Amanda Scott (23 page)

“I am truly a villain,” he muttered, more depressed than he had thought it possible to be.

“Michael, I have been looking for you everywhere!”

He turned at the sound of Bridget’s angry voice, and suddenly his anger more than matched hers. “What the devil do you want?”

Her eyes widened, and she stopped abruptly some feet away from him, her skirts swaying. “I…I want to go home.”

Whatever she had been going to say to him, he knew that wasn’t it, but it suited his mood well enough. “Certainly,” he said. “Where are the others?”

“Cousin Bella is playing cards, and Aunt Marsali is discussing literature with Sir Horace Walpole and Lady Ophelia Balterley.”

“Do you require my escort to collect them, or shall I order the carriage?”

“The carriage, by all means,” she said instantly. “I’ll fetch them at once, and we will meet you downstairs in the hall.”

She walked away, and he went down to deal with footmen and linkboys, hoping that Bridget would keep to herself whatever temper tantrum she had just aborted. The way he was feeling, if she dared to rip up at him, he might well slap her, something he had never done before in his life.

In the coach, Michael listened in silence while Cousin Bella and his aunt discussed the evening. Bridget, beside him, spoke only to reply briefly when one of the older ladies directed a comment to her.

As the carriage turned into George Street, Lady Marsali said, “I think you must be exhausted, my dears. I know these late nights are turning me into a hag. Perhaps we should consider rusticating for an evening or two.”

“As you like, ma’am,” Bridget said listlessly.

Cousin Bella exclaimed, “Why, bless my soul, we cannot rest now! Next week is filled with activities. Tuesday is Lady Helen Bray’s drum, and Friday we are to attend Lady Molyneux’s ball, and then after that—”

“Hush, Bella,” Lady Marsali said, chuckling sleepily. “We can talk about all that later. Here we are,” she added when the carriage drew to a halt.

Inside the dreary little hall, Bridget said firmly, “Michael, I want to talk to you. It’s important.”

He nodded. “Come up to the drawing room, then, unless you ladies…”

When he paused, Cousin Bella said, “I am for bed, my dears. The rest of you may stay up talking as long as you like.”

Lady Marsali only nodded, it apparently requiring her remaining strength to make her way up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Bidding them good night at the landing, Bridget looked at Michael and said, “I wonder how our aunt manages to keep going out night after night when it seems to be all she can do merely to stay awake.”

“She enjoys it,” Michael said bluntly, opening the door for her. Candles still burned in several sconces, and he removed one to light others, giving them more light. “What is it that’s so important?”

She looked wary, and when she spoke, she did not answer his question, saying instead, “Do you really think she likes town life?”

“Aye, she thrives on it. You must know that by now. Her sleepy ways are merely habit, that’s all. Now, out with it. What’s amiss?”

She nibbled her lower lip, and he could feel his temper stirring again. Then, in a rush, she said, “Do you know aught of MacCrichton’s parents, Michael?”

So that was it. He nodded. “I know enough. What have you heard?”

“That his father was mad and his mother as common as dirt.” She paused, but her breast began to heave, and believing she would say more, he kept silent. “Well,” she snapped, “is it true? Did you intend me to wed a madman, then to produce mad children? What were you thinking, Michael?”

“First of all, his father was not mad,” Michael said, forcing calm into his voice. “Men say that he was slow and a little off, but no one doubted his sanity. He fought for the prince and died in his cause. If he loved a common woman, he is scarcely the first to do so, nor will he be the last. Do you dislike MacCrichton?”

“You know that I like him very much, but I do not know how you could want me to marry into a tainted family. You would never do such a thing yourself.”

Realizing he was by no means certain of that, at least insofar as the MacCrichtons were concerned, he said, “I tell you, Bridget, that line is not tainted. I own, one reason I thought Balcardane—and, indeed, MacCrichton himself—might welcome the arrangement was that others will react as you have to his parentage.”

“I understand now,” she said grimly. “You want me to marry well, so that you can pay Sir Renfrew Campbell, and that is all you care about. They called his father Daft Geordie, Michael! But since my children will never bear the name of Mingary, you don’t care if they are daft, too. How could you!”

Suddenly feeling perfectly calm, he said, “I do care, Bridget, and I truly do not believe the MacCrichton line is tainted. In fact, if it should produce daft children, they are more likely, at this moment, to be mine than yours.”

“What?”

“You were right, weeks ago, when you said that it made more sense for me to marry well than to depend on your doing so. Indeed, over time, I have come to see that I was wrong ever to let you consider such a thing. The fact is that I did not think anyone would accept my suit, but Miss MacCrichton has said that she will.” He did not know at just what moment he had made up his mind, but he felt certain of his course now. “I mean to talk to Balcardane tomorrow, and if he agrees, I will purchase a special license and marry her at once.”

“You asked her to marry you?” Bridget’s face had turned white.

He did not reply.

“I see what it is,” she said. “Her family knows that no one else would be willing to overlook her parentage, and since your affairs are in such a mess—”

“That will do,” Michael snapped.

“But you cannot marry her! Her father was crazy!”

“I tell you—”

“No, I’ll tell you, Michael. I won’t let her have you. I’ll tell the whole world about her parents before you can marry her, and then there won’t be any point!”

Cold fury washed through him. “By heaven, Bridget,” he said, “if you say any such thing to anyone, I swear I will lock you up at Mingary till you are an old woman. Indeed, if you say another word tonight, I will slap you. Go to bed.”

Paling at his tone, she obeyed with uncustomary speed. Taking time only to snuff all the candles in the room, he followed her upstairs.

Both Cailean and Chalmers awaited him in his bedchamber. He dismissed the man as quickly as was practical, patted the dog and ordered it to its place on the hearth rug, then went to bed. He doubted that he would sleep much, but after twenty minutes of restless tossing, exhaustion claimed him.

Thick mist closed around him, but he knew the castle he sought must be near. If he did not get lost in these cursed woods, he would come upon it soon. He must. The wonder was that he had not yet stumbled into a tree or fallen into a hole or a pond, for he could see nothing, and the heavy mist deadened all sound.

On the thought, a dark shape loomed before him, halting him in his tracks. It wavered, then grew steadier, more solid, revealing itself as the shape of a young woman. She was dressed in white, but her gown clung to her slender body, lacking fashionable hoops or panniers. He took a step forward, trying to see her face, but all he saw was a tumble of golden curls before the mist swallowed her again.

He strode forward, determined to find her, believing that nothing could be more important to his happiness, but the faster he moved, the more leaden his legs became. If he remained trapped in the mist, all would be lost. He knew that, but the mist made it impossible even to see where he was putting each foot, let alone what direction he was going or what lay ahead.

Sudden cold touched the arch of his foot, and Michael sat bolt upright in bed, disoriented. It took several moments to realize that it was Cailean’s cold, wet nose that had wakened him, that the dog had crawled under the covers from the foot of the bed again. He lay back against the pillows, for once saying nothing to the miscreant, hoping only that the dog had not picked up fleas in his wanderings.

Memory of the dream was rapidly fading. All he remembered was the mist and his fear, and the knowledge that someone else had been in the dream with him, a female in a long white dress, who had slipped away because he had hesitated to follow her. Memory flickered, and it came back to him that he had been searching for the castle but had not found it.

His intention to visit Faircourt House at once suffered a setback when he went down to breakfast, for his aunt and Cousin Bella reminded him that it was Sunday and clearly expected his escort to kirk. Bridget went with them, of course, and her silent, sullen presence irritated him, but it also strengthened his resolve.

It occurred to him then that he had no reason to believe Miss MacCrichton would still be of the same mind as she had been when she had made her generous offer. Despite his desperation, his pride had taken over then, and he had flung that offer back in her face. He had not seen her since their parting on Thursday morning, but he retained a clear memory of her dismay when he had snapped his rejection. If she refused him now, it would be no more than he deserved. The memory was not encouraging, especially now that he realized that her offer meant more to him than just the chance to save his land. Indeed, he still did not know that it would lead to any such thing. He did know, however, that he wanted more than anything on earth to make things right with her.

Accordingly he went to Faircourt House as soon as he thought the day advanced enough for the household to have returned from kirk, but when he asked to see the earl, Peasley informed him that the family had gone to Richmond Park for the day.

Returning Monday morning, he learned that Balcardane expected to be meeting with tobacco lords most of the day, but the earl had left word that he would be happy to receive Kintyre at half past ten o’clock on Tuesday morning. Forced to contain his soul in patience till then, Michael turned his attention back to deerhounds, leaving his sister to his aunt’s care and hoping for the best.

P
INKIE HAD NOT SLEPT
well for several nights, and Monday night was no different, despite having spent a good portion of it at a concert of ancient music that on any other occasion would have proved soporific. Thus, when sunlight flooded her room late Tuesday morning, she pulled a pillow over her head, muttering, “Go away till I ring, Doreen, and close those curtains.”

“Nay, then, miss, I canna do that, for it’s nigh onto eleven, and the mistress said to tell ye if ye want yer breakfast before she begins to receive morning callers, ye’d best be getting up. Mr. Coombs and Master Chuff—Lord MacCrichton, as I
should
say—took Master Roddy to ride in the park, and Himself be in the bookroom, so if ye want to wear just a simple morning frock, ye can for now.”

“No, I’ll dress,” Pinkie said with a sigh. “If I don’t, I shall just have to come back upstairs and do so after I eat.”

A rattling at the door interrupted them, and it swung open to reveal the countess carrying a tray of food. Doreen rushed to take it from her.

“My lady, you should not be carrying such things, and not up them stairs!”

“Hush, Doreen,” Mary said with a smile. “I have carried many a tray in my life, and one more will not harm me. Pinkie, dear, you must get up at once.”

“I am,” Pinkie said, getting out of bed and turning to slip her arms into the soft pink robe that Doreen snatched up to hold for her. “Doreen just woke me.”

“I know, for I sent her up myself, and I would not rush you now, love, except that Duncan sent me word that you have a caller.”

“A caller? Me?”

“Aye, and since I had told Doreen you could come downstairs in anything you chose, I thought I should come up and warn you to put on something that is becoming to you. Fetch out the pale blue silk, Doreen. Eat your toast, love,” she added when the maid hurried to obey.

Selecting a slice of toast, Pinkie said, “Who is the caller?”

“I do not know. Duncan was most mysterious. He told Dugald to say only that someone had called. I did ask Dugald to tell me, but he said he could not, so Duncan must mean to surprise you. Perhaps it is a young man seeking permission to court you, darling. If so, I wonder who it can be, for I have not observed anyone treating you with particular distinction. Can you think who it might be?”

“No one,” Pinkie said. The only person she could think of who might possibly even have considered such a thing had stormed off angrily several days before, so it could not be he.

With Mary and Doreen helping, she dressed in record time and hurried back down to the drawing room with the countess in her wake. They entered to find the room empty, but a moment later, Duncan came in, frowning heavily.

When he looked sternly at Pinkie, she felt a shiver of fear and wondered what she had done to vex him. Then his brow cleared, and she began to relax.

“Something has occurred that concerns you,” he said quietly, “and I am not certain exactly what I ought to do about it.”

She said nothing, and silence reigned for several moments before Mary said, “Pray do not keep us in suspense, sir. What has happened?”

“Kintyre has offered for Pinkie’s hand. He says it was her idea.”

Pinkie felt heat flood her cheeks, and she could think of nothing rational to say. Both of them were staring at her. Mary looked astonished, Duncan stern and still a little dangerous. She swallowed.

Duncan said evenly, “Is what he says true, lass?”

“I do not know exactly what he told you, sir, but ’tis true enough. I did suggest something of the sort to him.”

“Something of the sort?”

“Marriage, then—to me, if he liked.”

“Pinkie,” Mary exclaimed. “My love, what were you thinking? A young lady must never suggest such a thing!”

Pinkie’s gaze was still locked with Duncan’s, and she did not respond.

He said, “Kintyre told me some time ago of a debt that he cannot repay.”

“So he does not make this offer merely because he feels obliged to spare our Pinkie embarrassment after her improper proposal,” Mary said. “I know that he thinks we restored his dog to him, so I could perhaps understand his wish to protect her against her own folly, but…” She let her words trail to silence.