“Do you recognize it?” Georgette choked out.
His fingers tightened around hers, and his mustached upper lip thinned to a razor’s edge. “Did the man have a beard, or no?”
“He had a beard,” Georgette, answered, confused by the question, unsure how that narrowed the field. What man in Scotland didn’t sport a ragged, filthy beard? “Why do you ask?”
Randolph flung away her hand without answering. “Saddle the mare immediately,” he shouted to the groom, who had just emerged from the little stone stable. “I will ride out from here without the curricle.”
Georgette burrowed her hand and the ring in the safety of her skirts. “You are leaving me here?” she accused. “Alone?”
“I am securing our future.” Randolph pivoted toward the startled groom. “A future which you seem all too willing to toss away.”
Georgette reached out a hand to stop him, but she clutched empty air. Her cousin was already striding toward the stables, his ungainly stride and loose-limbed posture the closest thing to a walking slouch. She watched him with a dawning sense of horror. Randolph thought he was securing their joint future, a future that she had repeatedly denied wanting. She thought of a lifetime spent with him and felt suffocated by the same certain sense of repulsion that had forced her objection to his offer—or insistence—of marriage earlier this morning.
In the end, she was left with no answers, and no further chance to protest. Randolph swung up on the aged mare, dug his heels to the beast’s flank, and cantered off with the gracelessness of a man far more comfortable in a library than in a saddle. She watched him ride away with rising panic.
The sharp pleasant scent of the surrounding pine forest should have been a balm to almost any hurt, but she could feel nothing but panic. She had a kitten needing milk. A husband she didn’t want and a pressing need to find him. And she was stuck here, without a horse, no idea where her cousin was going or when he would be back. Was Randolph trying to help her?
Or punish her?
The groom approached and they stood a long moment, watching Randolph disappear over a ridge. “Did he happen tell you where he was going?” Georgette asked despairingly. Her feet ached and her eyes pricked as if they were laced with sand. The journey from Moraig had taken less than an hour in a curricle, but the distance might as well be the length of London to attempt it on foot.
The big groom shook his head. “No, Mr. Burton did not say.” He paused, and cast an apologetic look toward her, spreading his thick, work-roughened hands. “You have a visitor waiting for you, miss. I . . . I placed ’em in your bedroom. I thought it best not to mention it while Mr. Burton was in such a temper. I ken he will not approve of this one.”
Georgette’s throat threatened to swell closed over the groom’s halting explanation. She had a visitor. The sort of visitor of which Randolph would not approve.
The sort of visitor who sent the great, burly servant’s color high and his hands twisting at his side.
Whereas moments before she had been facing a long, hard walk back to Moraig, certainty thudded in her chest. She knew—she knew—her mystery Scotsman had come for her.
Randolph’s threats and barbs fell away to an odd state of reassurance. If she could just speak with the man, she suspected she would find some answers, and of a better sort than those sought by her cousin, who was heading into town and tilting at shadows.
She whirled, her skirts in hand and the kitten bouncing in her bodice, and hurried toward the house. She stumbled into the sudden darkness, the rented cottage’s musty interior balanced by the fragrance of dried herbs and sheaths of plant life Randolph hung to dry from the rafters. She tripped up the narrow staircase past portraits of unknown Scotsmen, thinking she was seeing the man whose image was branded on her brain in every one.
She paused on the threshold of her room, her hand on the latch, her heart pounding all the way to her ears. Scarcely ten minutes ago, she had been resolved to never see her evening’s partner again. She could not explain her body’s reaction now to the thought of doing just that. Green eyes and a strong, beard-framed jaw were burned into her memory, but the man’s temperament was an unknown thing. The state in which she had left him had scarcely registered as she had bolted into the house, but now she paused, sucking in mouthfuls of herb-scented air. If he was here, surely he was none the worse for wear for the little incident with the chamber pot.
If he was here, surely he had forgiven her.
She hovered a moment, her hand a hairbreadth from knocking, pondering her choices. But what could she do beyond confront the man?
The door swung open, almost of its own volition, and Georgette stepped inside. Her skin felt flushed, her limbs loose with anticipation.
But instead of the man she expected—nay, wanted—to see, she was greeted by the sight of a woman lounging in a copper hip bath. The woman’s head was stretched back, rich auburn hair damp and curling, her neck exposed to the ceiling. The unexpected joy that so recently kindled in Georgette’s chest fell away to abject discomfiture.
Because the only thing she hated more than her own nudity was that of other people.
And this woman was clearly, unabashedly naked.
Chapter 5
JAMES STEPPED OUT of the inn, still simmering with anger, only to find himself accosted by brilliant sunshine and happy citizens. Moraig was bustling, a seaside Scottish town fully in the throes of market day. All around him the town swirled, bits of business and pleasure being transacted on every corner.
Normally, James enjoyed a good market morning. It was one of the things he had missed most about Moraig during the ten years he had spent in Glasgow, apprenticing with a curmudgeon of a solicitor. For all its urban bustle, Glasgow had felt sterile to him after Moraig’s small-town warmth. Market day was something to look forward to. It offered a chance to greet neighbors, to catch up on gossip, to snatch up a currant bun and hold its sticky sweetness between his teeth with the enthusiasm of the young man he had once been. It was one of the things that had called him home a year ago, when he had considered where to set up his first solo practice.
But the pleasures to be had on market day were meaningless to a man who couldn’t even afford to pay his evening’s debt. Six pounds was not a bloody lot of cash to someone like William, who was heir to the Kilmartie earldom.
But it was almost a month’s salary to James, and money he could ill-afford to waste.
He settled his hat gingerly atop his head, taking care to place it so it covered the injury on his scalp without rubbing to further damage. As a result of its precarious perch, the hat provided precious little shade. He stood a moment, blinking and adjusting to the insistence of the day’s sunlight. A sharp tap in his rib cage from William’s elbow made his head jerk in annoyance and sparks dance behind his eyes. “What?”
“Nice bit of handiwork.” William nodded to their left.
Despite his attempts to remember something of the night, James’s recollection remained little more than a string of hazy pictures. But the jagged shards of glass beneath his feet and the row of smashed windows taunting him beneath the wooden Blue Gander sign gave life to his imagination. A disbelieving groan escaped him. He could see a maid with a busy broom in her hand through the ruined opening, and he could hear hammering coming from the depths of the building. The sound echoed inside his skull with fierce retribution.
Someone had enjoyed a rip-roaring good time last night, and according to the proprietor, it had been he.
On either side of them, a dozen townsfolk gawked and whispered. The same stab of guilt he had felt earlier at the mention of his father hit him now. This was no small mistake, to be swept under his mother’s Persian rug and left forgotten. This was a fall from grace witnessed by half the town.
He stepped off the paved sidewalk and cursed again the ill-mannered female who had caused all this trouble. If he was going to be forc
ed to pay six pounds for a night of violent debauchery, it seemed unfair that he couldn’t fully remember the positive aspects of the evening. A few things lurked in his mind, knocking about like rocks in a tin bucket. His bed partner, whoever she was, had smelled of lemons under the scent of brandy, a sharp, pleasant combination of flavors that teased his senses. Even now, he could separate both fragrances from the collar of his shirt.
The unbidden thought occurred to him that he would have liked to have seen her in his shirt, the tails tangling around her knees. Despite the prevailing town opinion, he had never taken a woman to his bed indiscriminately, had always selected his bed partners with care and appreciation. The flashes of memory that lined his scattered thoughts told him she had been very fine, indeed.
He closed his eyes. He had a sense of a pert chin, gray eyes, and a soul-bending laugh that escaped her lips like a sudden breeze. He recalled the feel of her in his arms, vibrating against his chest as she had chuckled over something. His senses had been dulled by her brilliance.
He wondered if that had been before or after she filched his purse.
“Where to, Jamie-boy?” William asked as if they were out for a casual stroll and not stumbling from the scene of a crime. “The church, perhaps?”
James opened his eyes to confront his brother’s amusement. “Whatever would I want to go to church for?”
“To seek forgiveness for last night’s sins.” William chuckled, an obscene sound that made James want to throttle him. His brother knew he hadn’t set foot in a church in eleven years, not since that business with the rector, and James wasn’t planning on having an epiphany today. He had but one thing on his mind, and that was to track down a woman he couldn’t fully remember.
“Or maybe you’ll find another woman there in need of marrying,” William went on, apparently oblivious to how close he was hovering to a lethal outcome.
“I dinna marry her,” James ground out, hating the way his Scottish burr came out. It was the stress of the morning, he knew. Though he fought hard against the telltale cadence, his heritage came sneaking out at the most inopportune times. He shoved it to the hidden place his own forced Cambridge education had drilled into him. “At least, I do not think I did.” He enunciated with care, his uncertainty tucked around the improved bit of grammar.
William inclined his head then. “Should we make sure?”
“How do you propose we make sure of that?” James snapped. “I cannot remember shite about last night, nor of this morning either. You were not there, and I would bloody well rather dig a hole to Hades before I ask the innkeeper for any more information about what I may or may not have done.” He paused for breath and near choked on his annoyance. “The man would probably charge me another six pounds for my trouble, only to tell me I married a man.”
William’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Was the girl a man, then?”
“Shut up and help me home,” James muttered, shaking his head to clear away the thought that surfaced as a result of the absurd conversation. The sprite who featured in the snippets of memory he carried with him had been no man, nor mere girl either. For some reason, he remembered her breasts. Not her name. Not the sound of her voice.
But her breasts . . . ah, they had been glorious. Pale as new milk, with a delicate pattern of veins he had traced with his tongue. Quality breasts, those had been, the fully rounded tease of a woman. He regretted their loss almost as much as he regretted the disappearance of his purse.
Only he was damned well going to find his purse again. Her tits he was going to do his best to forget.
With his mind so inappropriately occupied, James stepped off into the street. The world slanted in a dizzying array of dust and noise, and only William’s strong arms saved him from falling face-first into the business of Moraig’s main thoroughfare. “Ach, Jamie,” his brother muttered, hauling him vertical. “I don’t think home is where I should take you, at least not the home I think you mean. You are not well, have taken a serious blow to the skull. Let me take you to Kilmartie Castle.”
James recoiled against his brother’s well-meant suggestion. Home. At least, his family’s home, rather than the dreary little house he kept with Patrick a few miles outside of town. There was no way in hell he was going to Kilmartie Castle. Not with such uncertainty about the events of the previous evening.
Not when he was such a disappointment to the family that waited for him there.
“No.” He fit the word between his lips, knowing he had never meant anything so much as this.
“Father might be able to help . . .”
“No.” He was relieved to hear his tone was stronger now, brooking no argument. It was his best impression of a solicitor, a “no” that would serve him well when and if he ever made it to London.
James shrugged off his brother’s faithful arm and stepped out, more carefully this time, into the clogged artery that was Moraig’s Main Street on market day. He dodged children and loose dogs and the odd steaming pile of horse manure. “Near as I can piece together,” William called out from behind, “you made quite the spectacle last night. Don’t you think Father will hear about your escapades soon enough?”
“Perhaps,” James tossed back over his shoulder. “But I intend to have everything set to rights before it comes to that.”
And he did. He was as determined to make his own way in this matter as he was determined to succeed in his chosen profession. And he would be beholden to himself and no one else, or by God he would die trying.
He tried very, very hard not to think about the fact that he currently owed William six pounds. He would take care of that injustice as soon as he could. But first, there was the little matter of procuring transportation.
James stopped on the edge of the paving stones at the far side of the street and twisted around in agitation. “Have you seen my horse?” he asked William as his brother caught up with him.
William’s brown eyes crinkled at the edges, and concern colored his words. “I don’t think you are in any condition to ride.”
“And yet, that does not explain where I left Caesar,” James snapped.
Together they turned in a circle, scrutinizing every four-legged animal in sight, and even a dog that was gnawing on some prize bit of refuse under a parked cart. William gave a long, low whistle. “Did she take your horse too?”
For a moment, James gave himself over to the idea, but a clear memory asserted itself over the more tempting spectacle of calling foul. “Er . . . no.” He shook his head. “The livery stable. I am quite sure I left him at the livery.”
William clapped him between the shoulder blades. “Thank goodness. Didn’t know how I was going to explain that one to Father.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t seem right, you losing the horse you first refused as Father’s gift, and then negotiated to buy behind his back. Nearly sent the old man into an apoplectic fit, that one did. Quite the good joke.” He came up for air from the chuckle-inducing memory. “Which livery?”
James let his mind massage the question a moment. There were two stables in town, and they were of highly disparate quality. His chestnut stallion was one of the few things of value in his life, and he was usually quite careful with the animal. “Cairn’s, I should think.”
But Caesar was not at Cairn’s, and that left only Morrison’s, a disreputable establishment on Bard Street characterized by weather-eaten wood and the distinctive odor of ammonia wafting out of the open stable door. A boy leaning against the wall of the derelict structure snapped to attention as they approached.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” he said, “have you come for your horse?”
James looked at the boy skeptically. Despite the young groom’s attentive response, this was clearly the sort of place that did not care much about appearances. The boy’s shirt was untucked and ripped along the lower edge, and his chin was smeared with dirt or something less palatable. To James’s
mind, the cleanliness of the staff was a clear reflection of the condition of the stables.
He did not know what had possessed him to board a fine piece of horseflesh overnight at Morrison’s Livery, any more than he knew what had possessed him to take to bed with a light-fingered doxy. Caesar had probably been fed moldy hay, or stabled next to a beast stricken with strangles. He would be lucky if the stallion didn’t colic over the course of the coming day.
“Er . . . yes. Could you fetch him please?” James tapped an impatient boot in the dirt as the boy hesitated.
The groom darted a nervous gaze between James and William. “Mr. Morrison said to have you settle the bill first.”
That James apparently owed money here too should not have come as a surprise, but the reminder of what he could not pay stung. He was a man who prided himself on his self-sufficiency, and the thought of how deep in debt last night might have left him made him near break out in hives. “Just fetch my mount,” he said, “and I will settle my bill when I make sure he has been well cared for.”
The boy took a cautious step toward the depths of a straw-strewn alleyway that ran parallel to the entrance to the stables. “Mr. Morrison will have my hide if you leave without paying for the damages,” he objected, his voice cracking under the weight of his competing obligations.
James paused in mid-breath. “What damages? And where are you going?”
The groom’s eyes focused somewhere in the vicinity of James’s boots, his eagerness suddenly more akin to nervousness. “The mews, out back. Had to tie your horse out there or risk my life.”
“Tie him?” James objected. “Risk your life? Caesar? The horse is as gentle as a newborn calf. What kind of a groom can’t handle a well-trained horse?”
The boy kicked at the dirt, his face as red as a gooseberry. “Your ‘gentle’ calf of a horse kicked out the back partition to the stables last night and tried to take a piece out of me, to boot.” He gestured to his tattered shirt, and suddenly James saw the boy’s dishevelment in a new light. “Never seen a horse so ill-tempered,” he added. “Was a terror since the moment you dropped it here. Mr. Morrison says it will cost you too.”
What Happens in Scotland Page 5