[MacKenzie Sally] The Naked Laird(book4me.org) (4 page)

Nell watched Lady Oxbury pour her tea and then wander over in Mr. Wilton’s direction. Why had she reacted so oddly? They’d been talking about the Addisons and daughters…

“Do you suppose Lady Oxbury lost a baby?” Nell didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Lady Wordham answered.

“You mean miscarried? Perhaps. It is a common occurrence, though I can’t imagine her loss could be recent. Oxbury’s been dead a while, sick longer than that.”

“Miscarriage is common?”

Lady Wordham nodded. “Very common. I lost my first child—hardly knew I was pregnant. Went on to have a strapping son and three daughters.”

“But Lady Oxbury doesn’t have any children.”

“True, but Lord Oxbury was thirty years her senior. I suspect that was the problem. Old man, old seed, you know.”

“Oh.”

“But a young man, like Lord Kilgorn…” Lady Wordham paused, turning a very penetrating gaze on Nell. She felt herself blushing and looked away.

“You and Lord Kilgorn are estranged, aren’t you, Lady Kilgorn?”

“Yes, but I really do not wish to talk about it.”

“And I will not pry. Believe me, I understand estrangement too well. I’ve not had the pleasure of knowing my grandson because of a falling-out with my youngest daughter.” Lady Wordham leaned forward and grasped Nell’s hand. “Believe me, Lady Kilgorn, when I tell you, most sincerely, only the most heinous transgressions are worth the pain of cutting yourself off from a loved one. Consider well Lord Kilgorn’s sins. Are they really so evil you must suffer a solitary life? Or is forgiveness the better course?”

Nell was certain she would die of embarrassment. “Lady Wordham, I appreciate your—”

Thankfully she was interrupted by a commotion at the drawing room door. It was Miss Smyth with…

“Oh, my.”

“What is it?” Lady Wordham twisted around and laughed. “Oh my, indeed.”

Lord Motton’s aunt had returned with a large gray parrot on one shoulder and a small brown monkey, dressed in black and silver livery just like Motton’s servants, on the other.

Lord Motton did not look pleased. He left his conversation with Mr. Wilton and strode purposefully toward his aunt.

“Avast! Trouble on the portside!” The parrot flapped its wings, the monkey screeched, and the silly Addison twins screamed.

Nell slapped her hand over her mouth to muffle her laugh. “I’ve never heard a bird talk.”

“You haven’t?” Ian strolled over, teacup in hand. He nodded at Lady Wordham. “One of my schoolmates had a bird like that. They are very clever creatures.”

“Really, Lord Kilgorn?” Lady Wordham smiled. “Please, sit with us.”

Ian took the chair Lady Oxbury had vacated. Nell tried not to stare at him. She’d forgotten how his eyes sparkled when he thought of some wee bit o’ mischief, how deeply his cheeks creased when he smiled. His hair glowed warm chestnut in the candlelight and, if she looked closely—which she must stop doing immediately before he noticed her interest—she could see the red-gold shadow of his beard tracing the strong line of his jaw.

“The fellow taught the bird to recite his Latin declensions,” he was saying, “so the master would think he was studying, when he was actually out wh—” He flushed and cleared his throat. “Having some fun.”

“I see. How…clever of him,” Lady Wordham said dryly.

Nell studied her hands. What was the matter with men? They seemed to give no thought to climbing into any woman’s bed. One woman would do as well as another. Love was irrelevant. Mr. Pennington certainly didn’t love her, but he would have been happy to do…that with her. And Ian—

She glanced at him. Now he was frowning at the monkey, which had climbed onto the decorative lintel and was screeching down at the viscount.

“That silly leash is going to come loose,” he said. “It’s clearly not tied securely.”

She looked at the red leather strap. “Don’t you think Miss Smyth knows how to handle her pet?”

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised, his eyes incredulous. “Do you think the woman knows how to handle anything?”

“Well—”

Just then Miss Smyth pulled on her end of the leash. As Ian had predicted, the red leather fell off the monkey’s leg. Freed, the creature screeched again and leaped for the curtains, scrambling up the twenty or more feet of gold fabric. Lord Motton glared at his aunt and then glared at the monkey.

Miss Smyth smiled brightly at the gathering. “Who would like to take a brisk turn about the terrace?”

Ian snorted. “I’ll wager Motton would like to send his aunt for a brisk gallop back to London.” He shook his head. “I’ll see if I can help him capture the wee beastie. Perhaps in gratitude he’ll find me an empty bedroom.”

“Do ye suppose he’ll be here soon?” Annie glanced at the door as she helped Nell out of her dress.

“Do I suppose who will be here?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Nell knew they sounded unbelievably stupid. There was only one gentleman expected in this bedchamber.

Annie rolled her eyes. “His lordship, of course.” She grinned. “I caught a glimpse of him tonight. He’s a wee bit old—”

“Old?” Was Annie blind? “He’s just thirty.”

“Aye, but ye’d hardly know it.”

Nell pressed her lips together. Perhaps thirty did seem old to eighteen…. Of course it did. Eighteen certainly seemed young to her now.

She’d been only seventeen when she’d married Ian. So full of love. So certain life held only happiness for her. She glared at herself in the mirror.

So foolish. Well, she was indeed older now—and wiser.

“I passed him in the hall.” Annie giggled. “And I’ll grant ye, I waited for him to come by.” She picked up Nell’s discarded clothes. “He was quite an eyeful. Ye can bet I’d not let him out o’ my bed if he were my husband.”

“Annie!” She didn’t care to have her maid lusting after her husband, estranged or not.

“Och, I shouldn’t be saying such things, I know. Looks can be deceiving. Did he beat ye, then?”

“No! Of course he didn’t beat me.”

Annie sent her a sidelong glance. “I know it’s nae my place to ask, but we—the servants—always wondered why ye were at Pentforth. Even my ma dinna seem to ken the reason.”

“It’s…” She didn’t owe Annie an explanation, but she had to say something. Ian was the laird, after all, and the problem rested as much with her as with him. But what could she say? “Things just didn’t work out, Annie. Sometimes that’s the way life is.”

Annie snorted. “‘Things’ don’t do anything, milady. Ye need to make things work. Ma always said it was a shame ye lived alone. And his lordship needs an heir. This may be yer golden opportunity.” She grinned. “I know I’d see it that way if I had a husband as braw as yers.”

Nell could not get any redder, she was quite certain of that. “Yes, well, um.” She looked around. Where was Annie going to sleep? “I don’t see a cot made up for you.”

“Weel, ye couldna make much use of yer opportunity with me in the way, could ye?” The cheeky girl winked at her! “Dinna worry. Mrs. Gilbert has given me a snug wee room with Lady Oxbury’s maid.”

“But—”

Annie had already shut the door firmly behind her.

Nell sighed and glanced at the bed—the very narrow-looking bed. She’d certainly not get a wink of sleep tonight.

The memory of Ian, the very detailed memory of him standing naked by the bath, sprang into her mind.

Heat flooded her. She hadn’t meant
that
would keep her awake. She’d only meant she’d be too nervous, too aware of him, to sleep.

She wrapped her arms around her waist and bit her lip. She hadn’t thought about
that
in years. It was too tied up in the pain of her miscarriage, the shock and dread she’d felt when she’d first seen the blood trickling down her leg, the anguish and despair that had filled her when she’d finally admitted the baby was gone. She’d cried then until she’d had no more tears to shed, until her heart was exhausted and she couldn’t feel anything at all.

That was how she’d decided—how she
wanted
—to go on—peaceful, even-tempered. No passion, no love, no pain. Tranquil.

Pentforth Hall had been her refuge. The neighbors had learned long ago to leave her alone. The servants were polite, but they kept the proper distance. All was calm.

Until now. Now Pennington had forced her out of Pentforth. Annie had started giving her advice. And Ian—

Dear God, what was she going to do about Ian?

He’d never cried, never shed one tear over their baby. No, he’d wanted to go back to bed as soon as they could and try again. He’d said something stupid about getting back on the horse right after you’d fallen off.

Mrs. MacNeill had told her he’d come after her, but she hadn’t wanted to see him. She’d torn up all his letters until he’d stopped sending them. She’d counted all his mistresses over the years, each one evidence that he had no heart, had never loved her or the baby.

But now that she’d seen him…

She sat in the chair by the fire and tucked her feet up under her. The flames flickered and leaped. A log snapped; she breathed in the scent of wood and ashes.

Seeing him was making her feel things again. She did not want to feel again…did she?

Her life was calm—and empty.

She glanced at the bed. Ian was here—would be very much here shortly. And Lady Remington was not.

What was she thinking? Was she completely daft? Of course she wouldn’t…would she?

She lusted after him. There, she’d admitted it. Was that so evil? Men lusted for women—couldn’t women return the favor?

Lust wasn’t feeling, really. It was a response to an animal instinct—and apparently Ian could definitely stir animal instincts in her. And if Lady Wordham was correct…well, perhaps she could solve one of his pressing problems. Perhaps she could give him an heir.

They wouldn’t have to go back to what they’d had. That was impossible. And they wouldn’t even have to go back to living in the same house. Many married members of the ton didn’t. But they could share this bed and see if anything came of it.

And if something did? If Ian gave her a child and she lost it again—No, she would not think about that. Just for tonight, she would try facing this as Ian must face all his bed play. As all men must.

And Ian was apparently very willing. Very apparently willing. She bit her lip, remembering exactly how willing he had looked. Very long and thick and eager.

She pressed her legs tightly together and shivered. She was damp and achy—and that was a minor miracle. Nell rested her cheek on her hand. Her skin was so hot—it must be because of the fire.

Ian had looked so funny chasing that wee monkey around Lord Motton’s drawing room. He was so large, and the silly monkey was so small and noisy and, well, cocky. It had shrieked and swung on the curtain rod while Ian and Lord Motton had shed their coats and discussed a plan of capture. She smiled. She hadn’t laughed like that in years.

He’d looked very nice in his shirtsleeves. He looked even better with no shirt at all. Or breeches. Naked as he’d been…

She fanned her hand in front of her face. The fire was extremely hot this evening.

She should go to bed. It was late. She was tired.

Tired—but nervous. She looked at the bed. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. It was far too small, too narrow, too…too bedlike.

Where was Ian? Had Lord Motton found him another room?

Her stomach sank.

And that just proved she was daft. She should not be disappointed, she should be relieved. She
was
relieved. She’d just been saved immeasurable embarrassment. Ian would surely have laughed had she mentioned babies to him.

She jerked back the covers and climbed into bed. She shivered. The sheets were cold. Ian had always warmed the bed….

Idiot! Ian had not been in her bed for years. She was used to sleeping alone. She was being—

What was that? It sounded like…Oh, God, no, it couldn’t be.

It was. She stared in horror as the hallway door began to open.

“Brandy?” Viscount Motton paused with the crystal decanter in his hand.

“You don’t happen to have any whisky in that cabinet, do you?” Ian sat back in the large leather chair and stretched his feet toward the study’s fire. Everyone else had gone off to bed, including Nell. Damn and blast. He’d best get good and drunk if he hoped to survive the night.

“You’re in luck.” Motton grinned and moved a few other bottles, bringing out a flask labeled
DR
.
MACLEAN’S SPECIAL TONIC
. “I’ve a wee bit.”

“I don’t think a wee bit will be enough unless you can find me another bedchamber tonight.” Thank God Motton poured with a heavy hand. Ian took the proffered glass.

“I am sorry about the confusion. Here.” Motton put the flask on the table by Ian’s elbow. “It’s yours. I’ve got another one or two where that came from—and I might have a cask stored away in the cellar.” He pulled out another bottle as he spoke and poured himself a hearty dose of tonic.

Ian swirled his glass and watched the golden whisky glow in the firelight. It smelled of the sea, of peat, of Scotland, of home. The first sip slid smooth and fiery over his tongue, down his throat to bloom into warmth throughout his chest. “Och, man, ye have some bonnie whisky here. Where did ye get it?”

Motton shrugged and sprawled in the chair across from him. “I have a few friends in Scotland.”

Ian took another swallow and closed his eyes. Heaven. “Good friends. And have you friends among the gaugers as well?” He opened his eyes to regard the viscount. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’m sure you shouldn’t. You must know I support the efforts of our excise men wholeheartedly.” Motton grinned. “Except when I don’t.”

“Hmm. I’m no lover of the gaugers, that’s a fact. Just tell your Scots friends the Earl of Kilgorn sends his regards and thinks he might have a definite need for their tonic in future.”

Motton nodded. “I believe they’d be happy to hear that. I’m sure they wish you to remain healthy and vigorous.”

“Aye.” Vigorous. Damn, why did that make him think of Nell and the blasted bed upstairs? He took another swallow. “Seems odd an English viscount would know any Scottish distillers. Not that I’m complaining, you understand.” He rolled a mouthful of whisky on his tongue. Mmm. “In fact, forget I even mentioned it.”

Motton smiled slightly. “Let’s just say I spent some time in Scotland when I wished to blend into the surroundings.”

Ian sat up straight. “Spying for the crown?” He lived among the Sassenach—even counted many as friends—but he was a Scottish laird first and foremost. If Motton had betrayed—

“No, no. Nothing so organized, I assure you. And my interest was with Englishmen, not Scotsmen.”

Ian grunted and studied Motton, then nodded. His gut told him the man wasn’t lying, and he believed his gut. It had never before led him astray…except with Nell. God, Nell! What was he going to do about Nell?

He refilled his glass.

“Careful,” Motton said. “The whisky’s strong.”

“Aye, and I need strong whisky to get me through this night.”

Motton half smiled. “I’ve left all the arrangements to Aunt Winifred. Perhaps she’ll find something in the morning.”

“Perhaps she’ll find some new way to torture me. I mean no disrespect, Motton, but your aunt is short a sheet, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not at all. I think you’ll find she’s amazingly knowing.”

“Knowing? How can you say that? Everyone kens Nell and I have lived apart these last ten years. I canna fathom how your aunt dinna know that, too.”

Motton shrugged, his damn eyes gleaming, his lips curved into a smirk. “Maybe you should take advantage of the situation Aunt Winifred has placed you in. I didn’t get the impression you hated Lady Kilgorn.”

“Hate Nell? No, of course I don’t hate Nell.” Ian gulped the whisky left in his glass and picked up the flask to pour a drop or two more. Nothing came out. He turned the flask upside down. Still nothing.

“Here.” Motton pushed his bottle toward him.

“I don’t want to take your whisky, man.”

“Please. I have plenty.” He held up his glass as evidence. It was still half full. “And as I said, I have more if thirst overtakes me.”

“Oh, well, then, thank you.” Ian didn’t need to be urged again. “This really is verra good whisky.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Motton smiled, then looked down as he swirled the golden liquid around his glass. “So you don’t hate Nell?”

“Och, no. I love her. Have loved her forever. Never stopped loving her.” Ian sniffed and swallowed his whisky. Spirits didn’t usually make him maudlin. Maybe it was his age. Now that he was thirty, he had to face the fact that he wouldn’t live forever.

“And I got the distinct impression that she cared for you.”

“Nay, you’re wrong there. She hates me. Walked out on me exactly ten years ago.” Ian closed his eyes. God, he never wanted to relive that day. He’d come downstairs in the morning to see her standing in the front hall, a few portmanteaus and bandboxes on the floor around her, waiting for the carriage to take her out of his life.

They had argued the night before. He’d said so many things he hadn’t meant. He’d been so frustrated—sexually, yes, but more than that. He’d had no idea how to bridge the chasm that yawned between them. He couldn’t bring the baby back—and it had not been a baby, really. Her belly hadn’t even begun to swell.

These things happened. She wasn’t the only woman to lose a child early on. The only thing to do was to try again—but she wouldn’t let him touch her.

He’d ended the argument by telling her if she wouldn’t be a wife to him, she should leave. He’d regretted the words the moment they’d left his mouth, but he couldn’t call them back. He’d seen how her eyes had hardened, how she’d drawn further into herself.

He’d thought she’d be better in the morning. Not over it—he was beginning to think she would never be over anything—but better. He’d never thought she’d actually leave.

She’d had no destination. His heart still clenched at what would have happened had he not come downstairs. Surely his coachman would never have dropped her at an inn—not and keep his employment. He’d tried to persuade her to stay, but when that failed, he’d told Seamus to take her to Pentforth.

He’d thought she’d be back in a few days, a week at the most.

“I don’t think she hates you,” Motton said.

“Och, man, she does. If ye’d seen the look in her eyes the day she left…” It had been as cold as the loch in the dead of winter. She’d looked straight through him, as though he weren’t there—or as though he were the lowest sort of vermin.

“I saw the look in her eyes at dinner tonight. I wouldn’t say it was hate; I’d say it was longing.”

“Nay. Nay, ye’re wrong.” Ian studied his whisky.
Could
Motton be right? Was it possible Nell had softened toward him? Forgiven him?