She could be out there somewhere, wandering, desperate and looking for a way to end it all, and he sat eating lemon tart and drinking coffee.
Leaving the tray behind, he made a dash for the stairs and didn’t as much as hesitate until he reached the hall. Shanks strutted into view and gave Max a decidedly sheepish look.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked, and Max had no doubt other members of the staff had mentioned that he had been observed peering through a gap in the curtains in the butler’s pantry window.
“Sir?” Shanks prompted.
“Hm? Oh, no, I don’t think so. Unless—have you see Miss Mercer this morning?”
Shanks wrinkled his brow. “Some time ago, sir. I think she went into your study.”
“Thank you.” With no attempt at decorum, Max raced away and all but ran past his study. Skidding to a halt, he flung open the door and rushed inside.
Kirsty looked up from the book in which the record of staff wages was kept.
“I’ve been out of my mind with worry about you,” Max said, slamming the door shut with the heel of his boot. “I thought you’d be in your rooms. Then I thought you must have tried to go home again.”
“Dinna shout if ye please.”
He gulped air.
“If this isna done, there’ll be folk without their wages.”
Dressed in another grandmotherly creation, this one puce with a line of jet beads from high neck to waist, Kirsty sat behind her desk, her back straight as a poker.
“How long have you been here? Did you hear me pass your rooms earlier?”
“I’ve been here since six this morning, and, no, I didna hear ye pass.”
“Oh.” He looked at his boots, and back at her face. “You don’t appear to be well.”
“I’m verra well, thank ye.”
“No you aren’t. Don’t lie to me. Your eyes look as if they’ve ghosts inside them.”
“How nice. Thank ye.”
“You’ve never worn your hair like that before. All scraped back, and harsh, and old-maidish.”
“I am an old maid,” she said calmly. “I’m quite sure I can continue to manage here if ye’d care t’attend t’your ablutions.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I beg your pardon.”
“I said I’m quite sure I—”
“I heard what you said. What do you mean by criticizing my appearance—and you are not an old maid.”
“An old maid is a woman who hasna married. We’ll no’ discuss it. And since ye’re still wearin’ what ye wore last night, an’ ye’ve no’ shaved or washed, or combed your hair, I thought ye might like—”
“Kindly come with me, Miss Mercer.”
“I’m otherwise occupied.”
“Come with me.”
She stood up and came around her desk. “Come with ye where? I’ve work t’do.”
“You are employed by me. Kindly remember that. And remember that you will do what I tell you to do.”
Kirsty lowered her eyes, and he realized with something close to horror that she was clinging to dignity but with such difficulty. Her face was devoid of color, and dark marks underscored her eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I had a bad night.”
When her eyes met his again, her expression was incredulous. “A bad night? Why, I’m sorry t’hear that. It’s hard when ye don’t sleep well.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d finish what you feel must be done, then come to my rooms.”
“Your rooms?”
“My rooms.” He left before she could question him further, or decline to obey.
Two could play the game of worrying the one who cared most about them—and he knew she cared for him deeply. Rather than go directly to his rooms, he climbed to the floor above his own and wandered toward a window at the end of a corridor. The view of Kirkcaldy’s forested lands was particularly impressive from there. He would pass at least some of the time there until Kirsty might come to him.
He was within feet of the window when he heard rustling, and groaning, and a woman’s keening moan. The noises came from a room to his left.
None of these rooms was occupied—or supposed to be occupied.
Bracing himself for attack, he threw open the door and said, “Don’t move!”
He was rewarded with a female, “Oh, Lordy,” and the interesting sight of the said female’s naked bottom in the air. She balanced on the back of her head and her shoulders atop the bed, with Wilkie, dressed in only his shirt, astride the back of her thighs.
Wilkie pushed his hair from his reddened face but didn’t appear to consider removing himself from what was evidently an involved copulation position. He patted the woman’s derriere rhythmically and said, “There, there, Ada, don’t ye worry, you just leave this t’me.”
Max did not find the scene arousing.
Ada, whom he didn’t recognize from this particular angle, whimpered and made a futile attempt to cover her breasts with her hands.
“This,” Wilkie announced, straightening his spine with the inevitable result that Ada uttered another loud, “Oh!” “This is my intended. I’m sure ye understand how hard it is when a man and his intended are tired o’ waitin’ t’be wi’ each other.”
Ada’s next “oh,” had quite a different note. This time she sounded delighted.
“My congratulations to you,” Max said with a private smile. He’d become a matchmaker without having intended to do so. “And my best wishes to you for a long and fruitful marriage.”
He turned to leave, and saw that a small book lay open on the bed where Wilkie was able to see it. Unable to contain his curiosity, Max took a careful step closer so that he could see the volume.
A picture of two people in a similar position to the one that must be cutting off all circulation to Ada’s head by now—and a text beside the picture that might be instructions, perhaps.
He shook his head and left the room. What was going on in this household? Where were these books coming from?
Chapter Twenty-two
Tread carefully, Struan told himself, tread very carefully. He’d expected to find Max in his rooms, possibly sleeping. That his son had left the castle last night and not returned until the early hours of the morning was a fact both he and Arran knew well. They’d kept watch. And while they’d watched, Arran had made no attempt to temper his comments. He believed Struan would come to rue his opposition to Max’s affection for Kirsty Mercer.
Max wasn’t in his rooms.
Enlisting the unlikely help of Blanche Bastible had gained him the intelligence that Kirsty Mercer was at work in the study—alone.
Struan sat at Max’s writing table in his library. How did you tell a son who was now a man that you understood the choices he wished to make, but that there were choices he must make. And that in making the choices he must, he must also be certain to cause no harm to anyone.
“Father?”
He hadn’t been aware of Max’s approach.
“You’re a disgrace, my son. A damnable disgrace.” Of all the greetings, why had he chosen such a one?
“Thank you. So I’ve already been told.”
“By whom?”
Max came in and threw himself into a worn and favorite chair. “No one whose opinion matters to you.”
Kirsty Mercer.
“Was there something of particular importance, Father? If not, I hope you won’t consider me disrespectful if I suggest we postpone any social exchange.”
“Kirsty Mercer’s opinion matters to me.” There, now he had said it, and the statement raised Max’s chin, and hovered between them, as solid as any rock edifice might be.
Max’s green eyes could be so cold. They were cold now.
“I love you, my son.” Good God, his brain spilled directly to his mouth without consulting caution on the way.
The coldness in those eyes turned to something else instantly. Confusion? Hope? Why, hope? Max’s throat—beneath its growth of red stubble—jerked.
“If you allow that fungus to grow on your face a day or so more, you’ll look more Scot than any Scotsman.”
“It takes more than a red beard to make a man a Scot. But then, I’ve been many things, made so many changes that it must be becoming difficult to recall exactly what I am, hm, Father?”
“Only two days to the ball at The Hallows.”
“Yes, I’m attending under duress, but it isn’t like you to avoid answering a simple question.”
Struan pushed back from the table. “That was no simple question. It was a cry from inside you, Max. It tells me you still are not sure of yourself. After all our efforts, your mother’s and my own, still you suffer inside because of the one thing we can do nothing about: where you came from.”
“You do not even know where I came from.”
This had to happen, this confusion about himself. The wonder was that it had been so long in coming. “I know you were born in London. And that you and Ella had the same mother. And I know you are exceptional in every way. You have become a right hand to your uncle and to me. You are my son. Nothing else matters.”
“Your son, but not your possession.”
How like Max not to give an inch. “No, not my possession. But you owe me respect. I should not have to mention the high esteem in which you are held because of your relationship to me.”
“I am not your son.”
Struan felt the words like a blow. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, you are my son. I made you so.”
“You could not do the impossible. It was not your seed that made me.”
“Would that it had been,” Struan said, looking at Max direct. He raised his voice. “And damn you for the suffering you bring me with your harsh words. I have given you all I could give in love and possessions. I have made no distinction between you and Ella, and the children of my own loins. What more will it take to convince you how much you mean to me?”
Max got up and turned to the nearest bookcase. Clearly he saw nothing before him. His shoulders hunched.
“I have requested nothing of you that I did not consider best for your own well-being.”
“I have no real place as your son.”
“Yes, you do. You are adopted, Max.”
“Edward is your rightful heir.” Max remained with his back turned but held up a hand. “Please, know that I do not crave my younger brother’s place as your legitimate heir. I merely state the truth. There is a difference between Edward’s position and my own. You and Mother have done your utmost to make me feel that no difference exists, but we know it does.”
What could he say? He could not deny the truth. “You are doing so well. Your future is assured. You are indispensable to Arran and me.”
“I know. And I’m grateful. But I pay a great price.”
Struan stood and leaned on the table. “What the hell do you mean? A great price?”
“I am not a free man.”
“Not . . . Damn you, you ungrateful cub. Of course you’re a free man. You have a fat bank account. You have a fortune to call your own. What would make you suggest you are not a free man?”
“I am not free. My love for you ensures that I can never be truly free.”
Struan fell into the chair again and gripped its arms.
“You are more than a father to me. I should have told you so a long time ago, but a man must swallow his emotions, isn’t that what we’re taught?”
“Not by me,” Struan said softly. “I am an emotional man.”
“You have never encouraged me to demonstrate my feelings. But, again, I do not criticize you for that. You have done your best for me, and more. But for you I should almost certainly be dead by now, or rotting in a debtors’ prison. And my dearest sister, my Ella, would have been sold as little more than a child to be some rich man’s plaything—until she grew older and he no longer wanted her. Then only the Lord can know what might have become of her.”
“History,” Struan snapped. “Let us put history behind us. Your sister is happily married and a mother. She has a husband who adores her. And you will have a wife who adores you.”
“No.” Max shook his head. “Ella married a man of wealth and position, but he is the man she loved, the only man she ever wanted. The woman I am told I must marry means nothing to me.”
“You will come to care for her. She is of fine stock.”
“A broodmare.” Max sneered at him and Struan felt the cut deeply. “A broodmare and one more attempt to make a gentleman out of me by marrying me to a lady—despite the fact that not even that can gain me a title.”
“It will gain you a good deal, my boy. It will gain you social status, and for that, if marriage to her is a sacrifice, then the sacrifice is worthwhile.”
Max faced his father. “I understand. There is no need to discuss the issue further.”
“Do you doubt our love for you? Your mother’s, and mine?”
“No. No, absolutely not. I never have.”
“Then do you understand our reason for wanting to ensure that you make an advantageous match?”
“I understand. That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the prospect. I don’t find Lady Hermoine appealing.”
Struan frowned. He had intended for this to be a conciliatory interview. “She is beautiful.”
“Oh, yes, if you like that sort of obvious beauty.”
“And she has a title.”
“Indeed—we all know this.”
“And she has been well schooled.”
“So we’re told.”
Irritation began to shorten Struan’s temper. “Have you any reason to doubt that the lady is educated?”
“I have no reason to doubt or believe. We have never had a conversation that would prove her wit one way or the other.”
“Then that must be remedied. As soon as the rest of the family returns from Cornwall we shall want to proceed with the folderol and get the two of you married.”
“Most men choose their own wives.”
This direction in their discussion had been inevitable. “Most men of our class,” he said, keeping his voice even, “are not in the position of having to help wipe out all memory of what they once were. Let us not shilly-shally, Max. You are in that position. And for your own future good, and the good of our position as a family, it’s important that you do nothing to draw attention to your—unusual background.”
“No attention to my being a bastard from the streets of London, you mean?” Max said, adopting the annoyingly bland tone he usually employed when being particularly bloody. “After all, there could be some who would as soon not take a man such as me seriously. That would be inconvenient for you and Arran, wouldn’t it?”
“Damned inconvenient,” Struan exploded. “And it’s not going to happen because you’re going to do as you are told. Do I make myself clear?”
“Abundantly,” Max said. He stripped off his coat and began to remove his shirt. “The point you are making is that the woman I want, I may not have.”
“Not at all.” Struan felt his temper slip away entirely. “The point I’m making is that you must think of these things as any gentleman would think of them. You can have it all. You can marry Lady Hermoine and solidify your social position. And you can take almost any mistress you bloody well please, and no one will think a thing about it.”
Max tore his shirt the rest of the way off, ignoring the scatter of buttons. His sheer physical size silenced Struan. The puny boy became a youth with the promise of a fine physique. That youth had turned into an incredible specimen of mature manhood, not that Max was presently concerned with his appearance—which was every bit as disgraceful as Struan had first remarked.
This might not be a son of his own body, but, damn, Struan was proud of him. He glanced away, away and through a window. On the crest of a nearby hill stood a lone rider astride a massive black horse, a figure in a large hat and wearing a cloak.
“Our watcher is with us again,” Struan remarked. “I’d give a good deal to know
who he is and what he wants.”
“Just a man who crosses the land on his way to and from somewhere else,” Max commented. “He does no harm.”
“No harm that we know. I don’t like it. Neither does Arran. We just can’t seem to intercept him.”
“I need to wash,” Max said, stating the obvious, and changing the subject. “And change my clothes.”
“It’s time you took on a permanent valet,” Struan told him, reluctantly taking his attention from the rider. “This fending for yourself was all well and good when you were younger. Now it’s become an affectation.”
“Now it’s become an absolute necessity. Damn, I want a drink.”
“Then have one,” Struan said. “What will it be?”
“Nothing. Kirsty doesn’t like me drinking when I’m angry, she—”
Struan sighed. “And now we put a name to the true cause of our disagreement.”
“Disagreement?” Max gave a short, harsh laugh. “You call such a thing merely a disagreement. What lies between us is a disaster of monumental proportions. I am struggling with decisions no man should have to struggle with. And unless there is some miracle, Kirsty’s life is already ruined as far as her family is concerned.”
Struan rose again. “What do you mean?” He went around the desk. “Speak up. What are you talking about?”
“They’ve turned her out.” Max walked into the bedchamber. “Told her they don’t want anything to do with her. Told her she’s shamed them. How many more ways do I need to explain that Kirsty Mercer has already been wounded to the heart because I must be put first at all costs.”
“Arran and I were aware of the awkwardness there.”
“Her parents walked away from her, I tell you. They told her that in coming here to work for me she had made her choice, and it meant she no longer had any place with them. They accused her of being no better than she ought to be— even though that is not true.”
“They had no right,” Struan said, furious that no matter how hard they tried there were some things they could not do for the simple people who were so aware of a chasm between themselves and those who supplied them with their living.
Max poured water into a bowl, took soap, and washed himself. He lathered his beard area and shaved it quickly and efficiently. He rinsed himself and ran his hands over his face. “They had no right—yet.”
The Wish Club Page 28