Highlander’s Mysterious Lady (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Read online

  But while initially, she thought the idea of speaking of the man tedious, looking across the small rug at her two friends, she realized that now was the perfect time to air her grievances about the man. She did her best to refrain from doing so at the estate in Yorkshire since Sally was usually with her, and she did not like to distress her friend if she did not absolutely have to.

  “Oh, as horrid as ever,” she said, sitting up and rolling her eyes. From the port, she took a sip that was a mite more substantial than intended. Trying not to let her face show her distaste for the beverage, she swallowed a grimace and continued, “Your invitation came at the most auspicious of times, for he had asked himself to dinner, and I was struggling for an excuse. I had already denied him twice, and you know that a third time would be indecorous.”

  “Oh, hang the rules! That man does not deserve a second of your time. He is so awful. I never liked him any of the times we met at functions and such, but then the way he acted at James’ funeral!” Helena tutted.

  “I will never forget it. I know he was upset, but that is no excuse for how he behaved that day. Honestly, what gentleman of any standing gets so deep into his cups so as to belch as he leaves the funeral? And him, a graduate of Eton!”

  “Yes, well, education can only do so much, and from what James told me, Frances was nearly booted from Eton more than once for his inappropriate behavior. He scared two different house dames out of their position, and I have no doubt he would have scared off a third were he not moved to one of the houses on the grounds, thanks to his father greasing the headmaster’s palms,” Beatrice added.

  “Ye’d nae hear o’ a Scottish lad acting like tha,” Marcus said. “He’d be whipped afore he could so much as think about acting in such a way.”

  Bending his head back down to take a sip of port allowed Helena to level a raised eyebrow at Beatrice, a look that she knew meant, “ah, the humility of the Scots.”

  Beatrice had to hold back a snort of laughter, resulting in a rather unladylike cough to spring up from her throat.

  As Helena spoke, her mouth curled into a grin as she folded her hands atop her softly rounded belly.

  “Does he still come to call often, then? Frances, I mean. The last time you wrote, I thought you mentioned he was off on a trip to Spain. Or was it Italy? Somewhere on the continent?”

  “Italy, and it seems the funds for such a trip were nowhere to be found when the time came. I’m sure you can guess where the money might have disappeared off to.”

  “The gambling tables,” Marcus and Helena replied in tandem.

  “Precisely! Poor Frances. He would be horrified at being known as such a predictable fellow,” Beatrice shook her head as she pretended to sip at the port. She hadn’t the heart to refuse a glass of the expensive libation that Marcus had had specially imported, but as soon as he left the room, she was making a dash for the claret.

  “Does he nae realize that James might nae want his widow sae inconvenienced with th’ care an’ confidence o’ his cousin? Surely the lad must realize what a burden he is tae you?”

  “No, I don’t think he does. In fact, he often talks of how I need “protection” now that James is gone, and how it is good that I have such a man as him to look after me.”

  “As though that fop could do anything to defend you! Why, Sally is a far better guard than he,” Helena tutted. “She’s twice as strong and has three times the sense. She’d run straight at a burglar, whereas I have a sneaking suspicion that Frances would be more inclined to move in the opposite direction.”

  “Yes, well, let us leave off with Frances. The poor man does not deserve so many words wasted on his behalf—however enjoyable it might be to waste them. Tell me instead of Padraig and the new little Paterson on the way,” she said brightly. Ironically, Padraig had been fast asleep when they had gone to check on him after dinner. A beautiful red-haired boy, he was curled in his crib, his thumb stuck in his mouth, and his blanket bunched down toward his bottom.

  His arms were pleasingly chubby, with rolls of fat Beatrice longed to squeeze. Even in the dark, she could see that the boy had plump, rosy cheeks and an omnipresent smile. He was beautiful, and Beatrice could not wait to hold him in her arms. There had been gifts for him in her trunk—a beautiful silver rattle, a few new dresses, and a book of stories for Helena to read to him—but she did not mourn the loss of these gifts. She did not know much about children, but what she did know was that they rated kisses and hugs just as high as new toys.

  She couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow, awake and wide-eyed as he surveyed the world around him, including his new godmother.

  “Padraig is perfect, lass,” Marcus said, a faraway look suddenly taking over his eyes as he spoke. “The most perfect bairn in the world.” He looked besotted, and it melted Beatrice’s heart to see her friend’s husband so enamored with their child that even his name made the Scot melt.

  “He is not,” Helena replied, and her husband jerked his head toward her with a look of shock on his face.

  “How dare ye say such a thing, Lena!” Marcus used the nickname that only those closest to Helena ever uttered.

  “Well, he isn’t!” she cried with a laugh. “No baby is, and especially not that one.” She pointed her finger up toward the ceiling, where three floors up Padraig was, presumably, fast asleep in his crib.

  Turning to Beatrice, she explained, “He wouldn’t sleep for months, and he still refuses to go to bed on a proper schedule. He’s up at all hours, babbling away about Lord only knows what, making me wander around like a ghost in the night while I try and sing him to sleep.”

  “Babbling! He might be telling the best stories yer ears hae ever heard, fer all ye ken!” Marcus added indignantly.

  “He is eighteen months only, Marcus. The most he has ever said to either of us is ‘Pad want cake.”

  “Well, that’s just...” Marcus trailed off, grumbling good-naturedly.

  Helena looked over at Beatrice and rolled her eyes before continuing. “He is far too bonny for his own good. All the maidservants adore him, and his nursemaid is the envy of the household, for she is the one who gets to play with him most. The Cook sneaks him so many sweets, I fear his teeth will fall out just after they’ve grown in! He is a charmer, just like his father.”

  Helena turned to Marcus and winked at him. Marcus’ face, which a moment later had been frowning at his wife good-naturedly, now dissolved into a look of pure love and affection.

  “Ay, an’ his bonny face comes from his ma,” he whispered. His eyes were liquid blue pools of emotion, deep as the loch bordering the castle. Beatrice recognized that look; it was the same look James used to give her in those special moments when the world seemed perfect, and their infatuation could have filled up a room. Those moments had thankfully been ample during their relationship, and oh, how Beatrice missed them, missed feeling so wholly appreciated and loved by her mate.

  But while she had loved being both sender and recipient of those looks back then, observing the same exchange between her best friend and her husband made her feel like an intruder. And, if she was honest with herself, it also made her feel rather alone.

  Will anyone ever look at me like that again? And will I ever return that look?

  You would look at Brodie like that, her traitorous mind told her in response to her quandaries.

  She had managed to avoid thoughts of the Scot for the last few hours, but the memory of his touch, of the way he had made her feel, had been just below the surface, and now they came bursting forth out of the sea, throwing water over all her other thoughts and drowning them until it was just her and Brodie again, their two bodies pressing against each other, making each other sing.

  She remembered the heat of his skin, the delicious burr whispering in her ear as she did delightful things to her body. She remembered the heady look he had given her right before he came, like he was seeing right to the very depths of her, to that dark and secret place inside where all her worst fears an
d darkest desires were based.

  Beatrice could feel her nipples starting to tighten with awareness, a heated flush spreading across her chest and belly, as though his hands were on her still, caressing every sensitive inch of her.

  Beatrice was so lost in thought and pleasure that she completely forgot where she was; the drawing-room faded away, transforming into that small, warm room in the King’s Arms. She could feel the cold slipping through the window next to her, contrasting beautifully with the warmth of Brodie’s arms as they wrapped around her and pulled her body tighter against his.

  It was bliss, pure and simple, but it was ruined a moment later when Helena made a stamping noise with her foot, breaking Beatrice out of her reverie.

  Her cheeks immediately flushed as she looked over at her friend and found Helena staring at her curiously. Marcus, whose eyes were now heavy-lidded with sleep, was looking around in confusion.

  “Lena? What was that noise? Was that ye, lass?”

  “Yes! I’m so sorry, my love, but I believe we both fell asleep for a moment! My foot slipped and must have stomped on the ground, waking us both up,” Helena said. To anyone else, she sounded believable, but Beatrice knew her friend well enough now to spot a falsehood, and this was most certainly one. Marcus might have been asleep, but Helena was most certainly awake. Which meant only one thing.

  She saw me caught up in rapturous thoughts, Beatrice realized, and her cheeks blushed a deeper shade of puce.

  Helena might be her best friend, but that did not mean that Beatrice wanted her to see her lovelorn face as her eyes glazed over with thoughts of Brodie. It was so embarrassing!

  Thankfully, Helena must have realized this, for she stood up and walked toward Marcus, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “My love, I think it’s off to bed with you. You look so exhausted. Why don’t you walk up to our chambers? I need another port before I retire.”

  Marcus nodded sleepily as he stood up and planted a soft kiss on Helena’s eyelid. Beatrice guessed he meant to aim for her friend’s forehead, but as only one of his eyes was open, he missed.

  Helena stayed standing as she watched her husband retreat from the room, and only when the door had closed with a click did she whirl around.

  “Tell me everything.”

  “What do you mean?” Beatrice asked, feigning innocence as she stood up and handed her glass to Helena before making her way to the cabinet where drinks that did not taste like moldy wine were held.

  “I mean that I just caught you lost in what I can only assume were deliciously naughty thoughts, if the color of your cheeks and that look on your face was anything to go by, and now I insist you tell me the object of your imaginings. Though I do believe I have a guess as to his identity.”

  “How do you know his identity? All I’ve spoken about since I got here was James, Frances, and my two recently deceased servants,” Beatrice added with confusion as she took her own seat.

  “Oh, do be sensible, Bea. You mentioned a helpful Scot at that tavern down South earlier, and you had that look on your face.”

  “What look? Wasn’t I crying? Presumably, I had a look of sheer exhaustion and sadness on my face. I imagine my upper lip was doing that awful splotchy thing it does whenever I cry.”

  “Well, mostly yes, but when you mentioned him, you brightened for a moment. And if my memory serves me, which as you know, it always does, you described this Scot as ‘handsome’ and ‘a true gentleman,’ and you never describe men as such. The last time I heard the words ‘handsome’ and ‘man’ come out of your mouth was—”

  “James,” Beatrice answered. His name sounded so strange on her lips. It was not often that she spoke of him aloud. Mostly, James existed only in her memories. It was too painful to talk of him most of the time, and so Beatrice generally avoided it.

  “Er, yes.” Helena looked awkward. “So tell me about this Scot. Was it only in acquiring a room that he helped you, or were there other…needs,” she winked, “that he attended to?”

  Beatrice rolled her eyes, but she was grateful for the sharp turn towards a more entertaining topic of conversation. She didn’t want to think about James right now. If she thought about James, she would feel the guilt of betraying his memory and their union all over again, of comparing their intimate moments with those she shared with Brodie’s and finding them wanting. And right now, all she wanted to do was rejoice with her friend in the scandalous night she had spent with a Scot.

  So, pushing her late husband out of her mind, Beatrice leaned in and began to regal her friend with the story of her night with the mysterious, beautiful Brodie. She shared all the salacious details of their time together. She told Helena about masquerading as “Maggie” for the evening, and the name had made her feel so free of the trappings of her name and legacy. She told Helena about the noble Scot Brodie as well, about his hard and warm body, his fierce and intoxicating kisses, making her friend gasp and giggle as she went through their night minute by minute, delighting as Helena stared her in wonder and awe.

  Beatrice was perhaps the last lady on earth to ever consider an assignation with a stranger in a Scottish inn on the side of the road. She knew her friend was viewing her through new eyes now, seeing her not as the sad, forlorn widow she was now, but perhaps as the intriguing, excitable, talkative girl she had once been.

  “Well, this Brodie sounds positively magnificent,” Helena breathed when the tale was over, and their drinks were drunk.

  “He was. I think it was exactly what I needed, Lena. Spending the night with him released something inside me. I feel guilty, but I also feel…”

  “Like yourself again?” Helena filled in.

  “Exactly. Talking to someone who didn’t know me as poor Lady Smythe, Duchess of Kingwood, with the dead husband, was wonderful. I could finally be all those things I always wanted to be, before James. I could be saucy and sensual and…free. Is that horrible?”

  “Why on earth would it be horrible?” Helena asked as she poked at the fire, causing a few sparks to release from the coals.

  “Because I wanted to be something other than James’ wife. Because I just admitted that I was not always happy being a duchess. Because before last night, I hadn’t even looked at a man since his death. And I didn’t plan to. I thought I would be alone for the rest of my days,” she said in a whisper, somehow not wanting to raise her voice to full volume, lest it makes the words come true.

  “It is not wrong to smart at the societal ties that bind us, my dear,” Helena said gently. “And it is not wrong to desire something else for yourself, now that James is gone. Above all else, he would have wanted you to be happy, in whatever form happiness took. He would want to see you venturing out into the world, not sequestered in that great big house all by yourself, surrounded by fading memories.” Helena's eyes were wide with sympathy as she reached across the space between them to take Beatrice’s hand in hers.

  Helena was a tactile person; she comforted by touch, and after months and months of hugs only from Sally, Beatrice was feeling almost spoiled in sensation, having been held by Brodie all night and had her hand squeezed by her friend multiple times that day. It was a good feeling, this contact with others outside the ghosts in her head. She hadn’t realized just how much she missed feeling the skin of another’s on her own.

  “I suppose,” she said now with a shrug as she stood.

  She could see Helena wanted to continue the conversation, but she was suddenly feeling exhausted. The elation of giggling with Helena over a man had stripped her of the last of her physical and emotional resources. All she wanted now was a pillow to rest her head on and a blanket to curl beneath.

  However, once Beatrice was tucked into bed, the curtains closed, and the candles out, she found that she could not sleep. Guilt plagued her, but so did those thoughts about Brodie. Eventually, they grew too powerful to ignore, and as the rest of the castle slept, Beatrice’s hand slipped beneath her covers and brought her the release her body needed. She hoped it
would banish Brodie from her mind, but it only further cemented him there, and for the first time in two years, it was his face she fell asleep to—rather than James’.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Marcus? Did you hear me?” Helena bounced up and down on the mattress in excitement.

  “Hm-mm,” Marcus muffled into his pillow.

  “Marcus! Wake up, please! I cannot talk only to myself! I need your comments and suggestions! You are as much invested in this as I!” She gave her husband’s bare shoulder a good shove.

  Helena was a small woman who, to the uninitiated, would most likely be described as “fragile.” Her slight figure and translucent skin gave one the illusion of some sort of ethereal being too sensitive for this word. However, this illusion was a fallacy. Helena was stronger than many of the men who worked around the castle. Despite Marcus’ misgivings, she rode every day, walked about the grounds every afternoon, and could frequently be seen carting Padraig about in her arms. All this meant that the shove she gave Marcus had him nearly tumbling out of bed, only just catching himself on a sheet before he toppled onto the carpeted floor below.