“Yes, thank you, my lord.” Miss Morland sat gracefully, and once again Hamish wondered about her background. The deep purple gown she wore was of fine wool and well cut even if it was far too spinsterish for his liking—the neckline was high, concealing the lass’s lovely décolletage. Miss Morland might claim she was a poor relative of the de Veres, but her family hadn’t scrimped on providing her with a decent, albeit sedate, wardrobe.
Come to think of it, Tilda’s gown seemed to be of a superior quality too. Hamish studied the little girl’s white muslin gown with its bright blue sash as he reclaimed his seat at the table. Not that he was an authority on children’s clothing, by any means, but Tilda certainly wasn’t dressed in patched, soiled, or ragged garments. It made him even more curious about her mother’s circumstances. She must have had money at some point. He’d seek Miss Morland’s opinion on it later when Tilda was out of earshot.
He was just pouring Miss Morland a glass of claret when a trio of female servants—the innkeeper’s wife and two daughters, no doubt—arrived with their dinner. An array of domed platters and china dishes were deposited in the center of the oak table, and then he, Miss Morland, and Tilda were left alone once more.
Hamish played servant, carving up the roast chicken, while Miss Morland uncovered the other dishes and served up vegetables for them all—crunchy golden potatoes, roasted carrots and parsnips, and steamed buttered beans and sprouts.
“Goodness, you’ve thought of everything, my lord,” remarked Miss Morland when she discovered the pitcher of warmed milk he’d requested for Tilda.
“I didn’t think claret would be to Tilda’s taste,” he replied, helping himself to a thick slice of fresh bread and slathering it with butter. “I trust it is to yours . . .”
“Oh . . .” Miss Morland picked up her glass and examined the deep ruby red contents. “To be p-perfectly honest, I’ve never had claret before.”
“Please don’t feel obliged to drink it on my account. I can easily send for something else. Whatever you’d like, in fact. Sherry, perhaps. Small beer or cider. Tea . . .”
“No, it’s quite all right. I’d like to try it.” She took a tentative sip, and he watched her pink tongue swipe across her fulsome lower lip, leaving a slight sheen. He had to bite his own lip to stifle a groan. God’s teeth, what the hell was wrong with him?
He forced himself to speak to break the odd spell she’d effortlessly cast over him. “So, what do you think, Miss Morland?”
“It’s rather nice,” she replied, and took another sip as if to demonstrate she spoke the truth. “Not quite as pleasant as champagne. I had that once at Lord and Lady Mal . . . I mean, at a f-friend’s wedding. I most certainly prefer it to brandy.”
Hamish cocked a brow in surprise. “You’ve tried brandy?”
“Yes. Al-although it was some time ago. Awful stuff, if you ask me.” Miss Morland picked up her knife and fork and proceeded to slice the chicken breast on Tilda’s plate into smaller pieces. Bright color had stained her cheeks, making Hamish suspect there was more to the brandy story than she wished to admit.
“I prefer whisky myself,” said Hamish, “but if brandy isn’t to your taste, I’m sure you wouldn’t like that either. It’s evil stuff. And illegal, so hard to come by too”—he winked—“unless you know where to find it.”
Miss Morland’s gaze returned to his. A small frown puckered her brow. “Then why do you drink it?”
Because it’s the only alcohol strong enough to knock me unconscious so I’m not constantly plagued by nightmares. But Hamish couldn’t admit that. Instead, he simply shrugged and threw her a devilish grin. “Och, I’m a Highlander, lassie. Whisky, the uisge beatha—that’s Scots Gaelic for the water of life—it runs through my veins.”
Miss Morland blushed again, and she turned her attention to her own dinner. “I’m looking forward to seeing the Isle of Skye, my lord. I’ve never journeyed to Scotland before. I hear the Highlands are beautiful.”
“Aye, they are indeed,” agreed Hamish. “Although Muircliff Castle, my home, is at the northern end of the island in quite an isolated, some might even say desolate, spot. In fact, it sits upon a cliff overlooking the Little Minch, a channel separating Skye from the Isles of the Outer Hebrides. I hope you like the sea, Miss Morland. It’s a constant companion, along with the wind and the gulls.”
“It sounds wonderful. And yes, I do like the sea. Very much.” Miss Morland’s mouth lifted into a smile, and another delightful petal pink blush bloomed across her cheeks. “This summer, I had the op . . . the opportunity to go sea bathing in Brighton. In a bathing machine, of course. It was most refreshing.”
The sudden image of Miss Morland’s pale and slender naked form rising from the sea sprang into Hamish’s mind, and he nearly choked on his mouthful of chicken. He took a quick swig of claret and then cleared his throat before speaking. “I’m afraid sea bathing is out of the question around Muircliff. The waters of the channel are treacherous, even in calm weather. And freezing cold. You’d turn into a block of ice within a few minutes.”
“Oh, I didn’t expect to . . . I mean to say . . .” Miss Morland closed her eyes momentarily, then took a deep breath. “I’m sure I will love Muircliff Castle, my lord.”
At least one of us will, thought Hamish grimly. They continued to eat in polite but strained silence until Hamish could bear it no longer. It was his fault the mood in the room had changed. Keen to avoid further conversation about his own home, he asked Miss Morland where she originally hailed from.
When Miss Morland put down her cutlery and took a slow sip of wine, Hamish studied her face. Was she prevaricating? Again he was struck by the notion that Tilda’s pretty nursemaid was hiding something. He had begun to suspect she wouldn’t answer at all when she cleared her throat and responded in a voice so soft, he had to lean forward to catch her words. “I was . . . I was raised in Warwickshire, an only child, n-not far from Birmingham . . .” A sigh shivered through her as she added, “Unfortunately, both of my p-parents passed away some time ago in a terrible carriage accident, and I have been f-forced to rely upon the goodwill of my extended family ever since.”
Dear God. Guilt, sharper than a bayonet blade, pierced Hamish’s heart. What a king-sized dolt he was for forcing her to talk about such a distressing topic. Of course she was an orphan. Why else would she be living as a companion with relatives who had little regard for her? Swallowing past the lump of remorse in his throat, he said, “I’m very sorry to hear of your loss, Miss Morland. It was thoughtless of me to ask you to speak about things that must pain you. Please accept my sincerest apology.”
“No, it’s quite all right, my lord,” she replied. The expression in her large brown eyes was melancholy but her gaze steady as she regarded him over the candlelit table. “It’s understandable that you’d be curious. After all, I’ve not been terribly forthcoming about my personal history up until now.”
Hamish waved a dismissive hand and leaned back in his chair. “I suspect we all have particular topics we’d rather not talk about at length, Miss Morland.”
“Yes . . .”
An ominous roll of thunder reverberated around the inn, shaking the windows, and Tilda clutched at her nurse’s sleeve, her eyes wide with fear. Miss Morland bent low, and the child whispered in her ear.
Miss Morland caught Hamish’s eye. “Would you m-mind if we dispensed with the usual formalities at the dinner table? Tilda is terribly frightened of storms and would like to sit upon my lap.” Her brow wrinkled with a grimace. “I’m afraid she’s also requested a lullaby. Which might not be a pleasant experience for you, my lord, as I’m not an accomplished singer by any means. Although, I’m less prone to stam . . . to stuttering when I sing. So there’s that at least.”
“Of course I don’t mind. I don’t want the bairn to be afraid. And I would be delighted to hear you sing, Miss Morland. Why don’t you take a seat
by the fire, where you’ll both be far more comfortable?”
Miss Morland gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
She repaired to the damask sofa with Tilda, and the little girl promptly clambered onto her lap, snuggling into her nurse’s arms. Glass of claret still in hand, Hamish joined them at the fireside, claiming the chair on the opposite side of the hearth. Truth to tell, he was intrigued. Despite her stammer, Miss Morland had a lovely voice; there was a velvet softness about it, an appealing husky quality that was strangely seductive. He was certain she was underestimating her ability.
Indeed, he was beginning to notice she lacked self-confidence, and he wondered if it was because of her stammer. The thought of anyone teasing her about her speech impediment, or treating her like an afterthought as her family seemed to have done, bothered him more than he could say. Which reminded him, she still hadn’t told him how much she’d like to be paid for her services. He’d mention it in the morning.
“This . . . this is a lullaby my own mama sang to me when I was young,” murmured Miss Morland as she gathered Tilda closer. Her slender shoulders rose as she took a deep breath. And then the voice of an angel emerged from her sweet mouth, drowning out the howl of the tempest, the crackling of the fire, and every other sound save for the wild thrumming of Hamish’s own blood through his veins.
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,
Rosemary’s green.
When I am king, dilly dilly,
You shall be queen.
Call up my maids, dilly dilly,
At four o’clock,
Some to the wheel, dilly dilly,
Some to the rock.
Some to make hay, dilly dilly,
Some to shear corn,
Whilst you and I, dilly dilly,
Keep the bed warm.
By the time Miss Morland had finished her beguiling, perfectly sung lullaby, Tilda’s eyelids were drooping, and Hamish was completely enthralled.
Damn, now his mind was filled with images of Miss Lavinia Morland warming his bed upstairs. How her slender legs would entwine with his. The silken slide of her rich dark tresses over his bare chest. She would raise her head and press those full, berry-sweet lips to his, and then he’d flip her onto her back and plunder her—
Miss Morland cleared her throat. “My lord,” she whispered. “I think it might be time to put Tilda to bed.”
“Aye . . . yes. Quite.” Hamish swallowed, and adjusted the fall of his waistcoat and jacket to hide a telltale swell at the front of his buckskin breeches. This attraction was getting out of hand. His life was complicated enough, and dallying with the nursemaid was a distraction he could do without. Miss Morland was here to make his life easier, not harder (his current state notwithstanding). And as soon as he found Tilda’s mother, he would either return Miss Morland to her family or help her to find another situation—the choice would be hers entirely.
The fire in his blood now subsiding, Hamish put aside his claret and stood. “Let me escort you upstairs. The inn is busy, and you shouldn’t have to fend off the advances of drunken louts.”
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary—”
“But I’m sure that it is.” Hamish crossed to the door and held it open for her. A burst of raucous male laughter sounded above the general hubbub of the storm, and he raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to argue with your employer, are you, Miss Morland?”
“No, my lord. Of course not,” she murmured, slipping past him into the hall outside.
Hamish followed, stalwartly studying the chignon at the back of Miss Morland’s head, rather than the elegant length of her neck or the tantalizing sway of her hips beneath her dark purple skirts. When they reached the bottom of the main stairs, he took a sleeping Tilda from her. The child nestled against his shoulder, and when she slipped her thumb into her mouth, Hamish felt an unfamiliar wave of protectiveness wash over him.
Is this what it feels like to be a father? he thought as he climbed the stairs, still following Miss Morland. Hamish doubted his own father, Torquil MacQueen, had ever experienced such a tender emotion. Not for him, his eldest son and heir, nor for his other offspring, Angus and Isobel. Not even for his wife, Margaret.
Hamish barely suppressed a violent shudder and tried to bury all thoughts of a man he despised. A brutish man who’d tormented those he was supposed to love and brought untold anguish into all their lives. Hamish was sorry about many things, but he’d never be sorry his father was dead.
Christ, what he wouldn’t do for a bottle of whisky right now. He paused outside Miss Morland’s bedchamber door as she unlocked it, and took a moment to calm his riotous thoughts. The wild thudding of his heart. It was a good thing he had a sleeping child in his arms because if he didn’t, he might just be tempted to throw all his scruples out the window and take Lavinia Morland to bed after all, just so he could lose himself for a while.
But he wouldn’t. Because in the morning he’d be tortured by guilt for ruining an innocent girl for reasons that were utterly selfish.
Instead, he carefully tucked Tilda into her pallet bed by the fire. After muttering a cursory good night to Miss Morland, he headed for the door, intending to visit the taproom downstairs. But then the cursed woman followed him and touched his arm, staying him.
“My lord, might I have a quick word?”
Hamish swallowed, again fighting the overwhelming urge to drag Lavinia Morland into his arms as he turned to face her. The fragrance she favored—something sweet and floral like violets with an underlying note that was entirely feminine, vanilla perhaps—teased him, making his nostrils flare like a stag scenting a hind. Did she realize she was in danger of being ravaged? His voice, when it emerged, was rougher than he’d intended it to be. “What is it? I hope it won’t take too long.”
Color flooded Miss Morland’s cheeks, and she immediately took a step back. She pleated her fingers tightly together at her waist. “No. No, it w-won’t,” she murmured in a breathless rush. “It’s about Tilda. Well, her mother, at least. A small clue, perhaps?”
Curiosity spiked inside Hamish. “Yes? Did the child tell you something useful?”
Miss Morland nodded, then shared what she’d learned about Tilda’s mother’s appearance. “Although she’s young, Tilda’s manner of speech also suggests to me that her mother is well-spoken. And all her clothes are of good quality too. She was well cared for.”
“Aye, I agree,” remarked Hamish. He sighed. Tilda’s mother—who might have light brown, naturally curly hair—probably hailed from the middle classes. And aside from being literate, at some stage she’d been in possession of an adequate amount of money. It still wasn’t a lot to go on, but he supposed it was better than nothing. In the morning, he’d dash off a letter to his man of affairs and ask him to pass on the additional information to the inquiry agent.
“If . . . if Tilda tells me anything else,” said Miss Morland softly, “I’ll be sure to inform you straightaway, my lord.”
Hamish inclined his head. “Thank you. And in case I haven’t said it before, I appreciate everything you’re doing. For me and for Tilda. So . . .” He opened the door and forced himself to step into the hallway. “I bid you good night again, Miss Morland. Be sure to lock your door after I leave. And I hope you sleep well. On the morrow, we’ll depart at eight o’clock.”
“Yes, my lord. And I hope you sleep well too.”
Now, that would be a bloody miracle. Hamish turned on his heel and all but raced for the stairs before he could change his mind about seducing Miss Morland. If the innkeeper didn’t have an illicit stash of whisky somewhere, he was sure to have brandy or port.
Maybe when he’d emptied a bottle or two, he’d at last reach that much-sought-after state of total oblivion he so badly needed yet rarely found.
CHAPTER 6
The wind roared down the
chimney, the rain beat in torrents against the windows, and everything seemed to speak the awfulness of her situation.
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
The Hart and Hare Inn, Kendal, Cumberland
September 18, 1818
Even though Olivia was exhausted from traveling—and pretending to be someone she wasn’t, much to her shame—her sleep was fitful. The unfamiliar bed was lumpy. She was alternately too hot and then too cold, so she kept tossing her covers off or dragging them back on. And most annoyingly of all, strange noises kept jolting her awake whenever she did manage to slip into a doze. The wind wailed about the eaves, and rain hurled itself at the bedchamber window until well past midnight. Fellow guests stomped down the hall, laughing and chatting and slamming doors, and in the inn yard below, departing patrons called out to each other.
So when an anguished, unearthly cry shattered the relative quiet of the early hours—the storm had at last abated—Olivia immediately sat bolt upright in her bed.
Her heart pounding, she held her breath, listening. Had the sound come from Lord Sleat’s chamber? Surely not. But when a strangled moan filtered into her room again, Olivia knew it was coming from the corner suite next door.
Good Lord. Was the marquess hurt? In any case, something was terribly wrong. Her gaze darted to Tilda, but she was still sound asleep and tucked up snugly in her pallet.
Another cry, rather like an agonized sob, penetrated the stillness, and Olivia slid from her bed. Where on earth was Hudson, the marquess’s valet? Shouldn’t he be attending to his master? Unless Lord Sleat had dismissed him for the night . . .
The fire had died down, but the lingering glow of the coals helped Olivia to locate her woolen shawl on the cold, bare floorboards by the end of her bed. Wrapping it about herself to cover at least some of her flannel night rail, she tiptoed quickly to the door in her bare feet and peered into the hallway. It was dark and deserted and utterly quiet except for the intermittent sounds of distress emanating from Lord Sleat’s room.
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 8