The Scottish Companion (12 page)

“Because the one you lived was too difficult?”

The questions were becoming too personal, but she answered him anyway. “My father remarried when I was ten. My mother had died at my birth, you see. My stepmother was a very nice woman, and very civil, in her way. But she had a child quite soon after they were wed, and their attention was rightfully directed to the baby.”

He didn’t say anything, merely stood up, went into the aisle, and then surprised her by sitting in the same
pew she occupied. He didn’t look at her, merely stared ahead at the altar.

“Were you a fanciful child?” he asked

She thought about the question for a moment. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I was a lonely child, though, so perhaps I was.”

“So, not fanciful as much as forgotten.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“You seem reluctant to speak of your youth. Why?”

“Perhaps I don’t wish to revisit it,” she said, looking at him.

“Was the question rude?’

“Not excessively so,” she answered. “But I prefer to live in the present, Your Lordship. Not a fabricated past.”

He stretched out a hand, and captured one of hers.

“I would have liked you as a child,” he said. “I might’ve teased you out of your quiet. I might’ve told you my deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Did you have so very many back then?”

“I had a few,” he said. “But like you, I had no confidantes. I was the heir, you see, and treated differently from my brothers. More was expected of me than James and Andrew, so our paths in life were not the same.”

“I’m glad that I didn’t know you as a child,” she said. He glanced at her but didn’t speak.

She gently pulled her hand away. “As an earl’s heir, you would have intimidated me. I would have said to myself: There is a boy, a quite handsome boy, who seems to be as alone as me. If he wasn’t to be an earl, I would talk to him. But, of course, you were, and I would never have escaped my shyness.”

For a few long moments they sat in companionable silence. Just when she thought he must be impatient to leave, he spoke again.

“I see you in my mind, Gillian. A very bookish, silent child who no doubt looked at the world with very wide eyes, marveling at everything and commenting on nothing.”

“I was indeed that child,” she said, smiling.

“And now?”

“Perhaps I am less wide-eyed, but I still marvel at a great many things. This chapel for one,” she said, tilting back her head and examining the shadows of the buttressed ceiling. “What an absolutely glorious place this is.”

“I think I hate it,” he said, staring straight ahead.

Surprised, she lowered her head and looked at him, remaining silent and wondering if he would comment further.

“The funeral for my brother was the last ceremony to be held here,” he finally said. “There was a soloist, a young boy, and his voice traveled through the entire space as if he were an angel exhorting us to be silent and think upon our mortal souls. I can still hear his voice. Or maybe it’s only the faint screams of angels.”

Startled, she stared at him. “Why would you say that, Your Lordship?”

“Perhaps it is my conscience speaking. An overused organ, that. Perhaps I’m simply tired and talking nonsense.”

He dropped her hand and stood.

She wanted to approach him and then place her lips so very sweetly, so very gently against his.

“I was wrong to tell you to relax your guard, Miss Cameron. It was not wise of me,” he added, his voice clipped and stern. In a matter of seconds he’d gone from being an affable companion to reverting to his role as an aristocrat.

“Am I being chastised for being here? You didn’t seem to scorn my company a moment ago, Your Lordship.”

Perhaps it was better if he didn’t regard her as any more than a servant. Let him see her as an urn, a set of fireplace tools. Even a log in the grate. Let him be very surprised when she deigned to speak from time to time, that an inanimate object might be given voice.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” she said, her voice sounding remarkably calm, almost disinterested. “I won’t visit the chapel again.” She stood, drawing her shawl around her shoulders, clutching it tight.

“Miss Cameron,” he said. “You misunderstand.”

Oh, she understood quite well. She was Arabella’s companion. What more was there to say?

“Miss Cameron, you are unattached, with no male relatives to protect you. I am not yet married, although my intentions have already been announced toward Miss Fenton. The world would not understand our being alone together.”

She really did understand. But she had been so captivated by the man that she’d forgotten her vow to be decorous.

“Besides all that,” he said, his voice holding a note of what sounded amazingly like tenderness, “you are a very attractive young woman, Miss Cameron. And you have a mouth that looks made for kissing.”

Shocked, her gaze flew to his. The grip on her shawl
lessened, and it almost felt the floor before she caught it with one trembling hand.

“I found myself wanting very much to kiss you, Miss Cameron, and that would, regrettably, dishonor both of us.”

“You want to kiss me?”

Another woman, a wiser one, perhaps would not have asked that question.

His face changed. Whereas a moment ago there had been sternness, now there was a softening of his features, a curve to his mouth.

“Yes,” he said simply.

She really should leave this place. She really should run away, as far and as fast as her feet could carry her. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could simply forget for a moment, and indulge in a little wickedness? Oh, but a little wickedness had nearly ruined her. She could not endure any more scandal.

“I think it would be a very good idea if you left now, Miss Cameron. And please, do not look at me with such somber gaze, as if you’re actually giving credence to the thought of our kissing.”

“Would you prefer I looked shocked, Your Lordship?”

“I think it would be wiser.”

He took one step toward her, and she took a precautionary step back. A curious dance to be held in the aisle of the massive chapel.

Did God witness their thrust and retreat, and was He amused? The distant thunder indicated that perhaps He was not.

Her heart felt as if it were racing, attempting to match the pace of her indrawn breath. Where the
blood beat close to the surface of her skin she felt heated, but her extremities were as cold as if they’d been encased in ice.

How could a simple man cause such damage to her equilibrium?

Because he wasn’t a simple man. He was an earl, the owner of everything she could see. Yet he was mortal, and not imbued with the qualities of angels. Nor was he a monster, however fierce his frown. He was neither misshapen nor ill formed. His physique was truly magnificent, if she allowed her thoughts to travel in such a direction.

Ah, but then, she was supposed to be ruined, was she not? A man’s physique was not an entirely forbidden subject.

His eyes were, by degrees, either very warm or they were cold, as cold as snow. His mouth was as capable of revealing his emotions, tight with irritation, or as now, smiling slightly.

She’d begun to look for his smile.

The wind blew the door ajar, and for a moment she was startled into looking beyond the earl to the entrance. Were spirits adrift in this place, or had she simply not fastened the door well enough?

She turned back to him, to find that the distance had closed between them. He breathed quietly if a little rapidly, as did she. She wondered if his heart beat as quickly as hers.

She wanted so desperately to be kissed.

No, she wanted
him
to kiss her.

“Miss Cameron. Gillian,” he whispered.

Now would come the condemnation. Now he would lecture her about her comportment. Now he
would issue her a warning, or even worse, he would dismiss her from Arabella’s employ. All those horrible things traveled through her mind in a flash of a second.

“I want to put my mouth on you,” he said instead.

And then he did, so softly that his lips felt like a breath. She inhaled a sigh, and leaned toward him, placing both palms against his chest. He extended his arms around her, pulling her closer, and she, fool that she was, walked eagerly into his embrace.

A kiss should not be magic. A kiss should not feel like the spark from Volta’s engine. But this one did. This kiss was a gate, swinging open slowly, beckoning her to part her lips, and angle her head just so. His face seemed to be a magnet for her two hands, her fingers gently touching his jaw as if to keep him from ending the kiss.

Slowly, softly, endearingly, he lured her to passion. His mouth promised delight as he deepened the kiss; his hands slid to her waist as if testing her receptiveness. Through it all, as her body warmed, her mind remained carefully numb, her thoughts blanked by the taste of desire.

He was the one to end it.

She could hear his breathing, as rapid as hers.

Now was the time for recriminations, but she felt none. She missed passion, regretted the absence of it in her life, and understood the eagerness she now felt. In a strange and remarkable way, the shadows seem to approve. The air was warmer, and perhaps even God, if He had entered and lingered here, was more inclined to forgive them their human frailties. But the world looked askance at sybarites, and she was not
the type of woman who endured society’s censure with ease.

She bent and retrieved her shawl from where it had fallen, leaving him before she could beg him to continue, before she could say the words to lure him to her bed.

He remained silent as she walked down the aisle, perhaps knowing that a word would have held her there.

She closed the door to the chapel and ran all the way back to Rosemoor, needing the exertion, needing something to overcome the panicky feeling deep inside her chest. She was out of breath before she reached her room, her stays digging into her side.

Twice she stopped in the hallway to regain her composure, and more than once she waved away a solicitous footman. When she reached her room, she closed the door and sagged against it.

Tonight, at least, regret would fuel her dreams instead of grief.

T
he countess was escorting Arabella from room to room, explaining the history of Rosemoor and the duties she would need to assume. Dr. Fenton was occupied writing letters. Everyone seemed to have a purpose, duties to perform and tasks to do.

Gillian had only her thoughts for company.

She was tired of seeking refuge in her room. Five days had gone by since the night of the ball and she’d barely seen the earl, except for catching sight of him in the corridor occasionally. She’d always slip into an adjoining room to avoid him. She refused to attend dinner, claiming that she wasn’t hungry. Thanks to the complicity of a maid who brought her a nightly tray, she didn’t miss a meal. What had she gained for all her efforts? A healthy dose of misery, and the approval of Dr. Fenton.

“I commend you on your taking our little talk to heart, Gillian,” he’d said, just this morning. “I trust that you will continue to remember your place.”

“Of course, sir.” Fallen woman. Foolish woman. She’d forced a smile on her face and left the room as quickly as she could.

Today, however, even nature seemed to chide her for hiding. The sky was a cloudless deep blue, the air was cool, and the morning promised a lovely day. She escaped to the rose garden, slowly walking the graveled paths, admiring the various species of roses the countess had collected over the years.

“
Buon giorno
.”

Startled, Gillian turned around to find her herself the object of a stranger’s regard. She stared at him for a moment, as her mind tried to make sense of what, exactly, she was seeing.

A man was standing in the middle of the path grinning at her. His waistcoat was scarlet, embroidered in gold thread. His jacket was black and a longer style than what was popular, but expertly fitted over trousers that looked to be the same fine wool. His shoes were nearly eclipsed by bright silver buckles. But that was not the only place he sparkled. The man was a walking jewel case. A gold fob on his waistcoat was sprinkled with diamonds, and he wore a very large ruby ring on the third finger of his right hand. To top off the picture, his left hand rested on the jewel-encrusted top of a mahogany walking stick.

“You are a vision of loveliness, a rose in a common English garden.” He placed one hand over his heart and bowed.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

Her tone was, perhaps, too sharp, but he’d surprised her, and she didn’t like being surprised, especially when she was indulging in a bit of silliness like feeling sorry for herself.

“He is one of my friends, Miss Cameron, and a man with whom you should be appropriately cautious.”

Grant came into view, almost as if he were waiting for her in the rose garden. A foolish thought and one she immediately pushed away.

The stranger laughed, sending a smile toward the earl. “It is true, my dear,” he said, turning his attention once more to Gillian. “I am not given to English sensibilities. I have too much passion. Count Paterno, at your ser vice,” he said, bowing once more.

“Scottish, Lorenzo. If you must insult my nationality, at least get it right.”

The other man laughed. “I meant no insult, my dear friend. But I am simply not as rigid as you. Especially when it comes to the women.

“Tell me,” he said, turning back to Gillian once more, “are you to be Grant’s bride?” He cocked his head, regarded her, and smiled.

When she didn’t answer, he laughed again. “Grant, she is a very pretty girl. With some spirit, if I do not mistake that look of ire in her eyes. I am delightfully surprised. Shocked, perhaps, by your wisdom. I approve of your choice, my friend.”

“Lorenzo,” Grant began.

“I know, my friend, I know. I wander where I do not belong. You’ll have to forgive me, my dear, for my frankness. But you see, I think my friend is a fool. He has many responsibilities, and he works very hard. Too hard, perhaps. But he has no fun while doing it. But now, perhaps, he can have some fun, true?”

“Miss Cameron is not my bride, Lorenzo.” Grant’s tone was sharp. “She is, however, under my protection.”

“Not your bride? Is this true?” Lorenzo asked, turning to her.

Gillian nodded.

“What a pity. I hope your bride is as lovely, my friend.”

Lorenzo smiled at her. “I notice he is very protective of you, is he not?” he said in a low voice. Grant, however, could still hear him, evidenced by his frown. “I wonder if he’s as careful of the maids in his employ?”

Gillian didn’t know whether to laugh or to be shocked, so she opted for the most proper course. She left the rose garden.

“What was that demonstration all about?” Grant frowned at his friend. “Are you and Elise no longer together?”

Lorenzo smiled. “We will be together until the day one of us dies, and then, no doubt, the other will cock up his toes as you English—Scottish—say. But I cannot push aside my curiosity, my friend. I have a great deal of curiosity. What is it with you and the little Scottish kitten?”

“There is nothing between me and Gillian,” Grant said. “Although I would appreciate it if you would leave her alone. Your devotion to Elise notwithstanding, I don’t like that you are flirting with the women in my household, Lorenzo.”

“That is another thing, my friend. Why is she among your household? And why is it that I have met her, and not your soon-to-be bride? Where is the woman who has so ably trapped my friend?”

“Miss Fenton did not trap me, Lorenzo. It is a marriage of convenience, nothing more.”

“Sometimes those unions turn to love. Although
the tone in which you said your beloved’s name was not quite so loverlike.”

“And sometimes they don’t,” Grant said. “Witness my own father’s aversion to my mother.”

“Which surprises me all the more,” Lorenzo said. “You have told me infinite times, my friend, that you are a practical man. I have never believed it as much as I do this moment. Your future is at stake, yet you seem to have no part of it. I do not understand this Scottish compulsion to marry for lands and riches.”

Grant smiled.

“Miss Fenton has neither. What she does have is an excess of practicality, a certain way of looking at the world. She has no requirements of me, and I have none of her. It is simply enough that we marry and produce sons. Nothing more. When I say that it is a marriage of convenience, Lorenzo, you must understand that’s exactly what I mean. I have no time to seek out a wife, and Miss Fenton has no inclination for a husband. The situation fits us both perfectly.”

Lorenzo’s shrewd gaze seemed to peer beneath Grant’s words, but he forced himself to return the other man’s look.

“I am honored to be your friend, Grant,” the other man said surprisingly. “Because I do not think you have many.”

What the hell did he say to that?

“Would you like to examine me today? Or tomorrow?”

“You wish, do you not, to change the subject? It is painful for you?”

“Have you been able to do any research into poisons?”

Lorenzo smiled. “Very well, my friend. We will talk death and not women.”

Grant nodded, feeling a sense of relief out of proportion to the circumstances. His future was not something he wished to discuss, even with a friend. He was well aware of the leanness of it. Either someone was going to succeed in wiping out the last of the Roberson males, or he was going to be tied to Arabella Fenton for the rest of his life.

Neither prospect seemed palatable.

“Gillian!”

She heard Grant’s voice behind her and didn’t turn. However, she did glance around to see if Dr. Fenton was in earshot.

“Were you ignoring me again?” he asked when he reached her side.

“Yes, Your Lordship, I was. Are you trying to get me dismissed?”

There were times when she didn’t mind his aristocratic tone. In fact, it was so much a part of him that she rarely noticed. Today, however, it was grating on her nerves.

“Who would do that?”

“Dr. Fenton.”

“He has no power at Rosemoor, and certainly not if I decree it.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “That would be unwise, Your Lordship.” Foolish woman. Foolish man.

“I am your employer, Miss Cameron. I thought we had established that.”

Until you know my past. Until you are as shocked
as the rest of the world, and then you will dismiss me without a second thought.

“What has he said to you?”

“He thinks me too familiar.”

“Too familiar?” he asked.

“We converse more than you and Arabella do, Your Lordship. He has, no doubt, seen us talking.”

And if he knew we’d kissed, I would have been dismissed for certain.

“Your Lordship,” she said as she kept walking, “please go away.”

“It won’t do you any good to barricade yourself in your room. I have a key to all the chambers at Rosemoor.”

Finally she turned back and glanced at him. “Has no one ever told you that you can be insufferable sometimes?”

“I believe you have, on more than one occasion. If you have not exactly said the words, they were certainly there in your expression.”

She was silenced by that comment. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. “If you wish to converse further with Lorenzo, then by all means do so. But he is very happily married, despite his charm.”

He turned and began to walk in the direction of his laboratory.

“Are you daft?” she called out, ignoring the interested gazes of the gardeners.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, stopped, and turned.

“I have no interest in your friend. I was merely admiring your mother’s roses.”

He slowly walked back to her.

“Why have you been hiding?”

She ignored that question, asking one of her own. “Who is he?”

“A friend from Florence.” He regarded her impassively. “A scientist.”

“He doesn’t seem like a scientist.”

“One would think that he hadn’t a brain in his head that didn’t somehow involve women, but he’s very intelligent. And very much devoted to his wife.”

“I haven’t a scintilla of interest in your friend or his wife.”

He continued looking at her in that way of his, his eyes betraying nothing. What was he thinking? Sometimes she wanted to goad him into speech, simply to learn what he had to say.

“He’s a very charming man.”

“So are you, Your Lordship. When you wish to be. Did you leave many women pining in Italy? Or were you known for your haughty disposition?”

He didn’t smile, the stern expression on his face didn’t lighten, but she had the impression, however odd, that her question had pleased him in some manner.

“Would it matter to you if I had?” he asked.

“No. You’re to be married soon. Two weeks, is it not?”

He didn’t answer her, only asked a question of his own. “Why is Arabella afraid of me? I have not, to the best of my knowledge, attained a reputation for being a brutal man. While it’s true that I’ve been out of Scotland for a number of years, there are people in Italy who can attest to my affable nature.”

She glanced over at him.

“Very well, not affable,” he corrected, “but not cruel, either.”

“Arabella has never liked the touch of others, Your Lordship. It does not matter if you are male or female. Arabella does not like touch in any form. A hug, a kiss, an accidental contact, it’s all the same. She stiffens and trembles.”

Was there no one in Italy he might have chosen? He was an earl; he might have his choice of hundreds—thousands—of women the length and breadth of Scotland and England. Arabella would make his life miserable.

He took a few steps toward her. “It would not matter if I left a score of women in Italy?”

“Your Lordship,” she said, “please go away.”

“Not at all?”

Wisely or not, she gave him the truth. “Not one whit. I’ve found that the past is better left there. It has little bearing on our actions of today.”

“I lied,” he said. “I would not want you involved with Lorenzo.”

“Because you don’t want my heart broken.”

He kept approaching her, slowly, like a large, predatory animal stalking a much more defenseless one. She was not, however, without resources. If she screamed, anyone might come running. Rosemoor was filled with people.

“Because you care for those in your safekeeping. I am a female in your household, and you’re responsible for me.”

“To my great shame, I cannot even claim that. While it’s true I do care about your happiness, it is not because you are in my employ. Or even a guest at Rosemoor.”

He stopped only inches away from her.

“There is a footman at the end of the walk,” she cautioned him. “And a maid brushing the urns at the gate.”

“What do you think I’m going to do, Gillian?” he asked softly.

She answered in a whisper, “Kiss me.”

“As I did before?”

“A very unwise move, as I recall.”

“Very unwise. It would be foolish for me to do such a thing again,” he said.

“Yes, it would.”

“I can’t help but think of it, however.”

She looked away, down the long path. The rose garden was built upon a slope of land near the house. Beyond was the view of the Pleasure Palace, and even farther, the road to Edinburgh.

“Please.”

He stepped back.

“I would not shame you, Gillian. Such is not my intent.”

“Then what do you wish of me, Your Lordship? To play some sort of game, again? To pretend we know each other better than we do? That we are of the same rank? You are the Earl of Straithern, and I am your betrothed’s companion. What do you want of me?”

He didn’t answer her, and she didn’t remain behind to hear an explanation for his silence.

Dr. Fenton looked perfectly at home in his father’s library, a fact that Grant did not share with the physician. They were not dissimilar in appearance, although his father had chosen to dress befitting his rank and
wealth, and Dr. Fenton often looked as if he had forgotten what clothes he donned in the morning. His appearance was not, evidently, of primary importance to him, but Grant did not hold that against the man.

“Do you have a moment, Doctor?” Grant asked.

“I did not mean to be presumptuous, Your Lordship,” the older man said, standing, “but the countess said that I might take advantage of the space.”