“Yes, yes!” The man was quick to take a seat. “But what was it you said about a witch?”
CHAPTER 10
The curtains had been left open, and a soft blue light imbued the room with a pervading sense of serenity. A light blanket of snow covered the countryside outside, and the moon shone brightly through the scudding patches of clouds.
Lyon’s mind was clear for the first time in days. There was no nausea, no headache, no confusion. He tore his gaze from the rustic view and stared at the sleeping figure of the woman who was responsible for this recent improvement in his state of mind. Millicent was curled up in the uncomfortable chair near the foot of the bed. This was her eighth night here, and the first time he had seen her actually drop off to sleep. Exhaustion had finally set in, but not before she had succeeded in forcing him to clear his mind of the laudanum.
But sobriety, too, was a curse.
Lyon stared at his limp right arm on top of the blankets and felt the empty ache inside of him. He would never walk, never ride. He’d never sit in a chair unless someone propped him up. He would never lie with a woman. In his mind’s eye he saw Emma with her wild blond hair spread across his pillow, her blue eyes smiling up at him, her arms pulling his weight down onto her willing body. She had been so young when he had first married her. But he had been a fool to think he was at the center of her world.
Pierce had been right about everything from the start. He had warned Lyon about Emma’s true interests. Baronsford was what she coveted, his brother had told him, not the man who owned it. Out of arrogance, though, Lyon had not believed him.
Of course, Lyon had always known that Emma had been closest to his youngest brother, David. From the time they were children, the two of them had played along the cliffs at Baronsford, and the vision of them together was etched in his—and everyone’s—mind. David and Emma had been inseparable through the years. And yet, when Lyon had taken over Baronsford, Emma had come to him.
Selfish, vain, blind—he could think of a hundred names for his actions. But at the bottom of it all, Lyon had acted the fool, and his family had been torn apart because of it. There was no one to blame but himself.
Lyon threw his good arm over his face and wished he could free himself of the vision that was permanently imbedded in his mind. The wet rocks. Emma’s broken body at the base of the cliff, staring up at him. She had paid the price for her mistakes, as he was paying now.
Anger surged in his veins again, and he wished for oblivion once more. Forcing his eyes open, Lyon stared at Millicent’s simple dress, her pale face and tightly pulled-back hair. She was everything that he’d always imagined plainness to be. She murmured something in her sleep and then woke herself with a start. She stared at him, sleepy-eyed.
“You want something?”
“I want the medicine tonight.”
“No,” she whispered quietly. She tried to return his stare, but after few moments started to nod off again.
Lyon wished he had enough use of his foot just to be able to tip her chair backward. He considered shouting an obscenity at her and making sure that she stayed awake. But she drew up her legs tighter on the chair and tried to get comfortable.
And Lyon found himself content just to stare at her. His wife.
****
Sir Richard Maitland sat down on an armchair across the way from his client, the Dowager Countess Aytoun. “’Twas a wise decision not to meet with Dr. Parker yourself, m’lady.”
The old woman closed the book on her lap and stared at him over the tops of her spectacles. “That bad, was it?”
The lawyer nodded. “Dr. Parker accuses your new daughter-in-law of being a heretic. He believes she is deliberately endangering the earl’s health and well-being by not following a single direction he gave to her a fortnight ago. He insists that Lord Aytoun is in dire peril and that you should remove your son immediately from Melbury Hall. And though ‘twill be very difficult for him to manage, Dr. Parker assures me that he is willing to spend whatever time is necessary to restore the earl to where his lordship was before in his treatment.”
“How generous of him! Did he mention a fee for this service?”
“Of course.” Maitland glanced down at his notes. “The usual exorbitant amount was quoted.”
The dowager picked up Millicent’s letter from the table beside her. She read it once again. “And did Dr. Parker say a word about receiving a letter from my daughter-in-law, terminating his services at Melbury Hall?”
“It must have slipped his mind, m’lady, for he did not offer the information. Once I mentioned it, he made some excuses about being away from London and not receiving her notice until the day he was scheduled to go back to Hertfordshire. He felt the situation necessitated his return to Melbury Hall.”
“He went anyway?”
“Aye. And the gentleman was quite eloquent about what he found. He felt compelled to report that the earl’s condition is so severely worsened that if you do nothing about it immediately, his lordship’s life is surely in jeopardy.”
“And how is that?” she asked wryly. “Is Lyon any thinner? Does he suffer from excruciating pain? Has he broken any more bones?”
“Fortunately, you have in your hand, I am quite certain, a more accurate report on Lord Aytoun’s health than anything Dr. Parker might have related. Indeed, the messenger who carried Lady Aytoun’s letter told me himself that his lordship is apparently improving every day.”
“Then what the devil is this charlatan talking about?”
“His concern now is with his lordship’s temperament.” Maitland gave a small cough to hide his chuckle. “Upon being taken to Lord Aytoun’s chamber at Melbury Hall, the physician was delivered a plateful of pastries, straight to the face.”
“By Lyon?”
Sir Richard nodded politely.
“Were they intended for Dr. Parker?”
“Difficult to say, m’lady, though the result is a fine bruise to his well-padded cheekbone.”
“How dreadful! But why is it difficult to say?”
“Well, apparently your son and your new daughter-in-law are given to daily battles that have all the elements of the siege of Edinburgh. And I am happy to report that she is far…well, hardier than we imagined her to be.”
The dowager sank back against the sofa and actually smiled. “This is most encouraging news, Maitland. And did you throw Dr. Parker out of the house?”
“I certainly did, m’lady.”
“Excellent. Most decidedly excellent.”
***
With Gibbs trailing behind her with an armload of rejected books, Millicent entered the library and waved at a table.
“Pray, leave them there, Mr. Gibbs,” she said, scanning the shelves and pulling out several volumes.
“Ye know his lordship is playing a game with ye, m’lady,” the manservant said respectfully. “Ye might as well bring up a hundred more volumes. He’ll be sure to find something wrong with all of them. With his mind clear Lord Aytoun is too capable of playing the devil with ye.”
“Indeed, he is doing an excellent job at it, but I am not about to give up.”
“Aye, m’lady.”
Tucking the new selections under both arms, Millicent left the library. This was her third trip. Each time, the villain had found fault with her choices. She was determined to find a book this morning that would interest him, but still be something to her liking as well. There had to be something that they could agree on.
In the hallway and on the stairs, servants cleared out of her path. She had a suspicion, though, that no one was moving too far out of earshot. It was not hard to see that her disagreements with Lyon were quickly becoming a source of entertainment for the household.
The valets had moved the earl onto his chair by the window by the time Millicent returned to her husband’s apartments.
“Here I am,” she announced with an air of triumph, dropping the books on the table beside her own chair. “You cannot possibly fi
nd anything wrong with these.”
Her challenge was answered with a defiant flash of the man’s blue eyes. Millicent ignored the strange flutter of excitement inside of her and sat down on her chair, reaching for the first volume. “Dr. Johnson’s Rasselas.”
“You might as well burn that blasted book, for I refuse to listen to anyone reading it.”
“Why?” Millicent managed to keep her calm.
“The man insulted the entire Scottish people in his dictionary, equating us all with horses.”
“With horses?”
“Indeed. Look at his definition of ‘oats’ sometime.”
She glanced down at the book in her hand, not truly sure of the truth behind the assertion. Finally, she put the volume aside and reached for the next one.
“Well, here is one written by a Scot. Ossian’s Fingal, an ancient epic poem. Very exciting, I’m told.”
“Written by James Macpherson. He is a Scot, but man is a fraud. He made the entire book up of old Gaelic poems. There is not a shred of truth to it being by any Ossian. What else do you have there?”
Scowling at Aytoun, Millicent put this volume aside as well. She picked up the next. “Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy.”
“Never. Open that book. I defy you to find a page that is not blotted with rows of stars and dashes and hand-drawn diagrams and every other bit of nonsense the author could contrive. Totally unintelligible! You call that a story? A wandering plot—if you can find it—and most of the tale is in the character’s block shaped head. Give me laudanum or read that book. The effect is the same.”
“Very well,” she replied shortly, putting this book aside, too. “But I am telling you right now, m’lord, that there is nothing you could possibly find wrong with this next book. Nothing.”
He raised a brow, waiting.
“Mr. Pope’s Imitations of Horace.”
“You must be joking.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man was a virulent, malicious dwarf.”
“Pardon me?”
“I refuse to listen to anything written by a man of his disposition.”
“And is it the man’s stature or his temperament that…” She glared across the room and then rose to her feet. “Oh, never mind! I don’t even want to know. Just tell me, are we trying to read to broaden our minds? Or must we demean ourselves with trifling concerns about the authors that have nothing whatsoever to do with what it is written between the covers?”
“I cannot understand why you are getting so upset over something as trivial as finding a readable book,” he said calmly. “All you have to do is ask me what it is that I would like to read this morning.”
“How could I have forgotten? Oh, pray tell, what would you like to read, m’lord?”
“I do not know a thing about your collection.”
“Other than the dozens of books I have already carried up here.”
“Other than those. What else do you have?”
She sank back down on the chair. This was exactly where they were two hours ago. She would name the books, and he would find some fault with each of them.
Millicent knew she had to find a way to occupy this man’s mind before he drove her so insane that she would be the one in need of laudanum. She picked up Rasselas and started to read. If Aytoun was representative of the Scottish people, then she was beginning to see some merit in Dr. Johnson’s definition. But she wondered if the man hadn’t meant to say “mules” in his dictionary.
CHAPTER 11
As always, the morning routine dragged on interminably. Lyon muttered his customary curses at his two valets as they helped him wash and dress. John, the turtle-shaped, flap-jawed rapscallion, and his scarecrow of a partner, Will, had both been somewhat tongue-tied when he harangued them for appearing in his chambers in “country” clothing rather than their customary livery. The poor devils had barely been able to utter an explanation about decisions the mistress had made about dressing the combined households. And Lyon made certain that he grumbled incessantly at Gibbs over the breakfast of which he refused to eat more than a bite.
But he was saving the worst of his temper for Millicent, knowing full well that she would be walking into his room about ten o’clock. Already weary from rising early to attend to the pressing affairs of the estate, she would no doubt be quite irritable after a nearly sleepless night. He knew that she would also be ready to deliver as hard a verbal punch at him as he was ready to afflict her with.
As the serving women finally cleared away the dishes in front of him, Lyon considered his wife. He couldn’t fully understand it, but those moments when she was here arguing with him and berating him for his continual transgressions were the only moments of the day that he felt truly alive.
Of course, those were also the most frustrating times as well, for she never did what he told her or even asked her to do. She insisted on reading aloud despite his objections to her selection of books, ignoring him and only reading louder. She had even suggested that he leave these rooms occasionally. He’d argued bitterly against it, of course, flatly refusing and telling her that as the resident cripple, he had no wish to be paraded about for a houseful of gawking rustics.
Then, three days ago, with no regard to his wishes, she had bribed his own weak-livered servants into carrying him down to her drawing room. Naturally, he had made enough noise and caused enough damage that she had ordered him to be brought back less than half an hour later. Lyon had won the battle that day, but he was convinced she would launch another assault any day now. Vigilance was called for, without a doubt.
Ten o’clock came and went, but today there was no sign of her. Lyon felt his irritation rise. Half an hour later, when Millicent still didn’t appear, he began venting his wrath in other directions. A young serving girl coming in to tend the fireplace fled teary-eyed after he hurled only the mildest of insults at her. Both John and Will tried to tiptoe about the chambers as they saw to his clothing, but when he upended a tray next to him and then flung a bound edition of the North Briton at them, the turtle John ran off, only to appear a couple of minutes later with Gibbs in tow.
“Can I fetch anything from the armory for your lordship?” the Highlander asked dryly.
“Indeed. Bring me my dueling pistols. I’d like to use these two dolts for target practice.”
“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but perhaps ‘twould be easier if ye’d just ask me where she is.”
Lyon snorted and stared at him as if he were the village idiot.
“Very well, sir,” Gibbs continued when Lyon said nothing. “Since ye insist on my telling ye, Lady Aytoun has gone to Knebworth to visit with the Reverend and Mrs. Trimble. Mr. Trimble is the rector at the church there. Quite the friends of your wife, they are. Her ladyship has been delaying this visit for two weeks now, on account of seeing to your needs. But today, it being bonny and warm for a late winter’s day, she decided to take a horse out and ride over.”
Lyon glanced at the beautiful sunny day outside the window. Of course she would be tired of being trapped in here with him day in and day out.
“When she gets back, I’ll tell Lady Aytoun ye were pining after her,” Gibbs offered with an innocent expression.
Lyon glared at his man. “And I will have your head on a platter for dinner.”
“Ye shall have to be up and about before doing anything like that, m’lord.”
“I should have let those dog-faced Edinburgh drunks at that oyster house in St. James Close hang you, Gibbs.”
“Aye, m’lord, but that still doesn’t put my head on any platter.”
“The truth is, though, that all I have to do is tell my wife that I’d be sure to find my appetite if she’d only hang your ugly skull on a pole over my fireplace.” The dark beard hid the trace of a smile. “Tell her that, and I have no doubt that she would make any necessary arrangements.”
*****
Mrs. Trimble’s limp from an old carriage accident appeared more pronounc
ed this winter. But to Millicent’s delight the older woman’s lively wit and high spirits were unaffected by the old injury. The two women sat together in the parlor, sipping tea and waiting for the rector to return from the village. Millicent was told when she arrived that he was expected momentarily.
“Things are happening in the village, m’lady,” the kindly woman said. “Reverend Trimble took a walk to speak with the stonemasons who are building the grange. He was hoping to employ one of them in their off-hours to work on two of the rectory chimneys that are cracked and drawing poorly. But I am so glad you were able to come by this morning. Despite my bad knee, we were ready to drop by for a visit at Melbury Hall earlier this week. After talking to Mrs. Page last Sunday, however, we decided you might not be ready for any company just yet. She mentioned that Lord Aytoun’s health is still a concern for you. Has his lordship shown any improvement yet?”
“Indeed, he has. Thank you.” Millicent told herself she was not exactly misrepresenting the situation. Lyon’s health had certainly improved in recent days.
“We were not envious of your position, my dear, in being faced with what must have been a very difficult decision to make. Not envious at all.” Mrs. Trimble took Millicent’s hand in hers and lowered her voice confidentially. “Lord bless you to take on such a responsibility. Caring for anyone crippled so badly is a true test, I’m sure. Both legs and an arm, I hear.”
Millicent nodded.
“And a severe case of melancholia, too?”
This time she shook her head emphatically. Now that she had spent two weeks constantly in his company, Millicent was certain that Lyon’s present temperament was not severe enough to be considered melancholia.
“Whatever my husband was suffering from when he first arrived at Melbury Hall, I believe his condition was being aggravated by the medicines he was being given.”
Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) Page 11