Susan Johnson (14 page)

It was still early when Johnnie took his leave of Roxane, excusing himself from the play they were all attending, restless after several hours of drinking, a common occurrence for him since March. A drink or two now brought with it unwanted memories of the tower room at Goldiehouse, more vivid with the alcohol, never far from his consciousness even when he was sober. He hadn’t seen her for four months … slightly more—and he couldn’t remember a day he hadn’t thought of Elizabeth Graham. Tonight he wasn’t in the mood to trade pleasantries or amuse … or be amused.

Even his jubilation over the victory in the House today was tempered. Although he couldn’t blame Elizabeth Graham exclusively for his moderated joy. She was a factor, of course, in his disquietude, his fickle mood, but his volatile thoughts of her had nothing to do with politics. In terms of Scotland’s independence, he was more cynical than most, but then he was actively engaged in trade, and he was familiar with the Court of St. James’s. He knew England’s Parliament had no intention of allowing Scotland freedom in any arena: political, economic, or religious.

He desperately hoped he was wrong.

Too restless to sleep, too moody to partake of the camaraderie in the clubs, Johnnie stopped by Munro’s apartment in Ravensby House to pass the time when he arrived home. Munro was in the process of packing.

“You’re taking advantage of the adjournment, I see,” Johnnie said, dropping into a cushioned chair near the door. “Checking on the state of the new addition at
Goldiehouse? Do me a favor and look in on my new colt. Adam writes he’s grown enormously since I left. I haven’t seen him in”—he mentally counted for a moment—“Lord, it’s been over a month.”

“I’m not going to Goldiehouse.” Munro looked up briefly from the folding of a waistcoat. “I’m on my way to Teviotdale.”

“You’re mangling that waistcoat, Cuz. Why don’t you have a servant do that for you? And where are you going in Teviotdale?”

“I told you. Hawick.”

“Was I sober? I don’t recall Hawick coming up in conversation.” Leaning over to reach for a decanter and a glass set on a silver tray on a nearby table, he poured himself a measure of cognac, replaced the decanter, took a sip of the liquor, registered satisfaction in his expression, and, settling back in his chair, answered his own question. “I must have been drunk. Who in Hawick, where in Hawick?”

“Giles Lockhardt and the church in Hawick. It’s his wedding.”

“And who is poor trapped Giles marrying?” Johnnie mournfully queried.

“Angela Graham.”

“Of the English Grahams?” Johnnie’s voice had lost its leisured indifference. He knew Grahams lived on both sides of the border; he knew they were all related; he knew how short the distance between Three Kings and Hawick.

“No, the Scottish branch. And yes, to that penetrating look, Elizabeth is attending the wedding.”

“How do you know? For certain.”

“Because we’re going over the final plans for her house. Her site is ready now for construction.”

And the room was filled with a charged silence for several moments while Munro continued packing and Johnnie contemplated the liquor in his glass.

“I’ll keep you company,” Johnnie abruptly said, his voice no more than a murmur in the stillness.

Gazing across his bedchamber at his cousin, the large red damask chair framing Johnnie’s dark hair, the
brilliant green of his evening clothes, Munro said by way of discouragement, “You don’t like weddings.”

“I’m at loose ends for a few days,” Johnnie calmly replied, stretching his legs out and contemplating the toes of his black kid shoes. “Hawick is pleasant in July. Unlike the stench of this city.
⁷
I’ll ride along.”

“I don’t think she wants to see you.”

Johnnie didn’t pretend to misunderstand what he meant. “I have no evil designs on her person,” he said.

“She might disagree with you,” Munro sharply retorted, tossing a pair of socks into his bag with unnecessary force.

“I don’t think she will.” Struck by Munro’s obvious affront, Johnnie quickly added, “Has she said so?”

“We speak of construction only.”

“Then you’re speculating.”

“She’s too genuine for you to dally with, Johnnie. She’s only now living for the first time in her life.” Munro continued throwing items into his luggage with obvious exasperation. “Don’t ruin her contentment.”

“Are you in love with her?” It startled him, the sudden revelation, Munro’s resistance to his journey. “You
are
in love with her. Is that it?” He found himself inexplicably apprehensive.

“It wouldn’t do me any good if I were,” Munro said, turning toward Johnnie and sitting down heavily on his bed. “She’s not in love with me.”

“She told you so?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t be certain.”

Munro’s artistic fingers briefly traced the gold-filigree work on the corner of his small leather trunk. “Lord, Johnnie,” he said, restlessly running his fingers through his sandy-colored hair, “I’m not a novice with women. I know when a lady’s interested.”

Johnnie found he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly. “I see.”

Munro’s head came up, and his eyes met his cousin’s. “You’ll just hurt her; you’re not looking for permanence. Tumble someone else if you’re bored and beset with ennui and the stench of the city.”

“Will you be angry if I come with you to Teviotdale?”

“Frustrated, more like. Elizabeth Graham’s not sophisticated enough to withstand your predatory skills, and I’ll have to watch you lure her into your bed.”

“Suppose I respect her virtue and act the gentleman. Would that satisfy your reservations?”

“You can’t.”

“Why can’t I?”

“You never have.”

Johnnie shrugged. “Maybe I can.”

“ ‘Maybe’ doesn’t protect her sufficiently.”

“She may not need protection.”

“She does from you.”

“Do I detect some newfound chivalry from my cousin the womanizer?”

“Elizabeth’s different,” Munro slowly said, as if selecting each word to best explain his feelings. “She’s wounded like a fragile bird by a lifetime of her malicious father’s greed. She needs more protection than the Janet Lindsays of the world.” Munro grimaced and looked out the window at the walled garden. Then, turning back to Johnnie, he exhaled a great sigh of resignation. “I shouldn’t augment your already oversized ego,” he softly said, “but I think she’s half in love with you already.”

Johnnie found himself strangely pleased at Munro’s reluctant admission. Normally, women who fancied themselves in love with him generated a sensation of unease … not this novel feeling of satisfaction. “What makes you think so?”

“I watched her at Goldiehouse even before you seduced her that last night.”

“She told you about that?”

“Lord, no. No one had to tell anyone. You both fairly glowed the next morning.”

Johnnie raised one disparaging brow. “I don’t glow.”

Munro’s shoulders moved in a negligent gesture of dismissal. “Call it what you like. And she couldn’t keep her eyes from you on the ride to Roundtree, no more than you could tear your attention from her.”

“She’s unusually beautiful.…” Unbidden memories of their night together fired his blood. Lacing his fingers together around the delicate glass, Johnnie inadvertently flexed his hands in unease. Oblivious to the cognac sloshing very close to the rim of the glass, his gaze focused somewhere above Munro’s head, he slowly said, “I’m not promising anything.…” Then his eyes swung back to Munro’s face, and it was his turn to sigh. “Oh, hell, I suppose I can try. But that’s all I can guarantee. Although why I’m considering gentlemanly behavior anyway is beyond my comprehension. I can go to Giles’s wedding with or without your consent; I can take Elizabeth Graham to bed with or without your approval. Seduction is a game of long standing, Munro, not just to me but to everyone. Tell me why I’m even considering self-denial, because I’m at a loss to understand.”

“Because Elizabeth Graham isn’t one of your usual highborn tarts. She’s actually virtuous.”

“I don’t like virtuous women.”

“You don’t like most virtuous women.”

“Maybe she’s rolling in the hay by now with any number of her Redesdale bodyguard. She’s a woman of passion, no mistake.”

“Would you care to wager a significant sum on that possibility?”

Leaning his head back in his chair, Johnnie contemplated Munro’s smug expression from under half-lowered lashes, his mouth a grim, straight line, the glass between his palms just short of being shattered. “You’re irritating the hell out of me.”

“Because I’m right and you know it, no matter you wish Elizabeth Graham was as available as all the other of your aristocratic ladyfriends.”

“Why this sudden moral stance, Munro? Good God, why now, why me, why this woman we both barely know?”

“You can try to evade and avoid and circumvent and talk around this; you can more aptly, perhaps, wish you’d never met her—”

“Amen in spades to that,” Johnnie grumpily muttered,
slumping lower in his chair, setting his glass aside as if the liquor, too, had lost its taste.

“You could simply forget her,” Munro suggested, a facetious gleam in his eye.

“Not likely that. She’s inside my head like a perpetual vision, whether I’m drunk, sober, bedding someone else.…”

“You could approach her honorably.”

“Meaning?”

“Court her.”

Johnnie’s eyes widened in alarm. “With what intention, pray tell?”

“Marriage, of course.”

“Bite your tongue, man. I’m twenty-five.”

“A predicament of enormous difficulty then.” Munro seemed to be enjoying Johnnie’s sudden discomfort.

“Fuck …” The muttered expletive signified his vast frustration.

“You could avoid the Hawick wedding.”

“I want to see her. Don’t ask me why. If I knew why, I could talk myself out of it.”

“Well, then, it should be an interesting expedition.” Munro grinned. “Are we going to wager anything on your self-control?”

“It pleases me to amuse you, my dear Munro, but I wouldn’t recommend betting a shilling on my self-restraint.” Johnnie’s grin was faintly ironic. “After all, I haven’t had much practice.”

“You haven’t had any practice at all, which should make for a diverting experience.” Munro actually chuckled.

And Johnnie suddenly laughed too. “Lord, this is going to be unnatural.”

“Only for you, my friend.”

“And perhaps,” Johnnie softly breathed, “for the Lady Graham as well.…”

The lady in question was currently climbing into her carriage for the short journey across the border to Hawick. Well supplied with construction manuals, house plans, a dozen gowns, and a cheerful disposition, Elizabeth was very much looking forward to seeing Munro. She hadn’t admitted to herself that her excitement at renewing her friendship with Munro had anything to do with his rash, handsome cousin. Nor did she allow herself to question her motives for attending the wedding of a cousin by marriage she barely knew.

She needed a holiday, she consciously allowed herself to admit. She’d been working feverishly overseeing the site preparation for her new home at Three Kings the past weeks; she needed some professional help to finish her plans. And when Munro had mentioned he’d be attending Lockhardt’s wedding in Hawick, she thought, What better occasion to take advantage of his expertise?

So she deserved her first holiday in twenty-four years, she told herself.

She deserved the pleasure she was feeling in anticipation of seeing Munro again.

She felt gloriously young, an altogether uncommon feeling for a woman who had never had the opportunity to experience the joys of youth.

She felt blissfully like breaking into song. She smiled instead inside her luxuriously appointed carriage. She smiled so often, her maidservant told the driver at their stop for luncheon that she wondered if the mistress had been nipping at that new French brandy sent over from Ravensby.

Hotchane’s relatives were pleased to welcome Elizabeth to the festivities; the young bride greeted her with open arms. No doubt her generous wedding gift added to the warmth of her reception, but what better way to spend her money than to give a lavish present to a young couple setting up housekeeping?

Elizabeth was kept busy from the moment she arrived on Saturday until late in the evening. Dozens of Grahams renewed their acquaintance with her; she’d forgotten how extensive the Graham clan was. And by ten o’clock she’d dined and danced and gossiped while watching out of the corner of her eye for Munro to appear. He’d planned on being there by two, he’d written.

But she knew he’d come; Munro was dependable. Something must have delayed him. In any event the wedding wasn’t until Monday. Even with delays, he had time to reach Hawick.

And while Elizabeth was wondering at Munro’s delay, he had just ridden into Hawick, hot, tired, dusty and without his favorite horse, which had gone lame at Ashkirk. The search for someone qualified to see to the care of the horse’s leg had taken most of the afternoon. To further add to his discomfort, an uneasy apprehension had followed him from Edinburgh. He was clearly worried about his traveling companion’s unpredictable behavior while in close proximity to Elizabeth Graham. And if all that weren’t enough to cause him serious consternation,
his cousin had decided to ease the boredom of their wait by drinking away the hours at the local tavern.