Pleasured (16 page)

“Do all of these come from the woods?”

“Some of them grow wild, and I gather them. Boneset, eyebright, bryony, hawthorn berries, and such. But other things I have to purchase. The ginger, for instance, comes from far away. I raise many of the herbs and flowers—marigolds, roses, onions, rosemary, lavender, and so on. The honey and wax come from a hive nearby.”

“You use the wax, too?”

“Aye, for my salves and balms and candles.”

“Could I go with you sometime? Or watch you make something?”

Meg glanced at her, surprised. Something in Damon’s daughter, not shyness exactly, for the girl talked to her too easily for that, but a hesitancy, an uncertainty, touched Meg. The child was lonely. Meg started to agree, then hesitated. “I would be happy for you to return. But I am not sure your father would like it.”

“Papa? But why?”

Meg could scarcely tell her that she doubted the earl would approve of his daughter associating with a woman with whom he had dallied.

Fortunately Lynette did not wait for an answer but went
on earnestly, “Papa is rather imposing, but he really is not a stuffy man. I was a little unsure, at first, what to say to him after . . . after I went to live with him. I was afraid he might say I was a chatterbox, for you can see, I do talk a good bit. It was wont to give Mama a headache. But he does not mind, and he listens, you know, and even asks me things. I am sure he would not mind. He thinks it is good that I am curious about things.”

“Then I would be happy to show you some of the woods and the plants.” Meg smiled at the girl. “But only after you have asked your father. If he does not know where you are, he will worry.”

“I will.” Lynette nodded.

“And speaking of worry, I think it is time I took you back up to Duncally, before they start hunting for you.”

Lynette agreed and they set out, Lynette peppering Meg with questions all the way up the path. When they paused for a moment at the clearing overlooking the loch, Lynette gazed across the serene water at Baillannan on the other side. “Where do you think the treasure is?”

“You know about the treasure?” Meg asked, surprised.

“Oh, yes, Cook told me. She’s told me lots and lots of stories.”

Meg chuckled. “Well, Sally McEwan would be the one to know all of them.”

“She didn’t say much about the treasure, though, only that it was at Baillannan, and it was after Culloden.” Lynette turned to Meg. “Do you know more about it?”

“I don’t know that there was ever any treasure. It’s been said for years and years that Malcolm Rose, the Laird of Baillannan, returned from France with a chest of gold from
the French king, to help Prince Charlie in the Uprising.” Meg paused and glanced at Lynette. “You know about the Uprising?”

“Oh, yes; I’ve read about Culloden. I read a great many books on Scotland when Papa said we were coming here. I think Cook was hesitant to say much about it because we’re English, you see. But we’re Scots as well.”

“Aye, I suppose you are. Well, the story was that Malcolm Rose returned too late, after Culloden was over, but he had the treasure, and when he saw the state of things, he hid the gold nearby and went off to find his prince. But no one ever saw him or the treasure. I always thought it was only a legend.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“I don’t know about the gold. But Malcolm returned. They know that now, for only a few months ago they found Malcolm’s body in a secret room beneath the old castle.”

“Ohhh.” Lynette sucked in a breath. “Truly? A secret room? Had he been murdered?”

Meg hesitated, saying doubtfully, “Perhaps this is not a tale I should be telling a young girl.”

“No, you must,” Lynette cried. “You cannot stop now! I won’t be scared, I promise, even at night. Papa’s just down the hall, you see, so I know nothing bad will happen, really.”

Meg smiled, feeling a wistful pang at the girl’s trusting surety in her father. “You are right. You’ll be safe as can be in Duncally. And yes, Malcolm Rose had been stabbed to death. But they did not find the gold with his body.”

“So he had hidden it?”

Meg shrugged. “No one knows. Perhaps he had. Or perhaps it was stolen. Or perhaps it never existed at all.”

The rest of the way to the castle, Lynette continued to ply Meg with questions about the treasure, the murder, and the discovery of the body. As they neared the gardens, Lynette ended her queries abruptly, exclaiming, “Oh, look! There’s Papa.” A smile burst across the girl’s face as she pointed up.

Meg’s head snapped up. There, above them at the long, imposing stone balustrade that edged the gardens, stood the Earl of Mardoun.

16

T
he late-afternoon sun behind Damon
glinted on his raven hair and cast his face into shadow. But Meg did not need to see his face; she knew that long, lithe body, the straight, imperial stance.

“I shall take my leave, then,” Meg said hurriedly. “Good-bye, Lyn—”

“Oh, no, stay.” Lynette laid a hand on her arm. “My father will want to greet you. See, he is coming down now.”

Meg glanced at the stairs. Damon was indeed walking down the steps toward them. He looked, she thought, every inch the aristocrat, from his starched and intricately wrapped neckcloth pierced with a stickpin of the deepest red ruby down to his gleaming Hessian boots. Meg braced herself, her stomach churning. She dreaded the anger she knew would be in his eyes, the biting words that would dismiss her from his daughter’s presence.

But only coldness was there, she saw as he drew closer,
the remote, impersonal gaze of a stranger. Somehow that was even worse.

“I see the prodigal daughter has returned,” Damon said to Lynette, warmth and humor touching his eyes as he smiled at her. “You had Miss Pettigrew worried; you will have to apologize.”

“I will, Papa, I am sorry. I went for a walk, and I got terribly lost. But fortunately I ran into Miss Munro. See?” She gestured toward Meg as if presenting a prize. “She showed me the way back, and she took me to her house to rest and have tea.”

“Did she?” Damon turned to Meg. “Then I must offer you my gratitude, Miss Munro.” He gave her a stiff nod.

“It is unnecessary, I assure you.” Meg was pleased to find that she was able to match his polite detachment despite the cold clenching of her stomach.

“Papa, Meg said that I could visit her. She said she would show me where she finds the plants she uses and how to make things.”

“Did she now?” His eyes studied Meg assessingly. “That is very . . . kind of her, no doubt, but we must not put Miss Munro to any trouble.”

Damon’s dismissive tone raised Meg’s hackles. She lifted her chin. “I assure you, Lord Mardoun, it is no trouble. I would be quite happy for Lynette to visit me.”

Now something moved in those dark eyes, and Meg felt a flicker of satisfaction, though she was not sure what emotion had sparked there.

“There, Papa, you see?” Lynette told him happily.

“Miss Munro, I am aware that you are a most
kind
and
tactful
woman.” His tone put an ironic emphasis on the words. “But I could not impose on you so. Thank you again.” He gave her a brief bow and turned away, taking his daughter’s elbow. “Come, Lynette.”

“But, Papa . . .” Lynette began as they walked toward the stairs. She looked over her shoulder at Meg. “Good-bye! Thank you.”

“Good-bye.” Meg smiled at her, but as the girl turned away, Meg’s eyes went past her to her father’s straight, unyielding back as he walked away without a backward glance. She had known he would not want his daughter visiting her, but still it stung. Meg realized belatedly that if he did glance back, he would discover her staring after him. She whirled and walked away, careful to keep her pace unhurried and casual, as if she were not twisted and burning inside.

A jolt had run through Damon when he saw Meg walking up the path with Lynette. The immediate leap of excitement he felt each time he saw Meg was mingled with a subtler warmth at seeing her with Lynette, Meg’s bright head bent toward his daughter’s dark one, a bittersweet pang of recognition of something he had not realized he wanted and now knew he would never have.

On the heels of that immediate response came another, more worrisome one: What the devil was Meg doing with his daughter? He had not been worried by Miss Pettigrew’s hysterics concerning Lynette’s absence. He did not think Lynette had been spirited off or fallen into the loch or any of the hundred other dire things her governess described. But
this—seeing Lynette smile so trustingly up at a woman who clearly despised him—was troubling.

Why had Meg taken up with Lynette? What did she want? Could she hope to use Lynette to draw him back into her web? No. He sharply suppressed the little rise of eagerness in him at that thought. The last two days had been torment enough—remembering everything about the night they had spent together, aching to hold her again, fighting the urge to go to her and somehow win her back. It would be the height of folly to throw himself back into that fire.

Or did she hope to hurt him through his daughter? Remembering the fury in her eyes, Damon could well believe Meg wished him harm. He was reluctant to think she would stoop to use a child to do so—but then, he clearly understood Meg Munro not at all.

Fortunately, by the time Lynette and Meg looked up and saw him, he had had time to recover his wits and put a firm damper on his emotions. He managed to carry on a cool, polite conversation without revealing that inside him a battle raged between the hunger to pull Meg into his arms and the urge to rail at her for rejecting him.

Meg, of course, did not even look uncomfortable. She was the picture of calm, rosy cheeked and bright eyed—clearly
she
had not spent the last two nights tossing and turning, sleepless, in her bed. No doubt he looked pallid and hollow eyed since he had spent the previous two nights doing precisely that.

Damon ended the conversation as quickly as he could, finding it increasingly difficult not to blurt out something he shouldn’t. He steered Lynette toward the steps, refusing to give in to the impulse to turn for another look at Meg. He
would not give the woman the satisfaction of knowing how much seeing her had shaken him.

By the time they reached the top of the stone stairs, Damon could restrain himself no longer, and he turned to look back. Meg was still in sight as she walked down the path. He wondered how a woman could possibly look so alluring at such a distance. He wished he knew what was in her head. He wished . . . oh, the devil with it.

“Do you not like Miss Munro?” Lynette asked, startling Damon from his reverie.

He glanced over to see her following his gaze. “No, I do not dislike Miss Munro.”

“She was very kind to me. She gave me tea and very tasty biscuits. And she told me all kinds of things. Her house is marvelous.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Have you been there? Have you seen it? All the jars and bottles and bowls . . .”

“Yes. I have, um, seen it.” Damon turned toward the gardens.

“It smells wonderful.”

“Lynette . . . I do not think it is a good idea for you to go there again.”

“But why? I wasn’t a bother, I promise. Meg said it was fine if I came. She wasn’t upset by my questions. She told me all sorts of things, and she talked to me as if—as if I were a regular person.”

“A regular person?” Damon lifted his eyebrows.

“Yes, I mean—she didn’t talk to me as if I was ‘my lady’ or ‘Miss Lynette’ but just like, you know, the way people talk to each other.”

“Ah . . . I see.” A faint smile curved his lips. “Yes, you’re right. That is pleasant.”

“I enjoyed talking to her. And she knows so much—she told me all about the treasure.”

“Treasure?”

“Yes, you remember, I told you Cook had said there was treasure hidden here.”

“Ah, yes, the fellow at Baillannan. During the rebellion.”

“Yes, it was French gold, and no one knows what happened to it.
I
believe it’s still around somewhere.” Lynette took her father’s arm, saying earnestly, “Meg wouldn’t have told me all that, would she, if I was being a bother? It was fun. I
liked
her.”

“I am sure you were no bother. But . . .” Damon raked a hand back through his hair. “Sometimes even though you may like someone, it is better not to spend time with them.”

“But why? What is wrong with Meg?”

“People may be exciting and . . . fun, but . . . they are not people you should be with.” He sighed. “It ends badly. And you know it will end badly, so it is better not to continue.”

“I don’t understand.” Lynette stopped walking, and Damon turned to see that she was staring at him, frowning. “What would end badly?”

“I’m sorry.” Damon gazed at her in frustration. Surely Meg would not intentionally harm Lynette; he could not believe he was that wrong about the woman. But there were other ways of being wounded. Meg was volatile, as he knew full well, and if Meg should turn against the girl, Lynette would be crushed. But he could hardly tell his daughter about the situation between Meg and him or his fears of what could happen. He could not explain that to see Meg
with Lynette twisted a knife in his gut—indeed, he could not explain that even to himself.

“Please, Lynette, just accept this,” he said finally. “Stay away from Meg Munro. It is better this way.”

Saturday evening Meg walked into the ballroom at Baillannan on her brother’s arm. She had barely stepped inside when Isobel called out her name and hurried toward her. “Meg!”

“Isobel!” Emotion welled up in Meg at the sight of her friend, and unexpectedly, she had to swallow against the tears in her throat. They hugged for a long moment, then stepped back, grinning at each other. Meg gave a watery, little laugh. “Look at me; I’m about to cry.”

“Och, now don’t turn into a watering pot on me,” her brother protested.

Isobel turned to hug Coll as well. “Hush, you!”

“You look lovely, Isobel,” Meg said, no less than the truth.

Isobel’s dark blond hair was done up in an intricate array of curls, a midnight-blue ribbon to match her dress woven through the arrangement. Her tall, sylphlike figure was set off perfectly by her London-made gown. High-waisted in the latest style, with the slightest of trains in the back, the dress was simple, elegant, and expensive, and its color deepened the gray of her eyes. A strand of pearls that Meg recognized as Jack Kensington’s wedding gift to his wife graced Isobel’s throat, matching the pearls at her ears. Even if Isobel had acquired other necklaces on the trip—and Meg, know
ing Jack, suspected that he had indeed lavished more elegant jewels on her—this set would remain her favorite.

“She is always lovely.” Jack Kensington came up beside his wife, sliding his hand around her waist. His hair was dark and thick, and his soaring cheekbones and unusually dark blue eyes lent his face a faintly exotic look. “Isobel outshone all the ladies of London. I am sure they were shouting hallelujahs because she left the city.”

Isobel rolled her eyes. “If they were, it was only because you were buying up every gown in London for me.”

“That is hardly my fault. You looked far too beautiful in every one of them.” He bent closer and whispered something in her ear, and Isobel’s cheeks turned pink.

She gave him a playful tap on the arm with her fan, saying with mock sternness, “Stop that. Go off and talk with Coll. I intend to have a nice coze with Meg.” She linked her arm through Meg’s and drew her away. “It has been ages since I saw you last. I enjoyed your letters, but it isn’t the same, is it? You must tell me everything that has been going on.”

“You want news of Kinclannoch?” Meg laughed. “You are the one who has been to London; you should be telling me of your travels.”

“I am sure I will, and at boring length. But right now I want to hear only of home. I understand things have been exciting.”

“Mm. No doubt you have heard about the arrival of the earl.”

“Aunt Elizabeth and Millicent have been full of nothing else but the Earl of Mardoun—though as best I can tell, neither of them has ever met him. They are atwitter with
excitement, hoping that he will come tonight. Do you think he will?”

“I have no idea.” Nerves danced in Meg’s stomach. She fervently hoped he would not, yet her eyes kept straying to the door, and she knew that part of the jangle inside her was anticipation.

“I remember years ago when he was here, they did not deign to mingle with any of us.”

“He is proud, but he was at the celebration when the Griegs’ daughter married.”

“That is what Millicent said, but I could scarce believe it. Did you see him? Is he all they say he is?”

“I doubt it.” Meg had been aching for days to spill out her heart to her friend, but the middle of their welcome party scarcely seemed the time and place to do it. She went on lightly, “It would be hard to measure up to the gossip that has flown around about him. He is handsome, certainly, though he has an arrogant tilt to his head. I am sure women swoon over him regularly.” Meg heard the faint touch of bitterness in her voice despite her best efforts to sound dispassionate. She saw Isobel look at her more closely and hurried on before Isobel could ask any probing questions. “And, of course, he still continues the clearances. But enough about Mardoun. I don’t want to waste breath talking about that man. Tell me about London.”