A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  “Are you married, McNair?” Peter asked again.

  This time the young man answered. “I am not.”

  “Have you any objection to be married?”

  “To your niece?”

  “My niece.” Peter sat back, studying McNair.

  “Your proposal sounds interesting, Your Lordship. But why would you be so quick to turn over the administration of that fortune?”

  “I would, of course, expect to be remunerated from time to time. An allotment, if you will.” He smiled. “Shall we toast to it?” Peter had asked, going to the sideboard and selecting his finest brandy.

  He sat back now, sipped at his own wine with moderation and watched as Bryce became increasingly more intoxicated. The fool would be easy enough to manipulate. A great deal easier than Anthony had been.

  Men like Bryce McNair didn’t come to the well only once. He would continue to come until the well was dry. Better to let him think he was getting all the water at once.

  He’d been tempted, though, to take little Emma’s offer of her fortune. Tempted, until he realized that he’d have the same problem with McNair. No, this way was better. A little longer, perhaps, but more secure in the end.

  Life could not get much better, could it?

  The door opened and her bridegroom stood framed in the doorway, both hands braced on either side of the frame. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his jacket discarded somewhere, and his shirt half out of his trousers.

  “My lady wife,” he said, beaming at her. “I am here, your bridegroom.”

  She walked through the sitting room to face him.

  “Come in,” she said, in a voice much softer than his.

  He bent, picked up a bottle of wine, holding it aloft triumphantly as he entered the room.

  “I bring gifts!” he said, in a voice that bordered on a shout.

  The very last thing she wanted was for all the servants to hear her wedding night.

  “Bryce,” she said, hoping to calm him, “come and sit down. Let me pour you some wine.”

  He smiled brightly at her, an expression that made her wonder exactly how old her bridegroom was. Was he her junior? At the moment, he was acting like a boy, and she felt ancient.

  Unbidden, Ian came to mind. She could not bear it if she remembered Ian now. Later, when she was alone, she would think of him, and dream of him, and remember him.

  Not now, please God.

  Bryce sat in a chair by the window, stretching out his legs. She took the bottle of wine from him and placed it on the top of the bureau.

  “I’ll just request some glasses,” she said. She rang for the maid and then stood at the door. When the girl arrived, she conveyed her request, and returned to Bryce’s side to tell him that the glasses would be coming shortly.

  To her very great surprise, her bridegroom had fallen asleep, his head at an angle, his mouth gaping open.

  A good wife, a proper wife, would have eased him to the bed. She would have begun to disrobe him so that he was more comfortable, or at least remove his shoes and loosened his neck cloth.

  Emma did none of those things. She just extinguished the lamp beside the chair and tiptoed into her bedroom, grateful that, for this night at least, she’d been given a respite.

  Chapter 16

  The day after her marriage, Emma awoke to find her husband asleep in the chair in exactly the same position she’d left him.

  Instead of attempting to wake him, she summoned her maid. When Juliana arrived, she greeted her at the door.

  “Does my husband have a valet?” she asked.

  “I do not believe so, Your Grace,” Juliana said.

  “Is there anyone among the footmen who could be promoted to the position?”

  Seeking Juliana’s opinion would be considered a mark of respect in the servants’ quarters, not to mention the power it would give the girl.

  Juliana drew herself up to her full height and smiled, one of the few times Emma had ever seen that particular expression on her maid’s face.

  “Robert, Your Grace. He’s new to Your Grace’s employ but he’s a fast learner and an honest man.”

  “Send Robert to me, then,” she said. Before Juliana left her, however, she stopped the girl. “I’m no longer to be addressed as Your Grace,” she said.

  Juliana only nodded, before hurrying to inform Robert of his potential position.

  She had certainly begun a new life, hadn’t she? First, by attempting to garner Juliana’s support, and secondly, by evincing some concern for her husband.

  Bryce needed a valet, and this morning would certainly be a testament to Robert’s tenacity. If he could get Bryce dressed and about, she would promote him to the position of gentleman’s valet immediately.

  Ian took the first available train back to London. Thankfully, there were no accidents on the line, and the trip was relatively uneventful. Except, of course, for his thoughts. Even though he’d brought his notes with him, as well as his journal, he hadn’t been able to concentrate.

  Sitting back against the seat, he closed his eyes and imagined Emma at Lochlaven, strolling through the formal gardens, admiring the roses and the sight of the island in the distance. Or sitting on the edge of the lowest of the brick fortifying walls. She would swing her legs back and forth, hands braced on the wall on either side of her, her gaze fixed on the mist-blanketed hills.

  He didn’t care what plans the Earl of Falmouth had for Emma. He didn’t even care about his own engagement. Both impediments could be dealt with, and although he was certain he was going to make quite a few people angry, he would deal with that as well.

  His title was just as old as that of the Earl of Falmouth, if not more illustrious. His wealth was a match, if not greater, than Emma’s. His prospects for the future were bright, his reputation sound. Emma’s uncle would have no reasonable argument to prevent their marriage. Even if he did, that was an obstacle he was more than willing to face headlong.

  Besides, he was not going to be stopped by the man who’d struck Emma.

  If nothing else, he would take Emma to Scotland, and the world could go hang.

  Granted, the circumstances of their meeting had been odd, but there hadn’t been anything strange about the way they’d come together. Ever since he met her, she’d been lodged in his mind. He didn’t want to banish her either from his thoughts or his life.

  He’d always handled those responsibilities he’d inherited, as well as those he’d taken on, including the welfare of the people who depended upon him for their livelihood. He had never been profligate. Sometimes, he’d been wise. Sometimes, foolish, witness the decision he’d made on that night only a short time ago. Yet, the act of being a burglar had changed his life.

  In return for all those years of restraint, he wanted something now. He wanted Emma, Duchess of Herridge. He didn’t want a day to pass without seeing her face. Nor did he want to sleep alone in his bed. He wanted to tell her about his experiments, and banish that look that occasionally came over her face—a combination of fear and defiance.

  Their future would not be easy, at least not immediately.

  First, he needed to tell her who he was. Not a thief, not a brigand, but the Earl of Buchane, the Laird of Trelawny, the last in a line of distinguished and country-loving Scotsmen. When it was time, he would take her to Scotland and show her his home, proud owner that he was. Perhaps he’d even brag about all his exploits or show her the letters of commendation he’d received. He would reveal Lochlaven to her as he’d learned it from his childhood, with wonder and excitement and joy.

  He felt as if he were about to embark on a great and lifelong adventure, and couldn’t wait to reach London.

  Peter eyed the bank draft in his hand with satisfaction. This amount could easily be replicated. All he need do was to go to
the young bridegroom sitting in front of him.

  How quickly Bryce had acclimated to being wealthy. He sat in the library attired in pressed clothing, freshly shaved, his bloodshot eyes the only indication of his overindulgence of the night before.

  “Thank you. You’re very generous.”

  “Consider it a parting gift, if you will,” Bryce said.

  “What do you mean?” A sensation like melting ice traveled down Peter’s spine.

  “I want you out of here, with all possible haste,” Bryce said.

  Peter placed the bank draft on the surface of the desk with great precision, lining it up so it was in the exact center of his blotter, just below the crystal sander.

  “Do you think to dictate to me?” he asked.

  Bryce smiled. “Exactly so, Your Lordship. One word from me and the authorities would be very interested in speaking with you.” Bryce stood and regarded him with an expression too much like contempt.

  “You’re a fool to think I’ll tolerate your threatening me.”

  “What are you going to do about it, Your Lordship?”

  “Do you think to keep it all for yourself?” Peter stood as well, biting back his smile. The young fool was as stupid as he’d thought.

  Bryce chuckled. “You’ll need to find other living arrangements, Your Lordship. This is now my house, and you’re not welcome here.”

  “Be careful,” Peter said softly. “Be very careful in your threats.”

  Bryce smiled again, a particularly annoying expression. “Have you forgotten what I know?” His smile faded. “Do you think I’m going to just sit back and wait until you do to me what you did to the Duke of Herridge?”

  His smile returned with an edge to it. “We’re leaving this morning,” he said. “We’ll be back in a few weeks. Make sure you’re gone by the time we return.”

  An apologetic Robert had delivered a summons from her new husband to Emma. She was required in her uncle’s library. She was raising her hand to knock on the door when the shouting began.

  Nearby, a few of the servants stopped what they were doing, each of them looking toward the room with no effort to hide their interest. They didn’t even have to try to listen. Both her uncle and Bryce were so loud that no doubt passersby heard them on the street.

  They were arguing about money. She’d witnessed the same type of disagreement between Anthony and her uncle. She never understood why Anthony was so incensed over the amount of money her uncle gambled away when it was quite evident that Anthony was attempting, in his own way, to decimate her fortune.

  Being an heiress didn’t make her a fool.

  Yet money had never given her any freedom. She could buy almost anything she wished, as long as a man approved. She could travel almost anywhere, as long as she was chaperoned and accompanied by a male escort. She could engage in good works and make contributions to any charity she wished, as long as it was sanctioned by a male relative.

  At times, she didn’t want to be wealthy. Or at least wealthy enough to be sold, bartered, and haggled about such as now.

  The door abruptly opened and she was face-to-face with Bryce. Robert had evidently helped him wash and dress, because other than bloodshot eyes, there was little evidence of the night before in the man she saw now.

  “We’ll be leaving shortly,” he said. “Pack your trunks.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, conscious of her uncle’s presence in the doorway. She edged away from him.

  Bryce turned and faced her uncle. The words were for her but the challenge in them was for the Earl of Falmouth.

  “To Scotland,” he said. “It’s time my boorish relatives learned of my great good fortune.” He sent a thin smile in her uncle’s direction, then turned and left her.

  She could hear him striding through the main hall and then the sound of the front door opening and closing. Since she did not want to remain in her uncle’s company, Emma turned and left, retreating to the safety of her suite.

  By noon her trunks were packed. She’d refused the dresses her uncle had had made, defiantly remaining in mourning. Now, she allowed Juliana to pack the three dresses with white cuffs and white collars. But there were only seven dresses in all and two bonnets, a fraction of the wardrobe she’d once had.

  “Will you take your jewelry case . . . ” Juliana’s words stumbled to a halt as the two women looked at each other.

  “It’s all right,” Emma said. “It will take some time to get used to calling me Mrs. McNair. I’ll leave my case here. I shall not be wearing any jewelry for a while.”

  She sent Juliana on an errand, and while her maid was out of the room, went to her desk where she’d hidden the Tulloch Sgàthán. She placed it in the bottom of the trunk holding her dresses, creating a well amidst the paper and carefully draped skirts.

  Ian had said it belonged in Scotland, and perhaps there would be a way to send it to Lady Sarah once she was there. Besides, she didn’t want to leave it behind, feeling a sense of responsibility for this one object greater than anything she’d ever owned.

  An hour later she and her new husband were ready to leave.

  At the carriage, her uncle exchanged a look with Bryce that wasn’t the least friendly. She’d never known him to hold back his remarks but he was evidently doing so now. She turned away when he would have addressed her.

  The Earl of Falmouth could go to hell on a fast horse for all she cared.

  “I wish you a safe journey,” her uncle said, stepping back and allowing the carriage door to be closed.

  The last time Emma had been in a carriage with a man, the man had been Ian. The comparison between him and Bryce was not a fair one. Although they were similar in build, Bryce lacked Ian’s commanding presence or Ian’s enthusiasm and intelligence.

  “Have you really asked my uncle to leave?”

  “I have. It’s my house now. If you have any objections as to how I manage my business, keep it to yourself.”

  All her life she’d known that her possessions were truly not hers but belonged to the man closest to her. How quickly Bryce had assumed his role as master of her domain.

  “My uncle is of a stubborn bent,” she said, pushing back her resentment.

  “I think you will find that I’m even more stubborn,” he said, reaching into the cupboard on the side of the carriage, a place that had normally kept a selection of books, a traveling clock, and writing implements and paper. From it he extracted a silver flask, removed the cork, and proceeded to drink his fill.

  She glanced away, her eyes meeting Juliana’s. Her maid was not happy to be taking this journey, but her displeasure showed in her eyes and the set of her mouth, not her words.

  At the station, Bryce arranged their tickets, relegating Juliana to the second-class carriage while they occupied the first class with sixteen other people.

  “You did not want to bring Robert?” she asked him when they’d settled.

  “I can care for myself,” he said, closing his eyes and effectively ending their conversation. “I don’t need a valet to do it for me.”

  He’d needed help this morning, but it was a comment she didn’t voice. Emma had the feeling that she would become accustomed—once again—to holding back her thoughts, as well as her feelings.

  The hours passed slowly but he was finally back in London. At King’s Cross Station, Ian hired a carriage to take him to Emma’s home. The sky was turning dark, the sunset announced with joyous orange and pink streaks.

  Traffic was snarled and difficult, a commonplace occurrence for London’s streets. Ian found himself impatiently drumming his fingers on his knee as they made their way through the congestion.

  The hired carriage was commanded by a coachman who understood his need for haste. When they reached the house on Alchester Square, Ian opened the carria
ge door and called up to the man, complimenting him on his speed.

  “I’ll pay you double your hire if you wait for me,” he added.

  The man nodded, touched his hand to his hat, and wrapped the reins around the brake.

  Ian took the steps two at a time, knocked on the door, and found himself face-to-face with a majordomo not unlike Patterson.

  The man didn’t speak, only inclined his head.

  “I need to see Her Grace,” Ian said, just now realizing that he’d never called Emma by the title. Her Grace. How apropos for her. “The Duchess of Herridge,” he added, realizing he was being foolish. He felt like he was a boy again, a rash, improvident youth.

  He couldn’t help but smile at the dour man.

  “I regret, sir, that Her Grace is not at home.”

  He knew that game quite well—he’d played it himself.

  “Tell her it’s Ian,” he said. “She’ll want to see me.”

  What if she didn’t?

  The majordomo opened the door a little wider, so that his not inconsiderable bulk was revealed. A bulwark of flesh. Did the man think to intimidate him? Nothing could at this point. Not plans, not geography, not a future all mapped out by strangers. He needed to see Emma, and he needed to see her now.

  “I regret to say, sir, that she is truly not at home. The Duchess of Herridge was married yesterday, and left London this afternoon.”

  Sounds abruptly stopped.

  Ian couldn’t hear the vague distraction of the traffic a few streets away. The world narrowed to his breath, his heartbeat.

  He stared at the majordomo like a dumb animal. When the man began to close the door, Ian did nothing to stop him. He didn’t slap his hand across the carved panel or insert his foot in the space of the open door. He merely stared, and when the door closed with a substantial click, he remained where he was for a few moments before turning and very carefully, and very precisely, descending the steps.

  The carriage was still where he left it, the coachman smiling as he approached.

  He couldn’t think.