Lessons in Loving a Laird

by Michelle Marcos

  Tensely, he nodded. She opened the cardboard cover, and beheld page one.

  She stared at it, her expression inscrutable. Was she appalled? Ashamed? Angry?

  “This is…”

  He held his breath. He didn’t care what anyone in the world thought of him. But this woman … it mattered enormously what she thought. If he ever lost her esteem, he may as well chuck it all in.

  “… quite magnificent.”

  His breath returned, relief washing over him. She turned to the next page, and the next, and the next—and at each one he suffered a small death of expectation.

  “Stewart, I had no idea you were so talented.”

  He shook his head. “You must have been misinformed on what constitutes talent.”

  “I mean it. These drawings are quite masterful.”

  Embarrassment stained his face. “You’re too generous in your praise.”

  Violet sat upon the grass, completely unmindful of what it might do to her frock. She studied one page for some time, and it made him increasingly nervous.

  “Who is she?” she asked.

  He sat down beside her. Humiliation crept up his face once more. “A woman I once knew. A long time ago.”

  Violet traced her gloved finger around the woman’s bare breasts. Her back was draped against the arm of a settee, one arm dangling down alongside her cascading hair. The woman’s eyes were half closed in desire, her breasts offered up like an erotic gift. A plump thigh folded down over the other one, revealing only a peek at the dark curls at the nadir of her abdomen.

  “She’s very sensual.”

  Stewart remembered that woman well. She was a lady’s maid, a woman he’d met in Covent Garden while she bought fabric and ribbons with her mistress. It had been a brief affair, but a particularly memorable one.

  Now, in light of Violet’s perusal, he realized what a mistake it had been to have sex with this woman. She was so different from Violet, so much more base. She had given herself freely, swiftly, without any consideration for her own worth. Or his.

  Violet turned the page. This sketch was of a woman in the bath, her breasts bobbing above the water and her legs folded over the lip of the tub. Water cast a sheen upon the woman’s curves, and her blond hair dripped over the cast-iron edge.

  Stewart flushed, torn between desiring her artistic critique and fearing that she would ask him who the subject of the portrait was.

  “And her?”

  Stewart pinched the bridge of his nose. “Violet…”

  “It’s no secret to me that you are enamored of beautiful women.” There was only the tiniest catch in her voice, but it spoke volumes to Stewart. “I just didn’t know you had memorialized them in this book.”

  It was like having all his sins open for her perusal. He hated them being exposed to the light, let alone to the eyes of the woman he loved.

  “I had affairs with these women. But they mean nothing to me.”

  She turned her almond eyes upon him. There was no condemnation in them. But there was pain. Oh, so much pain.

  “Am I in here?”

  He wanted to lie to her. It would be so easy. But he had shown her so much of his past. Best to have done with it, and lay out all of the ugliness of his character before her once and for all. If she hated him, then it would be for good reason.

  He reached over and flicked through to the end of the filled pages. There. It was a portrait of Violet, kneeling on the bed. Her bottom was lovingly drawn, softly shaded, even to the tiny dimples on her lower back. He had traced the gentle curve of her back all the way up to the graceful column of her neck, with an errant tendril of hair escaping from her flawless coif. Beside her slender arm was the gentle slope of one breast, its nipple small and dark upon the white paper. Her face was in profile, but as he looked at the lady sitting next to him, he realized it was indeed a poor likeness.

  “But I don’t understand,” she said. “I never posed for you.”

  “Nor did any of these others. I drew them all from memory. You were by far the easiest to remember.” He turned the page, revealing other drawings of Violet. Her flirtatious eyes. Her grinning face. Her gloved hand from which dangled the reticule she wore to the opera the first time they’d met.

  She flicked through to the subsequent pages, but there were no women after her. All she found were a couple of rough sketches of Charybdis, and then blank pages.

  “Look,” he began, “I know I’m a nobody. A donkey with a cravat, nothing more. You deserve a better man than I, I don’t deny that. But I can’t help but love you, Violet. I’m certain I’ve loved you from the moment I met you. I just didn’t know how to show it.”

  He swallowed hard, trying to put into words what he’d been thinking since they’d made love. “Never, in my most hopeful fantasies, did I believe there was a woman out there for me. And because I couldn’t have her, I would have them all. Do you see?”

  His gaze fell on the stetchbook. “I wish to God I’d never met any of those other women.” He ripped the book from her hands and tore out the pages containing the sketches of Violet. Then, with a mighty swing of his arm, he flung the sketchbook into the rushing water. It fell into the burn with a splash, and then floated out of sight. Stunned, Violet covered her open mouth with both gloved hands.

  Stewart fell to his knees in front of her.

  “I’ve mucked up everything I’ve ever touched. But I couldn’t bear it if I muck up your life as well. Or his,” he said, nodding at her belly. “Even though I don’t deserve you, I would do anything to be your husband. And to be a father to our own child. I couldn’t stand it if you became my brother’s wife. And I certainly don’t want your mother regarding our child as a ‘defilement’ and an injury to her honor all its life. Marry me, Violet. You’d have to sacrifice your houses, your parties, your posh friends—but I swear I’ll find myself a respectable position and be the devoted husband and father that our family needs. Marry me. Your mother will have an apoplexy, to be sure, but I will bear all of her wrath. In time, perhaps she’ll forgive you. But I swear I won’t ever let you regret becoming my wife.” He held out his hand to her. “Will you take a chance upon me?”

  * * *

  The horse was lathered in sweat as it sped at full gallop through the forest. Its eyes were wide and crazed, driven both by the lash of the whip—and the child screaming inside the carriage.

  Once on the driveway in front of the house, the driver yanked on the reins. The horse’s hooves locked, spraying gravel all around. The driver grabbed the child, still bawling shrilly, and ran up the stairs as fast as his old legs could carry him.

  “Ballencrieff! Ballencrieff!” The man pounded on the door.

  Bannerman came to the door, alarmed. The man began to jabber incoherently while Eric cried.

  At the sound of his son’s wailing, Conall rushed to the door. He took Eric into his arms, and the boy’s cries diminished to whimpers.

  “What in blazes is going on?” he demanded.

  “Sir,” said the rail-thin man, his white whiskers trembling with dread, “my name is Kincaid. I run the linen draper’s shop in Thornhill. A lass came into my shop—tall, flaxen-haired, very bonnie—and she had the bairn with her. While she was looking at fabric, a couple of men came in and began to talk with her. She didn’t seem to know them, so I came out from behind my counter … just to be ready to send them away in case they began to bother her. Sure enough, they were up to no good, for I saw when they grabbed her by the arm, shoved her into a carriage, and sped off like the de’il was chasing ’em.”

  Shona pushed Bannerman to one side, her face pale. “That’s my sister!”

  Kincaid swallowed hard. “Oh, miss! Heartless they were, to take a woman and leave the child all alone. I would ne’er have known who he belonged to if it weren’t for her, sir. For as they hauled her away, she shouted yer name.”

  “What did they look like?” she asked.

  “Och, I could pick ’em out in a dark room! Tall as tr
ees, both of ’em. One old, one young. Wearing the same tartan, green and red. Highlanders, I’ll wager.”

  “Which way did they go?” Conall asked.

  “North. Up the high street, my lord.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Shona, dissolving into sobs. “Willow!”

  Conall handed Eric to Mrs. Docherty, and took the distraught Shona into his arms. He had never seen her cry before, not even at her most distraught. “Listen to me, Shona. They can’t be far. We’ll find her. Do not fear.” Despite his assurances, worry lined his forehead.

  He held his hand out to the old man. “Mr. Kincaid, thank you for bringing my son home. Bannerman here will give you some refreshment and something for your trouble. One of the stable lads will drive you back to Thornhill.”

  He walked Shona to his study, where he poured her a large brandy to calm her nerves.

  “Why, Conall? Why would they do this?” She sat on one of the chairs, the glass in her hand untouched.

  His gut had told him something was amiss. Now, he knew that his instincts had been correct. But he wished he hadn’t had to confirm it at the expense of Shona’s tears.

  He sat down in the adjoining chair. “I had my suspicions those men were after something.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. “But what would they want with Willow?”

  Conall sighed deeply. He didn’t want to speak his fears, because they would only cause more tears to fall down her cheeks.

  “Ye don’t think—” Shona stiffened. “Oh, no … do ye think they might try to rape her?” Horror twisted her features.

  “Calm yourself, Shona. No, I don’t believe they’re planning to hurt her. But I do believe they plan to bend her to their will. Tell me—do you or Willow possess any wealth?”

  Shona wiped her nose. “What do ye mean?”

  “A dowry, perhaps, or some hidden treasure?”

  “Of course not! If we had, do ye think we would ha’ wound up as wards of the Poor Law?”

  “What about land? You once said that your father had been a laird of a small estate. I forgot—what was the name of it?”

  “Ravens Craig.”

  “That’s right. What became of that when your parents were killed?”

  “I dinna know. A slaighteur forfeits all holdings. I just assumed that Ravens Craig went to the clan chief, the Buchanan.”

  “Hmm. Assumptions can be wrong. Let’s suppose for a moment that the land wasn’t forfeited, that it never went to the Buchanan. That means it would still belong to your father’s successors. Since your brothers were killed, that means that the land would be inherited by the next of kin.”

  Shona sniffed. “Which would be us.”

  “Yes. Or, more specifically, the elder of you two.”

  “Willow.” Shona’s damp eyes widened. “No wonder the McCullough wanted to know which of us was born first!”

  Conall’s mouth thinned. “If our surmises are correct, then the McCullough is trying to get Willow to marry into his family. If he succeeds, ownership of all of her property would then transfer to her husband. He is trying to make Brandubh the new owner of Ravens Craig.”

  “And I led them right to her. I told them where she was!” Shona squeezed her eyes, stemming a torrent of tears.

  Conall pushed back a tendril of black hair that had adhered to Shona’s wet cheek. “Hush, now. There’s no point in self-recrimination. Let’s think rationally … where could they have taken her? A church, perhaps, to solemnize the marriage?”

  “This isn’t England, Conall! Any person of worthless character can declare them legally married. A couple can marry without the benefit of banns, a kirk, or even a clergyman. All they would need is two witnesses … and Willow’s consent.”

  “They shan’t have it, then. Shall they?”

  Shona shook her head. “Willow is fearful and easily dominated. They can tell her any tale and she’d believe it. I have to get to her, Conall. Before it’s too late.”

  Bannerman came to the door. “Forgive me, sir. But Her Grace requests a word in private.”

  “Not now, Bannerman.”

  Bannerman stiffened in uncertainty. “What shall I tell Her Grace?”

  “Tell her whatever you damn well please.”

  The valet hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he muttered before closing the double doors.

  By the time Conall returned his attentions to Shona, she’d already begun to unwind the bandages from her ankle.

  “Don’t do that. Your ankle still hasn’t healed.”

  She puddled the linens on the chair. “It was never hurt to begin with. I just made believe it was.” Her cheeks pinked. “To keep ye by my side.”

  Underneath Conall’s baffled expression, she sprang up from the chair and marched to Conall’s desk. She spun the ornate wooden box around and lifted the lid. And removed her dagger.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to get her back.”

  “No, Shona. I can’t allow you to go off in pursuit of Willow. You’ll get yourself hurt.”

  “Conall, this doesn’t concern ye any longer. It’s a matter of blood. They took my sister. My beautiful, perfect sister. I don’t care why they did it. I’m going after her. And they will give her back or I will make them wish they had.”

  “What will you do? Try to poke them full of holes before they slice your throat? Give me the dagger.”

  Shona shoved it behind her. “No! I told ye, I can defend myself. Go on aboot yer wedding. I must find my sister.”

  He held out his hand. “Dammit, Shona, I said give me the weapon.”

  “Stay clear of me.” This time, the dagger came out in front of her, its point aiming straight at him.

  He raised a sardonic brow. “What are you going to do? Kill me?”

  “I canna kill ye. I love ye.”

  The bemusement fled his face as his hand dropped to his side. “What?”

  She bit her lip. “Ye heard me. Now get out of my way.”

  A smile inched across his face. “I’ve never known a woman to profess her love at the point of a dagger.”

  The emotion knotted up in her throat. “’Tis the love of a slaighteur, who must love from afar. And so great it is that I’ll be content to withstand the separation from ye, Conall MacEwan, so long as ye’re happy.”

  Conall took a step in her direction. Fresh tears brimmed in her moist eyes. He inclined his head and pressed his mouth to hers.

  Her lips trembled slightly at first, but she kissed him earnestly and with abandon, knowing it to be their last. Her arms came around his neck, the blade still clutched in her hand. Conall wound his arms around her waist and pressed her forcefully against him. This is where he wanted her—in his arms, near his heart.

  Languidly, he tasted her mouth. Her lips were salty from tears, but her tongue was sweet from the honeyed tea. She was a woman of such contrasts—caution and daring, knowledge and innocence, damage and completeness. Passion and revenge.

  He twisted around and backed her against a chair. He sat her down, and knelt in front of her.

  He held out his hand. “Let me have the knife.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ll need it to save Willow.”

  “Shona, do not disobey me in this.”

  “You dinna know these people as I do, Conall. Highlanders are violent, brutal men. They will stop at nothing to get their way.”

  He encircled his hand around the blade, and squeezed it closed. If she pulled it away, it would slice his palm wide open.

  “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword. I won’t let that happen to you. Let it go.”

  Shona’s eyes searched his somber face. Slowly, her grip on the hilt loosened. Her fist opened, releasing her hold on the dagger.

  “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  There was another knock at the door.

  Conall grunted in frustration. “What is it?”

  The door opened. The duchess herself
stood in the doorway, surveying the scene before her eyes. The only movement was the winking of the jet beads that were sewn into the bodice of her burgundy silk dress.

  “Your Grace, please allow us a few moments. Shona is much distressed at present.”

  A fine eyebrow flew into her alabaster forehead. “Another sprained ankle?”

  Conall stood up. “That sort of remark is beneath you, madam.”

  “And that sort of girl is beneath you, sir. My God, you are about to be married to the heiress of one of the largest dukedoms in Great Britain. If you must take a mistress, kindly do me the dubious honor of selecting one that wouldn’t be found amid the sweepings of a farmyard.”

  Conall took a step in front of Shona, as if to shield her from the duchess’s diatribe. “You go too far, madam! How dare you insult her that way!”

  “I am but illuminating you, sir. Anyone can see that the girl is fairly struck with you. And she is unquestionably trying to dissuade you from the honor of marrying my daughter.”

  “If Shona is struck with me, then that to me is the greatest honor by far.”

  “Really, sir! Have a care for your class. Have you so little appreciation for the nobility?”

  His blue-fire gaze burned into the duchess’s face. “The only nobility I recognize is the one inherent in a person’s character. And it shines in Shona MacAslan. It is her kind of nobility that I should have sought from the beginning, and not the kind that you so begrudgingly offer.” Conall took Shona by the hand. “I regret to inform you I will not be marrying Lady Violet. Find some other fool to foist that poor girl upon. Then go, exact your vengeance upon me. Do your worst. Because I will not inflict any more grief upon Shona. I desire this woman’s happiness above my own. And if marrying me will give her any measure of joy, then I am the luckier for it.”

  “Conall,” Shona interrupted, rising behind him, “think what ye’re saying. I know I’ve been selfish in wanting ye for myself. But I canna let any harm come upon Eric.”

  “Nor will I. Her Grace will simply have to see for herself which of us shall be the more vehement in protecting his child.”