A Scandalous Scot

by Karen Ranney

  He frowned at her, turned, and reached for his watch where it sat on the bedside table. He dangled it by its chain in front of her.

  “I haven’t lost it at all, Catriona.”

  She palmed the watch, raising her hand to pool the chain in her hand, and gently pulled it from him.

  “Oh, but you have,” she said. “And the culprit must be punished.”

  He frowned at her, awareness dawning in his eyes. “Is that entirely necessary?”

  “Donalda called me names, Andrew. She needs to be taught a lesson.” She stood, looking down at him. “Or perhaps that’s what you think of me. That I am a slut.”

  “Why do I think you won’t come back to my bed unless I accuse the girl of theft?”

  She smiled, glad he understood.

  “What if I think the price is too high?

  “Do you?” she asked, slowly removing her shift. She stood in front of him naked, beautiful, and knowing it.

  He laughed, reached for his watch, then for her.

  Night came too quickly for Jean.

  With night came the prospect of dinner. With dinner came the idea of sitting at a table with Morgan, Catriona, and Andrew.

  She didn’t think she could bear the presence of any of them tonight, most especially Morgan.

  She’d been married a week. A week, and she’d managed to offend her husband so much that he hadn’t spoken to her all day. If he’d sought her out, she had no knowledge of it. She hadn’t been hard to find. She’d stayed in her room.

  This afternoon she’d gathered up her courage and gone to the library, hoping he’d still be there. She’d planned an apology, reciting the exact words over and over again until they were firmly fixed in her mind.

  I’m sorry I was with Mr. Seath, Morgan. Although I consider him a friend, I can see where our being together might be misinterpreted.

  Would that be enough of an apology? She wasn’t going to grovel.

  The point was moot, because Morgan wasn’t in the library. Nor did she go in further search of him.

  She should tell him the truth, let him do the worst. She could, with any luck, obtain a position somewhere. As a maid, true, since it was all she had any experience doing, unless someone had a need for a slightly less than virtuous quasicountess. But there was Aunt Mary to consider, and even though her aunt had advised her to keep silent, Aunt Mary didn’t deserve to be dismissed. Her aunt loved every inch of Ballindair almost as much as Mr. Seath. It was there in her education of the maids, in her lectures as to the art and beautiful objects scattered around the castle.

  She needed to consider Catriona, too, on a ruinous path and unstoppable. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about it.

  Night brought yet another problem. Was Morgan going to come to her room?

  Could a wife ever refuse a husband? What woman in her right mind would want to refuse Morgan? A woman who was, perhaps, confused, daunted, and more than a little apprehensive.

  How could Lillian have strayed? Was the woman a fool? Or did she want something from Morgan he couldn’t give her? Love, perhaps? Affection? Or an even more basic emotion: respect.

  Jean sat in her room staring at the bellpull, summoning up her courage. She stood, walked to where it hung and jerked it once.

  When Betty, one of the younger maids, appeared at the door, Jean gave her a note, forced a smile to her face and said, “Would you please convey this to the earl, Betty?”

  The girl nodded, without a curtsy or a comment.

  Frankly, she didn’t care if anyone ever curtsied to her, and she could dispense with all that Your Ladyship nonsense. It was disconcerting, however, to still be treated as if she were invisible.

  Her note had been simple and to the point: I am not feeling well enough to join you for dinner. Morgan would simply have to accept her illness. Would it stop him from coming to her room?

  She wasn’t going to sit here and wait for him.

  He’d done as much as compare her to Lillian, and in such a lordly tone that she knew he’d done it on purpose. He could be the great Earl of Denbleigh with anyone else, but she was no longer a maid.

  Wasn’t that what Mr. Seath had wanted her to know? Whatever happened from this point forward would be as a result of her behavior. People were allowed to have memories, yes, but it was her responsibility to supplant better memories on top of the poor ones they might have. Let the maids see her as the Countess of Denbleigh, not as a maid.

  At the same time, let Morgan see her as Jean and not Lillian.

  No doubt Lillian would’ve gone to him with some cajoling remark, even attempted to seduce the man. Well, she wasn’t going to do that. She didn’t want to have anything to do with Morgan MacCraig right at the moment.

  The more she thought about their encounter, the more annoyed she became. The more time that passed, the more determined she was to refuse him admittance into her room and her bed.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her that all she’d had to eat today was a scone at breakfast. She wasn’t in the mood for another bout of being treated as if she were invisible by one of the maids, so she ignored her hunger, a habit she’d learned in Inverness.

  Instead of readying herself for bed, she tugged on her skirts, worked at the tapes of her hoop until it was free, and let it drop to the floor. Stepping over the collapsed monstrosity, she grabbed the material of her skirt, now too long and dragging on the floor, opened the door of her sitting room and sailed into the corridor.

  Another thing—the ghosts of Ballindair owed her an apology, especially the French Nun. If it hadn’t been for her, she wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. She wouldn’t have collided with Morgan. She wouldn’t have had to explain her presence in the Laird’s Tower. She would have melted into the sea of other servants and never been noticed.

  A thought brought her up short: She would have still gone in search of Catriona.

  Very well, perhaps the ghosts didn’t owe her an apology.

  Everyone expected her to be so grateful to be a countess, to be the wife of a wealthy man, a titled man, a peer. Why hadn’t anyone said to Morgan: “You’re to be congratulated, sir, on your new wife.” Very well, she wasn’t beautiful, not like Catriona. She was tall and slender with great bulbous breasts. Whenever one of her dresses had to be altered for Catriona, her sister made the remark that she could have folded her arms inside the bodice and still have plenty of room left over.

  She asked questions, and wasn’t content to simply allow herself to be taught and told by others. Why had God given her a mind if he hadn’t wanted her to use it?

  Perhaps they would say something like: “Congratulations, Your Lordship, on your new wife. She has a sparkling wit, a rapacious mind. What insightful questions she asks! What cogent logic she expresses!”

  There, that sounded better, didn’t it?

  She was lacking in knowledge of flowers, musicals, or watercolors, and her needlework left a great deal to be desired. Nor did she speak French.

  She had, however, been a good maid.

  Perhaps someone could congratulate Morgan for that: “Every bit of furniture around her is polished to perfection, Your Lordship!”

  Oh bother.

  Instead of going to the Long Gallery, she headed for the West Tower, a place she’d never been before in her ghostly excursions. Even though full night had descended on Ballindair, she wasn’t afraid. She’d never been afraid in the castle. Granted, there were probably more reasons to be frightened of corporeal bodies than spiritual ones, but she felt safe at Ballindair, as if the castle had welcomed her from the beginning.

  Wouldn’t it be nice if Morgan could do the same?

  It was one thing to marry her because of his sense of honor. But was she supposed to live in this narrow little box in Morgan’s mind? She couldn’t meet with Mr. Seath—Mr. Seath!—in the garden, lest someone think it was scandalous. What else couldn’t she do?

  Oh, she didn’t even want to know.

  The
West Tower was the most difficult tower to access. Furniture was stored there, as well as armaments. Evidently, the MacCraigs had been excessively bloodthirsty in the past. They could cover every single wall at Ballindair with knives, dirks, swords, and shields, and still have weapons left over.

  Aunt Mary had insisted that even the storerooms be cleaned from time to time, but she had never been assigned the West Tower. Only the most skilled and experienced maids were allowed to touch these artifacts.

  Strange, that most of the ghosts of Ballindair weren’t involved in warfare. Instead, they centered around a MacCraig’s treatment of a lover or a wife.

  Jean went down a set of darkened stairs, making her wish that she’d had the foresight to bring a lantern. Most of Ballindair corridors were lit by gas lamps. An expensive luxury, she’d been told, but the Earls of Denbleigh deserved no less.

  At the bottom of the steps she hesitated.

  Instead of turning left, toward the West Tower, she turned right and headed for the kitchen. At this time of night there was still activity inside, and every single person stopped what he was doing and turned to look at her.

  There, that was a sign, if nothing else, of her change in station. Before, no one would have commented, or even noted, her appearance.

  By her marriage, she was no longer friends with the staff of Ballindair. She was, instead, the person to be served, and possibly ridiculed, when the staff relaxed or the work for the day was complete.

  Each of them looked at her, resentment evident on their faces. She could almost hear their thoughts: What’s she going to make me do now? Doesn’t she know I’m tired and want to go to my bed?

  Diane, a maid of all work, came forward.

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  She and Diana had gossiped about the laundress, had laughed at various jests a footman had told, had marveled to each other about the treasures kept in Ballindair’s rooms. Now, the girl was looking at her as if she were a stranger. Worse, an enemy.

  How foolish she’d been. She couldn’t serve herself. Doing so would only give rise to more gossip.

  Acting like a maid, she was, for all she married the earl. Is she going to clean the scullery next?

  “I’d like a candle, please,” she said, giving no further explanation.

  Should she ask for something to eat? No, she had no intention of fueling the fire of gossip. No doubt they already knew she wasn’t in the dining room. She could only imagine what stories they’d tell.

  Begging for a scrap, she was. Don’t the earl let her eat with him no more?

  Diane nodded, retreated to the storeroom. When she returned, she had a beeswax candle—another sign of Jean’s rise in status—inserted into a small silver candlestick. Diane held out a matchbox and the candlestick, and Jean took them both with a nod.

  “Thank you,” she said, before turning and leaving the room. If she were brave enough, she’d stand just outside the door and listen to what they said about her. But she wasn’t that courageous, so she walked back to the base of the tower, lit the candle, and slowly made her way to the second floor.

  The West Tower was the first one built at Ballindair. Several changes had been made to the other towers over the years, but here the windows were mere arrow slits, letting in only a faint stream of moonlight.

  Everywhere she looked, crates and trunks were stacked on top of each other, and several objects, too large to be crated, were covered in sheets.

  She sat down on a crate, holding the candle in her left hand and arranging her skirts with her right.

  The problem with ghosts was they were always invisible or nearly so. Sometimes, she was certain she’d felt a ghost pass by, or experienced a physical sensation that had no observable cause.

  After several moments she said, “Why should anyone believe in ghosts, really? It’s not as if there’s substantial proof of you. When you tell another person you’ve seen a ghost, he looks at you oddly. And another thing, why doesn’t everyone become a ghost? Is a ghost someone who was miserable in life? Or someone who precipitated his own death? Or, perhaps, someone who regretted the deeds of the past?”

  No one answered her. Nor did anything move.

  She looked around her at the shadows.

  “Do ghosts live in heaven? Are they given permission to return to haunt the living? Or do they live here, at Ballindair? If so, why can’t we see ghosts during the day? Must you sleep as well?”

  In the next moment the air felt a little chilly, enough so she could see the breath in front of her face.

  She studied the candle’s flame, amazed to find her hand shaking just a little. She steadied it by gripping her wrist tight and resting the candlestick on her knee. Because she was staring so fixedly on the flame, when she looked away all she saw was a bright white glow against the darkness. A figure shivered and shimmered.

  She blinked, and the room swirled around her. As she opened her mouth to speak to the ghost, the room tilted, her head felt absurdly light, and she was sent tumbling to the floor.

  Chapter 25

  RULES FOR STAFF: You are allowed one-half day off each month, never to be taken on a Sunday.

  Jean hadn’t been feeling well enough for dinner, but she was evidently feeling well enough to leave her room.

  When Mrs. MacDonald met him at the door of the Countess’s Suite, having been summoned with some degree of haste by a maid he’d encountered, Morgan folded his arms, stared at the woman and said, “Where is my wife, madam?”

  She looked a little surprised by his question, which only made him repeat it.

  “Where is my wife? Why is she never in her room?”

  The housekeeper just blinked at him.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Your Lordship.”

  “Do you always lose your maids with such alacrity, Mrs. MacDonald?”

  She drew herself up and looked at him in a rather queenly fashion. “I do not, Your Lordship. However, Jean is no longer a maid. She is your wife.”

  “Then she should behave like a wife.”

  To his surprise, Mrs. MacDonald took one step back, away from him.

  Had he suddenly become contagious?

  “I will endeavor to find out where Jean has gone, Your Lordship. Shall I send her to the Laird’s Tower?”

  “Simply find her, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said, further annoyed by that question. Did she think he’d sought out his wife simply for entertainment? No, his reason for being here was more important than that.

  She nodded once, then turned and left the room.

  As he sat in Jean’s sitting room, he realized she hadn’t made an imprint on the room at all. No personal possessions dotted the top of the bureau. Nothing sat on top of the vanity. Did she even have any personal possessions?

  At Ballindair he was surrounded by those things he needed to guard and protect for succeeding generations. Had she nothing at all?

  What had he given her in the short time they’d been wed? The clan brooch at their wedding, but then he’d immediately suggested she give it to Mr. Seath to place in the strongbox.

  He stood and walked into her bedroom, going to the armoire. He had no right to rifle through her belongings, a thought that made him hesitate for only a moment.

  He opened the two drawers to find they were only partially filled with threadbare undergarments. After opening the doors, he was unsurprised to find only three dresses there. Her wedding dress, a uniform, and the dress she’d worn yesterday morning.

  Lillian had so many clothes, another room had been given up to them, a series of armoires holding day dresses, evening dresses, corsets and pantaloons made in France, laced festooned creations that had cost him a fortune.

  He closed the armoire doors, disturbed and curiously unable to define what he was feeling. If Jean had married him for his wealth, she’d yet to solicit him for funds. Why the hell hadn’t she come to him and asked him for jewelry? Or a monthly allowance?

  Why exactly had she married him?

  She
hadn’t wanted to, that much had been clear from her impassioned speech on the eve of their wedding. Nor had she been a cheerful bride. Instead, she’d looked on the verge of tears several times during the ceremony.

  What had she said? You need to find someone of your own rank, Your Lordship. Someone who would be thrilled to be a countess.

  She hadn’t appeared overjoyed to be a countess. Whenever he called her “Your Ladyship,” she flinched. He’d never seen her give anyone an order. She hadn’t wanted to change anything at Ballindair to suit her. She wasn’t suddenly interested in traveling to London, Edinburgh, or Paris. Nor had she asked for anything for Catriona or her aunt.

  Why the hell had she married him?

  When Mrs. MacDonald returned, he’d ask the status of his wife’s wardrobe. Perhaps he should import someone from Inverness. And cloth—did they have enough and in the patterns Jean preferred? He’d have to meet with Mr. Seath and have the man purchase a wagon full of the stuff. Anything she wished. And he’d have the strongbox brought to him, so he could retrieve the MacCraig brooch. And money, he’d give her money.

  Maybe that would be an inducement for her to remain in her room.

  Mrs. MacDonald didn’t even knock on the door, merely opened it.

  “Do you presume upon your relationship with my wife?” he asked, annoyed on Jean’s behalf.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Lordship?”

  “You will knock, Mrs. MacDonald, every single time you come into this room. Just because Jean is your niece does not negate her right to privacy. Do you understand?”

  She nodded swiftly, her face changing to a pink hue.

  She was not going to treat Jean as if she was some scullery maid. He pushed the thought out of his mind that she’d been a scullery maid once, by her own admission.

  He’d been a boy once, yet he would bridle if anyone treated him that way now.

  “Have you found her?” he asked.

  “We haven’t, sir—” she began, only to be interrupted by a girl’s excited voice.