Forgetting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Uncle Goo had chosen a posh-looking place called The Country Squire for their meal. He ushered the ladies in and followed. One by one the Scots stooped to enter and cautiously straightened once inside. The ceiling was high enough to walk upright, but he kept a sharp eye out. Stray crossbeams had a habit of jumping out and clubbing him on the head.

  They took a table for six. Lucy, Virginia, and Goo sat on one side while Ian, Alex, and he on the other. England versus Scotland. As it should be. Always and forever. Jemma clamored out of Alex’s lap and crossed enemy lines. Traitor. She had developed a fascination for Uncle Goo’s shiny brass buttons—the front of his waistcoat was lousy with them—and insisted on sitting in his lap for the duration. To Goo’s credit, he welcomed her close company and remained unperturbed when she tried to bite the buttons off his coat.

  Magnus cast a dubious look at the insubstantial chair before he lowered himself. It creaked under his weight. Alex and Ian had similar misgivings and sat gingerly. The table, with its frilly white table cloth, wasn’t wide enough for the three of them, and it was too low to fit his legs comfortably underneath. They’d probably serve him tea and tiny biscuits and call it dinner. He hated tea.

  “Champagne, everyone?” Goo pronounced the word like a Frenchman. Posturing prig.

  “Oh, yes, please. I haven’t had champagne in years.” Lucy swooned and fanned herself. What the hell had gotten into the wee bizzum? It was sparkling wine not bloody holy water.

  Alex cast Uncle Goo a deadpan look. Magnus recognized it as the same look his cousin often gave men right before he beat them to death. The blasted Englishman had no idea his life was in peril.

  Virginia clapped her hands, overjoyed about the champagne, as well. Of course, she would be. A woman such as Virginia should have champagne every day. She was a viscountess, cultured, refined—far too refined for ale and bannocks and rustic Scottish fare. He rubbed at the aching divot in his chest.

  About midway through their meal, which wasn’t bad actually—sliced beef with gravy and boiled tatties—Uncle Goo, who had been blathering throughout dinner about how happy the duke was to finally meet his granddaughter, mentioned something about coaches and Magnus’s ears pricked up.

  “I took the liberty of arranging two,” Goo said. “The duke’s private coach to take the Sinclairs to Maidstone Hall and a coach and four to take Lady Langley to London.”

  Ian talked around a mouthful of beef. “Magnus and I will accompany Lady Langley.”

  “Not necessary. That’s what I’m here for.” Goo held his arms out as if to say lucky you.

  Magnus’s fork slipped from his hand and clattered on his plate.

  Goo went on, “The duke is anxiously awaiting the arrival of the whole Clan Sinclair.”

  Aw, Christ. He said “Clan Sinclair” as if a clan of Scots was a quaint thing. If Alex wanted to beat this man, he’d have to get in line.

  Goo turned to Virginia. “My lady, the duke is sympathetic to your cause. He wishes to see your title restored and has endowed me with his authority to help make it so.”

  He’d had enough. Magnus stood, knocked his chair over, and nearly upended the table and all the dainty dishes on it.

  Both ladies let out a squawk.

  He ground his teeth. “I will see to that, sir. That’s what I’m here for. We thank you for the coach and four, but Mrs. White has nae need of your services.”

  A hush fell over the tavern, and table conversation stopped. Virginia stared at him like a wide-eyed rabbit, probably bracing herself for him to do something boorish. From the corner of his eye he could see other people in the tavern with their heads turned his way, everyone frozen in place. Everyone but Uncle Goo, who calmly wiped his mouth on his serviette, set it on the table, and rose. “Excuse me ladies. May I have a word with you outside, if you please, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Odd. Was this the way Englishmen called someone out for a fight? With pretty please and thank yous? Magnus stormed out of the dining hall. On the way, he smacked his forehead so hard on the lintel he saw stars. Head throbbing, heart pounding, and sweat streaming down the sides of his face, he lurched outside.

  When Goo stepped out of the tavern, Magnus tore off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and raised his fists.

  The man frowned at him. “What the devil are you doing?”

  He lowered his fists. “I thought you called me out here to fight.”

  Goo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I asked to have a word with you outside, away from Lady Langley.”

  Magnus dropped his arms. “Well, now I feel damn foolish.”

  “As well you should, but forget all that and listen.” FitzHarris—he elevated the man’s status enough to think of him as FitzHarris rather than Goo—leaned closer. “I understand your need to protect the viscountess, but I, too, can offer a measure of assistance you may not find elsewhere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From my sister’s missives, the duke gathered that Lady Langley is not happy in her marriage. Is that true?”

  “Aye.”

  “Excellent. Because I have it on good authority that Lord Langley is…well…a bigamist.”

  “What?”

  The man exhaled a weary sigh. “A bigamist is a man who—”

  “I ken what a bigamist is!” He demoted FitzHarris to Goo again. “Do you mean to say that, because Langley has remarried, the viscountess could have her marriage annulled?”

  Goo smiled. Not one of his dandy smiles. He smiled like a man who had his enemy within his sights.

  …

  Virginia didn’t understand why Magnus was being so belligerent. It had started on the docks and carried all the way through luncheon. She suspected it had something to do with Mr. FitzHarris, but the man hadn’t given Magnus any cause for abuse. He’d been nothing but welcoming and genial. And now they were outside. Talking. Or were they? Was Magnus about to do something rash?

  “Excuse me, please. I’ll check on Mr. Magnus and—”

  Lucy reached for her. “Stay.”

  “But—”

  “Darling, they’re just talking.” Lucy shot a look at her husband and said in a dark and lowered voice, “Alex, go see what they’re talking about.”

  Alex stopped chewing and frowned at his wife. “Why?”

  Lucy stiffened and ground her teeth. “Go.”

  He glanced at the ceiling, his head lolling to one side, then tossed his half-eaten buttered bun on his plate, and shoved away from the table. “Fine.”

  Alex never had to fulfill his wife’s command, as Magnus and Mr. FitzHarris returned to the dining hall laughing like they had exchanged some kind of joke. Damn and bollocks. What had happened out there?

  “Everything all right, then?” Alex asked.

  “Oh, aye.” Magnus aimed his winningest smile at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

  “You have a bump on your forehead,” Virginia said. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Och, a slight disagreement with the lintel. I’m fine.”

  Lucy chimed in with, “Did you see Mr. Snowdon out there with my Hercules? Is he well?”

  “Oh, aye. The dog is fine.”

  Lucy huffed. “No. I mean Mr. Snowdon. Honestly, Magnus.”

  “He’s looking much better, actually,” Mr. FitzHarris assured Lucy. “But he’s anxious to get to London, as am I. Allow me to settle with the tavern owner, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Jemma had been passed around the table like the salt. Each person had done their best to entertain her with little success. It was Captain Sinclair’s turn at the moment. She stood in his lap, plucked a biscuit from his plate, took a bite, and dropped it jam side down on his pristine cravat.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” Lucy rose to help Captain Sinclair make repairs.

  “Dinnae fash. I’ve done worse.” He passed Jemma to Magnus and allowed Lucy to dab briskly at the stain with the edge of a dampened serviette.

  Virginia moved to assist but paused, t
ransfixed by the tableau of Magnus and Jemma, the little girl engulfed in the smiling Scot’s big arms. Watching him with his niece twisted at her heart. He obviously adored the child and she him.

  Jemma, her face screwed up in concern, touched her finger to the scar on Magnus’s chin. “Owie.”

  “I got an owie but it doesnae hurt now. It’s all better, a nighean.”

  She hugged his neck and let her head of fiery curls rest on his shoulder, the first time she’d settled in hours. He rocked her from side to side looking heartbreakingly content. The man deserved children of his own, children she could never give him.

  Magnus’s dark brown eyes met hers and lingered. His was a warm, slow, burning look filled with the same desire and longing that she felt. Their time together was nearing an end. She should not squander a moment of it.

  Mr. FitzHarris returned to the table, rubbing his hands together vigorously. “Right then. The coaches are ready. Alex, I leave it to you to see that Lucy and Jemma reach Maidstone, along with that bull bait she calls Hercules. I’ll um…settle that debt with you another time.” He shook hands with Alex and turned to Magnus. “If the change of teams is swift and the horses fresh, I estimate three hours to Bexleyheath, some refreshment, and another three hours to Southwark Tollgate, then on to Blackfriar’s Bridge. Let’s hope the traffic at the crossroads is light this evening.” He offered his arm. “Lady La—I mean to say, Mrs. White, shall we?”

  Outside in the summer heat, their goodbyes seemed rushed and too short. Lucy wept in spite of assurances that they would see each other at least once before the Sinclairs returned to Scotland.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful, Ginny. If you have any trouble at all, send word to Papa.”

  “I will, I promise.” Virginia kissed Jemma’s chubby cheek. “Goodbye, my little gingersnap.”

  Jemma’s face puckered. She pointed to Virginia and cried a pathetic, “Tah-tee.”

  Lucy coddled Jemma with assurances that she would see Aunt Tah-tee again very soon.

  Meanwhile, Virginia’s heart tore loose and wobbled in her chest unsteadily, knowing this might be the last time she saw Jemma.

  Captain Sinclair put a hand on Magnus’s shoulder. “You have FitzHarris. Ye dinnae need me. I’ll stay here with the ship. We leave in three weeks. If I dinnae hear from you—”

  “If you dinnae hear from me, cousin, leave without me.” Virginia shot a look Magnus’s way. Catching her glance, he added, “But no doubt I’ll make it back a’fore ye sail.”

  As much as she wished he could stay forever, she dared not allow him to linger. The chances of him having a fatal encounter with Langley increased the longer he stayed in London. Magnus had to return with the ship to Scotland, no matter what.

  Mr. FitzHarris had hired a private coach. It was spacious, designed to carry four, and though Magnus and Mr. FitzHarris were sizeable men, it was comfortable enough. She and Magnus settled opposite Mr. FitzHarris and Snowdon. They hadn’t been on the road more than twenty minutes when Mr. FitzHarris asked Magnus, “Have you told her?”

  “I thought I’d allow you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Rather than answering her, Mr. FitzHarris added, “You’ll be interested in this as well, Snowman. I understand your firm is assisting Lady Langley.”

  “It’s Snowdon.”

  “Of course, it is.” FitzHarris smiled genially.

  “Please. I insist you call me Mrs. White from here on, for safety’s sake.”

  “Ah, yes. You see, that’s just the point. Mr. Sinclair and I agree there’s no longer a need for pretense.”

  Something akin to outrage flared inside her belly. So, they’d been discussing her outside the inn. Damn and bollocks. “If you and Mr. Sinclair want to talk about my situation…” She flashed a hot look his way. “I suggest you do so in my presence.” Her sudden temper seemed to startle the men. No wonder. It startled her, too.

  Mr. FitzHarris stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “Forgive me. Of course. How thoughtless. I’m making a hash of this.” He raised his eyebrows at Magnus as if to say rescue me.

  “Em, what Mr. FitzHarris means is that there’s been a development that might allow for a change in strategy. One that works to your advantage, forbye.”

  The smile on Magnus’s face did nothing to soothe her irritation. “And what, exactly, is this development?”

  “Langley has taken a second wife. He’s a bigamist.”

  “Already?” Her irritation vanished, replaced with pure astonishment.

  “Dashed fast work, if you ask me,” Mr. FitzHarris said.

  Virginia gaped at Magnus, then at Mr. FitzHarris, then at Snowdon, and back to Magnus. They all wore the same stupid grins. She closed her mouth and stared out at the verdant blur of hedgerows speeding by and let the implication of Magnus’s revelation sink in. Langley had stolen her money, ordered her kidnapping, buried a woman disguised as his wife—a woman he’d quite possibly had murdered—fraudulently collected her death benefit, and sent men to find and kill a wife he’d claimed was a charlatan. As if that weren’t enough to damn him for all eternity, he’d become a bigamist. The fact that Langley abused his servants, had treated his wife no better than a dog, exhibited an unspeakably depraved sexual appetite, and was in debt up to his ears, hardly signified in light of his other crimes.

  An uncontrollable giggle bubbled up from her belly. It rapidly matured into an outburst of laughter. Magnus and Mr. FitzHarris quickly joined in, and after a slight hesitation, so did Snowdon. Tears streaked Mr. FitzHarris’s cheeks, and Magnus was having difficulty catching his breath. Just as the laughter started to die, she blurted, “My God, he’s a complete horse’s ass.”

  A hitch in their chuckles caught for one second and then rolled out with even greater gusto. Virginia had never laughed so long or so hard in her entire life. And to think, she was laughing at the monster that had terrified her for three years, stolen from her, and then tried to kill her. Twice over. Surely, she would prevail. In light of all the damning evidence, how could she not? Victory was so close she could almost taste it.

  They spent the remainder of the first half of their journey discussing how Snowdon would craft her letter to Langley, what terms she would demand, and who would deliver the document. When they reached Bexleyheath, Snowdon felt well enough to eat and so Mr. FitzHarris joined him inside the coaching inn.

  “It’ll take a while to change the horses. Will you walk wi’ me, a leannan?”

  …

  She left her bonnet and gloves in the coach, a signal it was safe for him to peel off his coat. For the first time that day, he could breathe. They walked behind the coaching inn, past the carriage house, and through the garden into an open cow pasture. He released the tie from his queue and shook out the day’s heat. A light breeze lifted the hair off his neck, cooling him. Virginia plucked a red campion blossom from the hedgerow and toyed with it as they walked. He had her all to himself. But she seemed troubled. He would have to fix that.

  He steered her toward the shade of an old oak where it was cooler, and the low hanging branches cloaked them in shadow. A boyish impulse prompted him to take the blossom from her and tuck it behind her ear. “You should wear a crown of these.” His voice was cloudy from disuse. He bent and placed his mouth on hers, wanting the same connection they’d had the night before, but it was gone. Her fire was gone. He pulled away.

  “What’s amiss, lass?”

  She shook her head and looked away. “Nothing.”

  “You’re hiding from me. You cannae hide from me, love. Not now. Not after last night.”

  “Are you sorry it happened?”

  Shocking. How could she think that? “God, no. I wish last night could last forever.”

  “But it can’t.”

  “Langley will have no choice but to sue for divorce. Parliament will grant the annulment. FitzHarris assured us that he and the duke will find the votes. I’ll remain in London until you’re safe—free and
clear of him.” He didn’t dare tell her that, with FitzHarris’s news, he’d been gathering new hope for a future with her. One in which he’d sweep her away from this horrid England and take her back to Scotland with him, but it wasn’t wise to test her with it. Not now. She was overwrought at the moment. Instead, he appeased her. “I ken this cannae last forever. But you will be free.”

  “Even if I get free—”

  “Stop. Stop worrying about the battle before we’ve stepped onto the field. Let’s be happy for now, aye?”

  She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hard and hungry, the way he liked her. Eager. Desperate. Because that’s how he was for her. She tugged off her spectacles and put them in her pocket. That was invitation enough. He eased her down to the cool grass carpet and found the contact he needed at that firm juncture between her thighs. He wanted to slide inside and ride her until he spent himself, but she needed him.

  “Tell me, love. I like it when you tell me what you want.”

  She whimpered a protest.

  “Nae. You must tell me.”

  “Touch me,” she panted. “Please me.”

  He went hard as brass. She rucked up her skirt and showed him her pretty curls. He reached to pet her. In the light of day, his hand looked too big and rough for such a delicate place.

  “Show me,” he whispered and let her guide him to the right spot, warm and slippery. Christ, he didn’t think it possible, but it was better than last night. Lying here in the daylight, he could see her face, watch her while she came completely and perfectly undone. She was beautiful, like a goddess in his hands, and when she chanted his name over and over, his good intentions evaporated. He tore open his breeks, rolled atop her, and drove into her slick heat.

  Sensation flooded his body, an aching need, a sharp needle-like sorrow goading him to laugh and cry at the same time. It drove him deep inside her, deeper, reaching for the magic place that, once touched, would make everything right, would make Virginia his. He lasted a half-dozen strokes, before losing himself. He was right to do it, was he not? Justified? She would be his. It was just a matter of time before he could pack her up and take her home. If he was quick about it, they could return with Gael Forss.