To Bed the Bride

by Karen Ranney

  “You’ve worked for my uncle for some time, I take it?”

  “Ten years this next June, sir.”

  Logan didn’t remember the man, but that wasn’t unusual. His uncle had a great many far-flung enterprises and employed hundreds of men.

  Alistair McKnight was larger than life, a bear of a man possessed of a bellicose temper and an opinion about everything. He took pride in being an iconoclast and holding a contrary view. If someone said the sky was blue his uncle would counter that it was mostly gray simply to be argumentative.

  When Logan and Janet had first gone to live with his uncle, they’d thought that, due to his rank and position in life, he would turn over their care to other people. To their surprise, Uncle Alistair insisted on overseeing everything about their lives. When they were young he met with the nurse and the maids assigned to the nursery, then Janet’s governess and Logan’s tutors. Since Alistair was a widower and childless, he was considered by some matrimonially minded women to be a catch. His uncle had numerous romantic relationships, none of which he kept secret, but he never remarried. Instead, he was the best uncle/father anyone could have. He took on the children of his younger brother as if they were his own.

  When Logan had gone to Edinburgh a few weeks ago, he’d visited his uncle and had been shocked at the change in the man.

  “I’m not dead yet, my boy,” his uncle said. “You be about your business. You’ve enough to do without worrying about me.”

  When you loved someone you worried about them.

  Janet was closer and visited often. The fact that she’d sent him a letter meant the end was near.

  Logan thanked the man and walked him to the door, turning the envelope over in his hands. He didn’t want to open it, but it was a duty he couldn’t avoid.

  Mrs. Campbell startled him by appearing at his elbow. Her usually pleasant face was marred by a scowl.

  “Eleanor?”

  “I promised her a meal fit for a king. They were starving her. Can you imagine such a barbaric thing in this day and age? Just because she told them that she was going to break her engagement. The girl doesn’t want to be a countess, Logan, and they punished her for it.”

  He pushed the information down where he could deal with it later. Right now Eleanor had to be kept safe and allowed to recuperate while he dealt with other family matters.

  Logan had rescued her. Eleanor kept reminding herself of that fact as the minutes passed. He’d rescued her. This wasn’t a dream or a hallucination.

  Mrs. Campbell brought her a bowl of soup, but this was unlike anything she’d eaten in the past two weeks. This soup was white, thick, and filled with delectable vegetables and fish. She ate two bowls, but stopped herself from having a third considering how long it had been since she’d eaten. She was, however, tempted to eat some blueberry cobbler.

  After she ate, Mrs. Campbell bustled around her, placing a clean nightgown on the bed. “Miss Janet leaves clothing here. I don’t think she’d mind if you borrowed a bit.”

  Janet, Logan’s sister. Eleanor wanted to say something, but words were frozen just beyond her lips. Her mind wasn’t functioning well at all. All she could think of was that Logan had rescued her.

  He had rescued her and Bruce had, too. Ever since Logan exited the room, Bruce refused to leave her side. His loyalty had never been in question. Not when he was with her. Nor when he’d come to live with Logan. He’d always greeted her with joy and excitement, as if knowing that his new home was for his protection, not because she was punishing him.

  Seeing Bruce lifted her heart and reminded her that there were people who were good in the world. However, she felt almost guilty to be related to those who weren’t.

  Grief welled up in her, spilling out in tears she didn’t seem able to control. Why was she crying? For the first time she was safe.

  “Oh, you poor wee lamb.”

  Suddenly, she was being hugged by Mrs. Campbell. That just set off another storm of weeping, sobs that felt as if they came up from some deep cavern within her.

  “We’ll get you well, just you wait and see.”

  Eleanor could only nod in response.

  “You tell me what you want to do. Would you like to eat something else? Or bathe? Or simply go to bed?”

  Her answer was somewhat muffled since she was still being pressed up against Mrs. Campbell’s considerable bosom.

  “I’d like to bathe. If you have some hot water.”

  “We have better than that. We have a tub that’s as deep as Loch Ness.”

  She pulled back. “Loch Ness?”

  Mrs. Campbell smiled. “Maybe not that deep, but deep all the same.”

  The housekeeper stood, grabbed her hand, and opened the bedroom door. Bruce uttered a single bark as if to tell them he was following.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Logan’s home boasted a bathing chamber not unlike the two at her aunt’s house. However, the one attached to Logan’s suite of rooms had walls made of slate. Slate imported from Scotland. The tub, too, was stone, carved into a long boat shape and polished until it was smooth and silky to the touch.

  Eleanor didn’t bother protesting to Mrs. Campbell that she couldn’t possibly take a bath in Logan’s tub. She’d already come up against Mrs. Campbell’s will of iron and knew she would lose. In all honesty, she really did want to submerge herself in a tub of hot water. Perhaps, in that way, she could finally get warm and clean.

  As the taps ran and steam rose in the air, Mrs. Campbell grabbed one of the earthen jars from the counter and dumped the contents into the water.

  Eleanor was immediately taken back to Scotland on a spring day with the smell of the wildflowers, grass, and pines in the distance.

  The housekeeper left the room and returned with a stack of towels. After placing them on the counter, she reached into the cabinet against the wall and retrieved a jar of tooth polish along with a new toothbrush.

  “You take your time,” she said. “I’ll come back in a little while to check on you. I’ll knock first.”

  Eleanor nodded. She would’ve said more if she’d had the ability to form words. Or if Mrs. Campbell had stayed around to hear. The housekeeper closed the door behind her, leaving her alone.

  She was safe. No one could compel her to do anything. She wouldn’t be forced to marry Michael simply to survive. Thanks to Logan.

  Three sharp barks startled her. She opened the door to find Bruce standing there. He pushed his way inside, tail wagging. She smiled, the first time she had felt lighthearted for days.

  “You want to be my guardian here, too?”

  He barked once, as if in assent.

  It was evident that the housekeeper wanted her to understand that she was not alone. The next day Mrs. Campbell sent a contingent of maids to Eleanor’s room every hour on the hour to do something for her. She had her nails done. One of the maids helped style her newly washed hair with heated tongs. Two other maids brought her a selection of clothing from Logan’s sister. Often a maid arrived with some sort of wonderful selection of food from venison to fish to pastries.

  “You have the most talented cook,” Eleanor said to one of the maids.

  The girl had smiled. “You’re right, miss. Plus, Mrs. Campbell keeps her hand in. She makes pasties and all sorts of delicious things.”

  Eleanor couldn’t have been cosseted any better unless she was the queen.

  Logan hadn’t visited her and at first she didn’t question his absence. On the second day, however, she mentioned—as casually as she was able—that she would like to thank him for her rescue.

  “He’ll be back as soon as he can,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He had to go to Scotland to see his uncle. The poor man isn’t doing well.”

  How selfish she was to feel a surge of disappointment. Logan’s uncle evidently needed him, far more than she did. Besides, hopefully the next time Logan saw her she would look much better and would have recuperated from her imprisonment.

  By the en
d of the week she felt a great deal more like herself. She agreed to Mrs. Campbell’s urging and wore one of Janet’s dresses. She’d never met the woman, but she would be certain to write her a letter of thanks.

  She wondered how long it would be until she could obtain her own clothes.

  None of her family had sent word to her, which was probably a blessing. Nor had she heard from Michael, but she doubted she ever would.

  Living in Logan’s home was strangely comfortable. She didn’t feel like a guest or an intruder. Instead, Mrs. Campbell treated her like she was a member of the family, someone who was cherished and valued simply because of who she was—not because of what she could do for others.

  For a week the only demand of her was for her to list her choice of entrée for her meals. Did she want venison or beef? Chicken or pork? Would she like scones for breakfast or blood pudding or both?

  Although she didn’t belong here, it was the first place in London where she’d been so thoroughly and completely welcomed. Bruce kept her company whatever she did. He insisted on following her from room to room and even sleeping on the end of her bed.

  The path forward was a little murky. She knew what she was going to do, but not exactly how she was going to do it. Deborah and the rest of the family didn’t enter into her plans. They’d made their choice known. Any familial loyalty she might have felt for them had been burned away because of their greed. They’d chosen Michael rather than her.

  One afternoon, after asking Mrs. Campbell if she might borrow some stationery, she was directed to Logan’s study.

  The room was not unlike the decorations in the rest of the house. Very tasteful with touches of Scotland. On one wall was a portrait of a man and woman dressed in clothing of an earlier time. She wondered if they were Logan’s parents. Another portrait, hanging not far away, was of a lovely young woman with two children. A man around the same age stood behind them, smiling. This must be Janet because her eyes were like Logan’s and her smile matched his.

  A family crest, complete with lions rampant, hung behind Logan’s mahogany desk.

  She sat in his large leather chair, feeling dwarfed. She felt like she was trespassing despite what Mrs. Campbell said.

  “Himself won’t mind it a bit.”

  Mrs. Campbell had provided her with a sizable box of stationery, also left behind by Janet. The stack of ivory vellum sheets was perfumed with blotting paper scented by roses.

  She had to write her family, but she didn’t know what to say. How could she possibly communicate what she felt? Rage, grief, confusion, disbelief—they were all rolled up like a tangled ball of yarn. She couldn’t possibly untangle it.

  Perhaps it would be better to simply ask for her clothes. There, a task she could accomplish.

  She wouldn’t comment on the events that had transpired in her aunt’s home. Nor would she allow herself to vent any of the rage she felt at her treatment. Neither Deborah nor Hamilton were ever going to know how dispirited she had been and how close she’d come to capitulating to their demands.

  Logan had rescued her. Not only from that situation, but an abysmal future. How could she ever adequately thank him?

  That was another task she’d give herself when the time came. For now she would finish the letter.

  Bruce sat at her feet as if knowing that she needed a friend at the moment.

  Mrs. Campbell knocked on the study door, then opened it. Something about the housekeeper’s expression kept Eleanor silent.

  “A woman is here, Miss Eleanor. She says she’s your aunt. Shall I put her in the drawing room or say that you’re not at home?”

  “My aunt?”

  Mrs. Campbell nodded.

  Eleanor’s stomach clenched. At least she was saved from having to post the letter to Deborah. However, she was not entirely certain that she wanted to come face-to-face with her aunt right at the moment.

  Eleanor stood, clasped her hands at her waist, and prayed that she would be able to get through this confrontation. She felt as if she might be physically ill, a combination of fear, dread, and anger. She wished, irrationally, that Logan was here. Logan could protect her, true, but she wasn’t a weakling. She would face her aunt alone.

  Deborah was quintessentially English. Eleanor was a Scot.

  “Show her into the drawing room, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Campbell. Thank you.”

  “Shall I bring tea?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “That’s not necessary. This isn’t a social call. Nor is it a pleasant one, I’m afraid.”

  She didn’t doubt that Mrs. Campbell knew all about the entire situation, what her aunt had done and how Logan had rescued her. She knew she was right when the housekeeper came to her and gave her a quick, hard hug.

  “If you need me, you just call out. I’ll be close enough to hear. Would you like me to take Bruce?”

  “No, I think I’ll bring him with me.”

  She entered the drawing room with her smile moored in place and greeted her aunt with a modicum of politeness. Bruce startled her by refusing to enter the room fully, preferring to remain close to the door. Perhaps Deborah had that effect on him.

  Deborah had chosen to sit at one end of the lushly upholstered sofa. Eleanor chose the opposite chair. For long moments they didn’t say anything.

  Deborah’s lectures came back to her. All the speeches about how unfair Deborah’s life in Scotland had been, about how privileged Eleanor had been treated at the expense of her family. All the talk about how Jeremy had been cheated of his rightful heritage. She had hoped to be able to get through this meeting without revealing how angry she was, but as she sat there, Eleanor realized that her rage was just below the surface.

  It had burned out any other feeling she had for Deborah.

  “I would like my belongings,” she said when Deborah still didn’t speak.

  “They’re in your carriage,” Deborah said. “Your personal things, along with the dresses you brought from Scotland. You won’t be receiving the garments that we paid for, part of your trousseau.”

  “That’s fine,” Eleanor said.

  “Michael will make it known that he’s broken your engagement because of your infidelity.”

  Eleanor knew that she’d never get an acknowledgement from Michael about what he’d done. It was altogether possible that she would never talk to him again. If they happened to meet in public she was certain he would simply turn and give her his back.

  She didn’t care about what Michael did or said.

  “McKnight won’t want you, you know. When people learn how shameless you are, McKnight won’t want anything to do with you. You’ll be a social outcast. A burden. An object of shame. He’s a member of Parliament and sensitive about scandal. He won’t want his name tainted.”

  Her aunt was quite possibly correct. A good thing she’d decided to leave England and live at Hearthmere. No one would care what the English gossips said there.

  “I’ve always wanted your love and affection,” she told Deborah, knowing this was the last conversation she would ever willingly have with her aunt. “I thought, for a time, that I had it, but only because I was going to be a countess. You’ve never truly felt anything for me, have you?”

  Deborah didn’t answer. Her only response was to stare at Eleanor as if she was some sort of circus exhibit, something too bizarre to be believed.

  Eleanor wasn’t going to get an answer, then. Perhaps she’d already received one, from the treatment she received at her aunt’s hands.

  “Do not come to us for recourse, Eleanor. We will no longer be a safe haven for you.”

  A safe haven? Deborah had never been a safe haven. Granted, she’d been family, but Eleanor had never felt safe or even much wanted here. Hearthmere had always been and would always remain her home. Not London. Not Deborah’s house.

  “From this moment forward we will disavow any relationship to you. Do not think that you can trade upon our good graces anymore. You are no longer part of our family.”r />
  Eleanor finally understood. Deborah was here for one reason only. Not to bring her clothes, but to deliver this message.

  Eleanor felt strangely calm, almost relieved. “That’s fine. You’ve never been part of mine.”

  Deborah leaned forward slightly, almost as if she wanted to physically retaliate.

  Bruce moved from the door to stand in front of the sofa. His lips curled back to reveal impressive incisors.

  “I should have had him drowned when you first brought him from Scotland,” Deborah said.

  The fur on Bruce’s back rose as he began to growl at Deborah. Eleanor didn’t admonish him. Instead, she stood and walked to the door, Bruce at her side.

  “I think it’s time you left,” she said. “This visit has already been too long.”

  She opened the door to find Mrs. Campbell standing there, accompanied by two of the footmen. She couldn’t help but smile at all three of them.

  Addressing her remark to Mrs. Campbell, she said, “My driver and my carriage are outside. Could they stay here for a few days?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mrs. Richards will be leaving now,” Eleanor said, turning to look at her aunt one last time.

  In one way Eleanor was gratified that her aunt had come to see her. She’d put an end to their relationship as finally as a deathblow. Her aunt had said it herself: Don’t count on us. Don’t come to us.

  She wouldn’t. Not ever.

  Family is everything. She would have to create her own now. How strange to suddenly feel so happy and free.

  Eleanor returned to the guest room with Bruce at her side. Sitting on the chair beside the window, she spent several moments telling him what a good dog he was. He responded by trying to chew the toe of one of her shoes.

  She gave him his rope toy instead, watching as the footmen brought up her belongings from the carriage. How strange that her entire London life could be packed into only three valises, but then, those things she truly prized were at Hearthmere.

  After thanking the footmen and watching as they closed the door behind them, she was left alone with her thoughts.