Pleasured (23 page)

When Meg opened her eyes some hours later, she stared about her blankly for a moment, groggy and disoriented.

“Oh, Meg! I’m sorry. I dinna mean to wake you up.” A girl stood at the dresser, a bag in her hand.

Meg sat up, remembering where she was and why. “That’s all right, Annie. What time is it?”

“Almost teatime. I went to your cottage and picked up some of your things. I hope you do not mind; Cook told me to.”

“No, indeed, I am grateful. Thank you.” Meg shoved back her hair, still trying to clear the fog of sleep from her brain. “How is Lynette?”

“Sleeping, last I heard. Cook says you saved her—she’s
ever so fond of Miss Lynette. We all are. She’s a sweet wee thing.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Would you like me to, um, put away your things or . . .” Annie looked uncertain.

Meg realized that she must be something of a conundrum to the staff—one of them, they would have said, a woman they knew by name and had spoken to for years, and yet now she was sleeping in a guest room.

“No. Dinna bother. I’ll put them up myself.” The truth was, Meg herself was not quite sure how to act, either.

“You’ll be wanting warm water for your washstand?” Annie’s voice rose slightly in a question.

“Aye, that would be grand.”

As the girl left, carrying the pitcher, Meg stood up and took stock of her situation. The bedchamber was large, the furniture dark and ornately carved. A wooden tester hung above her bed, which required a small set of two wooden steps to climb up into it. Dark green brocade curtains hung on either side of the bed, matching the heavy bedcover as well as the drapes on the windows opposite. The room was perhaps not quite as large as her entire cottage, but close enough.

She pulled her hairbrush from the bag Annie had brought and used it as she strolled over to the windows. She opened the drapes to let in the afternoon sun and found to her surprise that one of the drapes covered not a window, but a door. Beyond the door was a walkway, guarded by a stone balustrade.

Meg stepped outside, drawn by the magnificent view. Below her were the gardens, and in the distance lay Loch
Baille, glimmering in the afternoon sun. She could even see the bottom of the path leading down to her cottage. She trailed along the balcony, passing another door and a set of windows. As she approached the third and last door, she heard the murmur of male voices inside, and she came to a sudden halt.

Inside the room one of the voices suddenly sounded nearer and clearer: “. . . the drapes, my lord?”

It was Damon’s bedroom. Meg whipped around and hurried back to her room. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart pounding at an absurd rate. It would be so easy, so quiet, so secret, to slip along the private walkway from one room to the other. No one would ever know. She felt a surge of guilt that she could even think of such a thing at a time like this.

But she could not keep from wondering if Damon had instructed his servant to put her there—and feeling a deplorable frisson of excitement at the thought. But, no, she had seen Damon’s face when Blandings showed her to this room; that, she thought, had been the reason for the odd expression on his face. He had been surprised; he had not known what his butler had done. She was glad; she would not like to think that during his daughter’s illness he had been coldly calculating how to get Meg into his bed.

But another, less pleasant, thought struck her. Something other than surprise had been in his expression, something perilously close to dismay. Perhaps he had been appalled that the butler had put her here in the wing normally reserved for family and guests. The idea pierced her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Annie’s coming into her room with a pitcher of warm water. Grateful to get out
of the clothes she had been wearing so long, Meg could hardly wait for the girl to leave so she could strip off her old sacque dress and the night rail under it. She washed and dressed quickly, twisting her hair up into a serviceable bun, then hurried across the hall to Lynette’s room.

“Meg!” Lynette said hoarsely, a smile blossoming on her pale features.

Damon stood and turned toward Meg. He was once again clean shaven and elegantly dressed, even though tiredness and anxiety still limned his features. The look of him, tired or not, was enough to set Meg’s heart skittering, and that, she thought, was another entirely inappropriate thought. Sleep seemed to have made her foolish as well as refreshed.

“Miss Munro.” Damon inclined his head in greeting.

“Lord Mardoun.” Meg wished her voice did not sound a trifle breathless. She turned toward Lynette. “How are you, love? Sounds as if you have a bit of a frog in your throat.”

“Yes.” Lynette nodded and began to cough. When she stopped, she smiled weakly. “But I am feeling better, truly. I have been awake for half an hour now.” She dissolved into coughing again.

“That is wonderful news. I can see that Mr. Blandings has taken excellent care of you. But perhaps you should not try to talk much just yet.” Meg went over to lay a hand on the girl’s forehead, then listened to her chest. “Your lungs sound better, and your fever is down.”

“I hate this cough,” Lynette whispered, and was shaken by another spasm.

“I know, dear, but it will help you in the long run. Here, let us shift you in the bed a little.”

Meg put her hand on Lynette’s arm and back. Damon reached out at the same time to help, and his fingers brushed over Meg’s. He slid them quickly away. Meg rearranged the pillows behind Lynette, carefully not looking at Damon, supremely aware of the tingling of her skin where he had touched it. Flustered, she turned away and busied herself with Meg’s medicines.

Damon cleared his throat. “Hudgins tells me he has set up tea for us in the sitting room down the hall. I fear he will take it badly if we do not partake. And Blandings is eager to resume his duties as nurse.”

“Oh. Well, yes, of course.” Meg’s nerves danced a little at the thought of being alone with Damon. It was absurd to feel this constraint; she had just spent almost two days in close quarters with the man, working and worrying together. “Let me just go over Meg’s remedies with Mr. Blandings.”

She talked to Damon’s valet—she was beginning to feel almost friendly toward the man, she thought wryly, and wondered if the change had been in him or in herself. Damon waited for her in the hallway and extended his arm to her formally. Feeling a trifle foolish, she took it and walked with him down the corridor.

He led her to a large and pleasant room with a view of the distant hills. It could not be termed anything but grand in scope and furnishings, but compared to some of the formal rooms downstairs, Meg knew, it was almost cozy. A small table by the windows had been set for them, and serving dishes sat on a low cabinet nearby. The butler stood at the ready to serve them, but Meg was relieved when Damon dismissed him, saying they would serve themselves.

“I fear Hudgins’s idea of a ‘tea’ is somewhat, um, bountiful,” Damon said with a wry smile as he seated her. He sat down across the small table from her, his voice was low and earnest. “Lynette
is
better, isn’t she? I am not fooling myself?”

“Yes, I think so, though it will take her some time to recover; coughs can linger terribly.”

“Will you stay?” Damon’s gaze was intense. “I know it is asking a great deal, but I want you here.” He hesitated. “That is, I would feel more comfortable, more certain, if you were close by. If you would continue to look after her.”

“Yes,” Meg said quietly. “Of course, I will stay and care for her.”

“Thank you.” He sat back, clearly relieved. “Shall we see what Hudgins has in store for us?”

They went to the nearby cabinet and filled their plates. Meg was, she realized at the sight of food, starving. Even Damon tucked into his food with a will. But after they had taken the edge off their hunger, he began to fidget, pushing his plate aside and shifting in his seat. Meg glanced at him, thinking that he was eager to return to Lynette’s bedside. But when her eyes met his, he glanced away and began to toy with his spoon. He was, Meg realized, uncomfortable.

Damon cleared his throat and took a sip of tea. Finally he said, “How did you learn all that—the remedies, the herbs . . .”

“My mother taught me, just as her grandmother taught her. I followed her all about when Coll and I were children, learning the plants and the trees. Even when we were at Baillannan, she took us exploring, Isobel and her brother, Andrew, and their cousin Gregory, as well as Coll and me. Though I was the only one who learned the remedies.”

“You lived at Baillannan?”

“Aye. My mother was Andrew’s nurse when he was little. Isobel and Andrew’s mother died, you see, when he was born. So we moved into Baillannan and grew up there until Andrew was old enough to be sent off to school. Coll and I were tutored with Isobel and Andrew.” Meg flashed Damon a teasing grin. “That is why, you see, I do not know my place.”

“I am certain I never said
that
to you,” he protested.

“No. You did not. But it is the generally held view around the glen.”

“I am equally certain,” he went on drily, “that wherever you were raised, you would not have ‘known your place.’ ”

Meg laughed. “You are probably right about that.”

“Meg . . .” He straightened and leaned forward a little, then rose to his feet. “I must tell you something.” Yet he did not speak, but turned and went to the window.

“All right.” Meg watched him. His expression, his manner, were more nervous than she would ever have imagined Damon could appear. Her stomach clenched—had he decided that he must make it clear to her what her place here was? That she was employee, not friend?

“I’m sorry,” he said uncomfortably. “I have little facility with this, and I do not want to make a mull of it, as I seem to do at every turn these days.”

“For pity’s sake, Damon, just say it and be done with it.”

He braced his shoulders. “You are right. I know it does not change what was done, or my culpability, but I want you to know . . . you must believe that I did not know what had happened to those people.”

His words were so far from anything Meg had been thinking that she could only gaze at him blankly.

“The Keiths, I mean. And all the others as well. I knew that MacRae was turning the lands to sheep, that the tenants were having to move out, but I did not understand, really, what it meant would happen to them. It is no excuse, I realize. I should have put more thought to it; no doubt a better man would have looked beyond his own concerns. I admit I am to blame for that. But I did not act with malice.” He looked at her, his dark eyes fierce. “And I did not condone MacRae’s brutality—I would never have. I cannot bear for you to believe that I intended harm to those people, that I am the sort of man who would throw a dying woman out of her home or set fire to someone’s house. The thought that you were in that house chills my blood.” He went to her, surprising her by dropping down onto one knee so that their eyes were level. “Tell me you do not think that of me.”

“I do not. I believe you, Damon.” Meg wanted to reach out and stroke her hand across his hair, to take him in her arms and soothe the distress from his face, but she sternly quelled the urge. She could not apologize for what she had said to him. She had meant her words, and they were words that needed to be said. That it squeezed her heart to see him in pain did not change that. Finally she said, “Coll told me you went to see the Keiths and apologized.”

“He did?” Damon looked at her in surprise.

“Yes. My brother is a fair man, Damon. And I thank you for not taking any action against him.”

“However arrogant I may be, I fight my own battles. Besides, I can hardly fault him for wanting to protect you. Meg”—he wrapped his hand around her wrist—“please, believe this, too: I did not mean, ever, to offer you any disrespect. I wanted only to . . . to express my admiration for
you, my happiness, my pleasure.” He glanced down, and as if surprised to see he held her wrist, he quickly released it. He stood up and looked away. “I thought the necklace would please you. And I wanted . . . to adorn you. The amber matched your eyes. I wanted to see you in it.”

Tendrils of warmth twined through Meg. Her mouth went dry and she could think of nothing to say.

Damon sat back down, clearing his throat. “I do not say this to make you uncomfortable. I assure you that I am not trying to importune you or seduce you. I realize that you are here solely to help Lynette, that there is nothing more between us. But I could not let it remain thus; I did not want you to believe that I held you in low regard.”

Meg stared at him, her mind whirling. She could not say anything, she realized, because she did not even know what she thought, how she felt. A knot of anger and pain buried in her chest loosened as a wild mix of emotions rose in her—happiness, eagerness, pleasure, and, overlaying it all, pinning her, a profound dismay at his words:
There is nothing more between us.

Before she could speak or move, Damon rose abruptly. “I should get back.”

“Yes, of course.” Meg stood, and they left the room in silence.