A new smell permeated his nostrils, and he coughed. MacNab was cooking something, but Fletcher wasn’t sure he wanted to eat it.
“Can I pour ye a pint?”
Fletcher stepped to the bar. “Thank you, I’d appreciate it.” He took out the small coin purse he’d found in his dresser, but MacNab stopped him. “On the house,” he said with a wink.
The ale was warm but not entirely distasteful. But there certainly was something distasteful about the place, including the owner. MacNab required further investigation.
That evening, no one spoke as they all ate their lentil soup from delicate china bowls. The flames from the candles in the tall, crystal candleholders flickered in the air, casting a glimmering glow of light over the long table.
Fletcher found the dining room both amusing and fascinating. It amused him that the three of them occupied a table big enough to seat sixteen people. What fascinated him was everything else in the room.
Two enormous globes sat on large wooden stands, one depicting the heavens and the other the world. A piece of MacNeil plaid, worn by the first Duke of Kintyre, was in a gilded frame above the simple fireplace. Other frames held portraits of family members. There was even one of his father as a young boy, and it tugged at Fletcher’s heart to see him so small, almost fragile, so unlike the picture of the man he kept near his heart.
And there was always a large bouquet of fragrant fresh flowers on the sideboard, thanks, no doubt, to Rosalyn. He had noticed the enormous pot plants with exotic foliage that were tucked into many corners.
Annie came in and removed the soup dishes. Close behind her, her younger sister, Ellie, who had joined the staff recently, entered carrying a pewter platter that held salmon, boiled potatoes, onions, carrots, and turnips.
Fletcher’s mouth watered. Once he had begun to feel better, he looked forward to the meals being served. He especially liked the griddle scones and porridge for breakfast, followed by the smoked fish, eggs, and biscuits.
After everyone had been served, he took a forkful of the tender salmon and put it in his mouth. As usual, it was delicious. Recalling what he’d been accustomed to eating in Texas, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Something about the meal amuses you?” Rosalyn asked, sounding defensive.
“Not at all. I was just thinking how much better I’m fed here than I was when Geddes found me.”
Geddes smiled and continued to eat. “What kind of food did they serve in the army, anyway?”
“A whole lot of beans and hardtack.”
“Hardtack.” Rosalyn frowned. “It doesn’t sound very palatable.”
“It isn’t. It’s a biscuit made from flour and water, without salt. When I was in the stockade, where Geddes found me, the beans were so watered down they resembled soup, and the hardtack was so tough I had to soak it in the broth.” He expected a comment from Rosalyn, but she was bent over her plate, concentrating on her dinner.
He told Geddes of his trip to the Potted Haugh earlier, and Geddes recalled for him his one disastrous attempt to eat there. “I swear he used horse meat,” Geddes said. After the dessert, Rosalyn got up, excused herself, and left the dining room. Fletcher followed her retreat with his gaze.
“She’ll come around,” Geddes promised.
Fletcher released a sigh. “I wonder.” He didn’t know what more he could do to convince her that he at least deserved a chance. She had been more aloof than usual during the entire meal. If her attitude continued, he wondered what sort of marriage it would be.
Just then, Fletcher heard from outside the shattering blare of an ill-tuned trumpet. He flinched, covering his ears. “What was that?”
Geddes sat back, amused. “It’s Barnaby.”
“What in the hell is he doing?”
Geddes tossed his napkin on the table, still grinning. “He’s declaring to the entire island that the great MacNeil has finished eating, and that now everyone else may sit down to their evening meals.”
Fletcher stared at him, perplexed. “Why in the hell would he do that?”
“It’s an old MacNeil custom; it goes back to time when the Norsemen were here.”
“No one pays any attention to it, do they?”
“I doubt it,” Geddes answered. “Actually, what surprises me is that Barnaby can still climb to the roof.”
“He’s on the roof?”
Geddes shrugged, his eyes filled with mirth. “How else is he going to be heard all over the island?”
“I’ve got to stop him. He’s likely to kill himself.”
“Don’t,” Geddes said. “He has little else to do; it makes him feel useful.”
True, Fletcher thought, the old man was as useless as tits on a bull. “Well, I just hope he doesn’t slip and fall into the rose garden. Rosalyn thinks little enough of me as it is. Barnaby crushing her prize roses would be all she would need to hammer another nail in my coffin.”
Chapter Eight
Once out of the dining room, Rosalyn had nearly run to her room. Her heart pounded as His Grace’s words echoed in her brain. When I was in the stockade. She’d read enough history to know that was a prison.
Her gaze narrowed as she recalled the number of times Geddes had evaded her questions regarding the duke. It was no wonder he wouldn’t tell her anything. The duke had been in prison.
She had rued their mating the moment it was over. She had been reluctant to marry him despite being compromised, but could see no other solution at the time. And now this.
She sank into the chair in front of her dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror. The frightening thing was she knew she was fertile. It had taken no time at all to conceive Fiona, who had come squalling into the world barely nine months from the day Rosalyn had wed Leod.
Now, she was to wed again. The duke had not charmed her as Leod had. She had been plumbing the depths of her emotions to find a way to wriggle out of this commitment, unlike the first time, when she’d rushed headlong into it.
With this new information it seemed she had what she needed to do just that. Her first husband had been like a charming placid lake. The surface was beautiful, but dive beneath and one found tangling, choking weeds and murky mud and creatures that poisoned and dragged one down for good. That, and much, much more, was Leod.
What was the duke, besides a common criminal? Again, she wondered what he had done. At first she had believed he was merely a thinly veiled aristocrat in savage clothing. Now a plethora of possibilities crammed her brain. For all she knew, he could even be a murderer.
She vowed to find Geddes and learn the truth.
• • •
After checking her brother’s room and finding it empty, Rosalyn hurried down the stairs. She found Geddes sitting alone at the table.
Without preamble, she rounded on him. “Where did you find him?”
Her brother had the decency to glance away. “I told you.”
“By his own admission, he was in prison.”
Geddes stared at the linen table cloth.
“Why was he there?” she persisted.
“I believe that’s for him to say, Rosalyn.”
“No! I want you to tell me, brother.” Her rage was building.
Geddes sank back in his chair. “I believe it involved the death of a young woman.”
Lindsay. That was the name the duke kept murmuring in his sleep. “But why was he in prison?” A thought flooded through her like ice water. “Did he murder her? Is that what it was? He’s a murderer?”
Geddes picked at his napkin, which lay crumpled on the table. “He claims he didn’t do it.”
Rosalyn’s knees weakened. She eased herself into the chair beside her brother. “He claims he didn’t do it,” she repeated, although with a measure of sarcasm. “What in the devil does that mean?”
Again, Geddes frowned at her language, but said nothing. Finally he answered, “I don’t know.”
She rubbed her hands over her face. “Well, I guess I’d claim I didn’t do it a
s well. After all, who wants to admit to being a murderer?”
“Rosalyn—”
“Never mind.” She attempted to regain some composure. “Perhaps I can get him to explain it to me.” With effort, she stood and walked toward the door.
“Rosalyn, let me speak with him first.”
She turned and gave her brother a scathing look. “Isn’t this a fine kettle of fish? My first husband was a depraved lunatic and my second a murderer. What are the odds of that?”
“He’s nothing like Leod, nothing at all. And you know it.”
“I know nothing of the sort. You say you believe him. What if he’s lying to you? Would you have me marry a murderer?”
“Rosalyn, he is not a murderer.”
He said something else, but his voice was mere humming in her ears. “My God. I wonder if he used that dreadful knife. Do you suppose he killed that poor girl with a knife?”
Geddes stood, crossed to the door, and shook her. “Stop it.”
“I slept with a murderer. I can’t believe it.”
“Stop it,” he said again. “I’m sure the duke can explain everything to your satisfaction. We’ll discover the truth.”
Silent, she watched Geddes leave, unsure if she truly wanted to know the truth. And would “the truth” be just that, or merely what the duke wanted her to hear?
• • •
“Your Grace? Might I have a word with you in the library?”
Once inside, Geddes closed the double doors and both he and Fletcher went toward the desk, heading for the same chair. Geddes stopped, then looked at Fletcher as if he were just realizing that he was rightfully the master of this place. They exchanged a look of understanding and Geddes took another chair as Fletcher sat behind the massive mahogany.
Geddes studied him. “Rosalyn thinks you’re a murderer.”
Caught off guard, Fletcher said, “What? Why?”
“After you mentioned the food you were served in the stockade, she began to wonder why you were there. I guess I hadn’t mentioned the exact situation in which I found you.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Only that it involved the death of a young woman,” Geddes answered. “Rosalyn came to her own conclusions after that. In any case, she believes we are hiding the truth from her and she’s reluctant to marry you.”
So, those were her doubts, Fletcher thought. If she was reluctant before learning this, it was a wonder she would now consider marrying him at all.
Geddes leaned forward. “You must convince her that you are innocent.”
Fletcher frowned, studying Geddes intently. “I am innocent. You believe me, don’t you?”
Geddes hesitated. “You told me you were; I thought it best to leave it at that. I’m sure the circumstances were unpleasant.”
Fletcher laughed, without mirth. “Good God, if I can’t convince you, how can I convince her?”
“I suggest you try your very best, Your Grace.”
“What happens if I can’t?”
Again, Geddes leaned forward, but his expression changed. “Then, if Rosalyn isn’t carrying your heir, the money goes to Fergus MacBean.”
“Ah, yes, the nincompoop.”
“Aye.”
Fletcher rose from the chair and studied the wild ocean, watching the waves churn and play and finally crash against the rocks. He longed to be astride Ahote, racing across the sand.
“If you cannot convince her and you decide to leave here and return to Texas,” Geddes said, “you would face the noose.”
Fletcher turned. “If I cannot convince her, I might leave here anyway.”
Fear sprang into Geddes’s eyes. “But why?”
Fletcher strode toward the solicitor and stood close to him. “I can’t stay here when I don’t know what’s happened to my family. If your agency doesn’t find them soon, I’ll leave and find them myself, the threat of hanging be damned.”
Flustered, Geddes said haltingly, “I’ll go directly into the village again in the morning. I’m sure there will be some news, I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right, Geddes. I don’t want to leave, but I will.”
Geddes paled. “Your Grace, for my own selfish reasons, I want you to stay. Although I’ve managed to run things since your grandfather’s death, I wouldn’t want it to continue this way.”
“I want to learn how to run the estate, Geddes. I want to learn what it takes to be a duke. I am pleased enough with your sister. But I promise you that if you can’t produce proof that my sister and my brothers are safe and on their way, I’ll chuck it all and leave you to grapple with the nincompoop.”
“But you must give it more time,” Geddes pleaded. “You’ve been here only a short while. Sometimes it takes months to get word from America.”
Fletcher paused—Geddes had a point. “Maybe I’ve been too impatient about word of them, but if something has happened to them, I’ll never forgive myself.” Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I will try to convince your sister that she should marry me. I will do this. But I’m tempted to wait and have the wedding when there is word of the children.”
“The license will be here within a week. You said nothing about putting it off. I had thought we would have the ceremony as soon as it arrived.”
“I’m beginning to feel boxed in.”
“Perhaps I can give you an option. What I would like to propose is this: Marry Rosalyn. If, after she conceives, we still have not had word of your family, you can leave. The estate will be secure and I will stay on and manage it. Rosalyn will raise the child. I had hoped you would stay until the birth of the bairn, but…”
Fletcher paced slowly from one end of the room to the other, his hands clasped behind his back. “Are you saying that even if my siblings join me here, you’re willing to let me leave after the child is born?”
“If that’s your pleasure, Your Grace.”
It wasn’t, but Fletcher didn’t say it aloud. There was no way in hell he was going to abandon another child. No way in hell. “Considering how your sister feels about me, even if she’s willing to marry me, she will likely find my leaving more pleasurable than my staying.”
Geddes’s gaze was pleading. “So, you will stay and marry Rosalyn?”
“Yes.”
“And before we have a wedding, you must have a long, honest talk with her.” Geddes walked with him to the door.
Fletcher drew in a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. What kind of mess had he made for himself? He had vowed to marry a woman who didn’t trust him, who thought he had killed someone, and who, in all likelihood, would resist his advances, thus making the possibility of conception impossible.
Somehow he would have to convince her that the quicker she got pregnant, the sooner he would be out of her hair.
“Where might I find her now?”
Geddes sighed. “I would wait until morning. Give her the night to work off some of her frustration. If you approach her now, I’m afraid she’ll flatly refuse.”
“All right. Take care of the arrangements, and I’ll take care of your sister. But be warned, Geddes, I need word of the children.”
As he went to his room, he wondered how he could convince Rosalyn of his innocence when his guilt held him responsible for Lindsay’s death anyway.
Chapter Nine
After a sleepless night, Rosalyn rose in the morning and went where she always did when she was upset: to see Fen. She arrived at Fen’s cottage, where Reggie was picking vegetables from the garden.
“Has she returned?”
Reggie nodded and Rosalyn let herself in. Fen was leaning over someone who lay on a cot near the stove. As Rosalyn got closer and recognized the woman, she couldn’t hide her surprise. “Nessa MacNab? My God, Fen, Angus threatened me just the other day.”
“He did? What happened?”
“As I was leaving here he stopped my gig and told me to stay away from his wife and mind my business.”
“Well,
then, you weren’t the only one he went after.” Fen gave her an angry glance. “The bastard pushed Nessa down the stairs and her arm hasn’t healed from the last time. She came here after she dragged herself to that sot of a physician only to find him too drunk to give a damn. It’s just as well; he’d probably have smeared it with egg white and barley meal before trying to bind it. And no doubt he told her it was her own fault for arguing with her husband.”
Anger simmered in Rosalyn’s stomach. She didn’t want to hate all men, she truly didn’t. If it weren’t for Geddes’s gentle nature, she might not understand how different they could be.
“Gone are the days of Brigid of Kildare and equality of the sexes,” Fen said.
If ever there was a champion of the female sex, it was Fenella Begley. Once she got fired up on the subject, she could convince almost anyone to agree with her. Except a man. Rosalyn did so wish Geddes saw the same virtues in Fen that she did. She had often thought they might be perfect companions for one another, despite their differences, but they were both too headstrong by half.
Fen helped Nessa drink something from a cup, then motioned to Rosalyn to follow her. “She’ll sleep for a bit, poor thing.”
“How was your trip?” Rosalyn asked.
Fen settled herself into a chair. “Nothing exciting. My solicitor had sold a piece of property and I had to sign some papers. More importantly, how are things with your savage duke?”
Anxious to talk, Rosalyn asked, “Remember when I told you that I thought Geddes was hiding something about the duke’s past?”
“Aye,” Fen said. “What did you discover?”
Too nervous to sit, Rosalyn paced the tiny room. “I think he killed someone.”
Fen gasped. “What?”
Rosalyn explained the duke’s admission that he’d been in prison. She didn’t reveal that during their mating, he had thought she was someone else. Someone named Lindsay.
“Who do you think he killed?”
Rosalyn plucked nervously at her skirt. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“By the saints, it’s no wonder Geddes was mum on the subject.”
The Pleasure of the Rose Page 9