The Lady Most Willing . . . (16 page)

“I rather like the poem about how he’ll love his betrothed until the rocks melt into
the sun,” Bretton murmured, looking (of course) at Catriona.

“Until the sands of life run dry,” she whispered back to him, but Byron heard her.

After that, he just sat still, thinking. Really thinking.

If his father weren’t already dead, the thought of a notorious woman becoming the
Countess of Oakley would have killed him.

He didn’t know what his mother would think, because after she ran away with his uncle,
he never heard from her again.

But the question, obviously, was what did
he
think?

Fiona was still pale, but she had joined the conversation about Burns. He watched
her talk and even laugh when Taran said something particularly outrageous, without
ever glancing at him.

He felt as if he’d been given a glimpse of heaven, only to have it torn from his hands.
How could he dishonor his ancient name? Breach his father’s memory in such a fashion?

This had been a momentary madness, that’s all.

“You’re mad as May butter!” Taran shouted at Catriona, who was thoroughly enjoying
sparring with him, to all appearances.

Not Catriona: him.

He
was as mad as May butter.

Chapter 15

F
iona had been humiliated before. Having to sit through a homily on the evils of lust,
read at Dugald’s funeral, came to mind. But in its own way, this was worse. She had
been in shock during the funeral, and she had gone through it as if in a trance, still
not understanding that no one believed her, and that no one ever would.

Now she was older, and thoroughly clearheaded. She would never be able to forget the
moment when Byron’s eyes turned cold. His face had gone completely blank, and stayed
that way. It was as if he put on a mask, and all there was to be seen was the arrogant,
haughty Earl of Oakley, the man whom she saw from afar in English ballrooms.

When supper finally, mercifully, ended, Fiona excused herself and ran up the stairs.
She opened the door to the bedchamber to find Marilla sitting on the bed. Acid rose
in Fiona’s throat. She couldn’t—she really
couldn’t—
bear to speak to her sister at the moment.

Without a word, she headed directly for the ancient wardrobe and pulled out the fur-lined
cloak she’d worn for the caber-throwing contest. It appeared to be as old as the wardrobe,
and could have belonged to Queen Elizabeth herself, but it would keep her warm.

“I’m to apologize,” Marilla said, her voice scratchy from crying. “Taran insists.”

Fiona didn’t even glance over her shoulder. “I accept. I’m going to the carriage to
find my reticule. I’m sure it must be there.”

“What are you talking about? You’re going out in the snow?”

“The carriage is in the stables.”

“Just tell a footman to fetch it for you!”

“I would welcome some fresh air. Do go to sleep without me.”

“You cannot do such a stupid thing as walk out into this storm! You’re pouting, Fiona,
and it’s a very unpleasant, childish thing to do. I
have
apologized.”

“There’s a cord that leads from the kitchen to the stables. Mr. Garvie told me about
it the first night.” She almost added,
So don’t worry about me
, but the words died in her mouth. She was tired of pretending that there was something
more between them than the potent reek of Marilla’s dislike.

“I truly am sorry I told the earl about Dugald’s death,” her sister said.

Fiona had discovered a pair of gloves that, although ancient and cracked, were lined
with fur like the cloak. All that remained was to find something warmer than her slippers
to put on her feet. She began poking at the bottom of the wardrobe.

“Are you ignoring what I just said?” Marilla’s voice rose a bit.

Fiona had exhumed something that felt like a sturdy pair of boots; she backed out
of the cupboard, straightened, and turned around. Her sister was looking at her with
tearstained defiance. “No,” she stated. “It will never be all right with me. Once
this accursed storm ends, I shall move to my own house. It will be easier for all
of us. Papa can hire a chaperone for your next season.”

Marilla stared at her, her jaw dropped.

Fiona pulled the boots on, and then the gloves. She probably looked like an ancient
crone wearing a bear costume inside out. But when she glanced at the mirror, she didn’t
even see her own reflection: instead, she saw Oakley’s blue eyes. They were an extraordinary
color, the color of the sky on a summer day, when one lay on one’s back in a meadow.

“Good-bye,” she said, walking out and closing the door behind her.

“I didn’t mean it!” Marilla called shrilly. Fiona pretended that she hadn’t heard,
and kept walking, down the stairs, through the baize door, and into the kitchen.

She stopped only to grab a bag of apples and a bottle of wine from the kitchen staff.
The apples were for the horses, and the wine was for her. She’d never drunk to excess
before. Ladies never became inebriated. But she wasn’t a lady. She was ruined, ruined,
ruined
.

The blowing snow was like a slap to her face, like a scream turned into material fact.
Walking away from the warmth of the kitchen and into the howling wind felt like a
punishment, but she didn’t mind.

She couldn’t bear to sleep in the room with her sister that night. Nor to be down
the corridor from a man who actually thought—howsoever briefly—that she was worth
making his countess. Who had kissed her like . . . like that. And then regarded her
with no expression at all in his eyes, as if she were no more than a strange, distasteful
woman, who happened to be seated beside him at supper.

She bent her head down and kept her hand tight on the cord. Luckily, the wind was
scouring the courtyard and driving the snow around the other side, so drifts of snow
hadn’t been able to settle the way they would when the wind died down. A wooden wall
loomed out of the moving wall of snow before her so suddenly that she bumped into
the door.

A second later she was tumbling into the warm, dim stable. “Who’s there?” came a cracked
voice. And then, “Ye’re a woman!”

She nodded, throwing back the hood on her cape and shaking herself to remove some
of the snow. “Mr. Garvie said you could return to the castle for the night if you
wished. I shall remain just long enough to look for my reticule in the carriage, and
then I’ll follow you.”

“I ain’t leaving any
woman
alone with my horses,” the old man cried.

“Away wit’ ye!” she barked, her voice emerging in a perfect Scottish burr.

She reached out and took the lantern from his hand. “Get off with ye, then,” she commanded,
with a jerk of her head.

“What are ye doing here?” he demanded. “This ain’t no place for ladies. You won’t
have a bit of yer reputation left.”

That did it. “I’m not a lady,” she shrieked. “I’m Fiona Chisholm.” She saw his eyes
widen and felt a primitive surge of pleasure at the fact that he recognized her by
name. “I’ve got no reputation, and I’ll do whatever in the bloody hell I choose to
do. I might stay here all night. You have got no say in it!”

“Ye’re off yer onion,” the man grumbled, moving backward. “There’s no call to scream
at me like a banshee. Ye be careful with that lamp, you hear? I don’t want to find
my stable on fire.”

“I’ll be careful.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Fiona heaved a sob. But she refused to let
herself be dragged into that morass of self-pity. Never again. Instead, she walked
down the center aisle of the tiny stable.

The four horses that had drawn the Duke of Bretton’s carriage put their heads over
their stalls’ doors and nickered at her when she began offering apples. They were
beautiful, with soft noses and shining eyes.

After the four of them came a pretty mare, and finally a gelding who took his apple
carefully from her flattened hand, his lips curling as if with disdain.

“They should call you Byron,” she told him, stroking the star on his forehead. His
black ears flicked back and forth, and then, as if in sympathy, he rested his chin
on her shoulder. His apple-breath was sweet.

“You just want another apple,” Fiona said, choking back tears. She gave him one and
realized she’d come to the end of the horse stalls.

The Duke of Bretton’s carriage had been pulled in through wide doors at the opposite
end of the stable. It was so large that the shining black end of the vehicle loomed
in the dusky light. She walked around, opened the door, and listlessly held up the
lamp, but no reticule was visible.

Another row of stalls, mostly empty, lay opposite those she had just visited. The
last, back where she had started, contained an ancient pony. The pony lumbered to
her feet as Fiona approached, her belly almost as round as she was long.

A tear slid down Fiona’s cheek, because the self-pity she had sworn not to allow herself
wasn’t easily vanquished. She would never have a child, and so never have a pony . . .
Still, she made herself stop after one quivering sob. She slipped into the stall with
the pony, who ate an apple and promptly lay down in the straw once again.

She hung the lantern safely from a hook on the wall, and then removed her cloak and
dropped it in the straw. Finally she sat down and, leaning against the pony’s fat
tummy, pulled the cork from her bottle of wine.

The wine was rich and fruity, like the earth in the springtime, if dirt was good to
eat. She took another swig. It was peppery too, like . . . like pepper. She peered
at the label. It was quite dim in the stable even with the lantern, but she could
make out that the wine had come from Italy.

As she upended the bottle again, it came to her: she needn’t stay in Scotland with
a father who didn’t care very much for her, and a sister who cared not at all. She
had money. No—she had a
fortune
. She could leave Scotland.

She slowly put down the bottle, the happiness caused by this epiphany exploding in
her heart. She would go to Italy and travel to the vineyards. She would buy a little
house in the countryside . . . or in Venice . . . or Rome. She needn’t even stay in
Italy; she would travel wherever she wished. She need never see an English earl again
in her life.

Idea after idea came to her: she would like to see the Parthenon, and a camel, though
she had the vague sense they weren’t to be found together. A camel had come through
the village in a fair when she was a child. She had never forgotten his long, curled
eyelashes, and the way he chewed, thoughtfully, as if he were solving the world’s
problems and just not bothering to share the solutions.

Lying there, drinking as she considered the adventures she would have, she began to
feel chilled. A bit of a search turned up some horse blankets, and she made a nest
with these. Then she curled up and pulled her cloak over herself, fur side down, and
resumed her reverie. Only when the bottle was nearly half gone did she come to another
epiphany.

She could take a lover. An Italian lover. A man with loopy black curls and golden
skin, as far from a pallid, blond earl as could be imagined. “I don’t have any reputation
anyway,” she told the pony. “Everybody thinks I did all . . . all
that
with Dugald. I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do as I wish. Maybe I’ll have
a child after all.”

The pony twitched her ears encouragingly.

“I
will
have a child,” Fiona decided, taking another drink. “I’ll tell people I’m a widow.
I have more than enough money for the two of us. Who needs Scotland anyway? My father
won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Her tiresome conscience had just reminded her that her father likely would notice
if his elder daughter never returned, when she became aware of a banging noise coming
from the wall next to her stall.

“What’s that?” she asked the pony, who didn’t seem to have an answer. Fiona balled
up her fist and thumped back on the wall.

No one answered. “I won’t ever think about him,” Fiona told the pony. “Never, ever,
ever.” She looked at her bottle. It was dangerously close to half empty. Tomorrow
she’d probably have a “head,” as her father called it.

Never mind; it would pass. Tomorrow she would be planning her trip. There were likely
travel guides in Taran’s library. She’d be halfway to Italy before anyone noticed
she was gone.

“An’ I’ll never even think of him,” she said, hiccupping as she put the bottle down.

There was a crash as the stable door flew open and bounced off the wall.

“Lords a mercy,” Fiona murmured, huddling deeper into her furry nest. She had just
begun to feel sleepy.

Then the door slammed shut, and footsteps stamped down the corridor to the accompaniment
of someone cursing a blue streak. An Englishman, she thought, not caring much. Probably
the duke’s coachman, coming to check on his horses.

“
Fiona!
” Her name emerged from the Englishman’s lips in a dark growl that had her eyes springing
open.

It wasn’t the coachman.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“We say
bloudy ’ell
in Scotland,” Fiona told him, pulling her fur a little higher around her shoulders.
“When in Scotland, do as the Scots.” And, because she really didn’t want to see those
blue eyes ever again, she closed her own.

Chapter 16

B
yron could not believe what he was seeing. After Fiona’s hell-born sister had blurted
out where she had gone, he had risked his life making his way to the stable, stumbling
around the side of the castle in the storm, sick with fear that he was about to walk
over Fiona’s fallen body . . . only to find her tucked down in a stall nestled against
a fat old pony, the two of them peacefully asleep.

He pulled off his gloves with a muttered curse. Thank God the stable was so small,
and preserved heat so well. His fingers burned with the cold, and his toes felt as
if they might fall off. He took another irritable look at the sleeping girl at his
feet.

Her hair had fallen out of its bun. Tousled strands of it curled around her face and
unfurled over the pony’s rough winter coat.

He squatted down and put a hand on her cheek. The skin burned hot under his fingers,
and her eyes flew open on a little shriek. “Take your hand off me!”

“You’re warm. And,” he said, catching sight of a bottle of wine, “you’re drunk.”

“I am not drunk,” she told him, tilting her little nose in the air. “Though I may
as well point out, since you do not know me, it could be that I am an invet— an inveterate
inebriate.” She said the last two words carefully.

He bent down and pulled off his boots, which were covered with snow. That strange
joy that Fiona Chisholm seemed to inspire in him was spreading through him again like
liquid gold. Like the kind of dizzy, silly joy he distantly remembered experiencing
as a child.

“What are you doing here?” Her eyes were suspicious.

“I came to rescue you.”

“
What?
”

“I thought I would find you dead in the snow,” he said conversationally, knocking
snow from his hat before hanging it on a hook. “I think it was a near go myself, in
truth. I kept losing the castle as I was trying to get around to the stable. I was
completely blinded by the snow. Needless to say, we don’t have storms like this in
London.”

She sat up, a molting fur cape slipping from her shoulder. “Didn’t you follow the
rope from the kitchen door?”

“The kitchen?” He shook his head. “I knew nothing about that, so I went out the front
door. Your sister said you went to the stable; I looked out the window and thought
it was a damned foolish and dangerous thing to do. So I followed the castle around
to the stable, but I kept losing touch of the walls. Blasted amount of snow out there.”

“You could have died!” Her voice cut straight through the muffled sound of the wind
howling outside.

“Would you have cared?”

She lay back down. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

But Byron heard her voice wobble. “I couldn’t stay away,” he said, staring down at
her. “I know your reputation is . . . whatever it is—”

“Stupid Englishman,” she said, opening her eyes again. “I know you heard what Marilla
said. Every word of it is true.”

He took off his greatcoat and shook the snow off in the corridor before he came back
into the stall. “Your fiancé, Dugald, had the brains of a gnat, if he thought ivy
would bear the weight of a grown man. You’re better off without him.”

“I won’t be your mistress just because everyone thinks that of me!” she said, her
voice very sharp, wrapping her arms tight around herself. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty
of offers, especially in the first year after Dugald’s death.”

Byron froze as a hot wave of anger rushed to his head. “They talked of climbing up
to your window, I suppose?”

“I’ve heard all the sallies you can think of involving ivy,” she said, obviously trying
for a careless tone but not succeeding. But her voice strengthened. “I’m a ruined
woman. But that doesn’t mean that you can simply take advantage of me.”

Byron managed to shove all his rage back into a little box, with the silent promise
that he would wring the names of every one of those damned Scotsmen out of her.

He came down on his heels in order to be at Fiona’s level. The old pony raised her
head sleepily, and he scratched her between the ears. “I told myself to go to my room,
and then I tried to find you anyway. I wandered around and talked to Lady Cecily for
a time.”

“She’s very nice. You should marry her.” She said it flatly.

“I don’t want to,” Byron said, as flatly as she.

“You can’t have everything you want in life,” she said, looking at him with an expression
of mingled rage and pain. “Haven’t you learned
anything
, Byron? Not even that?”

“There have been many things I’ve wanted.” He gently stroked the pony’s ears so she
twitched in her sleep. “I wanted my father to care for me. I wanted my mother to come
home. I wanted to be less alone.”

Fiona pointed to a bottle of wine. “Have a drink.”

“I wanted a wife who would never play me false, or break my heart, the way my father’s
heart was broken.”

“I never considered it before, but I’m finding wine is quite good at soothing a broken
heart,” Fiona offered.

“Is your heart broken?” His whole body froze, waiting for her answer. He didn’t know
what he was doing, what he was saying. But he was caught up in madness.

“What did you talk to Lady Cecily about?” Fiona said, ignoring his question, her eyes
sliding away from his.

“We talked about the difference between what the world thinks of a person . . . and
who that person may truly be.” Byron rather thought that the one sentence—that one
thought—had changed the course of his life forever.

Fiona snorted. “The world thinks Cecily is tremendously nice, if a little boring,
and from what I have seen in the last few days, she is.”

“I don’t think she’s boring.”

“Wonderful. Marry her. Her reputation is undoubtedly snow white and deserved.”

“Do you think that I am precisely what the world thinks me to be?”

She looked at him, and for a moment there was something raw and intense and full of
longing in her eyes. Then she blinked. “Likely not,” she said, her voice disinterested.

She settled back against the pony’s stomach. “I’m leaving the country,” she announced.

“
What?
”

“I’m leaving Scotland. I can’t think why I didn’t have the idea before.”

“Of course,” he said, calming instantly. “You’re coming to England.”
With me
, he thought, feeling the truth of it in his bones. “Move a bit, would you? I’m going
to put this animal in the stall next door. There’s not room enough for three of us.”

“No, no, not England,” she said, far too cheerfully, though she did sit up so that
he could coax the pony to her feet. “I mean to live in Italy. The vineyards, the sunshine,
the ancient Roman ruins . . . It will be wonderful! And when I’ve tired of gondolas,
I’ll just move on. I’d like to see a camel. I’d like to
ride
a camel!”

“Hell no, you’re not,” Byron growled. He kicked open the door and led the pony through,
glancing over his shoulder.

Fiona reached for the half-full bottle of wine leaning against the wall, but she paused.
“Did you just swear at me?”

“No.” He opened the stall next door; the old pony ambled in and collapsed in the pile
of straw.

He walked back to her, closing the stall door behind him.

“I’m glad that you didn’t swear at me.” She smiled in a way that showed pretty white
teeth. “Because you have nothing to say about what I do with my life.”

Byron grinned back at her, enjoying the rebellion in her eyes. Not to mention the
way her cloak had slid down to her waist so he could see the luscious curve of a shadowed
breast.

“How will you finance these travels?” he asked, sitting down on a pile of straw opposite
her.

Fiona took a swig from the bottle. “Oh, I inherited my mother’s fortune,” she said.
“Didn’t I mention that? I reckon I have the edge on Marilla, if you add it all together.
I have quite a bit of land.”

Byron reached out, took the bottle, and held it up to the oil lamp. “This half must
be mine.”

“Actually, it’s all mine,” Fiona said, a little owlishly. “Though you may have a sip
if you like. I’ll have plenty of wine once I move to Italy. Did I tell you that I’m
moving to Italy?”

He just looked at her.

“I suppose I did,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, since you don’t seem to like that
topic of conversation, let’s discuss something else. Why on earth did you try to save
my sorry self from gracefully falling asleep in a snowdrift? Didn’t you tell me this
very afternoon that a chaste reputation was the greatest possible blessing? I don’t
have one, in case you missed the announcement.”

“I suppose I did say something of that nature.”

“Dugald’s mother has stopped spitting when she sees me.” She paused. “You know how
people say there’s a silver lining to a dark cloud? I hate to say it, but not having
that woman as my mother-in-law is something of a blessing.”

Byron took another gulp of wine, and placed the bottle to the side. Then he reached
out, tossed the fur cape to the side, and crawled forward until his hands were on
either side of her shoulders.

She frowned up at him. “You’re not the lord of the manor, you know.” She hiccupped.
“The lord of the stable. Don’t think I will kiss you again, because I will not. I’m
done with kissing.”

He gazed down at the rose flush in her cheeks, her liquid, slightly hazy eyes, her
plump lips, and felt that surge of gladness again. “You’re done with kissing forever?”

“Oh no,” she said, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “I’ve decided to make exceptions.”

“Good,” he said silkily. “You can make one for me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Only for my Italian lover.”

The hiss that came from between his teeth wasn’t a noise a civilized man would make.
“Dugald wasn’t Italian, was he?”

“What? No.” She frowned at him. “Would you mind not crouching over me like some sort
of demented housecat grown large?”

Byron dropped to his elbows and, very deliberately, lowered his body onto hers. There
was a gasp from her, and a barely stifled groan from him. “There will be no Italian
lover,” he said, clenching his teeth so that he didn’t resort to a ridiculous, primitive
display of manhood.

“Who are you to say that?” she demanded, her eyes darkening, even as her arms looped
around his neck. “You are not my fiancé.”

“I know; he’s dead.”

“And ruined me in the process,” she pointed out, yet again.

“Right.” Byron had already decided that he didn’t give a damn about Dugald. If he,
the Earl of Oakley, was going to throw over his father’s principles, he was going
to do it in style. In other words, he would not only marry the most notorious woman
in Scotland (if she was to be believed), but he would never tax his wife with the
fact that she came to their bed less than innocent, tarnished by a blackguard fiancé
with the stupidity to compromise her as he plummeted to his death.

“You really must stop flirting with me.” She scowled at him. “Though this can hardly
be called flirting.”

“What is it?” Byron asked, settling his body a bit more firmly on top of hers. All
the right parts of him were pressing against the right parts of her.

“Something worse,” she said darkly.

“Or better,” he said, leaning down so he could give her earlobe a little nip.

“I know it doesn’t matter to you, but I’d rather not have everyone think that I’ve
dallied with you as well as with Dugald. I’m already next thing to a Babylonian scarlet
woman. A Highlands version, of course.”

“That bad?” Her ear was delightful: small and round and feminine.

“I told you that Dugald’s mother crosses the street when she sees me. After spitting.”

“What about the Italian lover?”

“What about him?”

“What’s his name?” Byron asked, keeping his tone easy. He didn’t want her to know
that the Italian was about to plunge from his own metaphoric ivy.

“Well, how should I know? I haven’t met him yet.”

A great burst of joy spread through Byron’s chest, so he bent his head to her mouth.
She tasted like wine and Fiona, a combination more potent than the strongest whiskey.

“Ach, man,” she whispered, when he slipped away from her lips and kissed a path along
her jaw. “Ye do drive me mad, ye truly do.”

“Your burr comes out when you’re drunk,” he whispered back.

“I’m not drunk! I’m a little tipsy, that’s all.”

“And you’ve decided to take an Italian lover?”

She nodded. She seemed not to notice that her hands were exploring his back, each
touch making him press more firmly into the cradle of her legs.

“
Ti amo, amore mia.
”

“I suppose you’re trying to make me think that you’re Italian, rather than the most
punctilious earl in all London?”

Byron dropped a careful line of kisses down her neck. “I’m not your Italian lover.
I’m your Italian husband.”

Her eyes were closed, but at that she opened one and squinted at him. “Don’t you understand
who I am?”

He smiled down at her. “Most scandalous woman in all Scotland. Seducer and killer
of an idiot by the name of Dugald. Have I missed anything?”

“Probably not.”

“Future countess,” he added calmly.

A crease appeared between her brows, and he kissed it.

“You’ve gone mad.” She seemed quite convinced of it.

“I don’t care.” He caught her mouth again and plunged into a craving, demanding, all-consuming
kiss. One hand found its way to her breast, and with a little sigh, she arched toward
him, sending a rush of fire to his loins.

“What if you change your mind?” she whispered, a while later. There was just the tiniest
quaver in her voice.

“In my family, we never change our minds. That was my father’s problem, you know.”

“He had a problem?”

“My mother left when I was a boy,” Byron said. He rolled off her body and pulled the
cape over her again. Then he ran a finger down her delicate nose. “One day I realized
that she hadn’t summoned me to her room in some days. I finally concluded that she
must have died, if only because my father was so obviously affected.”