A Highland Duchess Page 26

  He closed his eyes, and the gesture wasn’t that of a man recovering from illness as much as one who was deliberately shutting her out. Still, she didn’t move away from the bed.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have done this to you?” she asked softly, uncaring that Glenna was standing so close and could hear every word. “Or why anyone might wish you ill?”

  “No,” he said, another rebuff.

  She made her way to the chair in the corner and sedately sat.

  He opened his eyes and looked over at her. “You’ve given up your widow’s clothing,” he said. “Was that in anticipation of my survival?”

  “No,” she said calmly. “It was because you were sick all over my dress, and if you remember, you didn’t care enough to find my trunk in Inverness.”

  He only smiled, an expression that prickled the skin at the back of her neck.

  Although it wasn’t necessary for her to love her husband, Emma wished she could respect him. So far, however, his actions hinted at a man whose character was lamentably weak.

  Yet who was she to criticize others, coveting a man not her husband?

  Long after Glenna finished her chore and Bryce had fallen back asleep, Emma sat where she was. It wasn’t her role as wife that kept her in place but the vow she’d made on the island.

  Ian stood at the window, staring up at the white nothingness of the moon, as if someone had torn a hole in the fabric of the sky and not yet patched it.

  A reiver’s moon, it was called in the old days, when Scottish lairds and their clans rode across the glens to steal cattle from their neighbors. McNairs hadn’t gone reiving for a hundred years or more but he had a sudden yearning to get on a fast horse and ride the hills around Lochlaven.

  “Father said you wished to talk with me,” Rebecca said from behind him.

  He turned from the window to face her. He’d prepared carefully for this meeting, wearing one of his London suits, his hair carefully combed, his shoes polished to a shine.

  Perhaps he simply wished her last memory of him to be a good one.

  She took a seat on the sofa, reaching for the tray he’d ordered for this meeting. Rebecca began to pour. Although he didn’t want any tea at the moment, he took the cup and saucer she handed him.

  “You’re breaking our engagement, aren’t you?” she said, surprising him. “There’s no other reason for you to look so somber. Either that, or father is ill, and I know that isn’t true, so it must be our marriage.”

  “Yes,” he said, grateful to her for making it so easy. “I’m breaking our engagement. Although I’d much rather it be said it was your decision.”

  She nodded. “You haven’t been the same since returning from London,” she said.

  “I’m sorry for that,” he said.

  She still wore a smile, as if she were perfectly amiable about the change of plans. He knew better. She was no longer going to be a countess. The elevation in rank had interested her almost as much as becoming his wife.

  But perhaps he was being unkind, and for this meeting he should summon up his compassion and regret. At the moment, however, what he truly felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, an indication that he’d made the right decision.

  “She’s married, Ian,” Rebecca said softly, startling him.

  She looked directly at him. Had he been so obvious? Or was Rebecca simply more astute than he’d realized?

  “I know, Rebecca.”

  “She’s married, and it pains you, doesn’t it? It hurts you. It truly hurts you.”

  “Rebecca—” he began.

  She shook her head. “We’ve always been honest with each other, you and I, Ian. There’s never been a time when we found it necessary to lie.”

  Except now, with her guileless gaze spearing him.

  “You hold yourself differently when you’re around her,” she said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She smiled. “You either hold your hands behind your back or they’re balled into fists. Your shoulders are tight and even your jaw is clenched. As if you need to hold onto yourself in case you do something shocking.”

  She looked down at the tea tray before returning her gaze to his face. “Is that what you feel, Ian? As if you’re going to do something shocking?”

  He didn’t answer her because there wasn’t a damn thing he could say. He could lie but he disliked telling falsehoods, especially now. Besides, what could he say to explain what he felt for Emma?

  Rebecca had it only half right. He might have been able to restrain his body. His mind was another matter entirely.

  “I told myself you loved me, but I think you only wished to marry me because it was convenient,” she said, her tone conveying no emotion whatsoever, as if she were reciting a paragraph from some scientific treatise. “Because you and my father work together.”

  He remained silent. If she wanted the truth, let silence speak for him.

  She nodded, as if unsurprised that he didn’t defend himself, or their engagement.

  After a moment she stood, graceful and womanly, possessed of all the virtues and talents he could wish in a wife. Rebecca’s heart was warm and open; her demeanor was generous and sweet. She would have supported him in any of his endeavors; she would have been a good mother to their children.

  But a complicated and confusing woman fascinated him. A woman who was not free to be his wife. One whose past darkened the whole of her future, and for whom it would be necessary to continually hold up a lamp to dissipate the shadows around her. Yet despite the very real barriers between them, his mind was occupied with Emma. His body only followed suit, and to his dishonor, Rebecca knew it.

  Virtue and vice—perhaps that’s what they were in his mind. Or something even more elemental. He felt a warm affection for Rebecca. But what he felt for Emma was something deeper, darker, and less decipherable.

  “You cannot have her, Ian. Don’t you know that?”

  He smiled. “I know that only too well, Rebecca.”

  She held herself straight and tall, a small and pleasant smile curving her lips. Her gaze, however, was uncomfortably sharp as she studied him.

  “I wish you would have looked at me the way you look at her. Just once, Ian. But you never did.”

  He didn’t have an answer, silence being the best recourse. What he felt for Emma could not be explained; it was enough that it existed, even if it was never reciprocated in the future.

  Together, the two of them would be honorable. She would be loyal to Bryce, and he would be loyal to her.

  A damnable thing, really, since he’d never set out to be a martyr and the role didn’t fit him well.

  Chapter 30

  Emma spent most of her days attending to Bryce. Her meals were taken on a tray in either her room or the sickroom. She left his side late and arrived early, and by such means was able to avoid the other inhabitants of Lochlaven with the exception of Mrs. Jenkins. The housekeeper visited once a day, to ensure that Emma and Bryce had everything they needed.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if Ian had requested Mrs. Jenkins to do so.

  Surprisingly enough, she’d dealt quite well without her maid. But then, she always had, accepting Juliana’s presence as a necessary evil. Still, Juliana’s disappearance niggled at her. Had Ian sent men to look for her? Rather than seek him out and ask, she decided it was better to live in ignorance.

  Bryce and she never talked. When he was awake, which wasn’t often, it was to complain of the light or the silence or the feel of the nightshirt or a dozen other things that bothered him.

  The third day following Bryce’s awakening, Emma was sitting in the chair, her gaze on the lake beyond, an unopened book on her lap. From her viewpoint she couldn’t see anything of the island, which was just as well.

&nb
sp; “I knew you’d be here,” Patricia said.

  Emma looked up and smiled at Ian’s sister.

  “Fergus and I are leaving tomorrow, and I did want to spend some more time with you. Will you join us for dinner tonight?”

  “Is it that time already?”

  “Nearly,” Patricia said, her smile oddly kind.

  Emma felt a little uncomfortable being the recipient of Patricia’s kindness. She wasn’t the type of woman to whom other people were considerate. She was the former Duchess of Herridge, a woman envied for her title, if not her inherited wealth.

  But Patricia didn’t know any of that, and if she was kind, it was due to the circumstances of Bryce’s illness.

  “I know that Glenna stays with him at night,” she said, glancing at the sleeping Bryce. “Perhaps she could simply come earlier. I really think it’s important that you come to dinner, Emma.”

  There was something in her expression, something Emma couldn’t read.

  “After all, it will only be Fergus, Ian, and myself.”

  In the silence, Emma wondered if Patricia was waiting for her to ask about the whereabouts of Ian’s fiancée. Finally, she could bear it no longer. “Will Rebecca and Dr. Carrick not be in attendance?”

  Patricia came and sat beside Emma, in the very same chair Ian had used so many nights ago. He was very careful never to visit Bryce when she was there, and she found that both a blessing and a curse. He was making it so much easier for her, and at the same time she missed the sight of him.

  “Didn’t you know?” Patricia said. “They’ve broken their engagement.”

  Emma gazed down at her clasped hands.

  “No,” she said slowly, “I didn’t know.”

  “Ian swears it was Rebecca’s decision, but I know that she would never do such a thing. But I, for one, applaud it. I never thought that he and Rebecca would suit.”

  Bryce stirred and both women looked over at the sickbed.

  “Should he not be up and about by now?” Patricia asked.

  “Glenna and I both think so,” Emma said. “But he seems very weak. He can’t hold a cup, and it’s nearly impossible for him to rise to a sitting position by himself.”

  Patricia turned to her. “Is that common in arsenic poisoning?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “I had it in my mind to ask Dr. Carrick, but I haven’t seen him in the last few days. I didn’t know it was because he’d left Lochlaven.”

  “He may be returning. Not Rebecca, of course. You see, you should come to dinner and tell Ian that Bryce needs a doctor’s care.”

  “Could you simply not send him word?”

  “No,” Patricia said firmly. “You shall have to do it.” She stood. “I’ll tell Cook that you’ll not require a tray tonight. You will join us?”

  She only nodded, and Patricia smiled, then turned and left the room.

  When it was time, Emma left the sickroom, climbing the stairs in the rear of the house to avoid the laboratory entrance and anyone who might be wandering about. When she entered her room, she went to the bathing chamber, ran cold water into the basin, and washed her face.

  Finally, she surveyed herself in the mirror, content with her appearance. If her eyes had a few shadows beneath them, if she was paler than was attractive, if her expression held a little misery, that was to be expected due to Bryce’s illness.

  The dining room was located in the middle of the large house, a room directly opposite a comfortable-looking parlor. She hesitated at the door, startled to see that the three of them were standing at the window, laughing as they stared at the island. This room, too, faced the lake, now shrouded by night.

  Ian saw her first, turned, and extended his hand to her. Amidst the laughter, it felt as if there was a sudden and unexpected silence as he stood there, watching her, his eyes darkening as his lips firmed.

  “Come and join us, Emma,” he said. “We’re watching for ghosts.”

  She blinked at him, surprised. “Ghosts?”

  Ian caught her hand and pulled her close to the window, then reluctantly released her.

  Patricia turned to face her. Her smile was bright and welcoming, the beauty of her face enlivened by amusement.

  “Ian and I have always vied to be the first to see one of the ghost ships of the McNairs. Evidently, our clan was filled with pirates, those who roamed the seas in search of treasure.”

  “And women,” Ian added.

  “Then they’d bring them home to the island and make them wash and clean,” Patricia said.

  “I think it’s the other way ’round,” Fergus said. “The women charmed them into capturing them and giving up all their chests of treasure.”

  Emma couldn’t help but smile at their amusement.

  “Is tonight a good night for ghost ships?” she asked.

  “Every night is,” Patricia said, “but especially when the wind is high and the moon is full.”

  One of the maids at the doorway interrupted their sport by carrying in a tray. Soon the four of them were seated at a long mahogany table adorned with a white lace runner, several silver pieces, and an array of lovely Spode dinnerware in shades of crimson, black, and gold.

  A heavily carved mahogany sideboard sat on the far wall, adorned with a selection of silver and china. The long table easily sat twelve, each of the chairs upholstered in a peacock blue fabric. A carpet of a similar hue covered the floorboards. On the wall closest to her sat a massive fireplace, but instead of the customary mirror hanging over the mahogany mantel, a family portrait held pride of place.

  A gray-haired man sat on a chair, and behind him stood a woman with her hand on his shoulder. The boy and the girl seated on either side of the older man were so alike in coloring and appearance that Emma knew this was the younger Ian and his sister Patricia.

  What had life been like for him growing up here, at Lochlaven? Or had he gone away to school at an early age? She’d never been so curious about a man. Nor had she wanted to share memories of a time far in the past.

  She would be better served by seeking to know more about Bryce. What had his early life been like? Had he resented the fact that his cousin was earl and not himself?

  Who had poisoned him? A question that was never far from her mind, but she was no closer to understanding now than she’d been when first learning of the diagnosis.

  Their dinner consisted of roast loin of mutton, currant jelly, Jerusalem artichoke soup, and a selection of vegetables, including brussels sprouts, potatoes, and fried broccoli. Not only was the meal delicious but it was a surprisingly delightful experience. Fergus kept them amused with tales related to him by the captains of his ships.

  At the end of dinner, Patricia reached for Fergus’s hand, then looked at Ian.

  “I do wish our visit could have been longer,” she said. “But there is a reason why we need to return to Edinburgh.”

  Fergus was looking at her with a mixture of pride and tenderness.

  “You’re going to be an uncle, Ian.”

  “Would it be indelicate of me to say that it was about time?” he asked, standing and going to his sister. He pulled her up and enveloped her in a hug. “I think you’ll be a wonderful mother.”

  He pulled back and they stared at each other, both smiles identical.

  “Mother,” Ian said. “Does she know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then bless you, dear sister, for giving her something to do other than focus her not inconsiderable energies on me.”

  He released her and went to Fergus, clasping his brother-in-law on the shoulder. “If it’s a girl, Fergus, be prepared for her to run you a merry race, much as my sister did.”

  “And if it’s a boy?” Fergus asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Then he shall be handso
me and intelligent, of course. And give you no trouble whatsoever.”

  Patricia’s laughter was contagious. Emma found herself smiling, genuinely happy for the couple. She added her well wishes to those of Ian’s. After a flurry of partings, the two of them left the dining room, leaving her alone with Ian.

  They stood, almost at opposite ends of the table, almost in the same pose: each bracing one hand flat against the mahogany surface.

  She looked over at him to find him watching her.

  “Patricia’s son might well be the next Earl of Buchane,” he said.

  She looked down at the surface of the table, newly cleared by the industrious maids. All that was left was the table runner, and her finger stroked the intricate pattern of the lace as she spoke.

  “Then it was foolish of you to break your engagement.”

  “I had no other choice,” he said, turning to stare out the window. “You came to Lochlaven. No matter what happens in the future, I will always remember you here. How can I marry one woman when I can’t forget another?”

  He turned and faced her.

  “When I find release by my own hand,” he said, “I think of you. When I wake hard, I think of you. Do you want to know how many nights I lay on my bed, unable to sleep with even a sheet against me, because I want you?”

  She couldn’t breathe.

  He strode to her side, pulled her into his arms, bent his head and pressed his lips against her temple.

  “I remember how we were together, Emma. I can’t forget it. I can’t forget you, God help me.”

  She bowed her head. “I can’t do this, Ian.”

  He dropped his hands but didn’t move. Her palms flattened against his chest, and for a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of pretending that she belonged right there, so close she could feel the beat of his heart.

  “The seventh day showed an unexpected decrease in bacterium involvement, consistent with the aqueous filter manipulation. However, most of the pattern involved—”

  “Ian?”