Nothing but Trouble

by Allegra Gray

  “Nay, my lady,” Ismay Boyd agreed, wisely keeping any private doubts to herself.

  They’d just returned from a walk along the banks of the burn, and at the site of fresh carriage tracks, Charity had nearly started running in anticipation.

  The tracks turned out to belong to a deliveryman bringing several of her trunks from London. And that just left her in a conundrum. Her delight at finally, finally having her things again, being able to change into a gown designed specifically to fit her, was tempered—if not actually eclipsed—by her dejection that the tracks had not belonged to one Graeme Ramsey Maxwell.

  “He takes great pride in doing right by his people,” Charity rationalized as the two women followed the footmen bearing the trunks upstairs. She kept her voice low, though her words gave nothing away that the servants wouldn’t already have speculated upon. “And there is Nathan. And his mother.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  The footmen set down the trunks near the foot of Charity’s bed. “Shall I send a maid upstairs to unpack, milady?” one of them asked.

  “Not now. I should like to do it myself. I’ll signal later, should I require assistance.” Charity nodded to the footmen, dismissing them, and closed the door.

  Miss Boyd waited expectantly.

  “So he’ll have to come back.”

  The nurse-turned-companion cocked her head. “An’ what then, my lady? I see ye have something in mind.”

  Charity wet her lips. As desperately as she longed for Graeme’s return, the idea she flirted with now made her nervous. How would things be, between them? What would he say? What would she say? Could she convince him to hear her out, to give their marriage another chance? She’d never expected him to stay gone so long. What if he came back determined to cast her aside? Even the idea crushed the breath from her body.

  “Tell me, Miss Boyd. Did your brother, the one who went to war, ever find love? Has he married?”

  If her companion was confused by the seeming change in topic, she didn’t show it. “Nay, my lady, but that doesn’t mean he isna’ deserving of love.”

  Charity felt deflated. “But his troubles…”

  “Nay,” Ismay hurried to explain. “My brother’s story is different. ‘Twas not his return from war that left him lonely, but going off to battle in the first place. After he left for war, the lass he was enamored of married another. By the time he returned, she had one baby and another on the way.

  “He didn’t blame her, really. Two years is a long time, an’ without any promise he’d even live to return. My brother just hasn’t met another since then to turn his eye. But I ‘ave hope for him yet. With so many crofter families moving to the port towns, there are a good many unmarried lasses in Inverness now. When the time is right, he’ll find the one that warms his blood.” She paused. “When you asked about my brother, ‘tis because you want to know if there is hope for yourself?”

  Charity nodded. “That sounds selfish, doesn’t it?”

  “Nay, my lady. It sounds normal.”

  Normal. What a lovely sounding word. “I think I’d like to meet your brother someday. I hope he does meet a lass who warms his blood. When I met Lord Maxwell…well, he certainly warms mine.”

  Ismay giggled. “A good thing, since you’ve married him.”

  “A good thing, if he’d stayed. Not so good with him gone. I know I have…problems,” Charity admitted. “But I don’t want my husband to look at me as a woman who needs a nurse. As an invalid. That’s not the whole of me, not at all. I want him to remember the rest. I want him to look at me the way he did on the night we met.”

  “Oh? An’ how was that, my lady?”

  Charity lowered her gaze, fidgeting with the latch on the first trunk containing her belongings from London. She pressed on. Modesty wasn’t going to help her now. “Like he wanted to ravish me.” She snuck a glance at her companion.

  A wide smile spread across Ismay Boyd’s careworn face. “Like that, eh?”

  “Like that,” she confirmed, smiling back. The latch released, and she pushed up the trunk lid to see a colorful array of fabric. Her dresses. The smile grew wider. “And also,” Charity added, “I think, he looked like he wanted to protect me—so that no one else could do the ravishing.”

  “An’ that be the perfect way for a man to look at the lass he plans to marry.”

  Charity lifted out a day dress of daffodil yellow, which she laid on the bed. “So how do I get that look back?” She returned to the trunk. The next gown she reached for had been designed for her first official ball last summer, when she’d made her bow to Society. Made of delicate ivory silk, it was modest yet deceivingly alluring. Cut in a long column, the dress clung to every curve. The low cut of the bosom was modified by an inset of gold ribbon. Matching gold accents set into the tiny cap sleeves and along the single flounce at the bottom gave the gown a certain symmetry that made it hard to look away.

  She heard Ismay’s soft gasp. “Oh, my lady, how lovely. ‘Tis fit for royalty.”

  “From my first ball,” she said. “I only wore it the one time.”

  “Oh, but why?”

  Charity shrugged. Unmarried young ladies were expected to wear pale colors representative of their virginal state. She’d always pushed the edge of that, however, preferring cheerier shades like the yellow dress. This particular gown was lovely, though. Fit for a wedding gown—if she’d had a more traditional wedding.

  Her companion was eyeing it thoughtfully. “If you moved that gold ribbon to beneath your bust, my lady, would the gown stay in place?”

  Charity considered. She’d had lower-cut gowns and, as long as the fit was proper, her breasts had never come popping out. The placement of the gold ribbon on this particular gown had been a nod to her status as an innocent. As a married woman, there were fewer restrictions on the cut and color of what she could wear. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Have you others like that?”

  Charity continued pulling out clothing. Whoever had packed her trunks had included mostly her day gowns and warmer items, perhaps thinking them more practical for her new home. There were a few evening pieces, though, appropriate for theater, balls, and what she was starting to think of as “city venues.” She set those aside. To that pile, she added the lacy night shift the innkeeper’s wife at The Dog and Anvil had thought to purchase on her wedding day.

  Ismay Boyd fingered the pieces reverently. “If I may speak boldly, my lady, I think you and your fine lord will have a better time of it if you tell him the things you told me.”

  “I know,” Charity agreed softly. “At first, I was too afraid. I couldn’t bear the thought he might reject me. Of course he found out anyway—and then he was too upset for me to say much of anything.”

  “What’s done is done. You canna’ change that. You can only be honest with him when he returns.”

  “I will,” she vowed.

  Ismay held up the lacy night shift. “Aside from that, if it’s a good ravishing you’re after, I believe you will have little trouble holding your husband’s eye.”

  She knew she was blushing. “The night we met, we were both attending a very…decadent…event. My costume covered my face, which allowed me to bare other areas without fear of judgment. I want to remind my husband of the sensual, mysterious woman he saw in me that night.” Graeme had pursued her relentlessly. Deep down, she knew this wasn’t a case of the old proverb about the hottest flames burning out the fastest. She just had to make him forget the image of a madwoman tucked away in the countryside, and remind him that, in spite of her troubles, she was the passionate creature he could not resist.

  “Perhaps if we summoned a seamstress for a few modifications…”

  Charity smiled. “Yes, let’s do that.” Clearly, Miss Boyd was not in a position to offer specific advice about seducing one’s husband. The wild abandon and hedonistic pleasures Charity had witnessed the night she’d met Graeme were far, far outside the other woman’s experiences. The harem dance
rs, the shadow play… If the seamstress in question had any skill, Charity imagined she could take care of the rest.

  Chapter 18

  Graeme left his coach and driver behind in Edinburgh. He could travel faster alone. He rode like the hounds of hell were after him, spurred on by the anger he directed at himself. After the first few hours, though, common sense sank in. The number of inns where he could change horses between Edinburgh and Leventhal House was limited, and a worn-down mount would leave them both stranded.

  Still, he kept the pace as brisk as he dared. His wife was more than beautiful. She was spirited and strong-willed. She’d lived through something no woman, no human, should ever experience. What was the chance she’d take being discarded by her husband lying down? What if she’d decided to take herself right back to London, where she’d come from? Where her family might smother her, but at least they hadn’t abandoned her? Would his staff have written to him, or even known how to reach him, if she had?

  Damn. Now he knew why she’d been so desperate to explain—and so afraid. He’d been too stubborn to listen. Too convinced that what he’d seen would damn their fledgling marriage. He’d sworn to love and protect, then failed at both. His nights on the road were wasted. He stopped at inns for the purpose of safety—hazards on the road were hard to see at night. As a lone rider, one misstep of his horse could be a disaster. Not to mention making himself an easy target for those who traveled outside the law. But the hours of darkness were wasted. Sleep refused to come.

  By the third day, he had a good idea how Charity must feel sometimes. He rode up to Leventhal feeling haggard and spent. Looking it, too, if the expressions on his normally-stoic staff were any indication.

  He handed the reins of his weary mount to the head groom, a man everyone called “Red” after his bright, bushy beard. “Give this one some extra oats and a good rubdown, would you?”

  “Sure thing, milord.”

  “Everything secure on the homefront?” he asked casually. Red was an observant man. If aught was amiss, he’d be among the first to know.

  “All is well. Something worryin’ ye, milord?”

  He thought fast. “The last inn I stayed at mentioned there’d been a couple undesirable sorts on the road in recent weeks. Just wanted to make sure no one had been bothered here.”

  The groom shook his head. “Nay, milord. Saw the remains of a campfire down by the burn a week or so ago, but whoever it was never came up to the house. Probably one of the crofters out looking for a new fishing hole.”

  “Probably. Just keep an eye on things.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  He turned toward the house. He’d had a rather silly fantasy that Charity would see him and come running to greet him, but that didn’t happen.

  “Lord Maxwell. Welcome home.” Mr. and Mrs. Saxonberry greeted him next. A raised brow from the butler sent the remainder of the staff scurrying back to their work. “You must be exhausted. Is aught amiss with the carriage?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. It should be along in a day or so. Where is she?” Please don’t let her be gone.

  “My lord?”

  “My wife. Lady Charity.” Wasn’t it obvious? “Where is she?”

  “I believe she went out walking, my lord,” the housekeeper replied. “Shall I have a meal made up for you? Or a bath?”

  At least she wasn’t back in London. Thank God. “Walking?”

  “She does so, my lord, quite often.”

  “Where? Is anyone with her?” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended.

  “I couldn’t say, my lord. Perhaps Miss Boyd.”

  He closed his eyes. There was no reason to worry. Grantown on Spey, after all, was hardly a hotbed of criminal activity. Nothing of interest ever happened on Maxwell lands, unless it be a too-adventurous lad getting himself stuck in the quarry.

  Still. What if she got lost, or turned an ankle? She shouldn’t be alone. What if she explored the quarry? Knowing Charity’s sense of adventure, he wouldn’t put it past her.

  “Is she usually gone long?” He could go after her. Run about, searching wildly. He’d look as mad as he’d accused her of being. The irony did not escape him.

  The butler made a gesture that, were it anyone else, would have meant “how am I supposed to know?”

  “She did not ask for a picnic basket, so I would think not terribly long, my lord.”

  “If you see her return, please send her to me.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “And Nathan? Where is he?”

  The housekeeper bobbed, pleased with a question she could answer to his satisfaction. “Upstairs in the nursery, my lord. The new governess ye sent seems to be working out right nicely, my lord. Well educated, she is. Been teaching him reading, numbers, and nature. You should hear him rattle on about his lessons.”

  At least he’d gotten one thing right.

  Graeme went up to greet his nephew, who did indeed regale him with tales. That is, after throwing himself into Graeme’s arms for a good, long hug. Guilt pinched him again. Charity wasn’t the only one he’d treated poorly. It was time he stopped trying to perfect everything, and everyone around him, and just became the father and husband they needed.

  Nathan’s enthusiasm almost took his mind off the woman he’d missed like the very breathe that fed his lungs. Almost.

  When he heard her footsteps outside the nursery—he recognized her footsteps for God’s sake—he quickly stood, eager as a schoolboy. He dimly registered the disappointment on Nathan’s face. “I’m home to stay, now, lad,” he promised. “You wouldn’t want me to ignore your Aunt Charity, would you?”

  Nathan shook his head. “I like her. She brought me Mac.”

  He ruffled the boy’s hair, and slipped out the door just as Charity was about to knock.

  He closed the door softly behind him. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do.

  Lady Charity Maxwell, his wife of a few short weeks but the woman he would surely love forever, stood before him. He stopped, as did she, her lips slightly parted. The two of them stood in the corridor, unmoving. He just stared at her. She stared back.

  Myriad expressions flickered across her face. He couldn’t read them. Couldn’t even begin to guess. Maybe if he’d been here, where he belonged, instead of traversing the countryside while jumping to his own damned conclusions, he’d know her better. He’d understand what she would think at a time like this. Of course, if he hadn’t done those things, there wouldn’t be a time like this.

  If he’d thought this would be easy, he’d been mistaken. Charity did not rush to his arms, proclaiming how terribly she’d missed him. Of course she didn’t. Instead, she eyed him warily.

  He cleared his throat. “You’ve been out walking?”

  She nodded slowly. “Most every day. I’ve begun to understand the appeal of Scotland.”

  “You like it here?” he asked, unable to suppress the eagerness in his tone. The fact that she’d not only stayed, but found his homeland appealing…he wasn’t sure what it said, but it said something. Didn’t it?

  “I do. I like the freedom of it, the chance to explore.”

  The very thing he’d been about to take from her. His first instinct had been to make her promise never to go out again without either himself or a guard present. Did she have no regard for her own safety? He bit his tongue, literally, knowing she would not appreciate the protective gesture no matter how heartfelt it was.

  Unaware of the direction his thoughts were going, Charity went on. “I never had that in London. Not really. Sometimes we would visit relatives in the country, when I was a child, and we would run off to play for hours on end. But the older we got, it was important to my mother that we stay in London, so my sister and I could see and be seen.”

  “Not an uncommon preoccupation for a mother.” This was not at all the conversation he’d expected.

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. “Everything was properly scheduled, and I was never without a proper e
scort.” A hint of amusement crinkled her eyes. “Well, except the one night I dressed in the costume of an Indian princess and snuck out the side door.”

  “A fortuitous move, as it turned out.” That was better. He could hear her flirtatious spirit coming back to her.

  “Was it?” she asked, the teasing gone.

  He hated that she had to ask. He closed the distance between them, his hands coming to rest on her upper arms, just above her elbows, as he willed her to meet his gaze. “Of course it was.”

  Instead of looking up, she lowered her gaze as she nodded, a tiny frown marring her perfect features. “But Scotland, your home, is different.”

  What was going on? He wanted to crush her against him, but he could feel that, no matter how close he held her, a vast gulf of emotional difference separated them. She should be crying, or shouting, accusing him of all his transgressions against her and against their marriage. Instead, she spoke in a detached, carefully modulated tone, about the differences between here and London. He would have rather she yelled at him.

  Then it struck him. She probably thought he still thought she was mad. If she yelled, she’d only be proving it. Bloody hell, what a mess. He could just tell her what he knew. But that seemed disrespectful, especially when she was trying so hard to prove she was normal. An invisible fist clenched his heart. He wasn’t good at this, guessing at her emotions.

  A scuffle behind the nursery door alerted them to Nate’s continued presence.

  Graeme hid his smile. “Perhaps you would walk with me, now?” He didn’t need his nephew overhearing their conversation, even if it was, so far, eerily mundane.

  She flicked a glance toward the crack at the bottom of the nursery door. “Certainly, my lord.”

  He took one of her arms and tucked it firmly at his side, then led her downstairs and toward the door to the gardens. “You were saying…you like it here?”