A Scandalous Scot

by Karen Ranney

  “Come quick, ma’am, come quick. She’s dead, she is!”

  Morgan would forever remember Mrs. MacDonald’s terrifying composure.

  She raised both hands, palms parallel to the floor, and lowered them slowly, as if to calm the girl’s hysterical utterance by gesture alone.

  Surprisingly, it worked.

  “Who is dead, child?”

  Even he knew the answer to that question. He shot an impatient look at the housekeeper.

  “It’s Jean, ma’am.” The girl sent him a frantic glance, curtsied, and corrected herself. “Her Ladyship, ma’am. She’s dead, she is!”

  “I’m sure she isn’t,” Mrs. MacDonald said, still exhibiting an unearthly tranquility. “Have you found her?”

  He wanted to shake the woman.

  “Yes, ma’am. In the West Tower, ma’am. With all the crates and trunks. It was Rory who found her, ma’am. Near burned to death.”

  Mrs. MacDonald glanced at Morgan, and only then did he see the frantic worry in her eyes. His estimation of her rose a notch.

  “Very well, we shall see for ourselves.”

  In a reproachable violation of manners, he preceded the housekeeper and maid out the door. Later, he’d apologize. For now, he was intent on reaching Jean.

  The West Tower, that’s what the maid said. He began to run.

  When you were a little boy, did you ever go hunting for ghosts? Jean’s question on that night in the Long Gallery. What had he answered? Something about being in the West Tower. Even as a boy, he had been forbidden to play in the West Tower. Too many dangers lurked among the crates and trunks. Too many armaments that could injure him, not to mention the two cannons stored there. The MacCraigs were nothing if not prepared for famine, siege, and war.

  The tower was the perfect place for a boy to play, to pretend to be one of his murderous ancestors. When he’d gone there in direct disobedience to the rule, he was found out, of course, and summoned to the library, to stand before the massive desk and listen respectfully to his father’s lecture.

  “Have you no idea of the dangers that might befall you?” his father had asked.

  Morgan hung his head, staring at the floor.

  “I want your promise you’ll not go there again.”

  Dismayed, he stared at his father. When asked for his oath, he gave it, knowing he’d never break it. A MacCraig kept his promises. A MacCraig never broke an oath.

  He had. One of the more important: Until death us depart. But Providence or serendipity had given him a second chance in the form of his new marriage.

  He raced up the steps of the tower, pushed past the crowd of people at the narrow door, and saw Jean crumpled on the floor.

  For a moment he couldn’t move. The air smelled not of smoke but of flowers, a scent he couldn’t define. A silver candlestick was on the wooden floor, a scorch mark forming an arrow point to where the candle lay a short distance away, extinguished.

  His feet finally began to move, and he said something or did something or made some gesture—he wasn’t sure what—but people parted to allow him to enter the overcrowded circular room.

  Her hair was spread around her head, the black cloak parted at the knee. He patted it back in place, then raised a trembling hand to her cheek before lifting her into his arms.

  She couldn’t be dead. Jean couldn’t be dead.

  Chapter 26

  RULES FOR STAFF: Staff are allowed to eat only after the family has partaken of meals, and only those items allowed by the majordomo, housekeeper, or steward.

  “If you stayed in your room nights, madam, none of this would have happened.”

  Jean opened her eyes to find Morgan bending over her. No, he wasn’t bending over her. He was carrying her. And he was surrounded by people, a great many people.

  “What happened?” Was that faint and tremulous voice hers?

  “That’s a question I was just about to ask you,” he said.

  How odd she felt so dizzy.

  She lay her head back against his arm, closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep. This was a dream, nothing more. She was not surrounded by the staff of Ballindair as Morgan carried her through the corridor.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Morgan asked when they reached the Laird’s Tower.

  His face was an odd pale shade, his chin firmed, his expression giving her pause. Was he angry at her?

  Reaching out, she placed one trembling hand against his cheek.

  “You can’t do this anymore,” he said. “You have to stay in your room.”

  “I have to stay in my room? Am I a prisoner?”

  He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. “Of course not.”

  “But I have to stay in my room.”

  He mounted the steps to the Laird’s Suite, turning at the landing.

  “That will be all, Mrs. MacDonald. I’ll see to my wife.”

  Her aunt was there, too? How many people had witnessed her faint?

  He entered the suite, still carrying her, and sat her down gently on the edge of the bed.

  “If you hadn’t been hunting ghosts, Jean, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  She stared down at her dress, pleating the fabric between her fingers. “I rather think it was a case of not eating anything, more than exploring.”

  His glower got worse.

  “I know you didn’t join us for dinner, but I thought it a ploy to annoy me more than anything else. Didn’t you have a tray in your room?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why are you acting like a child? Or are you truly ill?”

  “I’m not a child,” she said, her own irritation growing. “Very well, perhaps it was a ploy. Not to ignore you,” she said, holding up her hand. “Just to avoid you.”

  “Why?”

  That was a difficult question to answer, wasn’t it?

  “You don’t think I’m capable of behaving with any honor. It isn’t simply a province of men, you know.”

  Now, all she saw was confusion on his face.

  She balled up her hands into fists and raised her gaze to the ceiling. “You thought I had an assignation with Mr. Seath.”

  “I did not. You misinterpreted.”

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t misinterpret anything, Morgan. You came close to accusing me of having an affair with the man. You thought I was Lillian.”

  He moved to the bureau, the same piece of furniture behind which she’d hidden a few weeks ago. He studied the mirror over it as if he’d never seen his face before. Then she realized he was looking at her in the reflection.

  “Do you think I’m like Lillian?”

  “I’ve never met anyone less like Lillian,” he said.

  She forced a smile to her face. “Because she was beautiful, of course.”

  He shook his head. “Because she wouldn’t have allowed a steward to touch her, let alone champion the man.”

  “He’s very ill. Why haven’t you done anything about it?”

  There was that look of confusion again.

  “What would you have me do, madam?”

  She didn’t like the tone in his voice.

  “I would have you give him a helper, an assistant. Have someone else do the brunt of his work. The man hasn’t long to live, Morgan.”

  “Oh? Are you now a physician?”

  “I have some acquaintance with his illness,” she said. “But it doesn’t require anyone with training, Morgan. All you need to do is look at the man. Or talk to him. You’re just like Catriona. Concerned only with yourself.”

  His face became a frozen mask.

  She slid from the bed, reeling from a wave of dizziness.

  “You are sick. Damn it, Jean.”

  She suddenly found herself in his arms again. This time she grabbed his shirt with both hands, closing her eyes and wishing the room wasn’t spinning so fast. They were in a vortex, a whirlpool like the one she’d once seen on the edge of the ocean. She could almost taste the salty brine on her lips, fee
l her hair thick and sticky.

  Was she hallucinating?

  “I think I saw a ghost,” she murmured faintly.

  “You could have seen the Pope, madam, for all I care at the moment.”

  How very Scots he sounded. She’d have to tell him that, when she could reason it out better.

  His heart was thudding fiercely beneath her ear. For all its rapid rhythm, it was a curiously comforting sound. She pressed herself against his chest, then realized he was lowering her onto the bed.

  If he wanted his way with her, she was just going to have to decline. Either that, or faint in the middle of lovemaking.

  Morgan had never, in his entire life, fed another human being. The annoyance he felt at Jean for not eating was fading beneath the sheer logistics of it all.

  First he had to prop her up on the pillows. Secondly, he had to ignore her protests, which was easier said than done. Jean could be very persuasive when she wished. Worse, she fixed a look on him as quelling as his father’s. Despite his worry, however, he was inclined to smile from time to time, which surprised him.

  He spooned a little of the soup, carried it to her mouth with a napkin beneath the spoon to catch any errant spills, and praised her when she took a sip.

  Jean was a querulous patient.

  She stared up at the ceiling between spoonfuls as if to chastise him for being too slow. Since he was new at this, he decided to ignore her.

  “I can only have gruel?” she asked.

  “It isn’t gruel, as you well know. It’s chicken soup. A very good chicken soup, I might add.”

  She was looking at the ceiling again.

  “After you’ve had your soup, and your stomach has had a chance to adjust to food, we can go on to mutton.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like mutton,” she said.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “You’re having mutton, with a little jelly on the side if you’re good.”

  She looked at the ceiling again.

  He followed her glance. All he saw above him was the pattern of gathers in the canopy over the bed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to find out what you find so favorable in the ceiling,” he said, still staring upward.

  She poked him in the ribs. “Are you going to continue to feed me, or let me starve?”

  “I think you were doing a very good job at that. Who goes for two days without eating?”

  “It wasn’t two days,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

  “However long it was, it was foolish.”

  She only shrugged.

  “Do you really think I’m like your sister?” he asked.

  She looked down at the sheet. He wasn’t going to speak until she answered him.

  “You both seem to be extraordinarily interested in yourselves,” she said after a moment had passed. “To the exclusion of everyone else.”

  He didn’t know how to answer that.

  She sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling again.

  “Do you do that on purpose in order to annoy me?” he asked.

  “I’ve found,” she said, “that it doesn’t take much to annoy you.”

  He sat back, spoon in his hand forgotten. She took it from his grasp and began to feed herself. She wasn’t looking so pale now.

  When the knock on the door came, he called out. A moment later two maids entered, each of them carrying a small portion of Jean’s meager possessions. She set the spoon down and stared at him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’ve decided,” he said, feeling very despotic, “if you won’t take care of yourself, someone shall have to. I had a choice. Hire a nursemaid for you or do it myself.”

  She glanced at the two girls, then back at him. Yes, he’d spoken in front of the staff, but it had to be done.

  He studied both of the maids. “Anything you hear in this room is not to be discussed with anyone else. Is that understood?”

  The two girls nodded, carefully keeping their gaze from Jean.

  After they’d left the room, she frowned at him.

  “Do you think that’s going to alter their behavior?” she asked, evidently annoyed. “They’re going to whisper what they heard and saw all over Ballindair.”

  She wasn’t looking at the ceiling now. She wasn’t looking at anything. She leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes, and he was chagrined to see one tiny tear travel from the corner of her eye down her cheek. She brushed it away impatiently.

  “Do you care so much about what they think of you?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think I would,” she said, not opening her eyes. “Isn’t it funny, but I find I do. I didn’t know very many of them all that well. But we were all maids together. And now I don’t seem to fit in anywhere.”

  He took the bowl and spoon and placed it on the tray table beside him.

  “I thought the same thing in London,” he said. “Neither fish nor fowl. I was still an earl, but I had shocked everyone by my actions.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “Did you care so very much about what they thought of you?” she asked.

  “I didn’t think I would,” he said, repeating her words with a smile. “But I found I did, very much.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  Now that was a question no one had asked him. Did it hurt?

  Surprisingly, he found himself telling her the truth.

  “Yes,” he said. “I expected people to understand. What I’d done was preferable to enduring Lillian’s infidelity. Instead, I wasn’t viewed as noble as much as scandalous.”

  “People see scandal where they will,” she said softly.

  Her gaze was on the window and the view beyond. He wondered what she was really seeing. Something that made her sad, or at least pensive.

  “They will take the most noble of actions and twist it around until it’s evil,” she said.

  He had the most curious wish to tend to her. To care for her as he never wanted to do before for another person.

  He wanted to know everything there was to know about her, an interest he’d never felt before for another human being. She divulged very little of herself and only on a reciprocal basis.

  Another thing he’d never done, share himself.

  Had he always been so restricted in his speech and emotions? With everyone, perhaps, but Andrew. And even with Andrew he’d had pockets of secrecy, things he’d never shared with anyone but Jean.

  “You said you thought you saw a ghost,” he said. “Was it just any ghost? Or a certain one?”

  Again she had that far-off gaze.

  “I think it was the French Nun,” she said. She turned her head to look at him. “I think I just made out her shape.”

  “Any words of wisdom from the old gal?”

  Her fleeting smile summoned his own.

  “Things like: ‘Don’t trust the MacCraigs?’ No, nothing.”

  “Did she at least moan or groan?”

  “She shimmered. She looked like moonlight. Or the reflection of the sun on the surface of a loch.”

  He brought the plate of mutton closer. Like it or not, she was going to eat some of it, then he was going to tuck her in and remain at her side.

  The fact that he was being so protective should have worried him. Instead, it felt oddly right.

  Chapter 27

  RULES FOR STAFF: Damages and breakages shall be deducted from your wages.

  When her parents were gone, Jean had assumed the role of mother for Catriona. Or, at the very least, wise elder sister. But no one had cared for her in so long, as Morgan was now, that it brought tears to her eyes.

  He startled her by removing his shoes, sitting on the edge of the bed and moving to her side. Before she could protest or even ask what he was doing, he extended his arm behind her back and pulled her close to him.

  “You were trembling,” he said.

  “An extra blanket would do,” she sai
d.

  He didn’t have a response to that, merely shelved his chin on top of her head. She allowed herself to place her hand against his shirt and tuck her head against his chest.

  His heart beat steady and loud. If she closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax, she might fall asleep right here.

  “I thought she was going to offer me advice,” she said.

  “Who?”

  His voice rumbled against her cheek. What a lovely voice he had. The longer he was home, the more his voice sounded normal, not English at all.

  “The French Nun,” she said.

  “What kind of advice? If not stay away from the Murderous MacCraigs, that is?”

  The amusement in his tone made her smile sleepily.

  “You realize, of course, that Ballindair’s ghosts are probably a figment of an ancestor’s imagination,” he said. “My family was known as the Murderous MacCraigs for generations. They had a good reason to spread the tales of a ghost or two.”

  She glanced up at him. “The better to scare their enemies?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Except they aren’t warrior ghosts. Just the Herald, and no one ever hears from him. They’re all poor women, weeping at the way they were treated by MacCraig men. That would hardly impress an enemy.”

  “Oh, they weren’t all that bad.”

  “The French Nun is an example of how bad one of them was.”

  She waited a few minutes, then asked the question bothering her since the maids appeared. Her parents had shared one room all her life, but her father hadn’t been a peer. Nor had they lived in a place like Ballindair.

  “Is it entirely normal for us to share a room?”

  “Nothing has been normal about this marriage from the very beginning. I see no reason to attempt to replicate normalcy at this late date.”

  She frowned at him. “What if I gave you my word I won’t go in search of Ballindair’s ghosts?”

  After the episode in the West Tower, she was giving a great deal of thought to ghost hunting only during the daytime. Having the entire staff at Ballindair watch as she was carted off to bed had been embarrassing.

  “I wouldn’t believe you,” he said.

  “How very insulting,” she said. “It’s true, then.”