“Weel, there it is.” Lady Bess puffed at the noxious cigar until smoke wreathed her head. “It’s not kind of me to say so, but Stephen’s death is no great loss. Catriona indulged the lad dreadfully. Thought everything he did was perfect. And cling! She never gave him room to grow into a man. No wonder he turned out to be a wastrel and a coward.”
How very interesting. From Stephen’s comments about his mother, Enid had deduced that very thing.
“If Stephen had gotten my son killed,” Lady Bess continued, “I would have chased him to hell to kick his arse.”
Enid stifled an inappropriate laugh. “Someone needed to kick his . . . um . . . arse.”
Lady Bess straightened her shoulders.
Donaldina sat upright.
They exchanged glances.
In a cordial tone that didn’t fool Enid, Lady Bess said, “You know, dear, I’m an auld woman whose hearing’s not too good, and I don’t recall hearing your name.”
MacLean hadn’t given her name, as Lady Bess knew very well. But Enid couldn’t put off this terrible moment; it had to be faced with courage. So in a clear voice that carried halfway down the table, Enid declared, “I’m Enid MacLean. I’m Stephen’s widow.”
Everyone had gone to bed except the little contingent of Englishmen. Kinman, Jackson, and five of Throckmorton’s best men sat before the fire, legs stretched onto the ottomans, smoking cigars and waiting their turn to speak with MacLean.
Before he got to them and answered their impatient questions, he had one more conversation. His mother sat alone in the master’s chair. A cigar smoked in the ashtray beside her, and she shuffled playing cards and laid them out in tidy piles in preparation for solitaire.
She had always loved cards. When Kiernan was a child, she had taught him all sorts of games, games that sharpened his skills at adding and subtracting, then at strategy and intelligence. She taught him how to read his opponent, how to win graciously, and how to lose without obvious regret. He utilized those skills every day.
Yet he never played cards with her anymore.
She rose as he strode toward her; he pressed her down and pulled out one of the benches beside her. “You’ve earned your place at the head of the table,” he said. “I heard about Torquil and Eck and their fight over the long-eared racehorse.”
Waving an indolent arm, Lady Bess said, “ ‘Twas nothing. Took no more than the wisdom of Solomon to make them see sense.”
MacLean knew them. She did not exaggerate. “They’re stubborn men, both,” he acknowledged.
“Stupid men . . . but aren’t they all?” She poked fun at him, as she always did.
She said things to him she would never say to another soul, things that made him want to say things best left unsaid, for she was not without sin, blast her. But she was his mother, and worthy of respect, for she had done a marvelous job tending his estate. “You know what I came to ask,” he said.
“That’s why I stayed here when your English gentlemen are chomping at the bit.” She smiled at Kinman, who was peering around his chair at them.
Kinman blushed and ducked away.
“Where’s my sister?” MacLean demanded.
His mother ground out her cigar. “It’s not good news this time.”
“When is it ever?” He thought savagely of Caitlin, long-legged as a colt and just as wild.
“This is the worst.” Lady Bess looked down at the cards. “She’s gone off to avenge you.”
MacLean hoped he hadn’t heard properly. “Avenge me? What do you mean, avenge me?”
“We feared you were dead. Caitlin was broken-hearted, and so enraged that she ran off, determined to trace your footsteps and punish your killer.”
“No.” Not that he didn’t believe his mother. Only that the thought of his little sister out in the world looking for trouble made him ill. “How does she think to avenge me? No—please don’t tell me. Just tell me you’ve searched for her.”
“She wrote us from London. She said nothing of her quest to avenge you, and I want to think she went to that great city and abandoned her mad idea.” Blindly, Lady Bess moved a card.
“I want to think that, too.” But he didn’t, and in truth, neither did his mother. Caitlin was as stubborn a lass as any to be found, and she had the persistence of a bulldog. “What is she doing in London?” A new worry sprang to mind. “How is she supporting herself?”
“She’s not still in London. She found a position through the . . .” Lady Bess reached into her cleavage and pulled out a well-folded sheet of paper. “. . . Through the Distinguished Academy of Governesses.”
Hope glimmered. “That is the agency which found Enid her position with Lady Halifax. A respectable agency. They would not send her into danger.”
Leaning forward, Lady Bess gripped his arm. “Truly? You know this?”
For all her indolent appearance, she was, he realized, deeply afraid for her daughter. “Truly. Have you written them?”
“I sent them a letter, and I got a polite letter in return from a Lady Bucknell. She said Caitlin seemed sensible enough, had good references, and claimed to be twenty-five, which she is, so Lady Bucknell sent her out on a job in the Lake Country. She said she would write Caitlin and ask that she contact me, but that she couldn’t demand the child return.”
“The child is a woman.” Leaning across his mother, he moved a red queen onto a black king.
Lady Bess lightly slapped his hand.
“It doesn’t sound as if she’s in danger. Did Lady Bucknell give Caitlin’s location?”
“In the island nation of Rasnull. I sent a messenger to find her when we discovered you were alive. Perhaps that will bring her home.”
“Yes.” He stroked his chin again, and in a low voice, said, “And perhaps she will stay where she is and there find happiness.”
Moisture shined in Lady Bess’s eyes. “Kiernan!”
For the first time, he said what they both knew. “My lady mother, she can’t find contentment here. No matter how hard we try to protect her, everyone whispers about the scandal and she hears it.”
“I know.” Lady Bess laughed without humor as she considered her own scandal. “I do know.”
But you deserve the whispers and the slander.
He didn’t say it, for Caitlin deserved the whispers and the slander, too. She had been the spoiled daughter of the clan MacLean, and she had wantonly thrown away her good name on a viper, a scoundrel . . . a man he had cherished like a brother.
“So, for the moment, we will assume that all is well with her.” Lady Bess picked up the cards, reshuffled, and laid them out again. “You have grown great in wisdom.” She seemed serious, then she smiled at him, mocking him in the old, familiar way. “A man as great in wisdom as you must recognize that it’s time you married.”
Slowly he leaned back. “You think so?”
“Taking care of matters while you were gone showed me I’m too old for the burden of such responsibilities.”
“You’re not too old,” he snapped. She wasn’t. She had given birth to him when she was but sixteen, and he never remembered a time when he hadn’t thought his mother a beautiful woman. Also outrageous, burly, difficult to live with, and a frequent embarrassment.
“Weel, you almost are.” She shook her head over the cards and gathered them up once again. “There’s not many women who’ll want to marry an auld geezer like you, especially one who’s not been broken in by a first wife.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
“Let’s not play games, son.” Lady Bess rapped the deck against the table. “You made your claim on Enid clear tonight.”
“Does it not bother you that she is my cousin’s wife?”
“Stephen’s widow, and obviously she is none of the terrible things he claimed. He lied to keep Catriona happy.” Lady Bess’s lip curled with the scorn she always showed when she spoke of his aunt. “Catriona would never allow another woman in her son’s life.”
MacLean re
membered how Catriona had struck him aside as he’d tried to comfort her on the loss of her son. The woman had adored Stephen with a zealot’s fervor. As it was, even in his death he had brought them disgrace. “I know.” He fumbled for his mother’s hand. “So you . . . like Enid?”
She squeezed his fingers. “Marry her and give me grandchildren, and I’ll adore her.”
A wisp of warmth curled in his gut. He shouldn’t give a damn what his mother thought. He should just take Enid and make her his wife . . . he took a breath. Ah, so that was his plan. He had to have Enid, so he would marry her.
“Will you do that?” Lady Bess asked.
And he wanted Lady Bess to like Enid. Obviously, she did or that plain-spoken woman would have made her feelings clear. “Enid doesn’t care for me much right now.”
“Not that you’ve ever had to bother before, but you could court the lass.” As she rose, she ridiculed him with her smile. “Ask me if you need advice.”
“I will not.”
“You would never ask your wicked old mother for advice.” She touched his cheek. “The more fool, you.”
MacLean watched as she drifted through the great hall toward her bed, attracting the gaze of every able-bodied man still awake.
Damn the woman. She poked fun at him, and he responded with instinctive defiance every time. She always raised his hackles, she always laughed at him afterward, and he always felt the fool she called him. No, not a fool—a child, chided by his mother for not seeing through to the truth. But he knew the truth about her . . . didn’t he?
Making his way to the fire, he sank down on one of the comfortable chairs. He was tired, so tired he was staggering, but with a glance about the circle of Englishmen, he announced, “My memory has returned.” At their gasp, he glanced around with a grin. But as he noted the obvious absence, his grin became a scowl. “First, tell where Harry has disappeared to.”
Chapter 22
Enid woke in a huge, luxurious bed in a massive, luxurious bedchamber, clad in the lovely lace nightgown Celeste had sent for her. Covering her eyes against the morning sunlight, Enid groaned.
Last night had proved the ultimate humiliation. MacLean had carried her across the threshold of Castle MacLean as if she were a weakling or a . . . bride.
Then after breaking bread at the MacLean table, to have had to introduce herself to the family. For the second time that night, a silence had fallen, one that had rippled out from her and reached the very outskirts of the hall. More than that, heads had turned from her to MacLean, and back again.
But she had to hand it to the MacLeans. Even after that stunning piece of information, everyone had remained cordial. They’d filled her wineglass. They’d told her tales of Kiernan MacLean’s youth. Tales that had made her laugh a little too hard. Well. She had been exhausted, and the wine had been potent.
When the MacLeans and their guests and servants had been told in no uncertain terms—by the MacLean himself—of Enid’s fatigue, Lady Bess herself had led her upstairs to a bath and a bed. Although Enid had been almost asleep on her feet, she vaguely remembered Lady Bess explaining that in this chamber, Robert the Bruce had slept.
Enid hoped her wine-soaked brain had invented that fantasy, but in sitting up and looking around, she feared she had heard correctly. The sheets rustled like the finest cotton. The high posters on the bed, the ornately carved headboard, the paneling that covered the walls up to the chair rail, all was glorious, polished cherrywood. The coverlet, the bedcurtains, lofty canopy, and the drapes were deep green damask. Even the high ceiling with its painted clouds and plump cherubs suggested royalty.
Oh, how soon could she leave this hellhole and get back to her real life?
The sterling silver doorhandle rattled wildly, and Enid drew the covers up to her chin. “Come in,” she called.
The doorhandle rattled again. Supposing it was a serving girl with the breakfast tray, Enid climbed out of bed via the steps and walked toward the door, which sprang open, spilling MacLean into the chamber in a facedown sprawl.
She yelped and snatched the new burgundy red brocade wrapper off the chair. Holding it before her like a shield, she looked him over and decided he hadn’t hurt himself. He had landed on a very plush carpet. He wore the same clothing he had worn all the way through Scotland, and he was obviously the worse for drink. His head probably ached. He was probably sensitive to light.
Going to the windows, she opened the drapes.
And loud noises.
She yelled, “You’re not my husband. Get out of here!”
Surprisingly enough, MacLean rose right to his feet and looked her over with squinting deliberation. “You look much better this morning.” He waved his hand at his own face. “Last night you had big rings under your eyes and your mouth was all pinched and wrinkly.”
Half-insulted, half-amused, half-desperate—that was too many halves, but she had never done well at mathematics—she said, “What a silver-tongued knave you are. Now get out.” Get out because you look too good even covered with filth and smelling of whisky.
“You’ll want to know what’s happening.” He tapped his lips. “Do you know I’ve been up all night talking to the Englishmen?”
Turning her back on him, she pulled on her wrap.
He didn’t seem to notice that it looked superb on her. “I told them everything I remembered.”
Marching to the door, she held the knob and pointed. “Out.”
“But it was the most interesting thing. Just when I got to the good part, I didn’t know anything!”
She stopped waving him out and stared at him instead. “What do you mean, you didn’t know anything?”
“Better shut the door.” He shushed her with extravagant care. “This is secret stuff. I’m not supposed to tell a soul.”
“You’re telling me.”
“ ‘Course I am. I sleep with you.”
Why had she ever considered this man appealing? She opened the door wider. “No, you don’t. Get out.”
“I can’t remember the explosion.”
She hesitated. She looked down the corridor to make sure no one was listening. She looked back at him, scruffy and casual. “The explosion that killed Stephen?”
He nodded.
“What do you remember?”
“I remember going to England to find Stephen, for I suspected he had fallen into bad company. Stephen always did. I found Throckmorton. He sent me to the Crimea to get Stephen and then”—MacLean shook his head sadly—“nothing. I remember nothing.”
It shouldn’t matter to her. She shouldn’t care about MacLean’s safety, or about this intrigue, but she had been involved. She was curious. “So you believe that the person who tried to kill you in the Crimea is trying to kill you now?”
“That, certainly.”
“You think you were followed such a distance?”
“Why not? Train travel is easy, and if he can silence me before I declare him, he is safe.” MacLean flung himself into a delicate chair so violently the wood groaned. “Harry almost shot me.”
“What?” She gave up and slammed the door. “When?”
“You know Harry. Tall, dark.” MacLean imitated a ferocious frown. “Always serious.”
“I know who you mean, and I have long suspected he was the assassin.”
“No, no, no. Not him. He came in last night long after everyone else, and he had a rifle.” MacLean coughed as if he had a scratchy throat.
Walking to her bedside table, she poured MacLean a glass of water. Old habits died hard. “Why did Harry have a rifle?”
“Kinman and I had been talking about the shooting. You remember last night’s shooting?”
She wanted to shake him to hurry the story. Instead she extended the glass. “I remember the shooting.”
He considered her through red-rimmed eyes and fingered her robe. “That is a very pretty wrapper. Did you wear it for me?”
“No. Drink your water.” She thrust it into his hand.
<
br /> “No.” He leered with ludicrous exaggeration. “For me, you would wear nothing.”
Swiveling, she marched to the window. “It’s a shame Harry didn’t shoot you.”
MacLean had the audacity to look wounded. “Cruel. You are cruel. If you’re not nice to me, I’ll leave.”
“Let me hold the door for you.”
“You jest.” He slumped in the chair. “Harry hunted out of doors until he found the rifle, and he was angry. That really is a beautiful robe. It makes your hair look . . . wavy.”
“My hair is wavy.” She caught herself. “Why was Harry angry?”
“Because it’s an English rifle.” He took a long drink that drained the glass. “Stolen from Throckmorton’s own personal collection and brought here, just to shoot at you.”
“At me?”
“And at me.”
“But Harry doesn’t know who did the shooting.”
“No.”
They still weren’t safe, but she deduced, “We know more than we did. We know it’s one of the guards.”
“They’re going home today. All except for Harry, Kinman and Jackson.”
Surprised, she questioned, “Jackson? You’re allowing the valet to stay?”
“He has impeccable references from Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh, so Kinman assures me Jackson is safe.” MacLean managed to look both piteous and engaging. “And he shaves me so well.”
Enid considered MacLean’s scarred, scruffy, bewhiskered face. Yes, he would treasure Jackson for his way with a razor. “You ought to have him shave you now.”
MacLean wiggled the glass. “Can I have some more?” As she drew near, he caught her fingers. “You have on a lace nightgown.”
“I was asleep when you arrived.” A lie, but she didn’t care.
“I saw it before you put that ugly robe over the top of it. The nightgown is pretty.” He tugged her close.
If she hadn’t resisted, he would have pulled her into his lap. Fueled by anger that he thought she was so easy, and panic, because she wanted to be easy, she said, “You don’t like me, remember? I’m Stephen’s mercenary wife.”
Lost in Your Arms Page 22