A Highland Duchess (19 page)

His title was just as old as that of the Earl of Falmouth, if not more illustrious. His wealth was a match, if not greater, than Emma’s. His prospects for the future were bright, his reputation sound. Emma’s uncle would have no reasonable argument to prevent their marriage. Even if he did, that was an obstacle he was more than willing to face headlong.

Besides, he was not going to be stopped by the man who’d struck Emma.

If nothing else, he would take Emma to Scotland, and the world could go hang.

Granted, the circumstances of their meeting had been odd, but there hadn’t been anything strange about the way they’d come together. Ever since he met her, she’d been lodged in his mind. He didn’t want to banish her either from his thoughts or his life.

He’d always handled those responsibilities he’d inherited, as well as those he’d taken on, including the welfare of the people who depended upon him for their livelihood. He had never been profligate. Sometimes, he’d been wise. Sometimes, foolish, witness the decision he’d made on that night only a short time ago. Yet, the act of being a burglar had changed his life.

In return for all those years of restraint, he wanted something now. He wanted Emma, Duchess of Herridge. He didn’t want a day to pass without seeing her face. Nor did he want to sleep alone in his bed. He wanted to tell her about his experiments, and banish that look that occasionally came over her face—a combination of fear and defiance.

Their future would not be easy, at least not immediately.

First, he needed to tell her who he was. Not a thief, not a brigand, but the Earl of Buchane, the Laird of Trelawny, the last in a line of distinguished and country-loving Scotsmen. When it was time, he would take her to Scotland and show her his home, proud owner that he was. Perhaps he’d even brag about all his exploits or show her the letters of commendation he’d received. He would reveal Lochlaven to her as he’d learned it from his childhood, with wonder and excitement and joy.

He felt as if he were about to embark on a great and lifelong adventure, and couldn’t wait to reach London.

P
eter eyed the bank draft in his hand with satisfaction. This amount could easily be replicated. All he need do was to go to the young bridegroom sitting in front of him.

How quickly Bryce had acclimated to being wealthy. He sat in the library attired in pressed clothing, freshly shaved, his bloodshot eyes the only indication of his overindulgence of the night before.

“Thank you. You’re very generous.”

“Consider it a parting gift, if you will,” Bryce said.

“What do you mean?” A sensation like melting ice traveled down Peter’s spine.

“I want you out of here, with all possible haste,” Bryce said.

Peter placed the bank draft on the surface of the desk with great precision, lining it up so it was in the exact center of his blotter, just below the crystal sander.

“Do you think to dictate to me?” he asked.

Bryce smiled. “Exactly so, Your Lordship. One word from me and the authorities would be very interested in speaking with you.” Bryce stood and regarded him with an expression too much like contempt.

“You’re a fool to think I’ll tolerate your threatening me.”

“What are you going to do about it, Your Lordship?”

“Do you think to keep it all for yourself?” Peter stood as well, biting back his smile. The young fool was as stupid as he’d thought.

Bryce chuckled. “You’ll need to find other living arrangements, Your Lordship. This is now my house, and you’re not welcome here.”

“Be careful,” Peter said softly. “Be very careful in your threats.”

Bryce smiled again, a particularly annoying expression. “Have you forgotten what I know?” His smile faded. “Do you think I’m going to just sit back and wait until you do to me what you did to the Duke of Herridge?”

His smile returned with an edge to it. “We’re leaving this morning,” he said. “We’ll be back in a few weeks. Make sure you’re gone by the time we return.”

A
n apologetic Robert had delivered a summons from her new husband to Emma. She was required in her uncle’s library. She was raising her hand to knock on the door when the shouting began.

Nearby, a few of the servants stopped what they were doing, each of them looking toward the room with no effort to hide their interest. They didn’t even have to try to listen. Both her uncle and Bryce were so loud that no doubt passersby heard them on the street.

They were arguing about money. She’d witnessed the same type of disagreement between Anthony and her uncle. She never understood why Anthony was so incensed over the amount of money her uncle gambled away when it was quite evident that Anthony was attempting, in his own way, to decimate her fortune.

Being an heiress didn’t make her a fool.

Yet money had never given her any freedom. She could buy almost anything she wished, as long as a man approved. She could travel almost anywhere, as long as she was chaperoned and accompanied by a male escort. She could engage in good works and make contributions to any charity she wished, as long as it was sanctioned by a male relative.

At times, she didn’t want to be wealthy. Or at least wealthy enough to be sold, bartered, and haggled about such as now.

The door abruptly opened and she was face-to-face with Bryce. Robert had evidently helped him wash and dress, because other than bloodshot eyes, there was little evidence of the night before in the man she saw now.

“We’ll be leaving shortly,” he said. “Pack your trunks.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, conscious of her uncle’s presence in the doorway. She edged away from him.

Bryce turned and faced her uncle. The words were for her but the challenge in them was for the Earl of Falmouth.

“To Scotland,” he said. “It’s time my boorish relatives learned of my great good fortune.” He sent a thin smile in her uncle’s direction, then turned and left her.

She could hear him striding through the main hall and then the sound of the front door opening and closing. Since she did not want to remain in her uncle’s company, Emma turned and left, retreating to the safety of her suite.

By noon her trunks were packed. She’d refused the dresses her uncle had had made, defiantly remaining in mourning. Now, she allowed Juliana to pack the three dresses with white cuffs and white collars. But there were only seven dresses in all and two bonnets, a fraction of the wardrobe she’d once had.

“Will you take your jewelry case . . . ” Juliana’s words stumbled to a halt as the two women looked at each other.

“It’s all right,” Emma said. “It will take some time to get used to calling me Mrs. McNair. I’ll leave my case here. I shall not be wearing any jewelry for a while.”

She sent Juliana on an errand, and while her maid was out of the room, went to her desk where she’d hidden the Tulloch Sgàthán. She placed it in the bottom of the trunk holding her dresses, creating a well amidst the paper and carefully draped skirts.

Ian had said it belonged in Scotland, and perhaps there would be a way to send it to Lady Sarah once she was there. Besides, she didn’t want to leave it behind, feeling a sense of responsibility for this one object greater than anything she’d ever owned.

An hour later she and her new husband were ready to leave.

At the carriage, her uncle exchanged a look with Bryce that wasn’t the least friendly. She’d never known him to hold back his remarks but he was evidently doing so now. She turned away when he would have addressed her.

The Earl of Falmouth could go to hell on a fast horse for all she cared.

“I wish you a safe journey,” her uncle said, stepping back and allowing the carriage door to be closed.

The last time Emma had been in a carriage with a man, the man had been Ian. The comparison between him and Bryce was not a fair one. Although they were similar in build, Bryce lacked Ian’s commanding presence or Ian’s enthusiasm and intelligence.

“Have you really asked my uncle to leave?”

“I have. It’s my house now. If you have any objections as to how I manage my business, keep it to yourself.”

All her life she’d known that her possessions were truly not hers but belonged to the man closest to her. How quickly Bryce had assumed his role as master of her domain.

“My uncle is of a stubborn bent,” she said, pushing back her resentment.

“I think you will find that I’m even more stubborn,” he said, reaching into the cupboard on the side of the carriage, a place that had normally kept a selection of books, a traveling clock, and writing implements and paper. From it he extracted a silver flask, removed the cork, and proceeded to drink his fill.

She glanced away, her eyes meeting Juliana’s. Her maid was not happy to be taking this journey, but her displeasure showed in her eyes and the set of her mouth, not her words.

At the station, Bryce arranged their tickets, relegating Juliana to the second-class carriage while they occupied the first class with sixteen other people.

“You did not want to bring Robert?” she asked him when they’d settled.

“I can care for myself,” he said, closing his eyes and effectively ending their conversation. “I don’t need a valet to do it for me.”

He’d needed help this morning, but it was a comment she didn’t voice. Emma had the feeling that she would become accustomed—once again—to holding back her thoughts, as well as her feelings.

T
he hours passed slowly but he was finally back in London. At King’s Cross Station, Ian hired a carriage to take him to Emma’s home. The sky was turning dark, the sunset announced with joyous orange and pink streaks.

Traffic was snarled and difficult, a commonplace occurrence for London’s streets. Ian found himself impatiently drumming his fingers on his knee as they made their way through the congestion.

The hired carriage was commanded by a coachman who understood his need for haste. When they reached the house on Alchester Square, Ian opened the carriage door and called up to the man, complimenting him on his speed.

“I’ll pay you double your hire if you wait for me,” he added.

The man nodded, touched his hand to his hat, and wrapped the reins around the brake.

Ian took the steps two at a time, knocked on the door, and found himself face-to-face with a majordomo not unlike Patterson.

The man didn’t speak, only inclined his head.

“I need to see Her Grace,” Ian said, just now realizing that he’d never called Emma by the title. Her Grace. How apropos for her. “The Duchess of Herridge,” he added, realizing he was being foolish. He felt like he was a boy again, a rash, improvident youth.

He couldn’t help but smile at the dour man.

“I regret, sir, that Her Grace is not at home.”

He knew that game quite well—he’d played it himself.

“Tell her it’s Ian,” he said. “She’ll want to see me.”

What if she didn’t?

The majordomo opened the door a little wider, so that his not inconsiderable bulk was revealed. A bulwark of flesh. Did the man think to intimidate him? Nothing could at this point. Not plans, not geography, not a future all mapped out by strangers. He needed to see Emma, and he needed to see her now.

“I regret to say, sir, that she is truly not at home. The Duchess of Herridge was married yesterday, and left London this afternoon.”

Sounds abruptly stopped.

Ian couldn’t hear the vague distraction of the traffic a few streets away. The world narrowed to his breath, his heartbeat.

He stared at the majordomo like a dumb animal. When the man began to close the door, Ian did nothing to stop him. He didn’t slap his hand across the carved panel or insert his foot in the space of the open door. He merely stared, and when the door closed with a substantial click, he remained where he was for a few moments before turning and very carefully, and very precisely, descending the steps.

The carriage was still where he left it, the coachman smiling as he approached.

He couldn’t think.

The silence of his own mind was strangely abrasive, rubbing against his composure. He had to think. He had to move.

“Where to now, sir?”

Ian looked up at the driver. He should give him directions. Where, though, should he go? Where could he go?

Instead of giving the man his London address, or directing him back to the train station, Ian called out a list of the various establishments Bryce liked to frequent.

Darkness fell over London as he entered the carriage.

He’d try to locate his cousin, but if that chore was not immediately fruitful, he’d leave for Lochlaven. He needed to be home. He needed to return to his work. That was the only thought in his mind.

He didn’t want to think of Emma.

Pain is a part of love. He remembered reading that once. Which part, however? A sliver, or the whole of it?

S
omewhere past the border they encountered a storm. Wind buffeted the car in which they traveled, causing it to sway. Coupled with the sheer speed of the train, Emma found it difficult to do anything but stare out the window and wonder if the next turn would lead to her death.