The Lass Wore Black Read online

  Before he could finish the thought, Pig Face struck him again. He fell to his knees. His assailant pushed him to the street and knelt on him once more as the carriage sped away.

  Chapter 34

  Time passed, during which Catriona’s dreams were amorphous things, filaments of thoughts, memories of deep emotion. She wept for her mother, screamed in defiance over what they’d done to her father.

  She was the Catriona of old, arrogant, haughty, secure in her beauty. Everyone else was simply a backdrop to her existence, moving scenery whose sole purpose was to be a foil to her.

  I won’t let you be a spider at Ballindair, Jean said, sitting there in her mind. Trapping people in your web.

  When had she become a spider? When had she ceased to care for other people? Caring brought pain. Was that what it was?

  Andrew smiled at her. I do believe I’ve met my match. A thoroughly amoral woman. Have you always been that way?

  His smile changed, became less amused and more cruel. Andrew hated her, wanted her dead so much he’d tried to kill her more than once.

  She couldn’t die, not now. She had to do something, become something more.

  The future carved a place in her mind, each separate year etched in the acid of loneliness. There she goes, the Lass in Black, they’ll say, pointing her out to the unknowing. She’ll be known for her good deeds.

  She wept for that, too.

  She didn’t want to be a saint. Let people declare her wicked. Let matrons whisper behind their fans about her actions and use her as an example to their wayward daughters. Who do you want to be like, Catriona Cameron? Wayward daughters would bow their heads and look pitiable while secretly wishing to be exactly like her.

  But she didn’t want to be as wicked as before. Nor as selfish and unkind and cruel as she’d been.

  She wanted to be loved. She wanted to love like her father had loved her mother. She was no longer afraid of that type of devotion.

  Love had crept up on her unawares. Mark was in her heart whether she wanted him there or not.

  Was this her punishment? Was giving her a hint of happiness, then taking it away, how she was going to pay for all her sins?

  “Do you think she’ll wake up, Sarah?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. If Dr. Thorburn said so, then it’s the truth.”

  “You have a great deal of fondness for my son, don’t you?”

  “I do, yes. He’s the son I never had, if you’ll be begging my pardon, ma’am.”

  “I do, indeed. Some people need more than one mother, I think. Mark is one of them. I suspect that the girl we’re watching is another.”

  “She’s had a hard time of it.”

  “I heard someone say that she’d been scarred by love. A strange way to put it, don’t you think?”

  “Is it love, though, ma’am, if only one person feels it?”

  “It doesn’t seem so, does it?”

  He bent over her, kind and distant, lover and physician. She wanted to reach out to him but something stopped her. He’d saved her again—and always? Would he be there in the future as a bulwark against fate and her own foolishness? Because of him, she’d put the bottle of laudanum in the rubbish. Because of him, she’d emerged from her black cocoon into a world too impossibly bright.

  Because of him, and what she felt for him.

  “She’s been more restless the last day, Dr. Thorburn. Is that a good sign?”

  “I hope so, Sarah. I hope so.”

  “We’ll watch over her, don’t you worry. You go heal the world. Your mother and I will guard this corner of it.”

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  “Go on, now.”

  The world changed again, and Andrew smiled at her, his teeth white and growing, then dripping with blood. Isobel sobbed aloud, cut from glass until there was nothing left of her face but ribbons of flesh. No, that was her.

  Someone gave her water, changed the towels beneath her, rolled her to her side and made her cry aloud. The taste in her mouth was strange and she made a face. Gentle fingers patted her cheek, murmured to her that it was nearly time to wake up.

  The pain waited for her, patient and steady.

  Not so patient, after all. It used its claws to scrape against her skin, invade her mind with heated breath. Her chest burned. Her arm was on fire. When she tried to move it, the pain-beast pounced, digging its paws into her flesh.

  She moaned, and a cool hand pressed against her forehead.

  Jean? She wanted Jean. Jean had always been there.

  “She’s still so pale.”

  “My son says it’s because she lost so much blood.”

  “She’s an aunt. Pray God she’ll live to see the child.”

  Jean.

  “The earl is a happy man. They’ve named the child after Catriona and Jean’s mother. I’ll not tell them about Catriona yet.”

  “Such a terrible thing. She’s suffered enough, I think.”

  “She’s a lovely girl. Not on the outside, of course. Not anymore. But inside, her heart is good and giving.”

  “Mark is taken with her.”

  “Is he?”

  “Mrs. MacTavish, you needn’t protect him. I know what I know.”

  The pain-beast stepped back, surprised. She mentally slapped it away and it reluctantly retreated.

  Her eyelids flickered. She looked between her lashes, but everything was blurry, as if she hadn’t opened her eyes in a while. She closed her eyes then tried again.

  Two women sat on either side of a narrow bed. One was Aunt Dina, but she didn’t recognize the other.

  Where was she?

  The light in the room was too strong and bright. A moment later she realized it was because the lamp was placed on a table beside the bed, as if they wished to view her every move or gesture.

  She was not wearing her veil.

  Closing her eyes again, she lifted her arm, but it didn’t move. She concentrated, and the pain-beast padded out from its hiding place and struck again. Don’t move that hand, then, or that arm. Could she move the right? She wiggled her fingers, and to her delight felt the texture of the sheet beneath them.

  “I’m an aunt?” she said in a voice that sounded like a croaking frog.

  Aunt Dina stood, bent over her, a rush of words escaping from her mouth so quickly that Catriona couldn’t understand. Had she lost the ability to hear, as well?

  Seconds later she realized it was a prayer, uttered in such a heartfelt voice that she wanted to weep. Once, she’d had only Jean to care about her.

  “Yes, my darling girl, you’re an aunt.”

  Why was Dina crying?

  She tried to raise her hand to brush away her tears, but it was too heavy. So, too, were her eyelids. How strange. She’d just awakened, and now she had to sleep again.

  “Your father wouldn’t approve of the girl being here,” Rhona Thorburn said.

  They sat in the parlor, the room warm, thanks to the blazing fire and the western-facing window. Everything was immaculately tended, from the bric-a-brac on the mantel to the velvet footstools. Not a smidgen of dust could be seen anywhere. She wished her own maids were as devoted to their tasks as Sarah appeared to be. She employed ten maids and one housekeeper, yet Sarah had no staff at all.

  She shook her head in wonder.

  “She’s not ‘the girl,’ Mother. Her name is Catriona and she’s well chaperoned,” Mark said, accepting the cup she handed him.

  Even the tea service was beautifully arranged. Would Mark hate her too much if she tried to steal Sarah away?

  “Her aunt is here. Sarah is here. You’re here.”

  “I wouldn’t be, had it not been for Sarah, Mark. She was the one who let me know what was going on.”

  When had he grown so large? He sat in the twin of the chair in which she was sitting, and looked to overflow it. Had he always been that tall, and his shoulders as broad? For that matter, had he always had that air of mastery and command about him?

  It wasn’t
difficult to understand why he and his father clashed. Kenneth was the same vital male as his son. Two rams on a hillside, that’s what they were, and prepared to battle to the death.

  “I’m not talking about her injury, Mark. I’m talking about how you feel about her. Your father will think that she isn’t a proper wife to the future Lord Serridain and, eventually, the Earl of Caithnern.”

  He didn’t say a word to that comment, which was as telling as a long speech. Mark might be a medical miracle worker, but he was still a male. One of her males, at that. She’d had a long education in the male of the species, and she knew a protective silence when she heard one.

  She also knew the only way to counteract it was to remain mute as well. Sooner or later Mark would begin to chafe under the strain.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  She took a sip of tea, hiding her smile in a porcelain cup. One of his grandmother’s cups, she noted, grateful that her mother-in-law had cared enough about Mark to leave him this house, and a fortune as well.

  “What do I think?”

  She studied the delicate flower pattern on the edge of the cup, so tiny that she wondered how anyone had the skill to paint it. She put the cup and saucer down and looked over at her son.

  “I think anyone who could make you forget medicine for a few days must be a remarkable woman. Is it true that you pretended to be a footman in order to get close to her?”

  “Sarah talks too much,” he said.

  “Sarah talks just enough,” she said.

  He frowned at her, evidently feeling put upon.

  “Sarah adores you,” she said. “I’ve never seen a more loyal servant.”

  “Because I don’t treat her like a servant.”

  She nodded. “Another thing your father would not approve of.” She might be able to lure Sarah away, but would the woman be as happy around Kenneth as she was here? Rhona doubted it, and reluctantly dismissed the idea of poaching the housekeeper.

  “Then I am destined to forever irritate my father,” Mark said.

  “Good,” she said, smiling. “Otherwise, he could become quite the autocrat. It’s good for one of his sons to disobey him. He doesn’t like that you aren’t dependent upon him for money.”

  “Pity,” Mark said, in a tone that reminded her so much of her husband she could only smile. They were too much alike in certain ways, and different in others.

  “How is she doing, Mark? Tell me the truth.”

  “She did well after the surgery. I’ve given her morphine to deaden the pain. If she hadn’t moved at the last second, he would have killed her. As it was, the bullet just missed her heart.”

  “I hear he’s mad,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think he’s mad at all. He’s canny, which is different. I doubt that defense will work since there were a hundred witnesses to what he did.”

  “He would have escaped but for you. Very smart of you to hire a detective.”

  “Would you welcome her?” he asked, deftly changing the subject. “Into the family?”

  “Is it that serious?” she asked, surprised.

  “On my part it is,” he said. “As for her, I’m not sure.”

  “Then I suggest you do your best to find out as quickly as possible,” she said.

  He looked surprised at her ferocity. Did he think her mother’s heart changed to stone when he began his own life? On the contrary, it grew even larger, to accommodate children and in-laws.

  She frowned at him. “I’m not disposed to like her if she’s going to break your heart,” she said. “So you’d better ensure that she doesn’t.”

  He smiled, and she was transfixed by a mother’s pride.

  Truly, how could any woman resist him?

  The next time Catriona awoke, she was alone and it was night.

  She turned her head slowly on the pillow, realizing that while she’d been right about the time of day, she was wrong about being alone.

  Mark sat there in a straight-back chair, his head leaning against the wall. His eyes were closed and his face tired, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. His arms were crossed in front of him, his pose that of a man not relaxed so much as in contemplation.

  What was he thinking about?

  The left side of her chest was burning. She tried to raise her left hand to touch it, and to her surprise it obeyed her.

  Mark’s hand grabbed hers before she could touch the odd heaviness there.

  She turned her head to meet his gaze.

  “It’s a bandage,” he said. “You were shot.”

  Shot? She’d have to think about that. She closed her eyes but could still see his blue-eyed gaze.

  “Did you save me?” she asked without opening her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  She opened her eyes. “You sound arrogant.”

  “Would you rather I hadn’t saved you?”

  “No,” she said. She would have smiled, but it seemed like too much effort.

  He settled back in the chair. “Don’t you want to know who shot you?”

  She closed her eyes again. “No.”

  “Because you already know.”

  “Because I already know,” she said, forcing her eyes open.

  “Who is Prender?”

  “A lover,” she said. “A former lover.”

  He nodded as if he’d known that, too.

  “He wanted you dead, Catriona. Why?”

  How did she answer that? Only with the truth, she suspected.

  “When I was at Ballindair,” she said, speaking the words slowly, “I was desperate to find a way out. I didn’t want to be a maid. I didn’t want to be stuck at Ballindair for the rest of my life, dusting figurines or making beds.”

  He didn’t interrupt her, merely sat there with his arms folded across his chest in the pose of judge and executioner. Surprisingly, she didn’t want him to lose what good opinion he had of her.

  She could hear Jean’s voice. You should have thought of that before you became Andrew’s mistress.

  “Andrew was a guest at Ballindair,” she went on. “We became lovers.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “He offered to put me up in London, buy me a house, give me everything I wanted.”

  “Since you’re not in London, what happened?”

  She smiled, remembering. “My brother-in-law gave me a choice,” she said. “Respectability or Andrew.”

  “You didn’t choose Andrew.”

  “But I’m no longer respectable,” she said, looking up at the ceiling.

  “He tried to kill you in London, didn’t he? You knew, all along.”

  She closed her eyes. She was so tired, but he needed to know.

  “Yes,” she said. “Ever since Mr. Johnstone visited me.”

  The coachman had come into her sickroom a few weeks after that accident, twisting his hat, his gaze on the floor.

  She couldn’t blame him for not wishing to look at her. Her face had been covered in bandages, the weight of them reminding her of what had happened each time she moved.

  “Begging your pardon, miss,” he’d said. “I wanted to know how you were doing.”

  “I am alive, Mr. Johnstone,” she said slowly. “Beyond that, I can’t say.”

  He waved his hand toward her bandages. “Will those be coming off soon, miss?”

  She nodded. In truth, they were a blessing. She’d seen what she looked like before they’d applied the wrappings to her face.

  “I wanted you to know, miss, that it weren’t my fault. The accident, I mean.”

  What did he want her to say? Did he expect her to forgive him?

  She remained silent.

  “Maisie was a good horse, miss,” he said, his deep brown eyes the picture of grief. “She didn’t deserve to be shot like that.”

  Surprise kept her staring at him.

  “Who would deliberately shoot a horse, Mr. Johnstone?” she’d asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, miss,
” he said. “I think it was because whoever done it wanted something to happen.”

  “Something like the carriage turning over?”

  He nodded, his beefy face swaying with the gesture.

  From that moment, she’d known.

  Andrew would never have tolerated being rebuffed. He’d boasted that he was always the one to end a relationship. Yet she’d left him standing there with his hand outstretched, a declaration of love trembling on his lips.

  Of course he wanted her dead.

  She should have seen it in his eyes that night in London.

  Did he simply want to kill her because he hated her? Or was his hatred a dog-in-the-manger attitude—if he couldn’t have her, he’d be damned if anyone else did?

  “ ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,’ ” Mark quoted now.

  She turned her head slowly on the pillow.

  “Shall I bear the responsibility for his actions, then, Mark? Shall I take the blame?”

  “Perhaps he was mad. Perhaps loving you did that to him. I can understand that.”

  How could he try to heal her on one hand and wound her so quickly on the other?

  Now, he would retract his offer of marriage. When he didn’t speak, she stared up at the ceiling, faintly lit by the oil lamp in the far corner.

  “The gossip must be swirling about the woman shot in the middle of Edinburgh.”

  “Why do you care so much about what other people say about you?”

  She didn’t truly care about what other people thought. Some people would rebuff her, but others would welcome her with a generous heart.

  She cared about what Jean thought, of course. The only other person whose opinion she truly valued was sitting a few feet away, and it might as well be a thousand miles.

  “Go to sleep, Catriona,” he said, his voice gentle and soothing. “It’s late and you need your rest. We’ll talk later.”

  She closed her eyes like a child, sinking into slumber with a relaxed and relieved sigh. They would talk later. He hadn’t marched out of the room. He hadn’t left her without a word. Instead, he sat beside her, lulling her into sleep, caring for her, and watching out after her.

  Yet he thought that loving her would make him mad. Did he know that she loved him as well?