[MacKenzie Sally] The Naked Laird(book4me.org) (8 page)

“Oh?” She felt as mindless as Miss Smyth’s parrot. More mindless. At least Theo was always definite in his pronouncements.

“Yes.” Lady Oxbury rested her hands on Nell’s. “Please understand, Lady Kilgorn, I am not normally so bold, but this time I feel I must speak plainly. I cannot let you make the same mistake I did.”

“Mistake? I don’t—”

“Of course you don’t know what I am talking about. You are too young, and the…situation never rose to the level of a scandal.” She frowned. “If I had been braver—if I’d had the courage to follow my heart…”

Did Lady Oxbury actually regret not causing a scandal? That was hard to fathom. “I really don’t—”

The older woman tightened her grip. “Twenty-three years ago I met and fell in love with Mr. Wilton.”

“Mr. Wilton? But you married…”

“Exactly. I married Lord Oxbury. The whys and wherefores aren’t important. What
is
important is that I loved Alex and I didn’t fight for that love. I let circumstances sweep me along, and I have regretted that—I’ve regretted my cowardice—every moment of every year we’ve been apart.” She sighed and looked down at her hands where they still rested on Nell’s. “Not that I wasn’t…fond of my husband, but…” She met Nell’s eyes. “I will just say regret colored every happiness.”

“I see.” Regret. Yes, that was all too familiar an emotion.

Lady Oxbury smiled. “Fortunately, I am getting a second chance. We are finally marrying as soon as may be.”

“Ah. My sincere felicitations.” Nell tried to repress a pang of jealousy.

Lady Oxbury waved aside her good wishes. “Thank you, but the important issue here is you. Do not make the same mistake I did. Be brave. Be resolute. If you love Lord Kilgorn, fight for him. You may not be as lucky as I—this may be your last chance. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.”

Lady Oxbury was very impassioned, but she didn’t know the details of their separation. “I do appreciate your concern, Lady Oxbury, but I really believe you are laboring under a misapprehension. Ian doesn’t love me.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Of course not!” Lady Oxbury wasn’t impassioned; she was mad—utterly and completely mad.

“And more to the point—and the question you
can
answer—do you love him?”

“I-I…there is no possible way I could—”

“Be brave, Lady Kilgorn. What have you got to lose? And isn’t it better to know for certain how Lord Kilgorn feels than spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if you’d had more courage?”

Lady Oxbury glanced away—and suddenly smiled so broadly her face almost glowed. Nell was not surprised to see Mr. Wilton had stepped onto the terrace.

“If you’ll excuse me?” Lady Oxbury was two steps down the path to the house before she paused and turned back for a moment. “Do think about what I’ve said, Lady Kilgorn. Believe me, regret is not a pleasant companion.”

Nell nodded politely and watched the woman hurry to reach Mr. Wilton.

“She’s completely correct, you know.”

“Ack!” Nell whirled around. Miss Smyth was standing in the shade just a few feet away. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long. I came up as Lady Oxbury was exhorting you to find some backbone—and I do hope you find it soon. Lord Kilgorn will be moving to his own bedchamber this afternoon. I couldn’t stall him any longer.”

“Oh.” So Lord Motton’s aunt
had
had ulterior motives in arranging the sleeping accommodations. She should be incensed.

She was just more depressed.

“Oh, indeed.” Miss Smyth snorted. “Here I thought you had some bottom. I gave you the perfect opportunity to smooth things over with your husband and, as far as I can tell, you’ve totally bungled it. Don’t you know how to seduce a man, Lady Kilgorn?”

“Uh…”

Miss Smyth rolled her eyes. “Well, I hope you figure it out quickly, because you’ve run out of time. It’s now or never. As Lady Oxbury said, regret is not a pleasant companion—and it’s a damn disagreeable bedmate.”

What should she do?

Nell sat alone on the garden bench. Miss Smyth had gone inside, clearly washing her hands of such a cork-brained pudding-heart.

She sighed. She had come into the garden for peace. She’d spent many an afternoon in the calm of Pentforth’s gardens, enjoying the quiet, the solitude, the…loneliness.

Was that Lady Oxbury’s laughter she heard through the trees? And then the lower murmur of a male voice and sudden silence—

Damn it. She could imagine in painful detail exactly what Mr. Wilton and Lady Oxbury were doing in Viscount Motton’s bushes. She should be horrified. She was not. She was jealous, agonizingly jealous.

She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her forehead. She wanted—she
craved
—the sound of Ian’s voice, the touch of his hands, the taste of his—

Damn, damn,
damn.

If she pushed any harder on her forehead, her skull would collapse. She was giving herself a blinding headache.

She clasped her hands together instead.

It was all Miss Smyth’s fault. Her life had been going along just fine until that woman had invited her to this dreadful gathering. Why did Lord Motton’s aunt feel the need to meddle in strangers’ lives? One would think she’d have the sense—the decorum—to limit her officiousness to her own relatives. The viscount was past his majority and unmarried. Shouldn’t Miss Smyth be busy selecting an appropriate wife for him?

Well, she couldn’t linger in the garden any longer. There was no peace to be had here now, not with Lady Oxbury and Mr. Wilton lurking in the shrubbery. Hearing them was bad enough—actually encountering them would be beyond embarrassing. She would just have to go inside.

And do what? Read a book? She did not feel like reading. Do some needlework? No. She was far too agitated. She’d impale herself with the needle. If only she were back at Pentforth Hall…but then she’d be dodging the annoying attentions of persistent, pestilent Mr. Pennington.

Oh, who was she trying to fool? Her life most certainly had
not
been going along just fine before she’d got Miss Smyth’s missive. It had not been going along at all. She’d been as frozen as the loch in winter.

For the last ten years her days had been a monotonous procession of mindless duty. Not even duty. No one depended on her. No one would miss any of the small tasks she did to fill her time.

She had been given this last chance to choose a new path. She could continue to be fearful and live—exist—as she had. Or she could be brave and risk finding the happiness she’d once known.

Lady Oxbury and Miss Smyth were right. She had nothing to lose.

Ian looked around the small room. How the hell had he survived the last two days? More to the point, how the bloody hell had he survived the last two
nights
? He eyed the narrow bed. It was a miracle he hadn’t gone mad. Every time Nell had stirred, he’d felt it; every time she’d made the slightest noise, he’d heard it. He’d wanted her so badly he’d ached.

He shifted position, adjusting his fall. He still ached, but it was time to get over it. Past time. He’d spent a decade in longing and regret, and those useless emotions had not brought him one iota closer to happiness. Or contentment. Or even resignation. He was done with wishing the past could be undone. It could not be. It was time to move on.

And damn to hell and back the sinking feeling that thought brought to the pit of his stomach.

At least he’d got Miss Smyth to admit the obvious. With Lady Grace’s departure only the world’s greatest dunderhead would believe there were no empty rooms, and he was not quite that yet. Oh, the woman had tried to fob him off with some Banbury tale about it taking several days to get a room ready, but he was having none of it. Then she’d tried to lecture him about Nell, but he was most certainly having none of
that.
He’d cut her off before she’d got three words out.

He picked up his valise. So he was finally moving. At last he would have some peace. At last—

He heard the rustle of fabric behind him, the scrape of a shoe on carpet. He turned.

Nell stood in the doorway.

God. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach…or lower.

He gritted his teeth. So he’d been lying to himself. He did still wish the past could be undone. No matter. Nell was done with him.

“Nell.” Surely his voice sounded properly remote? He’d had years of practice hiding his emotions.

She stepped—lurched, really—into the room and jerked the door shut. Did she square her shoulders? Surely her jaw looked very determined. He had a sudden memory of her as a girl, insisting she could climb the big tree by the loch, even though he knew she was deathly afraid of heights.

What was this about?

“Are you changing rooms, Ian?”

He shrugged. “Miss Smyth finally agreed to give me my own”—he cleared his throat—“bed.” Damn. Why hadn’t he said “room”? No, it had to be bed. He was as bad as a lust-crazed schoolboy. Had she noticed? She didn’t appear to have done so. “She couldn’t very well deny me, with Lady Grace leaving.”

Nell bit her lip. “No. No, I don’t suppose she could.” She glanced at the bed. “You’ll be more comfortable.” She blushed.

“The bed”—good God. Surely he wasn’t blushing as well? “I mean, this room is rather cramped.”

She nodded. She was chewing her lip now. Her hands twisted her skirt. He should go. They would both be more comfortable when this interview—this exceedingly awkward interview—was over.

Once he went out that door, he’d be leaving part of his past behind. His youth.

His heart.

Ridiculous. He sounded like an actor in a bad farce. If he did feel as if he were cutting off a part of himself, well, sometimes amputation was necessary to save the patient. He took a step toward the door.

Nell didn’t move. If anything, she looked more determined. Her hands stopped twisting and instead clutched her gown in two fists. Her dress was going to be sadly wrinkled.

She frowned at him, her jaw now like granite. Was he going to have to push her aside to get out of this room?

“Did you want the baby, Ian?”

His stomach lurched. “What?” The baby? Why was she talking about the baby now? They had never spoken about the topic before.

“Did you want the baby?” Her voice was thin, tense, teetering on the edge of tears.

He felt as if he were teetering, too. As if he were blindfolded, forced to cross over an abyss with only a thin rope as a bridge. One wrong step and he would plunge into a morass of emotion, of pain and regret.

“Of course. Of course I wanted the baby, Nell.”

She was still standing stiffly, blocking the door.

“You never said so.”

“I—”
Had
he never said so? Surely he’d told her. Well, perhaps not. That time was such a dark, confused memory. He’d been sad when it was clear Nell would lose their child. He’d been so proud he’d got her pregnant, cocky young cub that he’d been. But he’d thought they would just try again.

It was true, he’d not felt the loss as intensely as Nell. He’d been more upset by her pain. He’d hated seeing her so distraught. He’d wanted desperately to fix things, to make her whole and happy again.

Nell was crying finally, tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands still gripping her skirts, her body stiff.

“Of course I wanted the baby, Nell.” Perhaps this was as it should be. They should share this truth before they parted. “But I wanted you more. You shut me out.” He heard the pain in his own voice. He sniffed; his eyes were wet. Stupid. He was not some sensitive dandy to be crying over the past. “I didn’t understand—I still don’t understand—why I had to lose you, too.”

She shook her head, her hands now fluttering at her waist. “You didn’t lose me.”

“I did. You closed me out—out of your bed, out of your life, out of your heart.”

“No. I-I just hurt too much. And I was so afraid.” She was crying hard now, her words all broken. “It was all my fault. I’m so sorry, Ian.”

He dropped his valise and stepped closer. He still couldn’t bear to see her hurting. “Nell, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was. I lost our baby, Ian.”

“No.”

“Yes. I failed you, your clan—everyone.”

“No.” He wanted to comfort her, but he would wait for her to close the distance between them. It was her choice. “You didn’t fail. It was just bad luck or fate or…” Or what? How could he explain the tragedies of life? God’s will? God’s curse? No, he’d never thought God so cruel. “Things happen, Nell. Sometimes things just happen.”

“But I lost our baby.”

Their child, born of their love—their young, blissfully hopeful, wildly romantic love. Had they had only enough love for one child? He’d not thought so.

“Our baby died, Nell. You didn’t lose him. Something went wrong. It was not your fault.” He paused, swallowed. “What I never understood was why we couldn’t have tried again?”

She shook her head as if she could shake the memories away. “I wasn’t ready.”

“And I pushed you?” Would things have been different if he’d waited longer to come to her bed? But he had waited for what had seemed like forever…at least to a twenty-year-old boy.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I—I was just so afraid.” She shook her head. “I was wrong.”

“You were young. We were both young. You should—we should—forgive ourselves.”

They had probably wed too young. Many of his friends had told him he was making a mistake, that he should sow some wild oats first. But he had been so certain.

He ran his hand through his hair. “I came after you, Nell, but you wouldn’t see me. That hurt. I wrote you, but you wouldn’t answer, and that hurt, too. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Nell wiped her cheeks with her fingers. “I was so miserable, so wrapped up in my pain. I couldn’t think of anything—anyone—but me.” She sniffed, straightened. The odd, determined look was back in her eyes. “But if you are willing—if you can forgive me—I would like to try again.”

Was he understanding her? “You’d like to try what again?”

“Making a baby.”

“Ah.” His knees were going to give out. He was going to collapse in a heap at her feet. She’d like to try making a baby again. All right. He was certainly eager to do that. More than eager. If only she would come closer. He’d vowed to let her be the one to close the gap between them, but if she didn’t do so very soon, he might break that vow.

A very insistent part of him was trying to leap the gap on its own.

She did move, then—to place one hand flat against his chest, holding him away.

“But you must understand a few things, Ian.”

“Yes.” He kept his hands at his sides through an extreme exercise of will. “What things?”

“I never had anything—
anything
—to do with Mr. Pennington or anyone else. You are the only man ever to have come to my bed.”

“All right.” This was important. He could tell it was important. He told his impatient organ to be patient. He was delighted he’d been Nell’s only lover, but he really, really wanted to stop talking and start doing the lover part. “I believe you.”

“And from this day on I must be the only woman in your bed. There can be no more mistresses.”

“Ah.”

“Do you promise?” She was frowning at him, but she looked uncertain, too. “Do you swear it?”

Perhaps he had a demand as well. Much as he’d like to fall into that bed with Nell, maybe something else was more important.

“Do you mean to be a wife to me, then? This is not only about having a child, is it? It’s about having a life together as well? Because I will tell you, losing you once was enough. I cannot go through that again. I would not survive it.”

Her other hand joined the first, and she took the last step to bring her body against his. “Yes. I want to be your wife, Ian—and the mother of your children, God willing.”

“And if God doesn’t will, Nell? If we aren’t blessed with bairns, will ye still be my wife?”

“Yes. Yes, Ian, I will.”

“Then I can swear there will be no other women. It is an easy oath, Nell. I never wanted anyone but you. When I did go to other women’s beds—and I did, but only after you left me—I always wanted them to be you. I never stopped loving you. Never.”

She closed her eyes briefly. She believed him. She truly did believe him. “And I never stopped loving you, Ian.” She moved a hand from his chest to his cheek. “I’ve missed you so much. For the longest time, I couldn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. I was as frozen as Kilgorn Loch in winter. But now…seeing you again has melted the ice around my heart.”

He smiled slightly, but his eyes were intent, almost strained. “I would like to try to melt more, Nell. I would really like…I am really very anxious…do you think we might go to bed now?”

“Now?” She flushed. “It’s barely past noon.”

His hand covered hers. “That never stopped us before.”

“No.” She felt her flush deepen. The low throbbing had started again. “But we are older now.”

“Older, but not old. Not decrepit.”

She laughed. “No, not decrepit.”

“And it has been so long since I’ve really touched you. These last two nights have driven me to the edge of madness. And now you are here. You say you wish to”—his voice dropped, grew huskier, deeper—“try to make a child.”

Heat and dampness pooled low in her belly and between her legs. She was suddenly very hot. Her clothes were too tight, too confining.

Why
should
they wait?

“Please, Nell? Please let me make love to you now.”

She smiled then. She had vowed to be brave; now she would be daring. He was her husband and he was right. It had been far too long since he’d been a true husband to her. She dropped her hands and started working open his waistcoat buttons.

“Very well, if you insist.” Her fingers paused. They’d been young and inexperienced when last they’d done this; she was still inexperienced, but he…“It has been ten years. You will be disappointed.”

“How can I be disappointed, Nell? I am finally with my wife whom I love.”

“But I know nothing; I’ve learned nothing—”