by Fiona Neal
The boy had assessed the situation correctly. The poor children, whose parents still remained, had to work on the land. Even though the instruction was free, parents needed their children’s labor and could not afford for them to leave the croft to attend school several hours a day—a situation Deirdre hoped somehow to change.
“I shall employ Mr. MacPherson to act as dominie so you may continue with your lessons.”
“The minister frightens me, my lady.” Connors eyes brightened with tears. “He rants about the fiery lake where sinners must suffer forever in the next life.”
She understood the lad’s fear. Deirdre shamefully had to admit she dreaded Sunday services herself. Mr. MacPherson’s God meted out justice not tempered by mercy—just like Lord Kilbraeton.
“I do not want you to leave me, my lady.”
Deirdre felt her heart breaking. She had become attached to Connor and could not bear to see him sad or hurt.
“I do not wish to leave either, but I must.” She swallowed back the large lump expanding in her throat. “Duty must come before personal desires, Connor, but I shall take you with me.”
He jumped to his feet as happiness danced across his freckled face. “Thank you, my lady,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she answered, vowing she would never desert him. “Run along now, lad.”
Connor bowed and scampered off like a puppy not yet grown into its big paws.
Deirdre stood, intending to return to her room when Lady Glenmuir entered the library. “Ah, my dear Lady Ballanross, I am delighted to see you have recovered. You looked so pale last night at dinner.” An ornate wig atop her head, several patches on her face, the rotund woman approached in a rustle of white silk.
“Thank you, Lady Glenmuir. I am much improved.” Deirdre smiled.
“In any case, I am thrilled to my soul you will be part of the family now. I have wanted this match for years, being that I was so fond of your dear mother.” Lady Glenmuir waved her fan of rose plumes. “She was one of the loveliest women in Scotland and so lively and spirited. It is no wonder men just hovered around her like honey bees near a rose.”
“I was just six when she died, and I would like to know more about her when she was a girl,” Deirdre said.
“Oh, she loved to dance and ride. She was a wonderful musician and quick-witted, just like you, though I must say you favor the MacLeods. In fact you look more like your Uncle Robert than your father.”
Deirdre knew that to be true. Her father’s portrait hung on the wall of the main staircase with the rest of her ancestors. But sometimes children did favor an aunt or uncle rather than a parent.
Suddenly, Lady Glenmuir looked embarrassed and it was no wonder. The woman probably realized her faux pas. After all, Lady Glenmuir’s brother had killed Deirdre’s father. No one ever made the vaguest reference to the incident…or to her father.
Wanting to put the woman at ease, Deirdre said, “Please sit down and tell me more about my mother.”
Lady Glenmuir sank her wide girth into the chair by the table, amid a rustle of silk. “I am sure Robert told you more than I ever could,” she added nervously.
“He rarely speaks of my parents. Please share your knowledge with me.” Sympathy covered the woman’s painted countenance. “You must understand, my dear, their deaths affected him deeply, but your uncle is never one to speak about his feelings very much. He is so quiet, so...introspective. Very different from—”
“My father,” Deirdre interrupted. “I know no one ever speaks of him, Lady Glenmuir, and we all know the reason, but I should consider it a special favor if you could tell me about him.”
The woman’s embarrassment faded from her face, replaced by a poignant smile. “I like to remember Lord Ballanross the way he was in the old days.” She chuckled. “What a handsome devil he was! And he was as wild as a storm at sea. He just loved playing lanterloo and whist, and how he adored horse races. We used to say he’d wager whether or not the sun would rise in the east.”
Lady Glenmuir’s blue eyes sparkled. “And what a figure he cut on the dance floor! Why he made the ladies wear out their slippers whenever he attended a ball. The men used to say that he could tipple drams all night and never show the effects.” Her expression turned serious again. “But never tell a soul that I spoke about him, my dear.”
“I promise,” Deirdre assured her, thinking that her dashing father must have been quite a foil for her contemplative uncle.
“But I’m reminiscing too much.” The old woman continued to flutter her fan. “It is a habit with old people. We cannot have as much fun as we used to, so we like to remember when we could indulge.”
Deirdre wished the woman would continue. Lady Glenmuir had told her more about her parents in five minutes than her uncle had revealed in years. Now that Deirdre had found someone willing to speak about them, she planned to ask her future aunt more questions.
“I came to find you for a reason, my lady.” Lady Glenmuir leaned forward, giving Deirdre a conspiratorial smile.
“You did?” Deirdre returned the smile.
“I have a present for you.” Lady Glenmuir slipped her hand into the slit in her skirt. “There.” She placed a small sandalwood box in Deirdre’s palm.
Deirdre opened it. “Oh, how beautiful they are!”
A set of teardrop pearl earrings lay on the satin interior of the box. Each pearl was suspended from a rosette of large diamonds.
“Thank you, my lady,” Deirdre said. However, she believed the jewelry would feed, clothe, and shelter a family of five for a long time.
Lady Glenmuir beamed. “I am so glad you are pleased. I wanted to give you my sapphire earrings, ring, and necklace.” She frowned. “But that wretch, The Flame, robbed them. At one point, I thought the scoundrel would shoot them off my ears to get them, but he did not get these because they were packed in the luggage carts.”
Deirdre’s heart filled with remorse. She cast her gaze to her lap, afraid Lady Glenmuir would see the shame of guilt scalding her soul reflected in her eyes. She and Fergus had risked their necks to rob jewels intended as a gift for her. Assaulted by remorse, she felt base and unclean. She blinked back the tears pricking behind her eyes.
“And I wish you will do one more thing for me, Lady Ballanross.” The woman smiled, rising to her feet.
“What is that?” Deirdre stood as well.
“When we speak privately, will you call me Aunt Barbara the way Ian does?”
“I shall be happy to do that, Aunt Barbara, if you will also use my Christian name.” Deirdre fought a desperate battle to keep her weeping at bay.
Despite the fact that she staunchly believed in her mission to help the poor, she suddenly gained a new perspective about her reluctant benefactors, or should she call them victims? They were people, too, subject to hopes and fears like everyone else.
And the awful deceit that she must perpetrate burdened her heart.
Chapter Seven
Ian peeked through the veil of wisteria drooping over the pergola as Deirdre ambled along the garden path. Apparently, she felt better. With the grace of an empress, she glided past the sculpted boxwood parterre, the sack back of her emerald-green gown trailing behind her like a sail in full wind.
The perfume from the lilacs at the end of the garden drifted to him on the fresh spring air, and their leaves trembled as she moved toward a clump of the light purple blooms. The call of the thrush fell on his ears in poignant song, as Deirdre withdrew a pair of secateurs from her basket and cut several of the lovely spikes.
Descending to her knees in a whoosh of silk, Deirdre unwittingly afforded him a view of her full, white breasts. The vision caused his manhood to swell, and he wanted to see more of her curvy body. Hell, he wanted to see all of it, to feel the smooth warmth of her flesh, to inhale its heathery scent, to savor its salty taste as she writhed beneath him in ardent response.
The fact that Ian remained unsure she had told him the truth about her foray t
o Effie’s home did little to cool his raging desire.
Hoping to dispel his doubts, he had ridden to Mistress MacLean’s cottage. Logical, plausible, and believable, the woman’s account of the visit confirmed everything Deirdre and Fergus had related. But as Ian speculated earlier, they could have concocted the story together.
Furthermore, his stomach churned with anxiety about the whole incident. He hated doubting Deirdre. Still, his nagging intuition, careful analysis, and attention to details had served him well in the past.
Picking up the basket, Deirdre closed her eyes, leaned over, and inhaled their sweet scent. The pure spontaneity of her act delighted him, despite his suspicions.
He stepped from his hiding place. “Good afternoon.”
“My lord,” she said.
Her low voice sounded rich, dulcet, warming him like a cup of hot chocolate on a frigid winter afternoon. She nodded, and the cluster of curls dangling from her upswept coiffure swung forward over her white shoulders. How he wanted to warm himself in the flames of those tresses!
“I see you have recovered completely, or else you could not look so lovely.”
A blush graced her lovely cheekbones, and she lowered her luxuriant lashes. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I thought we agreed to use our Christian names when we were alone.”
She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Thank you, Ian.”
“Shall we take a turn in the garden?”
“That would be lovely, but I must take these flowers to my chamber and put them in water before they wilt.”
He took the basket from her and smiled, but Deirdre’s clear turquoise eyes appeared guarded. Did the incident with her uncle this morning still cause her to feel some rancor?
Out of the corner of his eye, Ian saw Fergus and Morag walking hand and hand across the garden toward the stable. “The maid can take the basket for you.”
“Nay,” Deirdre contradicted tartly, taking the basket from him. “Morag and Fergus need their time together. They were interrupted this afternoon.”
So she knew that Fergus and Morag were lovers…or were they pretending to be?
Ian made no secret that he intended to take a ride this morning. She, Morag, and Fergus could have staged the touching little tableau so he would see the lady’s maid and the groom in each other’s arms. They hoped he would conclude the obvious and no longer suspect Fergus and Deirdre. However, deducing the unexpected was more Ian’s style.
“I assume Morag told you I went for a ride this afternoon.”
“Let us speak frankly, Ian. You summarily dismissed her to interrogate Fergus privately.” Deirdre began walking toward the back terrace of the manor house.
“I would not say the words summarily dismissed describe the event accurately,” he replied, stepping in beside her. “You suggested I speak to him.”
Back ramrod straight, head held high, she stopped in her tracks and rounded on him. “What I said was that you could ask Fergus or Effie if you did not believe me,” she enunciated coldly. “Obviously, you did not give my words any credence, which is evidenced by the fact that you interrogated them.”
Deirdre had taken the position of a prosecutor, and she assumed the role formidably. Ian found the verbal duel amusing.
“You do not trust me, do you, Ian?” Her turquoise gaze blazed into his.
Damnation, the woman was bonnie when she became angry. “Trust has to be earned, Deirdre.” He kept his tone bland.
“Keep yours then, my lord,” she answered with contempt. “The price you demand costs too dearly. Besides, you refuse to see the truth no matter how many facts are presented to you. You do not wish to trust me. That will always give you the upper hand. Perhaps it would interest you to know that you are not the only one who has grave misgivings about this marriage.” She flounced around, stomping off.
Obviously, one of the servants had eavesdropped and reported back to her, Ian concluded sourly, but her retort hit the mark. Ian no longer found the repartee amusing. He caught her arm and whirled her around, causing the basket to fly from her hold. “Who told you such a thing?”
“I never betray a confidence,” she rejoined, “but I can tell you I should rather not wed someone who does not want me and refuses to trust me.”
“I never said I did not want you.” He gripped her shoulders, pulling her closer as he searched the depths of her eyes for some glimmer of the truth. “Why are you accusing me, Deirdre? You yourself voiced doubts when you suggested we should wait to wed.”
“Doubts or not, I never stooped to questioning your servants,” she retorted, jerking out of his grip.
“The only servant with whom I spoke was that nyaff groom of yours.”
“Fergus is not irritating. He is loyal to me.”
“That fact is obvious.” Ian felt that she and Fergus shared a deep bond, and jealousy flared in his heart like a blazing torch. Nor could he dispel the idea that she may be an unwitting dupe of The Flame. “And would Fergus lie for you, Deirdre?” he asked, guessing that the man would probably die for her.
She did not pause or flinch. “You will have to ask him that question. I cannot answer for another person’s conscience.”
“And what about your conscience, Deirdre?”
“My conscience?”
“Aye.” He stared at her with the interrogating look he reserved for witnesses.
She arched an eyebrow, her gaze filled with mockery. “My conscience is clear, and you are thinking like a bampot.”
“I am not a harmless idiot,” he interrupted.
“I did not say you were one. I said you thought like one, but forgive me. I was mistaken. A heidbanger is a more apt description.”
“So…now I think like a dangerous idiot.” His temper flared.
“To tell the truth, Lord Kilbraeton, I conclude that you are not thinking at all. And if you do not mind, your grip is hurting my shoulders.”
He immediately released her. “I beg your pardon. I never meant to hurt you.”
“Whatever your intentions, Ian, the result is the same. You have bruised my body and reputation.” Deirdre dropped to her knees, thrust the flowers into the basket, and rose. “Now if you will excuse me, I consider this interview at an end.”
Holding her arm, he prevented her exit. “Before you go, I should like you to answer one question. How would you feel if you saw Morag and me leaving the barn in the middle of the night? Wouldn’t you think it just a wee bit odd that I should be with a servant at that time of the morning?”
“That makes two questions, Ian. Furthermore, I have already given you an adequate explanation concerning my actions plus an emphatic denial that anything improper transpired between me and my servant. You have insulted and abused me.” Turning in a flare of emerald taffeta, she marched away.
“Damnation,” Ian cursed, watching her stomp off. Why was she being so stubborn, so disagreeable? The woman seemed to want him to reject her. Why?
No doubt she wants another man. And if not Fergus, whom did she want?
Under ordinary circumstances, he would convince Sir Robert MacLeod that the alliance was a mistake. But that was impossible, for the king had encouraged the match. Even if his majesty wasn’t a factor, Deirdre needed Ian’s protection from the kidnappers and their agent, the infamous Flame.
“And that blackguard will never hurt her or any woman under my protection,” Ian said aloud.
* * * *
Ballanross boasted one of the finest ballrooms Ian had ever seen. Instead of the gilt and mirrors, characteristic of the French style, oak panels clad the walls. The casements full of diamond-shaped pieces of leaded glass sparkled with light from the three large brass chandeliers suspended from the carved plaster ceiling. In the center of a golden oak floor, a design inlaid in darker wood formed a large medallion of fruit and flowers.
In a minstrels’ gallery, a group of musicians played violins, flutes, and a harpsichord.
Bedecked in colorful garb and ornate powder
ed wigs, the guests sat in gilt chairs along the wall, watching as Lady Mary MacNeill, arrayed in scarlet lustring, and Sir Robert MacLeod, resplendent in gold brocade, gracefully executed a minuet.
Ian gazed at Deirdre. Her beauty and her sensuality took his breath away, and he longed to kiss her plump lips and smooth graceful neck. Nevertheless, his manly needs must wait for fulfillment until he assured himself that neither she nor Fergus were involved with The Flame or each other.
Meanwhile, he envied the confidence she shared with her servant. Ian wanted her all to himself. In an effort to appease her, he had tried on more than one occasion to apologize for his behavior in the garden.
But Deirdre’s acceptance had been born of perfunctory courtesy rather than any real spirit of forgiveness. And tomorrow, with most of the peerage in Scotland in attendance, he would marry a woman who held him in the utmost contempt.
Ian did not expect love. Most couples followed the dictates of their families in the matter of marriage, but he had been enchanted with Deirdre from the moment of their re-acquaintance.
Was she an innocent ingénue, as her kisses suggested, or was she feigning ineptitude to deceive him? The question was irrelevant. Honor bound, he would protect her from the kidnappers, but during the process, he must guard his heart.
Strathaven, regal in his cream and gold attire, offered his arm to lovable, flamboyant Aunt Barbara as they entered. She reminded Ian of a parrot from the Indies in her yards of green and red satin as the unlikely couple joined him.
“My dear boy,” his aunt gushed, “you look so handsome, and you’re so lucky to have the most beautiful lass in Scotland for your bride.”
Embarrassed, Ian replied, “At least you are right about my bride.”
“Nonsense, lad,” she said, rapping his arm with her red lace fan. “You are much too modest.” She turned to her escort. “Isn’t he Lord Strathaven?”
“Ian finds it difficult to accept praise, Lady Glenmuir.” Strathaven kissed the woman’s plump bejeweled hand.