Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Lord, it felt good to lie down with her. The tangle of sheets about his legs felt crisp and cool. The sun still shone across the bed, a bit lower now. In the shaft of heat and light, Evie’s hair was warm. She smelled sweet, safe. He pulled her close against his side, and they burrowed into the covers to drowse.

  15

  Did ever a woman interrupt a man with such a silly

  question?

  —LAURENCE STERNE

  W hen Elliot awoke, the sun was well past the window, casting the room in soft shadow. A cooling breeze drifted in through the window, fragrant with the scents of a summer evening. The doves, the river, and the children, all had fallen silent. On the bed next to him, Evangeline had levered herself onto one elbow and was staring down into his face. With a stroke of her long fingers, she brushed the tangled locks of his hair backward, then lowered her lips to his forehead.

  “Let’s get up, Elliot,” she said, her mouth soft against his skin. “We should dress and go downstairs.”

  Smoothly, he shifted to one side to face her, capturing her hand in his. “Oh, Evie, I love you! Did I remember to tell you?”

  “Oh, yes. You did.” In the soft light of evening, her eyes were soft and faintly moist. “I love you, too,” she repeated, with an unmistakably bittersweet smile. Her gaze drifted up and across the bed hangings. “I said it. I suppose there is no point in pretending I have not fallen in love with you. What difference would it make?”

  Elliot caught the note of regret that edged her voice. “All the difference,” he answered, roughly pulling her against him. “All the difference in the world to me. Those three words from your lips changed my life. Do not keep them from me, Evie. Ever.”

  She rested her head against his chest and fell quiet for a long moment. Slowly, Elliot let his hand slide around to caress her, pulling her hips hard into his. He wanted her again, wanted to chase away her regret with his desire. He would make love to her so intently and deeply, and so very thoroughly, that there could never be any lack of understanding between them.

  “Elliot?” He felt her breath stir the hair on his chest.

  “Yes, Evie?” The edge in her voice stilled his wandering hands.

  “I would like your answer to a particular question.”

  “Sweetest,” he interjected gently, brushing the back of his hand against the softness of her cheek, “there is nothing you cannot ask.”

  There was a long silence in the room. Not the sort of silence Elliot always longed for, that intimate, peaceful quietude that lingers between lovers once sated, but a silence heavy with uncertainty. Evangeline drew a deep breath. “Elliot, do you mean to be faithful to me?”

  Elliot bolted upright in the bed, dragging his wife up with him. Sharply, he turned her toward him. “What sort of question is that, Evangeline, to spring on a man whose heart has been very nearly ripped from his breast? Aye, I mean to be faithful! Why else should I have begged you to marry me?”

  Evangeline watched his expressive face, the hawkish brows drawn tautly together, the deep furrows of his frown, and her mind spun into yet another whirl. Why else, indeed? There had been some reason, some suspicion, had there not? But it had slipped from her mind now, borne away, apparently, on the wings of passion.

  The fleeting intimacy that had lingered between them was gone. She had shattered it. “I—I don’t know, Elliot,” she stammered, absently shoving her heavy hair back over one shoulder. “It’s a reasonable question. More wives ought, perhaps, to ask it.”

  “Well, my wife needn’t ask it,” he huffed, seeming genuinely affronted. “What did you think, Evie? That I would keep my bachelor ways and take a wife as well?”

  Evie felt her face suffuse with color. “I never thought …” she mumbled weakly, but her expression undoubtedly answered his question.

  With a grunt of manly resignation, Elliot collapsed back into the pile of bed pillows and drew his arm over his eyes. He lay across the tangle of sheets for a time, then heaved a weary sigh. “Bloody hell, Evie! We’ve been married nigh a fortnight, and we make love every evening. Sometimes twice! I sleep like a dead man. I stagger when I walk. And I hardly stir from home.” His Scots accent broadened as his words flew. “Lord, woman! We’ve got a gaggle of children who keep me worn to a frazzle—and I am not complaining, mind—But God’s bones, I’m no’ a young man! I’m all of five-and-thirty! Now you’ve taken to seducing me in the middle of the afternoon, right under the servants’ noses. Now, do tell me, lass, just when, and by what miracle of nature, am I to service this—this mistress—or whatever it is you imagine I’ve the energy or interest left for?”

  He did not realize he was shouting until a sharp rapping sounded on the connecting door. Her face flushed with embarrassment, Evie dived beneath the covers.

  “Those servants’ noses, my lord?” sang Kemble through the thick slab of oak. “Even as we speak, one of them is pressed resolutely against this door. Now, pray get up! It is time I dressed you for dinner.”

  Godfrey Moore, Baron Cranham, reclined indolently in his chair by a deep, arching window, impatiently dangling his quizzing glass by its black satin ribbon. As always, Brooks’s was lively, but tonight he had not come to play. No, he had come at Lord Linden’s behest and found himself a little plumper in the pocket for the inconvenience.

  Cranham swung the glass high, then neatly caught it in the palm of his hand. What a pity he could not catch Rannoch so easily. Curling his lip into a sneer, he stared at Linden. The fool. Let the viscount whisper and gossip and drag him from pillar to post if he wished, but the bloodthirsty strangler was not apt to show himself by leaping upon them from the shadows of London’s clubs, hells, or whorehouses, no matter how diligently Linden trolled his bait through town. No, Cranham’s would-be murderer lay snug in his bed in Richmond with his new bride, whether anyone wished to believe it or not.

  He yawned discreetly, then strolled into the card room to watch the charismatic viscount drift companionably from table to table. One could almost see the aura of charm that surrounded him as he slid from table to table, wine glass in hand. Cranham leaned subtly into him as he strolled past.

  “Linden, are we nearly done with this preposterous sham?” he hissed. “I feel as if a bloody ax hangs over my head.”

  “My dear fellow!” whispered the viscount in a tone rich with sarcasm. “The center must hold. I pray your nerve shall not fail you whilst success is within our grasp!”

  “Damn your impudence,” answered Cranham in a growling undertone. “I have little use for you and your cursed duplicity.”

  “Better my way than yours, I should think,” commented Linden dryly. He stared over his wine glass and let his eyes drift over the crowd. “Perhaps I should let old Elliot shoot you, Cranham, purely as a matter of principle. I begin to find you tiresome.”

  “Hmph,” snorted Cranham derisively. “I do not fear that bullying Scot. Not in the light of day, at any rate.”

  At this, Linden arched his brows elegantly. “Do you not? Then you are more the fool than I thought. I can only hope you’ve held firm to our little Banbury tale these last three nights.”

  “I have,” admitted Cranham tightly. “For all the good it shall do us, since I cannot imagine anyone witless enough to believe that Rannoch and I have suddenly become bosom beaus.”

  “Convince them, damn it,” commanded Linden softly, his threat implicit.

  “What of Lord Rannoch?” growled Cranham. “Will he do his part?”

  “Rannoch will do whatever it takes. He has a new bride to impress.”

  “When, damn it?”

  “Tomorrow night, mon ami,” answered the viscount, staring coldly through the window into the darkened street. “Tomorrow night, I think we shall all go to Vauxhall.”

  Evangeline spent the following morning with Mr. Stokely and the children, who were industriously engaged in mapping Hannibal’s route across the Alps. Her thoughts, however, were far less orderly. Elliot’s words yesterday had thrown her into
a quandary. He insisted that he loved her and swore his fidelity. He said she had very nearly broken his heart.

  She was afraid to believe any of those things, yet despite all her pointed barbs about his honesty, Elliot did not strike her as a man normally given to lying. He seemed far too arrogant to resort to prevarication—and rather adamantly, at that—when haughty condescension or circumspect evasion might just as easily suffice. Instead, he had appeared both hurt and angered by her question.

  In the afternoon, just as she began to consider the remote possibility that her husband’s indignation had been genuine, she met Elliot in the corridor outside their bedchambers. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Evie, might I have a word with you?”

  “Certainly,” she answered, coming to a halt just outside his door.

  He rubbed one finger down the side of his nose uncertainly. “Linden is downstairs. He has asked me to bear him company for this evening’s festivities at Vauxhall. We have taken a supper box for the evening. I wanted to let you know that I was leaving.”

  “Vauxhall?” She almost winced at the sharpness in her voice. “But it is hours yet until dark—”

  “Well, yes, I know. Linden has some plans for the afternoon as well. Forgive me for failing to make that clear. We shall be quite late, I am afraid. Do not bother to wait up for me.”

  “Very well,” she said coolly, and turned to go.

  Unexpectedly, he seized her arm and turned her back toward him. “Evangeline? Are you upset? Please do not be angry with me.”

  “I am perfectly all right,” she lied as he pulled her abruptly into his arms and held her tightly for a long moment. She felt her taut shoulders relax as he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers.

  Finally, he spoke. “Evie, I shan’t make a habit of staying out most of the night, I promise.”

  “I am sure, my lord, that your social life is none of my concern. I should hope I have a clear understanding of how society works in town.”

  “Evie, darling, I am sorry,” he soothed, pulling back to look into her eyes again. Absently, he traced his finger around the angle of her jaw and chin. “I did give Aidan my word. He seems to think it very important.”

  “Lord Linden thinks Vauxhall important? Why? Or dare I ask?”

  Elliot shrugged his shoulders. “Just one of Linden’s wild ideas,” he answered vaguely. “Let’s just say it is a sort of celebration to mark the end of my bachelor days. You’d not begrudge your husband a spot of relatively innocent fun with old friends, would you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” she grumbled.

  “Good,” he answered, his gray eyes suddenly twinkling. “For just the briefest moment, I thought you might be jealous.”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Ah, Evie, but I am! Foolish for you, that is,” he responded, dropping his head to kiss her soundly. Gradually, he let his hand slide down to nestle in the small of her back and pull her firmly against him. Just as Evangeline surrendered to his seduction and felt Elliot deepen the kiss into something more intense, a sudden, horrified gasp sounded behind them.

  “Pas devant les domestiques, my lord, s’il vous plaît!” hissed Kemble in feigned mortification. The valet stood in Elliot’s doorway, an evening coat dangling casually from the tip of his index finger. “Now! Off with that dreadful rag you’re wearing! I must insist upon the black coat, given your plans for the evening.”

  “Ah, duty calls,” said Elliot softly, still looking into her eyes. Eventually, he let his arms fall away from her waist. “Sleep well, wife. I shall see you at breakfast tomorrow morning. You have my promise.”

  Though it was Elliot’s first extended venture from home since their wedding day, Evangeline was not surprised at his sudden departure in such company. She had met Lord Linden, and Major Matthew Winthrop as well. Bowing, winking, and grinning, the pair had called at Strath the preceding week, ostensibly to pay their respects to the newly married couple, but Evangeline had scarce been fooled by their good looks and courtly graces. She could always spot a pair of rogues—even personable, handsome ones—when she saw them. Indeed, until Elliot had slipped through her defenses, Evangeline’s instinct had been unfailing in that regard.

  Therefore, as she watched Kemble lead Elliot away to be dressed, she resolved to think no further of his sudden plans. Her husband had a part of his life that did not include her, and she had married him to protect her brother. Evangeline tried to take comfort in those beliefs. Unfortunately, it was a task more easily said than done, and she passed the next hour in a foul humor.

  It had become her custom to take tea in the library with Sir Hugh at half past four each afternoon, and, to her surprise, she had discovered she rather liked the old rogue. It seemed she had developed quite a taste for rogues in general, she decided with an inward sigh. Evangeline descended the steps rather early, in hope of searching the library for suitable bedside reading. With Elliot away for the evening and her emotions in a turmoil, a diversion would be much needed. Halfway down the twisting staircase, however, she was surprised to see MacLeod arguing rather sternly with a strange young woman who stood bracketed in the open doorway below.

  “I tell ye plainly, madam,” the butler was insisting, “seekers o’ household wark are tae go ’round back and speak wi’ Mrs. Woody.”

  The woman shook her head. “Sir, I thank you, but I’ve no need of employment. ’Tis his lordship I would speak with if he’s at home?” The soft-spoken woman wore a plain black dress and walking cloak, with her red hair caught back into a starched white cap. She appeared young for a housekeeper; nonetheless, her attire and demeanor hinted at just such an occupation. The careful tucks in her simple bombazine disclosed something else, too. The woman was just beginning to grow round with child. Evangeline stood in the shadows of the landing, watching the scene unfold. A feeling of apprehension began to draw tight about her chest.

  “Verra sorry, madam. His lordship is no at home,” the butler answered firmly. “Ye may speak wi’ Mrs. Woody if ye please. Howiver, her bein’ the housekeeper at Strath, she doubtless ha’ no need of anither.”

  “I must see his lordship,” the young woman insisted, her soft voice growing anxious. “I’ve no want of work, sir. In truth, I’m on my half day, and ’tis a personal errand which brings me.”

  Forcing a calmness she did not feel, Evangeline descended the remaining stairs. “Pardon me, MacLeod,” she interrupted, giving the elderly retainer her most brisk smile. “Might I be of some assistance?”

  Amazingly, the redhaired woman turned whiter still, yet she managed to execute a graceful curtsey. MacLeod drew himself up to his full height. “I wouldna trouble ye, Lady Rannoch,” he answered with a stiff formality, all but ignoring the young housekeeper in the doorway, but the butler’s fearful suspicions were writ plainly upon his face.

  At the mention of her name, Evangeline heard the woman’s soft gasp. She watched the visitor carefully, her growing curiosity exceeded only by her unease. The woman was far from pretty, and past the first blush of youth. But her voice was sweet, and her rather ordinary face was offset by a pair of remarkable eyes. Almost silver-gray in color, they were round, and far too large for her pale face.

  “I am Lady Rannoch,” Evangeline said at last, still looking pointedly at the woman. “Is this matter something you would care to discuss with me?”

  The visitor bobbed again, her eyes now fixed firmly upon the rug at her feet. “I, ah, beg pardon, m’lady. I should not a’ come here.”

  Evangeline’s discomfort grew. Clearly, this woman had not expected to find a wife in residence. She nodded sharply at MacLeod. “I have a few minutes before tea with Sir Hugh, MacLeod. Will you please show—?” She stared at the woman pointedly. “Forgive me, I did not hear your name?”

  “Pritchett, my lady,” supplied the woman in a whispery voice. “An’ Mary’s my Christian name.”

  “Pritchett?” echoed Evangeline. “Very well. Please show Mary Pritchett into the library, MacLeo
d.”

  With a distinctly disapproving expression, the butler glanced at the visitor and then returned his gaze to Evangeline. Clearly, he did not consider a mere servant fit company under any circumstance. Evangeline, however, was determined to ascertain what manner of errand brought a pregnant flame-haired housekeeper to her husband’s doorstep.

  The caller, however, looked no more disposed toward this arrangement than did MacLeod. Bobbing another curtsey, she pulled a small velvet case from the folds of her cloak. “Beg pardon, m’lady. I just wanted to set things aright, but … but I should not have come,” she repeated softly, handing the bag to Evangeline. “Just return this to him, please, m’lady, an’ say that I’m ashamed of what happened and that there’ll be no more trouble.”

  Then the woman spun hard on the heels of her sturdy shoes and slipped out the door into the brilliant afternoon, leaving Evangeline and MacLeod to stare after her. Knees weak with dread, Evangeline watched as the woman climbed into a waiting hackney coach, which promptly lurched forward with a creak and a rumble.

  “I believe,” she finally managed to say, “that I shall take a dish of tea at once, MacLeod.” Without further comment, Evangeline strode into the library, went directly to her husband’s desk, and, with fumbling fingers, tried to open the velvet box. It flew apart in her hands, its contents spilling onto the desktop in a clattering cascade of red-gold fire. Mounted in a heavy, ornate bracelet, a dozen rubies splayed across Elliot’s blotter, winking up at her impudently in a shaft of late-day sun.

  “Well!” she remarked softly, collapsing into the desk chair.

  There seemed nothing more to say. The cold, sick feeling continued to roil in the pit of her stomach. Evangeline was wise enough to know that she was ignorant of a great many worldly things, but there was no mistaking what had just happened. Nevertheless, this woman had been quite a contradiction to her idea of the sort of woman Elliot might seduce. Indeed, this sweet, doe-eyed innocent was far worse than anything she might have imagined.