The Highwayman's Lady (23 page)

Gray has not joined us this evening and the talk is of his regular absences.

“My dear, is it really necessary to send Francis to Edinburgh quite so regularly? Surely we could conduct our affairs perfectly well without so many trips? Could not your business associates attend you here on occasion?” Beatrice makes her enquiry as she hands the platter of potatoes across the table to her husband. “I am sure Francis would appreciate more opportunity to relax with his family.”

Sir Phillip helps himself from the plate. “Thank you, my sweet. I fear though I cannot claim the credit for occupying my brother’s time. He is not engaged on affairs of mine. Indeed, he has made it his business to avoid the estate or our commercial interests as much as he possibly can. I rarely encounter him and cannot recall any occasion when he has represented me at any meeting in the capital.”

Beatrice regards her husband, astonishment writ across her face. “But, I was sure… So, where does he go then?”

“I have not the slightest notion, my dear.” Sir Phillip turns to me. “Imogen, can you enlighten us at all as to what pressing engagements might occupy my brother most evenings?”

I look from one to the other, shaking my head. “No, I have no idea. Why would I? He does not confide in me.”

“Indeed,” agreed Sir Phillip. “In fact, you and Francis barely exchange a word. Is there some quarrel between the two of you? Is it you he is avoiding, perhaps?”

“Me?” I parrot.

“Surely not,” exclaims Beatrice. “What on earth might they have quarrelled over? They hardly know one another.”

“Quite so,” allows her husband. “It is just that I sense a certain—tension—between you and my brother, Imogen, which has not diminished in the weeks he has been here. Indeed, I would say it has intensified. Is it my imagination?”

There can be few individuals walking this earth less inclined to flights of fancy than Sir Phillip Kirkleven. Even so, I find myself murmuring words to the effect that he is probably mistaken in his observations.

“I see.” Sir Phillip does not press the matter. He finishes his meal and takes his leave. “I have papers to review before bedtime, my dear. Please, remain here and have Masterson bring more wine. I shall see you later.” He kisses his wife on the cheek and bows politely to me. “Until tomorrow, Imogen.”

Left alone in the dining room, Beatrice and I sip our wine in silence as Masterson clears away the debris from the meal. Her eyes are on me, considering, turning matters over in her head. I swear I can almost hear the cogs whirring. At last the manservant leaves and she places her goblet on the table.

“My husband is not imagining things, is he?”

“Beatrice?”

“Do not treat me like a fool, Imogen. I deserve better than that.”

I drop my gaze to peruse my rounded stomach. The evidence of my predicament grows more prominent with every day that passes. I cannot afford to alienate my benefactress and I would not wish to. Beatrice has been kindness itself and she is right. She does deserve much better than this from me.

“I am sorry.”

“But you do not deny that there is something amiss between you and Francis. Very much amiss?”

I shake my head, hoping she will not press me on this.

“Are you prepared to tell me what lies at the root of it?”

“I prefer not to, if you will permit that.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “You will have your reasons, I know, for your silence on this matter and I have decided to trust your judgement. All I ask is that you make an effort to heal whatever rift has developed between you and Francis. It is not just Phillip who has observed it. The children have asked questions too.” She leans forward, her expression serious. “Francis is dear to me, as are you, Imogen. You are both equally welcome here. I cannot bear this discord within my household and I will not have it affecting everyone else. Please, for my sake, try to get on with Francis. I would hate for him to feel he must leave us again in order to restore peace at Kirkleven. My husband may appear gruff and somewhat hostile to Francis but do not be fooled. He loves his brother, as do we all. We want Francis to stay and we would love you to make your home here too. But this—awkwardness cannot continue. Do I make myself plain?”

I nod, contrite. This is the first time Beatrice has chosen to remonstrate with me, though heaven knows I have given her cause enough. I should never have allowed the situation between Gray and myself to be so obvious to those around us.

“Thank you, Imogen. Please be assured I do not hold you solely responsible. I am quite prepared to have a similar conversation with Francis, when next I encounter him.”

“Please, do not do that. It is my fault and I shall speak to him. I will make matters right.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Definitely. I will not let you down.”

She reaches across the table to take my hand. “I know that, my dear. I have every faith in you.”

* * *

Later that same evening I lie on my bed, sleepless. The maid has assisted me out of my gown and petticoats and into my cotton night rail. The girl then brushed out my hair before banking up the fire for the night. A trio of candles flicker on the dresser but otherwise the room is in darkness. The entire house is silent, nothing to divert me from the cacophony of thoughts that riot unchecked around my head.

If not engaged on business for Sir Phillip, what pressing need takes Gray from the house night after night? Where does he spend his evenings? With whom? Doing what? I am starting to form an uneasy conclusion.

I hope, desperately, that he has not resumed his previous occupation, but if he has not, why does he remain in Scotland at all? From what Sir Phillip said I must assume Gray entertains no serious interest in carving out a role for himself at Kirkleven. He has made his intentions as far as I am concerned crystal clear. He wishes to have nothing to do with me or the baby I am carrying.

And that being so, what gives him the right to extract the promise he had from me? If he does not care, why did he punish me when he believed I had endangered myself and my baby and threaten further retribution if I should offend again?

I am ready to make peace with him if that is possible. I have no choice; I promised Beatrice. But I require some answers too. First and foremost, I require reassurance that he is not about to get himself shot in the course of some robbery gone wrong, or worse still, bring the county constabulary hammering on our door intent upon a hanging.

The clock out on the upstairs landing strikes twelve. The entire household is long abed, but I have not yet heard Gray return. That is not in itself surprising, I do not always hear him come home, though I must confess I do take an interest in his comings and goings. I know that he often enters through the kitchens and comes up the back stairs and I conclude that must be the explanation.

Given the situation between us, I do not know when I might get the opportunity to talk to him if I do not take steps to force such a confrontation. I see nothing else for it; I must go to his chamber and seek him out.

Thus resolved, I scramble from my bed and reach for a robe to wrap around my thickening body. I pick up the candelabra from the dresser and use the flickering tapers to light my way along the corridor, passing the clock that I heard a few minutes earlier. Halfway there it occurs to me that I should have thought to locate a pair of slippers before creeping from my room, but it is too late now. I quicken my step and reach Gray’s door.

Should I knock? I lift my hand to rap lightly on the panel, but think better of it. Despite the quiet I would not be surprised to see Masterson trotting along the hallway to investigate the sound. The man seems to be everywhere. I lower my hand again and rest it on the doorknob. I turn the handle and push.

The door opens with a slight creak, to darkness on the other side. The only illumination is the glow from the fire that is dying in the hearth. It is clear at a glance that Gray is not within. I step back, intending to close the door and return to my chamber, then think better of it. I am here now and the hour is so late he must return soon. I slip inside and set my candlestick down on the table beside his bed.

This room is a little smaller than mine, but just as well furnished. The large oak bed dominates, covered with a dark embroidered bedspread and framed by thick, heavy curtains to keep out draughts. A few possessions lay scattered on the table where I placed the candles—a kerchief, a pair of heavy leather gloves, a quill, and a pot of ink, though I see no parchment.

Clothing is folded neatly and stacked on top of a chest beneath the shuttered window. I infer that Gray is a tidy individual who like me, prefers to keep his belongings neat and ordered. At least we have that in common.

The clock on the landing chimes the quarter hour. Perhaps I might write him a brief note, requesting his company at his earliest convenience on a matter of some importance. Had a sheet of paper come to hand I might have settled for that, but there is none to be found in the small desk, so instead I perch on the edge of his bed to await his return.

* * *

“Imogen? Are you all right?”

I mutter something and roll onto my other side.

“Imogen, wake up. What are you doing here?” A hand on my shoulder gives me a shake, not hard, but determined.

“Leave me alone. I am sleeping.”

“Aye, I can see that. The question is, why are you doing it in my bed?”

“What?”

“Why are you sleeping in my bed, Imogen? Not that I object, particularly, it is just something of a surprise to find you here. I might have returned home sooner had I known what awaited me here.”

His final remark penetrates my fuddled consciousness and I come fully awake, remembering the reasons for my precipitous decision to beard the lion in his den. I have bridges to build and peace to make. But first, there are questions I need to ask him.

“Where have you been? What time is it?”

“A little before two o’clock, I believe. Are you quite all right, Imogen?”

“Yes, I am perfectly fine.” I sit up, shivering a little as my wrap slips from my shoulders. “Where did you go until this time?”

“You are cold.” He strides over to the hearth, his outdoor cloak still flowing around his lithe body, and tosses another log onto the dying embers. A few moments spent poking and prodding see the flames crackle back into life. Gray returns to the bed and sits beside me. “There, that is better. But if you intend to remain here may I suggest you get beneath the covers?”

“No, you may not,” I exclaim. “I am not here to, to…”

“To spread your luscious thighs and entreat me to fuck you? I confess, I expected you to arrive at that conclusion some weeks ago, but better late than never.”

“You are disgusting.” As am I, it would seem since my pussy is moistening in a manner best described as disgraceful. I tilt my chin at him, resenting the effect he has on me. “No, I am not here for that. I wish to talk to you.” I clutch my robe under my chin as though to protect myself from his crude remarks and wish my quim did not dampen so at the ideas he has planted. I refuse his invitation to snuggle under the covers, though I confess the prospect is not without its attractions. The room remains distinctly chilly despite Gray’s attention to the fire.

“I am tired, Imogen. May I suggest we talk in the morning? Now, if you are quite sure you do not intend to make use of the bed, perhaps you will not object if I do.” He stands and removes his cloak, then takes a seat to pull off his knee-length boots. They are mud-splattered, I note. His hat dangles from a post at the foot of the bed. At my continuing silence he proceeds to remove his thigh-length jacket and loosens the wide leather belt slung around his hips. I blink, recalling the three agonising licks of that same leather strap across my tender buttocks the first night he came upon me in my own chamber.

My reaction is not lost on him. He drops the belt to the floor and comes to sit back on the bed next to me. “Ah, so that is it. You do not want a fuck, but you would quite like a spanking?”

“I would not, I—”

“Maybe it is just me then. I would dearly love to spank you, Imogen.”

“Why? What have I done?”

“Nothing.”

“Then, why are you angry with me?”

“I am not angry, Imogen. Quite the reverse. Unless your refusal to keep warm is just cause. I must give that some consideration.”

“I do not like it when you spank me,” I mutter mutinously, as though to convince myself that this is indeed the case.

He leans in and drapes an arm across my shoulders to haul me close to his hard, warm body. “Ah, but you do, Imogen. You love it.” He pauses. “Christ, girl, you are freezing. If you do not wish to share my bed, at least come closer to the fire.”

Before I can answer he stands and lifts me in his arms. With two long strides he carries me across to the hearth and sits down in a large fireside chair with me cradled in his lap. The heat from the blaze is wonderful and I stretch out my hands and feet.

“Is that better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I have been in Stirling. At a tavern.”

“What?”

“You asked where I have been.”

“Oh.” I wrinkle my nose. “You do not smell of taverns.”

“Thank you. I think. I have not been drinking excessively. I rarely do so.”

“Then why are you so late back?”

“I was with friends. A game of cards. The evening just flew past.”

“Do they all?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You go out every evening. Do you always spend your time gaming in Stirling?”

“No. I often go to Edinburgh. The gambling halls there are even more diverting, though the stakes can be somewhat higher than I prefer. A man could lose his entire fortune in one evening.”

“You know what I mean. What is it which occupies your time every night? Are you…? Are you…?” I hesitate to put my worst fear into words.

“Am I what, little Imogen? Please do not tell me you fear I have taken a mistress.”

“What? No, of course not.” That notion had never occurred to me. Obviously, it should have. Gray is a ridiculously handsome man; he must attract a great deal of female attention.