“Do we press him to do what will be best for family standing?” asked Struan. “Or do we toss that to the wind and support whatever decision he makes?”
“I think,” Arran said quietly, “that we pray Max’s decision is the right one—for everyone concerned.”
• • •
His father had insisted that the latest wisdom about turning a man off drink was to make him feel sick at the sight of the stuff. Well, Max thought, he already felt sick at the sight of it. The row of brandy bottles glowing in the sunlight that hit the mantel in his old room was an excessive punishment to his stomach—and to his head.
He hadn’t slept here in years. The bed was big enough because he’d grown tall when he was quite young and his parents had installed a large four-poster. The foolish playthings of his youth were in the adjoining room, thank God. At least he didn’t have to look at them all and possibly sink into some maudlin depression over his lost childhood. In his present frame of mind, that would be quite likely.
Please, if only he could sleep, and die in that sleep, he need never again face the fact that Kirsty had refused to be his wife.
Lying flat upon the bed, he closed his eyes and willed that endless sleep to come.
The drink was responsible. Once he started drinking, he didn’t want to stop. If he paused in pouring the liquor into himself, the fading of the blessed numbness reminded him to remedy the matter.
He should never drink.
With Kirsty at his side, he could conquer the urge. She’d help him, just as father was determined to help him. They’d all help him.
But she wasn’t at his side and never would be.
“May I come in, Max dearest?”
For a delightful instant he was able to convince himself that he’d only imagined Lady Hermoine’s voice, but then she loomed over him and settled a gloved hand on his brow.
“How the hell—” He closed his mouth without finishing the sentence. What did he care if she was too self-involved to remember to remove her glove before ascertaining if he was fevered.
“I know you don’t want me here,” she said in very subdued tones. “I accept that you do not care even the smallest amount for me, but I beg you to allow me to care for you.”
This was his punishment for the excess of liquor.
“I ask your forgiveness, Max. I have been selfish, and too concerned with myself. I have not taken the time to note that you are a deeply troubled man who needs a woman to wait on his every whim. Oh, how I regret my shortcomings.”
She must go away.
She must stay away.
She must never return.
“If you would speak just one kind word to me, I should hug it to my bosom for the rest of my life. And I shall need it in the nunnery.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, but he managed not to laugh.
“I have decided upon a contemplative order,” she said. “I shall be locked away from the world and condemned never to speak again. But I shall have the satisfaction of giving my prayers to the world. And all of my prayers, every single one for as long as I live, shall be for you, dear Max.”
“I thought you just said you were going to give your prayers to the world.”
Confusion clouded her golden eyes. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I meant that by praying for you, I should be praying for the world because you are a boon to the world, and with my prayers you will be even more of a boon.”
“Kind of you,” he said, closing his eyes.
“You rest. I’ll just sit here and watch over you.”
“Very useful,” he muttered, then added, “I’m going to sleep, and I prefer to sleep alone.” The latter part of the statement was a misfortune, but he could hope she wouldn’t notice.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s quite true,” she said, her voice turning plummy with innuendo.
She’d noticed.
Max kept his eyes shut and affected even breathing.
Minutes passed.
Not a sound.
He raised his eyelids the merest fraction and peered through his lowered lashes.
Lady Hermoine watched him intently. She watched, her own eyes narrowed, her mouth pinched, and when she seemed convinced he was asleep, she turned and left the room on tiptoe. Max smiled to himself, but the smile faded soon enough. Subdued sounds came from the other room.
He opened his eyes and listened. Small scrapings and rattlings, as if items were being moved around while whoever moved them attempted not to be heard.
With the deepest gratitude for the excellent structure of his bed, Max eased his feet from beneath the covers, and to the floor. Wearing a nightshirt he’d never seen before and had no recollection of putting on, he crept to the door and peered through a crack into what had at first been his play-room, then his schoolroom.
Lady Hermoine had discarded her gloves for the task presently in progress. And she’d pushed up her sleeves, and hiked up her skirts to tie them in a large, clumsy knot that left her very nice ankles free of encumbrance.
She was about the business of going through his old books. One by one she took them from the shelves, flipped them open, and returned them. From his side view of her he could see that her face was flushed and angry. She turned from the books to a large chest containing toys and squinted to see into it, angling her head first one way, then another— evidently afraid to touch the contents for fear of awakening the man she would spend the rest of her life praying for.
“Can I help you find something, my lady?” he asked mildly.
She jumped and clasped both hands over her heart. “Don’t creep up on me like that,” she snapped, gasping for breath. Then she said, “Oh, oh, dear, you shocked me, dear Max. I thought you were asleep.”
“Evidently.”
“I was looking at the things of your childhood, dearest.”
“So I noticed.”
She waved a hand toward the chest. “Such a poignant thing—putting one’s hand on the very toys your little hands touched.” She closed her hand and appeared deeply pained. “Ah, well, forgive me for disturbing you, my sweet. Go back to bed. I must leave now.”
“Good-bye.”
“Yes. Such a sweet sorry—to part.”
He noted the unfortunate play upon verse but chose not to mention it. “There is much that is sorry, I find.”
“Indeed.” She backed from the room. “I shall hope to see you very soon, my love. Meanwhile, take comfort in knowing I shall be praying for you.”
And he would be praying for her—to be very far away from him.
• • •
To remain in bed any longer was pure self-indulgence. He could lie there until he turned to stone—lie and try to will Kirsty to come to him—and accomplish nothing at all.
Morning had turned to afternoon. He’d refused lunch— brought by Mairi, who had undoubtedly been summoned to the lodge by his father, and sent to Max as a trustworthy spy upon his physical condition, and his frame of mind.
A rapping at the door startled him, but not as much as the sight of Horace Hubble’s florid, plump-lipped face preceding that gentleman by inches into the bedchamber. “All right if I come in, old chap?” he asked.
To feign sleep now would be pointless, since their eyes had already met. “Briefly,” Max said. “I’m exceedingly tired.”
“’Course you are. Understand you had quite a scare.” He jutted his chin and lowered his head to look at the gash on Max’s jaw. “I say, ugly thing, that. Little bit lower and you’d have been able to smile with your throat, don’t you know. Dead as a doornail, you’d have been. Bled like a calf for veal. I say, very nasty.”
“Thank you for your evaluation,” Max said. He had seen his wound and couldn’t summon enough interest to care how bad it looked. “Lady Hermoine didn’t seem to notice I’d almost had my face cut off.”
“Oh, I say.” Horace delicately touched a handkerchief to the corners of his mouth. “Let’s not overdo, old
chap. Sickenin’ and all that.”
“I expect you had a reason for coming—other than to assure yourself of my good health. I’m very healthy, by the way. I’m simply resting.”
“Quite so. I came about my poor cousin, Hermoine.”
Max waited for what might come next.
“Word spreads, y’know,” Horace said, raising his pale brows. “It’s all over the country by now—England as well. Ireland, too, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Word spreads,” Max repeated slowly. “That’s true.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Horace said rapidly. “So I suggest we get down to it, man to man. Settle a price on things and be done with it.”
“Settle a price?”
“On my dear, innocent little cousin’s humiliation before the world.”
“Ah,” Max said. “I thought we were only speaking of Scotland, England, and Ireland.”
“And Wales, of course,” Horace said. “She’ll need to be very well set up if she’s to attract a man who can keep us— keep her as she should be kept, but who won’t care about the gossip.”
“If she’s that well set up, surely she won’t need to worry about any particular man.”
Horace took a backward step. “What are you suggestin’? Hermoine wants to be married, to have children, to raise a happy family. She wishes to dedicate herself to that family. But unfortunately, and you know this to be true, a girl cannot attract the right kind of man unless she is well set up. I know you will want to make sure that she is well set up—to make amends for the shameful way in which you have disappointed her—publicly.”
“Well.” Max frowned so deeply he was forced to blink or cease to see at all. “I should certainly have wished to do exactly what you suggest, but Lady Hermoine, bless her dear, pious heart, has already visited me.”
“What?” Horace looked around the room as if expecting to see his cousin hiding behind a piece of furniture. “That hussy beat me—I mean, she was already here?”
“Oh, yes.” Max folded his hands one on top of the other on the sheet over his chest. “Didn’t she inform you of her plans?”
Horace studied him with deepest suspicion. “What plans?”
“Why, to withdraw from the world of sinful men, of course. To enter a nunnery, where she will spend the rest of her life praying for me.”
The man stood there, staring, for so long that Max rose to his elbows for a closer look, unsure that Horace hadn’t died of shock but failed to fall over in the process.
Then, without so much as a farewell, he walked out.
Max fell back on his pillows and grinned at the canopy over his bed. Miserable he might be, but he could still take pleasure in watching a useless popinjay foiled.
Kirsty was bound to come soon. Mairi had checked on him again and had been unable to resist telling him, “Miss Kirsty’s a sad one, sir. She’s grievin’ over ye.”
Something scraped in the other room.
Max rose to his elbows again and listened.
Soft, sliding sounds, as if someone searched very carefully out there, trying to make no sound.
Gritting his teeth, wincing at the soreness along his jaw, and in a great many other places, Max left his bed and went to a spot where he could see through a crack at the doorway.
With his knees slightly bent as if ready for flight, Horace Hubble slowly examined volumes from the bookshelves. From time to time he reached behind a row of books and felt around, then withdrew his hand and executed a noiseless tantrum in which he waved his arms and shook his mane of blond curls.
“Lost something?” Max asked pleasantly. “Can I help you look?”
The shriek Horace emitted caused Max to clap his hands over his ears and shudder.
“You have all but shocked me to death,” Horace cried, clutching his chest. “Shocked me to death.” He rushed away.
• • •
The very obvious question was: what did he have that so many people wanted?
Not that he cared. Another hour had passed since Horace left and still Kirsty hadn’t come to him. Of course, he could go to her, but Mairi had told him Kirsty was well and going about the castle, whereas he was recovering from a vicious attack that might well have left him dead.
And he’d asked her to marry him.
And she’d turned him down.
He wanted her to come to him.
He could send a note. Keep the tone cool, somewhat distant. A simple, polite inquiry about her own health, perhaps?
She would come to him, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself eventually.
“Mr. Rossmara,” a female voice sang out from the other room. “Are you receiving?”
Max closed his eyes and willed the visitor away. If he spoke at all, she’d know he was awake and to refuse to see her, whoever she was, would be damnably rude. No, he must not speak. His one chance lay in pretending to sleep.
“Oh, my poor, dear, Mr. Rossmara.”
He felt a flurry in the room, heard the rustle of fine fabrics, smelled . . . mothballs?
“Oh my goodness, what a horrible sight. No wonder you are unable to make sensible decisions, you poor, dear boy. They have beaten you to a pulp. Disfigured you. It’s as well that you sleep.”
Max had the greatest difficulty remaining still and keeping his eyes closed.
“We must give you time to come to your senses. If Hermoine had explained your condition, I should have understood your inappropriate response to her at once.”
He opened his eyes in time to feel Countess Grabham’s veil brush his cheek. She peered closely at the wound on his jaw. Her lip curled. Her nostrils pinched tight. She swallowed loudly.
“One wonders,” she said as if he were not present at all, “if there are other, more affecting injuries elsewhere. Why, perhaps you turned poor, dear Hermoine away because you fear you will never again be able to, well, never be able to.” She wafted a hand in the air.
Without noticing that he looked at her, she took the edges of the covers where they rested on his chest between finger and thumb, and lifted them and peered beneath. The countess peered, in fact, at Max’s supine body.
“What in God’s name do you think you are doing?” he said, slapping the back of her hand and pulling the covers up to his chin. “ Molesting me?”
The countess staggered backward. “How could you suggest . . . But I forgot. You are not yourself, you poor, dear, boy. I was simply ascertaining the full extent of your injuries.”
“Extensive,” Max snapped.
“Yes, yes,” his visitor agreed. “So I see. You have my deepest sympathy.”
“I am injured, not dead.”
She clasped her hands, and said, “True, but sometimes, when pain is particularly great, one might wish for death. No matter. I came to ask you to think things through, and to tell you that in light of your injuries, we will, of course, give you more time to finalize the arrangements.”
“Arrangements?”
“For your marriage to Lady Hermoine. I know you will come to your senses. If she were older and wiser, she would also know, but she came to me directly after leaving you and she was beside herself. She was convinced you do not love her.”
Perceptive woman.
“May I ask a favor of you, Mr. Rossmara?”
He let his eyelids lower slowly, parted his lips slightly, and contrived to produce a snore.
“I knew you’d agree,” the countess said softly. “Hermoine shall come and care for you so that she may feel useful. She does adore you entirely, you know.”
Max continued to snore gently, and waited for the odious woman to leave the bedchamber. As soon as she did so, he held very still and strained to hear any sounds that might come from the old schoolroom.
Within moments there came subtle scratchings, and shiftings, and the sibilant sliding of pages being turned.
Max groaned and pulled the covers over his head.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Kirsty set the Parcheesi boar
d and the two returned pieces on the chest beneath the window in her sitting room. She’d worked hard all day, not even stopping for lunch, all the while trying to blot out thoughts of Max, and all the while listening, and hoping to hear his approach.
Daylight took a long, long time to fade at this time of year. She welcomed the purple of late evening pressing in upon the casement. Soon it would be fully dark and she could justify going to bed—her one hiding place.
Only by accident had she discovered that the heads of the large Parcheesi pieces unscrewed. She’d intended to show them to Max, but there hadn’t been an opportunity. How strange that someone had stuffed cloth inside the ladies. And how odd that the board was really a box. Surely it had contained some treasure.
She fetched the rest of the pieces and placed them on the board. Then she selected the figurine of a woman dressed for court in the reign of King Henry VIII. Kirsty took hold of the head in its padded hood and back veil and began to twist. Like its companion, the piece was beautifully made and detailed, even to voluminous fur sleeves and a pomander case on a long chain belt.
With a slight squeak, the body began to move, and soon the silver lady was beheaded. Faded red satin peeped from inside her body. Kirsty pulled and found it did not come out easily, but she persevered until she discovered why. This time the satin wasn’t empty, but contained a small, exquisite earbob of some deep green stone set in very yellow gold.
Kirsty rested it on her palm. A clever hiding place for a treasured possession. Surely Lady Avenall wouldn’t forget such a valuable piece.
A lady wearing a loose gown with sleeves that puffed at the shoulder, grew tight as they descended the arm, and with pleated ruffs at her wrists was, Kirsty thought, modeled after the fashion of Queen Mary’s time. Max had taught Kirsty a great deal when she was still little more than a child, and taught her well. How grateful she was to him for the gift.
Queen Mary’s lady lost her head and offered up a scrap of blue chiffon wrapped around three pearls. Whether or not the pearls were of great value, Kirsty could not guess.
One after another, the pieces yielded baubles. A small gold brooch set with a blood red stone, a gold chain, a cloudy white stone that burned red at its center when Kirsty turned it in her palm.
The Wish Club Page 34