“Okay?” Jenna groaned. “Of course. This is how I feel every day. How could I have forgotten?”
His shoulders relaxed a little and he rubbed his eyes. “What I meant was, I don’t think you’ve been done any permanent harm. And you’re safe here.”
She peeked from behind the hands cradling her head and squinted at him. “Am I? I am in nothing but my shift, lying in someone else’s bed, in front of a person I barely know. Apparently, this is a sense I have not yet associated with the term safe.”
He chuckled. “Well, at least we know you still have your wits.”
She sighed and pulled the quilt closer to her chin. “Somehow, I don’t think that was what those abominable men were after.” She paused and glanced at the sleeping young Tavish with his almonds. “Where is Mrs. Wigginton?”
“In the kitchens, I’d assume. I see you’ve noted our chaperone.” Lord Pembroke nodded toward the lad and pulled a chair closer to the bed. “The stubborn woman insisted on complete decorum when I informed her I would be staying. She said your father would have her drawn and quartered if we were left unaccompanied. I argued that I would attend to you, but apparently she felt your family’s young lad would do a much better job.”
Jenna looked at him, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly so as not to set off a new ripple of pain. “Whose room is this?”
“We’re at the back of the kitchens. The room belongs to our parish priest. He’s off visiting the infirm for a few days and won’t need it tonight.”
She bit her lip and tried to think clearly. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A few hours. You may not recall, but we came straight to the kitchens. When Mrs. Wigginton saw you, and started asking questions, your speech was so muddled she decided that sleep was of the first order. It was the only way she could tend to your wounds. You were quite uncooperative,” he added.
“And how did I come to be . . . in my shift?” She was unwilling to make eye contact.
“Don’t worry. Mrs. Wigginton had me wait in the hall,” he said, looking skyward. He paused for a moment and then took a breath. “Do you make a practice of carrying a weapon?”
“Yes, and I make a practice of using it.”
“Did your . . . family teach you how?”
The word family made her jolt. “My family,” she said, and regretted the sudden movement. “Did you send anyone in search of them?”
“No,” he said with a tilt to his head. “You were quite insistent about that. And Mrs. Wigginton said that since your wounds were not life-threatening, the men could come back tomorrow and fret then, but at least they’d have their supplies.”
Thank goodness. Jenna again rested her head gently on her pillow. “She’s a practical Scot.” A quiet moment passed between them. “So you needn’t stay,” Jenna told him. “I have Mrs. Wigginton and”—she paused to stare at the immobile Tavish—“my vigilant attendant.”
“Yes,” Lord Pembroke said, looking at her and then lamentably at the door. “I really must go. There are things—”
Mrs. Wigginton bustled through the door with a tray. “How are ye feeling, lass? Head hurting like someone’s taken a chisel to it? Oh aye,” she went on, ignoring Jenna’s pained expression. “The tea wi’ the cherry bark will help ease the pain a bit. And I’ve brought ye some broth. It’ll restore some of your strength, although I dare say you’re a tough nut to crack. From what I’ve heard, ye defended yourself like a cornered wolf.”
There was no time to answer, for Jenna realized the housekeeper was content to keep a running conversation by herself. Mrs. Wigginton handed her the steaming mug of tea. She put it under her nose and separated the scents: chamomile, peppermint, comfrey, and a trace of almond too. Mrs. Wigginton put the tray on the cupboard with the candle and turned to Tavish. “Wha—?” She pinched his arm and he yelped awake. “Och, ye silly clout. What use have ye been to me? Neither watchful nor shelling!” She huffed and then, looking at his fearful face, reached into her apron pocket and handed him a biscuit.
“It’s high time you leave now, milord. This is entirely improper, you being here.” She stood, roughened red hands on her ample hips.
“I agree, Mrs. Wigginton. But I need just a moment more. I won’t be long.” Seeing the concern growing in the housekeeper’s face, he added, “I promise not to tax her unnecessarily if I find her temperament suffering.”
Mrs. Wigginton tutted twice. “Fine, then, milord. I’ll give ye a few minutes more, but when I return, I expect to see the tea all but finished and a hearty start to the broth.” She bent to smooth Jenna’s mussed hair. “Ye poor dear. What I think of when your family finds out . . .”
Jenna smiled weakly at her. “I know they’ll be ever so grateful for your endeavors, Mrs. Wigginton. Thank you.”
The housekeeper turned to Tavish. “And you”—she poked at him—“had better be awake when I return.” She scuttled out the door but left it open.
Afraid to look at Lord Pembroke, Jenna ducked her head and went to work, sipping the hot tea. She was dreading the probable moment when he would announce his discovery of her family’s traitorous behavior. Would he have them all arrested? Was that what he was waiting here to say? Jenna clambered about in her brain for a way to change his mind. “I imagine I owe you a debt of gratitude,” she offered.
A humble smile curled his lips. “You owe me nothing of the kind. Truth be told, I must offer my sincerest apologies.”
Her brow crinkled with confusion.
He went on. “I feel that upon arriving here, you have suffered an endless amount of injury. And much of the responsibility lies at my feet. I hope you might find it possible to set aside your grievances and forgive my inhospitable actions, and those of my guests. And,” he said quietly, “the ones that are to come.”
She stared dumbly at him, her heart in her mouth.
He nodded and stood. “Now drink your tea, or Mrs. Wigginton will have my head.”
She took a nervous sip, and bowled forward with the need to keep talking. “How was it you came upon us at the ale house?”
“For that, we have your young Tavish to thank. He was in the stable as I was leaving it. I saw your clansmen saddling up to head out somewhere, and overheard your father ask Tavish to help you bring some ale back to the cottage. Assessing the size of the boy, and knowing the amount of ale men can drink, I followed him. Little did I realize how fortuitous this run-in was.”
“Speaking of family and relations, why are you friends with . . .” Jenna hesitated, swallowing. “With them?” she finished. She kept her face unreadably stiff.
His eyes shadowed. “Well, Miss MacDuff, I cannot consider them friends now, regardless of the years of history between us. Both my father and Mr. Finch’s serve in Parliament together—and we are expected to fill their shoes when they no longer occupy them.”
“Are you not tied to them—or at least Mr. Finch?” Jenna ventured.
“Perhaps . . . perhaps not.” He sighed. “Mr. Finch is not guaranteed a spot in Parliament as my family’s title grants me, but . . .” He shrugged. “The truth of the matter is, lately, I have found myself defending their behavior. More so Mr. Gainsford and Mr. Fowler than Mr. Finch, as I’ve come to believe that Mr. Finch is motivated by the unsettling thought that I am unhappy and wish for things he cannot comprehend. He believes I am blind to the treasures before me.”
She knew then that Lord Pembroke had no knowledge of Mr. Finch’s feelings toward him. She weighed the option of telling him, and dismissed it.
“Miss MacDuff, you must know . . . how exceedingly happy I am for your health despite the ordeal you have just suffered.” An expression that spoke simultaneously of grief and relief came across Lord Pembroke’s face. In a blink, he once again held her hand in his and just as quickly pressed it to his lips.
Jenna heard footsteps in the hallway. She watched Lord Pembroke deftly place her hand on the cot, turn, and nudge Tavish, whose eyes had grown heavy with sleep once again.
Lord Pembroke put a quick hand to her arm. “Mrs. Wigginton, I beg you not breathe a word that I was here.” He turned to face Jenna, his expression bleak and regretful. “And I am left hollow with misgivings over what I am compelled to do, but my actions are for the greater good and those who count on my service and strength. Good-bye, Miss MacDuff. I wish you well, and again, I’m sorry.” Without waiting for a reply, he left.
Mrs. Wigginton—a well-trained servant—pretended not to have heard Lord Pembroke’s veiled words of departure and simply reached for Jenna’s tea mug and replaced it with the broth. “Drink up, lass, then go to sleep. I’m here if ye want to talk about it.” She gave Jenna a gentle pat, sized up Tavish’s efforts while pointing to the sack of almonds, and bustled out the door again.
As much as she appreciated Mrs. Wigginton’s offer, Jenna didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. She wanted someone to tell her what was about to happen.
TWENTY-FIVE
ALEX LEFT HIS FATHER’S STUDY, DISGUSTED WITH HIS botched attempt at suggesting Julian’s departure. He endeavored to point out that his friend was perhaps missed in his own home and too polite to beg his leave. Could they encourage his parting for his parents’ sake?
The brittle reply from Alex’s father was that Julian remained the only sensible companion Alex had, and although doubtful, his influence might dissuade further pointless conversations, such as this one.
Fuming and humiliated, Alex charged down the hallway and was stunned to find Julian walking toward him. Here was the man half responsible for the state of madness he currently suffered.
Alex kept his face calm, but couldn’t help his fists from clenching, his sorely bruised knuckles a reminder from their last encounter. Julian’s face showed eager expectation, but Alex could no longer hold back. He lunged. He grabbed Julian by the throat and watched the face above his hands drain of blood and fill with fear. He wanted to squeeze out his anger that stemmed from too many sources: his father, Julian, Lady Lucia, the countess . . . everyone tugging and pulling at him, and all for their own benefit.
“What are you doing here?” Alex said through gritted teeth. He released the pressure on Julian’s neck and seized him by the shoulders, shoving him against the wood paneling.
Julian swallowed hard and rubbed beneath his thick cravat. He looked at Alex with desperation. “Please . . . I—I must speak to you.” His voice came out in a wretched croak. They were both heaving with breath, and Julian put his hand upon Alex’s chest to distance him. “I know you may never forgive me, but give me a moment to explain.” Julian searched Alex’s eyes wildly.
Alex pushed himself away, his teeth clenched. “There is nothing you can say that would make it pardonable. No defense you could muster that would explain your despicable behavior.”
“Please—I beg you.”
Alex tried to check his anger by slowing his breath and studying Julian’s battered face. His voice was cold. “You have but one minute of my attention. Speak.”
“Alex, there is much you are right to despise me for, to loathe my actions and manner.” His black eyes glinted with sincerity. “But everything I have done is because of the depth of my feeling for you. I feel it urgent to save you from yourself as of late. Undeniably, I have dishonored myself in trying to honor you. But understand I would cast away all principles and self-respect if it meant I was able to prevent your ruin.”
“What ruin?”
“The list of people who are concerned for you has grown substantially. They beseech me to exert whatever influence I may possess to sway you from this disastrous path. Many people are frightened over losing their place in your future. The future you’re casting aside in favor of something other than your true calling.” Julian put his hand on Alex’s arm, which remained firmly crossed with the other in front of his chest. “Your mind is clouded and confused, no doubt, but I am here for you . . . as I have always been . . . and want to be.”
Alex moved back from Julian’s reach. “Were you intending to kill her?”
“No,” he said, eyes fastened to Alex’s. “My aim was to frighten. Only to the extent that she would leave you be. Even spurn any misguided attentions you may be directing her way.”
Julian took a lungful of air before continuing on. “Did it ever occur to you that she may be using you for political advantage?” He paused. “King George did an impressive job of cleaning out his cabinet. Those individuals who have been so abruptly replaced will use any ill-gotten means to gain access back.”
“You’re accusing the girl of political impropriety? That she intends to influence—nay, brainwash me into developing sympathies for . . . for what?” Alex asked, exasperated.
Julian raised his eyebrows. “She is . . . Scots, is she not?”
Alex’s face grew keenly edged. “This is utter nonsense and you know it.”
But Julian leaned in. “What need have plain masons to devise plans in coded language?” he asked in patient tones.
Alex was silent and then glanced up to look at Julian. He tried to push away the ridiculous note of disquietude, but what Julian said struck a nerve.
The young man looked at Alex imploringly. “Do not dismiss this as a mere attempt to lure you away from my abhorrent conduct. What I say has merit, and I believe if you give but a moment’s thought to the concerns I have raised, you will concur my alarm is not unfounded.”
Alex stood tall and looked away from him. This is who should be my father’s son. A man who sees ulterior motive and wrongdoing in everyone within a stone’s throw of him. And Julian wishes it were as well. He turned back and glared at him. “I will think on your words, but that is the extent of my promise to you. Now leave me, for I swear, Julian, yours is the last face I wish to see, and one I may ban from my future.” He left Julian, his anger still unmitigated, but it was now tinged with a hint of apprehension.
When she had woken from several more hours of a drug-induced sleep, Jenna, despite being tired and still pressed with pain in her head, felt the flush of dread wash over her body as her mind began to clear.
She found her clothes and, with the aid of the protesting housekeeper, pulled herself together. “Ye shouldna be out of bed, lass. It’s cold and damp on the floor, and it’ll do your head no good moving it about such like.” But as grateful as Jenna was for the hospitality, she felt she should not chance the angry questioning of her family. More, she needed to be with them should whatever Lord Pembroke intended to do come to light.
Mrs. Wigginton made Jenna wait until she returned with a tray of tea and spiced bread, along with fresh bandages for her head. She brought the cup to Jenna and tended to her wounds one last time.
“Ye poor child, has it happened much to you?”
“Has what happened much?”
The housekeeper sighed. “The men. The rough play and all, ye ken.”
Jenna shook her head. “No. Never.”
“I’ve seen it a good deal.” She sighed. “I always tell the new ones in my care to stay away when the lads are about wi’ drink in them. And there are definitely some they watch wi’ more care than others. A few of those boys think the world’s theirs for the taking and there’s little negotiating about it. I’ve told milord about his friends time and again, but this one’s gone too far.”
Her face grew serious. “I didna call ye down to the ale house, ye ken.”
Jenna nodded. “That would explain much.”
“How timely it was that milord came. He’s a good lad.” She scratched her head, as if just thinking created a bit of an itch. “Such trouble he was as a wee ba
irn. Always taking things from the kitchen to tinker with. I’ve lost a great deal from the scullery because of his curiosities.” She smiled, then the expression faded. “Something’s come over him, though, recently, and I canna put my finger on it. It’s almost as if he’s shifted directions—like a weather vane.” She shrugged. “But there’s a lot going on that’s changing for him, I s’pose—the wedding and all.”
Jenna bit her lip, deciding now was the right time to ask. “Mrs. Wigginton, do you know why they were all sent away from Cambridge?” She thought it better to include all, rather than single out Lord Pembroke, whom the housekeeper might staunchly defend.
Mrs. Wigginton’s chin thrust upward. “Aye, I ken the gist of it. He defended the studies of a crippled man who was visitin’ the university. Some blind professor, I think.” She shrugged. “Milord’s friends came to his aid by usin’ their fists. Then all hell broke loose and milord was caught in the midst of it.”
Elizabeth, the newly married kitchen maid, skittered to a stop at the door to the priest’s room. “Excuse me, Mum, but it seems the fish has all come spoiled for the dinner tonight.”
Mrs. Wigginton’s eyes went wide and she lunged for the door. She called to Jenna over her shoulder, “I’m here should ye need anything else, lass. Get some rest!”
Jenna sank to the edge of the cot and placed a hand gingerly to her head. Mrs. Wigginton had fashioned a kerchief to hide the new bandage. The swelling had lessened on both knots, and she wondered if, after the bandage on her temple came off, her hair would sufficiently cover the injury.
She left the priest’s room and traversed the muddy slope toward the building site of the garrison, mindful not to slip and drop the basket filled with freshly baked bannocks for the men. Colin Brodie’s long-limbed frame unfolded from where he stooped over a vat of mortar. His clothes were covered with a dusting of lime. The broad split grin emerging beneath his white powdered features made Jenna think of silly pantomimes and traveling theater troupes. She lifted the basket in greeting and then caught sight of her father coming toward them.
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