Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (33 page)

“I…thank you,” she whispered,
becoming more flustered. She needed a place to escape to. The screen served the
purpose. She had just slipped behind it as a soft knock sounded on the door. 

Hurrying to the door, she opened it
slightly. Violet stood in the corridor.

“Are you ready to undress, m’lady?”

“Yes, come in.”

“No!” Lyon ordered from the bed. “I
shall help your mistress. Out with you.”

Millicent felt her face burn as
Violet stood looking from one person to the other.

“I shall manage, Vi,” Millicent
said, dismissing her. “Off to bed with you.”

Closing the door, she crossed the
room as casually as she could and ducked behind the screen.

“I said I’d help you.”

“Yes, I know.” Her voice sounded
odd, even to her own ears. “I can manage.” 

“The buttons to that dress are in
the back.”

She cursed silently. He was right.
Violet had helped her get into the dress. She needed someone to help her out of
it.

“Can I help you?”

Millicent closed her eyes.  

“I shan’t shave my face again, even
if you beg me.”

He sounded like a sulking child,
and an uncontrollable giggle rose in her chest. He sounded like her. The
ridiculousness of how she was acting dawned on her. This was, after all, the
same man with whom she had made love repeatedly this week. He was her husband.
Clutching the nightgown to her chest, she came around the screen.

“The damage is done,” she said.
“Now I know how frighteningly handsome you are, so you might as well keep this
look.”

“Very well, m’lady. Your wish is my
command.” He tossed the book on the bedside table. “Come here.”

Millicent sat on the edge of the
bed within the reach of his left hand with her back to him. “If you would do
the first dozen buttons, I can handle the rest.”

“You cannot be serious,” he said
with feigned shock. “The ‘rest’ is what I have been looking forward to all day.
So I do it all or nothing.” 

She looked over her shoulder at the
smile on his handsome face. He knew exactly how to melt her heart. “You drive a
hard bargain.”

Millicent felt the first button
open and then the second.

“Now that you mention it, there is
something that I need from you.”

She heard the change in his tone.
“What is it?”

“I need to go to Scotland. I want you to come with me.”

Her body tensed immediately. Lyon’s fingers moved down her back, undoing a few more buttons.

“During these past few months I had
been so far removed physically and mentally from Baronsford that I was not
aware of the situation there. I had no idea that the problems going on in the Highlands were spreading south to us in the Borders.” 

“You mean the land clearings?” she
asked quietly.

She knew a little about it. For
thirty years, since the defeat of Bonny Prince Charlie at Culloden, the
government had been leaning heavily on the Scottish Jacobites and the Highland clans that had sided with the Pretender.

In the newspapers the dowager had
been sending up from London, Millicent had read some of the speeches being
given in Parliament. From what she could gather, the present problems had
really begun in earnest some ten years ago in the Highlands. The value of money
was not what it used to be, and the lairds had all begun to raise the rents. Because there were just too many people in the Highlands, wages remained low. Tacksmen—the
increasingly affluent men who for decades had leased large tracts of land from
the lairds and then sublet the land in smaller plots to crofters—were no longer
able to make a living, and had started moving out. The lairds had looked for
ways to make the land more profitable, and that was when the trouble really started. 

“Sir Richard told me hundreds of
vagrants are passing through Baronsford every month. Most of them are hungry,
desperate for work. They need ways to feed their families. Others just want to
earn enough to pay for passage to the colonies.”

She turned to him. “I read
someone’s speech in the House of Lords. He said that with the tacksmen gone,
the tenants’ lives would only improve. They would have only one master to
satisfy. But these vagrants—”  

“Are those same poor tenants.” He
finished her sentence. “In truth, what has happened is that the farms vacated
by the old tacksmen have been let to any stranger who would make the highest
offer. These newcomers care nothing for the lowly crofters who have been
working the soil for years. The new tacksmen have paid their rent and now are
determined to squeeze from those beneath them as large a return as possible for
their outlay.”

“People can only take that for so
long.”

“And raising the rents is not all
of their troubles, either,” he added coolly. “Some of the landowners are
combining the smaller farms, doing away with the tillage, and introducing sheep
on a large scale. Now each of those farms would have been occupied by any
number of tenant families who worked the soil. The landowners have simply
pushed those people out and pulled down their homes.” 

“How terrible!” She touched his
hand. “You said the troubles have reached Baronsford.” 

“Some of my neighbors have begun
the same practice.” He held her hand. “Because I have been away for so long,
rumors have begun to spread amongst the tenants. After the accident, I
transferred control of the land to my brother Pierce.”

Millicent already knew this, but
she decided to keep silent.

“I assume he has been too busy to
come back from the colonies or do anything about it. Still, I feel the problems
were really mine, and I have to address them now.” He absently caressed her
hand. “I have no tacksmen, nor did my father before me, but many of the tenants
apparently fear that Baronsford’s farms will be next to go.”

Millicent had sensed the same kind
of fear among the Africans at Melbury Hall after Wentworth’s death. Although
relieved that their brutal owner was gone, they had been very apprehensive
about who was to take over. Many had expected Millicent to sell what she
could—including them—and then walk away from it all. But she could not turn her
back on her people.

“You must go back. You must make
them understand that you are not deserting them.”

“I agree. I want you to come with
me.”

“I cannot,” she protested. “I cannot
be away from Melbury Hall for so long.”

“We could go for a fortnight—maybe
a month at most. Then we shall come back.”

“But I am needed here. Things
cannot function—”

“You know they can.” When she tried
to stand up, Lyon’s hand grasped her arm, forcing her to stay. “You have
competent people here who are doing their jobs. There is no reason why you
cannot take a few weeks away.”

“There are others who can go with
you. The dowager—”

“She told me tonight that this is
as far from London as she plans to travel. In fact, she is so taken with my
recovery that she told me she plans to stay awhile at Melbury Hall. She thinks
the place might do her some good as well.”

“You see?” She nodded
matter-of-factly. “All the more reason for me to stay here. Someone needs to
keep her company.”

“She has Maitland. And Gibbs and Mrs. Page will look after her perfectly well.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll tell
you the truth. It is not her affection for you and me that will keep my mother
here. I think she wants to stay and see if Ohenewaa can do her any good.” 

Lyon was right, and Millicent knew
it. As much as she didn’t want to believe it, Melbury Hall was beginning to run
smoothly on a day-to-day basis. But still, a mild panic had taken hold of
Millicent. It really came down to one thing—she knew she lacked too much to
successfully function as an earl’s wife at a place like Baronsford. All her
ancestors didn’t amount to a hill of tea. She was just plain, simple Millicent
Gregory. She might be able to fill the role of a squire’s widow in a small
country estate like Melbury Hall, but beyond that she had no illusions.

“Tell me what is bothering you.”

She looked up and saw Lyon’s hurt expression. “I am frightened.”

He tugged on her arm and pulled her
into a fierce embrace. His lips brushed against her hair. His hand moved
possessively over her back.

“When we barricade the door,” he
whispered raggedly into her ear, “the world outside seems to be a frightening
place. I have fears, too. I fear the past. I think of facing my own people and
I fear they will find me lacking. I am not the man they knew.”

Millicent held him tight. She
pressed her head against his chest and listened to the stout heart drumming
within. Lyon’s problems were much more significant, and yet hers threatened to
freeze her like a sculpture of snow. She looked down at her legs, frozen with
fear and unable to carry her into the future.

“When are you planning to leave?”

“I was hoping to go early next
week.”

She looked up into his handsome
face. “Will you let me think about it?”  

He leaned down and brushed his lips
against hers. “Yes. But don’t ask me to refrain from pressuring you. Or from
trying to convince you. Or bribe you. Or whatever else I must do. I need you
with me, Millicent.”

And she needed him.

“You there. What’s your name?”

“James Wakefield, ma’am.”

The dowager glanced at a second boy
who stood by the garden wall, keeping a safe distance. The two of them had
burst out of the woods and come racing up to the garden gate, laughing and
shouting and chasing after each other like a pair of colts. But upon seeing her coming out of the garden, the two had come to an abrupt halt. 

“And who is your friend?”

“Israel. He used to live here at
Melbury Hall. But now he lives at Solgrave with us.”

“I see.” The old woman studied
James Wakefield. The lad was tall and wiry, though he couldn’t have been more
than twelve or thirteen. She noticed his misshapen hand, but didn’t linger on
it. She turned her gaze on the other one.  Israel had the most striking green
eyes in his handsome dark face. She looked back at James. “And what mischief are you two about today?”

“Mischief?” James answered,
shooting a devilish look at his friend. “None at all. But if you forgive us,
ma’am, we have some very important business that we need to attend to.”

With a deep bow, the young boy
backed away from the garden gate and joined his friend. A minute later the two
were again laughing and racing each other to the house.

“He is Lord Stanmore’s oldest son,”
the dowager’s attendant told her. Although she had never met them in person,
the dowager knew a great deal about the family. Lord Stanmore was from good
Scottish stock. His mother was a Buchanan, hailing from the hills around Loch Lomond.

Lady Stanmore was even more
interesting. In finding out what she could about Millicent, the dowager had
learned about the solid friendship between her and Rebecca Stanmore that had
started back in the years when the two were students at an academy for girls in
Oxford. Despite the ten years that Rebecca had spent in the American
colonies, the two young women had easily rekindled their friendship during the
summer that Stanmore had married Rebecca. It was the same summer Millicent had
become a widow.

“His young lordship attends Eton,
and the black lad, Israel, goes to the school in Knebworth Village,” the attendant continued. “The two boys are best of friends, I gather, and visit here
often. Cook already had some sweets ready this morning, expecting a visit from
them.”

Such fascinating lives
, the
dowager thought, welcoming the feel of the sun on her face. Standing just
inside the garden gate, she filled her lungs with the cool morning air and
thought, as crowded as Melbury Hall was with all types of people, she couldn’t
remember the last time she had felt so well.

At the edge of the trees from which
the boys had come, she spied a tall black woman bending down to pick up something
from the ground. The woman straightened and put her find carefully in a basket
that she carried. As she did, the dowager had her first opportunity to look
into the wrinkled face. This was Ohenewaa, she was certain. The dowager had
been keen on meeting her since their arrival two days ago, but the woman had
proved elusive thus far. 

She turned to her attendant. “Go
ask her to come and join me here for few moments.”

The young woman hurried to do as
she was told. From within the walls of the garden, Beatrice watched her
attendant approach and say few words to the black woman. Ohenewaa answered
without looking toward the garden. The young woman hesitated, then hurried
back.

“She asks why you’d like her to
come here, m’lady.”

“Tell her I should like to thank
her.”

The servant ran off again. The
dowager moved out of the gate and, using her silver-headed staff, poked the
cold soil of a flower bed. From here she had a better view of the other woman.
The attendant hurried back again and was breathless by the time she arrived at
the gate.

“She’d like to know what reason you
have for thanking her, m’lady.”

“Good Lord! Tell her I need to thank
her for what she has done for my son.”

The attendant hurried down the hill
again. Beatrice noticed that Ohenewaa had taken a few steps up toward the
garden. A moment later, the young woman was coming back again. The dowager
walked along the path a few feet. 

“What now?”

Instead of coming all the way, the
attendant called from halfway up the hill. “She says, m’lady, ‘twas all his own
doing. That she hasn’t done a thing.”

“Modest, too,” the dowager called
out, moving down a few more steps.

“Modest, too,” the attendant called
out in Ohenewaa’s direction.

“I did not tell you to say that,” Beatrice scolded. She stopped her complaining when she realized Ohenewaa had started approaching
her. She continued down the hill.