A Highland Duchess (29 page)

How easily they could alter each other’s moods.

She felt her heart stop, then begin beating again, so loudly and furiously that it made her breathless.

He couldn’t say those things to her. He couldn’t expect her to simply brush them aside. Had three days in London made the same difference in his life that they’d made in hers? Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to forget him.

Now she was at his home, his guest, his prisoner, again. She felt as if she were a fly in the web of a particularly attractive spider, so charming and so handsome that by the time he crawled across his web to eat her alive, she practically begged him to nibble on her.

Bryce needed to get well quickly. They needed to leave Lochlaven. They needed to find some other place to live, if not in London, then Scotland. Anywhere.

Her fortune would allow them to do so. And if it didn’t, if it was gone, she would take up washing, darning socks, becoming a servant in someone else’s home.

Anything but remain at Lochlaven and lose her immortal soul.

And her heart.

F
our of the rooms in Ian’s laboratory opened up into each other. He’d had the doors removed and the door frames enlarged so they could accommodate the massive laboratory tables, should he wish to move them from one room to another.

This part of his laboratory faced north and a view of the island. The sight of the castle was always a reminder to him that he was doing exactly what he’d planned so many years ago as a boy. Even then, instead of simply exploring and pretending he was an adventurer on those outings to the island, he’d been equally interested in what people couldn’t see. He’d overturned rocks and boulders, taken samples of water from the springs, and examined the very soil of the island.

His most expensive acquisition, and his most beloved one, sat on the table facing the loch, the brass plate bearing the mark of its maker: ANDREW PRITCHARD, PICKETT STREET AND 312 & 263 STRAND, LONDON. The microscope was made of solid brass, except for the lenses, which were ground of optical quality glass. A rosewood case with fourteen ivory-knobbed drawers sat beside it. Two of the drawers held the new slides he’d purchased in London, waiting for his examination and discovery.

The microscope was not unlike the one given to him by his father when he was sixteen, and which now sat in his London laboratory. The construction was the same—the long, slender column of brass resting on a tube connected by several screws to a tripod. At the base was a refracting mirror, bringing light to the slide and thereby aiding in the magnification. The difference between the two microscopes lay only in the strength of the lenses.

Over the years, he’d become impatient with the available lighting. Consequently, he chose the brightest spot in the room to assemble his microscope, and assisted the process by always having a lamp directly behind the instrument.

What he truly coveted, however, was an apparatus similar to the one displayed at the International Exhibit in London four years ago. That device was the most brilliant artificial light ever produced, and this spectacular accomplishment had been achieved using a magnetoelectrical device invented by Professor Holmes.

He’d occasionally given some thought to erecting a mirror on a tripod and setting it on the expanse of lawn running down to the shore of the lake. On sunny days it could be tilted to reflect light into his laboratory.

Mirrors inevitably made him think of the Tulloch Sgàthán, which led to thoughts of Emma.

Pushing thoughts of her aside—a great deal more difficult than he’d expected—he pulled a stool toward the table, uncaring that the legs scraped across the wooden floor, and removed his microscope from its case.

He worked for a little while, recording the results of slides he’d made earlier.

When Albert entered the room, he looked up.

“I hear Bryce is better,” Ian said.

Albert didn’t look as pleased as he’d expected.

“I’m a little concerned about his color,” he said. “There are signs of jaundice, which is never good.”

“What can we do for him?”

Albert sighed. “Nothing at the moment. Arsenic is not an easy poison to survive.”

“Will he? Survive?”

Albert looked directly at him, not attempting to hide anything. “I don’t know, Ian. I’ve done all I can. Nature will have to reason the rest of it out.”

Their camaraderie was of long standing. Ian had asked Albert to come and work with him nearly ten years ago. The physician had eagerly limited his practice with patients for that of research, and spent more than two weeks a month at Lochlaven. Occasionally, his wife, Brenda, joined him. Sometimes Rebecca did as well, as she had on this visit.

Albert donned his laboratory coat, settling beside him on a neighboring stool. His microscope was older than Ian’s but as much an extension of the man as his hands.

In addition to the laboratory at Lochlaven, Albert had a small lab set up at his home in Inverness. Ian had thought nothing of giving him the funds to do so. Albert was an invaluable collaborator. Without his assistance, Ian knew he couldn’t have achieved as much as he already had or as much as he wanted to in the future.

In his experiments, Ian was very quick to discard a hypothesis when it was clear it could not be proved. He was a nimble thinker, focused forward, and not spending any appreciable time mourning what had not been or could not be.

His personal life was proving not to be that simple.

Ian looked through the eyepiece of the microscope, but instead of viewing the bacterium he expected, only saw only a blur. He hadn’t yet inserted the slide.

Placing both hands flat on the table, he stared out at the view of the lake. The day was a bright and sunny one, calling to him as it rarely did.

Emma was here. Emma, to whom he’d been cruel. Emma, who was wearing a blue dress and had smiled at him.

Dear God, he was losing his mind.

“Have you told Emma what you think?” he asked.

Albert looked up from his microscope. “I didn’t. Do you think it’s necessary?”

“I think she should be warned,” Ian said, standing and removing his lab coat and placing it carefully on the stool he’d occupied.

Albert, intent on his own work, merely waved him away without taking his gaze from the eyepiece.

T
he curtains had only been opened an inch or two in the sickroom, the morning light muted. The maid was nowhere in sight, and he was annoyed by her absence.

Emma sat in the corner, her gaze on him as he entered. He concentrated on Bryce for the moment. Today his cousin’s face was not as pale. There was color in his cheeks, and he was breathing easier than yesterday.

Ian fervently hoped that Albert was wrong and that Bryce was recovering, and quickly.

“Where’s Glenna?” he asked.

With someone else here, if she insisted upon staying in the sickroom, she could at least doze in the corner.

“She went to get some lunch,” she said.

“She should not have left you alone.”

He felt like an utter fool. But then, that shouldn’t be any surprise to Emma. From the moment he’d met her, he’d behaved unlike himself. Or—and this was a thought he put away to examine later—perhaps more like the person he’d always secretly been.

“I want you to rest.”

Evidently, those were the wrong words to say. Belatedly, he realized that it might have sounded like a command rather than concern.

She stood, the movement so slow that he suspected she was as tired as she appeared. She hadn’t slept last night, and he doubted if the night before that had been restful.

“If you do not sleep soon,” he said, “we shall have to bring in another bed for you. Bryce will not be the only one who’s ill.”

She walked to the opposite side of the bed, fiddling with the edge of the sheet that covered Bryce. As if putting Bryce between them might moderate his thoughts, or keep him from wanting her.

What had she said the night before? Something about not being like the women she’d seen at Chavensworth? No hedonism, then. No loose morality for Emma. Despite the look in her eyes, despite the memory of that night and that day together, there could be nothing between them.

But dear God, he wanted to stretch his hand out and touch her shoulder, measure the smooth curve of her arm. He wanted to hold her hand and stare down at the back of it, studying the knuckles and the small, almost invisible tracery of veins. Then turn it over and kiss each line on her palm.

Perhaps he was no better than the Duke of Herridge with his appetite and his lack of honor.

“Will you promise me to get some rest? I worry about you.”

Her glance focused on the actions of her hands as she smoothed the sheets.

“Is it wrong to tell you that I worry about you?” he asked. “Is that, too, forbidden?”

She raised her gaze to him finally. “It should be. If it isn’t, it should be.”

Emma had been at Lochlaven two days, and already his life was upside down. He’d been catapulted into emotions he wasn’t prepared to feel, hungers he’d never known.

A lie, and he wasn’t used to lying to himself. He’d felt the hunger ever since meeting her.

“I’m going to see Mrs. Jenkins,” he said, angry at her, at himself, and mostly at the circumstances. “I’ll find someone to watch Bryce. Right now, however, you’re going to get some rest.”

She looked surprised at his vehemence. He waited for her to protest, to argue with him. He anticipated an argument, perhaps even welcomed it.

To his surprise, she only sighed, looked down at Bryce, then back up at him.

“You’ll stay with him until then?”

“I’ll stay here,” he said.

She was so pale he was afraid she’d faint. If he could have trusted himself alone with her, he would have escorted her up the stairs and to her room. But he only stood where he was, watching as she left the sickroom. At the door, she hesitated and glanced back at him. For the longest moment, they exchanged a look, one filled with memory. He wanted that glance to mean something, an admission, a conciliation, a surrender.

He needed to ensure that Bryce grew as healthy as quickly as possible and that his cousin and Emma went somewhere else for their honeymoon. Otherwise, he was quite certain he was going to do something to shame his family name.

Chapter 25

I
an’s sister and her husband arrived shortly after Glenna returned to the sickroom. He arranged for another girl to replace her an hour later, then left the room to greet his sister.

Their carriage rolled up in front of Lochlaven but no one exited. He watched them from the front door knowing, from prior experience, exactly what was happening inside the carriage. Fergus was kissing his sister and his sister was reciprocating with great enthusiasm.

If he didn’t like his sister so much, she would have embarrassed him with her adoration of her husband, Fergus.

Although they’d been married for two years, their passion for each other showed no signs of lessening, a fact that gave him—until London—some hopes for his own union.

Now, however, he knew that the only chance for his marriage was to change the bride. Unfortunately, the woman he had in mind was already wed.

He gave Fergus and Patricia a few more minutes before striding down the gravel drive and opening the carriage door himself.

The two of them pulled apart, not looking the least embarrassed for being found in such circumstances. The entire world could have faded away, and as long as Fergus and Patricia were in the same room, they would be equally content.

Their marriage was one he envied. In strength and emotionality, it easily equaled that of their parents.

“Shall I go away for a few moments?” he asked, smiling at them.

“An hour or so might suffice,” Patricia said, smiling back at him.

He laughed, helped Patricia from the carriage before embracing her.

Marriage suited her. She’d always been a pretty girl but she was radiant now, her black hair a perfect complement to her fair skin and brown eyes.

Fergus, on the other hand, would never be anything but what he was, a big redheaded bear of a man with a full beard. Rumor had it that he was a master negotiator in addition to being a very prosperous merchant. Fergus owned a fleet of ships as well as numerous business concerns in Edinburgh and London.

“Bryce is here,” Ian said as he walked with both of them to the door.

Patricia stopped and looked up at him. “Bryce? Why ever for?”

He exchanged a long look with Patricia. “He’s married.”

“But why has he come back to Lochlaven?”

“We’re his only family,” he said.

Patricia made a most unladylike sound. “You know better than that. We’ve always tried to be family to Bryce. He’s the one who refused us. At every occasion, he pushed us away. Why now?”

“I think it’s because he married well,” he said.

“And he wanted to show her off?” In the middle of the foyer, Patricia stopped, folded her arms and stared at him. He realized that she wasn’t going to advance upward until he answered her questions.