The Scottish Companion (15 page)

She deliberately took a step backward, away, so she could not touch him.

He was not given to self-flagellation. He didn’t believe in punishing himself for his actions, even if they were ill-formed and wrong. Grant always made a point of learning from each misadventure. If his errors in judgment affected other people, he made amends where he could, and vowed not to duplicate his mistakes. He found that such techniques assisted him in his work and his personal life.

So what the hell was he doing now?

Someone should give her a good talking to. Someone should tell her that she really should not smile at a man with such warmth. And whatever she used to rinse her hair should certainly be forbidden, at least until she was married. Let her captivate her husband. Certainly she would marry one day, just as his nuptials were already planned. Why should he get such a sour feeling at the thought?

She should have worn a shawl over that dress. The bodice was entirely too snug. He could see the outline of her nipples. At least he thought he could, and God knew he’d looked often enough in the last few minutes.

He was like a boy who had never seen the female form before, and ached to stroke her with eager palms. He wanted to know if all the softest spots were really soft. Were her curves as enticing as he thought, and those long legs of hers, were they as shapely as he guessed?

Good God, he was over thirty. Surely enough time had passed since he was an adolescent? God knew he’d bedded his share of women. Why couldn’t he remember one at the moment?

He shouldn’t be alone with Gillian, and he shouldn’t be talking to her: plumbing her mind in lieu of her body.

He should be concerned about his own health instead of traipsing through the marsh. Yet he’d never felt better, more energetic. Nor had he ever been as reluctant to face his future.

An earl did not renege on an arrangement. The 10th Earl of Straithern especially did not dishonor his bargain. His father had already blighted the family name; Grant had spent his lifetime attempting to not add to the shame.

He would marry Arabella Fenton and find something to champion about the union. But he would forever wonder about Gillian Cameron.

He gave the order for the men to convey the glass vials, now cloudy with gas, back to his laboratory. Only then did he turn to Gillian.

“Whom do you mourn?” he asked. A question she’d never answered and one that had niggled at him for days.

She looked startled. He waited until the footmen were sufficiently far away to ask the question again.

“Why do you wish to know?” she asked.

“I find I’m excessively curious about you, Miss Cameron. Perhaps I should not be, but there it is.”

She hesitated for a moment, before turning and preceding him up the path.

There was something about Miss Gillian Cameron that led him to believe that his being an earl held absolutely no allure for her. She was extraordinarily self-possessed, given to seeking her own counsel rather than the company of others. He not only admired that
trait, since he was also possessed of it, but he wanted to understand how a woman like Gillian could have acquired such aplomb. There were flashes of animation in her gaze sometime, expressed as humor or irritation. What incited his curiosity the most, however, was the sadness she occasionally evinced with a glance or a faraway stare.

She was an enigma, and he was fascinated with puzzles.

He was not averse to silence, and he would wait as long as it took. Several minutes later she halted, turning in his direction.

“My life,” she said softly. “I mourn my existence, Your Lordship. The life I knew in Edinburgh. I mourn my innocence and my youth.”

He stood in front of her, silent and waiting.

“We all do that, Miss Cameron, in various degrees.”

She nodded. “I fell in love with a man who did not love me in return. Or not enough.”

“A regrettable tale,” he said, finding himself oddly irritated by her confession. “Do you love him still?”

She shook her head.

Just when he thought she would say nothing further, she took a deep breath and quite obviously forced herself to face him. Her gaze was intent, her face white.

“Did I not warn you, Gillian?”

She turned to find Dr. Fenton standing on the path facing her, his expression leaving no doubt as to his displeasure.

“I suggest you return to Rosemoor, Gillian,” he continued, “and see if there is some task that you can
perform for Arabella, something that does not involve cavorting through the meadows with your skirts above your ankles.”

“Why do you presume to speak to Miss Cameron in such a fashion, Fenton?” Grant asked. He slowly stepped between them, standing in front of Gillian as if to protect her from a volley of arrows. Didn’t he realize that words could hurt as much as any spear?

“Your demeanor should be such that you do not shame me, or by reflection, Arabella,” Dr. Fenton said. He turned to Grant. “I apologize for her, Your Lordship,” he said, his tone modulated somewhat in speaking to the earl. “She is a forward girl.”

“It is not her demeanor that surprises me, Fenton, but yours. I have not judged Miss Cameron to be forward. If anything, I find her too retiring.”

“And well she should be, Your Lordship. But the very fact she is here with you this morning is evidence of a rebellious nature. Arabella should be with you, not her companion. She does not warrant your defense, Your Lordship. I have tried to be a compassionate man, but her actions of late have proven that I was wrong to be swayed by pity.”

Grant turned to look at her. “She does not seem to be such a base sort, Fenton. Has she stolen from you? Or perhaps imbibed some of your rum?” He smiled at Gillian, and any other time she might have returned the expression, but not now. “Have you drowned a sack of kittens, Gillian? What heinous deed have you performed that has Fenton in such a lather?”

The mottled color of Dr. Fenton’s face revealed his temper.

“She has not told you of her past, has she, Your
Lordship? She has not divulged the totality of her wickedness?”

Gillian had never before been given the ability to read the future, but she knew what the next few moments would bring as if she’d written the scene herself. She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together.

“You are a doctor, Fenton, not a clergyman. Why should you be so concerned about divulging Miss Cameron’s past? Or her wickedness, as you say?”

“Because I do not wish you to judge Arabella by Gillian’s actions, Your Lordship. My daughter is a good girl, who would not indulge in wantonness with you like Gillian.” Dr. Fenton frowned at her.

“Should I not be the judge of whether or not Miss Cameron has indulged in wantonness? And it seems that if you tar her with that brush, you cannot help but paint me as well. Are you accusing us both, Fenton?” Grant folded his arms and stared at the doctor impassively.

“I am not accusing you, sir,” Dr. Fenton said. “Gillian was a woman of the street. A female of low inclination. She turned away from her family and her friends and all the tenets of her upbringing to pursue earthly pleasures, and it is my belief that she intends to the same again with you. When I found her, she was living in Edinburgh, willing to sell her body for a coin.”

What a pity that she couldn’t close her eyes and simply wish herself away from this particular place. But she still felt the soft morning breeze on her cheeks, and the smell of the marsh grasses clinging to the hem of her skirt. The air was laced with the acrid scent of sulfur.

She opened her eyes to find herself the object of intense scrutiny from both men.

Grant didn’t speak, and those eyes, those remarkable, wonderful gray eyes of his, held no expression at all and were suddenly as hard and cold as pewter.

“Enough,” Grant said suddenly, turning back to the doctor. “Enough, man, your tale is told. You should be satisfied with the result of your morning’s effort.”

“I shall not be satisfied, Your Lordship, until Gillian knows her place. You should be sharing your hours with Arabella, and not this creature. I rue the day I allowed charity and pity to bring her into my home if she draws your attention and affection away from my daughter.”

“Since you are so adept at honesty, shall we have a bit more between us, Doctor? There is no affection between your daughter and me. Nor do I ever expect there to be any. Arabella does not seem to be of a nature to share affection.”

When Dr. Fenton would have spoken, no doubt in protection of his only child, Grant held up his hand as if to forestall him. “I have no intention of discussing the matter further, sir. Instead, I shall escort Miss Cameron back to Rosemoor.”

Dr. Fenton hesitated.

“We require neither your permission nor your presence, Fenton,” Grant said.

With obvious reluctance, Dr. Fenton left them.

Gillian turned away, facing down the path toward the marsh. When she spoke, it was calmly and without
emotion, as if the words were read from a well-known book in her mind.

“I was not quite a woman of the streets,” she said. “Although I was certainly a figure of scandal. An example of impropriety.” She bowed her head and clasped her hands together.

He still did not speak. In actuality, he was uncertain what he should say.

She nodded. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if mothers warned their daughters not to become like me.”

“Why did you become like you?”

“I fell in love,” she said. She looked away again, and he was tempted to reach out and grip her chin, turn her face in his direction, and look into her eyes. What would he see there? A glimpse of remorse, perhaps longing? He realized he didn’t want to know.

“You needn’t tell me, Gillian,” he said.

She nodded. “I know. It doesn’t matter. I fell in love,” she repeated. “But I think that I loved Robert because he loved me.” She raised her head and looked at him, and he wasn’t surprised by the sadness in her eyes.

“I don’t require any admissions from you,” he said.

She nodded once again, and once again continued speaking. “It had been a very long time since I’d felt loved. Perhaps all the scandal I brought about was based on nothing more than gratitude.”

Life was imperfect, imprecise, too fleeting, and by the time an individual got it correct, fate or mischance had stripped life away. His was a life made special by circumstance, and he was continually
aware of that fact. From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, until he slept at night, he was the Earl of Straithern. He was as conscious of his heritage as he was of his responsibilities. But along with the monumental burdens placed on him were also the great advantages. He never failed to remember those, either.

One of the greatest assets of being the Earl of Straithern was the power of his inclination. Whatever he wanted, he received. A word, a softly voiced request, an imperiously crooked finger, that’s all it took for his wishes to be conveyed and fulfilled.

Now he wanted the power to banish the grief in her eyes, bid her smile to return, but he could do nothing but reach out and touch her arm in gentle, and proper, support.

“Was it enough of an adventure?” he asked.

She blinked at him.

“Today,” he said. “The marsh. Was it adventurous enough for you?”

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, she spoke again. “You have it in your power, Your Lordship, to send me away from Rosemoor.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, nodding.

“On the basis that I am unfit company for Arabella. That I might corrupt your children.”

“Which is a consideration, perhaps,” he said amiably. “Are you quite finished with your confession?”

She nodded.

“Stop looking so stricken, Miss Cameron. I have no intention of banishing you from Rosemoor. I’ve never heard such drivel in my life.”

She looked bemused.

“Did you learn anything today?”

“I learned a great deal today,” she said slowly.

“Then the adventure was a success,” he said. “Every day you should endeavor to learn something.”

She frowned at him.

“Would you like to know what I learned?” he asked.

She nodded cautiously.

“I learned that Dr. Fenton is a despot, and that you are living too much in the past.”

She didn’t respond. He might have told her more, had he been more honest or had the moment been suitable for it. He might have told her that he thought her lovely at that moment, with the morning sun filtering through the trees and falling on her hair. It wasn’t plain brown at all, but a curious shading of gold and red and brown, like the colors of a leaf. Or he might have told her that the sorrow in her eyes reminded him of his own. Even in the midst of life, he would remember his brothers, but perhaps the memories would become easier to bear with time. Or perhaps he’d even welcome them, knowing that as long as they lived in his mind and his heart, they would never truly die.

But because she was viewing him with caution, he only smiled and held out his arm.

“Would you like to view the second part of the experiment?”

“Where you create explosions?” she asked.

“I confess to liking explosions. But,” he hastened to say, “there will be no danger. I promise.”

That statement evidently decided her. She stretched out her hand and placed it on his arm, and he led her
down the path as if they were very proper companions and not two people with secrets.

For long moments they didn’t talk. He didn’t think he’d ever shared silence so companionably with anyone.

They topped the rise, and the palace was finally in view.

“Will you kiss me?” she finally said, studying the statues mounted near the roof.

“Not unless you wish it,” he said.

“Promise me that you’ll not.”

“Even if you wish it?” he asked, smiling.

“Even so.”

“Then I promise. Not even if you beg me.”

“I’m not a fallen woman,” she said a moment later.

“Did you think I would test your morals? I have my own sins, it’s true, but I have never taken advantage of the weak or the defenseless.”

“I am not weak. Nor defenseless.”