The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

“I ought not to have been prying.”

  “But you ought to know this.” She paced off a few steps, and he should have thanked her for putting space between them. Instead, he resented that space, resented that she hadn’t sunk back against him and at least let him hold her as a man holds a woman he desires.

  No, it was worse than that: he didn’t merely desire her, he cared for her.

  “What should I know, Augusta?”

  She paced off even farther to sit on the rock best suited for viewing the panorama before them. He moved closer but didn’t allow himself to sit beside her.

  “When I was growing up,” she began, “I knew we were wealthy. It was there in obvious ways—you couldn’t ride all of our holdings in a day, the house had fifty-some rooms, the stables were gorgeous, and the tenants wanted for nothing. Kent is good land.”

  “It has that reputation.”

  “And because I was the only child, I tagged after my papa shamelessly, and he and my mother indulged me. He’d tell me the land would all be mine one day, and I needed to understand how to go on with it. He’d warn me to choose my husband wisely, because any man I married would have to be my partner as well as my spouse. I was a girl. I paid him no mind.”

  “You’re not a girl any longer.”

  “I grew up quite precipitously when my parents died. One day I was laughing with Mama over which invitation to accept, and the next I was wearing black and dependent on my uncle for my very bread.”

  “So your father failed to make provision for you?”

  “Uncle said Papa’s will was invalid, and what little Papa had in coin had gone to pay enormous debts. I never knew if my mother even had a will. I don’t understand, because we had money. I saw the account books, saw the strongbox, saw the contents of the safe in my father’s study. My involvement in the estate business never struck me as unconventional, though in hindsight, it must have been.

  “Then too, Uncle was not related to Papa. I never met my father’s family. I think they emigrated like your relations did. I tried writing to the solicitors, but Uncle saw the letter in the mail and asked why I’d do such a thing.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth: that I did not want to be a burden to him and felt my presence cast a pall over the household.”

  Despite the lust and mischief coursing through his body, Ian’s brain concluded Augusta’s story wasn’t adding up. The lawyer in him tried to make sense of Augusta’s recitation, but no matter how he parsed it, the reality of her childhood didn’t mesh with her present circumstances one bit.

  “So you withdrew to Oxfordshire voluntarily?”

  “They were in my home, Ian. Genie chose my bedroom for her own, and I couldn’t say anything. She was just a girl. She didn’t realize at the time she was dispossessing me, but her parents surely did.”

  He settled beside her, resisting the urge to take her hand. “It always seemed to me that the worst thing about the Clearances was that they were done with the full backing of the law. They were acts of war, really, to cast people from their homes, to burn their belongings, to force them to flee or starve, but the king’s man would read the bills of ejectment time after time, and there was nothing to be done. Your uncle had the law on his side, apparently.”

  “I cannot fathom how there was any great debt, Ian. Papa was a favorite with the trades because he paid at the time service was rendered. He didn’t wait until the end of the year or until he was being dunned. He was a tradesman himself at heart. And he was shrewd and clever and he worked hard… where would the debt have come from?”

  “Gambling?”

  She shook her head. “His mother was a Methodist. We gambled for farthing points over whist, nothing more.”

  “Women?”

  “He was devoted to my mother.”

  “Taxes?”

  “The land wasn’t entailed. The taxes had to be paid each year, or the Crown would have intervened. And I saw the books. Papa delighted in explaining them to me and showing me how to keep them. We made money each year—pots of it.”

  “Books can be manipulated, and it seems whatever the case, when your parents died, your uncle must have somehow inherited through your mother, who would have been his older sister. And he’s wealthy now. Quite wealthy.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me, but I can hardly question my own uncle about his finances now, can I?”

  Ian stared out over the dramatic, rolling terrain of his family seat to the mountains to the west. He realized he was in a position to further Augusta’s interests, to champion her situation when she couldn’t take on the challenge herself.

  “You can’t nose about in his coffers, Augusta, but I can. I’ve put off the financial wrangling that goes on before a wedding of significance, but I’ll send off a few letters tomorrow and see what I can discover.”

  “Don’t anger him, Ian.” She glanced around, as if they might be overheard here on this deserted hilltop. “Uncle has a mean temper, and he’s not… I don’t turn my back on him.”

  “Neither will I. Tell me something, though. At what point did he offer to wed you to your cousin?”

  “At the end of my mourning. I was preparing to move to Oxford, and he mentioned it in passing.”

  If she regretted passing up that opportunity, her features gave no sign of it. “Had you seen the residence in Oxford before you removed there?”

  “No. Aunt made it sound like a cozy manor and assured me I would have adequate staff to see to the place. They were to follow me from Kent with the coach and team I was to have. They never arrived—not the extra staff, not the coach and team. My cousin was in nigh-desperate straits when I arrived. I sold most of my personal jewelry, invested some of the proceeds, and hoarded the rest. We manage.”

  She managed, Ian realized, because the promised help and support had never been sent, allowing the good baron to all but forget he had a niece. Which raised the question: Why would Genie avoid the opportunity to leave the control of such a father and establish her own household?

  There was no solving that conundrum now, and there were better uses of these stolen moments. “Would you like to sketch for a bit?”

  “You’re changing the topic. Thank you. My finances are not as dire as Uncle might think. I sell everything I don’t consume, I teach drawing and piano to the local squires’ daughters, I turn all my dresses and sheets, I purchase little in the way of foodstuffs, and I took my trousseau with me when I left Kent. I also watch the funds very closely.”

  “You cope. It’s the Scot in you that can make do with next to nothing and even thrive on it.”

  He unstrapped his rucksack and withdrew a flask. “There are buttered scones in here along with your sketch pad. That flask holds tea, but I didn’t bring any mugs.”

  He passed her the flask, shamelessly allowing their fingers to brush. She uncapped the lid and tipped her head back to take a sip. “I don’t know as I’ve tasted better, Ian MacGregor. What will you do while I sketch?”

  “Nap. The nights are damnably short this time of year, and the days demanding. You’re not to tattle on me, either. The laird is expected to be indestructible and have the stamina of a goat.”

  He pulled a thick, coarse tartan blanket out of the rucksack and laid it on the stubbly grass a short distance from the patch of rocks. When he straightened, she passed him the flask. “Nap then, but do we need to worry about those clouds?”

  She pointed east, in the direction of the sea, where—damn the weather all to hell—the clouds were beginning to crowd together into something less than encouraging.

  “We don’t need to worry about them just yet, but we want to be off this hill before rain arrives. The higher rocky patches have been known to come loose, though it’s more a problem in spring after the fre
ezing and thawing.”

  “May I sketch you, Ian?”

  She already had, but now she was asking. He couldn’t possibly refuse her.

  “Mind you flatter me, lass. Tone the nose down a bit, tidy up my hair. I may soon have English relations to whom that sort of thing will matter.”

  A dismal prospect, that, especially up here, alone with her.

  She opened her sketch pad and rummaged in the rucksack for a pencil. “I’m English, and I like your nose the way God made it.” She lowered herself to the blanket. “Here.” She patted the place beside her. “Just look out toward your home and tell me about it.”

  He talked for half an hour, about exporting Aberdeen Angus bulls, about his ambivalence toward the damned sheep, about the darkness of winter in the Highlands and the few relations he had still dwelling farther west. He talked about the famine less than ten years before and the graves that couldn’t be dug fast enough. He talked about Fiona and the difficulty he anticipated for her because her parents were only handfasted.

  “I’ve heard of this.” Augusta reached out to winnow her fingers through his hair, no doubt rearranging it to suit her composition better. “Explain handfasting to me.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve touched me, Augusta.” He didn’t turn his head to point this out.

  “We’ve touched on many occasions. Maybe too many.”

  She sounded troubled by that observation, so he did look at her. “Or maybe not enough?” Naughty of him, but she should not have left him such an opening.

  She shook her head and put the sketch aside. “You must not encourage me, Ian. You’ve been kind, and I will always treasure the memories you’ve given me, but you mustn’t… you must not pity me.”

  “Why would I pity you?” He pitied himself, truth be known. Now, when he wanted to have her on her back beneath him, and he was supposed to comport himself like some damned choirboy…

  Some gentleman.

  She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and laid her cheek on her knees so she faced him. “You think I’m the typical poor relation, living in very reduced circumstances, having little contact with any larger world, but I like my life, Ian. I’m grateful for it.”

  He scooted around on the blanket so he faced her, then leaned back, bracing his weight on his hands. “What do you like about it?”

  “It’s mine. In one sense, I depend on nobody for anything, and to a great extent, nobody has any right to impose on me. I have a sort of freedom few women enjoy. I had my Season. I had offers. I had an understanding with a young gentleman of good breeding and was very prettily courted. I’ve come to the conclusion that in a few years, if I hadn’t been led off to the altar with him, I would likely have withdrawn to Kent, there to end my days arguing with my steward over whether to put the land in pasture or vegetable crops.”

  She sounded not pleased with her circumstances, but as if she were trying to convince herself to feel pleased. “You deserve more than that, Augusta. You deserve children, a family, the love of those dear to you. You deserve a future beyond that cottage in Oxfordshire.”

  She was quiet for a long moment, her expression hard to read, while Ian was aware of the storm clouds drawing closer.

  “Ian, I am not… I am not chaste.” She dropped her forehead to her knees.

  Of all the things she might have said, he could not have anticipated that, and sorting through his feelings in reaction to her revelation was complicated.

  “Was it by your choice, Augusta?”

  “More or less.” She raised her face to the far mountains. “The young man and I had an understanding. Our papas were working out the details, and our mamas were planning the ceremony. Mr. Post-Williams was persistent and comely, and on several occasions, we anticipated our vows. He told me it would get better. I did not see much improvement, myself.”

  He hurt for her. Hurt for the detachment with which she offered this recitation. Mr. Persistent-and-Comely had much to answer for. “But you do not now have the honor of being Mrs. Post-Williams.”

  “My parents died. When it became apparent I had no dowry, somebody less impecunious had to be recruited for the position of Mrs. Post-Williams. He was very oblique about it, but at least I know.”

  “What do you know, Augusta?” And where was this Post-Williams now, so Ian might rearrange his comely face?

  “I know what happens between men and women, Ian. I’m not going to die a virgin, ignorant of all life beyond my garden and my chicken coop, and yet, my reputation has remained unscathed.”

  But she didn’t know. Ian was sure she didn’t know half of what ought to transpire between lovers. That was glaringly, maddeningly, god-awfully obvious.

  Just as obvious as the fact that Ian should not be the one to enlighten her.

  “I’m sorry, Augusta. Post-Williams should be horsewhipped, and regardless of your circumstances, the man betrayed your trust.”

  “I don’t dwell on it.”

  But it ate at her. He could see that. That she’d given herself to someone unworthy and gotten nothing, not children, not pleasure, not a ring, nothing in exchange for her trust corroded her soul.

  “Augusta…” He leaned forward so his face was beside hers, his left cheek to her right. “I wish…”

  She moved only an inch, to tilt her head closer to his so they touched at the temples. “Hush. There’s nothing to say. I wish too.”

  They remained in that odd, touching nonembrace for a long moment, until thunder rumbled off to the east. Ian raised head and saw the clouds were moving in.

  “Time to leave, Augusta. I didn’t bring rain gear, and the footing can be treacherous if we get a downpour.”

  She nodded, got up, and helped him fold the plaid and repack the rucksack. When she started back down the path, Ian didn’t even try to take her hand. His misery—for her and for himself—was too great.

  ***

  A man of parts and sophistication didn’t quail when his best-laid plans met with less than complete success. The baron shifted a little in his covert, listening with one ear for the approach of Augusta and her escort from the ramparts. Crouching behind boulders was hardly how the baron wanted to spend his morning, but a man of greatness was capable of sacrifice and dedication when the end was worthy.

  The cat drinking the cream had been pure bad luck. Poison was discreet, true, but inaccurate dosing was a hazard, and the necessary stealth meant results couldn’t be guaranteed.

  And the bull had been a spur-of-the-moment inspiration, more an intent to maim than kill, because an invalid could easily be finished off if injured internally.

  But time was wasting. A certain mistress would be getting restless, and so another improvisation was called for. The earl had mentioned—very quietly—to the middle brother to make excuses for him at breakfast because his lordship would be showing Miss Augusta up to the tor, and opportunity had knocked loudly.

  This was a certain indication that fate favored the baron’s plans.

  The earl and the spinster had argued their way up the mountain, from the bits and snatches Altsax had overheard dodging along behind them. The earl was a doting escort, which boded well for Genie’s future.

  Except very possibly, Genie would end up marrying the middle brother. Alas, needs must. She seemed attracted to the man, so no loss if the current earl was sacrificed on the altar of the baron’s plans as long as Genie bagged her title and the Daniels’s family fortune remained safely ensconced in the baron’s capable hands.

  In any case, one oversized Scotsman with pretensions to decency was no loss at all.

  Altsax cocked an ear, hearing the crunch of footsteps on the rock-strewn switchback above him. Augusta had argued the earl to silence, poor man. The death of such a woman ought not even be mourned
.

  ***

  Augusta tried not to think, not to feel as she made her way down the hillside. Going down was in some ways trickier than coming up—a metaphor for having said too much and implied even more with the man moving along in front of her.

  She could love him. There ought to be some consolation in knowing she was capable of loving a man, any man. She had wondered, after all.

  The earl turned to speak over his shoulder. “Watch your step. The footing is loose and tricky here. I’ve landed on my backside more than once.”

  Watch your step. Going up, it had been easy to ignore the sheer drop on her left, the way the track was carved out of the hillside so the slope rose on her right almost like a wall. A shower of pebbles rained down from above, causing Ian to stop and turn to her.

  “Best we keep moving.” He held out a hand, but Augusta hesitated one instant before allowing herself the pleasure and torment of joining her hand to his.

  In that instant, several things happened in rapid succession. Another shower of pebbles rained down, this one also containing more sizable rocks. Instinctively, Augusta ducked her head and shrank back against the slope beside her.

  Then a peculiar, dull thud from above. Her first thought was thunder, except the sound had a different resonance than thunder, made the earth shake in a different way.

  Ian shouting her name.

  The impact of his body against hers as he plastered them to the vertical wall of earth and rock.

  The feel of him surrounding her, solid rock at her back, solid man everywhere else, as earth, pebbles, and rocks went bouncing down the slope around them.

  “Don’t move.” His voice, a harsh rasp right in her ear.

  And the feel of him so close to her they were breathing as one, almost as if they’d just been erotically intimate.

  “Are you all right? Augusta, talk to me.” Still, he didn’t move, and the warmth of him contrasted starkly to the chill and shock moving through Augusta’s body.

  “I am unharmed.” Her voice was calm, detached even. “You?”

  “The blanket in the rucksack spared me the worst of it.”