He’d also recuperated enough to depart Craiglocky, but how he could leave Seonaid, even to do what he must in France, he didn’t know.
McTavish generously offered to forgive the loan, but Jacques politely declined. He possessed his honor if naught else.
Another rap rattled the door.
“Enter,” he called, toweling his hair.
Fairchild opened the door, bearing a salver upon which a letter lay. “Forgive me for the interruption, sir. A letter arrived for you two days ago. However, Cummins, a second footman, suddenly took ill after accepting its delivery. I’m afraid he quite forgot he’d placed it atop the basket of cheese delivered that same day. Cook just found the missive.”
Holding the paper between his white clad thumb and forefinger, Fairchild extended the wrinkled and soiled rectangle. “Again, my apologies, and Cummins begs your forgiveness as well.”
“No harm done.” Nodding distractedly, Jacques tossed the towel atop the bed as he examined the scrawling penmanship. Not Faucher’s precise pen strokes. Curiosity stirred, he broke the seal. He perused the scribbling, his grin growing more pronounced the longer he read.
“Well, I’ll be hellfired.”
Chapter 25
“Jacques, what on Earth are you doing out of bed?” Clutching a jar of salve in one hand, Seonaid slapped her other palm to her hip. “It’s been but two weeks. Doctor Patterson clearly advised—”
“I cannot challenge you to a game of chess lying abed, can I, ma petite?” A sheepish grin curved one side of Jacques’s mouth as he sat at a table, a chess set arranged before him. His appreciative gaze roved her a mite longer than entirely proper.
Black, curly chest hairs peeked naughtily above the folds of his banyan.
Her senses hummed in anticipation, as they did whenever she was with him. Still, he might pull his stitches loose, and he should have asked for help walking to the table. She firmed her lips and procured a gimlet stare, earning her another charming smile and a rakish wink.
“Thirty minutes, and then I’ll let you tuck me in again, oui?” Theatrically clasping a hand over his heart, he cocked his head and batted his eyes at her. “Maybe you can join me, rub my forehead and sing me a lullaby?”
She burst out laughing. “I’ll do no such thing, fool.”
Not that she hadn’t considered climbing into bed with him more than once while he slept. It probably wasn’t altogether healthy the number of hours she’d spent watching him slumber, occasionally daring to hold his hand for a few minutes.
Flexing his shoulders, he half-groaned, half-sighed. “Honestly, I needed to exercise my muscles. They ache from inactivity, and I grew bored too.”
He did look much improved this morning. His color appeared normal, except for the array of yellow and green mottled bruises.
“If you show any signs of fatigue, whatsoever, it’s promptly back in bed for you.” As she set the jar down, she checked the clock on the bedside table. “Thirty minutes, and not a moment more. That’s plenty long enough. Understood?”
“Thirty minutes would never be enough, ma belle.”
Sinking into the chair opposite him, his scorching gaze snared Seonaid’s, causing her breath to hang suspended and a not uncomfortable heat to envelop her.
Yes, Jacques’s recovery progressed quite well.
Sitting at her dressing table and humming a ballad, Seonaid dabbed perfume to her wrists, then between her breasts. As she replaced the crystal topper and eyed her bodice, a secretive smile bent her mouth. A mite more revealing than was typical for her, but this gown had been a new creation sewn for her in London and was amongst her favorites.
Jacques would join the family for dinner tonight for the first time since the explosion, and she wanted to look her best.
Una raised a heavy, gray tinted brow but kept silent as she twisted Seonaid’s hair into an intricate knot before weaving a gold-threaded, hunter green ribbon throughout her curls.
The candles’ glow caught the luster of Seonaid’s freshly shampooed hair. She scarcely recognized the sophisticated woman with sparkling russet eyes staring at her from the oval mirror.
“You needn’t frown so, Una. I usually wear perfume.”
Every day for the past two weeks.
She also wore her finest gowns and jewels and took extra care with her appearance. Not once had she visited Jacques with her coiffure half tumbling down, covered in pet hair and dirt beneath her nails from tending her herb garden.
“Aye, miss, ye do, but it be the glow in yer eyes and yer constant flittin’ about hummin’ like an addlepated canary that gives me a crick in my bum.” In the dressing table mirror, Una met Seonaid’s gaze. “He be completely recovered, ye ken.”
Una needn’t say who he was.
Seonaid clasped Una’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know. And that means Jacques shall leave soon.”
These past two weeks, she’d kept hoping, praying that something would happen to change the inevitable, but nothing had. So she braced herself for the day when Jacques announced he intended to depart.
He made no false promises, never mentioned either leaving or staying, and she hadn’t probed, afraid to disrupt the wonderful accord that had developed between them.
Despite their many hours together, with the door open and a servant nearby to add to the propriety, he’d acted the perfect gentleman, not once trying to kiss Seonaid or to touch her.
Several times, she’d been tempted to send the dutiful maid to fetch some frivolity or another for a few treasured moments alone with him.
While Maeve applied herself to her mending or darning, Jacques’s eyes caressed Seonaid as surely as if his fingers had. They’d kissed her lips, brushed her cheeks, her neck and breasts, and in his continued silence, she was certain she heard what he dared not voice.
If he had another option—any at all—he’d not leave.
For surely, he had become as enraptured as she. Hadn’t he? How could she ever have believed this warm, intelligent man insensitive and arrogant?
But Jacques didn’t have another choice.
So, as she’d told Ewan she would, Seonaid spent hours with Jacques each day, reading, playing chess or cards, talking, watching him sleep. The time spent with him was neither foolish nor wasted, and these moments were all she’d ever have.
Better to snatch each memory and lock it in recollection’s storehouse to take out and examine later, when she felt lonely or despondent, than heed prudence and avoid greater heartbreak by staying away.
With each passing day, she’d fallen deeper, firmer, irrevocably in love. That was why, when the time came, if he wouldn’t agree to let her become his mistress, she would let him go without kicking up a fuss.
For if he forfeited his title and family home to live a mediocre life of questionable comfort and status in the rustic and, what many considered uncivilized Highlands, he couldn’t be fully content. His happiness took precedence above everything. Even hers.
These memories would have to suffice a lifetime, for she doubted she’d ever marry. Unless she met a man who’d lost his first love as well, and was satisfied to wed for companionship and someday, perhaps have bairns together. She’d love to have children, Jacques’s children, but Fate or Providence or God callously deemed otherwise.
Giving herself a mental shake, she pinched her suddenly wan cheeks. Time enough to dwell on dour thoughts after he left.
An irony borne smile twitched her lips. If she failed to wed, most likely the sight of a seer would remain for the rest of her life. Since the vision that saved Jacques’s life, she reversed her stance on the matter. No more came upon her the past fortnight either. But should they, she would focus on the benefits.
She stood and shook her ivory silk gauze skirts. The deep green leaf design perfectly matched her hair ribbon, satin slippers, and emeralds glittering at her ears and throat. “Thank you, Una. I like what you did with my hair tonight.”
“Ye’ll do, I suppose.” Despite
her gruff tone, Una beamed as she handed Seonaid her gloves.
Seonaid hugged her. “I’m aware you worry for me, but don’t. I’m happy, and I know what I’m doing.”
“Hmph, I dinna ken about that.” Nevertheless, Una returned her hug, then pecked her cheek.
Later, on her way to America, tucked in her ship’s cabin, Seonaid would mourn her loss and add her tears to the ocean’s salty depths. But for now, Jacques—and the possibility of making a new memory or two—waited below.
Eager to see him, she hurried down the steps. His recovery had been quite remarkable, if a jot swifter than she’d have preferred. Oh, it wasn’t that she didn’t want him well, but that meant he’d be leaving, and his joining the family tonight suggested he was fit enough for travel.
Another few days at most, then she must face bidding him goodbye.
She shook her head to dislodge the rueful thoughts.
Reaching the first floor, she smiled. Laughter resonated from the great hall, and Jacques’s harmonious baritone rang loudly. She hadn’t asked him if he also sang. Given his talent on the pianoforte, and his melodious speaking voice, she shouldn’t be surprised if he did.
“Ah, there you are.” His humor and leg restored, Father winked and beckoned her forward. Other than a mild, lingering stiffness Doctor Paterson assured them would end the more Father exercised the limb, he walked almost as if there’d been no break. “Ye are exceptionally lovely tonight, lass.” He winked, and waggled his eyebrows. His expression acquired a more serious mien. “Our guest looks fit as a fiddle too.”
Surrounded by Alasdair, Gregor, Dugall, and a couple of clansmen, Jacques raised his head, their gazes melding across the hall. When the others shifted to see what he scrutinized, he flashed her a rakish smile. The one that crinkled his eyes with a man’s hunger and stripped her bare the same instant.
She ought to be affronted, but the heady warmth suffusing her simply made crossness impossible. When had she become utterly lost to him?
His weight suffered during his convalescence, the angular lines of his face becoming more pronounced. The deep cobalt of his black velvet trimmed cutaway accented his glossy hair, severe brows, and roguish mustache, the color of a midnight sky hovering above the ocean.
Her heart and stomach quivered. More aptly, bumped around against her ribcage like marbles in a tin. Unfair, but still delightful, how he upended her composure each time she saw him.
Excusing himself, Jacques strode her way, his elongated strides swallowing the distance across the floor. He swept her a courtly bow, and she suppressed a giggle at his exaggerated politesse. “Sir Hugh, Lady Ferguson, might I steal your lovely daughter away?”
Her demeanor uncharacteristically starchy, Mother arched a winged brow and looped her hand through Seonaid’s elbow. “We’re to dine momentarily, Monsieur le baron, but since it’s my birthday, we’ve dancing planned afterward. You may claim her for one dance. If she’s agreeable.”
Seonaid gawped and blinked as if her mother had turned cabbage green with purple splotches upon her cheeks.
For certain, I’m agreeable. Most agreeable.
“I shall look forward to it.” Assuming a nonchalant expression, Jacques inclined his head, but not before Seonaid glimpsed his confusion.
As he walked away and joined the others taking their places at the table, Seonaid mustered a polite upward turn of her lips.
No doubt he was seated at one end and she at the other.
Mother had decided to keep Seonaid and Jacques apart, now? A wonder she had agreed he might dance with Seonaid.
“What was that about, Mother? You offended him.”
“Nonsense.” A false smile upon her mouth, her mother steered Seonaid toward the massive trestle table. The end farthest from Jacques.
“Whatever goes on?” Slowing her steps, Seonaid waited for those near them to move away, then drew up short. “You’re acting most odd, and if I might be so bold, Mother, ungracious.”
To a fellow countryman too.
Mother was famous, far and wide, for her hospitality and cordiality. Why the impoliteness, then?
Mother’s smile became brittle, and Seonaid feared her face might crack if she bumped her too hard. Something had sent her into a rare dudgeon.
Stepping closer, her mother whispered furiously in Seonaid’s ear. “Monsieur is leaving. After you cared for him day and night, your affection as obvious as a . . . a . . . ram wearing a silk bonnet.”
The ludicrous comparison stung. Quite fiercely, truth to tell. Still, Seonaid held her tongue. She had confessed her love for Jacques and she wouldn’t deny it.
“His leaving isn’t a surprise.” Though the words stuck to her tongue, she strove to appear unruffled. “I expected him to when he recovered fully. Returning to France has always been his intent.”
Lips pursed, her mother cut him an unforgiving glower.
Why was she in a dither? She fairly shook with indignation.
“I was foolish, mistaken, to allow you to spend time with Monsieur le baron, but I hoped when he saw how much you loved him,” her grip tightened on Seonaid’s elbow, “that he’d make an offer for you. But he hasn’t spoken a word to either Ewan or your father about . . .”
Seonaid barely stifled her humiliated groan.
“Did you say that to him?” Father and Ewan claimed their seats. Nowhere near Jacques. He’d been banished to the table’s far end, surrounded by rough clansmen. “Good God. Tell me Father or Ewan didn’t. I’ll never forgive them.”
“Well, of course not,” Mother huffed. “We’re not vulgaires. But we expected it. You should have expected it. And now he is leaving.”
Icy suspicion slithered up Seonaid’s calves, then twined ’round her thighs before creeping ever higher to coil around her heart and squeeze unmercifully.
“When? How do you know?”
Acknowledging Father’s inquisitive look with a slight tilt of her dark head, Mother finished in a rush. “A correspondence came for him this afternoon, and afterward, he promptly sent word to the stables to have his chaise readied at first light tomorrow.”
Jacques sipped his wine, not tasting the scarlet liquid.
Likely, it was superb stuff, but it held no more appeal than the flavorless food he’d attempted to chew and swallow. After the first three courses, and everything acquired the taste and texture of sawdust, he’d scarcely touched the meal.
The wine, he continued to down to dull his irritation, the twinges of his mostly healed body, and the searing ache in the vicinity of his heart.
One thing consumed his attention, and she sat at the table’s far end. So great did the chasm loom between them, she might as well be on the Earth’s other side.
From the darkling glares and accusatory looks hurled in his direction every few minutes by her family, and Seonaid’s complete failure to look anywhere near his end of the table, it was apparent they’d learned of tomorrow’s departure.
That explained why he’d been seated as far away from Seonaid as they could manage without feeding him in the kitchen.
Or with the livestock.
Even the wall-mounted trophies condemned him with their sightless eyes.
Jacques had planned to tell Seonaid, to explain, but there’d been no time before dinner, and that was why he’d tried to speak with her as soon as she’d entered the hall.
Blast and damn. Bribing a secondfootman to carry a message to the stables mightn’t have been the wisest idea.
McTavish’s servant’s loyalty might be admired under other circumstances, but the diligent footman robbed Jacques of the opportunity to clarify his sudden departure to Seonaid.
Her hurt and bewilderment lay between them, and she’d retreated behind her bastion of silence and distance, locking him out once more.
By God, before he left, he’d have a few minutes with her, if he had to steal into her chamber to have his say.
Dinner passed in agonizing slowness, and after he continually answered the bana
l questions put to him with grunts or terse responses, the Scots ignored him.
Finally, Lady Ferguson announced the interminable meal at an end. “Ladies and gentlemen, bear with us a few moments while the hall is made ready.”
With skillful efficiency, she directed the servants. A half-dozen bustled about clearing the table, and others rearranged chairs and benches to the room’s parameters, creating a makeshift dance floor.
Rustling and whispering in the minstrel’s gallery, followed by the cacophony of instruments being tuned, announced the musicians’ arrival. Several men disappeared, no doubt to indulge in a tumbler of brandy, providing Jacques the opportunity he sought.
Seonaid slipped from the hall, and in the commotion, no one paid him any mind as he followed. Head lowered and wiping her eyes, she darted into a chamber beyond the stairs he’d never entered.
Slowly opening the door, he peered inside.
A library.
On three walls, cumbersome, heavily laden bookshelves with sliding ladders rose to the ceiling. The fourth wall boasted an unlit fireplace centered between bay window seats, their drapes drawn wide open, allowing the moonlight to illuminate the room.
The smell of musty, old leather and linseed oil met his nostrils as he quietly shut the door before leaning against its solidness.
Seonaid stood before a window, staring into the night, dejection clear in her sloped shoulders and folded arms.
He’d have spared her this hurt, had meant for her to hear from him that he intended to leave. “Seonaid?”
She stiffened, but didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not appropriate.”
Her wavering voice revealed her turmoil. So strong, yet vulnerable.
“Oui, I know, and I won’t stay long, ma petite.” He joined her at the window, taking in the pristine, star-scattered sky. The Highlands felt closer to the heavens than France ever had. He touched her arm. “I received a letter today—”
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 22