Scandal with a Sinful Scot

by Karyn Gerrard

  “How could she not? But in the interim, we will return to Standon, as there is much to consider.”

  He kissed her hand, a sly smile curling about his sensual lips. “I’ve been thinking; if we do decide to marry—and I am not pressuring you, mind—your house in Standon could be donated to the sanatorium, as a place for family to stay when visiting patients. Or, when I set up the foundation, young physicians fresh from university can reside there as they study under Dr. Bevan. If he is amenable to the scheme. Ultimately, it is your property, your decision. I would never presume to interfere. Ever. I am a progressive Wollstonecraft, after all.”

  No pressure? Good heavens. “My, you have been making plans.”

  “Merely seeing my way clear to that fresh start. A new path to follow.”

  “I will not be led about like one of your prize horses. I make my own decisions concerning my life, as I always have.” Abbie told him this in a matter-of-fact tone, not angry, but firm.

  “Absolutely. As I said, your decision. Always.”

  She cupped his cheek. “I will discuss all this with Megan once we return to Standon. We will plan from there. I have much to mull over. As you say, there is no rush.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “For now, we will make the most of the time remaining, especially the nights.”

  Garrett pulled her close and began kissing and caressing her, Abbie understood that the trust between them was fragile. As far as marriage, she could not think about it now, for deep down in her soul she was frightened witless that he would hurt her again. More proof she hadn’t been thinking clearly when she impulsively made this journey. The love? It was growing stronger than ever. But would it be enough to carry them forward?

  * * * *

  Aidan Wollstonecraft opened one eye and looked about, taking in his surroundings. It was as if he were staring down a dark tunnel. Considering the dimness and the fact that all was blurry, he could not see much of anything at all. He’d been in and out of a haze for who knows how long, with strange people hovering around him. Often he wondered if he’d conjured them in his dreams, especially the attractive young lady with the kind voice and gentle touch. Thankfully, she felt real enough. But most of his dreams had been disturbing, revealing flashes of appallingly depraved scenarios that couldn’t possibly be real. Or were they?

  One event haunted him more than others. A vague memory replayed in his mind: Aidan offering himself for money in order to purchase opium. Surely, he had not sank to such depths. He had often resorted to thievery when funds ran low since he’d stopped collecting his quarterly payment. It hadn’t seemed right to use his father’s money for his vices, though last month he’d been desperate enough to consider it. Aidan had even stood outside the bank, debating whether or not to collect it.

  Another recurring reminiscence tied in with selling himself for coin: In his dream there had been a brute of a man with a lustful gleam in his eye. Aidan banished the image. It was only a nightmare. It had not happened. But hell, it seemed real enough. Dismissing the disturbing thoughts, he rubbed his forehead as a sharp pain throbbed behind his eyes. If only he could focus and see things clearly, literally and figuratively.

  With a great deal of effort he tried to sit up, but he discovered that his right wrist was bound to the bed rail. What in the hell? Aidan gazed about the room, which still lay in shadow. More hazy images, though he could focus on a glass of water sitting on the table by his bed. Grunting with the effort and hampered by his restraint, he tentatively reached for the glass. It slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a resounding crash.

  The door opened, and someone entered. “Oh, you’re awake.” A female voice.

  “Sorry…glass…” His voice was rough and gravelly, his mouth dry.

  “It’s all right. Silas, could you please clean this up, then fetch Mr. Black a fresh glass of water.”

  “Right away, Miss Bevan.”

  Mr. Black? Aidan’s fuzzy and fevered brain began to doubt his own existence until he recalled that his brother, Riordan, used Black, their Irish mother’s maiden name, when he’d accepted the schoolmaster position. Fine, he would go along with the facade. An image of Garrett carrying him from a carriage filled his mind. “My…uncle…” Blast it, why couldn’t he string more than two words together?

  Miss Bevan moved to his right side and unfastened the leather strap binding his wrist. “Allow me to bring you up-to-date: Your Uncle Garrett and another man, Edwin Seward, brought you here from London approximately three weeks past. You were deathly ill from the effects of an opium addiction. My father, Dr. Gethin Bevan, is the physician who runs this sanatorium. My name is Cristyn Bevan. I’m his assistant and am training to be a nurse. You are in Standon, Herefordshire. Today is Thursday, January twenty-second. I will fill in more details when you are better able to process the information.”

  Aidan rubbed his wrist as he watched Miss Bevan move efficiently about the room. Perhaps it was wise that she not enlighten him too much; he was having a hard enough time following what she’d just said. Garrett brought him from London. How mortifying. Flashes of sin and vice filled his mind and he shook them away. Bad enough that they haunted his dreams; he did not need them invading his lucid state. Not that he felt altogether coherent.

  Taking hold of the heavy drapes, she pushed them aside and blinding sun filled the room, causing Aidan to wince in pain. “I believe we shall endeavor to sit you upright in a chair today, and see that you partake in a meal.”

  The thought of food caused his stomach to lurch. Who could think about food when every bone in his body throbbed and his head pounded? His angel of mercy returned to his bedside and smiled. With the draperies open and the room illuminated he could see her more or less clearly for the first time, and she was not some blurry figure hovering about his subconscious. God, she was beautiful. Her hair was as black as his, her skin as luminescent as the finest string of pearls. But it was her eyes that caught his attention. An indescribable shade of blue-violet that he’d never seen before. How easily he could get lost in them. Apparently, he was still an unrepentant rake if attracted to a woman in this sorrowful physical state. Cristyn. What a lovely name. “You’re shockingly malnourished. We must see that you eat, but we’ll start slow and build your appetite. Ah, here is Silas. Assist me in placing Mr. Black in the chair.”

  Aidan groaned as this Silas person and Miss Bevan hauled him out of bed. Damn it all, he was as weak as a kitten—could not even place one foot in front of the other, let alone stand on them. Once they situated him in the chair, Silas turned him toward the window, causing Aidan to recoil once again at the bright light. However, the little warmth from the late January sun consoled him. When had he last felt the sun on his skin? He’d lived as a shadow creature from a gothic horror novel for so long, he could not recall.

  Miss Bevan handed him a full glass of water and he could barely hold the damned thing. With a concentrated effort, he lifted the glass to his mouth and sipped. Ambrosia. Aidan nearly groaned with the pleasure of it. Using his free hand, he trailed it along his torso. He could feel his ribs even through the wool nightshirt. Glancing at the bandages on his hands, he tried to recall what wounds he’d obtained. Worried, he continued to sip the cool water.

  Moments later, Miss Bevan placed a table and a tray of food in front of him. She took the glass from his quaking hands and set it on the tray. “Beef stew, fresh bread, and stewed apples. You must eat, Aidan.”

  Hell and damnation, he didn’t want food—he wanted a hit of opium. The shaking in his hands increased. Cold perspiration broke out on his temples.

  Miss Bevan—Cristyn—pulled up a chair in front of him and sat. His reaction must have been plain to read for she said, “Take what you need, not what you desire or crave.” She placed her hand on top of his and he jolted from her touch. “And you need food. It is critical that you begin eating solid food this very day.”

  Desire
? His gaze glided along her torso and slowly upward again, halting at her breasts. They were ample, the swell of them clearly visible through her plain wool gown and long apron. As sick and skeletal as he was, he desired her. Sex often staved off his more serious and damaging vices, though it hadn’t during the past few months in London.

  Cristyn held up a spoonful of stew encouragingly, as if he were a helpless babe. He supposed he was. Anger and annoyance replaced arousal. How tempting to knock her arm aside and send the tray careening to the floor. But he’d done that enough already. Reluctantly, he closed his mouth over the spoon and forced himself to fight the gag reflex. He swallowed and tasted nothing. It could have been a spoonful of ash for all he knew. Aidan took another, then another, until the bowl stood empty.

  “Well done! I’m extremely proud of you,” she enthused.

  His angel spoke to him as a master might speak to an obedient dog. The food sat like a lump in his stomach. It roiled and churned and tried to claw its way up his throat, but he forced it down again. Nausea made his head spin.

  It would be easy to slip away, stop eating, fight his recovery. The torment would end, at least. It also had been easy to slide into the dark pit of utter irresponsibility and depravity. But looking at this beautiful woman who’d invested time and energy into his recovery, Aidan did not have the heart to disappoint her. Quite the revelation. He rubbed his chest. Yes, the damned organ still pounded out a steady beat. For more months than he cared to count, he’d thought that he no longer possessed a heart.

  Aidan stood on the edge of a precipice. Live or die. The choice was that bloody simple. Cristyn gave him the courage to at least try.

  Chapter 15

  Since the sun was out, Garrett suggested to Abbie that they all ride about the property and the woods beyond. They rode three abreast, with Megan between them. Garrett made certain they crammed all sorts of activities into their daily plans. Some of the activities consisted of Megan skillfully playing the pianoforte with him and Abbie acting as an enthusiastic audience. Other entertainments included various parlor and card games. The assorted recreations also kept the grief he was experiencing over his grandfather’s death from the forefront of his mind. It hit him hard, and Garrett was grateful that Abbie and Megan were there to soften the blow.

  If they were to leave on the twenty-sixth, he was going to make the most of the time remaining. Keeping occupied also ensured that he was distracted from their upcoming departure. Should he convince them to stay? Yes, blast it all. Tonight, when he and Abbie met at the hunter’s hut, he would do exactly that. Even if he had to drop to his knees and beg.

  The afternoons were not excessively cold, which made the horse outings pleasant, as long as pots of hot chocolate and plates of sweets were waiting on their return. Last evening he’d been invited to dinner at the Eatons. What concerned him during the visit were the shy, heated gazes Megan exchanged with Jonas. Despite their promises, the young couple would bear watching.

  Today was another bright day, a slight chilly breeze, and the snow accumulation from last week had all but melted, except for places where the sun could not reach. On their horses, they chatted amiably as they traveled the well-worn trails twisting about the perimeter of the large property. Garrett glanced at Abbie, who smiled in return.

  Their discussions had helped to ease the underlining tension between them, had perhaps even alleviated a part of the hidden resentment. They had a future, and would be a family. It was a matter of degrees on how to get there. Patience would be needed, as he understood all too well the tumultuous emotions at play.

  Another emotion filled his thoughts of late: guilt. How he’d treated Abbie in the past. Not visiting his grandfather more often before he died. But more importantly, Aidan. Not only for ignoring the signs of his steep decline into dissoluteness, but for not staying and assisting in his care. Though he supposed he would only be in the way. How arrogant to think that he could make a difference in Aidan’s recovery.

  If he’d stayed in Standon, his stables could function without him for a few weeks. Though he would miss it, for Garrett reveled in the sights and smells. The sweet odor of hay, how it crackled under his boots, and the musky scent of the horses. Hell, he didn’t even mind the smell of shit.

  The head groom, MacAdam, and the well-trained stable lads and grooms could easily see to the daily routine. Yet he liked to keep a hand in. The breeding of his horses, the training, the daily care, just being around the noble creatures enhanced his life and ultimately kept complete loneliness from overtaking him.

  He recalled something that his grandfather had said to him when he sank into a brooding mood, as Wollstonecraft men were prone to do: “I’ve no use for self-indulgent behavior. Get over it, lad. Stop yer wallowing and live yer life!” About bloody time he followed that sage advice.

  “Mama, when I woke last night, I stopped by your room. You were not there. I waited thirty minutes, but you didn’t return.”

  Megan’s question tore Garrett from his indulgent thoughts. He and Abbie exchanged glances.

  “I was with Garrett,” Abbie replied. “We need privacy to become reacquainted, and meeting later in the evening affords us the time we require.”

  Megan’s expression turned serious, as if contemplating what Abbie had revealed.

  “I love your mother, Megan. I never stopped,” Garrett said.

  Megan’s eyebrow arched as she turned to stare at him. “If you loved her then, before you even knew about me, why didn’t you marry her?”

  A direct and pointed question, and Garrett was not about to lie to his daughter. “There is blame to go around, although most of it lands on me. We were too young, with harsh words exchanged on both sides that caused lasting scars. There are other, more private reasons I do not wish to discuss today, but our meeting again has revealed a new path for us to travel.”

  “Are you going to marry, then?” Her tone was questioning, but not angry. Thank God for small mercies.

  “I have asked her,” Garrett replied. “Your mother believes—and I concur—that it must be discussed between the two of you. Hence the reason you will be returning to Standon for a short while. How do you feel about it, Megan?”

  They rode in silence for several moments, and he and Abbie exchanged apprehensive glances once again. They couldn’t marry if Megan was adamantly opposed. Well, they could, but it would start off their nuptials on a tense footing.

  “Would we live at Wollstonecraft Hall?” Megan asked.

  “Yes. It is certainly large enough for us to have part of an entire wing to ourselves. We would have to work out about your schooling, of course…”

  “I would be living with my grandfather, uncle, and cousins.” Megan’s eyes sparkled. “Jonas will be nearby.” Her smile slipped. “Which would make you my…” Her voice trailed away. He understood what she meant.

  “As I said before, I would never try to replace your beloved papa. Not in any way. You may continue to call me Garrett, and refer to me any way you wish. Father, stepfather, or friend.” He smiled warmly at his daughter as he pulled up on the reins to halt Patriot. “I would like, above all things, for us to be friends. But I will not force it.”

  Abbie and Megan stopped alongside Garrett. “Megan, we will discuss it further when we return to Standon next week, but are you willing to consider a future marriage between myself and Garrett?”

  “Mama, I wish for you to be happy, and I believe—”

  The sound of a rifle shot cracked and a bullet whizzed over Megan and Abbie’s heads. Instinctively, Garrett moved in front of them to protect them. Another shot rang out, causing him to reel in his saddle. White-hot pain tore through his shoulder and blood seeped through his greatcoat. “Uun,” he grunted from the impact. Hell, I’ve been shot. He’d been about to call out for Megan and Abbie to follow him to the hall with all haste, as remaining stationary was not wise under the circumstances
. But he never even had a chance to speak.

  The reins slipped from his hands and he fell to the ground. All around him the landscape blurred and started to spin. Abbie and Megan screamed, rushing to his side. Go. Leave me. But Garrett could not speak the words. If anything happened to them he’d never forgive himself. Life would not be worth living. All grew dim. Damn it all, he was losing consciousness.

  * * * *

  “My lord, you should’ve allowed me to fire the shots,” Delaney stated in a bored tone.

  “Well, I hardly see how it is my fault that he moved into my crosshairs. The cumbersome beast is so damned tall it is a wonder I did not take the top of his head off.” The Marquess of Sutherhorne shrugged indifferently. “I did not intend to injure or kill, but it appears that fate had other plans. So be it. Is he dead? I cannot see from this angle.”

  “The women are panicked, as he’s on the ground.” Delaney continued to look through the opera glasses. “Ah, there is a slight movement of his hand. I see blood at his shoulder.”

  “Not a fatal wound, then.” What an unexpected windfall. All Sutherhorne had wanted to do was give Garrett Wollstonecraft a fright. Delaney had discovered that the woman and the girl were visiting neighbors, and the Scottish swine had been spending time with them. Their names were Abigail and Megan Hughes, from Standon, Hertfordshire. What were they to Wollstonecraft? He must discover the connection.

  Regardless, vengeance was required, and what better way than to let the horse breeder experience true fear? The way Sutherhorne had when Wollstonecraft had manhandled and threatened him three months past in Carrbury.

  The plan took shape rather quickly, especially when Delaney reported that the red-haired girl bore a slight resemblance to the beast. Related? Wollstonecraft obviously cared for them, and firing a rifle over the ladies’ heads would strike terror in the man—and give Sutherhorne a balm for the slight he’d endured.

  “My lord, I suggest we take our leave.”