The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  Max closed his eyes and sat down.

  “No’ a good night?” Kirsty laughed nervously. “But it’s my home. There’s no’ a bad night for me to go t’my own home.”

  “Kirsty,” Arran said, “I promised Robert you’d get his message, and I’ve given it to you. Be patient with them, my dear. This is a big change in their lives. They’d rather you did not go to them this evening.”

  Reluctantly Max glanced at Kirsty—and wished he hadn’t. She stood with her arms hanging loose at her sides. Her face was white.

  “Niall came back with me,” Arran said. “I asked him to come in, but he preferred to wait outside. He wanted to talk to you. He’s waiting near the stables.”

  Without a word, Kirsty ran from behind her desk, and from the room. Her footsteps pounded along the corridor and gradually faded.

  “She didn’t think they’d really turn their backs on her,” Max said quietly. “Neither did I.”

  “You took a bold step when you brought her here,” Arran said. “You’ve a more complicated time ahead than you planned.”

  Max longed to follow Kirsty. “What do you mean?”

  “You won’t need me to explain. It’ll soon become clear.”

  “A hint? Could I perhaps have the benefit of a hint?”

  Arran let his head rest against the back of the chair. “Like it or not, my boy, from now on you’re responsible for the welfare of Kirsty Mercer.”

  “I’ve told you I’m more than glad to have her here. She’ll lighten my load a good deal. I can already tell it.”

  “You’re not listening to me,” Arran said. “Or you’re not understanding what I’m saying. Thanks to what you did yesterday—taking Kirsty from her parents against their wishes—she is no longer welcome in their home. Robert says he never wants to lay eyes on her again.”

  • • •

  Kirsty sped into the kitchen and collided with Fergus Wilkie, who laughed and held her fast, his narrow face flushed with anticipation.

  “Let me go,” she said. “I’m in a hurry, can’t ye see?”

  “Not too much o’ a hurry to gi’ a laddie a little kiss?” he said.

  Kirsty drew back. The scullery maid and a girl who worked in the laundry huddled together before the stove and giggled. Between them they held a small book they’d been looking at. For now Kirsty and Fergus had their avid attention.

  “Ye’d better be careful, Fergus,” the scullery maid said. “Ye’ll be in trouble if ye meddle wi’ Miss High-and-Mighty. She’s connections in important places, y’know.”

  Fergus looked abashed, but thoughtful. “Mayhap ye’re right. She’s savin’ hersel’ for other lips—and other things, too.”

  Kirsty dodged around him and made a break for the kitchen garden. Relief exploded within her when she emerged into the open air and ran along the path to the gate.

  Fergus Wilkie had never treated her so before. Nor any of the other members of the castle staff. But she’d other things on her mind now. Her mother and father telling her not to come home. How could they still be angry with her when they knew she loved them so, and she knew they loved her, too?

  Beyond the kitchen garden lay a stretch of rough ground surrounding the stables. Niall shrugged away from the wall there and hurried to draw her into a bear hug.

  She clung to him and couldn’t stop her tears.

  “There, there,” he said, his voice rough and breaking, “it’s all right, Kirsty. It’ll pass if we do what we must do now.”

  She rested her brow on his chest and kept her arms wrapped around him.

  “Come along wi’ me. We must talk, and I’d rather not do it so close t’this place.”

  “The marquess told me what Father said. I canna believe it.”

  Niall gently pulled her arms free and took hold of her hand to lead her along the homeward path. “They didna think ye’d do it, Kirsty. Leave like that when they’d told ye not to go.”

  “I’m no’ a wee girl anymore,” she said, sniffing. “They canna expect me t’do their biddin’ as if I were.”

  “They want what’s best for ye.”

  “It’s best for me to advance mysel’, and I’m doin’ that. I’m t’learn about the estate, and manage the wages, and keep accounts, and write letters, and—”

  “And Father doesna like it. And neither do I. And if ye were thinkin’ beyond your longin’ t’be wi’ Max Rossmara, ye’d know it was a wrong thing ye’re doin’.”

  “It’s no’ wrong. How can ye say it is?”

  “How can ye say it’s not? D’ye think we’re all green things because we’ve not spent time inside the walls o’ that place?”

  “That place gives ye your livin’. It’s given us our livin’ all our lives, and I canna believe ye could forget it.”

  “We’re no’ slaves. And we’re no’ ripe for the pickin’ o’ those who think they’ve a right t’anythin’ they want from us.”

  Kirsty pulled to a halt and leaned against Niall’s urging tugs. “Ye’re makin’ no sense,” she told him. “We’ve had nothin’ but kindness from the people in that place as ye call it. Ye were brought into the world by the marquess when our mother couldna birth ye alone.”

  Niall said nothing to that.

  “I’d best go back,” she said. “I’m t’meet wi’ a dressmaker.”

  “What for?” Niall asked. He ceased his tugging and stepped closer to her.

  “Because I need more suitable clothes for my job.”

  “What’s wrong with the clothes ye already have?”

  She sighed. “Nothing to me. But Mr. Rossmara wants me to appear more suitable, whatever that means.”

  Niall muttered something Kirsty couldn’t understand. She didn’t ask him to repeat himself.

  “Come home with me now,” he said. “Please. Come home, and we’ll mend things somehow.”

  “Mend? What have I broken? I’ve done nothin’ wrong except follow my own desires. And we’ll all be the better for it.”

  “Ye dinna belong here, I tell ye.” There was desperation in his voice now. “Come away wi’ me.”

  “I will not. Please go to Father and tell him I love him, and I’m hurt that he’s so angry wi’ me for tryin’ to help us all.”

  “Ye don’t think we understand, do ye? Ye think we’re too simple to understand.”

  The wind she’d seen bending the trees from the windows of Max’s study was wild out here. It whipped her hair from its looped braids and flung it across her face. She pushed it back. “I’m the one who doesna understand. What have I done t’make my dear ones angry wi’ me? So very angry wi’ me?”

  “I’m no’ angry wi’ ye,” Niall said, quietly now. “I never could be. I just want ye back wi’ us. And I don’t want Father and Mother t’be angry wi’ ye. Father says ye’ve shamed them.”

  She clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Shamed them? Niall, how could I have shamed them?”

  “It’s the talk o’ everyone. That wee, nasty laddie, Wilkie, talked t’some o’ the men about ye. He said ye were wi’ Max Rossmara the whole day.”

  “I was. I’m working for him.”

  Niall looked down the hill. “He said ye’ve rooms in the Eve Tower.”

  “Yes. They’re called the rosy rooms, and they’re the loveliest things ye’ve ever seen. I want t’show them t’Mother.”

  “She won’t come. Is it true that Max Rossmara lives in that tower, too?”

  Kirsty swallowed. “Yes.”

  “But there’s nobody else there at night?”

  “There isn’t,” Kirsty said in little more than a whisper, and that all but stolen by the heather-scented wind.

  “And ye think that’s right?”

  “Yes, it’s right. I’ve my own place, I tell ye.”

  “And where is his place?”

  Kirsty’s chest was so tight she couldn’t take a breath. “At the other end o’ the corridor.”

  “And ye wonder why our parents feel shamed. People are sayin’ ye’re
no better than ye ought to be.” Suddenly he clutched her to him again and hugged her so hard she cried out. “I love ye, Kirsty. Ye’re my only sister. I know ye wouldna do anythin’ wrong. But people are mean in their spirits. They’re glad to point at ye and tell Mother and Father how sorry it is that they’re bein’ brought so low.”

  “No,” Kirsty said, her head pounding. “Tell them it’s not true. Max is honorable. And he’d engaged t’be married. Lady Hermoine was there just this afternoon.”

  “I’ll do my best. But will ye no’ come and do it yoursel’?”

  Kirsty warred within herself. If she went home, they’d try to persuade her to stay. Mayhap that would be best.

  She’d leave Max. They wouldn’t work together in his study anymore. She wouldn’t have to watch him with Lady Hermoine and feel jealous.

  Even the crumbs of his attention were better than nothing at all. “No, Niall. They’ve told me not t’come. Ye go and smooth the way for me, if ye’d be so kind. If they’ll see me, I’ll go tomorrow. I’m tired now, anyway.”

  He released her. “I’ll not argue further. I’ll go to them and say what ye’ve asked me t’say. But they dinna believe ye’re Max’s assistant.”

  “But I am. He told them so himself.”

  “And they don’t believe him either.”

  “What then? What do they believe?”

  He looked at the ground and shuffled his worn boots. “They may not believe it. I know it’s no’ the truth. But everyone’s tellin Mother and Father that Max Rossmara wouldna take a pretty bit o’ a girl like ye into that private tower o’ his as anythin’ but somethin’ to warm his bed.”

  Chapter Ten

  A day, two at the most, and his father would return with his great-grandmama and Blanche Bastible. He would confront his father and tell him that any alliance with Lady Hermoine was out of the question.

  From a window high in the Eve Tower he watched for Kirsty. She’d struck out for home with her brother, and now he could not bear that she was gone and might not return.

  If she did return, and did so quickly, it would mean her parents had turned her away. He followed the flight of a bird too distant to identify, noted the way it dipped and struggled upward again as it fought the wind. The possibility of Kirsty’s family permanently turning against her had never occurred to her—or to him. Such a loss would pain her beyond endurance, and it would be his fault—one more wound he’d inflicted upon the one he loved.

  He was a man torn. If he asked her to join her life with his and she accepted, he’d have to leave all this, the family that had become so much a part of him. At first he would be blissful because he was with her. But would a time come when he’d have to hide regret—or when she’d become unhappy for want of her own folk?

  Arran had told him to give himself more time, and to lay his hand bare for his father and mother to see.

  They had done so much for him. He owed them obedience, at least in the matter of following the path they had secured for him in the administration of the estate.

  A small, bowed figure in gray toiled into view at the top of the castle mound.

  “Damn.” Max thumped his fists on the high stone sill. “Damn the cruelty of all small-minded people.” They had denied her.

  He waited until she passed from sight into the lower regions of the castle and took the stairs downward, two at a time.

  Before his great-grandmama arrived he must have a plan, or she would be sending for his mother and creating all manner of difficulties that could only make Kirsty’s plight—and his own—worse. Doubtless Arran would do his best to influence his mother-in-law, Blanche Bastible, for the better, but he had never had much good fortune in that area.

  Max reached the balcony overlooking the entrance hall and stopped. What excuse could he give if he met her when she was on her way to her rooms? Simple enough. He was going out to make a visit.

  She must be desolate and in need of comfort, comfort he dare not offer.

  Polite conversation should be easy enough to make. Perhaps he could tell her he needed her to write a letter. Or reckon the week’s wages for those employees he paid direct.

  He should take himself off and allow her the dignity of dealing with her own trouble.

  She came from the stairs leading down to the kitchens. Her thin cotton dress could not have been warm enough out there on that windy hill.

  Her hair had fallen free of its usual braids and streamed, curling and shiny around her shoulders. In the center of the hall she stopped, and he saw her indecision. She couldn’t decide where to go, and turned first in one direction, then in another.

  No place to call home anymore. No place of her own. Just as had once been his own lot. And he had brought her to this pass.

  Kirsty looked upward and saw him.

  Max nodded and carried on down to the hall. “A chilly evening by the look of it,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out without a coat.”

  “It isna so verra cold.” Her eyes sought a place to settle, anyplace but where they would meet his gaze.

  Be polite and go on your way. “I’m sorry your parents are displeased with you.” Fool. You will not follow your head and leave well enough alone.

  The wetness that filmed her eyes made him a desperate and awkward man. “I had intended to ask if you were too tired to go over some accounts with me before the modiste arrives.”

  “If it’s necessary, sir.”

  “Perhaps you’re too tired?”

  She fumbled and produced a handkerchief. “Excuse me, sir, but I’ve somethin’ in my eye. No doubt the wind blew it there. Gi’ me a few minutes and I’ll be at my desk.”

  He took several steps toward the study, turned about, and paced back. “Yes, yes, of course. Take care of what you must. And take as much time as you must.” But hurry back to me, sweet Kirsty.

  With a small sound she plucked her skirts above her slim ankles and ran up the stairs.

  The slightest movement, more the impression that there had been a movement, caused Max to look about—just in time to see the servant, Wilkie, draw back behind the staircase. Max thought to call the man before him but heard the soft fall of feet on the stairs to the kitchens.

  That there was bound to be gossip among the servants about Kirsty’s presence had occurred to him. No doubt her rooms, where she was alone and within a short distance of his own living quarters, were of particular interest to some. Of course they were. Even her parents, who didn’t live at the castle, had drawn conclusions that were false.

  He would not be dictated to by servants. With grim resolution, he made his way to the study and added coals to the fire. Kirsty’s present situation was his responsibility. He would make sure she knew she was secure here.

  Half an hour passed before she appeared, her hair plaited once more, but hanging in a single braid rather than wound at the sides of her head. She went at once to her desk, sat down, and took up her pen.

  Max closed the door, leaned against it, and crossed his arms. “I see you’re ready.”

  “I am that, sir.”

  “What exactly are you ready for?”

  She kept her face hidden and said, “Whatever ye’d like me t’do for ye.”

  “I should like you to put down your pen and come here.”

  She raised her face slowly. Her fine brows drew together in a frown, but she put down the pen.

  “Come along,” he said, aware that he was choosing to react rather than to think. “Come here now.”

  “Yes, sir.” She got up, stood very straight, and walked to stand before him.

  Max put his hands in his pockets. Better there than where he longed to put them—around Kirsty Mercer. “I find myself in quite a pickle,” he said, and he forced himself to smile at her. “You will recall that I have had a tendency to place myself in awkward situations.”

  Inclining her head, her expression suggested she was trying to gauge his mood.

  “You do remember that, don’t you, Kirsty?”
>
  “Ye certainly had a rare talent for trouble, sir. When ye were a laddie, that is, o’course.”

  “Well, I’m still talented in that direction, only the trouble I get myself into has become more dramatic—and more important in nature.”

  “Is that right? I’m sorry t’hear it, sir. I wouldna like t’ think o’ ye sufferin’.”

  Despite his best intentions, his hands were out of his pockets and fastened on her shoulders before he could restrain them. “Don’t you know what I’m talking about?”

  “I wish I did. I’d help ye if I could.”

  “You’d help me? That’s rich. I turn your life upside down. Cause your family to put you out of your home, and you want to help me?”

  “It wasna my intention t’sound presumptuous. I’d not thought ye were referrin’ t’my own situation.”

  “Damn you for being so reasonable. Damn you for being so—so—so impossibly dear and gentle.”

  Predictably, her face flushed.

  Predictably, he felt drawn to embrace her.

  The struggle against his instincts was fierce.

  “My family will come t’understand they’re mistaken in judging me so,” she said. “Until then I must just bear it, and I will. I’m verra strong. Ye know I am, sir.”

  Sir, sir, sir. “I shall go to them myself tomorrow. I’ve been unwise—made unwise decisions. I’ll tell them I’ve decided it would be best if you lived at home.”

  “I’d rather ye didna do that, if ye please.”

  Max glanced from her wide blue eyes, to her soft, slightly parted lips, to the gentle rise of her breasts beneath cheap cotton. Tenderness assailed him, and arousal—a dangerous concoction for a man struggling to do the right thing.

  “I don’t understand you, Kirsty. I saw your tears when you returned a little while ago. You’re very close to your own people. This must pain you greatly.”

  “It does. And I’m sure I’m a bad creature, but it would pain me more if I had t’leave ye. I mean, if I had t’leave my position when I know I can make a grand success o’ it. And t’make the verra best o’ it I should be near my work.”

  Doom hovered inches from him, and he found it an intoxicating lure. “Are you telling me you will be happier here than at your home? If you have to choose one or the other?”