“Can I help you?” the man said, but Jack shook his head. Suddenly he was keen to be gone.
“No,” he said. “Thank you.”
He felt the man’s eyes on him all the way down the path, but he did not look back. He unhitched the reins and threw himself up into the saddle without bothering to lead the horse over to the mounting block, and kicked the stallion to a gallop. He knew he could not outrun the memories.
And he knew that no one could help him.
CHAPTER SIX
MAIRI STAYED THE second night of her journey with Lord and Lady Gowrie at Lochgowrie Castle near Kinlochleven. It was nice to be in a private house rather than an inn, to eat well, to have good company, hot water and a bed the size of Dunbartonshire. As she took a bath before dinner to wash away the aches and pains of the journey, she reflected that she was in all probability spoiled. Wealth and privilege tended to do that to a person even when that person was as aware as she that the privilege came with a very high price.
Maria Gowrie was a friend of hers and fellow member of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society. They dined quietly together, just the three of them, for Maria said rather plaintively that their neighbors, the Duke and Duchess of Dent, had refused their invitation since they too had a guest.
“The cousin of the Marquis of Methven,” Maria said. “Jack Rutherford. I did ask him if he would like to join our party here, but he is so in demand. He already had three invitations.”
Mairi rolled her eyes. Even here it seemed impossible to escape Jack. If he was not actually present, then people were still talking about him.
“I asked the Dents if they would all care to join us for dinner, but Anne Dent wishes to keep Mr. Rutherford for herself,” Maria continued.
“Probably has him in mind as her next lover,” her husband grunted, signaling to the footman to serve more beef. “I hear Dent isn’t up to much these days.”
“I hear Jack Rutherford is the best lover in all Scotland,” Maria said.
“I hear he’s a fine fly fisherman and a first-rate shot,” her spouse countered.
“And I hear far too much about him,” Mairi said. She felt irritated. It seemed that people could not get enough of Jack, whereas she had already had far too much of him.
“May we speak of something else?” she said. “Do you anticipate good sport on your salmon rivers this summer?”
The conversation turned from fishing to the series of scientific lectures that were taking place in Edinburgh later in the year and from there to a variety of other topics, but much to Mairi’s annoyance when she retired to the cavernous bedroom, taking a Highland terrier with her for warmth, she found she could not sleep. The dog’s snores rose to the ceiling, but Mairi lay wakeful, thinking of Jack Rutherford. It was not that she wanted to think about him. In fact, it annoyed her immensely that she could not seem to stop thinking about him. And when she finally fell asleep, it was to dream about Jack too and all the vivid, heated detail of the night they had spent together. In her dreams the loneliness she felt was banished and she was loved. It was intense and overwhelming and wonderful, but then she woke and realized that she was alone and the sense of isolation almost crushed her. She hugged the dog tightly. It was hardly the same, but its warmth was comforting.
She felt tired and heavy-eyed at breakfast, and not even the sparkle of the sun on Loch Leven and the softness of the Highland air could lift her spirits. It seemed as though she felt every jolt and jerk of the carriage that day. She pressed straight on at Fort William and finally stopped for the night at the Cluanie Inn long after the sun had dropped behind the mountains and the thick blue shadows of dusk were gathering over the glen. The inn was quiet; from behind the parlor door came the low murmur of voices and the clink of glasses, but Mairi was too tired to wish for anything but supper in her chamber and the comfort of a well-sprung bed.
“Mr. Rutherford is staying here tonight,” Jessie said, bringing in a steaming ewer of hot water. “Only fancy the coincidence!”
Mairi groaned aloud. In truth, it was not much of a coincidence. There was only one route to Methven, and there were not many inns along the way, but it irritated her that Jack was making the same journey at the same time she was.
“As long as he does not think to share my parlor tonight,” she said.
“The landlord says he dines with the lord lieutenant and some military gentleman,” Jessie announced importantly as though she had made it her life’s work to study Jack’s social diary.
While Jessie took one of her gowns to be pressed for the next day’s journey, Mairi slipped down the stairs to make sure that Frazer and the men were comfortably accommodated for the night. They had rooms over the stables, as the inn was small. The cobbled yard was quiet and the sweet scent of hay mixed with the more pungent smell of the dung. Only one of the boxes was open and a fine bay stallion poked his head inquisitively over the door as Mairi walked past, nudging at her for a stroke on the nose. He was very powerful—Mairi was a strong rider herself, but she was not sure she would be able to control him—and he was beautiful too with the rising moonlight gleaming on his coat and reflecting in his dark, intelligent eyes.
Mairi jumped as a man pushed open the tack room door and strolled out into the yard, whistling under his breath. It was Jack, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, a bucket in his hand. He had not seen her in the shadows; he moved across to the pump, put the bucket down on the cobbles and splashed the water over his head and neck. The droplets glittered in the darkness, the water running down the strong line of his throat to soak the linen of his shirt. He looked damp and disheveled and thoroughly delicious, and her throat dried to see him and her heart gave an errant thump. It was annoying, this effect he had on her, even if it was no more than a physical reaction. She could have done without it.
She must have made some movement because Jack turned quickly, his hand going to the knife that was stuck in his belt.
“Interesting reactions,” Mairi said, “for a man who lives in these peaceful times.”
Jack laughed, his teeth showing white in the darkness. “It’s always best to be prepared, Lady Mairi, peacetime or not. I beg your pardon if I startled you.”
“Not at all,” Mairi said. “I carry a knife too.”
“I remember,” Jack said. There was something in his voice that made Mairi wish she had not reminded him, something of their previous intimacy when she had given him her dirk and let him slice through her laces. She shivered to remember the raw desperation that had driven her then. She felt her cheeks warm and was glad that it was too dark for Jack to see. She did not want him making her blush as though she were a debutante.
“What are you doing here at Cluanie?” she said. “Are you following me?”
Jack’s smile mocked her. “There is only one road to Methven,” he said, “so forgive me for using it at the same time as Your Ladyship.”
He came over and leaned on the stable door, stroking the velvet nose of the stallion, speaking softly to him. His shoulder was turned to her and it felt as though he was pointedly excluding her.
“He’s a beautiful horse,” Mairi said. “Do you tend him yourself?” She was not sure why she was prolonging the conversation with him when it was clear he had no particular desire to speak with her. Perhaps it was the darkness that was hovering at the corners of her mind, so much blacker and more suffocating than the Highland night. It stalked her, this depression of spirits, waiting until she was alone and vulnerable, and just now she was afraid to be on her own in case it swarmed in to claim her.
“Unlike you, I do not travel with an army of servants,” Jack said dryly. He closed the stable door and started to roll down his sleeves. “I prefer it this way,” he said. “I have always worked for a living one way or another. I would be lost with nothing to do.”
“Your implication being that I l
ive a life of idle luxury,” Mairi said. The criticism stung her. He had no notion how hard she worked.
Jack gave a half shrug. “If you like.”
“I don’t.” Mairi said. She felt a flash of temper that he should judge her so carelessly. “You have no idea what I do with my time.”
Jack straightened up, propping his broad shoulders against the doorjamb, and looked at her unsmilingly.
“I know that you seduce men at masked balls,” he said.
“No, you don’t,” Mairi said. Her anger burned a little brighter. It felt good, warming, making her feel alive. “You know only your own experience of me,” she said. “You have no idea how I behave with other people. You are basing your judgment on a sample of one.”
This time Jack smiled, and dipped his head, conceding the hit. “You are a bluestocking,” he said. “Are we going to have a philosophical discussion about probability? About the likelihood that I was not the first?”
Their eyes met, locked. “I don’t think so,” Mairi said. “I prefer not to explain myself to anyone.”
“No,” Jack said. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You simply prefer to control everyone.”
Mairi felt startled. She realized it was true. She also realized that no one had put it into words before. It was odd that Jack Rutherford, who knew her so little, could apparently read her so easily—odd, and disconcerting.
“I have been on my own a long time,” she found herself explaining after all. “It breeds independence.”
“Four years since your husband died,” Jack said.
A lot longer than that....
The words seemed to hang between them even though she had not spoken.
“Do you miss him?” Jack sounded abrupt.
“Of course.” She had to be careful. There was danger here. Everyone thought that she was the archetypal merry widow who hid her grief beneath a mask of gaiety. They thought her brave and stoical, her flirtations a distraction from the grief of loss. And to a large extent that was true. Except that it was not a husband that she grieved for.
“He was my best friend,” she said.
She felt Jack shift beside her. “An interesting choice of words,” he said. “Not your soul mate, or—” He sounded mocking. “Your love?”
The word lacerated her with its irony.
“We were childhood friends turned—”
“Lovers?”
“Husband and wife,” she corrected.
And even that was a lie.
She could sense Jack looking at her through the gathering darkness.
“No passion, then.” He was quick, too quick. She felt vulnerable, unmasked already. “I see.”
He waited for her to contradict him, to issue some conventional denial, but the words were locked in her throat and she could not force out the lie. She stared at him whilst the shadows gathered more deeply about them. He put out a hand and touched her sleeve quite gently, but suddenly it felt as though the slight contact scalded her. She felt it again then, the lightning flash of attraction and the awareness that was exciting and terrifying at the same time. She trembled.
No, there had been no passion between her and Archie, but now, here with Jack, she was shaking with the force of it.
She started to walk across the cobbled courtyard, heading for the inn door. If she could only make it into the light, where there was noise and people, she would be safe from this dangerous temptation. But Jack kept pace with her effortlessly, within touching distance. She only had to reach out and she knew she would be in his arms, and she wanted to kiss him, she wanted him, with a hunger that was even fiercer than before.
“I hear you stayed with the Dents last night,” she said. Her voice sounded thin even in her own ears. She was trying to think of anything to distract herself now from the urge to kiss him. She felt dizzy. Her head buzzed. She had never known physical attraction and certainly had not realized that it could feel as though she had drunk too much too quickly.
“You seem very interested in my movements,” Jack said, “for someone who claims to want nothing to do with me.” He sounded amused, assured. He was making no effort to touch her and yet she felt like prey. She shivered and quickened her pace.
“I heard that you stayed with the Gowries,” Jack said.
So he had been asking about her too. Mairi felt a quick flicker of pleasure even though she knew she should not. If it was as easy as this for Jack to seduce her again, she should be ashamed.
“Dinner was good,” she said. “You missed some fine salmon. But I understand you were too busy to join us. So many people competing for the pleasure of your company.”
Jack grinned. “It’s a constant problem for me.”
“I’m sure,” Mairi said tartly. She was starting to feel a little steadier, and the inn door was only twenty feet away now.
“Don’t you find the same?” Jack asked. “When you are rich beyond the dreams of avarice, Lady Mairi, the world wants to be your friend.”
“No,” Mairi said. “I don’t find that. But then I am not as cynical as you are, Mr. Rutherford. Or perhaps I just have nicer friends. We tend to attract the friends that we deserve.”
Jack laughed. “Touché,” he said. “Where do you find yours? Do you pick them up at masked balls, as well?”
Mairi just managed to repress a gasp. “Very seldom,” she said. “That usually ends badly.”
“Do you think so?” Jack said. “I thought it ended rather well.”
“It ended,” Mairi said. “That is the point.”
“Are you sure about that?” Jack said softly. “Your continued interest in me rather argues the reverse.”
Mairi smiled. “Unfortunately my interest in you will always be a pale imitation of your fascination with yourself. You don’t really need any other admirers, do you, Mr. Rutherford?”
She reached for the handle of the door and stepped inside. Instantly light, warmth and sound enveloped her. She felt ridiculously relieved as though she had escaped some sort of danger. Foolish. She had probably imagined it all, the flare of attraction, the leap of desire and that troubling but exciting undercurrent of antagonism, as though he had not quite forgiven her for deceiving him.
“Please don’t pay my shot here like you did at Inverbeg,” she said. “And preferably spare me the pleasure of your company again until we reach Methven.”
She saw Jack smile. He shut the door very quietly behind them.
“You are trying to take control again,” he said. He looked at her, his gaze thoughtful. “I don’t take orders.”
Without warning he stepped closer to her, narrowing the gap between their bodies to nothing. In the small flagged hallway, there was nowhere to go. Mairi could not breathe for the smell of his skin, the mingled scent of sweat and fresh air and leather. It went straight to her head again like champagne, and like champagne it also made her knees feel weak and her toes curl in her shoes.
Jack brought up his hand to stroke the curve of her cheek very gently. “All I want,” he said, “is to have you in my bed again.”
Mairi gasped. She was trembling even more now. His gentleness confused her, mixed as it was with such stark desire. The confusion kept her still for a moment, enabling him to move the last foot to take her in his arms.
He kissed her, his lips moving against hers with a possessive demand that stole both her breath and her resistance. When he finally drew back, her emotions felt so shaken up that she could feel the tears prickling her throat. It was essential that she protect herself before Jack saw how vulnerable she was. Panic clawed at her. She felt so exposed. He could not know how he had made her feel.
“We are going over old ground,” she said. “Good night, Mr. Rutherford.”
She stepped back and saw his arms fall to his side. Saw the expression
in his eyes dissolve into blankness. She turned and hurried up the stairs. She was still shaking when she reached the safety of her room. She wished Jack Rutherford had not come back into her life.
* * *
THE SHEEP’S HEAD alehouse in Edinburgh’s Candlemaker Row had seen its fair share of miscreants over the years, and when a tall, dark man clad in a ragged jerkin and trews slid inside at close to eleven on a rainy night, no one spared him a glance other than to growl out an order to shut the door and be quick about it. The newcomer brought with him a strange mix of scents: fresh rain-washed streets, the smell of tobacco and the stench of prisons, but that too was not unusual in the Sheep’s Head. The landlord cast him a sharp look and jerked his head toward a door at the back of the taproom. The man nodded and slipped through it, silent as a ghost.
“Cardross.”
The gentleman who was waiting for him did not stand to greet him, nor did he extend a hand, which was a sign of how far the former Earl of Cardross had fallen. His title stripped from him, his estates confiscated, the fugitive former earl was a shadow of the fine lord he had once been. He knew it and he resented it fiercely, but feral cunning prompted him to play this hand carefully. It was the only one he had.
“Do I know you?” Cardross asked, taking the chair opposite the other man and resting his elbows on the battered table. He appraised his companion. An ordinary-looking man, large, fair, not remotely dangerous in appearance and probably all too easily underestimated as a result.
“No,” the man said. “Though we have...friends...in common.”
Cardross grinned. “Was it your friends who sprang me from the jail?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” the other man said.
Cardross waited, but it seemed that silence was a quality his companion was comfortable with, for he said nothing else, merely letting his gaze, pale and thoughtful, rest on Cardross’s face. After a moment he snapped his fingers and a servant, lurking in the shadows, brought a tankard of ale and a plate of cold mutton pie. Cardross fell on them like the starving animal he was while once again his companion was silent, watching him eat.
One Night with the Laird Page 7