Lessons in Loving a Laird (12 page)

He resumed his seat on the chair and sighed deeply before answering. “I let him go.”

Shona’s eyes rounded. “Ye what?”

“What else could I do? I had no proof it was he who did it. And even if I had, what good would it have done Christina to have him brought to justice? Her infidelity would be brought to light. Her memory would be tarnished—in the eyes of her friends, her family, her child. If I’d brought accusations against her lover, it would have ruined Eric’s future. Even I can’t be certain that Eric is mine. The doubt of his legitimacy would pursue him forever. I couldn’t let him live with that. So yes, the man who killed Christina walks free. She pledged him her life, and when she wouldn’t give it to him, he took it. Losing Christina was enough. I was not about to give him my whole family.”

Things started to fall into place in Shona’s head. “Is that what the duchess threatened ye with? Exposing yer wife’s unfaithfulness?”

He nodded slowly. “And my son’s potential illegitimacy.”

Simultaneously, Shona and Conall turned toward the crib. Eric slept quietly, his full pink lips a perfect
O
. The long eyelashes curled over his round cheeks, and his breath came in quick bursts.

“Even if he isn’t mine,” Conall continued, “I couldn’t love that boy any less.”

Shona was touched deeply. Conall was indeed a special man.

“How did Her Grace learn about yer wife’s bedmate?”

Conall made a throaty, frustrated growl. “I don’t know! And she won’t tell me. God knows she has little enough motivation to do so. If she does, she might lose the hold she has over me. At this point, I can only speculate. There was an inquest following Christina’s death, but there was never any suspicion of poison. I was a doctor, and no one questioned my observation that Christina had died of childbed fever. In fact, the coroner was a friend of mine … I did my medical studies with him. But maybe he had ascertained the truth about Christina’s death and covered it up for my sake. Maybe the duchess paid him to learn the truth so that no one would ever give credence to my medical opinion again. Maybe Stewart had become such a thorn in her side that she did everything she could to show her daughter what a loathsome family we are.” He rubbed his forehead. “All I have are maybes. But the only thing I know for certain is that the duchess has extraordinary power to cripple us. If she reveals what she knows, it will not only make Eric a bastard in the eyes of the world, but it would taint his memory of his mother once he’s old enough to understand.”

He took her hand in his. “So you see, Shona, I’m not marrying Lady Violet for her money. I have to marry her because if I don’t, whatever happiness my son can enjoy will be destroyed. Do you understand?”

“Aye, I do.” She squeezed his hand. “But what aboot yer happiness? To marry a woman who does no’ love ye … won’t ye just be reliving that which ye had with Christina?”

“That doesn’t matter. When a man becomes a father, his own well-being falls miles behind that of his child.”

And, it seems, that of the woman who loves him.

Conall began to pack up his medical valise. “I’ll talk to Her Grace. We’ll postpone our journey a few days until I’m certain you’re fit enough to be back on your feet.”

Shona watched him collect the vials and adjust the implements. She had accomplished her purpose—to keep him near her a wee while longer. But in light of all he had confessed to her, it seemed pointless now. To make him love her now would only make his inevitable separation even more painful. And even if Shona could get him to propose to her, their marriage would cost him his child’s future.

“So ye’ll be marrying the Lady Violet, then.”

He stood over her. But his proud shoulders were now stooped from the weight of his cares. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

NINETEEN

Stewart leaned his back against the trunk of the tree, a scowl on his face. He gazed down into the valley where a swollen river laughed along the rocky brae.

“What’s wrong with me?” he shouted to nobody.

Charybdis craned her massive head in his direction, giving him a perplexed look before returning her attention to the patch of high grass she was munching on.

He felt like a complete ass. Why was he allowing that medusa of a woman to rob him of his child? Of his future?

He knew that the answer to that did not lie with the duchess. It lay within himself. He could not offer Violet a future. He had no money, no prospects, no character—only an insurmountable string of vices. She was better off with Conall. And so was his child.

His child. For the first time, he understood why Conall had made the decision to acquiesce to the duchess’s demands. Nothing was more important than Eric. He was willing to sacrifice his own happiness to ensure that Eric would never suffer from his mistakes. Now Stewart understood why Conall had agreed to marry Lady Violet. It certainly wasn’t to save Stewart’s hide. Quite frankly, he wasn’t surprised. His hide wasn’t worth saving.

Ever since he’d left London, he felt renewed. After wallowing in the underbelly of London’s vices for so long, he’d begun to lose sight of himself. He’d felt drained and hollow, like an empty wine bottle. It seemed as though he didn’t enjoy the pleasures of London so much as the pleasures of London enjoyed him. Putting some distance between himself and his old life had given him a new perspective on things.

And on people. Upon much reflecting, he realized that only one person in the world would give two farthings to save his miserable hide. Only one person in the world thought the world of him.

“Mind if I join you?”

He recognized the voice instantly, but its nearness startled him. He turned around, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight.

There, haloed by the rays of the late morning sun, was Violet. She was as lovely as ever, her dark hair pinned up under a pink and green silk bonnet, while her light green dress was flattened against her trim figure by the strong breeze. She looked like a rare flower.

“Good Lord!” he remarked as he stood up. “I must have just conjured you with my thoughts.”

Violet grinned. “That gladdens my heart, for you are never far from mine.”

Stewart felt a quickening in his heart. “Is your mother not with you?”

“No. She’s abed with one of her debilitating headaches.”

Probably bitten by one of those snakes growing out of her hair.
“Would you care to sit down?” Stewart looked about for something she could sit on to keep her beautiful dress from getting smudged. The only thing he’d brought with him was his sketchbook. “Here, sit upon this.”

Stewart placed it on the soft grass, but Violet picked it back up again. “What are you reading?”

“Nothing,” he said, taking it from her hand. “It’s just my sketchbook. I hash in it from time to time.”

“May I see?”

His heart started pounding as he gazed into her expectant eyes. It shamed him to let her see those pages. He should have torn them out weeks ago, but he hadn’t the heart. Now, they were about to be opened up to the eyes of the only woman who had any regard for him.

Tensely, he nodded. She opened the cardboard cover, and beheld page one.

She stared at it, her expression inscrutable. Was she appalled? Ashamed? Angry?

“This is…”

He held his breath. He didn’t care what anyone in the world thought of him. But this woman … it mattered enormously what she thought. If he ever lost her esteem, he may as well chuck it all in.

“… quite magnificent.”

His breath returned, relief washing over him. She turned to the next page, and the next, and the next—and at each one he suffered a small death of expectation.

“Stewart, I had no idea you were so talented.”

He shook his head. “You must have been misinformed on what constitutes talent.”

“I mean it. These drawings are quite masterful.”

Embarrassment stained his face. “You’re too generous in your praise.”

Violet sat upon the grass, completely unmindful of what it might do to her frock. She studied one page for some time, and it made him increasingly nervous.

“Who is she?” she asked.

He sat down beside her. Humiliation crept up his face once more. “A woman I once knew. A long time ago.”

Violet traced her gloved finger around the woman’s bare breasts. Her back was draped against the arm of a settee, one arm dangling down alongside her cascading hair. The woman’s eyes were half closed in desire, her breasts offered up like an erotic gift. A plump thigh folded down over the other one, revealing only a peek at the dark curls at the nadir of her abdomen.

“She’s very sensual.”

Stewart remembered that woman well. She was a lady’s maid, a woman he’d met in Covent Garden while she bought fabric and ribbons with her mistress. It had been a brief affair, but a particularly memorable one.

Now, in light of Violet’s perusal, he realized what a mistake it had been to have sex with this woman. She was so different from Violet, so much more base. She had given herself freely, swiftly, without any consideration for her own worth. Or his.

Violet turned the page. This sketch was of a woman in the bath, her breasts bobbing above the water and her legs folded over the lip of the tub. Water cast a sheen upon the woman’s curves, and her blond hair dripped over the cast-iron edge.

Stewart flushed, torn between desiring her artistic critique and fearing that she would ask him who the subject of the portrait was.

“And her?”

Stewart pinched the bridge of his nose. “Violet…”

“It’s no secret to me that you are enamored of beautiful women.” There was only the tiniest catch in her voice, but it spoke volumes to Stewart. “I just didn’t know you had memorialized them in this book.”

It was like having all his sins open for her perusal. He hated them being exposed to the light, let alone to the eyes of the woman he loved.

“I had affairs with these women. But they mean nothing to me.”

She turned her almond eyes upon him. There was no condemnation in them. But there was pain. Oh, so much pain.

“Am I in here?”

He wanted to lie to her. It would be so easy. But he had shown her so much of his past. Best to have done with it, and lay out all of the ugliness of his character before her once and for all. If she hated him, then it would be for good reason.

He reached over and flicked through to the end of the filled pages. There. It was a portrait of Violet, kneeling on the bed. Her bottom was lovingly drawn, softly shaded, even to the tiny dimples on her lower back. He had traced the gentle curve of her back all the way up to the graceful column of her neck, with an errant tendril of hair escaping from her flawless coif. Beside her slender arm was the gentle slope of one breast, its nipple small and dark upon the white paper. Her face was in profile, but as he looked at the lady sitting next to him, he realized it was indeed a poor likeness.

“But I don’t understand,” she said. “I never posed for you.”

“Nor did any of these others. I drew them all from memory. You were by far the easiest to remember.” He turned the page, revealing other drawings of Violet. Her flirtatious eyes. Her grinning face. Her gloved hand from which dangled the reticule she wore to the opera the first time they’d met.

She flicked through to the subsequent pages, but there were no women after her. All she found were a couple of rough sketches of Charybdis, and then blank pages.

“Look,” he began, “I know I’m a nobody. A donkey with a cravat, nothing more. You deserve a better man than I, I don’t deny that. But I can’t help but love you, Violet. I’m certain I’ve loved you from the moment I met you. I just didn’t know how to show it.”

He swallowed hard, trying to put into words what he’d been thinking since they’d made love. “Never, in my most hopeful fantasies, did I believe there was a woman out there for me. And because I couldn’t have
her,
I would have them all. Do you see?”

His gaze fell on the stetchbook. “I wish to God I’d never met any of those other women.” He ripped the book from her hands and tore out the pages containing the sketches of Violet. Then, with a mighty swing of his arm, he flung the sketchbook into the rushing water. It fell into the burn with a splash, and then floated out of sight. Stunned, Violet covered her open mouth with both gloved hands.

Stewart fell to his knees in front of her.

“I’ve mucked up everything I’ve ever touched. But I couldn’t bear it if I muck up your life as well. Or
his,
” he said, nodding at her belly. “Even though I don’t deserve you, I would do anything to be your husband. And to be a father to
our own
child. I couldn’t stand it if you became my brother’s wife. And I certainly don’t want your mother regarding our child as a ‘defilement’ and an injury to her honor all its life. Marry me, Violet. You’d have to sacrifice your houses, your parties, your posh friends—but I swear I’ll find myself a respectable position and be the devoted husband and father that our family needs. Marry me. Your mother will have an apoplexy, to be sure, but I will bear all of her wrath. In time, perhaps she’ll forgive you. But I swear I won’t ever let you regret becoming my wife.” He held out his hand to her. “Will you take a chance upon me?”

*   *   *

The horse was lathered in sweat as it sped at full gallop through the forest. Its eyes were wide and crazed, driven both by the lash of the whip—and the child screaming inside the carriage.

Once on the driveway in front of the house, the driver yanked on the reins. The horse’s hooves locked, spraying gravel all around. The driver grabbed the child, still bawling shrilly, and ran up the stairs as fast as his old legs could carry him.

“Ballencrieff! Ballencrieff!” The man pounded on the door.

Bannerman came to the door, alarmed. The man began to jabber incoherently while Eric cried.

At the sound of his son’s wailing, Conall rushed to the door. He took Eric into his arms, and the boy’s cries diminished to whimpers.

“What in blazes is going on?” he demanded.