A Scandalous Scot

by Karen Ranney

  Before she could speak, Jean said, “When you were a little girl, people used to stop Mother in the street and tell her what a lovely child you were. You’ve only grown prettier, at least on the outside.”

  Catriona smiled. She always liked being complimented.

  “I don’t think, however, that you’ve given as much attention to your character as you have your hair or your wardrobe.”

  Jean sat back in the chair, folded her hands on her lap and regarded her sister somberly.

  “I’ve brought Donalda back to Ballindair,” she said. “I don’t want any other accusations made against her. Whatever problems you had with the girl, you’re not to attempt to get her into trouble again. Is that understood?”

  A flush colored Catriona’s cheeks. “How very countesslike you sound, sister.”

  “Is that understood, Catriona?”

  Catriona abruptly sat on the chair opposite Jean, her skirts billowing.

  “Everyone knows a thief isn’t to be trusted.”

  “She isn’t a thief,” Jean said.

  Catriona studied her for a moment, then said, “Andrew told.”

  “On the contrary, he didn’t have to say a word. Your actions speak for themselves.”

  “She’d been beastly to me, Jean. She called me a name and she tells stories.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  Catriona looked away.

  “That you’ve been sharing Andrew’s bed? Everyone already knows.”

  Catriona stared directly at her. “You didn’t.”

  Jean nodded. “I did,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because I didn’t know what to say,” Jean admitted. “Or maybe I didn’t want to believe it.”

  Catriona’s smile altered in character, turning a little sad. “Haven’t you learned, Jean, that wanting something not to be doesn’t make it so?”

  For a moment they were simply sisters again, holding onto each other in a world gone mad.

  Jean leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “I see nothing good coming from this situation, Catriona. Sooner or later Andrew will leave, and what will become of you? You’ll just be a memory to him.”

  “I don’t care, Jean. It’s not as if I love him.”

  Before her marriage, that statement would’ve shocked Jean to her toes. Now, she understood.

  “You enjoy his lovemaking,” she said.

  Catriona looked startled by that comment. “I would ask you the same about the earl, but I can see I don’t have to,” she said.

  Jean could feel warmth bathe her face. “Morgan is very kind,” she said. “A very thoughtful person.”

  “A man will do a great many things simply to get a woman into his bed and keep her there,” Catriona said. “Andrew will do anything for me.”

  Perhaps it had been avarice that led her sister astray instead of passion.

  “Are you willing to trade your body for whatever you can acquire?”

  “It’s my only asset, Jean. What else would you have me use?”

  “Is it too much to want you to act in a decent manner?”

  Catriona smiled. “You’re lecturing me? You became a countess because you were found in the earl’s bedroom.”

  Jean closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was too late to wish Catriona to be an innocent. Too late for a great many things. She opened her eyes and looked at her sister.

  “The world will judge you harshly, Catriona,” she said, feeling as if she’d aged ten years in the last five minutes. “They won’t know of your past or your grief. They won’t realize you’re afraid.”

  Catriona looked as if she wanted to say something, then subsided in silence.

  “All they’ll see,” Jean continued, “is a greedy, grasping woman.”

  “I don’t care what they see,” Catriona said.

  But in her face was a shadow of the child she’d been, the sister Jean had tried to protect.

  “I won’t let you be a spider at Ballindair,” Jean said. “Trapping people in your web.”

  Catriona laughed merrily. “How foolish you can be, Jean. Is it becoming a countess? You were so much easier to deal with when you were a simple maid. You’ve become so virtuous. Tell me, have you told Morgan who you are?”

  Jean stood, wanting to take herself off someplace to hide. Strangely, the first location that entered her mind was the sitting room in the Laird’s Tower. Morgan might be there.

  He might question her about this meeting, but he might also open his arms, allow her to lean her head against his shoulder and simply be comforted for a while.

  As Jean left the room, the truth struck her with the force of the blow. As much as she might dislike what her sister had said, of the two of them, Catriona was more honest.

  Night was so damned late in coming in Scotland. When Catriona hinted that she might come to him, Andrew waited patiently, until it seemed dawn would arrive before full darkness.

  Tonight, she’d arrived, undressed in front of him, and let him take her to his bed. An interlude of madness, and so much more than lovemaking. At times he could swear his soul left his body to tangle among the clouds. Then, lonely for her presence, it would fly back into his body again.

  Perhaps he should take up poetry.

  “Come to London with me,” he said, pulling Catriona on top of him. He laughed as she tossed her head back and forth, sending her blond curls dancing across his chest. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Are you?” she asked, almost disinterestedly.

  “I’ll set you up in your own lodgings,” he said.

  Instead of answering, she traced a path of freckles across his shoulder to the base of his throat, interested in his physical imperfections.

  He’d never felt this way for a woman.

  “I’m asking you to be my mistress,” he said.

  Her look held nothing of surprise or joy. Instead, she looked bored.

  “I’ve never made that offer to a woman,” he said, annoyed.

  “I suppose there must be a time for everything.”

  Irritation seeped through him along with another emotion he wasn’t comfortable at identifying. Who was he to feel fear at a woman’s reaction? Once he was back in London, he could have any woman he wanted, one each night for months to come.

  None of them, however, would be like Catriona.

  “Does that mean you won’t?”

  She climbed off him, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, uncaring for her nakedness. Of course, any woman with a body like hers shouldn’t mind. Her blond hair tumbled down her back, and he wanted to stroke it.

  He wanted her again—improvidently, imprudently, insanely.

  “Well?”

  She turned to face him, a half smile gracing her well-kissed lips.

  “Shall I come to London with you?” She’d placed a fingertip against the edge of her smile, as if considering the matter. “I really don’t know, Andrew,” she said. “Shall I?”

  He looked away before he begged.

  “What kind of lodgings?” she asked.

  “A town house, perhaps,” he said. “In a fashionable square. I’m a very wealthy man.” He slid his hand down her arm. “And, if you have a child, I’ll support him as well.”

  She looked at him speculatively, as if gauging the truth of his statement. Did he need to take her to see his banker?

  “A carriage,” she said, and he knew he’d won.

  Once he got her back in London, this insane fascination would ease. He’d be able to see what she was, simply a woman with beauty and a willful personality. If he tired of her, he’d suggest several friends who might want to take over her care.

  “A carriage,” he said, smiling.

  “And a generous sum for shopping. I detest wearing the same clothes over and over.”

  He nodded, agreeing, happy again.

  And damned glad to see the last of Scotland.

  Chapter 32

  RULES FOR STA
FF: Seniority is granted those with more than five years service.

  How had Seath done it all those years?

  Morgan tucked the ledger under his arm and made for the stable. According to the timetable the steward had given him, the quarterly inventory for tack, animals, and feed was due. After that he had to address the seamstress’s concerns about fabric, additional clothing for the staff, as well as talk to the manager of the dairy operations to ensure the problem with low milk production was a temporary matter and not a possible concern.

  Even if he subtracted the home farms, the sheep, the woods, the various fishing endeavors, and the stables, Ballindair itself required a huge outlay of funds and time.

  He didn’t begrudge the money spent on his ancestral home, but he was exhausted from merely trying to keep up with Mr. Seath, let alone outstrip any of his steward’s accomplishments.

  How had Jean done it for a week?

  He’d been an ardent bridegroom then, and had kept her up half the night. In the morning, when he’d wondered idly where his bride had gotten to, she was performing tasks that would fell an ordinary man.

  At the moment, he felt regrettably ordinary.

  And not a little ashamed of himself.

  These weeks at Ballindair had felt curiously expectant. He knew what he’d been waiting for now—his life. Who was he? What did he want to accomplish, now that he couldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps? Twin questions he hadn’t asked since London. What stunned him was the realization that the answers didn’t come quickly or with ease.

  He heard a squishing sound, looked down at his pristine boots—self-polished since he didn’t have a valet—and sighed. A reminder, then, to look where he walked. That advice was good for the rest of his life, too.

  Up until now, he hadn’t given all that much thought to what his steward had done. Had he been blind? Evidently so, and in more than one area.

  “Is it true?” he’d asked Seath on returning from Donalda’s cottage. “Did my father clear out the crofters for sheep?”

  The man looked even paler on being asked the question. He stared at the far wall as if he wished to be anywhere but his sick bed.

  Morgan reached out, placed his hand on the man’s arm.

  “Why?”

  With a sigh, Seath turned and looked at him. “Your father was a very careful man about Ballindair,” he said.

  Morgan nodded. Lessons of frugality had been taught him since he was a boy.

  “But surely Ballindair is in no financial danger?” If so, he would simply transfer some money from the distilleries.

  Seath shook his head.

  “Then why would he do such a thing?”

  “Your father was a difficult man in many instances, Your Lordship. Everything, to him, must pull its own weight. If the income from harvesting the trees was lacking, then we stopped cutting them until wood brought us a better price. If the fishing production was not as good one year, then he brought the boats in.”

  “And the crofters?”

  “Sheep were more profitable.”

  There was that faraway look again.

  “So he replaced people with sheep?” Morgan asked.

  Seath nodded.

  All his life, he’d held up his father as the epitome of honor and decency. Yet in that one act, the 8th earl became human.

  Jean was right. He’d been looking at his father through the eyes of a child.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” he said, standing. “Thank you, also, for trying to make right what you could. What happened to the families?”

  Mr. Seath smiled weakly. “We have, perhaps, a sight more footmen than we need, Your Lordship. And the dairy maids hardly need to number ten. But it was all I could do.”

  Morgan nodded, thinking of Donalda’s father and brother. He explained the situation to Seath, surprised when the man began to smile.

  “The man would make a good boatman,” Seath said. “He doesn’t need legs for that. Fishing is good this year. And the lad could be trained, in time, in a skill at Ballindair.”

  Another of his tasks today, to find a place for the family. A place close enough so Donalda’s father could walk home after work. Perhaps they could build something, past Strath Dalross, near the river. A comfortable little cottage to make up for the one that had been burned one night.

  Smiling, Morgan continued walking and planning.

  The last time Jean had seen Morgan was when she was dressing for the day.

  At least, that’s what she’d intended on doing.

  He’d grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling her neck where her wrapper had fallen open.

  For a moment she allowed herself the luxury of indulging in his touch and the kiss he gave her when he spun her around.

  Morgan, naked in the dawn’s light, was a sight to behold.

  She stood on tiptoe to press her cheek against his. His skin was warm, his morning beard scratchy. Tears pressed against her eyelids and threatened to fall.

  Her hands wrapped around his shoulders and she hugged him, wishing she had the power to stop time. If she did, she’d choose this moment of silence and need.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She drew back.

  “For what?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know if I can explain it,” he said. “Thank you for being you.”

  “A strange compliment,” she said, “but I’ll take it.”

  He kissed her in response, and for a few moments thought flew right out of her head.

  When they separated, she smiled at him, feeling as if the world was a bright and beautiful place. That sentiment warmed her all morning, up until the time she reached Mr. Seath’s room.

  “You just missed the earl,” he said faintly. “He’s off to the stables.”

  If anything, the steward looked more ill than he had a day earlier. Dark circles lay beneath his dull eyes. His hair was lank against his head,

  “Is there any family we can summon for you?” she asked, sitting beside his bed.

  The time had come, perhaps, to make preparations. His faint smile was an acknowledgment of her thought.

  “Ballindair has been all the family I ever wanted or needed.” His smile faded. “That’s sad, isn’t it? To have a love for a building. A structure cannot hug you or hold you, or touch your hand.”

  She moved the chair closer, sat, and reached out and took one of his hands, clasping it between her own.

  “Has the physician given you anything for the pain?”

  “There’s nothing more he can do,” Seath said.

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “I’m proud of him,” he said. “The earl. Morgan. He’s taken on the burden of Ballindair.”

  She nodded.

  “He has it within him to be a great man.”

  Again she nodded.

  “You’ll need to tell him, of course,” he said, his voice faint.

  “I know,” she softly said. Her secret was always with her, keeping pace with her, walking side by side and whispering to her in the early morning hours.

  “You were a good maid, Jean.”

  She smiled. “I was a good maid.”

  The steward kept journals about the purchases and expenditures on Ballindair’s behalf. He’d also told her that throughout the years, he’d kept notes that might be relevant to succeeding generations.

  Had he written about her? What had he said? Just the bare facts of the situation? Or would he append his own thoughts? On this date, wed to the 9th Earl of Denbleigh, one single woman, once resident of Inverness and upstairs maid.

  “You’ll be a good countess.”

  She shrugged.

  “Is it that you don’t believe in yourself? Or are you afraid of the future?”

  The future was frightening for both of them, wasn’t it?

  “If the earl sends you away, then he’s a fool.”

  “He probably will,” she said. “He would have no reason to keep
me.”

  He only smiled weakly, and she could tell he’d exhausted himself.

  She rearranged his pillows, reached for the cup of tea she’d brewed him earlier, and helped him drink the last of it.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. Weeping in front of him wouldn’t be wise, but it was hard to push back her tears.

  “Stay with him, if you can. He needs you more than he knows.”

  “If I can,” she said. What she didn’t say was that she needed Morgan as well. Or perhaps Mr. Seath already knew, because he only patted her hand.

  When the time came, she would sit vigil with him, praying to ease his pain. For now, she stood and bent over the bed, surprising them both when she kissed him on the forehead.

  The time would be soon.

  Nodding to Tom, the young man assigned to care for the steward, she left Mr. Seath’s room, to find her aunt pacing in the hall. The older woman was dressed in her usual manner of dark blue dress, white apron, and lace cap resting on her coronet. The only changes in her demeanor were her clenched hands and a decided look of worry.

  “Do you know where Catriona is?” Aunt Mary asked in greeting.

  “I haven’t seen her this morning,” Jean said, moving away from Mr. Seath’s room so as not to disturb him. “Have you checked with the seamstresses?”

  Aunt Mary shook her head. “They haven’t seen her, either.”

  That was strange.

  “I don’t think she’s here. She’s not in her room, and she isn’t anywhere to be found,” her aunt said, a wrinkle deepening above the bridge of her nose.

  Jean stared at her in dismay. “Where do you think she is?”

  Had her words sent Catriona fleeing from Ballindair? If so, it would be the first time her sister had paid any heed to what she’d said.

  “Mr. Prender is also gone.”

  Jean understood immediately. “And you think she’s gone with him?”

  Aunt Mary nodded, and told her in a whisper, “The earl sent him packing. He left this morning without a word to any of us or a tip to the maids.” The frown returned in earnest. “And left a mess.”

  Jean had a sinking feeling.

  “She’s my sister’s girl, and she’s not been raised to be a strumpet.”