A Scandalous Scot Page 19

  Let the maids guess at what transpired inside this room.

  She turned to Mr. Prender and said, “Could you explain what has happened here?”

  Catriona began to talk, but Jean deliberately turned away from her sister. There were times when Catriona was simply too self-absorbed to be relied on for information.

  “I was only painting one of your maids,” Mr. Prender said.

  Jean took a step back from him, folded her hands in front of her and regarded him somberly. She really didn’t like the man. For the whole of the ceremony yesterday, he’d had a smirk on his face, as if he thought the wedding was beneath him. Now, he had the same expression, as if amused by their consternation.

  “I take it Donalda did not wish to be painted,” she said.

  “Donalda is a flirt,” Catriona said.

  Jean didn’t even turn to look in her sister’s direction.

  Donalda was a slender girl with a perpetual look of worry. Her nose was long, her chin too sharp, and her black hair thin to the point of being able to see her scalp.

  She couldn’t imagine anyone less of a flirt than Donalda. The girl was in tears most of the time. Life at Ballindair did not agree with her.

  “If I erred, Countess,” Mr. Prender said, “then please forgive me.”

  He bowed from the waist, a curiously insulting gesture.

  She turned to her aunt. “Why were the other girls here?” she asked.

  Aunt Mary frowned at Mr. Prender, and when she spoke, her attention was still on him.

  “Donalda insisted on another maid as chaperone. The girl took one look at the situation and came and got me.”

  Jean turned to Catriona. “And why are you involved?”

  Her sister placed one hand flat against the placket of her borrowed dress.

  “Everyone knows I’m only concerned, of course. I came to see if I could smooth out the situation,” she said, her gaze flirting with Andrew’s.

  Did Morgan have any other properties? Somewhere Catriona could be sent? Perhaps she might even be convinced to take on the role she herself had been offered. What a silly notion. Catriona couldn’t be bothered to clean anything, let alone supervise those who did. Now, if a position involved being fitted for clothes or staring longingly in the mirror at herself, then she would be perfectly suited for it.

  Or perhaps they could send her to an outlying cottage, in the company of a paid companion or chaperone. Someone who would guard Catriona’s virtue—what was left of it—and prevent her from giving another man the look she was currently sending Mr. Prender.

  Jean felt as if she should stand between them in order to protect her sister from Mr. Prender’s gaze—that of a love-starved dog.

  Dear heavens, what a difference a day made. Yesterday, she’d been ignorant. Today, the veil of innocence had been stripped from her, and she understood only too well the meaning of those looks.

  Did she look at Morgan in the same manner, as if she were starving and he was a roast?

  Something fluttered in her stomach. Perhaps she was feeling a bit of hunger herself. That thought drew her up so sharply she fixed a stern gaze on both Mr. Prender and her sister.

  “Leave Donalda alone,” she said to Andrew. She turned to Catriona. “Leave Mr. Prender alone,” she said, not caring that Aunt Mary gasped behind her.

  If that was too much plain speaking, they would simply have to accept it. At least everyone knew she was aware of what was going on, and now Aunt Mary did, too.

  Between the two of them, perhaps they could convince Catriona to act in a more respectable fashion.

  Andrew smiled at her before turning his attention toward Catriona again.

  “Perhaps your sister might agree to be my model. I’ve grown tired of the Scottish landscape.”

  Jean regarded him in silence.

  If the two of them wanted so desperately to be together, let it be in public.

  “In the Great Hall,” she said, and turned to her aunt. “Somewhere that isn’t private. No corners, curtained alcoves, or shadowy recesses.” She glanced at Catriona. “Somewhere crowded.”

  Aunt Mary nodded. For as long as Mr. Prender painted her sister, she would ensure that her aunt sent all manner of maids and footmen, perhaps even grooms and farmhands, traipsing through the Great Hall.

  Mr. Prender’s smile slipped a little.

  The look he gave her was considering, as if he were gauging how much charm would be needed to sway her from her decision.

  Jean folded her arms. “That’s the only circumstance in which I would agree to allow you to paint my sister,” she said. “And I would appreciate it if you would not waylay any of our maids in the future.”

  He raised one eyebrow but didn’t speak.

  “Very well, Countess,” he finally said.

  She pasted a smile on her face as he bowed again.

  How on earth could Morgan abide him?

  “Aunt Mary will accompany you to your room,” she said, gesturing toward her sister. She didn’t want Catriona remaining behind in Mr. Prender’s suite.

  It was, perhaps, a good thing that her sister didn’t give voice to the thought flashing in her eyes.

  She should warn her, Jean thought, that such an angry expression had a deleterious effect, and might permanently mar her looks. Instead, she opened the door and nodded at the three maids, who stepped back from the doorway, and gratefully left the group behind.

  Chapter 22

  RULES FOR STAFF: No gossip will be allowed concerning the family.

  Ballindair was a thundercloud. Streaks of lightning, in the form of various personalities, were making their presence known in his home. Weeping maids, raised voices, and a clanking, banging boiler made for a rapidly approaching storm.

  He’d spent most of his morning in a thoroughly unsatisfactory meeting with his steward. The man was ill, but refused to talk of it. In the face of his pride, Morgan remained silent.

  In addition, Andrew had taken up painting in the middle of the Great Hall. He had a pedestal erected, something that looked to Morgan remarkably like a catafalque. On this structure, his sister-in-law half sat, half reclined, in a pose more odalisque than respectable.

  When he gave his list of complaints to the housekeeper, all she did was stare at him.

  “Are you paying attention, Mrs. MacDonald?”

  Had he lost all conversational ability? Was the housekeeper going to ignore everything he said simply because they were now related by marriage? Would she be so foolish?

  “Of course I’m paying attention, Your Lordship,” she said in a clipped voice. “Jean has already passed on to me her concern about the boiler. We are having one of our men look at it. As to Mr. Prender, Jean thought it best he paint Catriona in a public place.”

  “Jean did?” he asked, feeling a curious confusion. Was Jean behind the storm of his home? “Tell me, does she have anything to do with Seath’s illness?”

  Now she looked surprised.

  “How did you know, Your Lordship?”

  He shook his head. “Know what?”

  “Jean has been making him tea every day. And a good strong broth. It seems to be helping him.”

  “Where is my wife now?” he asked cautiously. Was she stirring up some additional surprises for him?

  “I believe she’s in the Laird’s Garden,” Mrs. MacDonald said, looking at him as if he were the most surprising aspect in all of this.

  He left her then, before she could sense his utter and total confusion.

  This morning he’d awakened Jean with a kiss. She’d turned to him, eager and willing, giving herself to him with a freedom that awed him. A week of marriage had left him feeling . . . happy.

  For the first time in a very long time, he found things about which to laugh. One night he’d sat with Jean and together they’d read an idiotic book entitled The Ghosts of Ballindair, a tome no doubt commissioned by one of his ancestors in need of some way to spend his money.

  They’d argued about som
e of the superstitions listed in the book, especially those pertaining to the Murderous MacCraigs. The debate had ended in laughter, which ended in loving.

  He was teaching Jean chess, and the disbelief with which she greeted the rules amused him: “What do you mean, my knight can’t move that way?” or “Why is the knight allowed to jump and the bishop can’t?” or “You know I don’t speak French. What does en passant mean?”

  More than once he’d found himself talking about London with her. Not his disillusionment, but the work he’d done in Parliament. He described his favorite places, only to have her counter that Scotland was the equal of any sight to be found in England. Then she’d kissed him, and proceeded to show him just how “well-traveled” she was becoming.

  Now she was missing again.

  He went in search of his wife.

  Andrew watched Catriona as she lay on her back, eyes closed, a soft smile gracing her full lips. They’d escaped from the Great Hall for a well-deserved interlude in his rooms. He suspected they weren’t fooling anyone. If the staff of Ballindair was like other establishments, their affair was already common knowledge.

  One corner of her lips curled up in a half smile as if she ridiculed his thoughts.

  She was like a cat, intensely herself, self-reliant, and not needing anyone. She’d allowed him to spirit her away because it served her to do so. Did she have an itch needing to be scratched? Would she have done so if there was another man nearby? Or if she hadn’t seen him smile at one of the maids this morning? She was not jealous as much as she was possessive, a trait that he recognized because it was in his own nature.

  He was feeling the same way right now.

  Catriona hadn’t appeared impressed with either his size or his skill at lovemaking. After the first night, she’d thanked him prettily, then said nothing further.

  He was in the curious position of being fascinated by a woman who wanted nothing to do with him unless it was on her terms.

  Although she was beautiful, he’d had other beautiful women. Her body was lush and inviting, and she’d learned some tricks. She made no pretense of being educated, and only laughed merrily when he quoted poetry to her.

  “Don’t tell me words. Give me actions. Don’t promise me. Produce.”

  No doubt his fascination with Catriona was because there were no other willing women about. The majority of Ballindair maids were plain creatures. Or perhaps they only looked plain next to Catriona.

  She was purely amoral, and since he’d often considered himself to be the same, he wondered if that was why he couldn’t get enough of her. Perhaps she was his female counterpart.

  If he took her to London, she’d probably leave him the moment she had a more advantageous offer. But the fact that he even thought of taking her back to London surprised him. He was the one who’d always said good-bye first.

  Catriona, however, was like a burr in his flesh.

  She stretched slightly, curling her hand beneath the pillow, and opened her eyes, smiling at him.

  He rolled over close to her, thinking perhaps they could spare another few minutes.

  The air was sweet and balmy, heady with the scent of flowers planted in borders beside the walk. Jean didn’t know what they were called, but she enjoyed watching their bright pink blooms sway in the breeze.

  What a pity the garden was restricted to the laird and his family. Everyone should be able to walk along the gravel paths through the labyrinth of hedges and trees. Just as she was forming a request to Morgan to open up the garden, she stopped, surprised. There, sitting on a bench at the juncture of two paths, was Mr. Seath.

  His eyes were closed, his hands flat on his thighs and his head tilted back. A ray of sun caught him, bathing the man in an ethereal glow.

  Each time they met, he shared a little more of his life with her. Each time she brought him the tea she’d made for him to calm his stomach, she shared a little of hers as well.

  He was as pale as death, even in the glow of the sun. His features were even more pronounced, as the illness stripped away everything and left only the essential parts: a long, bony nose, high cheekbones, and wide forehead. Even his wrinkles were gone, a testament to the voracious hunger of the wasting sickness.

  His garments hung on him like a child playing make-believe in his father’s clothes. The cuffs of his shirt nearly covered the tips of his fingers; his trousers hung in folds from his legs. His throat, with its prominent Adam’s apple, was a frail stamen rising from his collar.

  Tears peppered her eyes, and she blinked them back, a restraint long practiced with her mother. Her crying would not help him. Her pity would not take away his pain. She knew that only too well.

  Quietly, she approached the steward. Would he mind her company? Or had he sought out this space in the Laird’s Garden to be alone with nature and with God? She was debating about retreating when he opened his eyes.

  “Just what this day needed,” he said faintly. “Another flower in the garden.”

  Her laughter bubbled free. “I’ve never been called a flower,” she said. “What type might I be?”

  “A rose?” Before she could answer, he shook his head. “Not a common rose, my dear, but a wild rose, one unexpectedly sweet.”

  He regarded her solemnly for several minutes, during which time she drew closer, then sat beside him on the bench.

  A smile curved her lips, and she was grateful for his foolishness. A flower, indeed.

  “A flower with a sense of its own self,” he said. “It doesn’t try to have many petals. It says accept me as I am. I am different. I am unique.”

  Her laughter made him smile.

  He pointed to a flower bed not far from where they sat.

  “See those pink flowers?”

  She nodded. “Are they wild roses, then?”

  “Indeed they are. And growing late this season, as if they know how much I love them.”

  She studied the flowers for a few moments. He thought her a wild rose.

  Was he saying, in his very tactful way, that she was caught between two worlds? Neither a weed nor truly a rose. Neither maid nor truly a countess.

  Her life had been easier as a maid. She’d had the rules explained to her, taught to her, and repeated every day. As a countess she was constrained by a set of unwritten rules. She was supposed to know not only what to do, but what not to do.

  Or was she feeling caught between two worlds today because of her conscience? Was being a wife the most difficult pretense of all?

  Every night, she’d told herself to bar Morgan’s entrance to her room, but she never did, welcoming him with a hunger that surprised her. On those occasions when she’d gone to the Laird’s Tower, she told herself she should claim fatigue, illness, her monthly time. Anything but become ensnared even deeper in a lie.

  She should leave before dawn, not sleep with him all night, cuddled against his warmth, feeling his skin against hers even in her sleep.

  Passion, or perhaps Morgan, was a net trapping her, yet she was doing nothing to free herself. When he touched her, she felt some unknown part of herself take over. The woman he summoned loved the stroke of his fingers, laughed when he tickled her, sighed when he entered her, and sobbed her pleasure.

  Every night, they loved, and every morning she told herself she wasn’t his wife. Oh, it felt that way. She felt as if she had the right to stroke his hair back from his brow, and kiss the corner of his lips, or capture his earlobe between her teeth and tug gently in play.

  To distance herself from thoughts of Morgan, she asked, “Are you feeling better today?”

  “I’m not.” But the tone in which he said those words was not querulous or complaining. He said it merely as a simple statement. A comment with so little emotion that it might have been a remark about the weather.

  She turned her head to look at him, wishing she had some words to ease him in some way. All she had was a silly tea, but she would brew a pot of it now if he wished.

  He reached over
and placed his hand on top of one of hers. She put her other hand on his, feeling his cold skin, as if his body was preparing for the grave.

  She looked down at their joined hands, feeling tears again. Sometimes she couldn’t stop them when they came. Sometimes they were there before she knew it, the past rising up to envelope her in a fog of emotion.

  “Did your mother die very long ago?”

  “Two years,” she said.

  “It was very painful for you, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “I miss her every day,” she said.

  She looked down at their joined hands. How long had it been since she’d allowed herself to truly cry? Too long, perhaps, because the tears began to run unchecked down her face.

  Sweet man, to care so much for her pain, when it was her mother who’d suffered.

  Toward the end, she and Catriona had only heard moans and cries from their parents’ bedroom. Her mother had wept to die, pleading with her husband to help her.

  But she didn’t say that to Mr. Seath. Instead, she gripped his hand even harder.

  In the next moment, she found herself engulfed in a hug. Her head was on his shoulder and she was weeping in earnest, great gulping sobs for her mother, and for her father as well.

  Her arms encircled him, feeling the frailty of his body, knowing the same fate faced him. Perhaps some of her tears were for this kind and gentle man.

  She allowed herself a few minutes of grief before pulling away, embarrassed. When he handed her a handkerchief, she took it gratefully, blotting at her face.

  Her right hand was still gripping his, and she was gratified to note his touch felt warmer.

  She wanted to do something to help this dear man. What could she do?

  “What is your real name?” Mr. Seath asked.

  All thought simply evaporated.

  She turned her head slowly and looked at the steward. His expression hadn’t changed, and in his eyes there was a calm understanding.