Seduced by a Scot Page 14

  He was uncomfortably aware that there was something about Maura Darby that had coaxed restless feelings to bloom in him. Feelings he was certain he hadn’t felt before. He’d had paramours, of course. What man denied his most primal instincts? And while he’d been fond of one or two, he’d never felt things.

  Like comfort.

  Or an appreciation of the wreckage of his family. He’d never expected anyone to understand how he’d come to be the man he was—there were times he scarcely understood it himself—and while he assumed he’d not told her enough to truly understand, he had the sense that if anyone could understand, it was Maura Darby.

  It wasn’t just her kiss that made him feel. The kiss had been surprising and quite pleasant, but it was still just a kiss. No, what was rumbling about in him, untethered, unmoored, was far more than that.

  He had decided, sitting there, that it was her spirit. It was her defiance and determination in the face of adversity that was not of her making, that was beyond her ability to control. She was young, at the beginning of her third decade, perhaps. She had not lived enough to know that life was forever unfair in ways that tested a man’s resolve. She’d lived a sheltered life in the way all young women of her particular circumstance and social standing lived—protected by wealth and the men who ruled their lives. And yet she had not crumbled when faced with a sudden change in her situation. Neither had she gone along meekly. Maura Darby had instinctively, and with not a little grit, sought to take control of events that were quickly spiraling out of her control.

  He had to admire her for that. Who wouldn’t? Better to meet one’s fate with a sword in hand than in one’s back, wasn’t it?

  But Nichol understood that the sort of admiration he felt for her could lead to terrible trouble. He knew it very well, and yet he couldn’t seem to take a step back from her.

  It was half past twelve when he finally glanced at his pocket watch. He wanted to be in Cheverock before nightfall and reluctantly awakened the sleeping beauty. She pushed away from the earth groggily, blinking at the dull gray day. “I didna dream it, then,” she said, her voice light.

  “Dream what?”

  She hopped to her feet, then stretched her arms high overhead with a yawn. “Nothing,” she said, then threw out her arms and did a perfect little pirouette, as if that were perfectly natural in this circumstance.

  Nichol kept looking at her as they rode, trying to separate his feelings from the truth of the situation that actually existed for both of them. There was a husband waiting for her, a Welshman waiting for him with a lucrative problem to be solved. He couldn’t miss that opportunity. Miss Darby couldn’t miss hers, either. With no one to sponsor her, no one to vouch for her, Dunnan would be her only opportunity.

  Nichol knew all these things, but he felt a palatable foreboding when he thought of having to step away from her.

  But at the same time, he felt incomprehensibly peaceful in this space between stillness and movement.

  Miss Darby had awakened with renewed vigor, and she nattered along as they rode. She had an idea, she said. She was very adept at sewing and had decided, apparently between Garbett House and now, that she could take in work, perhaps even learn to make fashionable gowns for ladies of the Quality. “I would like that,” she mused. “I should like verra much to make lovely gowns with the best fabrics from the Continent.” She paused, her brow furrowed as she contemplated it. “I particularly like blue,” she said. “What do you like, Mr. Bain?”

  “I like blue,” he said, as he’d given it no thought and blue—especially the blue color of her eyes—seemed almost divine.

  She laughed as if she believed he teased her.

  She spoke philosophically about the process of courtship. “It’s impossible to know if two are compatible for the rest of their lives, is it no’, when they’ve had only a bit of walking and talking here and there, and always in the presence of others. Think of it, Mr. Bain, if we’d been anywhere but in those woods, I could no’ have asked you about your life, could I?”

  “Are we courting?” he asked.

  “If we were,” she said with a pert little smile, “I should no’ have gleaned nearly as much about you as I have today until the moment we were wed. It’s astonishingly senseless! I’m quite certain that once Sorcha has her husband and her house, she might possibly be unhappy in the end, for she knows verra little of Mr. Cadell.”

  “I would argue that what she knows is enough to recommend against a union.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Bain!” she agreed imperiously. “And now you would have me marry a man with whom I’ve no’ had the pleasure of even a single conversation!”

  “You may have as many conversations as you like,” he assured her. “Mr. Cockburn enjoys a rousing tête-à-tête.”

  “That’s all verra well and good, then, for I’ve quite a lot to say.”

  Nichol couldn’t help but laugh at that.

  Then Miss Darby wondered aloud if there were any astronomers where she might apprentice, having apparently cottoned on to the idea of apprenticeships in general.

  “In Scotland?” Mr. Bain asked idly.

  “Aye. Mr. Ferguson of Rothiemay is an astronomer of repute, and do you know the best of it, Mr. Bain? He taught himself!”

  “Aye, then perhaps you might write to him and implore him to take you under his wing.”

  “I should like that verra much, if my new husband would allow it,” she said, giving him a side-eyed look. “Alas, Mr. Ferguson has gone to England to educate all the young gentlemen who are afforded the luxury of learning about stars and planets. I’m certain I’ll be deeply occupied in determining the menu for the Sunday meal and embroidering hearts on my husband’s handkerchiefs.”

  Nichol chuckled.

  He enjoyed the ride to Cheverock. He listened to every word she said, which surprised him, for he’d found that the fairer sex had a perplexing capacity for words, and seemed to use far more than was necessary. But with Miss Darby, he listened. He laughed, he pondered the questions she raised to him. Time passed quickly, and it was with dismay when he realized that they were upon Cheverock.

  Uneasiness began to ratchet in Nichol the closer they drew to his boyhood home, so much so that his hand began to ache from gripping his reins with such force his fingers were unrelentingly curled. His uneasiness grew into complete apprehension when they entered the drive to Cheverock. The clouds were thick now, mashing down upon the house, the gray shade that portended snow. Everything looked and felt as oppressive and heavy as the air around them.

  The house, as magnificent and as dark as it had existed in his memory all these years, showed hardly any light at all. The lawn was well manicured, and a flock of sheep grazed languidly in the fields as it always had.

  Miss Darby had fallen silent, and Nichol risked a look at her. Whatever she thought of the house, she kept it hidden, but she stared up at it as if she felt the heaviness, too.

  They rode around the fountain at the center of the drive, Nichol’s eyes on the house, half expecting his father to come storming out, demanding he be gone.

  “There’s the lad, then,” Miss Darby said, and pointed to a figure who’d come from the outbuildings. Gavin jogged toward them, halting just ahead of the horses. He swept his hat off and gave Miss Darby a bob of his head, and to Nichol, he said, “Aye, you came, then, sir.”

  He sounded relieved.

  “Aye, lad, of course I did, I gave you my word.” Nichol dismounted. “You found my brother, then?” he asked, mentally bracing himself for whatever Gavin might have found here.

  Gavin nodded.

  “All is well? You gave him the ring?”

  Gavin nodded. “Aye, sir. I’ve been given leave to sleep in the stables until you come.”

  Nichol glanced back at the gloomy house and then reached up for Miss Darby to set her down. “He’s here, then, is he? My
brother?” Nichol asked uncertainly.

  “Aye, sir.” He suddenly dipped down, lifted the hem of his trouser, and withdrew a pistol from his boot. He held it out to Nichol.

  “What are you doing?” Miss Darby exclaimed with alarm.

  Nichol shook his head, and slipped the pistol into his pocket. “’Twas a precaution,” he said absently. “Take the horses, then, lad. Eat well, rest well, aye?” He glanced at Miss Darby and offered his arm. “Welcome to Cheverock, Miss Darby.”

  She looked at his arm, then her gaze flicked to his feet. “I’m a wee ball of nerves,” she admitted.

  He smiled thinly. He wished he could assure her, but unfortunately, he felt a wee ball of nerves, too. “I’ll keep you close,” he assured her. He escorted her to the front steps, then let go of her hand and jogged up to the landing. He used the brass knocker to summon someone. He wondered if Mr. Ross, the family butler, would answer, or if he would be greeted as a stranger in his father’s home.

  It was not Mr. Ross, but Ivan who answered the summons to the door. He swung it open and stood for a moment, clearly stunned by Nichol’s presence. But perhaps not as stunned as Nichol was by his brother’s appearance. He was two years younger than Nichol, having not quite reached his thirtieth year, and yet, he looked ten years older. Haggard. Worn down.

  He was a wee bit taller than Nichol, and wore shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, as if he’d been hard at work on something. His peruke looked like the sort made from horsehair, and did not look as if it had been washed. He was thin, his shoulders stooped.

  Frankly, he looked as if he’d been through hell.

  “Nichol,” Ivan said, his voice full of disbelief. He frowned darkly. “I didna believe it, but here you are, at our door, just as the lad said you’d be.”

  Nichol didn’t know what, exactly, he’d expected, but he was not prepared for his brother’s coldness. “I had no’ planned it,” he said. “I would no’ have come had it no’ been necessary.”

  “Necessary,” Ivan repeated as he looked him over. “You’re a right proper gent, Nichol, are you?” he said, but his tone was not complimentary. He gave a self-conscious tug on his waistcoat. “I thought—”

  “Ivan?”

  The woman’s voice drifted up over Ivan’s head, and he whirled about. “Finella,” he said, and then to Nichol, “You’ve been gone so long that you’ve no’ had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of my wife, then. I’m a married man now, aye? Mrs. Ivan MacBain,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “You may call her Finella.”

  Nichol tore his gaze from his brother to the woman who stood beside him. She was a slight thing, with an upturned nose, and was holding a bairn in her arms. She had kind eyes, he thought. “Oh, but you must call me Finella!” she agreed cheerfully. “How do you do, Mr. MacBain?” she asked, dipping a curtsy as best she could. “You’re an uncle, too, you are,” she said, holding up the bairn.

  Nichol glanced at the bairn. He or she screwed up its face and cried. It looked no more than two or three months old. “A lad, then?” he asked.

  Finella laughed. “A girl! Britta is her name. Would you like to hold her, then?”

  “No’ now,” Ivan growled.

  “You look verra well, Mr. MacBain,” Finella said happily, beaming at him. “I’ve long wondered after you, that I have,” she said.

  “Stop talking, Nella,” Ivan snapped.

  Nichol felt uncomfortable. Embarrassed. His brother’s demeanor was hostile toward him. There was no affection left in him. That was Nichol’s fault—he’d been gone so long that his brother had lost faith in him.

  Two small children appeared, peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts. Nichol was surprised and unnerved by them. It was as if a whole other life had played out here, one he had been removed from as a child, and one he removed himself from as an adult. “You’ve more children,” he said dumbly.

  “Aye, Geordie and Alice,” Finella said. “We’ve been blessed these last five years, indeed we have,” Finella said. “Is that your wife, then?”

  Nichol suddenly remembered Miss Darby and jerked around. “Diah, forgive me,” he said. He’d been so taken aback by his brother’s appearance and demeanor, and his brood, for Chrissakes, that he’d forgotten her. “Miss Maura Darby,” he said, stepping aside and putting his hand on her elbow to guide her up to the top step.

  “No’ your wife?” Finella sounded disappointed as she smiled at Miss Darby.

  “Ah no... I am escorting Miss Darby to Luncarty.”

  “Luncarty!” Ivan said. “Whatever is in Luncarty?”

  “My future husband,” Miss Darby said, and curtsied. “It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Miss Darby, may I present my brother, Mr. Ivan MacBain,” Nichol said. “And his wife, Mrs. Finella MacBain.”

  “MacBain,” she murmured and looked questioningly at Nichol.

  “How do you do, Miss Darby?” Finella said cheerfully. “Look at us, Ivan, we’ve left them standing at the entry. Come in from the cold, now,” she said, stepping back to make way, and tripping over the small children behind her. She clucked her tongue at the two. “You’re to be in your rooms, are you no’? Go on then, go back to bed!” she said, and gestured toward the stairs, shooing them away like little chicks.

  The children scampered off, pausing on the bottom step to have one last look.

  Their mother hardly noticed. She’d turned back to Nichol and Miss Darby. “You must call me by my given name, Miss Darby. It’s Finella. Ivan calls me Nella. Come into the parlor—we’ve a good fire to warm you.”

  Ivan stepped back, and Miss Darby followed Finella into the parlor. Ivan went, too, and Nichol was the last to enter, bracing himself, expecting to see his father’s imposing figure there.

  But there was no one else in the room. It was the same grand receiving room he recalled—at the center, two upholstered chairs facing a settee, a scattering of other chairs were set against the walls. Paintings of notable ancestors, of hunting scenes and landscapes, filled the walls. His father’s books—his love of reading was the only thing he’d ever given Nichol—were stacked on a table beside the settee. Nichol picked one up off the top. Treatise of Human Nature by David Hume had fascinated him in that space he’d been home after his apprenticeship.

  Miss Darby glanced at it, then looked at him questioningly. “I read it as a young man,” he said quietly. “It made quite an impression.” Nichol put the book down. Miss Darby ran her fingers over the spine of the book, curious.

  “Shall I ring for tea?” Finella asked.

  “’Tis no’ a social call, Finella,” Ivan said irritably.

  Nichol glanced at his sister-in-law. “Have you any whisky, madam? As I recall, Ivan likes a tot now and again.”

  “Oh, that he does,” she said cheerfully, and juggling the bairn, went to the sideboard to pour.

  Miss Darby slowly followed as she took in the room. Nichol supposed she found it quite opulent compared to the Garbett house. Chandeliers hung from gold leaf medallions, the carpets were Belgian, imported at a dear cost. Nichol’s father placed much emphasis on appearances. He was a baron; he was determined to be viewed as the most prestigious baron in Scotland.

  A feeling of agitation began to build in Nichol as he stood in that room. He felt like he had many times as a child—anticipating his father’s wrath for one unexpected thing or another, a blast of ire to catch him off guard. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see his father suddenly leap from behind a velvet drape, or burst through the hidden servant’s entrance into the room.

  He watched Ivan clear the settee of children’s toys and his wife’s needlework. “How do you fare, Ivan?”

  Ivan gave him a dark look. “Well enough,” he said curtly.

  Nichol couldn’t see the boy he’d known in this man. Ivan seemed hollowed out to him, his spirit missi
ng. “Where is our father, then?”

  Ivan’s expression seemed to gray a bit. “In his bed,” he said.

  “Is he ill?” Nichol asked, confused. His father would be an old man now—perhaps he took to his bed early in the evening.

  “Ill?” Ivan looked at him, confused. “Is it no’ why you’ve come, then?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said you came because it was necessary, aye? Because he is dying.”

  “Dying,” Nichol repeated, slowly taking the news in. He shook his head. “I didna know.”

  “Did you no’,” Ivan said skeptically. “Consumption. He’s no’ long for this world.”

  “Miss Darby, whisky for you, then?” Ivan’s wife offered.

  “No, thank you,” Miss Darby said.

  “How long has he been ill?” Nichol asked quietly.

  “A year or more,” Ivan muttered. “If you didna come to have a last go at him, then what has brought you?”

  A last go? “To fetch the lad,” he said. “I had a bit of a problem and no place for him to go. And to see you. Why did you no’ write to tell me, then?” he asked. Through the years, Nichol sent word to Ivan as to his whereabouts.

  Ivan snorted. “And send it where, then, brother? To whose attention? The last I heard from you was before my second child was born,” he said bitterly.

  Nichol clenched his jaw. Had so much time passed? “Aye,” he said. “I should have written.”

  “Why would you? You donna care for anything but...” Ivan bit off what he would say.

  “But what?” Nichol tried.

  “I assumed you’d heard from someone else he was dying,” Ivan said.

  Nichol glanced at the two women. Finella was talking rather rapidly, and in a low voice, as if imparting some secret. Miss Darby was leaning slightly back, as if the force of Finella’s words were pushing her.

  “Nella, the whisky, then,” Ivan said sharply.