Amanda Scott (53 page)

“I ought to have told her myself. If I have learned anything from you, little wife, I hope it is that the female of the species is not always to be mistrusted. I had not thought that was how I felt, but what with living in the same house as my stepmother and being the target of every matchmaker in London, not to mention most eligible females—”

“Poor, poor Edward,” Maggie said, her lips twitching.

He caught her by the shoulders and kissed her hard on the mouth, then held her away and looked at her suspiciously. “You didn’t already tell Ryder what really happened, did you?”

“I still don’t know exactly what happened. Do you?”

“I’ll wager you guessed. I heard Lydia tell James not to let anyone give me anything to eat or drink. She said you had told her to tell him about the sugar in my tea, too.”

“I thought you were poisoned,” she said, “but perhaps if the doctor believes it was just something from—”

“Brockelby knows it was nothing of the sort. James had evidently told him as much before I came to my senses, but he said it didn’t matter what it was, that since I had eaten it, the best way to deal with it was to empty my stomach. And that they surely did. If I can ever bring myself to forgive my stepmother for any of this, I’ll never forgive her for the rhubarb, or the ipecac, or for whatever horrid thing Brockelby poured down me.”

“I will never forgive her at all,” Maggie said flatly.

He took her in his arms again only to release her when the door opened to admit Lydia, who clutched a damp handkerchief in one hand and looked as if she had been crying. She said, “It is dreadful downstairs. I told James that Mama had shrieked out some nonsense to those dreadful men about Maggie trying to poison you, Ned, and he has gone quite absolutely mad.”

“Is that true?” Rothwell demanded, looking straight at Maggie. “She accused you?”

“She said Jacobites had poisoned you,” Maggie said, “and since she had just accused me of being one, the inference was plain enough, but she was distraught, of course. Perhaps I ought to go downstairs and see what can be done.”

She started to get up, but Rothwell held her. He said, “Where is Ryder, puss?”

“He and Dr. Brockelby came in while James was ranting at Mama, but he shouted at them to go into the library and drink the damn—dashed whisky, and they went away again. I could not get away so easily because Mama kept clutching at me, saying she didn’t mean any harm, that if she had stupidly let some of her powders fall into your teacup and had even more stupidly allowed those awful men to believe Maggie was the daughter of a Jacobite when she actually said only that most Highland chiefs fought in the Uprising, she is very sorry. And she insists that she was very careful
not
to accuse Maggie of poisoning you. But James just went on shouting at her; and, since she also said she was quite certain that if God would but see fit to allow him to become Earl of Rothwell he would soon see that this proposed marriage of his is quite unsuitable, I think she
did
mean to do a great deal of harm. Oh, Ned, is that not a perfectly dreadful thing to think about one’s own mother?” She began to cry again.

Rothwell said gently, “It is dreadful, puss, but it is not an unreasonable conclusion, considering the evidence. Did James by any chance discover what it was that she put into my tea?”

She dried her eyes, saying, “He did, but it was not Mama who told him. It was Maria. When Mama refused to reply to certain questions he asked, he sent Fields to get Maria and told her she would be hanged for murder if you died, because he would testify against her in court and say that she had tried and tried on the road to Scotland to kill you, and again on the way home. And Maria burst into tears and said she only did it the first few times, that she put nightshade into your food.”

“Nightshade! Deadly nightshade? But that would have killed me at once, would it not?”

“So James says, and he thinks Mama
believed
it was deadly nightshade, only as it chances, the stuff he distills for her complexion is common English nightshade and not at all the same thing. And that, he says, is why it did not work when Maria put it in your food. In point of fact, he said, had he not added the juice of the berries to Mama’s distillation, it would have been quite safe for you to drink. It was the berry juice that made you feel ill. Maria would have stopped when the stuff she added to your food only made you feel sick, she says, only Chelton made her try again, and he made her add some of the laudanum Mama had given her. She says she was afraid they would be caught and so she did not put in enough. And Chelton was so angry with her that he beat her. She told James they could do nothing at Glen Drumin House because the servants watched her too closely, and then she said you were so kind to her on the road—I don’t know quite what she meant, and she did not explain that part—”

“We know what she was talking about,” Maggie said quietly, remembering Maria’s terror when they had begun descending the steep side of the Corriearrack. “Go on, Lydia.”

“Well, she said she stood up to Chelton when he ordered her to put more of the stuff in Ned’s food.”

“She did,” Rothwell said. “She announced to everyone within hearing that she would make certain I ate nothing that she had not fixed herself or watched being made. After that there was no way for them to accomplish their task without incriminating themselves. It seems I owe a great deal to Maria.”

Maggie was not so certain. “Why did they do it?”

Lydia said, “Maria told us it was because she has always done what Mama told her to do, since she was quite young, but also Mama told Chelton she would turn him off without a character if he refused to do as she bade him. He is too old to find work elsewhere, especially if he were turned away from Rothwell Park. And too, Mama promised to pay him a great deal of money, though where she thought she would get a great deal of money I don’t know. And now all she has accomplished is to infuriate James and to make me sorry she is my mother.”

Maggie, feeling deep sympathy for Lydia, moved again to go to her, and this time Rothwell did not stop her. But as she put her arm around the younger girl, the door opened yet again, and Brockelby strolled in, a glass of whisky in his hand.

“I say, Rothwell, where the devil did you come by this stuff? Ryder says he don’t know, and I’d have asked James, but he’s still closeted with your step-mama and I did not like to disturb them, but I’ve never tasted better. I must have some.”

Rothwell said, “That is private stock from my Highland estate, Brockelby. I’ll gladly tell James to give you a bottle if you will take my sister back to the library with you now and pour her a glassful as a composer. My father-in-law declares the stuff can cure all the ills of the world, and while I will not say that much myself, I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that I must find a way to produce his product commercially.”

Brockelby would have entered into a discussion of the best means to do that, but when Rothwell made a gesture toward the brooding Lydia, he collected himself and gently took her arm.

“I should go with her,” Maggie said.

“No, sweetheart, we can trust Brockelby and Ryder to look after her for the present. Come here and—No, wait. Go and lock that confounded door first or we’ll have James or someone else breaking in upon us. Then come here and sit down again.”

“Should you not rest like the doctor bade you, Edward?” she asked anxiously when she had obeyed the first of his commands.

“No, I should not.”

“Very well. We do have some things to discuss. You do know that neither James nor Lydia had any part in any of this.”

“I know that, sweetheart. Now come back here.”

She hesitated. “I do feel I must tell you at once that although I find I do not at all mind living in London with you, I simply cannot continue to share a house with your stepmama. I hope you will not expect me to do so.”

“Good God, no,” he said harshly. “She can go to the devil!”

“You cannot just turn her out of the house.”

“No, and though she is guilty of attempted murder—yours as well as mine, thanks to that appalling accusation of hers—I don’t want to produce an ugly scandal by turning her over to the authorities. What I will do is confine her to the dower house in Derbyshire, with Chelton to look after her and a few men I can trust to keep them there. Maria can do as she pleases. I will see to it that Chelton cannot harm her if she wants to remain with my stepmother.” He added firmly, “But I don’t want to talk about them anymore just now.”

“I believe you, sir. You must be very—”

“Come here, Maggie.” There was a new note in his voice that brought warmth to her cheeks and a tingling to a region much nearer the center of her body, but she went willingly to stand by the bed. He pulled his nightshirt off over his head, sending two buttons skittering under the wardrobe, and said, “Take off your clothes and get into bed.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling, then said, “It is too early, sir. Moreover, the servants will be serving dinner soon, and since I don’t believe your stepmother will want to act as hostess, and Lydia is really too young to—”

“Take off your clothes, Maggie.”

Obediently, she untied the ribbon at her bodice, but as she reached for the hooks behind, she said, “Do you really mean to produce Glen Drumin whisky commercially? How can you, since Papa flatly refuses to pay any duty or excise tax, and you said—”

“Whatever I said, I said before I knew there might be a market among those who can afford to pay as much for whisky as they pay for fine wine. Now that I do know, however, I’ll find a way to sell it to them, even if I have to bribe someone to exempt Glen Drumin whisky from the damned excise! Now, get into bed.”

She hesitated, letting her gown fall to the floor, enjoying the changing expression on his face as she did so. Her shift followed the gown before she said thoughtfully, “I am still not by any means certain that this marriage of ours can work, you know. We disagree on all manner of things, and while I know that you find me attractive and truly enjoy this sort of thing—”

“Damnation, Maggie, we are both strong enough to make this union work if we put our minds to it, disagreements or none, but if I have to get up to
put
you in this bed, I’ll make you regret that you teased me this way.” His last words lacked the strength of the first ones, which did not surprise her, for when she cupped her breasts in her hands midway through his threat and stepped toward him, she heard his breath catch in his throat.

“I think,” she said provocatively, “that it would do you a great deal of good to learn to beg, Edward.”

“You may think what you like, sweetheart,” he said, reaching for her. “Come to bed.”

She stepped back out of his reach and smiled. “You may begin by asking me more politely to join you in your bed.”

Instead of coming for her as she had halfway hoped he would, he folded his hands behind his head, regarded her with lazy amusement, and said, “Have I told you that I love you?”

“No, but I guessed it, so do not expect me to tumble gratefully into your arms, sir, for in point of fact, I do not believe I have ever spoken those actual words to you either. If you want to hear them, you know what you must do.”

“I will never beg you, sweetheart, so you might just as well put that notion straight out of your head. Now, come here.”

This time she obeyed, for the air was chilly, but when he moved possessively over her, she said sweetly, “I do love you, Edward, very much, but before this day is done, I will make you beg me, just as you once made me beg you.”

“You won’t ever do it, little wife.”

But, to her credit, she did.

Dear Readers,

For those of you who always ask “How much of it is true?” I add this short note. The primary characters come from my own imagination—names, clans, and all. As to the rest, here are a few of the basic facts:

After the unsuccessful Jacobite Uprising of 1745 (the final attempt to restore the Stewarts to the British throne), the real tragedy for the Scottish Highlands lay not in the defeat of the clans but in what came afterward, when the English government followed its victory with a series of acts designed to prevent any risk of a Jacobite revival by crushing the Highlanders’ spirit and destroying their very way of life.

The Disarming Act of 1746 imposed severe penalties for carrying or possessing arms and for wearing any tartan garment. The bagpipes were indeed prohibited as “instruments of war,” and enforcers of these policies did include members of such non-Jacobite clans as the Campbells and MacKenzies, who cruelly used their privileged positions to settle old scores.

Lands of known Jacobite sympathizers were indeed forfeited to the Crown, then awarded or sold to absentee landlords who knew nothing and cared less about their Highland tenants. Later, the cult of the sporting estate gradually arose, and large areas that had supported many clansmen were given over to sheep with a handful of shepherds to mind the flocks, while the rest of the unfortunate inhabitants were evicted.

Bonnie Prince Charlie did visit London in September 1750. He did go to the Tower of London and to church. He also showed up at a ball given by Lady Primrose in Essex Street. I haven’t a clue as to what he actually wore, but his character was unfortunately very much as I described it.

Between 1740 and 1824, whisky became the most important industry in the Highlands. Illicit distilling was accepted by everyone as the only means of paying rent, and the extreme difficulty of collecting the unfair taxes and duties eventually defeated the government in the south.

In researching this book, I collected many tales of whisky smuggling, so nearly everything MacDrumin of MacDrumin does to outwit excisemen and bailies was done by someone at one time or another. And Rothwell’s declaration that if nothing else works he will seek an exemption from the excise tax for MacDrumin is also based on fact. One distillery, Ferintosh, was actually exempted from the excise for over one hundred years. Other labels that trace their history to this period include Glenlivet, Laphroaig, Walker, and Seager Evans. The first legal Highland distillery, Glenlivet, was not licensed until 1824.