Highlander’s Mysterious Lady (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Page 11

  Erring on the side of caution, Brodie rung for the nursemaid to tend to his nephew’s needs while he retired to the library on the second floor.

  This room had always been his solace, his space for contemplation, and that was precisely what he needed right now.

  Brodie had woken up with the Sassenach on his mind. He’d been confused when he woke to find her place in the bed cold, her clothes gone. An embarrassing inquiry with the tavern’s ornery owner had informed him that the lass had left at first light with a carriage driver who apparently looked like he couldn’t maneuver himself, let alone a vehicle.

  That she was so eager to escape from him told Brodie that his night with the lass was not meant to be repeated. She had not found anything in him worth investigating further, and he had to accept that.

  But his mind wouldn’t let him. He had dreamed of her and woken feeling scorched all over like she had raked her nails across his body until he was begging for release. Bringing himself to the climax he so desired was not nearly as satisfying as when the lass had done so. He’d been riddled with thoughts of her all day as a result. He had walked into the nursery hoping to distract himself from the cerebral onslaught of sensual feelings, and instead, he’d met the very object of his desire. And she did not look remotely happy to see him.

  Brodie did not consider himself a proud man, but what pride he did have was severely bruised after the swift nature of Beatrice’s escape.

  He had just started to question his skills in the bedroom, which he had never before doubted when he remembered that the lass’s husband was dead. And, judging from her general air of propriety, he guessed that she had not taken many lovers thus far in her widowhood.

  I must be her first, he realized. Her first man after the death of her husband.

  That she had trusted him with so momentous an occasion was touching, and spoke to the strength of their connection. But it saddened Brodie as well. He put together the puzzle and realizing that Beatrice was Bea, Helena’s best friend. The best friend who two years ago had lost her husband due to a sudden and unexplained headache that had quickly put him into a sleep from which he had not awoken.

  Helena had talked of nothing but Bea’s visit for weeks. Brodie had been mentally absent for most of the dinner conversations, but even he had taken note of how important the visit seemed.

  “She needs a change of scenery, I think. It cannot be good for her to be always inside, surrounded by so many memories of James. She needs a break from that house and a bit of fresh air. I want this trip to do her some good, Marcus. It needs to. She cannot keep living like a recluse,” Brodie remembered Helena saying.

  A pang of sympathy sliced through Brodie’s chest now. The lass had already been through such tragedy, and for her to then be robbed of her possessions and forced to confront the dead bodies of two of her servants was positively beyond the pale.

  Brodie felt the strangest urge to march down the hall, find the lass and wrap her in his arms. She had fit there so perfectly the other night, but this time, he did not want it to be an embrace of passion. Instead, he simply wanted to comfort her. To make her feel safe and loved and cherished and all those perfect emotions, one lost with the death of a loved one. It was an urge he had felt more than once that night at the tavern, and he suspected that it would not go away, not so long as he was near her.

  For as long as they occupied the same house, Brodie knew he would stop at nothing to care for the lass, to reassure her, to comfort her in whatever way she let him.

  She deserves tha’, he thought as he looked down at the golden leaves on the tree across the yard. She deserves tha’, an’ so much more.

  And he wanted to give it to her, to give her everything he had.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’m afraid it’s time to pay up, sir,” the large man said in a thick Yorkshire accent.

  “But…but I do not understand,” Frances muttered to himself.

  It doesn’t make sense. He was supposed to win. He had to win! his gaze flicked from the imposing figure at his side and the track in front of them.

  “Nothin’ to understand, sir. You’re horse lost, and now you’ve got to pay up.” He nodded toward the small group nearby where cash was changing hands. Winners were taking their earners, and the losers, like Frances, were reluctantly handing over their notes.

  Frances ought to be one of them, but he couldn’t. It was not his pride at stake; that had taken a serious enough hit the day before that it was no longer a concern. No, what was at stake now was his very livelihood. If Frances gave up the emergency coins he had sewn into his waistcoat, he would be well and truly destitute, without a single penny left to his name.

  This had been his last chance at making back what little was left of his inherited fortune. While much of it had been spent at the gambling tables at the local gentleman’s club, some had also been squandered on clothes, on drink, and—one particularly hedonistic evening—on three different women for hire. Frances usually liked to avoid having to pay for pleasure, but after six months during which no women appeared to take an interest in him, he had grown desperate.

  Of course, that desperation was nothing to what he felt now, looking at the man in front of him and knowing he had not a penny with which to pay him.

  Which was why, fifteen minutes later, he walked out of the York Racecourse with his face bloodied and bruised; one rib if not broken, then at least very sore, and his pride left somewhere in the dust behind him. His waistcoat, however, had not a rip on it, allowing him some level of security. Not that he would need it. Surely Beatrice would see that he had a bed and meal for the night. It was the least she could do, after all.

  Frances hoped there was enough water left in the washbasin in his apartments to wash the blood off his face before he made his way to his cousin’s estate, or rather, his cousin’s widow’s estate, as it now stood. He wanted—needed—her help, and it would not do for her to see him in such a state. She was a delicate creature, Beatrice, and Frances knew the sight of so much blood would alarm her.

  His apartments were in the center of town in one of the less reputable townhouses, but as Frances approached, he saw his landlord leaning against the doorway. The old man was scanning his eyes down the street, his head swiveling back and forth.

  Dash it, Frances grumbled, quickly turning down a side street.

  Mr. Johnson had said he would be down south for the next three weeks, giving Frances just enough time to scrounge together enough money to pay his dues for this month and last before the man returned. But this alteration in his landlord’s schedule left Frances unable to go home, for fear of incurring Mr. Johnson’s wrath. As the landlord of one of York’s less reputable blocks of buildings, Johnson had no trouble hiring large, brutish men to enact his will when needed. And Frances was certain he could not survive another beating. His body might be able to wear it, but what little pride he had left could not.

  Up ahead was the turn toward his gentleman’s club, but of course, he could not go there for a wash before seeing Beatrice, not after what had happened the day before.

  Frances had been on the cusp of what he was sure was going to be a remarkable turn of fortune when his shoulder had been grabbed by one of the club’s guards. He was then dragged into the owner’s office, where he was informed that if he did not leave the club and return immediately the funds necessary to relieve his debt, he would no longer be welcome, not even just to beg the use of a cloth and water for his bloodied face.

  Reluctantly, Frances turned back down the lane and, ensuring that Mr. Johnson’s head was turned away from him, dashed across the street. Using a variety of shortcuts Frances had unfortunately become somewhat familiar with over the years, he made his way out of the city.

  To James’ estate.

  Beatrice’s estate now, he reminded himself. It had been two years, and still, Frances referred to Kingwood Estate as James’, even though it had now passed to his wife. James’ beautiful wife was now the inherit
or of his cousin’s dukedom and all that that entailed. A dukedom that ought to have been his, had the laws not changed. After centuries of properties being passed down according to the laws of primogeniture, it would be Frances’ luck that four years before he needed the protection those centuries of custom provided, the law changed—rendering him forever unable to protect one of England’s oldest dukedoms from falling into the hands of a woman.

  Indeed, the Married Women’s Property Act of 1882 had summarily ruined Frances’ life. Before his passing, James' death would have resulted in Frances inheriting his dear cousin’s title, property, and all his possessions. He would have been the steward of the family legacy, a position man had held since time immemorial. It was his birthright as the third in line for the title, after the late duke’s two sons.

  Frances would admit to some amount of jealousy when his family was told that rather than allowing the title to pass to Frances, the duke was going to recognize his bastard son. Frances’ father, a man seemingly entirely without emotions, had turned the color of ripe tomato when he heard the news. Frances himself had punched a hole through the wall in his chambers, and hurt his hand so severely that one of his knuckles still hurt when it rained.

  But then he met James, and his anger evaporated, for here was a kind man, a man who listened when he spoke and believed in his potential to make something of himself beyond just “Earl of Laton’s son.”

  He had been happy to let the title pass to James, especially when he saw how well he handled what Frances had rapidly realized were the vast responsibilities that accompanied the dukedom.

  But while Frances was happy with James installed as duke, he was not nearly so pleased with Beatrice as the duchess. Of course, at first, she seemed perfectly pleasant—a beautiful woman, to be sure, and intelligent, affable. She was a marvelous partner for James.

  There was, however, a rather vast difference between enjoying the company of someone when she was your cousin’s wife and enjoying her company when she was the sole inheritor of property and fortune that had been controlled only by a male of the Smythe family for hundreds of years.

  Beatrice was never openly malicious toward him; indeed, she remained perfectly affable to him, though she sent few letters to him after James’ death. Frances was always the one having to invite himself to dinner, ever the one contacting her. He was quite sure that if he did not come to call, Beatrice would be totally alone in that house—just her and those insolent servants of hers.

  Her lack of affection bothered Frances. He was so used to being doted on by James that being ignored by his widow totally befuddled him.

  For at each of the dinner they shared, she barely said three words to him. Stories had no reaction; jokes and jests received no response. It was infuriating!

  She ought to be happy she has anyone to eat with at all, he often thought at these meals. She was so dull now that James was gone. Her beauty, her wit, her intelligence all seemed to have faded since James’ death. She was so tedious to be around, and Frances thought himself a very fine gentleman indeed for inviting himself to dinner now and again. He must be the only entertaining, vibrant thing in her life now. It was an act of charity to visit her, really.

  Of course, he was the only charitable one in their pair. Though he made sure always to mention his debts, his financial woes when they met—in hopes of finally seeing what he thought to be his share of the family fortune—Beatrice ignored these complaints. He made plain the dire nature of his situation, but what did Beatrice do? Nothing. The most sympathy he ever received was a sad little smile from the chit as she sat prim and proper on top of a chair that ought to be his, in a room and a home that should have stayed in his family, rather than passing to the scandalous, downtrodden daughter of a lowly earl.

  James would have helped him, Frances knew. He always had. Every time he got himself into a bit of debt, he was sure to find more money than he needed in his account when he next visited the bank. James treated him with the respect he deserved. He listened to him, valued him.

  Frances felt a pang of sadness hit just below his ribs as he continued along the country lane towards the Kingwood Estate. Sometimes he missed James more than he could bear. James was the only person who had ever actually shown any interest in Frances. Frances’ father ignored him, and his mother, who he liked to think would have loved him, died in childbirth. His friends from Eton abandoned him the moment they left the college. The only acquaintances he saw with any regularity now were the men at the club’s gambling tables, and Frances knew they only wanted him for his money.

  Without James, he was completely alone now. There was no one to listen to him, to care for him, to love him. Frances had assumed that James would ask Beatrice to look after him, to take over in James’ role as Frances’ friend and confidante, but if his cousin had asked it of his wife, she had very obviously flouted her husband’s wishes.

  Maybe it will be different now that I am so desperate and wounded, he thought as he continued on, staring down at his scuffed boots, the sole of which slowly detaching itself from the toe.

  It took nearly an hour and a half to reach the Kingwood estate, by which point the sky was beginning to darken, and the air had taken a sharp, cold turn. Frances’ coat was ill-equipped to deal with the change in temperature. He shivered where he stood as he knocked on the large oak door at the front of the house.

  “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” the tall butler asked the air above Frances’ head. He had a placid smile on his face, but when his gaze fell onto Frances’ face, it dropped, replaced with a mixture of derision and shock.

  So the bruising truly is as bad as it feels, Frances thought.

  “Er, Mr. Smythe, good evening,” the butler had a clear note of distaste in his voice.

  Frances did his best to ignore this. “Good evening. Is Lady Smythe at home? I have an urgent matter to discuss with her.”

  “I’m afraid she is away in Scotland visiting a friend, and will not return until November. Is there a message you would like to leave for her?”

  “In Scotland? She didn’t tell me she was going anywhere!” Frances suddenly abandoned his composure.

  The butler raised an eyebrow, a look that clearly meant, “and why should she?”

  Frances thought quickly. There was a decent chance that he could get himself admitted to the house if he exaggerated his injuries. Fainting would work nicely—it was not the most masculine of illnesses, but it would allow him admittance into the house, and most probably a bed for the night and a meal besides. Once he was alone in his room for the night, he could steal back to the library and find some little expensive trinket languishing in disuse on the mantel. James was always buying Beatrice useless objet d’art, and it would be the work of a moment to slip one into his pocket for sale later.

  If he acted weak enough in the morning, he might even be able to get a carriage, allowing him to race back to town and sell the trinket off, take the money and pay back his debts in time to attend the club in the evening.

  It was the perfect plan, and Frances had just started to sway on his feet when he heard a voice that sent chills down his spine.

  “Is that ‘im?”

  God no, not now.

  But despite his prayers, Beatrice’s maid Sally appeared in the doorway behind the butler a moment later, her eyes narrowed to slits of pure rage.

  “What are you doin’ here?” she spat at him.

  “I was l-looking for Beatrice,” he stuttered, hating that he had to make a fool of himself in front of this woman. It was bad enough to do so in front of a judgmental butler, but this was almost too humiliating. Almost.

  “Well, as I’m sure Smith here has told you, she’s not here and won’t be for a few weeks yet.”

  “Y-yes…” Frances shook his head and exaggerating the motion, letting his chin flop toward his chest and linger just a moment too long. “I’m s-so sorry,” he stuttered now, letting his eyelids flop closed, “I-I’m just f-feeling…”
>
  Now. Do it now, he told himself.

  Frances had expected the butler to catch his fall as he let his body slump forward, but it was not Smith who caught him. No, it was the door, slammed in his face by Sally, who punctuated the motion with a “Now get goin’ and don’t come back!” through the thick wood.

  Since his face was pressed against the door, Frances heard her words perfectly, his nose breaking his fall. And in the process, it had then broken itself.

  Naturally.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “This is terrible!” Beatrice could barely restrain herself from yelling. She continued to pace back and forth on the grass, as she had been doing since the beginning of this infernal conversation minutes ago.

  “Why? You said you enjoyed yourself with him, and if I know you, and I do, I think you wanted to see him again. You smiled when you talked about him, Bea, and you smile so rarely these days, and that must mean something,” Helena said from her seat on the rug.