A Highland Duchess (21 page)

“We should reach Lochlaven by afternoon,” he said.

“Are you quite all right, madam?” Juliana asked a moment later. “You’ve become very pale.” She reached over and patted one of Emma’s gloved hands.

“Lochlaven,” Emma repeated very calmly.

“My family’s home.”

The air cooled around her. Her face felt too warm, especially around her hairline. She untied her bonnet and removed it, thrusting it into Juliana’s hands.

She turned toward the window, closing her eyes, and praying that her stomach did not disgrace her.

When she could, she glanced over at him. “I thought you said you have no family.”

“Let’s just say it’s where my relatives live.”

Lochlaven? She could not go to Lochlaven. The one place in the entire world she should not go, and it seemed it was their destination.

She looked at Juliana with panic in her eyes, needing some reassurance that she hadn’t heard the word. But of course, all Juliana did was look back at her curiously. Of course, she didn’t know. No one knew. No one knew that a Scot named Ian, a brigand of the worst order, a scientist with talent for passion, lived in a place called Lochlaven.

Dear God, what was she to do?

Bryce looked over at her disinterestedly. “If you’re taking ill, Emma, I will not order the carriage to stop.”

If he could have married a fortune without it being affixed to a body, he no doubt would have done so. If only she could have handed him her fortune in a bag and bid him be on his way, that would solve her problems, too. But no, this new husband was making her life miserable.

Nor did the future look very promising.

“How long shall we be at Lochlaven?” she asked.

“I have not yet decided. It has a great deal to do with our welcome. My cousin is the Earl of Buchane and the Laird of Trelawny and sees himself as father to the family. There’s an equal chance that we will be feted with Scottish hospitality as being asked to leave. That is, if he remembers our last meeting. The welcome might be less, shall we say, welcoming.”

“What is your cousin’s name?” she asked, needing the confirmation, the words spoken aloud.

He glanced at her. “McNair,” he said. “Ian McNair.”

Chapter 18

E
mma sat in the corner of the carriage, trying not to think. When she thought, she remembered, and when she remembered, she wanted to smile. Bryce would think that the smile was directed at him and nothing could be further from the truth.

She was faced with two impossible and contradictory futures. She was married to Bryce. She was traveling to Ian.

Both could not happen.

She slitted open her eyes and looked at Bryce. His head lay back against the seat, his mouth hanging open. Either he was supremely relaxed or inebriated. Try as she might, she couldn’t see much familial resemblance. Ian’s hair was black, while Bryce was fair. The color of their eyes was similar, their physique possibly alike.

In the whole of her life, Emma had never once questioned her destiny or her duty. It had simply been there, like her hands or feet, part of what made her who she was. She was the Earl of Falmouth’s daughter, and as such, expected to marry well. She’d done that. She’d been the Duke of Herridge’s wife and had endured her marriage as well as she could have. As Anthony’s widow, she’d behaved impeccably, unless you counted three days stolen from her hermitage.

She’d sought comfort in prayers, and tried to understand why God had allowed those nights at Chavensworth. But she’d never been angry at God until this moment.

This was too much.

This trial might break her.

She thought back to their conversations. Had Ian ever said anything about his family? Had he mentioned Bryce at all? He’d been hesitant to speak of himself, only mentioning Lochlaven when she’d pressed him.

A thought occurred to her, one that had her sitting upright. Juliana glanced at her curiously, but she didn’t speak to her maid. Instead, she stared at her drunken husband.

Dear God, was she going to have her wedding night at Lochlaven?

Surely God would not be so cruel.

Unless Bryce was unable to perform at all.

Two bottles rolled on the floor of the carriage, another was wedged between Bryce’s body and the side of the carriage. She pulled it free with two fingers, noted that it was empty, then gingerly placed it on the floor.

“Are you given to such bouts of drunkenness often? I ask merely because I would like to be prepared for the rest of our marriage.”

He blinked at her, his eyes bleary, his smile mocking.

“You’re dead,” he said calmly. “You are sitting there on that chair, Mother, but I know you’re dead.”

She exchanged a quick look with Juliana, who was wearing an expression of shock no doubt the twin of hers. She’d never witnessed such an effect of spirits on a man.

Bryce moaned, as if he knew she was thinking uncharitable thoughts of him. She glanced at him again. His skin appeared pale and there were droplets of moisture upon his brow.

She glanced at Juliana. “Do you think he’s ill?” she asked.

Juliana only looked helplessly at her, and Emma realized how unfair it was to solicit her assistance. Juliana was a lady’s maid, not a sickroom attendant.

Should she try to wake him?

Unwilling wife or not, she really should be of some assistance to Bryce, if for no other reason than to protect his pride. It would not do to reach Lochlaven with him in such a condition.

“Bryce.” She raised her voice and repeated his name.

He didn’t move or respond.

She leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee, but he didn’t react to her touch, even when she coupled the gesture with speaking his name again.

He didn’t rouse.

Now she was truly becoming worried. She’d never seen anyone so thoroughly inebriated that he couldn’t be awakened.

She looked for her reticule, found it, and withdrew the small crystal bottle of
sol volatile
. As Juliana watched, she uncapped the vial, reached across the seat and held it beneath Bryce’s nose.

He didn’t move.

She glanced at Juliana. Her maid reached out and took the bottle from her. From time to time the mixture needed to be refreshed, but from Juliana’s look as she sniffed the pierced top, the
sol volatile
was still pungent.

“Something’s wrong,” Emma said. “If he didn’t react to smelling salts, then perhaps he’s truly ill and not inebriated it all.”

“What shall we do, Your Grace?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said, feeling more helpless than she ever had in her entire life.

His lips were so pale they could barely be discerned from the rest of his sallow face. As the moments passed, his breathing grew increasingly labored. Why hadn’t she seen that he was ill?

Because his being drunk was so much more convenient. She could feel superior, and justified in disliking him.

Shame warmed her as she moved to sit beside Bryce. She placed her hand on his forehead. His skin was clammy and cold.

He began to retch, and as Juliana drew back her skirts, Emma reached up and opened the grill above Bryce’s head.

“Driver,” she said, raising her voice so the coachman could hear. “Stop the carriage as soon as you safely can.”

A moment later the carriage slowed, and finally came to a stop.

The man Bryce had hired in Inverness opened the door a few minutes later. “Is there a problem, madam?” he asked, removing his hat.

“Please assist my husband,” she said, grateful that after one look at Bryce, the man understood what was needed.

Bryce might have been correct about the distance to Lochlaven, had they not been required to stop so often on the way. As the hours passed, he was increasingly ill, and the coachman had been pressed into service more than once to lead him away so he might have some privacy. On the last occasion, the man came back and spoke to Emma, his voice earnest.

“Madam,” he said. “There’s blood.”

“Then we should attempt to reach Lochlaven as quickly as possible,” she said, pretending a calmness she didn’t feel.

The coachman led Bryce back to the carriage, and Emma lent her assistance in getting her husband onto the seat. Bryce was trembling, and when she placed her palm against his forehead, it was to find that his skin was even colder than before. He curled into a ball in the corner of the carriage.

Concerned, she turned to the coachman.

“Go as quickly as you can,” she said. At least it wasn’t raining and the roads were fair.

“Aye, that I’ll do,” he said, putting his fingers to the brim of his hat and nodding at her.

In minutes they were on their way again.

“Do you think it’s the cholera, madam?” Juliana asked, in as subdued a voice as she’d ever heard from her maid.

“I don’t know,” Emma said, wishing she was more experienced.

Juliana made a point of drawing as far away from Bryce as she could.

As the carriage began to crest a hill, Emma glanced out the window to see the glint of sunlight on water. At the end of a thickly forested spear of land sat a sprawling, four-storied rectangular house in the Palladian style. Or perhaps it was five floors tall, if those small windows just beneath the roof led to servants’ quarters and were not simply to ventilate the attics. She counted twelve chimneys, which meant there were least forty-eight fireplaces in the structure.

A large house, a prosperous dwelling, even situated as it was in the middle of a Scottish glen. She knew it was Lochlaven immediately from Ian’s description.

Lochlaven was ringed by a stone wall constructed of a material darker in hue than the yellowish brick of the house itself. Easily twice the height of a man, the wall was marked by arched doorways and pediments topped with stone orbs.

A gravel drive curved in front of the pediment-topped door. Two pillars flanked the three steps to the entrance.

As soon as the carriage stopped, and without being instructed, the driver descended from his perch and ran to the door. His urgent knocking was answered immediately by a young maid attired in a white starched cap and matching apron. She glanced at the coachman and then at the carriage before saying something to him and disappearing from sight.

The coachman returned to the carriage and opened the door, leaning inside to speak to Emma.

“Assistance is coming, madam,” he said. “It’s a matter of minutes now.”

She reached out and touched the coachman’s sleeve. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said softly. “Thank you, also, for getting us here safely.”

The man look abashed at her thanks. “I was only doing my job, madam.”

“With great skill,” she said, forcing a smile to her face.

True to his word, assistance was on its way. Several brawny young men, followed by two maids and an older woman, were coming toward the carriage.

The older woman held up her hand, halting the group a safe distance away.

“You have someone ill?” she asked, her caution evident in the fact that she didn’t approach the carriage or allow her staff to do so.

Emma couldn’t blame her. They could be anyone, and the passenger they carried could be ill from any number of horrid diseases.

“I am Mrs. McNair,” she said calmly, feeling strange announcing herself for the very first time. “My husband, Bryce McNair, is ill.”

The older woman’s face changed instantly. “Mr. Bryce? Oh, why didn’t you say so?” She immediately began to direct the actions of her staff.

In no time at all Bryce was whisked from the carriage and up the steps, disappearing into the sprawling house, leaving Emma to follow.

I
an was tired and annoyed.

Even though he’d opened his case, withdrawn his papers, and attempted to concentrate on his letter from a French confederate, he couldn’t concentrate. His reasoning was that if he submerged himself in his work, he’d be able to banish any thoughts of the Duchess of Herridge—or whatever her name was at the moment.

He finally got to the second page of the man’s missive by the time they made it to Glen Affric, west of Loch Ness, a place that never failed to elicit his awe.

Strong breezes carried the scent of the pine woods to him as bright sunlight glittered off the waters of Loch Ness. As he traveled through the forested part of the glen, shadows draped the carriage, and a hundred—or a thousand—birds chattered overhead as if they spoke of his travels. When they were through the forest, the steep peaks of mountains greeted him and the river sang its welcome.

Caledonia.

He put aside the letter, opened all the shades, and watched as his homeland unfolded, scenery that never failed to move him on an elemental level.

The ruins of two castles dotted the landscape. Strong people had settled here, men and women like his own forebearers. They’d created a civilization in a land that offered little pity but compensated with an endless beauty.