A Scotsman in Love

by Karen Ranney

  Even if he were at the services, he would not be able to bedevil her. Surely God would see to it that she wasn’t struck dumb with lust in church?

  She tied the emerald green ribbon of her best bonnet below her chin, put a smile on her face with some degree of desperation, and resigned herself to several hours of acute boredom.

  But at least she would have left the cottage.

  She willed herself into a calm frame of mind, and followed Janet out the door.

  The carriage was a beautiful creation of black lacquer with a soft blue interior. Tom had borrowed a carriage from Glengarrow. She wanted to ask if he had inquired of its owner for permission, but she decided that it was best not to mention the Earl of Linnet under any circumstances. What would she do if Tom replied in the affirmative? She’d be inspired to inquire as to his health. She didn’t want to know if he fared well.

  A large compartment rested beneath each of the four windows, and curious, Margaret opened one to find that it was equipped with a mirror, a clock, a crystal flacon of ink, and an ingenious pen comprised of a wood handle and a quill that could be inserted at the end. The entire compartment could be twirled on its side to serve as a flat space on which to write or even to play cards.

  Evidence, again, of the Earl of Linnet’s wealth. There was nothing ostentatious about the carriage, but it had been built for comfort and a certain touch of luxury.

  She sat back against the seats, fiddling with her gloves. They fit perfectly, but she kept pulling them even tighter. A sound called her back to herself and she realized she was tapping on the carriage floor with one foot.

  Years had passed since she’d gone to church. Even longer since she had attended a Scottish service. As if she had heard Margaret’s thoughts, or could somehow interpret her nervous habits, Janet reached over and patted her on the arm.

  The gesture wasn’t the least reassuring, but Margaret pinned her smile in place for Janet’s sake.

  North Linten Village was comprised of a dozen or so buildings dating back to medieval times. Inserted among them were new houses and shops, not appreciably different in size or construction, only their pristine brick marking them as new neighbors.

  Tom drove them through narrow winding streets, curiously well occupied for this Sunday morning. There were even a few fishermen standing beside the Tenye River, testament to the fact that the Kirk’s influence in this part of Scotland did not mimic that of her childhood. Evidently, here in North Linten, dishauntening of ordinances—avoiding church services—was not punished.

  At the top of the steepest road was a large square pillar with four taps mounted on each of its sides. For hundreds of years goodwives had drawn water here, and the adjoining road had been named Teapot Lane in their honor.

  The carriage halted in Ramartin Square, in front of a building proudly proclaiming itself St. Munto’s Episcopal Church. Another change from the religion of her childhood. The church she’d attended as a girl had been a plain box of a structure, little to recommend it in the way of artistry or beauty. This building was gabled and topped with a towering spire, accentuated with carved naves and scrollwork.

  North Linten Village was a surprisingly prosperous village, and its Episcopal church no less so.

  Reluctantly, she left the carriage, following Janet down a red-gravel walk bordered by now dormant flower beds and to the front door of the church.

  She waited with Janet while Tom parked the carriage, then accompanied the couple to a pew midway and to the left of the altar. She sat closer to the aisle and studied her hands on her lap, the better to ignore the looks of the parishioners.

  Anyone looking at her might have thought she was devout. Instead, she was wondering if her bonnet was truly as ill flattering to her complexion as it had looked in the mirror this morning, and whether or not she was the only one dressed so garishly in red among the more sober blues, browns, and black coats.

  A whisper began, and was carried through the congregation. She looked up to see everyone craning their necks and turning around and facing the door.

  She knew, even without turning, who it would be. Of course it was the Earl of Linnet. And of course he looked absolutely magnificent in a very somber suite of clothing. His hair was a little mussed by the wind. Did he never wear hats? He was tall and commanding as always, and as always, when their eyes met, she felt a jolt of something inexplicable right down to the soles of her feet.

  Evidently, God did allow lust to occur in His church after all.

  He strode down the aisle, and hesitated beside the pew, nodding at Janet and Tom. His glance toward her was cursory, no more important than a dust mote.

  She frowned at him, but he didn’t look at her long enough to note it. Instead, he kept walking until he reached the front pew, the one with the carving on the side, resting just below a massive stained-glass window. He hesitated at the end of the pew and took a seat, his shoulders straight, his gaze fixed on the altar.

  “It’s the first time he’s been back,” Janet said. “Poor thing. It’s not been easy on him.”

  He sat alone in the pew built for a family. She could almost see the missing ones. Amelia would be sitting close, and his little girl might be peering over her shoulder at the congregation. A place of honor that pew, and now the site of speculation. She was not the only one staring at the Earl of Linnet and wondering at the depth of his pain.

  She wished, not for the first time, that she was the type of woman who could push aside society’s rules and regulations with alacrity. If she were to be as shocking as people thought she was, she would stand, walk down the aisle, and join him in his isolation. She might even take his right hand in her left, and hold tight to it, the better to help him endure the sudden swell of memory.

  How many times must he be reminded of his aloneness? On how many occasions must he mark it, solitary and in public?

  She wasn’t an unconventional type of woman. Instead, she was simply a woman who loved to paint, who found the meaning of her life in something the world thought shocking for her to pursue. She was less a bohemian than simply labeled one.

  Still, she wanted to ease his apartness somehow.

  At that moment, he turned and glanced over his shoulder at her. She didn’t look away. She didn’t even blink. For a long moment, an hour or an eternity, they looked at each other. She was no more certain of his thoughts than she was of her own. Instead, she only existed to feel at that moment. Finally, he nodded, just once, but it seemed to be an acknowledgment of her empathy, a bit of thanks from him for her caring, or simply his reception of it.

  When he looked away, she stared down at her hands, wondering why it felt as if her heart hurt.

  Janet bent closer to Tom and then leaned over to speak to Margaret. “He shouldn’t be alone, Miss Margaret.”

  “You and Tom should go and join him,” she said.

  “And leave you alone? I’ll not think of it.”

  Ask me to come with you, she wanted to say, but Janet didn’t. Margaret’s joining the Earl of Linnet in the family pew would be cause for village gossip.

  “Go on, Janet, I’ll be fine.”

  The older woman hesitated for a moment, biting at her lip in indecision. She glanced at Tom, then at Margaret again.

  “Are you certain? We would just be a few steps away if you need us.”

  “Of course I’m certain,” Margaret said, the duplicity of being polite pulling at her. She didn’t want to be left alone any more than she wanted the earl left alone. The sad fact was that in any contest between McDermott and her, Janet and Tom had already chosen their loyalties.

  She twisted to the side so Janet and Tom could exit, then watched as they walked to the front of the church. McDermott stood to allow them access and glanced back at her. There might have been a look of disappointment on his face, but he faced forward too quickly for her to determine it. Of course there wasn’t. How very foolish she was being.

  The service was shorter than she recalled, or else the
child Margaret had thought it endless and the adult had seen it as it was. She did try, in all earnestness and remorsefulness, to concentrate on the service. But no matter how many times she was required to sit or kneel or stand, her attention repeatedly returned to the Earl of Linnet.

  Her upbringing came back to her in strict remembrance as if her mother sat beside her tapping at her hand or arm. Behave yourself, Margaret, she would say, when Margaret’s attention wandered. Why was she always reprimanded when her brothers were so much worse behaved than she?

  Blessedly, McDermott didn’t turn to look at her once, not even when the presenter stood up and led them all in song. True to what Janet said, the congregation had a lusty voice, and it was a pleasant few moments.

  When the service was over, she meant to make her way to the front of the church and wait for Janet and Tom. However, she didn’t have the chance. In a gesture reminiscent of noblesse oblige, the Earl of Linnet stood, the first person in the congregation to do so, and slowly turned to face the door. The rest of the congregation stood as well, but no one moved from their pews, waiting instead for the earl to pass. Anyone else would probably have marched straight through to the doorway, authoritarian footsteps marking his passage, but McDermott took his time, nodding at more than one person, taking the opportunity to shake several men’s hands Twice he bent down to speak to a child who hid his face in his mother’s skirts.

  He hesitated beside her pew, but didn’t say anything.

  For a second, a flash of an instant, the flitter of a butterfly’s wings, she actually contemplated holding out her hand to keep him in place. To be in his company, to breathe easier, to feel his arm beneath the trembling fingers of her left hand seemed altogether forbidden, exotic, and wonderful.

  When he walked away, she took a deep breath.

  She didn’t want to be around McDermott. She didn’t want to share the same air, or even look in his direction. She wanted nothing to do with the man, even if it meant not finishing the portrait. Never before had she reneged on a commission. Even if the subject was unpleasant, or the sitting environment unbearable, she’d always finished every painting.

  This, however, was unbearable. She couldn’t be around him without making a fool of herself. A needy, foolish woman who only existed to feel and nothing more.

  Had she absolutely no restraint when it came to the man? Was she simply a creature of passion? Had she no sense, no decorum?

  Where had Margaret Dalrousie, Margaret Louise Dalrousie, Miss Margaret Dalrousie gone? She’d disappeared, leaving behind this panicked, emotional, flustered, confused woman.

  At this moment, she was no more capable of doing what she did three years ago than the flightiest of women. Traveling to Russia, arranging for her own lodgings, and taking up her career thousands of miles from her home and her culture would simply be beyond her. She was too inept, too idiotic.

  She had lost her mind. That was the explanation. She had become one of those true unfortunates touched by a brain fog. One night, not too long ago, when was sleeping, she’d suffered a storm in the brain, and when she awoke all was as it normally was, except instead of being unable to move one side of her body, her judgment was gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Poof!

  Were women afflicted by passion? Was that why society guarded their virgins with such great care? That would certainly explain why women of the court hadn’t been the least discreet about their illicit affairs. Their minds had gone.

  To make matters worse, Margaret couldn’t stop thinking about him. The nightmares that used to visit her with such regularity had disappeared, and in their stead dreams of McDermott. When she bathed, her washcloth lingered, imagining his touch. When she sat in the parlor at night, she stared at a page for an hour or more, unseeing. Instead, her vision was turned inward, her mind replaying that afternoon, then the scene in the Winter Parlor. She often put her fingers against her lips, remembering his kisses.

  If other women were not afflicted with passion, she most certainly was.

  What she felt in McDermott’s company was different from anything else she’d ever experienced. When it was happening, she didn’t care. Propriety? Hah! Sanity? What was that? Only let her touch him, feel the texture of his skin, the strength and flexing of his muscles. Let him smooth his fingers over her body, please, and feel where she was warm and where she welcomed him.

  She was mad for him.

  Only when need was satisfied did she come back to herself. Only when passion was momentarily spent could she marvel at the fact she had lost both her inhibitions and her mind.

  It must not happen again.

  She was not, after all, a fool. She was still young enough to bear children, and each time she lay with him, it was as if she dared God, Himself. McDermott had taken no precautions, and she’d not used a sponge soaked in vinegar that was all the rage in Russian society. Even now, she might be with child. She could barely keep herself—how was she to support a baby? A baby with his eyes, his nose, and her mouth?

  Dear God, not her mouth.

  She pressed her hand over her mouth. One way or another, her mouth was always getting her in trouble. Either it tempted McDermott to kiss her and led to other delicious occupations, or she was guilty of saying too much or saying the wrong thing.

  Nearly a week ago, she’d sent him a short note. I am unable to continue the sittings at this time, finding myself indisposed. That was all. Any longer note, and she might have inadvertently revealed her utter panic.

  She simply had to disregard him. Easier said than done when she could still remember exactly how she’d felt when he’d touched her. And his kisses. Dear God, the man kissed like a satyr. Nor would she ever be able to look at one of her brushes again without blushing.

  The only reason she found herself entranced with the Earl of Linnet was because she was lonely. She was not immune to handsome men, after all, and McDermott was a very handsome man, naked or clothed. The last year had been difficult for her. Was she to blame for seeking a little comfort where she could?

  There was something about his eyes, something about the way they seemed to look right through her as if seeking out the essence of her soul. She felt as if she should confess all of her deepest, darkest sins.

  Oh, how silly. He was her deepest, darkest sin.

  He continued greeting members of the congregation, then he was at the church door, where he was introduced to the minister. She moved off to the side, slipping from the doorway and walking down the graveled path.

  Toward the east was the last resting place of a hundred or more souls of North Linten Village, all laid out with hands over their chests and their feet toward the sun in order to stand at the resurrection. To the west was the road leading to her snug little cottage nestled within the shadow of Glengarrow.

  A small grove of trees clustered in the corner, and it was there she walked. It had been cold in the church, but she had not felt it as much as she did now. Perhaps because her attention was directed on something other than her own discomfort. Now, however, she was conscious of the winter wind, and snow crunching beneath her boots.

  How very strange that she felt like weeping all of a sudden. Was it the proximity of all these small gravestones? Or did it have something to do with the fact that the Earl of Linnet was holding court behind her, nodding at the villagers, speaking softly to some, allowing himself to be touched, his hand to be held, promises of baked goods and prayers accompanying him?

  She had held him. She’d pressed her cheek against his and allowed him to feel the dampness of her tears. She’d brushed her eyelashes against his skin and pressed her lips against the firm softness of his. When life became too much for him, when the brashness of it, the certainty of it, and the ferociousness of it became too harsh, she’d held him within the circle of her embrace, and rocked him back and forth to comfort him, to ease him.

  None of those sweet matronly ladies could give that to him. And although from the looks in their eyes, the younger women wished to be closer t
o him, for now he was her lover. Her lover.

  A tear fell. How utterly foolish she was being, but it wasn’t the first time she chided herself in regard to the Earl of Linnet.

  All these here are sinners, and sinner you be. One day, you, too, will rest in this place. She could almost hear the words whispered in the wind, along with another caution. Enjoy your life, for it is fleeting. Waste not one single hour or day.

  “I never thought to see you at church, Miss Dalrousie. I’m surprised you were not too indisposed to attend.”

  She turned to find that McDermott had followed her. She began to walk again, making her way to the side of the churchyard, beneath the shelter of a tree that looked to be as old as the village itself. She studied the bare branches above her head, conscious that he was right behind her.

  “Are you not going to answer?” he asked.

  “I had not thought to see you here today, either, McDermott.”

  “Else you would not have come?”

  “Else I would not have come,” she said, glancing at him.

  There was that look in his eyes, the one he’d worn when he’d made love to her.

  Being on the fringes of society had given Margaret the ability to discern society from the vantage point of an outsider. She was all too conscious, now, of the speculative looks being given her and the outright curious ones directed at the Earl of Linnet. No sooner had he come to church for the very first time than he had publicly aligned himself with the odd woman in the neighborhood.

  Why had he done so?

  Out of pity? Or simply to bulwark himself against the eternal questions others would raise? Have you managed to put your sorrow behind you? What was it like coming home after all these years? Is it true there are ghosts at Glengarrow?

  Well, he had certainly put those questions to rest, hadn’t he? Yet now he’d involved her in the speculation.

  Exactly what is Margaret Dalrousie to you, Your Lordship? Why did she not speak to you or look in your direction once? Was it for fear that she might reveal something in her expression? Why do you bedevil her now?