My Highland Rogue Page 18

  “Betty confessed something on her deathbed. Would you like to know what she said?”

  “I’m too old and too tired for stories. Leave me be.”

  “Sean told me that Betty switched the babies after the fire. You were one of the few people who would know if that’s true.”

  She opened her eyes, turned her head, and stared at him.

  “What is it you want from me?”

  “The truth. Did Betty switch the babies, Miss McBride?”

  “She was a hard woman. I imagine you know that, Gordon McDonnell. She could put fear into anyone just with a glance. We weren’t friends, in case you think that.”

  “Did Betty switch the babies, Miss McBride?” he asked again.

  She looked away, staring out the window once more.

  “We lost one of our own that night. A lass by the name of Maisie. She was a good girl, a strong girl. She’d had her own child just three months earlier. Her husband was as proud as could be that she got a place at Adaire Hall. I didn’t even get to go to her funeral.”

  She looked up at him, and he was startled by the sheen of tears in her eyes.

  “It took the countess months after the fire to leave her sickbed. It took me weeks.”

  She shocked him by pulling up her skirt to reveal her right leg. It was a web of scars, just like the countess’s face. She wasn’t done, however. She unbuttoned her cuff and rolled up her right sleeve. It, too, showed signs of being badly burned.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “There was no reason for you to. I don’t go around showing myself to other people.”

  She buttoned her cuff again, taking so much time with the task that he almost bent forward to do it for her. She wouldn’t have welcomed that.

  “To answer your question, Gordon McDonnell, I don’t know. By the time I was well enough to take up my duties again, two months had passed. Whatever I suspected, I kept to myself.”

  He didn’t believe her. There was something in the way she refused to meet his eyes that told him she was lying.

  She closed her eyes again, effectively shutting him out. He couldn’t pull words from her mouth or a confession from her soul.

  “Would Betty have told anyone else?”

  “Leave me, please. I am tired.”

  He stood and looked down at her. “Betty might have given her son the life he would otherwise never have known. To do that, she stole mine.”

  She finally met his look. “You’ve prospered all the same.”

  “I have.”

  “So who gets the credit for that, Gordon McDonnell? Betty, I’m thinking.”

  “Does she get the blame, too, Miss McBride?”

  “If she does, it’s too late to make amends.”

  There was his answer, shining clear in her rheumy eyes.

  He wasn’t Gordon McDonnell. He was the rightful heir to an earldom and to Adaire Hall.

  And Jennifer was his sister.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The time had come to leave Adaire Hall. Gordon would never return, even if Harrison bankrupted the estate. Other people would wander through the buildings and appraise the furniture and belongings. He wouldn’t see it again.

  He found himself walking toward what was left of the north wing. The countess—his mother—had told him that in addition to the nursery, there had been a gun room here, the portrait gallery, a spare larder, and a number of other rooms.

  He remembered, when he was a boy, that a team of workers imported for the task had come to Adaire Hall. For weeks they’d pulled down the remaining bricks stained black by the fire. Sean had complained about them and Betty had told him that they were Irish workers.

  “Starving, most like,” she said. “Be glad you’ve got a meal in your belly, boy.”

  Even though they’d razed the black bricks, the foundation was still there, incised into the earth, a reminder of the tragedy that had happened all those years ago. When he’d been reborn as the gardener’s son.

  Sean had planted hedges and flower beds over the stones, and Gordon walked the outline of the north wing now, imagining the chaos of that night. All of the servants had been able to escape the blaze, but none of them had thought to alert the nursery staff.

  The countess had seen the fire as the alarm had gone out. Instead of staying safe, she’d climbed the steps, intent on reaching her infant son, only days old. She’d gotten to the nursery just as the fire had expanded, taking out half of the third floor. Three of them had tried to escape, but only the countess with her child—him—and Margaret had made it to the second floor. From there, he’d been told, they’d had to jump to safety. The countess had taken the time to rip her skirt into lengths. She’d tied them together before wrapping him securely in a bundle. Once she was certain he’d be safe she’d dropped him slowly to the rescuers below. Flames had surrounded her and only Margaret’s quick wit in pushing her to safety and jumping afterward had saved their lives.

  He glanced back toward the main building and the terraced gardens leading up to the older part of the house. He could remember the day he’d felt drawn to the countess, had walked up to her wheeled chair and presented her with a bouquet of flowers he’d hastily plucked from Sean’s beds. He knew, at the time, that he’d probably be punished for doing so, but it was worth it. His gesture had drawn a smile from the countess, and he’d smiled back at her.

  Had he instinctively recognized the woman who’d given him birth? Or was it simply that she was the antithesis of Betty?

  Not only had she saved his life, but she’d changed it with her kindness. She’d given him an education that he wouldn’t have gotten without her. She’d given him part of herself, not knowing that he was her son.

  He was leaving today. He’d already sent word to Peter to prepare the carriage. He’d go back to London and begin his legal fight to reclaim his name and birthright. He would never use Harrison’s name, but the title was his.

  “Gordon?”

  He heard her voice, but couldn’t bring himself to turn and face Jennifer. He’d never considered himself cowardly, but seeing her at the funeral yesterday had been almost more than he could bear.

  “We need to talk, you and I.”

  No, they didn’t. The fewer encounters with Jennifer, the better. He hadn’t even been able to write a note to her. The words wouldn’t come. If he didn’t see her, he could pretend that he was handling this situation with equanimity, that he was equipped to understand and even accept it.

  “I really must insist.”

  Didn’t she realize that you rarely got what you wanted in life? Life was a series of compromises. He’d learned that, even before leaving Adaire Hall.

  He finally turned, wishing that he had been able to leave without seeing her.

  They stood on opposite sides of the foundation. A curious place to have this confrontation, but perhaps the best spot of all.

  “Gordon, what is it?”

  Was there something on his face, some expression he couldn’t control? Something in his eyes, perhaps, that indicated what he was feeling?

  “I’ve been told you’re leaving. Weren’t you going to say anything to me? What’s wrong? Will you at least tell me that?”

  There, something he could respond to without feeling like his guts had been ripped from him.

  “I have to return to London.”

  “Were you going to go without telling me?”

  Yes, if he could have. It would be easier. It would have been better.

  The morning sun danced on her hair, bringing out auburn highlights. Her cheeks were slightly pink, indicating her emotions. Her green eyes were too imploring, too filled with emotion for his comfort. She was wearing a burgundy dress beneath her black cloak and looked every inch like Lady Jennifer, perfect, beautiful, and once his.

  “I have to go,” he said. He sounded dispassionate enough. There was hardly any inflection in his tone.

  She took another step toward him, and he almost turned a
nd walked in the other direction. He couldn’t be near her. He couldn’t be close. Even now, knowing what he knew, he wanted to enfold her in his arms and comfort her.

  A habit of a lifetime was difficult to break.

  He should cling to those five years when he hadn’t seen her. Five years when he’d had practice in missing Jennifer.

  “Would you tell me what I did?” she said. “Are you angry with me? What is it, Gordon?”

  He only shook his head, wishing she would return to the Hall.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said, his manners finally coming to the fore. “You’ve been very generous.”

  “Why are you treating me like we’re strangers? You told me you loved me. You asked me to marry you.”

  He looked up at the clear blue, unforgiving Scottish sky. He would forever remember that color. This day, this morning with its winter chill would always strike him as the end. Not of life, but of innocence, perhaps. Or a certain era where he believed that it was possible to achieve his goals. To be happy as he’d always imagined. Those hopes were forever dashed.

  “I can’t marry you, Jennifer.”

  “Why?”

  She was not going to let it go, was she? She was not going to accept that everything had changed until he said the words.

  “I’m going back to London, Jennifer. It’s best if we forgot this interlude. That’s all it was. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t real.”

  She grabbed her skirt and stepped over the edge of the foundation, marching through the flower bed toward him.

  Her cheeks weren’t simply pink now. They were red, and there was fury in her eyes. She’d always had a temper, and it was out in full force.

  “What do you mean an interlude?” Her voice was this side of a shout. “What, you came back to Adaire Hall to amuse yourself? Oh, my father is dying, but in the meantime I can fool this poor bumpkin of a lass? Who in the blazes do you think you are, Gordon McDonnell?”

  “That’s the problem, Jennifer,” he said, the words slipping out of him. “I’m not Gordon McDonnell.” His voice was nearly as loud as hers.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did I. Until Sean spelled it out for me. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not even who I thought I was.” He told her about what Betty had done. “Harrison is Sean’s son. I’m the rightful Earl of Burfield.”

  He knew the second it occurred to her.

  Her face turned ashen as her eyes widened. “Then . . .”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m your brother.”

  She stared at him, unable to get beyond that one thought. It echoed in her brain the same way sound reverberated in the Clan Hall when it was empty.

  “You’re my brother.” Even the words sounded wrong. “You can’t be.”

  He didn’t say anything, and it was his silence that overwhelmed the echo.

  “You have to be wrong,” she finally said.

  He still didn’t speak, only looked at her with his beautiful blue eyes.

  “You have to be wrong,” she repeated.

  “Not according to Sean. He wanted to purge his conscience, tell me what Betty had done. I don’t think he would have said anything if I hadn’t told him we were going to marry.”

  She stared up at him.

  “Betty wanted a better life for her child and stole mine. I could almost understand the impulse, but she played God. The worst thing was that she knew how I felt about you. She knew, and she never said a word.”

  “This can’t be real.”

  His smile was soft and incredibly sad.

  “We don’t look alike,” she said.

  “You and Harrison don’t look alike, either.”

  What if it was the truth? The horrible truth?

  Her mind was beginning to wrap around the idea, even as she tried to repudiate it. This was why Gordon had been so different, why he’d avoided her. He, too, was coming to grips with Sean’s confession.

  Something died inside her, and she felt it as it writhed and curled and twisted in its death throes.

  This was the man she loved. This was the man against whom all other men had been compared. This was the man she’d kissed and with whom she’d planned a future. She’d thought about the children they would have, the life they’d create.

  She was suddenly so cold that the trembling was almost anticlimactic. She wished she’d worn her gloves, but the day had seemed too temperate earlier. She wrapped her arms around her midriff and fought back the nausea.

  He took one step toward her, then seemed to think better of it, stopping where he was.

  “You might as well know something else. I hold Harrison’s markers. He’s a gambler, but not a good one. Adaire Hall is essentially mine now.”

  A moment later he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there.

  Life will give you lessons that seem too hard to bear, my darling girl. You must accept them anyway and become the stronger for it.

  Her mother’s words. Mary Adaire had lived a shadowy existence ever since the night of the fire. Yet she’d never complained, either about her deep, life-altering scars and infirmities or the fact that she could barely see.

  Her mother was wiser than she. Stronger, too. Yet the loss of her husband had changed her. Grief had worn her down just as it was eroding Jennifer.

  The cold wrapped around her like a blanket made of ice. She thought that Sean might be warmer in his grave than she felt at this moment.

  Somehow, she had to take a step and then another. She was standing in a mulched flower bed. If Sean were alive, he would fuss at her now. She had to get to the Hall and then upstairs to her rooms without speaking to anyone. Without anyone coming up to her with an endless request for information or permission. She would shatter if anyone talked to her. She would disintegrate if she was forced to answer any kind of question.

  The Hall loomed before her. All those steps seemed impossible to navigate. She couldn’t do it. She fell to her knees in the flower bed. Better here than someplace private. There she might scream at God, demand to know what sick and horrid jest He had perpetrated on them.

  She sat back on her heels, clutching her hands together. She was getting her cloak dirty and her best dress soiled as well. How very strange that it didn’t seem to matter.

  In that moment she wasn’t Lady Jennifer Adaire of Adaire Hall. She was simply Jennifer, of the wild curls and abandoned laughter, who ran through the strath following Gordon, who found limitless things about which to be fascinated, who hoped and dreamed and wept when her love left her, only for him to return and destroy her.

  She didn’t know how long she knelt there, but she heard the sound of a carriage pulling away from the Hall. She wasn’t able to see it until it had climbed to the top of the hill. Then it seemed to hesitate.

  Did Gordon wave goodbye? Did he tip his hat to her in a final, horrible gesture of farewell?

  She had to get up before someone saw her. She had to stand and make it to the Hall. A low, keening sound emerged from deep inside her chest. She wanted to silence herself but couldn’t. The grief was too great, the sorrow too overwhelming. She finally grabbed the edge of her cloak and stuffed it into her mouth, unsurprised when her hands came away wet with tears.

  “Lady Jennifer?”

  Oh no. Oh no. He was the very last person she wanted to see. Yet even Mr. Campbell’s presence wasn’t enough to control her weeping. He bent and put his hands under her arms, helping her stand.

  “Lady Jennifer, what’s wrong? What can I do?”

  His unexpected kindness was enough to summon another wave of tears. He pulled her into his arms, and she fell against him, both horrified and grateful for his presence. He didn’t say anything else, simply let her cry there in a flower bed. Occasionally, he would pat her back, but not a word passed between them.

  Somehow, she returned to her suite of rooms. She wasn’t entirely certain how it had happened, but it had involved, strangely enough, Mrs. Farmer who, along with Mr
. Campbell, provided a wall of security around her.

  She heard a few people questioning her appearance, but Mr. Campbell simply brushed them off. Then, she was in her bedroom, and Mrs. Farmer was helping her off with her cloak and then her dress before wrapping her in her dressing gown and sitting her in her favorite chair beside the window. Then that remarkable woman was rubbing her feet. Her bare feet that were as cold as a block of ice.

  In the next few minutes a maid arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits. After that, she was wrapped in a blanket and tucked back into the wing chair. Once she’d curled her hands around the hot cup of tea, Mr. Campbell entered her room.

  He came and sat on the footstool in front of her, Mrs. Farmer standing near.

  “What can I do for you, Lady Jennifer? What service can I perform for you?”

  She hadn’t meant to, but she started to cry again. Mrs. Farmer clucked at her and said something to Mr. Campbell that made him get up and leave the room. When they were alone, Mrs. Farmer took his place on the footstool, holding her hands and looking earnestly up into Jennifer’s face.

  “You must tell me if you were importuned, my dear. There are things that I can give you that would prevent any scandal.”

  It took a minute or two for Jennifer to understand what the midwife was saying.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Farmer. Truly, but it’s not necessary. No one did anything to me.”

  The midwife didn’t say anything, merely kept holding Jennifer’s hands as if she expected another tearful confession in a moment. There was nothing to confess. She’d done nothing. Neither had Gordon. They’d been innocent in this horror.

  She gently pulled her hands free.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Farmer, for your care of me. Please thank Mr. Campbell, too. And now I think I’d rather be alone for a while, if you don’t mind.”

  She had every intention of crying some more and didn’t want a witness.

  The older woman stood, nodding down at her. She had the feeling that Mrs. Farmer understood exactly why she wanted to be alone.

  “Thank you, again.”

  “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you?”

  If there was anything anyone could do, she’d be grateful for their assistance. She would beg them for it. Nothing, however, could make the situation better.