by Julia London
Maura didn’t know how to respond. Was it common knowledge that she’d come here to accept an offer of marriage?
“You mustn’t feel as if you need answer,” Miss Fabernet said, and walked to the bed to dump her things next to the gown. “The room is rather small, is it not?” she asked, looking around. “Ah well. You’ll be warmer than the rest of us, I suspect. Now then, let’s wash your hair. It looks quite...untidy,” she said, and shivered.
Maura slid deeper into the water. What was this place where Nichol intended to leave her?
CHAPTER TWENTY
NICHOL DID NOT see Maura enter the salon at the dinner hour—he was preoccupied with Dunnan. He knew the Scot well—Dunnan was typically quite carefree and in a mood to be diverted. But tonight, he was subdued. And he’d been whispering with a gentleman whose hair was slicked back in a thick black queue for a quarter of an hour and he seemed uncharacteristically agitated.
Nichol moved about the room with the intention of cornering Dunnan and asking him what he was about. But when he stepped away from the wall he’d been leaning against, he saw Maura. She was in the middle of the room speaking to the woman whom he’d suggested to Dunnan should lend her a gown. He was momentarily dumbstruck—she was a vision in the pale blue gown. Boideach. Bel. Schön.
He looked around at the others in the room, certain they’d been struck by her comeliness. Was he the only one to notice? Why wasn’t everyone assembled in that room gazing at her now? Her hair had been put up in a dark tower and bluebirds nested at the top. He couldn’t help but smile at the whimsical dressing—she seemed far too practical to allow bluebirds to nest in her hair—but the affect was charming. The gown fit her like a second skin and made her seem even more womanly. The blue of it was dazzling, the white petticoat with bits of red eye-catching.
Aye, she was the bonniest woman he’d ever known.
Alas, the dolt that was Dunnan Cockburn hadn’t noticed her, Nichol realized, so he walked across the room to greet her. He had also bathed and changed and was wearing a plaid and formal coat for the evening. She turned her head slightly as he made his way across the room, and her eyes lit with delight. She turned to face him fully as he neared her and the other woman. “Mr. Bain, a plaid? I didna know your affinity for the Highlands.”
“Aye, ’tis a true affinity,” he said. “The plaid was a gift from the Mackenzie clan. Perhaps one day you will be fortunate to see Balhaire for yourself.” His days spent at the Mackenzie estate of Balhaire in the Highlands were some of the very best of his life.
“I’ve not heard of it. Perhaps, I will,” she said, smiling wryly. “May I introduce Miss Fabernet? She has lent me a gown and helped with my hair.” To Miss Fabernet, she said, “Mr. Bain.”
“Enchantée,” the woman said, and with a sultry smile, she held out her hand and sank into a curtsy.
Nichol took her hand and bowed over it, “A pleasure, madam.”
She rose up and let her gaze slide over him, lingering on his tartan. “I should like to see the Highlands, as well,” she said silkily. “I’ve heard that the gentlemen there are formidable.” She lifted her gaze to him. “In every way.”
Nichol smiled. A fortnight ago, he would have read the invitation in her eyes and would have acted on it. Tonight, he wished she would go away. He wanted only Maura.
“I must say, sir, that you wear a plaid very well,” she added.
Ah, but he did admire a brazen woman. He turned his attention to the most brazen of them all and smiled. “How bonny you are this evening, Miss Darby. Miss Fabernet has been verra generous.”
“I can be more generous than that,” she purred, and sidled closer to him.
“Shall we say good evening to Mr. Cockburn, then?” Nichol suggested to Maura, and offered his arm.
Miss Fabernet sighed. “Go on then, the two of you,” she said, flipped open a fan, smiled at Nichol over the top of it, then glided away.
Nichol offered his arm to Maura. “You look verra bonny, lass,” he said to her as they walked along. “But until tonight, I had no’ thought you a woman given to bluebirds.”
She laughed. “Miss Fabernet thought my hair was distressing and could scarcely contain her glee at dressing it. She said it would make me more appealing to my future husband.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Do you think that is true, Mr. Bain?”
“You could no’ be more appealing. It would seem Mr. Cockburn has summoned the town crier.”
“Aye, it would,” she said. “I wonder if he will offer at all, in truth. His mother doesna esteem me.”
“She does,” he said.
“Oh, but she does no’,” she said quite adamantly. “She made it clear that Mr. Cockburn is hers and I’m no’ to have a say in him at all.”
Bloody Dunnan and the apron strings he clung to. “I’ll speak to him.”
“Donna trouble yourself, Nichol,” she said, and looked away. “I am acquainted with the likes of Mrs. Cockburn. She’ll have her way, and there is naught you can do to change it.”
Nichol swallowed down a lump of guilt. He had never questioned the plans he came up with to solve the problems of those who retained his services, but he was questioning them now. But still, his misgivings were tempered with Dunnan’s wealth and his generally affable demeanor. He was a good solution for Maura.
Wasn’t he?
They reached Dunnan, who was standing alone, the man with the dark queue no longer with him. When Dunnan looked up, he stuttered backward, startled by Maura’s appearance. “Oh! Oh my! Miss Darby, how well you look!”
Maura laughed a little. “I must have looked a fright when I arrived,” she said, and self-consciously touched her hair.
“No’ at all, no’ at all,” Dunnan said, trying to recover from his surprise.
“Miss Fabernet has been verra helpful. Thank you for requesting her assistance.”
“Aye, well, I thought I ought,” he said, then caught himself. “No’ that I thought you needed help, madam, no. But to make you welcome, do you see? My mother and I wanted to make you welcome.” He glanced at Nichol. A dewy sheen of perspiration had erupted on his brow.
Diah, but Dunnan was as maladroit in the company of the fairer sex as he was round. Nichol found it annoying—how could he fumble every little thing?
“Thank you,” Maura said. “Your mother has been...”
“Oh, she is a dear. Lives to serve, she does.” Dunnan took a tiny step closer to Maura. “Might you, Miss Darby, if I may be so bold to impose, would it be at all possible if...”
For the love of Christ, man, say it.
“Would it be possible if you were to sit beside me at supper?”
“Oh, I—”
“’Tis a verra long table, you see, and if you’re verra far away, I’ll no’ be able to speak to you. Or...or hear you.”
“I’d be delighted, Mr. Cockburn. And Mr. Bain?”
“What? Bain? Oh! Aye, aye, he’ll be there, too. Aye, that he will, I’ll see to it.” He hesitated and touched a finger to his lips. “I best see to it, aye? I’ll have a word with Fillian then. He has set the places but he will arrange it. Will you excuse me?” He smiled grandly, as if he was very pleased with himself for having worked it all out.
Maura dipped a curtsy as he hurried off. When he had disappeared into the crowd, she asked, “Is he in possession of all his faculties, do you suppose?”
Nichol was distracted by the way Dunnan hurried across the room as if a fire had engulfed it, but had been stopped in his progression by the same gentleman who had been whispering with him before. What in the devil was Dunnan about?
“Is there wine?”
Nichol glanced at Maura. She was looking down, removing a piece of lint or something from the gown. She was so beguiling to him that he felt an unexpected swell of emotion in his chest. It was a gush of warmth. He was
afraid to name that swell of emotion, afraid to give it legitimacy.
“I’ll fetch it,” he said low, and walked away from her before she could pierce him with her blue eyes and force him to give a name to that warmth—he could not bear to name it, he could not afford to name it. He would not name it.
By the time he returned to her, he’d slung down a tot of whisky, and Miss Fabernet had found Maura once again, this time in the company of Mr. Johnson, who was, Nichol gathered, the leader of this group of stage performers. He had a bombastic manner of speaking, as if he believed every sentence an oratory.
When supper was announced, they all trooped to the dining room in a garbled promenade. Mrs. Cockburn was shouting at who should escort whom, but most of them ignored her instructions. In the dining room, Dunnan had forgotten his intent to instruct Fillian to rearrange the place settings, and once he realized it, caused quite a hullabaloo over moving everyone around so that Maura would be seated on his right. In the ensuing melee, Nichol found himself far down the table, next to an elderly woman who claimed to be a dear, dear friend of Mrs. Cockburn.
It was the second meal he’d had to suffer the tedium of small talk, which Nichol had never been adept at, and of late, rather impatient with. He couldn’t keep his attention from Maura. Dunnan was doing a great deal of talking—he could be quite verbose with a bit of wine in him. She seemed to be conversing with him, too, and even managed a smile now and then.
She was trying.
By the time the meal was over and the crowd had moved back to the salon, several of them had fallen deep into their cups. Those who hadn’t yet were not far behind. The boisterous performers gathered at the pianoforte and broke into bawdy barroom songs that reminded Nichol of a French salon. For some reason, an image of the Garbetts came to mind, and Nichol could not help but smile at how properly scandalized they would be if they were here tonight.
If Maura was scandalized, she didn’t outwardly show it. She was with Dunnan and Miss Fabernet, was laughing at something one of them said. From time to time, she would look around the crowded room, rising up on her toes, seeking him. And she would smile with something that looked a wee bit like relief. Comfort that he was still here, still watching over her.
“We must have a dance, aye?” Dunnan suddenly shouted. He stood up and looked eagerly about the room. “A dance! You there, in the plaid, my good sir! You must show us a Highland jig, aye?”
Nichol laughed. “Show us yourself then, Mr. Cockburn,” he said back to him.
“But you must,” Dunnan said. He was swaying a little on his feet.
“I’ll stand up with you if you like, aye?” Maura offered pleasantly, and walked forward.
This offer was met with risqué remarks and laughter. Only Mrs. Cockburn seemed offended. Her son was amused.
“Aye, Bain, you must have the first dance with Miss Darby, then,” Dunnan said, clearly delighted.
Maura curtsied and began to sway her hips, swinging the hem of her skirt one way and the next.
Nichol watched her a moment, marveling at her resilience given the events of the last several days. He felt the press of his worries, the turmoil of his emotions. He was exhausted, spent...perhaps what he needed was a diversion. Perhaps he needed to dance.
He pushed away from the wall he’d been holding up and walked to the middle of the room. “Mi Diah, how do any of you expect us to dance a jig or a reel with no music, then?” he demanded.
Dunnan eagerly clapped his hands. “Music!” he shouted, and gestured for the gentleman at the pianoforte to play, who instantly struck up a jaunty tune. Nichol looked at Maura. “I am no’ a fine dancer, Miss Darby. You might have done better with one of the gentlemen here.”
“You’ll never be a fine dancer if you donna try, Mr. Bain.” She grabbed a handful of skirt in both hands, lifted the hem, and began to dance.
Fortunately, Nichol had had a wee bit of practice at Balhaire. Catriona, Lady Montrose, had insisted upon it, in part as punishment for what he’d done to her when she’d fallen in love with the Duke of Montrose, and in part because despite all that had happened, Catriona esteemed him in some small way. He was grateful to her now, for he managed to keep step with Maura who was, much to his chagrin, a fine dancer.
Others joined them, dancing a jig and whirling around the room, bumping into each other with gales of laughter. Nichol eventually begged off, and he and Maura collapsed against a wall, breathless. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with glee. She could be happy here, he thought. She could adjust to this life.
Nichol looked around the room, determined that Dunnan would have the next opportunity to dance with her. But Dunnan was nowhere to be seen.
“Come!” shouted a gentleman, and grabbed Maura’s hand, pulling her into the fray again. He whirled her about in a reel, passed her to the next partner.
Maura was laughing. She was dancing with the abandon of a woman who had nothing left to lose, kicking up her heels, twirling this way and that. Nichol watched her, fascinated. Captivated. He watched as a bluebird went sailing out of her hair, followed by another one that bounced off the shoulder of a woman who never noticed it. If Maura noticed her hair was toppling down, she didn’t care. She kept dancing, kept kicking up her feet, flying around in the reel and relinquishing the tight grip she’d kept on herself in the days that had preceded this one. It was almost as if she were shedding all that had happened to her.
She laughed as her hair tumbled down and the net of filling that had held it up in the tower hung from a tress of her hair. She laughed wildly, when one man plucked it up and stuck it on his head. The sound of her gay laughter filled Nichol’s heart to the point of bursting.
He didn’t know what to do with his heart. It needed to burst, to let go the pressure, to sink back to the hard little fist it had been before he’d met her. If it burst, it would kill him. This could all kill him. He could die of longing.
Someone threw open the terrace doors to give the dancers some air. The snow was piling up ever higher outside, which relieved Nichol. It meant that he didn’t have to decide tomorrow what he would do next. It meant that his swollen heart did not yet have to burst. He’d been given a reprieve, and it was enough to cause a grown man to dance. He entered the reel, grabbed her hand, and laughed with her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LONG AFTER EVERYONE had gone to bed in the wee morning hours, Maura lay in her small bed, staring at the pile of snow on her windowsill. Her room was freezing, the fire in the tiny hearth having gone out before she’d ever come up from the salon.
She burrowed deeper under the covers, but she could still hear the whispers, the sound of feet running down the hallway. This theatrical troupe was ending their evening in each other’s beds. She thought of Nichol, and the warmth of his body. She thought of him in his plaid, a compelling figure with strong legs and broad chest.
She’d enjoyed herself tonight. She enjoyed the company of the bawdy troupe. But mostly, she enjoyed dancing with Nichol.
She did not allow herself to think of Mr. Cockburn or his mother. Oh, he’d been pleasant enough at supper. He had not the faintest clue how to engage in conversation, and seemed to be most at ease when someone else did the talking. She had the sense that he was somehow intimidated by her. Afraid, perhaps.
But she didn’t think about him. She thought of Nichol. He was constantly in her thoughts, filling her with a desire so powerful that it made her feel weak, as if she hadn’t eaten enough to sustain her.
She didn’t want to say farewell. She didn’t want to go on with her life as if this thing between them, whatever it was—was it love?—had never happened. Maura didn’t know what would come next—the snow made it impossible for anyone to leave on the morrow—but she would escape this place, one way or another. She could not bear it without him. And she didn’t think she could possibly marry Mr. Cockburn, not after what she’d exp
erienced in Nichol’s arms.
She rolled over onto her back and fingered the necklace at her throat. She would not remove it, although it was heavy and rubbed against her skin when she slept. She trusted no one but Nichol Bain. Only him.
She glanced at the snow again and suddenly wanted him with a fierceness that robbed her of any rational thought. She threw off the coverlet and wrapped her arms tightly around her body and the thin chemise she wore. One thing was certain—when she got to wherever she was going, she would have proper clothing restored to her. She opened the door of her room a small crack—a rush of cold air hit her squarely. She slowly opened it wider and glanced down the hall. No one was about at the moment, although she could hear someone giggling down the hall.
She stepped out into the hallway, pulled the door shut behind her, then tiptoed across the hall. Diah, she hoped that Mrs. Cockburn was right, that he was in here and not some other guest who would think she’d come to pay a visit in the middle of the night. She rather imagined Mrs. Cockburn would appreciate any excuse to banish her.
She slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open. She saw instantly that the draft caused the fire in the hearth of this room to flare and dance. She slipped into the room and shut the door.
Nichol was in bed, but he’d come up on his elbow, watching her.
Maura stood frozen, looking at him, unsure what she ought to say. But then he held up the coverlet on his bed, revealing his naked body and silently inviting her in.
Maura ran across the room and climbed into his bed, and climbed on top of him.
“I feared it might be Miss Fabernet,” he muttered as he kissed her.
She giggled. She felt no remorse, no guilt. She felt nothing but need for him to hold her, to kiss her, to fill her body. “Mi Diah, Mr. Bain, but you have captured me completely, you have,” she said, and slid her mouth to his neck, then down his chest, to his nipple. “I donna know how to keep from being captured again, day after day.”