The Scottish Companion Page 25

  Dorothea sighed and opened the French door, stepping up the few inches to the stone floor of the terrace. The design of the terrace was Italian, a loggia, she understood it was called. The intent was to capture the warmth of any fair day. Balusters carved from stone and only about three feet high lined the space shaped like a Maltese cross. A few boxes of flowers added color, and a statue or two, always women barely dressed, added what she supposed was considered a classical flavor.

  The day was bright, the warmth from the afternoon sun welcome. Dorothea walked to the bench where Arabella sat. On her lap was a book, open to some grisly drawing or another, but her attention was fixed, instead, on the palace.

  Right now, Dorothea could cheerfully strangle her son. Grant should be here to deal with this situation, but her son was unfortunately not present. Instead he was scandalously holed up with the woman he’d evidently made his mistress.

  “Men will act in despicable ways, sometimes,” she told Arabella. “But I’ve heard it said that the worst rakes make the best husbands.”

  Arabella didn’t greet her, merely turned her head and regarded Dorothea with a look that was not far from contemptuous. So startled was she by the girl’s expression that Dorothea abruptly decided against sitting beside her on the bench. Instead, the countess walked some distance away and leaned against the balustrade.

  “Did you find that to be true, Your Ladyship?” Arabella asked. Her voice had an edge to it, an almost grating tone.

  Dorothea turned her gaze from the palace and back to Arabella, and for a long moment the two women regarded each other.

  “He says that someone tried to poison him, Miss Fenton,” Dorothea said. “That’s why he remains at the palace.”

  “I’ve heard that tale myself, Your Ladyship. I was not, however, allowed to examine Gillian.”

  “I have not questioned him as to his alliance, Miss Fenton. He would not allow that. But Miss Cameron has remained with my son of her own volition. Of this I’m certain. I have interviewed Michael, and he has assured me of this fact.”

  “I don’t care what Grant is doing,” Arabella said. Her voice had lost the grating tone. If anything, it was dispassionate, and genuinely without emotion. “I fear he is taking advantage of Gillian, however. She’s too emotional, and believes in love.”

  “You do not, Miss Fenton?”

  “Of course not.” She closed her book and stood. “I have found, from an early age, Your Ladyship, that love is a word most people use to excuse all sorts of horrible behavior.”

  “My son has always tried to do the honorable thing, Miss Fenton. He knows how much his father shamed this family, and he’s tried, all of his life, to make amends.”

  “By all means, no dishonor must be allowed to touch the Roberson family,” Arabella said, smiling. “What a pity that isn’t true.”

  Secrets pulsed between them, but Dorothea suddenly knew there was no possibility that she and the younger woman could ever confide in each other.

  She must summon up her courage and ask Dr. Fenton for the truth.

  Chapter 23

  Gillian had marshaled all her defenses to keep Grant away, but it appeared it wasn’t necessary since Grant was avoiding her as ably as she was prepared to avoid him. Her reasoning was to protect herself. What was his?

  She’d expected Dr. Fenton to come and visit her. But no one came to the palace, and at first she thought it was because she’d been well and truly repudiated. Only after speaking to Michael had she learned that no one was allowed at the palace. Evidently Grant had created a fortress for them, a place where no one was allowed and she was not permitted to leave. Even Lorenzo scarcely made an appearance, and when he did so, he only bowed slightly to her and sent a frown in Grant’s direction.

  Any hope that she’d be able to escape the consequences of the last week disappeared the moment she received a terse note from Arabella. Consisting of only one sentence, the message managed to convey contempt, irritation, and superiority.

  Do not be so foolish as to forget what happened before, Gillian.

  The irony of her imprisonment was that she hadn’t seen Grant for a week. For the first few days, she’d done nothing more than sleep. She’d been exhausted, but how much of that was from the poison and how much from the treatment for it, she didn’t know.

  During the latter part of the week, she began to feel better, so much so that she began looking for things to do. She was unaccustomed to inactivity, and it grated on her nerves not to have a chore to do or a duty to accomplish.

  She spent hours walking the grounds of the palace. Behind the structure was a series of gardens that had been allowed to fall into disarray. She amused herself by attempting to reason out the original plan of the ornamental hedges. On some mornings, she spent time pulling away the dead leaves. When that occupation palled, she sat on the bench in the center of the maze and simply watched the world around her.

  Today was the most glorious day. It was hours after dawn, but the air still felt cool, the grass still retaining a hint of dew. Everywhere she looked there were signs of nature feeling proud and jaunty. Birds did not simply sit on the branches, they walked sideways from one end to the other as if to converse with their neighbors. The squirrels that abounded at Rosemoor chattered noisily to one another. Did they share secrets of where the best nuts were stored? Or were they simply gossiping about their fellow squirrels? Butterflies flitted from flower to flower, and even the bees seemed to hover in the air in clumps, as if the gardens behind the palace were a companionable place.

  There was no one to whom she was responsible; she had no duty to perform. Not one person would mark her absence, or demand her presence. For the first time in her life she was truly on her own.

  All her life, she’d tried to be a credit to her father, to not shame her family. Yet she’d ended up straying so far from society that she was no longer bound by their approval. Unknowingly, she’d alienated Dr. Fenton and Arabella as well. Therefore she was all alone, subject to the whims of only one person, Grant Roberson, Earl of Straithern.

  He and he alone was her link to civilization, the source of information, the repository of secrets, her only friend. Yet even he had been scarce of late.

  How very odd that despite that, for the first time in a very long time, she felt happy, at peace. Was this what she’d needed all this time? A period of healing, a time to be nothing but herself, a space in which no one required anything of her except for her to simply be Gillian.

  There was a time when she’d despaired of ever surfacing from her grief, but at this moment she was as far from sadness as a giggling child.

  As the quiet hours unfolded in the garden, she realized that the world could be a beautiful place; she could experience joy.

  The prayer was more a thought than an entreaty. Thank you for all the beautiful memories. For all the joy, however short-lived, thank you. For the ability to experience beauty, thank you. For this sensation of sitting here and watching this small, perfect corner of the world, thank you. Most of all, for the ability to feel an emotion other than despair, dear God, thank you.

  Perhaps that’s what this interlude at Rosemoor was to teach her. Not to love as much as to begin living again.

  What would life bring her? She wasn’t certain; she didn’t know. Choices, of a certainty. Opportunities, perhaps.

  She must not be afraid. It was time she began living. Resolutely, she stood and walked back to the palace.

  “You think you are so restrained, my friend,” Lorenzo said, “but you are not. Perhaps the years in Italy have made an impression on your cold Scottish heart.”

  Grant frowned at him, but the expression only made Lorenzo smile.

  “You must breathe deep now,” Lorenzo commanded.

  Grant did so, never swerving his eyes from his friend’s face.

  “You do not like to be given orders, I think.” He moved aside the folds of Grant’s shirt so that he could better listen to his chest. Grant remained silent.r />
  “You have passion, Grant, and fire.”

  “Is that what you learned from listening to my heart?” Grant asked, fastening his shirt.

  Lorenzo ignored his sarcasm. “I think the little companion has pulled it from you. You are like Vesuvius, calm on the outside, but just waiting to erupt.”

  “A volcano? Hardly.”

  “Cough.”

  Grant coughed, while Lorenzo pressed his hand hard against his chest.

  Finally Lorenzo released his hand and stepped back, regarding Grant solemnly. “If you are dying, Grant, then you are the healthiest dying man I’ve ever treated. All my patients should be as healthy as you.”

  “Not for the lack of someone trying,” Grant said.

  “What are you doing about that?”

  “I don’t know what else to do,” Grant admitted. “I can create electricity. I can be God in my laboratory and replicate lightning. Why can’t I protect those in my care?”

  “I think, perhaps, my friend, that you are requiring too much of yourself.”

  “On the contrary, Lorenzo,” Grant said. “I don’t think I’m asking enough. If I were an honorable man, I would simply be done with it, and marry Arabella Fenton. After all, it was my suggestion, my instigation that she is even here. I would banish Gillian from the palace with all possible speed. Do you see me doing that?”

  “I think, perhaps, you are done with being proper, Grant,” Lorenzo said, smiling. “You have been exceedingly proper in all the time I’ve known you. It is time for you to have a little enjoyment of life.”

  “You make me sound like a prig.”

  “Not at all,” Lorenzo said, picking up a dark brown bottle on the table. He frowned as he read the label, and then slowly put the bottle down, moving it away from him with the tip of one finger. “You are just in need of a little affection. I do not think, however, that it is fair to subject Miss Cameron to the gossip of Rosemoor.”

  “What are people saying?”

  “It is not for me to repeat the words of others, Grant.”

  “I hate this,” Grant said, threading the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I hate this whole damnable mess.”

  “Then send her away.”

  “I can’t.” Grant turned to look at his friend. “I don’t want her to go, and it’s dangerous for her to stay. I tell myself that I’m protecting her, but who will protect her from me?”

  “Is that why you’ve stayed away from me for a week?”

  Grant turned his head and suddenly she was there, framed to the doorway. Her cheeks were pinked by the sun, her hair a little mussed by the wind. She held a wildflower in one hand, and a bonnet in the other. Her gaze was direct, allowing no artifice.

  Lorenzo melted away with the practiced tread of the discreet.

  “People will think that we’re lovers, regardless of what you tell them. People will talk, and it never seems to matter if they’re telling the truth or not.”

  He looked at her. “Do you want to go back to Rosemoor?”

  She walked closer to him, but stopped on the other side of the table. “Shall I tell you the truth? Or should I be wise for once?”

  “I should tell you to be wise, but I’m too curious.”

  “I should leave. Return to Rosemoor.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Has my caution finally made an impression?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe so. I think it was the garden.”

  “The garden?” He began to smile. “Why the garden?”

  “It’s a beautiful day, Grant. A day of promise, I think. But it may rain tomorrow.”

  “It may,” he agreed.

  “Why should we not simply accept the day as it is now, today, and live it fully?”

  “I used to think my Italian neighbors did the very same thing.”

  “Shall we have our own Italy?”

  He didn’t know what to say. Several responses came to mind and were dismissed as quickly. But before he could frame an answer, she held out one hand to him.

  “Have I shocked you?” she asked.

  “Try delight, instead.”

  She smiled.

  Gently, he gripped her hand and pulled her to him. She offered no resistance, simply linked her hands behind his neck, smiling into his face.

  This moment should be stopped for all time. He wanted to remember this particular moment always. Gillian, with her teasing smile with a hint of wickedness to it, and something else, some other emotion he didn’t want to name.

  He reached out, gripping her waist with both hands. In a swift movement, he raised her so that she was sitting on the edge of the wooden table.

  Grant bent and kissed her, lost in the sensation for several long moments. He heard her sigh, and smiled, pleased.

  He wanted to bring her pleasure. He wanted to mark himself in her memory until she would never be able to forget him.

  “Are you feeling brave?” he asked, pulling back.

  His hand spread across her bodice, his thumb brushing against a hardening nipple. Pleasure spread through him at the sound of her soft moan.

  She opened her eyes, slowly smiling at him.

  “Why?”

  “I have always wanted to do an experiment,” he said. “Will you be my assistant in this as well?”

  She tilted her head a little and regarded him silently. “Now? I’d much rather you took me to your bed right now.”

  “Even if I promise you it will be pleasurable?”

  “Very pleasurable?”

  “I promise.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  He cleared off the table to the left of her, and moved the Volta engine closer.

  She didn’t say a word in question or protest, but her eyes grew slightly wider as he reached behind her and slowly began to unlace her dress.

  “I will not hurt you. I’ve always wanted to know what the sensation would be like.”

  “What sensation is that?” she asked, and then licked her lips.

  He finished unfastening her dress, congratulating himself on the expertise with which he did so, especially while not looking. He pulled the dress down off her shoulders, past her plain and serviceable undergarments. She unfastened the corset from the front and separated it, then folded down the large split opening of the chemise. Grant bent and suckled on her right breast, playing with the nipple with his tongue. He glanced upward to find her sitting with her head tilted back slightly, her eyes closed, an expression of rapt intensity on her face.

  “Does that feel good?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, sighing.

  He bit at the nipple gently, and then suckled it again, leaving it wet. With his left hand, he reached over for the wire that emerged from the Volta engine.

  “Do you trust me?”

  She opened her eyes and focused her attention on his face.

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “I want to touch the wire to your nipple. Will you tell me what it feels like?’

  “Only a small shock?”

  “I have not recharged the engine, and you might not feel anything.”

  “Am I to be your experiment? Will you send word to Italy of your results?”

  “I might even write a paper,” he said, smiling. “I observed the results of my experiment in the process of seducing a beautiful young woman. I placed her on my table in my laboratory, and undressed her to the waist, revealing a magnificent pair of well-matched breasts, full and high, with coral nipples pointing upward. They entice my fingers and my lips, and I find myself distracted by the chore of keeping the nipples wet.” He bent and sucked at her breast as her palms held his face.

  He pulled back, continuing with his imagined research paper. “With her complete agreement, I agreed to attach the wire to the Volta apparatus to see if there was any effect on the impudent nipple. Or to see if such a charge is an enticement to the sexual act.”

  Slowly, he drew
the wire toward her, giving her time to rescind her agreement. She said nothing, only watched intently as it grew closer. When he touched it to the end of her nipple, she smiled.

  “Did you feel anything?”

  “I did,” she said. “A very curious sensation. Almost as if you were rubbing my nipple with your tongue.”

  “The effects of the experiment,” he continued aloud, “are uncertain at best. The subject has not complained, and instead seems to encourage further experimentation.”

  “Do I? Are you going to use it everywhere? And if you do can I use it as well? Shall I touch your cock with that wire, and see if it grows more animated?”

  “I regret to state that you will have no difficulties in making that object twitch. Every time it’s near you it becomes animated.”

  She smiled, and he dropped the wire for a more pleasurable pursuit, that of kissing Gillian.

  “You are a very able apprentice,” he said, his voice low and promising.

  “Then the teacher should reward his student,” she said. “Some sort of acknowledgment of my talents.”

  “When I was at school, our headmaster used to give us bookmarks when we excelled at our subjects.”

  She shook her head gently. “That will never do.”

  “You cannot simply negate something without offering an alternative.”

  “Perhaps an evening in your bed,” she said, smiling.

  She trailed her hand down his arm before linking her fingers with his. She brought their joined hands to her mouth, kissing his knuckles.

  “No,” he said, and pulled her to him. “If I am the headmaster,” he said, “then I set the rules. No student is ever allowed in my private quarters unless she proves very, very adept.”

  “I thought I had,” she said, her smile once more in place.

  The fingers of one hand gently stroked the upper curve of her breast, while the other hand supported it, a thumb tenderly strumming across the nipple’s surface. For a moment he concentrated his attention on her left breast before moving to the right. His concentration was intent, his expression rapt as her nipple responded to his ministrations.