Madge scoffed. “It's been so bloody rainy, I havena been able to get the work done even with the fortune ye sent.”
“I'm sure if we—”
“If ye were home, the repairs would have been done.” Madge sulked away, leaving the door open.
Alistair took that as invitation and entered the room. The rushes beneath his feet were old and battered, her bed remained a rumple of sheets and furs, and the hearth stood cold. His mother had not been seeing herself properly cared for.
He knelt at the hearth and drew several pieces of dried tinder from a basket. “Have the servants no’ been caring for ye?”
“Ach, I dinna want them in here.” She waved her hand at him. “Dinna use that wood. Better a bit of peat for the likes of me.”
Alistair ignored her and got a fire blazing. Contrary to her protests, she edged her way closer to the warm glow and her shoulders relaxed.
“Ye should have a care for yerself.” He rose and wiped his hands over his kilt. “For example, dinna promise twenty casks of whisky to one of the deadliest men in London.”
Madge scoffed and sat down at a loom set beside the fire. “I'm in Scotland.” Her fingers plucked at the threads of wool stretched across the machine.
“He has a far reach,” Alistair said.
His mother ignored him and started the loom, her fingers weaving the shuttle through the threads before the warped beam of the mechanism clacked down. He'd watched her do this for the entirety of his youth. Only now her fingers were gnarled with age and her movements far slower, as if the action hurt. The idea set a dull ache in the core of his heart.
He put his hand over his mother’s to stop them. “Twenty casks is a large order. It isna easily hidden.”
“That's why I use people they dinna know to deliver it,” she said smartly. Her eyes were as sharp as they'd ever been despite the wrinkles on her face.
“Ye underestimate the Bow Street Runners. They could easily discover it was me.”
She waved him off. “Aye, and ye'd hang. Ye've said as much before.”
“Do ye no’ see how preposterous yer idea is?”
“Ye sacrificed my da's legacy for that of yer English grandda. Ye chose sides in this. Ye left me in this castle to rot and ye left me to smuggle the whisky. Ye've abandoned everything Scottish in yer life.” She sat down hard on the bench. “Including me.”
His mother looked so frail in the frame of the solid stone room. Her bronze hair dusted over with wiry threads of white. She had aged in the year since he'd last seen her. A twinge settled deep in his chest. “I am here now,” he said softly. “And wouldna be if I dinna care.”
“Ye'll leave again.” She said it with such weighted sorrow, Alistair found himself wishing for her ire. At least anger he could meet head on. The hurt in her voice was far too great a burden to bear.
He tried to put his arm around her slender shoulders, but she lifted a hand to stop him. “Leave me be.” She sighed. “And see yer English lass gone, or I'll do it myself.”
***
Sleep eluded Emma. Even after she’d had a chance to bathe and eat a solid meal, all handled by the quiet, flaxen-haired maid who had been sent up to care for her. The bed was soft and welcoming, but it was the lump in her chest which left her tossing and turning. Alistair had not seen Emma again as he’d suggested he might.
Was it because he knew English and Scottish will never be a good match? Or because he sought her attentions only for the coin she might provide him? Or none of those things at all?
Regardless, a stone sat heavy and uncomfortable where her heart ought to be, for a stone was far less painful than a broken foolish heart.
She had unpacked and repacked her meager essentials. And then unpacked and repacked them again. Over an hour had passed and she had nothing more to show for it than a knotted stomach and an aching heart.
She could leave the castle, of course. No one would stop her. But where would she go? Especially with the nearest inn so far away. The idea of wandering the dark countryside was a lonely one, but no more lonely and miserable than being in a castle where she was unwelcome with a man she ought not to care for.
The familiar warm prickle teased behind her lids, and she knew the tears she'd been repeatedly stifling were rising once more. She put her hands to her bag and gripped the fine leather until her knuckles ached. She'd made it this far without letting herself be reduced to tears, and she would not start now.
She pulled the items from her bag once more. The pouch of coins Alistair had refused to allow her to spend, the silver handled brush he had gotten for her somewhere outside Inverness, the wrinkled blue gown she had worn in place of the red one, the dagger he had given her in England. Every item in her bag reminded her of Alistair.
Footsteps shuffled in the hall. Emma froze, held in place with a ridiculous trill of excitement. Had Alistair returned?
The door clicked and swung open. It was not Alistair who stood in the doorway, but Madge. Her hair billowed around her head like an elaborate veil and hatred puckered her face, leaving her mouth in an angry slash. She leaned her head back and loosed a shriek that cut into Emma's soul.
Madge’s head lowered, fixing a glowering glare on Emma, and she charged. Emma had only a second to think, and even less to act. But it was ample time to snatch up her knife.
She was tired of being a victim of circumstance, a vulnerable bystander in the chaotic swirl of events in her life. She held out the blade, ready to defend herself.
By God, she would not go down without a fight.
Chapter 12
Alistair shouldn’t have left Emma alone so long, especially when she’d seemed so downtrodden. After his miserable discussion with Madge, he'd had to let his temper cool and had gone down to the caves where Hamish had been busy seeing to the distilling of whisky. As much as Madge was ignorant in the ways of smuggling the liquor, she had exceptional skills when it came to its manufacturing.
The whisky was of excellent quality and was at a stage where Hamish could easily resume the final process before it was ready to transport.
Alistair stalked through the castle with Beast in tow, his mind fixed completely on Emma.
He couldn’t free from his mind the quiet sadness in her eyes when he’d left. Enough time had passed that the ball of worry in his gut had begun to chafe at his insides. He knocked lightly on the door to her chamber. She did not bid him enter.
“Emma?” He looked down at Beast, who merely cocked his head, as if he too were confused by the silence.
Still no answer.
A howling cackle sounded from somewhere downstairs. Madge.
Ice shot through his veins and he tore down the hall in a manner no true gentleman would dare exhibit. But then no true gentleman had a mother like Madge. Beast skittered behind him, his claws scrabbling over the rushes for purchase, which only resulted in him skidding about and careening around corners. They followed the shrieks of laughter down to the great hall, expecting to find Madge up to no good. And that was exactly what they found, only Emma appeared to be very much a part of that no good.
The two women sat opposite one another at the long table running down the length of the hall, each with a glass in front of her and a nearly empty bottle between them. They stared at him in bleary surprise, looked at each other, and erupted into peals of laughter. Beast sniffed at a splash of liquid on the ground and tentatively lapped at it.
Alistair waved him off. “What the devil is going on here?” he demanded of the ladies.
“Do'ye hear that?” Madge waggled her head with her brows lifted in an elaborate show of mock snobbery. “What the devil is going on here?” she repeated in a high-pitched British accent. “I dinna teach him to talk in such a fancy way. He learned it from his grandda — the bastard down in England that dinna think me good enough for the likes of Alistair's father. But my own da was right.” Her words were slurred with the effects of drink and she gave a drooping, blinking glare at Alistair. “Yer da wasna
good enough for the likes of me.”
She clinked her glass against Emma's and drank deep. Emma merely took a sip and peered woozily up at him.
“I enjoy this chit.” Madge grinned at Emma. “I havena met an English lass who appreciates Highland whisky.”
A wet, eager lapping filled the room. Alistair hissed between his teeth and shooed Beast away. The blasted dog bounded away with his tail wagging, the nonchalant grin indicative of another attempt in the near future.
Alistair fixed his attention to his mother. “Ye dinna know any English lasses to offer in the way of comparison.”
Madge shrugged as if the argument were inconsequential.
Alistair gestured to the bottle. “How did it come to be, the two of ye are sharing whisky?”
Madge set her glass to the table so hard, liquid splashed over the rim. “She pulled a knife on me, if ye'd believe it.”
Emma, who did not appear the least bit plagued by guilt, lifted her palms in the air, the gesture as helpless as it was unapologetic. Her hands fell heavily to the table and she swayed, as if rocking on a ship.
“I think ye've both had too much.” He plucked the bottle from the middle of the table. Madge made a grab for it, but he deftly avoided her sloppy advance.
She scoffed and got to her feet. “Ye ought to have more enjoyment in yer life, son.” She grunted and hobbled from the great hall.
If he hadn't seen her put down more whisky than what had been drunk by her and Emma, he would have followed her to ensure she would be safe. As it was, he knew that in two hours, she would be bellowing at the cook to make her a bowl of pottage. Emma, however, caused him great concern.
He sat on the bench beside her. “Emma, how much did you drink?”
“A plentiful amount.” She leaned into him and laid her head against his shoulder. “Perhaps a bit more than a plentiful amount.”
“Perhaps.” He smoothed a hand down her back.
“I spilled some out of my cup when Madge wasn’t looking,” Emma whispered. “Please don’t tell her.”
He chuckled at the admission. “Shall I help ye to yer room?”
Her face slid against him, up and down in a nod. He led her from the table and tried to ignore Beast, who lapped at one of the puddles, the battle clearly lost.
“Did your mother really kill your father?” Emma’s boldness would have told him she was in her cups even if he hadn’t seen her sway.
He choked on a laugh. “Is that what she told ye?”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
MacKenzie rounded the corner in front of them and froze, his focus fixed like a hawk on Emma before snapping to Alistair.
“Madge,” Alistair grumbled and eased in front of Emma so she wouldn’t see MacKenzie and suffer the embarrassment for it later at having been witnessed as she was. With the way she leaned against Alistair, he was sure she wouldn’t see the valet unless he was mere inches from her face and hoped that might be the case.
To MacKenzie, he mouthed, “Can ye bring bread and ale?”
MacKenzie’s features relaxed and he nodded in compliance. Alistair directed Emma up the flight of stone stairs to the corridor where Emma’s chamber was located. “Madge dinna kill him. She merely wishes she had. Certainly there were plentiful rumors implying it had been her who poisoned him.”
Emma tripped on one of the stairs. “He was poisoned?”
Alistair caught her while she tugged with exasperation at her skirt to lift the long hem. It lifted higher than intended, revealing her neat ankles. “Nay,” he answered. “At least I dinna believe so. He died…well, he was with his mistress. Most assuredly, it was his heart which gave out.”
Alistair stopped at her door and opened it for her. Already a fire glowed on the hearth and her small bag sat on her mussed bed, the contents half unpacked. He sat her on the opposite side of her effects.
“I think I can understand Madge’s hatred for the English,” Emma said with great concentration. “It is an awful thing to have a person you care for love another.” Her gaze flicked downward. “So I would imagine.”
“Ye’ll never have to endure such a thing. No man would want another woman when he had ye.” He realized what he said after it was out of his mouth, and how meaningful it was. Because in truth, he couldn’t picture her ever being with another man. He didn’t want to ever picture her being with another man. And there was no woman he would rather be with.
Emma smiled tenderly at him. “You always make me feel beautiful. You’re the only man to ever do so. Thank you for that.”
Alistair shook his head. “Who wouldna think ye so?”
A knock sounded. Alistair gritted his teeth at the interruption and went to see who had disturbed them. MacKenzie stood on the other side and offered a tray with the bread and ale Alistair had requested. He murmured his thanks and returned to Emma. He handed her the bread first, which she readily accepted and bit into.
“Will ye tell me what happened, Emma?” Alistair asked.
She drank some of the ale and set the cup aside. “I’ve never told anyone before.” She looked away, but he caught her chin and gently angled her face back toward him. Her eyes found his.
“Ye can trust me, Emma,” he said. “Always.”
And he meant it. He wanted to know what had happened to her, and by God he would do everything in his power to ensure it never happened again.
***
Emma’s head felt overly full and her stomach curiously empty. Alistair’s expression hovered between concentration and concern with expectation. She knew he wanted to discover what had occurred to her in her past. He wanted the most painful stories she had never once told a soul.
She bit into the bread. It crumbled to sawdust in her mouth, but she forced herself to swallow it down.
“I was not a comely girl in my youth.” She put her fingertips to the cool emeralds on her bracelet and twisted its weight around her wrist. “I was rotund and my teeth had rather large gaps between them. Yet no one told me I was unattractive. It was not until one day I overheard my governess mention to another servant that it was a fortunate thing indeed my wealth was so vast that I might find a good husband willing to overlook my appearance.”
Emma stared miserably down at her bread and found she no longer had an appetite for it. Too viscerally did she recall the hurt of hearing those words from her governess, as if she’d been dealt a blow in both the stomach and the heart. “Later I had a new gown,” continued. “And a neighboring earl’s daughter came to my home to admire it. She said it was a sad misfortune for a thing so pretty to belong to a girl as ugly as me. I think she understood the sting of her bluntness, for she rushed to reassure me people would always sing my praises for my father’s sake. Had I not heard my governess only days before…”
“Emma, ye were a lass.” Alistair put a hand to her shoulder.
She drew away. “I looked at myself then. Really looked at myself. I hadn’t thought I was extraordinarily lovely, but nor did I assume I was homely. For the first time, I saw myself as they did. The frizzing brown hair, the wide-gapped teeth, the way my frock bulged out at the waist where my friends’ gowns all fell over lithe figures. I was…” Her throat drew tight, squeezing the words from escaping her mouth. “I was ugly. I knew it, everyone knew it, and yet people complimented me with their empty praises.”
She blinked away the wave of threatening tears. She had cried enough over the years to not need to cry now.
“Yer friend was jealous,” Alistair growled. “And yer governess ought to have been sacked.”
“I would have had to inform someone of what she’d said for that to happen,” Emma said quietly. “And I was not about to share such a humiliating comment with anyone. I knew it. That was sufficient for me. Besides, what she said was true.”
“Ye were a lass,” Alistair said again. “Ye’ve grown into a gorgeous woman.”
“So I thought.” Emma paused to drink some ale and relished the cool, satisfying liquid flowing down the heat
of her throat. It eased the persistent ache in her head, though did nothing for the tightness in her chest. “I worked hard to mind what I ate, avoiding sweets and pastries, and I grew into womanhood. My body slimmed, my hair lost its wildness and my teeth grew together. I thought I might perchance be more attractive.”
Her cheeks went warm with embarrassment, with the folly of her own vanity. “I was the most sought-after debutante the Season I came out at seventeen. I allowed myself to be courted by the men and drank in their praise, for it was said so earnestly, how could I not believe it?”
She set the bread on the table where it rolled and came to a stop against the glass of ale. “I became engaged to Viscount Sage, a handsome man nearly seven years older than myself. The most eligible bachelor of the Season. I considered myself lucky, until I stumbled upon him once while taking a turn in the garden. He was with his lover, Lady Calista. She was a woman of perfect beauty with a delicate nose and a sweet line of a mouth on her heart-shaped face. She was so petite, the top of her glossy golden hair barely reached chest high on a man and she was so slight she was swept about the ballroom like a feather.”
Emma sighed at the mere thought of the striking woman, a woman she could never be. “He told her he couldn’t wait until we were wed and he could have access to my fortune to set her up as his proper mistress. Then he pulled her close to him and told her in a detailed list how her every perfection put to shame my every flaw.”
Her heart ached with the recollection of those words. Her dull hair, her snub nose and low brows, her fish lips. Emma’s stomach swam with nausea as if she were experiencing the jab of those words in her gut once more, exactly as brutal as they’d been when she’d heard them in the years before.
Emma closed her eyes against the indignity of it. “Lady Calista laughed her lovely, tinkling laugh, and said he should be nice to ‘that poor beast of a girl.’” Her cheeks had gone molten and the tension in her throat was unbearable. “And it was true. Beside a woman of Lady Calista’s caliber, I was a poor beast of a girl.”
The Earl of Benton: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club) Page 10