by Amy Jarecki
John released his grip from his hilt. “I think you’re digging, Your Grace, and I would thank you to stop.”
“I assure you, I am as upset by this news as you, m’lord.” Argyll pushed a missive into John’s midriff. “Take this.”
John snatched the letter and read. It was a simple note from Argyll to Mar stating that the queen’s officer in the Netherlands had exposed the name of a traitor in her court and that Argyll’s man would meet an informant at Black’s Tavern at one o’clock on the twenty-third of May.
John tried to hand the letter back, but the duke held up a palm. “What are you on about?”
“’Tis a diversionary tactic and is only meant to bait the scoundrel,” said Argyll. “Leave my missive in a conspicuous place. If no one shows up at Black’s, then you’ve nothing to worry about.”
Reluctantly, John stuffed the missive inside his doublet. If he refused, Argyll would be accusing him next. “I assure you Lady Mar is innocent.”
“We shall find out, shall we not?”
As he headed home, he couldn’t help his own suspicions. Before Evelyn had arrived, the correspondence on his writing table had never shifted. And he’d warned her to stay away from Dubois. What truly was her association with the Frenchman? Did Dubois have Jacobite leanings, as he’d led John’s allies to believe, or was there something more sinister brewing beneath? From the day the French diplomat had been introduced in court, John hadn’t trusted the man. He’d presented Her Majesty his letters from King Louis with undue arrogance. There he’d stood in the presence of the Queen of England with a damned smirk on his face. And though he had come as an advisor, he’d provided little help to Anne. In fact, every time John saw Dubois at court, he was off in some corner whispering in someone’s ear. Just as he’d done with Evelyn at the opera.
By the time he arrived home, nothing made sense. Argyll was a meddler of the worst sort, and never ceased to pose as a thorn in John’s side. On the other hand, John had never spoken in detail of politics to Evelyn, and he didn’t intend to start now. Hell, he was only beginning to know his wife, although their argument had been unsettling—had shown him what little she knew of him. Moreover, Evelyn had quite clearly expressed the passion of her leanings toward Jacobitism. If John had to guess, a bit less than half of England, and possibly three-fifths of Scotland, supported and recognized James Stuart as the rightful heir. Nonetheless, Lady Mar’s opinion had absolutely no effect on the outcome of the succession. Hell, if the Old Pretender outlived his sister, John would accept his right to rule with open arms. It was the queen who had insisted on excluding Catholics from inheriting the throne. Once she died, sentiment might very well change.
As he climbed the stairs to the town house, Swenson opened the door but looked to the footpath beyond. Oliver and Thomas approached, dragging Brutus behind them with Lady Evelyn in their wake. All three of them were laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Hell, even the dog looked in better spirits, if that was possible.
If Evelyn was engaging in traitorous activity, she certainly had learned how to act as if nothing were amiss.
“Da!” Oliver hollered.
Evelyn glanced up, her pace immediately slowing while her smile faded. Aye, she knew she’d been caught.
John planted his fists on his hips.
“We took Brutus to the park,” said Thomas.
He stared at his wife. “Did you, now?”
Oliver climbed the steps. “Aye, though the Corgi isn’t much for playing fetch.”
“Most likely exercise is good for the dog, though I cannot say I am happy to see the three of you return without an escort.”
Evelyn cringed. “We only walked to the park—all three of us together. I didn’t think—”
Thomas stepped in front of her. “You should have seen Countess scold a cart driver for nearly running over the top of Oliver.”
“Aye—he nearly struck me with his whip, but I dodged him.” The youngest sidled to his brother. “And then Brutus almost bit the man’s foot right off.”
Groaning, Evelyn looked skyward. “The dog did not bite the man at all.”
“But you told him, did you not, Countess?” asked Thomas.
“I simply informed the driver he needed to keep a more watchful eye.”
“Wonderful.” On top of everything, all John needed was to have his wife berating cart drivers on the street. “Lads, go up to the nursery and report to Mrs. Kerr.”
“But, Da,” said Oliver, looking to his stepmother. “Countess said we could give Brutus a bath.”
“Perhaps later.” She gave the boy’s shoulder a pat. “I’ll come up to see you.”
“Promise?” asked Thomas before he turned to his father. “Da, you mustn’t be angry with Countess. We asked her to take us.”
What the hell had happened with his eldest son? At breakfast this morning, he was still acting standoffish toward Her Ladyship. Now they venture to the park, where Oliver is nearly killed, and there the pair of them stood defending the woman? “Off with you, and take that grumpy hound,” John barked, grasping Evelyn by the wrist and leading her to the drawing room.
“I didn’t see anything wrong with a quick jaunt to the park,” she said as he closed the door. “And Mrs. Kerr sorely needed a half-holiday.”
“The governess should have accompanied you. Why you didn’t consider that, I am without a clue. I know you are an intelligent woman, but to take my sons to the park by yourself is nothing short of irresponsible.”
“Irre—” Heaving in a gasp, Evelyn threw out her hands. “I vehemently disagree. For years I have taken my sisters on walks just the three of us and never once were we set upon.”
“Och aye? And today, my youngest nearly met with a cart driver’s lash. Because he wasn’t harmed you continued on and enjoyed a merry day out. Is that it?”
“I reprimanded Oliver for racing out into the street without a care. I then reprimanded the whip-wielding driver for his barbarism. And then, yes, we proceeded to the park, where we enjoyed some time together—time that allowed me to come to know my stepsons better.”
“You should have returned home after the incident. I cannot—”
“Stop this instant!” Evelyn thrust her fists down to her sides. “How can you tell me what I should have done when you were not there to observe? I am not your child to reprimand.”
“Nay, you are my wife, and with such responsibility comes the promise to obey me.”
“Oh, so now I am Your Lordship’s disobedient servant. Shall I move my things to the servants’ quarters so you can continue to misappropriate my dowry?”
As Evelyn started for the door, John caught her by the wrists. “Where on earth did you get the notion that I have done anything with your dower funds?”
Struggling, she tried to tug away. “Unhand me!”
“Are you conspiring against me?” he asked, restraining himself from saying more.
The color drained from her face as she stilled but did not meet his gaze. “I have no idea why you would ask such a thing.”
If only he could tell her about his conversation with Argyll. But not yet. Not while the element of doubt still lurked. “I should have assigned a footman to accompany you on your outings. I will do so today.” He almost released her wrists, but Argyll’s damned missive was burning beneath his doublet. “In the interim, I have critical correspondence I must attend for the queen.” Uttering this lie nearly cut him to the quick. He hated deviousness.
Evelyn wrenched her hands away, giving him a look of contempt—one so filled with anger John rued every spiteful word he’d said. “Then you’d best see to it.”
Chapter Seventeen
You seem bothered, my lady,” Lucinda said, removing Evelyn’s hairpins for the night.
“’Tis nothing.”
“Forgive me for prying, but we all think His Lordship was rather harsh with you this afternoon.”
“I’d prefer not to discuss the incident, nor should you be goss
iping with the other servants.” Evelyn glanced up. She didn’t oft admonish her lady’s maid, but she needed the speculation to stop immediately. “It is not a servant’s place to observe or to express her opinion.”
Pursing her lips, Lucinda reached for the brush. “Forgive my impertinence.”
Evelyn pushed the hair away from her face. “I’m upset is all. Upset with myself as well as His Lordship.”
“Why yourself?”
“I thought I knew all the answers, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Is the earl making you doubt yourself?”
“I’m confused beyond all measure. And I’m not certain if the problem is Mar or living away from my father’s house. There the difference between right and wrong was entirely clear. Now I fear I’ve come under the same affliction as—”
“As?”
Evelyn was about to say “Bobbin’ John,” but that would have been entirely inappropriate to admit to a servant even if Lucinda had been with her for eons. “I just need some time to think. Mar was right. I shouldn’t have taken the boys to the park without asking a footman to accompany us. Papa should have insisted on it when I was with him as well.”
Lucinda moved around and started plaiting Evelyn’s hair. “I think I prefer Nottingham to London. It seems there are unsavory characters lurking in every dark corner.”
“It seems there are unsavory characters lurking in plain sight. But you’re right about London. When everyone’s dressed in court attire ’tis difficult to determine the riffraff from the moral.”
“Well, for the most part, everyone in Mar’s employ believes him to be an honorable man.”
Evelyn twisted her robe’s sash. At least earning the affection of one’s servants meant something. Everyone in Papa’s employ believed him to be a miser, even Lucinda.
Perhaps she had relied too much on hearsay. Perhaps she needed to give him time—to come to know him better. In truth, after a mere month of marriage, they were still little more than strangers who happened to meet in the dark, strip bare, and take their pleasure. Undeniably delectable pleasure.
What an odd state of affairs.
Evelyn regarded herself in the looking glass, not liking what she saw. She’d entered this marriage with preconceived ideas, which now muddled about in her mind. Nothing seemed as unequivocally certain as it had before she’d taken her vows. She shifted her gaze to Lucinda—the only person in Mar’s household with whom she had any history whatsoever. “What do you do when you want to know someone better?”
“Hmm.” The maid knit her brows while her hands stilled. “I suppose asking questions is a good place to start.”
Mar had asked Evelyn a great many questions and, as a result, he probably knew more about her than she did of him. Did he like to fish or hunt? Why did he wear a kilt most of the time, but always dressed as an Englishman at court? What was his favorite food, book, pastime? She didn’t know the answer to a single one of those questions.
Moreover, what did he want from her? Naturally, she’d taken over the management of the housekeeping staff and she discussed the daily menus with their London cook since the woman who filled the position at Alloa remained in Scotland to prepare meals for the serving staff up there. Evelyn had been reluctant to fulfill her role as stepmother—not that Mar had noticed. In fact, before this morning and excepting mealtimes, Evelyn had all but ignored the boys—especially since Thomas had clearly not wanted her affection.
Surprisingly, today the boy had stood beside her with his shoulders square while he defended her to his father. Why? Because she’d taken charge of the cart driver? Because she’d shown concern for Oliver? Or was it because her stepson realized she truly cared about his heartache and the need for him to overcome the painful loss of his mother?
All three, John, Oliver, and Thomas, had been through a horrible ordeal. And now they had brought Evelyn into their house to fill a missing hole, each one trying to deal with her presence in his own way, knowing she would never be Margaret, yet not knowing what they truly wanted or needed from a stepmother…or from a second wife.
True, Mar required money to settle his debts—that might be reason enough for marriage. But it wasn’t reason enough for Evelyn. Whether Mar knew it or not, he had married a woman, not a purse, and, henceforth, she refused to rest until he saw it.
Lucinda set the brush on the toilette. “Shall I stir the coals, my lady?”
“Not tonight, thank you. Go on and have a good rest.”
After the lady’s maid took her leave, Evelyn moved to the settee and stared at the fire, mulling over her thoughts. The Earl of Mar mightn’t have been her choice for a husband, but she was married to the Highlander now. It was time to learn more about the man with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life, like him or not.
Do I like him?
She had no idea how much time had passed when assured footsteps marched down the corridor. For a moment, Evelyn thought Mar might pop into her chamber, until the steps continued down the hall. The door to the earl’s chamber opened with a muffled creak.
Hushed voices came through the timbers. Doubtless, Mar’s valet had come in.
Evelyn clutched her arms across her midriff. What if she visited him? Would the earl grouse at her? Or might he be willing to talk?
If she dared to cross the threshold, what should she say? Could she ask him why people called him Bobbin’ John? Could she ask him why he allowed such a slight?
She bit her knuckle. I cannot go in there as if I am judge and jury. He already thinks I’m a highbrow.
By the time she heard the valet take his leave, Evelyn had convinced herself that to approach John this night was a bad idea.
Which is why, when her wayward hand opened the door, she stood there shaking like a forlorn puppy, her eyes wide, her tongue feeling as if it had swollen twice the size of her mouth.
Standing in front of the hearth with his arms crossed, Mar whipped around. “What are you doing in here?” he barked, the angles of his face sharp with ire.
Evelyn took a step back, her hand gripping the latch. “I wanted…” She considered slamming the door, fleeing to her bed, and hiding beneath the coverlet for the rest of her days.
“Aye?” he pressed impatiently, looking like a Highland king—or a Viking—whichever was more menacing and barbaric.
“I-I said some harsh words last eve for which I am not proud, and I owe you an apology.”
Mar dropped his arms to his sides. “Oh?”
“Before we were wed, I prejudged you and I now realize I may have been wrong. I just wanted to say that going forward, I will try to form my opinions without bias.”
“I thank you.” Rubbing his neck, he looked toward his bed, but it wasn’t a smoldering glance as she might have thought with bed involved. His expression was tortured and pained. “I trust you will accept my apology as well. I did not manage our disagreement well.”
Saying nothing, Evelyn gave a nod, half expecting John to approach. But as silence swelled in the air, she, too, glanced to the bed—a gargantuan contraption with mahogany posts as big around as her thigh. By the charge in the air, she intuitively stayed put.
Her intuition also told her something was amiss and if she didn’t take the situation in hand, the rift between them may not heal. Slowly, deliberately, she untied her sash. Mar watched. He said nothing, his eyes growing dark as she pushed the robe from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Wearing only a chemise of holland cloth, she smoothed her hands from her shoulders to her breasts and down to her hips.
Mar’s lips parted while his gaze followed her fingers. She gripped her skirt and exposed her ankles. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice husky.
Not answering her question, he sauntered toward her, looking like a man starved—a hunter, a warrior, a plunderer, and a pirate.
“Does my body please you?” she whispered without fear, inching the hem up farther and throwing back her shoulders.
After two more steps,
Evelyn shuddered as Mar grasped her waist and backed her into the countess’s chamber, kicking the door closed behind. “Your body reminds me I am a man. The way your full lips form a bow, the way your breasts rise and fall with each breath, sends me wild with need,” he growled, claiming her lips with a coarse and demanding kiss. Everything about John was raw and rough and nothing like the gentle man who had introduced her to the sport of the boudoir only a month ago. Licking her neck, he lifted her into his arms.
“W-what is your favorite color?” she asked breathlessly, her head swimming as his mouth covered her breast through her shift.
“Turquoise,” he mumbled, lifting her onto the bed. He stood back and disrobed in the blink of an eye, his member as hard as a steel rod. “I’m a wee bit partial to turquoise as of late.”
Evelyn sank into the pillows as the naked Highlander climbed over her. “What is your favorite f-food?”
“Pork. Cooked on a spit.” He kissed her—hot, wet, and ravenous. “No more questions.”
In three tugs, he yanked the shift over her head. With his knees, he spread her legs and rubbed himself along her slick channel. “Ye’re ready for me, wife.”
“I’m hungry for you, John.”
Evelyn didn’t want to wait. Yes, tonight was unlike any lovemaking they’d ever shared. His wicked assault took her to the precipice of madness with the speed of a shooting star. She opened her knees wider and grasped his member, angling it toward her core. “You’re making my blood run hot.”
She drew him toward her, but he didn’t enter. Teasing her with a low chuckle, he traced the curve of her breast with his tongue while she writhed, wanting, needing, craving him. His mouth was everywhere, making love to her body—everywhere except the one place she wanted him most.
“Please! Are you torturing me?”
“Aye.” He pushed up to his knees and stroked himself slowly, drawing out his seduction. “Is this what you want?”
Her thighs quivered. “Yes. Now!”
He hovered above her. “Then you’ll have it right now, no holds barred.”