A Highland Duchess Page 5

  She ignored his words, directing her attention to the bright white plate with its gold trim, a pattern she recognized as Royal Dorchester. She had a similar pattern at home.

  “It’s unusual to have a garden in London,” she said, when the feeling of warmth had faded from her cheeks. “We have a little plot of land behind the stables, but we use it to exercise the horses when necessary.”

  The rather vacuous nature of her comment made her wince inwardly.

  He only continued to smile. For some odd reason her gaze kept returning to him and not the table, or the plate, or the scenery around them. She was not even captivated by the pattern of shadows on the tablecloth caused by the swaying branches above them.

  Today he was attired in a white shirt and black trousers, the plainness of his attire a perfect backdrop to his appearance. His eyes were brown, so darkly brown they appeared almost black. His features were finely chiseled, and he was tall and lean with broad shoulders. A very impressive appearing man.

  “I have always liked this house,” he said.

  At her quick look, his smile broadened. “No, I didn’t steal it. This house has been in my family for generations.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  Instead of answering, he only shook his head, as if to negate her curiosity.

  He raised his right hand, and a footman suddenly appeared, as if he’d sprung full-grown from a nearby bush. He carried a small round tray heaped with a selection of toast and rolls. She selected two pieces of toast, and some kippers from the covered container on the table.

  After the footman departed, she glanced up at him. “I’ve never had the opportunity to dine alfresco,” she said.

  “Did you never have a picnic?” he asked.

  “Is that your price for this meal? Details about my private life?”

  “Can we not converse?”

  “Why should we?” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “You cannot simply shake your head at me,” she said. “Not when I’m certain there is something you wish to say.”

  “Let’s just say that my comment would not have been complimentary.” His smile took none of the sting from his words.

  He laid his spoon on the edge of his saucer before slowly and deliberately picking his cup up and drinking from it, all the while regarding her.

  She could feel the flush emanate from her toes and travel all the way up to bloom on her cheeks. She picked up her cup, mimicking his movements, studying him with the same intensity.

  “You’re quite annoying,” she said, placing the cup down on the saucer.

  “Am I?”

  He raised one eyebrow in such an imperious gesture that she almost smiled.

  She preferred to study a hedge a few feet away rather than look at him again. Whoever cared for this garden had the ability to coax even the boxwood into lush profusion.

  “I’ve taken your advice,” he said.

  “What advice did I give you?”

  “This morning I sent a note to your uncle informing him that you’ll be returned once I have the Tulloch Sgàthán.”

  “That’s very bold of you,” she said. “What if he tracks you down first?”

  “From what I’ve seen of your uncle,” he said, “I doubt he’ll make the effort.”

  “What if he refuses to surrender the mirror?”

  “Never underestimate your value, Duchess.”

  She’d four years to know the true extent of her worth. It lay in her womb, not in her person.

  “I’m nothing without a husband, and with a husband, I was less than nothing. Society does not value women. They value women who accommodate.”

  “Did you accommodate, Emma?”

  She stared at her plate without speaking for several moments. “Yes,” she said finally.

  “I often take my meals out of doors,” he said, returning to the previous topic.

  “Therefore,” she said, grateful for his easing her through a difficult moment, “you’ve had vast experience at picnics.”

  He smiled, the expression charming.

  “My home is near a lake, and on the lake is an island. Ever since I was a little boy, the island has been my refuge, my lodestone, as it were. I can remember eating many a meal at the top of the hill on that island. Inconsequential moments but ones I still recall.”

  She cut her toast in half, busying herself with the knife. “So you’ve created an island in London.”

  He looked around, as if suddenly viewing the courtyard differently.

  “Perhaps I have,” he said.

  Breakfast occupied them both for a few moments, the time passing in a surprisingly pleasant interlude.

  She glanced at him from time to time, unsurprised that he had excellent table manners. He possessed a quality, something arresting that drew her eyes over and over. Perhaps it was a sense that he knew his place in life and his purpose, had a goal, and was determined to achieve it.

  Against that, what were mere good looks?

  “Where is your home? Your island?” she asked.

  “Where is home to a Scot if not Scotland? But the world comes to London, doesn’t it?”

  “The world doesn’t necessarily live here.”

  He smiled again, a little effortless charm to mask the fact that he had not answered her question.

  “Where in Scotland are you from?” she asked more directly.

  “Shall I say the Highlands?” he asked. “And in doing so immediately be characterized as one of those warriors that are so popular of late. I’ll be a laird, shall I?”

  “Are you?”

  “Scotland has existed all these hundreds and thousands of years,” he said, deflecting her question. “But it’s only in the last twenty that there’s been so much written about my country.”

  “The Queen has a great fondness for Scotland,” she said.

  He only nodded.

  “Am I not to know?” she asked. “Or are you simply trying to be mysterious?”

  “Perhaps I’m trying to be more like you,” he said, “revealing little of myself. They gossip about you, you know.”

  “I’m the Duchess of Herridge. People will say what they will.”

  His hand brushed close to where one of hers rested on the table. When Anthony was near, she only felt aversion, and a sickening kind of fear. Now, her skin tingled and her stomach fluttered. She dared herself to leave her hand where it was. When he made no further move, she didn’t know if she was disappointed or relieved.

  The sun warmed the top of her head, and the air was clean and sparkling. The equanimity with which her abductor treated her was unusual, and yet as refreshing as the breeze. She could have been anyone, anyone at all. Not necessarily the Duchess of Herridge, or a woman in mourning. She was simply herself, simply Emma, the person she’d yearned to be for so very long.

  She would revel in this freedom for as long as she had it, knowing that it was short-lived. A day, perhaps two at the most, and she would return home, and take up the role that Fate had decreed for her, becoming the widowed Duchess of Herridge until she was married again.

  The thought of marriage almost made her ill.

  She stared down at her plate, realizing that her appetite had abruptly vanished.

  “Is something wrong, Emma?”

  She looked up at him. “I’m to be married,” she said. She’d not intended to say that. Ordinarily she would never have revealed something so personal about herself. But then, these were not ordinary circumstances.

  He was looking at her, his gaze so direct she almost glanced away.

  “So am I,” he said. “In a matter of months.”

  “Are mutual congratulations in order, then?” she asked.

  “By the l
ook on your face, no,” he said, his voice too soft, too kind.

  He shouldn’t be considerate. If he were, she would start to think of him as more than an abductor. A friend, perhaps, in a life devoid of friends. Or something even more dangerous—a handsome man who interested her a little too much.

  Chapter 6

  “Do you know her?” she asked. “Your betrothed?”

  “Her father is one of my oldest friends. My mentor, as a matter of fact.”

  “Do you like her?”

  He looked startled by the question.

  “I shouldn’t have asked that, should I? Perhaps I envy you. I’d only met Anthony once, and didn’t even remember it. He did, however, and appealed to my father that very night. He said meeting me was one of his fondest memories. Wouldn’t you think I would be able to recall it as well?”

  “Perhaps not. Evidently, you made an impression, while he did not.”

  “It was a party, I think. Perhaps that’s why I don’t remember. I dislike parties,” she said. “Mourning isn’t onerous for me, for that very reason. It gives me an excuse to be by myself, in my own company.”

  She was prattling—she could hear herself. What had gotten into her?

  “Rebecca, my betrothed, is just the opposite,” he said. “She knows everyone’s names and the names of their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers. And as far as liking her, we’ve been acquaintances for a great many years.”

  “Then I wish you the very greatest happiness,” she said.

  “And I, you,” he replied, smiling at her. “Who is to be your next husband?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” she admitted. “I never even inquired as to his name. My uncle made the announcement last night, before you arrived.”

  “Quite an adventurous night.”

  She sent him a look.

  “Perhaps he will be the best of husbands,” he said, watching her over his cup.

  “Perhaps he shall. And we will grow old together in loving matrimony.”

  He put the cup down. “Your tone seems to make a mockery of marriage, Emma.”

  She was silent for a moment. When she did speak, her voice was faint, as if she were ashamed to say the words. But she felt, strangely enough, that they needed to be said.

  “You’ve listened to the rumors about me. Have you heard anything said about Anthony, then?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “Can you imagine, then, if half the rumors you heard were true, what my marriage was like?”

  It was his turn to remain silent. “Yes,” he said finally. “I can.”

  His look was too sympathetic.

  He reached out and touched the top of her hand with the tip of his forefinger. A delicate touch, one that somehow managed to feel almost intimate. She should draw her hand back but she didn’t. Instead, she stared at his finger, feeling oddly mesmerized.

  She’d never sat so close to any man other than her husband. No man, including Anthony, had ever been so charming. A few of Anthony’s friends had whispered lurid suggestions to her but no one had ever been so pleasant.

  She didn’t know what to do. Should she leave now? Prudence demanded that she do so, yet the impulse warred with her very real wish to remain exactly where she was.

  “After you get the mirror,” she asked, pushing aside her thoughts, “will you return to Scotland?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Tell me what your home is like,” she said, then softened her request. “Please.”

  Even as she sat there, she knew she wasn’t being wise or proper at all. She should retreat to her chamber and act the part Fate had given her. If not prisoner, she should play the role of widow. On this bright and shining morning, however, she couldn’t find it in herself to pretend to grieve for Anthony.

  For a moment they sat in silence, before Ian began to speak.

  “Lochlaven is a few hundred years old and my family has lived there since it was built in 1606. It’s perched upon a promontory,” he said, his voice soft, almost melodic. “Overlooking a lake on which there’s an island, the site of the first castle. Behind us is Ben Cuidan, and a range of mountains. Lochlaven itself faces west. Each day as the sun sets we’re treated to a show of pink and gray skies. When I was a boy, I used to think that we were the last spot on earth, the last ones to see the sun set, but then, everything in my life revolved around Lochlaven in those days. It wasn’t until I went away to school that I understood it wasn’t the center of everyone’s world.”

  The more she knew about him, the more mysterious he became—a thief with a castle in Scotland and a large home in London.

  “Yet you left your home for the sake of a mirror,” she said.

  “Not exactly,” he admitted. “I was due to be in London on business, and decided to take advantage of the opportunity.” When she didn’t respond, he leaned forward. “You aren’t here because of a mirror, Emma,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to leave you alone to explain the presence of a man in your chamber to your uncle.”

  She nodded. “That would have been difficult,” she said. “But not impossible. I doubt my uncle cares much for my reputation.”

  “Can you trust him to choose a husband for you?” he asked.

  She turned her head and looked at the profusion of plants surrounding her. Crimson lilies and deep red roses contrasted with the brighter oranges of the vivid gerberas. What a lovely place this was. Indeed, an island in the midst of London.

  She would have loved to talk to the gardener about the plantings. Anything but answer Ian’s question. In the end it didn’t matter what she thought or believed. Only that she was subject to her uncle’s will.

  He leaned back, folded his arms and regarded her steadily.

  “I haven’t heard many good comments about you, Emma. You surprise me.”

  “From Lady Sarah? I can understand only too well. Any woman who would attempt to take her mother’s place would be looked upon with disfavor.”

  “She never said a word. Other than to comment that she didn’t know you, had never met you.”

  “Ah, rumors, then.”

  Women had been among some of the most dissolute guests at Chavensworth. Women who were doyennes of society, showing a serene and flawless face to the world. No one saw the rot beneath the surface. Would any of those hypocritical women have meekly acceded to another marriage?

  The appearance of virtue was truly its own reward.

  She didn’t even have that—no woman married to Anthony would have.

  “You’ve been an exemplary prisoner.”

  What would he say if she told him that she’d had four years of imprisonment?

  “Perhaps I should abduct a duchess more often,” he said. He was trying to be charming again, and succeeding only too well.

  “You mustn’t relegate yourself to only duchesses,” she said. “There are few enough of us. You might consider a countess or two, or even a baroness.”

  “In all honesty, I doubt I shall do this again. The journey across your roof was a little more adventure than I choose to have. I’m a better scientist than I am a thief.”

  “A scientist?”

  He nodded.

  “What do you study?”

  “Water,” he said. A moment later his smile deepened. “You have the most amazing look on your face. As if you’re deciding whether or not to ask—why water?—or to remain silent.”

  “Why water?” she asked.

  He began to laugh, and she had no choice but to smile with him.

  “Omne vivum ex ovo,” he said.

  “Every living thing comes from an egg?”

  “You know Latin?”

  She nodded. “Not extensively,” she admitted. “But my governess considered that a woman should know a great deal
about many subjects.”

  He evidently didn’t consider that important enough to comment upon, or perhaps women in Scotland were educated in a similar fashion.

  “Do you know anything about spontaneous generation?”

  She shook her head, finished her tea, and set the cup down.

  “I presume, however, that you’ve heard of Aristotle.”

  ‘ “You are what you do,’ ” she quoted.

  His surprised glance amused her. “The governess?”

  She nodded.

  “Aristotle also believed that living things could be born from nonliving things.”

  She sat back, interested. “Or spontaneous generation,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Aristotle’s theory is being proven wrong. Instead of spontaneous generation, there is something called a bacterium, an organism we think capable of producing disease.”

  He leaned toward her, turned his hand over and stretched out his index finger. “Imagine, if you will, that on the tip of my finger there are hundreds of thousands of tiny little animals that you cannot see. These are bacteria, so small that they aren’t visible to the human eye. But they’re there all the same, and it’s their presence that can make us ill.”

  He straightened and pulled back his hand.

  “How do you see them?”

  “With a microscope,” he said.

  “And you study this? Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “A great many things can be dangerous if care is not taken.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it’s there? Because I can? Because whenever people become ill I want to know why?” He shrugged but the intent look in his eyes belied his affected nonchalance.

  “Are you a physician, then?”

  “No, but I work with a physician. My betrothed’s father, as a matter of fact.”

  She envied him his enthusiasm because she’d never viewed the world with such delight.

  “I must be about my work now,” he said, placing his napkin on the side of his plate. “But I have no needlework to occupy you,” he said. “I noticed the needlework in your room.”

  “I do not require occupation,” she said. A moment later she corrected herself. “I do not require needlework as an occupation.”