicitor, it was evident Edmund was devoted to Doncaster Hall and him, but only because Montgomery was the 11th Lord Fairfax. It was the position he revered, not the person.

  Damn it. His concentration was broken. He stared down at the plans in front of him and cursed the solicitor.

  “I’m nearly ready to take the balloon up, Ralston,” he said. “To test the air currents. Care to accompany me?”

  Ralston shook his head.

  “It’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Better be a coward than a corpse, sir,” Ralston said, grinning.

  “I’ll have to get you to change your mind,” he said, deciding to end his work early.

  “You can certainly try,” Ralston said, walking beside him as he left the distillery. “It’s only fair to warn you, sir. The habit of stubbornness is bred into a Scot.”

  He knew that only too well, being married to a stubborn Scot. Yet any comment he might have made was lost in amazement at the scene before them.

  Doncaster Hall had a staff of forty, equally divided between men and women. Most of the men were arrayed on the sloping lawn in front of Doncaster Hall, forming three lines, while his wife stood at their head. In front of each line of men was a bucket of water.

  When Veronica raised her arm, the first man grabbed the bucket, passed it to the next man, who passed it again, until the bucket reached the last man in line who threw its contents on a pile of flaming straw behind them.

  Evidently, Veronica was timing each group, and when the winner was announced, the men in the middle line raised their arms in triumph.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “A fire brigade, sir,” Ralston said. “Lady Fairfax has insisted upon it.”

  “Has she? Why?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve no idea. The lads have been at it since noon.”

  She was wearing a dress he’d not seen before, something in a green stripe he liked.

  He strode up the hill, advancing on his wife. Veronica saw him coming and addressed the men.

  “You’ve all done very well. Remember the colors of your units, and we’ll practice more next week.”

  “Colors?”

  She didn’t answer him, merely turned, and placed the buckets in a stack.

  “Veronica.”

  “Montgomery,” she said, still not looking at him.

  “Why have you begun a fire brigade?”

  She turned and faced him. “Are you returning to America?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you walk every night?” she asked.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  She lowered her voice. “Why haven’t you come to me in the last two nights?”

  He frowned at her.

  “What are you working on in the distillery?”

  When he didn’t speak, she matched his frown with one of her own.

  “I’m not answering any of your questions,” she said, “until you’ve answered some of mine.”

  With that, she grabbed the buckets, turned, and marched away, leaving him staring after her.

  Veronica took the stairs to the second floor, hoping Elspeth wasn’t in her room. She was perilously close to tears and didn’t want anyone to witness them. She’d always been protective of what she felt, probably because she felt the emotions of others so keenly.

  Entering her chamber, she was grateful to find it empty, and closed the door behind her.

  After taking the mirror from the bureau, she walked into the sitting room and sat on one of the comfortable chairs near the window. Slowly, she withdrew the mirror from its protective bag but kept the brown glass facing away from her. Did she want to see a glimpse of her future again? Was it even the future? Perhaps it was only her deepest wish given form. Perhaps she wouldn’t see happiness at all. Instead, she might witness Montgomery returning to Virginia alone.

  She held the mirror up, then turned it, forcing herself to look into the reflection. The brown glass remained dark and murky. All sh
e saw was the faint reflection of her face, her eyes too wide and almost fearful.

  Had she imagined what she’d seen?

  In the carriage, after the meeting at the Society the Mercaii, she’d still been suffering from the effects of whatever drug they’d given her. On her wedding night, she’d seen something, but Montgomery had interrupted her before she could study the reflection completely.

  At the moment, she wanted to see her future. She wanted to see something more hopeful than what she felt.

  The glass didn’t change.

  She heard Elspeth come into the bedchamber, and it gave her enough time to compose herself. Before she could put the mirror into its bag, however, Elspeth peered around the doorway.

  “What is that, Your Ladyship?”

  Her heart sank when Elspeth walked to her side, reached down, and picked up the mirror. The other woman didn’t look into the reflection. Instead, her fingers fingered the diamonds on the edge of the mirror.

  “It’s the Tulloch Sgàthán,” Elspeth said, her voice amazed. “I haven’t seen it since I was a little girl.”

  “The Tulloch Sgàthán?” she asked, motioning to the adjoining chair. Elspeth took a seat, smiling down at the back of the mirror.

  Veronica was vacillating between disappointment she hadn’t seen anything in the reflection and a surge of excitement that the mirror had been identified by Elspeth, of all people.

  “Although I can’t remember all these bright stones,” Elspeth said. “It may not be the same one.” She glanced over at Veronica. “It belonged to my grandmother, Mary Tulloch.”

  “You’re not looking in the mirror, Elspeth, why?”

  The other woman smiled, looked down at the back of the mirror before handing it back to her.

  “It’s the Tulloch Sgàthán,” Elspeth said, as if that were enough of an explanation.

  “Does it tell the future?”

  Elspeth smiled. “My granny said the mirror showed a woman a path. It was up to her whether to take it. So, I guess it does tell the future in a way.”

  She stared down at the mirror.