A Highland Duchess Page 21

  “Forgive my intrusion,” Emma said.

  “It is no intrusion,” Rebecca said. “I would have called upon you in the sickroom if Ian had not specifically forbidden me.” She tossed a chiding look toward Ian.

  Emma’s smile was firmly fixed and might not ever fade. “Do you know of any local seamstresses?” She glanced over at Ian. “One of my trunks was lost at the Inverness Station. The one containing all of my dresses.”

  A gasp escaped Rebecca. “Oh no, you poor dear. How absolutely hideous a journey you’ve had! You must take one of my dresses, although I have nothing in black. But must it be black?”

  What on earth should she say to that? That she must remain in black to mourn a man she detested, loathed, and reviled? That she must remain in black or else face ostracism from society? She had done that by marrying before her two-year mourning period was over.

  Helplessly, Emma allowed her hands to fall to her sides. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be black.”

  In any other place she would have scandalized society by going from black to a lighter color immediately with no half measures—such as purple or lavender—in between. But here, in Scotland, no one knew her. Nor did she doubt that anyone cared overmuch what she wore.

  She glanced at Ian again.

  His eyes darkened as he watched her.

  She looked away, feeling a rush of heat as she remembered a conversation about a nightgown.

  “I couldn’t impose,” she said.

  “Of course it’s no imposition,” Rebecca said. “We’re going to be practically sisters.”

  Rebecca might have been naive but she possessed the single-minded will of a spoiled child. Before Emma could protest, she was being swept back up to the third floor, to the suite of rooms Rebecca occupied, all the while being regaled with tales of the lavish wedding to come in a matter of weeks.

  “We’ll have it on the island, of course,” she said. “At the very top of the hill. Is that not romantic?”

  Emma nodded.

  “I shall be wearing the loveliest gown,” Rebecca said. “Of course you must attend me, dearest Emma.”

  Dear God, please don’t let me be here for that spectacle.

  “I’m certain Bryce will have recovered by then,” Emma said. “I’m almost certain we’ll have returned to London.”

  She didn’t know any such thing. Her future was amorphous, and uncertain, at least as far as she knew. Did Bryce have his own home, other than Lochlaven? Did he have any family, other than Ian? What were his plans for their future? Surely it was to return to London? What was to happen to her?

  How odd not to know.

  She’d begun the day draped in black, and by mid-morning found herself attired in a lovely blue dress that surprisingly matched the shade of her eyes. How that had come about, she didn’t know, but according to Rebecca, it was Fate.

  “It was simply meant to be, my dearest Emma. It’s a dress I’ve worn but once, and it doesn’t suit me half as well as it does you. You must take it with my blessings. And this one as well.”

  “This one” turned out to be something in a jaunty yellow, with delicate embroidery on the cuffs and yoke. Even the full skirt had a trace of embroidery at the hem. It was one of the prettiest dresses Emma had ever seen, and highly inappropriate.

  “I can’t take your clothes,” she said helplessly. It was one thing to not wear black, but yellow?

  “Oh, you must,” Rebecca said, pressing the dress on her.

  And that, it seemed, was that.

  Chapter 24

  Ian’s father had realized that being the Earl of Buchane and the Laird of Trelawny might be ancient and noble titles but they didn’t carry the same sense of obligation as a hundred years earlier. His clan had spread out, most members no longer dependent upon the Earls of Buchane for their livelihood. A great many McNairs, those not employed at Lochlaven or in the nearby village, were now living in cities like Edinburgh or even closer, Inverness.

  Lochlaven didn’t require Ian’s constant attention. Therefore his avocation, science, was an apt way for him to spend his time. Or perhaps his father had simply approved because he’d had similar leanings, being interested in the stars and the heavens beyond this planet.

  Two years ago Ian had commissioned a small building behind Lochlaven. His mother had not been happy about the construction, or the fact that he’d taken up some of the garden to do so. However, after the building was finished and the exact purpose of it made clear, she and other periodic visitors to Lochlaven had expressed their wholehearted approval.

  Along the exterior wall, in heavy glass boxes with brass fittings, he’d placed several selections of raw meat. In two of the boxes, the meat had been left exposed to the air. Two of the boxes contained a filter of sorts, to purify the air before it reached the beef. A fifth and sixth box held a different type of filter, a mixture of chemicals that created a vitreous solution through which the air had to pass to reach the meat.

  According to his hypothesis, the meat in the boxes without the vitreous filters would deteriorate faster than those with them. So far he’d been able to repeatedly prove his experiment as well as his hypothesis.

  The odor in the room was substantial enough for him to wish that he had built a larger building for his experiments. Thankfully, he’d considered the decay of his experiments and taken measures to establish cross ventilation. Today he opened both doors and windows on the exterior walls toward the lake and the ones facing Lochlaven. The fresh breeze from the lake added to his instant comfort.

  Although his primary study featured bacteria in water, he was even more fascinated with what bacteria could do. For the last two years, he’d been working with other scientists in France to prove that bacteria could be airborne, and could have an injurious effect on human tissue.

  He prepared several slides for study from each of the boxes, and carefully placed them in the wooden case created for carrying them.

  “Ian, may I speak with you?”

  He looked up to see Emma standing in the doorway. The strangest expression flitted over her face before she began backing out of the building. She clamped one hand over her mouth, and the other waved him away as if she didn’t want him to see her discomfiture.

  “If I’d known you were going to come here,” he said, following her outside, “I would’ve warned you. The smell does take some getting used to.”

  He hadn’t seen her transformation, even though Rebecca insisted upon telling him.

  “She’s a very pretty woman, Ian,” she said. “And now, dressed in something other than that smothering black, she looks so much younger as well.”

  The woman standing in front of him did not resemble the widowed Duchess of Herridge. This woman, unknown to him until now, might have been closer to the girl she’d once been.

  She took another step backward, removed her hand from her mouth and smiled, as if amused by her own reaction.

  Oh, Emma, don’t smile at me. Don’t lean toward me. Don’t stretch out your hand as if you want to touch me. Don’t, above all, look at me as if your happiness depended upon the words I might say or whether or not I smile at you in the next moment.

  Or perhaps that was simply fanciful thinking on his part. After all, she’d banished him the night before. Of the two of them, she was wiser.

  “How long has it been since you slept?” he asked, noting the shadows below her eyes.

  “I can sleep later,” she said.

  “How is Bryce?”

  “That’s what I came to ask you about,” she said. “Is there anyone we should notify? Anyone who would want to be with him in his illness?”

  “Is he worse?” he asked, alarmed.

  “No. Dr. Carrick thinks the fact that he survived the night a very good sign. At the same time, I can’t help but think t
hat if I were his mother, or a relative, I would want to know if he was ill.”

  “The only family Bryce has is here at Lochlaven. My sister is due to arrive any day, a visit she’d scheduled some time ago. My mother has left for the continent, so I didn’t think to send word to her.”

  Emma nodded, looking away again. Words were fragile things between them.

  In front of Rebecca, he’d wanted to go to her and take her in his arms, comfort her about the loss of her trunk. Her presence was a temptation, not only to his libido but to his very honor.

  She played with the placket at the front of her bodice. He’d unbuttoned a similar set of buttons himself, had stroked his fingers from her throat to the lace at the top of her chemise, before divesting her of the rest of her garments. He had undressed her, feverishly, impatiently, revealing the woman beneath the black-crowed appearance. Revealing her as she truly was—beautiful, alluring, and passionate beyond his wildest imagining.

  Emma said something else, words he didn’t hear, all his senses focused on the actions of her fingers. He wanted to stop her, calm her restless hand, or replace those fingers with his own. The swell of her bodice amply covered her beautiful breasts, but he knew too well how they appeared, how they felt, how the texture of her skin lured his tongue, his lips.

  He wanted to suckle her, hear her open-mouthed gasps. He wanted her on his lap, in his arms, beneath him. Ian forced himself to look away and take several calming breaths. It would not do to pounce upon Emma in the garden.

  “I see that Rebecca was able to assist you in the matter of your clothing,” he said. If he invoked Rebecca’s name, perhaps it would remind him that they were to be married soon. Or that Emma was already married.

  She looked beautiful and too much a temptation.

  Emma looked down at herself, smoothed her hands over the material of her skirt, and nodded. “I didn’t know she would be here,” she said. “In residence.”

  “She’s Dr. Carrick’s daughter. She visits with her father, sometimes.”

  Emma nodded. “She’s been very generous,” she said in a low tone.

  “Do you begrudge her generosity?” he asked.

  Her gaze flew to his face. “Why would you say that?”

  “There’s a note in your voice I can’t quite place,” he said.

  “Are you that familiar with my moods and how to determine them?”

  “Yes.”

  That admission silenced both of them. He’d only known her for three days. But it seemed like so much longer, perhaps because she’d been in his mind for so long—first before he ever met her, then constantly after the interlude in London.

  “I came back for you,” he said abruptly.

  Her look of confusion was almost enough to keep him silent.

  All his life he’d been rational, dedicated to careful constructs, cause and effect thinking. Right at the moment, however, he felt different, was different, not quite himself.

  “I came back for you,” he said. “I came back to London to find that you had married. If I’d made it a few hours earlier, I would’ve reached you before you said your vows.”

  She took a step back, away from him. Her hand went to her throat, flattened against her chest. If anything, her complexion paled even further.

  Now would come the recriminations or the questions. Why are you saying such a thing to me? How can you say such a thing to me now? But she surprised him and remained silent, her face stricken, her eyes wide.

  In that moment, Ian realized how much he’d hurt her. She didn’t have to say a word. Her expression was enough. Or perhaps he simply felt her dawning disbelief and her pain.

  “Emma,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  She turned and left him, nearly flying down the gravel path, leaving him feeling idiotic and cruel.

  He had come for her. What was she to make of that? That he wished to rescue her? Or make her his mistress? She should have asked him for clarification but was so startled by his admission that she had to leave him as quickly as possible.

  The Ice Queen was melting.

  He couldn’t say such things to her. He shouldn’t say such things to her. They were both bound, both wrapped in ropes of honor and morality.

  How ironic that after all this time, she, who prided herself on being the most decent of the venal people she knew, was now wishing she had their ability to slip the bonds of propriety.

  If she was anyone other than herself, she might have taken advantage of his offer to become his mistress, if that’s what he’d thought to offer her. If she was anyone but Emma Harding, formerly the Duchess of Herridge, she might have flirted with him even now, with Bryce still in his sickbed, and his fiancée in residence.

  Or had he wanted more? Had he wanted her to be his wife? Dear God, please no. She could not bear that.

  She could not bear seeing him each day.

  She shouldn’t have gone to see him now.

  When he first answered the door, his hair had been a little mussed, as if he’d threaded his fingers through it in exasperation. Impatience had molded his features, revealing that he wasn’t pleased at the interruption.

  But when he’d seen her and come to her, striding across the floor in that way of his, his lips had curved in a welcoming smile.

  How easily they could alter each other’s moods.

  She felt her heart stop, then begin beating again, so loudly and furiously that it made her breathless.

  He couldn’t say those things to her. He couldn’t expect her to simply brush them aside. Had three days in London made the same difference in his life that they’d made in hers? Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to forget him.

  Now she was at his home, his guest, his prisoner, again. She felt as if she were a fly in the web of a particularly attractive spider, so charming and so handsome that by the time he crawled across his web to eat her alive, she practically begged him to nibble on her.

  Bryce needed to get well quickly. They needed to leave Lochlaven. They needed to find some other place to live, if not in London, then Scotland. Anywhere.

  Her fortune would allow them to do so. And if it didn’t, if it was gone, she would take up washing, darning socks, becoming a servant in someone else’s home.

  Anything but remain at Lochlaven and lose her immortal soul.

  And her heart.

  Four of the rooms in Ian’s laboratory opened up into each other. He’d had the doors removed and the door frames enlarged so they could accommodate the massive laboratory tables, should he wish to move them from one room to another.

  This part of his laboratory faced north and a view of the island. The sight of the castle was always a reminder to him that he was doing exactly what he’d planned so many years ago as a boy. Even then, instead of simply exploring and pretending he was an adventurer on those outings to the island, he’d been equally interested in what people couldn’t see. He’d overturned rocks and boulders, taken samples of water from the springs, and examined the very soil of the island.

  His most expensive acquisition, and his most beloved one, sat on the table facing the loch, the brass plate bearing the mark of its maker: ANDREW PRITCHARD, PICKETT STREET AND 312 & 263 STRAND, LONDON. The microscope was made of solid brass, except for the lenses, which were ground of optical quality glass. A rosewood case with fourteen ivory-knobbed drawers sat beside it. Two of the drawers held the new slides he’d purchased in London, waiting for his examination and discovery.

  The microscope was not unlike the one given to him by his father when he was sixteen, and which now sat in his London laboratory. The construction was the same—the long, slender column of brass resting on a tube connected by several screws to a tripod. At the base was a refracting mirror, bringing light to the slide and thereby aiding in the magnification. The difference bet
ween the two microscopes lay only in the strength of the lenses.

  Over the years, he’d become impatient with the available lighting. Consequently, he chose the brightest spot in the room to assemble his microscope, and assisted the process by always having a lamp directly behind the instrument.

  What he truly coveted, however, was an apparatus similar to the one displayed at the International Exhibit in London four years ago. That device was the most brilliant artificial light ever produced, and this spectacular accomplishment had been achieved using a magnetoelectrical device invented by Professor Holmes.

  He’d occasionally given some thought to erecting a mirror on a tripod and setting it on the expanse of lawn running down to the shore of the lake. On sunny days it could be tilted to reflect light into his laboratory.

  Mirrors inevitably made him think of the Tulloch Sgàthán, which led to thoughts of Emma.

  Pushing thoughts of her aside—a great deal more difficult than he’d expected—he pulled a stool toward the table, uncaring that the legs scraped across the wooden floor, and removed his microscope from its case.

  He worked for a little while, recording the results of slides he’d made earlier.

  When Albert entered the room, he looked up.

  “I hear Bryce is better,” Ian said.

  Albert didn’t look as pleased as he’d expected.

  “I’m a little concerned about his color,” he said. “There are signs of jaundice, which is never good.”

  “What can we do for him?”

  Albert sighed. “Nothing at the moment. Arsenic is not an easy poison to survive.”

  “Will he? Survive?”

  Albert looked directly at him, not attempting to hide anything. “I don’t know, Ian. I’ve done all I can. Nature will have to reason the rest of it out.”

  Their camaraderie was of long standing. Ian had asked Albert to come and work with him nearly ten years ago. The physician had eagerly limited his practice with patients for that of research, and spent more than two weeks a month at Lochlaven. Occasionally, his wife, Brenda, joined him. Sometimes Rebecca did as well, as she had on this visit.