Amanda Scott (25 page)

Miss MacDrumin, he noted with a flickering glance, did not seem much affected by the wild weather or the wretched journey, but no doubt, having spent her life in this disorderly but rather fascinating country, she was accustomed to it. He glanced at James and saw that his brother had given up any attempt to draw and was dozing. Storm and roadbed making conversation difficult, Rothwell leaned back against the squabs and contemplated the possibilities that might present themselves for his dinner. So far, he had not been much impressed by Scottish food. Though he had not been sick again, the fare at such alehouses and inns as had enjoyed their custom had been uninspired, and he doubted he could hope for better in an out-of-the-way place like Laggan.

Miss MacDrumin was smiling again and for no apparent reason. She seemed quite ridiculously pleased to be back in her homeland, though how anyone, let alone a female who was plainly gently-bred, could be happier in such a barbaric environment than she had been in one of the most comfortable homes in London was beyond his comprehension.

The alehouse in Laggan, when they reached it several hours later, did not alter his perception of the Highlands. The house was much larger than the one in Dalwhinnie, its great size due to its location at the foot of the Corriearrack and the fact that few were brave enough to make the journey, up or down, in darkness. Thus the alehouse—in warmer months at least—was assured of numerous overnight guests. But although there were clearly others staying there, it was by no means full, and the best Rothwell could say in its favor was that neither he nor James, nor even Miss MacDrumin, would have to share a room.

Matthew would be pleased to have Maria’s company, Rothwell thought, although he noted that Maria wore a sulky expression, as usual. She had certainly changed from the haughty woman he knew in London, but he had no patience with her airs or her megrims. It was annoying enough to have to put up with her wooden-faced husband in place of the capable Fletcher.

Inside, the house was drafty despite a huge fire crackling on the hearth, and their bull-like host was taciturn at best. Although he greeted Miss MacDrumin with obvious respect, his demeanor when he spoke to Rothwell was nearly as wooden as Chelton’s. If he cheered up at all when Rothwell ordered four rooms, a hearty meal, and mugs of ale for himself and James, the earl could not discern the change.

The Cheltons went upstairs with a maidservant to see to the bedchambers, and Rothwell, sipping tepid ale, said, “We’ll stay here a while and warm ourselves.”

Miss MacDrumin seemed content to sit by the fire, and he believed that even his stepmother could not disapprove of her remaining there, even in the presence of a few strangers. Somehow it did not seem as improper as it would have been in an English inn. When the coachmen came in, having seen to their horses, both greeted the host warmly and demanded whisky.

Watching them drain their mugs with apparent satisfaction, Rothwell held out his own and said, “I have not tried your famous Highland whisky yet. It is a good time to do so, I believe.”

Obligingly, the publican took his mug, emptied the dregs of ale, and refilled it from a dusty-looking jug. The aroma of strong whisky assaulted Rothwell’s nostrils. Suppressing an urge to choke, he sipped with extreme care. The fiery liquid turned to silk upon his tongue, and he exchanged a look with James. Suddenly, Scotland seemed a far more fascinating place.

James, watching him, said, “I’ll have some too, by Jove.”

By the time dinner was served, both men had enjoyed a second cup of the strong brew and Rothwell was feeling very mellow. The fire was warm and cozy, its glow adding much to Miss MacDrumin’s beauty; James was the best of companions, and the inn was a most tolerable place after all. The whisky made even the food acceptable, though the mutton chops were tough and the baked turnips blackened. No sweet was offered, so Rothwell accepted a third mug of the excellent whisky in its stead.

When Maggie announced that she and Maria were going to retire, he began to get to his feet, having a notion that he ought at least to see them safely to her door, but she only smiled at him and said with an impudent but understanding note in her voice that they would manage safely on their own. Since it was her country, he accepted her word and returned to sit by the fire to finish his drink, telling the sleepy-looking Matthew that he might join his wife as soon as she had finished maiding Miss MacDrumin, without waiting up for himself or James.

“Heady stuff,” James said when the women and Matthew had gone. “The best I’ve tasted, I think.”

He seemed less affected by the brew than Rothwell was, but after a close evaluation, Rothwell decided that he probably looked completely normal and in control himself. None of the others in the room paid them any attention, and when the strangers—all men—spoke to each other, they spoke in the guttural language that was their native tongue.

Rothwell sipped slowly, enjoying the whisky and the crackling fire. He refused a fourth cup from their rather more congenial host, and finally, concentrating on maintaining his dignity, he accompanied James upstairs, dragged off his clothes, left them in a heap on the floor of his tiny room, and fell gratefully into bed. Thanks to Chelton’s earlier attentions, he found little to complain about other than that the sheets had cooled and felt a bit damp against his naked skin.

He fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, only to be rudely awakened less than two hours later. The room was totally dark, and for a moment he was disoriented before he remembered where he was. Recognizing the onset of a headache, he cursed the whisky he had drunk and turned over, deciding he had imagined the noise, but he had no sooner closed his eyes when a sound like a muffled scream shocked him wide awake and sent ripples of fear racing through him. It had sounded like Maggie.

Leaping out of bed, he snatched up the quilt to cover himself, and rushed for the door, barking his shin on a chair before he remembered where it was. Cursing fluently but moving more carefully, he found and opened it. No one was in the narrow corridor, but a second scream drew him swiftly to a nearby room. He threw open the door and rushed into the darkness, only to trip over something in his path.

The quilt was snatched away as he fell headlong onto a bed, on top of a slender, soft body that suddenly hardened and began to twist and writhe beneath him. Small hands clutched at his shoulders, pushing him, scratching him, and a woman’s voice cried out in terror. The room was suddenly filled with light, and Rothwell looked over his shoulder to see the huge landlord loom in the doorway, holding a branch of candles aloft in one beefy hand, and looking like the wrath of God in human form.

“God-a-mercy, ye fecksome prick-me-dainty,” the man growled, “ye’ll no attack innocent lassies in my hoose! I’ve a good mind tae take ye straight ootside and string ye tae the nearest tree!”

Several men crowded into the doorway behind him, and before Rothwell could gather his wits to explain what had happened, a deep, disturbingly familiar but unknown voice said, “Dinna do sae daft a thing as that, Conach. Nae doot, the mon be lawfully married tae the wench. Are ye not, me lord?”

R
UDELY AWAKENED FROM HER
usual deep sleep, Maggie was aware only of the heavy body atop her own and an instinct to get it off her. When the room suddenly lit up and seemed to fill with strangers, she became more disoriented, but she recognized Rothwell’s face close to hers at the same moment that the landlord threatened to take him out and hang him. When the second voice sounded, she had just realized the earl was completely naked, and quite failed to hear what was said.

Rothwell stiffened and tried to sit up, tugging at her quilts in what was clearly a futile attempt to cover himself. Trying to help him, she too grabbed the quilt, but it was caught tight beneath him, and when she tried to yank it loose, her hand slipped and inadvertently she touched his naked flesh. She snatched her hand away.

The landlord was watching her. He said, “That dinna look to me as if the lad can be her husband.”

Rothwell was not looking at her, which was just as well, for in view of his lack of attire and Conach MacLeod’s understandable confusion, she did not think she could look either one of them in the face. Conach was glaring at the earl, daring him to respond, but so far he had said nothing, and since she had not the least idea what he was doing in her bed, she too kept silent.

She was glad to hear James’s voice above others in the corridor, and a moment later, he pushed his way into the room. “What the devil is happening here?” he demanded, but to Maggie’s surprise, he looked only at Conach and the others crowded near the door. He did not so much as glance at Rothwell.

Conach stood his ground. “We’d expect ye tae tak’ his side, but lord or no lord, he’ll no tak’ advantage of an innocent wee lass in my hoose. I’ve no fear of any damned Englishman, and I’ll be mortal glad tae hang one.”

“Och now, Conach,” said a second, deeper voice, “I’ve told ye, the man must be married tae the wench. ’Tis mortal sad, I agree, but ye canna hang him fer consorting with his ain wife.”

Maggie went still. She could not see the man who had spoken, but she recognized his voice now as easily as she would have recognized her father’s. It was Kate’s big cousin, Dugald. She hoped neither Rothwell nor James would catch a glimpse of him, since both would surely recognize him from the hold-up.

James’s voice was chilly, and for once he sounded like a highly bred English gentleman when he said, “I fail to see how my brother’s affairs are any concern of yours, landlord, but I shall give you the benefit of the doubt and accept that you meant only to protect a female guest in your house. His lordship will also forgive you, no doubt, since she is indeed his wife.”

Maggie felt Rothwell stiffen again and saw him open his mouth to speak, only to shut it again when James shot him a fierce warning look. The earl had managed to cover his lower half, and Maggie had all she could do now to conceal her increasing amusement. She did not know what Kate and the others intended exactly, but she would do nothing to spoil their fun, for when James had overstepped the bounds of what was acceptable by spanking Kate, Rothwell had done nothing to stop him, and this was no doubt Kate’s way of getting even with both men. But although Maggie was not stirred to intervene, she was conscious of a strong hope that neither Rothwell nor James would soon discover the perpetrators of the harmless little prank.

Conach was glaring at Rothwell. “Faith, my lord, what say you? Be the lass truly your lawful wife?”

Maggie waited for him to deny it, but he did not. Instead he looked again at James, but Conach also looked that way, and James remained rigidly still, his lips pressed tightly together. At last, grimly, Rothwell said, “You seem to leave me little choice but to say she is my wife.”

The landlord relaxed. “That’s all right then, and we’ll be wishing you a good night. Forgive the intrusion, my lord.” James relieved Conach of the branch of candles before he went, and a moment later the corridor was empty, the three of them alone. Maggie wriggled to put more distance between herself and Rothwell, and he looked at her ruefully.

“I hope you do not think I came here to ravish you. You must have heard the scream that awakened me! I thought it was you, that you were in danger.”

“I heard nothing,” Maggie said truthfully. “I sleep soundly, sir. I did not waken until you fell on me.”

He paused, frowning. “Where the devil did that scream come from if it didn’t come from here, and what the devil,” he added, glaring at his brother, “did you mean by telling those fools I was married to her?”

James said hastily, “It is a dashed good thing you did not contradict me, Ned, and it’s no use looking as if you’d like to murder me either, for I had no choice. Awoke to a clamor and when I stepped into the corridor, the lot outside this door was shouting for your blood. Two fellows told me the innkeeper would hang you if you weren’t married to her, so I dashed well wasn’t going to tell them you were no such thing. I’d wondered as much as anyone what you were doing in her bedchamber, so you can hardly blame
them
for misunderstanding, and what difference can pretending you’re married make in any event? Once we cut free of this place, we’ll have no cause to see any of them again.”

“True,” Rothwell said with a sigh.

“Where the devil are your clothes?” James demanded. “Surely, you didn’t run naked down the corridor.”

Rothwell’s face reddened but he said, “I told you, I thought Miss MacDrumin was in danger. I snatched up a quilt.” Pointing, he added, “That one on the floor behind you. It must have caught on something when I rushed in, tripping me up, but if you will give it to me, we can leave Miss MacDrumin to go back to sleep.”

Struggling to conceal her amusement as she watched James retrieve the quilt and hand it to the earl, Maggie said, “Th-there is j-just one small thing you ought to know, Rothwell.”

Attempting to wrap himself up in the quilt, he clearly was listening with only half an ear, for his tone was distracted when he said, “And what is that?”

Keeping a mildly interested eye on his expression, she said, “In Scotland, marriage by declaration is perfectly legal.”

An arrested look leapt to his face, but before he could respond, James said abruptly, “Just what the devil is marriage by declaration?”

Still watching Rothwell, she said, “I am not altogether certain of the exact points of the law, but I believe that by declaring himself my husband before witnesses, your brother has become just that, by law.”

“By old Harry,” James said, staring at Rothwell, “that can’t be right. Tell her she’s mistaken, Ned.”

Rothwell was standing now, and he looked down at Maggie with such a grim look in his eyes that she no longer had trouble suppressing her amusement. He said, “I see you realize this may be a more serious matter than you thought, Miss MacDrumin, but you need not concern yourself. Whatever Scottish law is, I can assure you the laws of England do not include any such nonsense, and I certainly will not hold myself accountable to Scotland.”