by Elisa Braden
He missed that feeling—the wonder of a sight no one else had seen. The real problem, of course, was that he’d stopped feeling it long before he’d come to Scotland. Long before he’d stopped seeking it.
By the end of his life, Ewan Wylie had begged him to go home before he got himself killed. Now, John wanted to laugh. Because being dead sounded better than this bloody emptiness.
He rubbed his returning beard. It made his face itch, but he couldn’t be bothered to shave. She’d liked him better without it, he recalled.
The thought made him smile. Lately, she was the only thought that did.
The last day they’d spent together, admiration had lit her up every time she’d looked at him. He pictured her now, standing inside an Inverness dressmaker’s shop, licking those pert lips and maddening him with her arguments.
Well, I dinnae ken if I can be bland, English. But decorative. Perhaps that I can do.
Indeed, she was anything but bland. He missed her. Craved her the way some men craved strong drink or poppy smoke.
At night, the craving had transformed into dreams so erotic, he’d become desperate to have them end—and equally desperate to have them return. In the past, finding a willing woman to manage his needs had been simple. Women liked him. Always had. A playful grin, a bit of flattery. Easy.
Now, nothing made him grin but her.
Nothing made him hard but her.
Nothing made him want but her.
How incomprehensibly mad. It was the worst thing to happen to him since the emptiness had begun seven years earlier. Back then, he’d distracted himself with wayfaring in Africa and building ships in Sunderland and making runs to the West Indies with a half-sotted Ewan Wylie bellowing at the mast.
Then, Ewan drank himself to death. And the emptiness caught up with John. Now, here he was in the arse crease of Scotland longing for a scarlet-haired hoyden to walk through his door and call him English.
Just that. Her voice. A sweet lilt of amusement. A wry taste of taunt.
He rubbed his jaw, watching the fire dance. It looked like her hair. Cursing, he returned to his desk. Perhaps whisky would improve this cursed mood. At least it might let him sleep.
Minutes later, a knock sounded at the study door. “Come,” he called hoarsely.
“I’m headed home, sir.” It was Dougal, looking weary from the day’s labors.
They’d nearly finished the castle’s interior. With Dougal, his two brothers, three sisters, and his mother all working at Glendasheen Castle, the place was coming alive, transforming into a proper house with a proper staff and real furniture.
When spring arrived, John would put Dougal and his brothers to work improving the gardens and the road along the loch. They’d need better roads if the MacDonnells were to travel safely to and from the village. Visitors, too. He didn’t want visitors coming to the castle until that road was repaired.
A brief vision of a red-haired hoyden struggling to pull a reluctant donkey through a muddy mess flashed through his mind. He shook his head. No. He couldn’t have that. What if she hurt herself? What if she fell?
“Er, Mam said ye werenae keen on her skink.” Dougal again. He was eyeing John’s untouched tray and wringing his cap between two hands. “I hope ye’re not set on dismissin’ her, Mr. Huxley. She does burn the potatoes from time to time, but it’s not for lack of tryin’.”
John frowned. “Is that why the soup is gray?”
Nodding sheepishly, Dougal explained, “It’s usually white. A fine dish, well prepared. If ye fancy smoked haddock, that is.” He paused. “She makes a grand shortbread, sir. I promise if ye keep her on, she’ll do better.”
Clearly, the man had oversold his mother’s talents. But John didn’t know how much longer he’d be in Scotland, so there was little point in seeking out a replacement. Dougal’s family needed the employment. They were all hard workers, respectful and reliable.
“Not to worry,” John replied. “Your mother’s position is safe.”
“Thank ye, sir.” Dougal dropped his gaze to his hands. “We cannae thank ye enough for all ye’ve done.”
“Thank me with shortbread, hmm?”
The other man smiled gratefully and turned to leave.
“Dougal.”
“Aye, sir?”
John hesitated. “Have you heard anything about the MacPhersons?”
Dougal turned solemn. “Nothin’ good. Broderick MacPherson’s bein’ charged with murder. His kin are fightin’ the High Court, but it doesnae bode well.”
As he left, cold settled into John’s gut. All winter, he’d waited for Campbell to ask for his help. None of the MacPhersons had contacted him. He imagined Annie’s pain as she waited for her brother’s fate to be decided. The urge to see her, to comfort her was a deep, agonizing itch with no relief in sight.
He shouldn’t feel this. She shouldn’t matter this much.
To distract himself, John picked up Kate’s letter, thinking he should finish reading it. His mother insisted his youngest sister needed “brotherly guidance”—whatever that meant. He’d just started on the second page when another knock sounded.
“Come,” he said absently, wondering what on earth Kate meant by quoting a lengthy passage from a Walter Scott novel, followed by a brief scene from Macbeth. She appeared to be asking about tartans and clans, but with Kate, conversation often ran in nonsensical circles.
Dougal cleared his throat. “Beg yer pardon, sir.”
“Did you forget something, Dougal?”
“As I was leavin’, I discovered a gentleman outside. I fear the cold has him a wee bit addled. He asked for Lord Huxley.”
John’s head jerked up. The man entering behind Dougal was roughly John’s height but had broader shoulders and nearly black hair. That hair dripped across a scowling face. Leaning upon his cane, the man moved stiffly into the lantern light.
“Con?” John blinked to be sure. But yes, it was Robert Conrad. Here. In his castle. In bloody Scotland. John bounded to his feet and embraced his sodden, weary best friend. “Good God, man. What are you doing here?”
“Presently? Freezing to death.”
They pounded each other’s backs before John asked Dougal to have his mother prepare tea then invited Robert to sit by the fire. “Annabelle sent you, I take it,” John said. He handed Robert a glass of whisky and took a sip of his own. “Her last letter sounded motherly.”
Sighing, Robert relaxed into his chair and propped his cane beside his knee. “She is a mother many times over. But no, she didn’t send me.” Brooding blue eyes grew solemn. “I came on my own accord. Your letters have been bleaker than usual the past several months.”
John stared into his glass. “It’s winter.” He took a drink then pointed to the window. “As you can see, bleak is something of a theme.”
“There’s more to it than the weather, man.” Robert shrugged out of his coat and resettled himself before saying quietly, “I’m here to tell you it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
Robert took a drink and ran a hand through his thick, damp hair. “For you to stop running.”
John’s gut hardened. He tilted his glass to indicate their surroundings. “Odd sort of running. I’ve been here two years.”
“You know what I mean.”
He knew. But he didn’t have to like it. “My father is in excellent health. Chances are he’ll outlive us all.”
“Producing an heir is important, but that’s not what I’m talking about, Hux.” Robert stared down into his glass, swirling the golden liquid. “Do you think we don’t see? You’ve been miserable for years.”
Cold settled deep. John tossed back the last of his whisky and hoped the burn would help. It didn’t. “Miserable is a strong word.”
“Is it?” Robert shook his head and sighed. “Don’t forget, I spent seven years in a similar state.”
“That was different.”
Robert
raised a questioning brow.
“You knew what was missing.”
A smile touched Robert’s lips. “Annabelle. Yes. But knowing did not lessen the pain of it.” The smile faded. “I do understand, Hux. The need to prove your mettle. The need for distraction. To fill the emptiness with something—anything.” He swirled his glass thoughtfully. “It works sometimes. So, you keep doing it. But more often, it doesn’t work at all. Even when it does, you’re left with less than you had before. Somehow, the things you do to distract yourself corrode the hollow places, leaving nothing but a cavernous hunger that will never be satisfied.”
Yes. That was it precisely. John wished hearing Robert describe his problem helped. It didn’t. If anything, he felt colder. Older. Tired. He refilled his glass and Robert’s then sat back with a sigh. “Let us drink, old friend.” He raised his glass. “To Annabelle. Thank heaven she is more forgiving than you deserve.”
Robert chuckled. “I’ll drink to that.”
Mrs. MacDonnell entered with tea and informed John she’d readied a bedchamber for his guest. When they were alone again, Robert eyed him with a speculative light. “You could be happy, too, you know. Perhaps the solution is the same for you as it was for me.”
“A wife?” He snorted. “For the thousandth time, I don’t want a—”
“Was she so very special, then?”
His chest tightened. He took another drink. “Who?”
“You know who.”
He rubbed his jaw. Then his eyes. They burned. God, he was tired. “Special? No. That’s the problem. She was entirely commonplace.”
She was Jacqueline Marchand, a half-French diamond-of-the-first-water who, as it turned out, had muddied her waters rather thoroughly before entering her first London season. He’d met the stunning beauty at Almack’s seven years earlier.
John was seven-and-twenty by the time he decided to return from his extended grand tour to partake in the season. Naturally, his mother and father were over the moon.
“About time, son,” his father had cheered, hazel eyes twinkling. “A wife is just the thing to settle a man’s restlessness. No need to seek splendors abroad when you’ve a fine woman at home.”
Mama had cooed and fussed, insisting he hire a tailor and a valet. “Oh, you’re the image of your father, dearest,” she’d wept, patting his lapel. “My sweet, handsome boy. A husband. And soon, a father, too?” She’d waved her hands and clutched her handkerchief, squeezing him so tightly, he’d thought she might crack a rib.
For a while, he’d let their excitement infect his thinking.
He’d entered Almack’s one cool April evening with an odd shiver of anticipation. Perhaps he’d find a woman to love the way Robert loved Annabelle, he’d thought, or the way Papa loved Mama. He’d scanned the crowd of watercolor misses with their shy glances from behind fluttering fans. Could the one in the pink dress be her? Would the one with the yellow sash make him long for home more than the next shore?
He didn’t know. But the adventure of it all had turned his head.
Then, she had walked into the room. Her hair wasn’t an extraordinary color, merely a dark shade of blonde, looped in fetching curls along her cheeks and adorned with a sparkling tiara. But her face. Her face had been exquisite. Full lips that trembled just so. A petite nose and long lashes. She’d been slender. Remote. Graceful. A moonlit nymph glistening among gauche pretenders.
He’d wanted her with all the vigor and blindness of a man in thrall. He’d persuaded an acquaintance to perform an introduction. Like a trout after juicy bait, he’d trailed her the rest of the evening, ignoring all the other young ladies who angled for his favor. Who would notice mere mortals when Jacqueline was near?
After that night, her hook was truly set. Every event she was rumored to attend, he’d wheedled an invitation. Every waltz a hostess promised, he’d positioned himself to claim. Within a few short weeks, he was planning their wedding. St. George’s, of course. His sister, Jane, had married there. The breakfast would be at his family’s townhouse on Grosvenor Street. He’d wear his midnight superfine tailcoat, the one Eugenia and Kate both agreed fitted him best.
He still remembered Jacqueline’s voice, like gossamer satin. Her skin, glowing with a blush that seemed almost otherworldly. He remembered kissing her in her uncle’s parlor, the taste of marmalade still on her lips, sweet with a hint of bitter. He remembered her sigh as she insisted they must wait. Wait until marriage. He wouldn’t wish to disgrace her, would he?
God, his blindness had been stupefying.
He’d been on his way to beg her uncle for her hand, stupidly imagining how their babes might look with his eyes and her nose, when he’d discovered her naked and moaning beneath another man.
The father of the babe she carried, as it turned out.
Romping inside a stall of her uncle’s stable, the pair hadn’t heard him enter. But he’d heard everything. Jacqueline giggling as she never did for him. Panting and grunting as she never would for him. Declaring the man between her thighs her “amour” as she never had with him.
And afterward, he’d punished himself by hiding. Lingering. Listening. He’d heard the man chuckle at the idea of being kept like a mistress.
Where will you keep me when you are Lady Huxley, my love?
Nearby. A cottage, perhaps. Oh, Gerard, I must have you close, for I cannot bear the thought of our babe being too far from his father.
What of you? Surely you will suffer with only Huxley to satisfy this greedy little body.
A moan. A gasp. That is why I must keep you near, mon amour. I can bear his touch only by clinging to thoughts of you.
A masculine laugh. And thoughts of his fortune, n’est-ce pas?
John’s discovery of Jacqueline’s true nature had been a brutal lesson, but it had also been a boon. No longer had he been blinded by the rare good fortune of men like Robert or Papa, who’d found loyal, loving wives to drive them mad.
Women—most of them, at any rate—sought marriage for practical reasons. He couldn’t even blame them, really. A woman without a husband had few options. Some might rely on family or find steady employment. Some might sell themselves to men in a more direct fashion. But the rest were left to languish and age until death arrived to claim them—women like Mrs. MacBean, for example, scraping together a meager existence from forage and MacPherson charity.
Marriage for love was the exception. The rule was trade—a title or fortune in exchange for access to a soft body and a fertile womb. Jacqueline might have wounded his pride, but he’d escaped her trap before any real harm had been done.
The lesson had been invaluable. Thereafter, he’d been watchful for signs of a woman’s avarice—her focus upon material possessions and social connections, her excitement at the anticipation of victory in the marriage hunt—and he’d never been disappointed.
It was all a game. By the end of the season, he’d had enough.
Since then, he’d seen very little to change his mind. Even Annie wanted to marry a title.
A damned, worthless title.
Would she accept a doddering, toothless man? A cruel, witless fool? He’d seen women marry worse to become a countess or baroness or marchioness. Who would Annie allow to touch her? Who would she let rut between her thighs, grunting and huffing and sweating as he planted an heir in her belly? Who would she make fat on her bread and gravy? Who would she—
“Careful, Hux,” murmured Robert. “You’re going to shatter that glass. Then you’ll be bleeding all over. Your housekeeper has gone to bed, and I’m too deuced tired to clean up after you.”
John blinked. Indeed, his hand was white with tension.
“I didn’t think the Frenchwoman still mattered enough to vex you.”
He blinked again. Frowned. “Who?”
Robert took a sip and raised a brow.
John shook his head, hoping to clear it. “She wasn’t who I was thinking about.”
; “Hmm. Intriguing. Go on.”
John blew out a breath. Eyeing Robert carefully, he wondered if his old friend might offer some advice. God knew, when it came to Annie, he needed it. And Robert had always been sensible. “There is … a woman.”
“Naturally.”
“She is unlike any female I’ve ever encountered.”
Robert’s heavy brows arched. “Unusual.”
“Yes, she is that.”
“No, I meant it’s unusual for you to discover a specimen you’ve never seen before.” His friend’s mouth quirked. “As I recall, you sampled every variety available—and they were all available to you.”
John smiled faintly. “Youthful sport, merely. No, Annie is … different. I cannot explain it.” He sat forward and set his glass on the floor, leaning toward Robert to make his point. “She says whatever she’s thinking, be it vulgar or insulting or brazen. No matter. Out it comes.”
“Hmm. How old did you say she was?”
“Four-and-twenty. Roughly. I’m not certain when her birthday is. I shall ask Dougal tomorrow. They’ve known each other since childhood. Or, as she likes to say, ‘since we were wee.’”
“Wee. So, she is Scottish, then.”
John rubbed his lower lip between his thumb and finger. “She makes the best bread I’ve ever eaten, Con. I’ve no idea how she does it. Like clouds. Warm, crusty clouds. And her gravy.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Good God, she could tempt armies to fall at her feet for one blessed taste.”
“Or a smitten Englishman, it seems.”
Vaguely, John knew Robert had said something aggravating. But he was preoccupied with finding the proper way to explain her. How did one describe the indescribable? “I took her to Inverness,” he murmured. “We went shopping. She hates shopping. Understandable. The women in her village have treated her abominably.” He waved a hand. “Not to worry. I took care of it.”
“You did.”
“Oh, yes. Flora MacDonnell’s work as a seamstress has dried up. A new dressmaker moved into her former shop. The rental income is meager, but I was able to purchase the building for quite a reasonable sum.”