The Lass Wore Black (22 page)
“So you were driving the night of the accident involving Miss Cameron?”
“Aye, I was.”
“How exactly did it happen? Have you any idea?”
“Why would you be wanting to know?”
“Because I’m curious,” he said, giving the man the truth. “It seems to be a mystery to most people.”
The coachman didn’t speak for some moments. He balled up his rag and tossed it on top of a nearby barrel.
“You’ll be solving a mystery for me first. Who are you? My nephew works as a footman for another house and he’s never given the freedom you are.”
Since he was on his way to tell Catriona the truth, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t divulge it to Johnstone, which he did.
“So it’s for Miss Cameron you’re here, then?”
He nodded.
Johnstone’s gaze moved to the left, then to the right, as if seeing the scene in his memory. A moment later his fleshy face firmed into an expression of resolve.
“I was told that I couldn’t be right. That I’d imagined it. That what I’d seen with my own eyes couldn’t possibly have happened. I learned to keep my mouth shut.”
Mark moved to stand directly in front of the coachman. “Who told you that? The earl?”
Johnstone shook his head. “The authorities in London. Still, it kept me silent well enough.”
“Tell me what you told them.”
“You’ll think me barmy, too.”
He didn’t respond, waiting.
Then, surprisingly, the coachman told him.
H
e was here.
He’d come back.
The most irritating man in the world was here, right at this moment, striding toward the kitchen door with his greatcoat open and his hair tossed by the blustery wind.
Catriona stepped back from the window, pressing her hand to her chest.
He looked angry.
What right did he have to be angry? He’d disappeared for four days, now he returned angry?
She would have him dismissed for certain.
Then she’d never see him again.
She’d never feel this pounding of her heart or the breathlessness that came from excitement.
She went into her bedroom, turned the mirror on top of the dresser, staring into it. She could see nothing but a veiled figure. Still, she wanted to be pretty. She wanted, desperately, to be beautiful at this moment.
Just once, to let him see what she had been.
W
hen he entered the house, Elspeth greeted him. “Mrs. MacTavish wants to see you, Mark, the minute you arrive.”
He removed his greatcoat and hung it on the peg near the door. He removed his jacket also, not saying anything when the maid looked at him wide-eyed. A moment later he looked like a footman in a casual household, dressed in white shirt and black trousers. He bent and wiped the rest of the snow from his boots and stood.
She picked up a tray and handed it to him. “She’s in the parlor,” she said, tittering in that way young girls have. At any other time the sound might’ve coaxed forth his own smile.
He carried the tea things into the parlor but couldn’t find a place to put it. Every surface was filled with clothing of various types. Sitting in the middle of all the piles was Dina MacTavish, looking happier than he’d ever seen her.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” she asked, pushing aside a neat stack of shirts so he could set the tray down on the low table before the settee. “People have been so generous.”
“Is that all for Old Town?” he asked.
“It is. It couldn’t have come at a better time, what with the cold.” She beamed brightly up at him. “But that’s not all,” she said, waving him into a nearby chair. “The Duke of Linster called on Catriona yesterday.”
“Did he?” He sat and shook his head when she would have poured him a cup of tea.
“Yes, but that isn’t the most wonderful thing. What is the most wonderful thing is that Catriona met with him.”
“Did she?”
“Don’t you see, my dear Dr. Thorburn? You’ve achieved everything I wanted you to do. Catriona isn’t hiding in her room anymore, and the duke—the man who nearly offered for her in London—was sitting in my parlor. Imagine that.”
She twinkled at him, clapping the tips of her fingers together. “Yes. Isn’t it the most marvelous thing?”
He wasn’t certain how marvelous it was.
The Duke of Linster was wealthy, but the man’s reputation as a libertine was well known even in Edinburgh.
He didn’t have a title. Nor did he want one. His father couldn’t deny him the title of Lord Serridain when he advanced to the Earl of Caithnern, but that circumstance would be surrounded by the loss of his grandfather. Hardly cause for celebration.
Why the hell had Catriona met with the duke?
Every woman in his life was bedeviling him. Were they all corresponding with each other? Did they slip each other notes in the middle of the night?
I’ll weep in front of Mark because he forgot a party. I’ll lose all common sense and be happy that an Irish duke is visiting my niece.
Even his mother had joined the chorus, sending him a note that intimated he was in trouble on that front, too.
Surely the rumors I’m hearing couldn’t possibly be true, Mark. I had always given you credit for having common sense.
Common sense? He’d lost his mind ever since he’d decided to play footman to Catriona Cameron. Common sense? He had no sense at all.
“I think it’s time we told her,” Dina was saying.
He nodded. It was beyond time.
Why hadn’t he told Catriona who he was before now? Did his reluctance have anything to do with the fact that she would have banished him the minute the words were out of his mouth? He knew how she felt about doctors. After having read the London idiot’s letter, he couldn’t blame her.
Today was the end to it all.
He stood. “I’ll see to that right now,” he said.
Mrs. MacTavish sent him a warm look, as if she knew just how difficult the next moments would be.
W
hen Catriona answered the knock on the door, she was ready.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, pulling the door open and facing Mark.
“I haven’t brought your meal.”
“Then why are you here?”
She stood back and he entered the room, closing the door behind him.
“I understand the Duke of Linster called on you. Did you enjoy his visit?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“He’s old enough to be your father, and a lecher as well.”
She turned, made her way back to the secretary. Sitting, she continued with her correspondence.
“Are you ignoring me?”
“I heard you,” she said calmly. “I was just not paying any attention to you.” She bent and began writing.
“He’s a lecher. Don’t you care?”
“The Duke of Linster’s morals aren’t your concern.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “But yours are.”
She didn’t look at him. “Why? Because for one night I was your convenient? Perhaps the duke and I are perfect for each other.” She placed her pen carefully on the blotter. Evidently, the letter to Jean would have to wait.
“Perhaps you are,” he said. “Do you use passion as a weapon, Catriona? Do you use it to get what you want?”
Startled, she stood and approached him. “What did I want from you, footman?”
He smiled. “Perhaps you’ll tell me.”
“Do you work for the duke?”
He blinked at her in surprise, the expression real enough that she felt a weight being removed from her chest.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Why would you accuse me of using passion as a weapon?”
She desperately wanted to touch him. Or tell him the truth. That he’d overwhelmed her, that he flattened her so easily with words or that small smile he wore now.
“I’ve been talking to your coachman,” he said.
“Next, you’ll be conveying your conversation with the cook, and your quips with the maids.”
“We were talking about the accident in London,” he said.
Her breath suddenly stilled in her chest.
She looked down at the floor, now in shadow. She’d often measured the day by how shrouded the furniture and fixtures became. If she couldn’t see the floor, afternoon was well advanced. If she wasn’t able to make out the desk, night had fully descended.
When had that way of telling time become tedious?
“He told me that someone shot at the carriage, that it wasn’t an accident after all, but deliberate.”
A chill was spreading from her stomach to all of her limbs. Within seconds her fingers were icy.
She made her way to the table, but instead of sitting there, braced herself against it.
“Did you know?” he asked.
She couldn’t answer him. What could she say?
“Catriona?”
Silence was evidently not going to be a recourse.
“Mr. Johnstone told me,” she said. Before that she’d suspected. Why else would the windows have exploded as they did?
He advanced on her, one slow, stalking step at a time. She didn’t move, even when he was close.
He smelled of linseed oil and leather. Could it be that the footman had done some work?
“It was an accident,” she said firmly.
He reached out and touched her shoulder. Somehow, she could feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric.
“Was it?”
“Of course it was.”
She placed her right hand flat against his shirt, feeling the booming beat of his heart against her palm.
“Please leave, Mark.”
“Take off your veil,” he said.
“I’ve already told you I won’t.”
“I want to kiss you.”
Her heart beat much too fast, and his was thundering as well. She dropped her hand and took a step back.
“That wouldn’t be wise.”
“Are you counseling people on wisdom now, Miss Cameron?”
When had she been wise where he was concerned? Was she expected to forget how he made her feel? Or what passion was like, especially when it had been so missing from her life?
No, what she’d experienced with him had been nothing like what she’d felt before. Not only passion, but more. Something tender and worrisome, that made her vulnerable. She was not given to tears, but he made her want to weep sometimes. Or to simply lay her head on his shoulder and ask for his protection.
Instead of saying anything, however, she backed up a few more feet. She was being wise at the moment, and she should be proud of herself.
“Is your damn duke coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
Linster had tended his farewells, albeit reluctantly. Deny Linster anything and he was suddenly captivated. Mystery, evidently, interested him more than beauty.
“What did the damn fool want?”
“Me,” she said.
“Well, he can’t have you.”
“Are you commanding people now, footman?”
“I’m jealous,” he said, “and I’ve never been jealous before. Forgive me if I’m irrational.”
Suddenly, it was difficult to swallow, or to breathe. She forced herself to calm, clasped her hands in front of her, and concentrated on taking several deep breaths.
He circled the table, coming to stand beside her. Didn’t he know that his proximity was disturbing? If he did, he was using it to his advantage.
Who was using passion as a weapon now?
“You’ve heard that before, haven’t you? Catriona Cameron and all her suitors. I imagine you’re adept at juggling all of them.”
“Are you my suitor, footman?” she whispered.
“Take off your veil. I want to kiss you.”
Heat flared through her body, reaching out to touch each separate finger, toe, and pool in the core of her. Her body wanted what he wanted and more. She wanted to kiss him, feel his mouth on hers, inhale his breath and taste him.
She moved away, going to stand behind a chair. A flimsy barricade, but at least it was something between them. Who was she shielding? Him or her?
“You need to leave.”
“Yes,” he said, surprising her. “I do.”
He remained where he was.
“What I need to do and what I’m going to do are two different things, however.”
She licked her dry lips.
“It’s dark as the grave in here,” he said. “Will you at least light a lamp?”
“No,” she said. “I won’t. Not if I’m going to remove my veil.”
S
ilence was another occupant in the room, breathing between them, a presence as solid as the table or the desk.
He took a cautious step toward her.
“What must I do?” he asked.
“Promise not to light the lamp,” she said, wondering at her own courage. She’d agreed to change her attire, met a duke, and now? Now, she was thinking of doing the most foolish thing of all, just because she was desperate to kiss this irritating man.
“I promise.”
“Do not build up the fire too high.”
“I promise that as well.”
She turned and walked into the bedroom. When he followed her, it was slowly.
He struck the chair, swore, then righted it.
When he entered her bedroom, closing the door behind him, she unclenched her trembling fingers and went to the vanity.
“How can you find your way in the dark?”
For months she had been as one blinded, growing gradually used to her heavy veil. She rarely lit the lamp even when alone, for fear of seeing her own scars. How did she tell him that?