The Master Of Strathburn (34 page)

But Janet, discreet as ever, did not even blink. ‘Yes, miss.’ The maid bobbed a curtsy and, after quickly fulfilling Jessie’s few requests, took her leave. Left alone at last, Jessie dropped poor
Pamela
onto a nearby table before sinking into the soft armchair by the fire. Kicking off her new brocade shoes, she elevated her recovering sprained ankle onto a small ottoman. No, reading was definitely not on her mind as she stared into the bright flames licking the fresh logs in the grate.

How long would it be before Robert came to her? Although it was evident that he wanted her to be his wife, part of her still wanted,
needed
him to tell her that he truly cared for her. He had called her his love,
mo ghaoil
and
mo chridhe
—my heart. But could he say he loved her? It had only been a few days since they’d met after all.

She closed her eyes against the light of the flames and smiled, recalling all of their encounters, the intimate moments they had shared since they had met. She suspected it would not be long before she found out the answer to her question …

A sound—her bedroom door clicking shut—made her jump. She was not sure how long it had been since she had drifted asleep, but she suspected only a short space of time had passed; the fire still burned brightly in the grate and the candles on the mantelpiece had not burned down at all. The flames guttered slightly in the slight draft that had come in through the door, making the shadows dance.

Her pulse thrumming in anticipation, she sat up a little and turned her head toward the door, expecting to see Robert. But there was no one. Frowning in confusion, she rose from her chair—and was immediately grappled from behind by a man.

Simon
.
Oh God, no!
The smell of brandy and the cologne he used assailed her senses as he roughly hauled her against his chest, his arm like a band of steel, crushing the breath from her.

A scream rose in her throat, but Simon’s hand smothered her mouth and nose, stifling all sound.

‘Ah, sweet Jezebel.’ Simon’s breath was hot and foul in her ear. ‘I have been waiting too long for this moment.’

Blazing, white hot anger speared through Jessie, lending her strength. She struggled, legs kicking, hands grasping at the arm across her chest, but it was all for naught. Simon dragged her inexorably backward toward the bed as if she was only a rag doll. A strangled sob caught in her throat when her bodice tore and then a rain of pearls pattered across the floor. With renewed vigour, she twisted wildly and clawed at the hand covering her face.

Simon hissed as she drew blood. ‘Bitch,’ he cursed and flung her face down on the bed, roughly pushing her head down into the coverlet. ‘I was prepared to be gentle with you, but it seems you like it rough.’

She couldn’t breathe. This could not be happening. Any minute Robert would come in the door and stop this. But now Simon was pushing up her skirts.

No, no, no
. Jessie thrashed again and managed to turn her head to the side. And screamed.

‘Shut your mouth.’ Simon clamped his hand over her face again, abruptly cutting off her cry. She jerked her head and his hand slipped a degree. She bit into his flesh as hard as she could, anything to make him stop what he was trying to do.

He let go of her, shouting a string of oaths. His weight now slightly off her, she rolled away to the side, instinctively reaching for something to arm herself with. Her hand came into contact with the pitcher on the bedside stand. She grabbed it and swung.

* * *

It was close to midnight when Robert finally bid his father a warm goodnight. After the rest of the guests had departed, and Jessie and his stepmother had retired, the earl had suggested that the two of them share a ‘wee dram’ for old time’s sake before turning in. Impatient as Robert was to join Jessie in her room, he couldn’t deny his father this one simple request after all he had done for him since his return. Besides, to ensure a degree of discretion, he calculated the time it would take to share a whisky and some quiet conversation would be a sufficient interval for Jessie’s maid to have finished attending her mistress before he too ventured upstairs.

All was silent in the house apart from the crackling of the apple-wood logs in the grate when Robert returned to the leather wing chair before the fire in his father’s study to finish off the last sip of his fine malt—the same rich golden brown as Jessie’s eyes he noted as he held the glass up before the flames—when a scream rent the air.
Jessie’s scream.

Christ.
Robert dropped his glass and sprinted from the library towards the stairs. What in God’s name could be happening? Panic searing through his chest, he took the stairs two at a time. He could have sworn her scream had come from the first floor, quite possibly her room. As he reached her door, he heard a man’s voice cursing, followed by a crash.

‘Jessie,’ he cried, then swore when he discovered her bedchamber door was locked. He took a step back, turned and aimed an explosive kick just below the handle. The door burst open to reveal a scene of nightmarish pandemonium.

Her hair a dishevelled mess, her dress torn, Jessie stood by the bed, clutching the handle of a broken pitcher. At her feet sprawled Simon, wig askew, his face and one hand bleeding, shards of china and pearls from Jessie’s broken necklace strewn about him.

‘The bitch bit me then bashed me with the bloody pitcher,’ he moaned.

With a roar, Robert lunged at Simon, hauled him to his feet and threw him up against the wall so hard his brother’s teeth rattled. It took every ounce of his restraint to stop himself from pounding Simon to pieces right then and there. ‘How dare you! How the hell did you get in here?’ he demanded, through clenched teeth.

Simon, bastard that he was, smirked. ‘Through the front door of course. I thought I was invited to the party.’

‘You will pay for this,’ Robert ground out. ‘This is unforgiveable. I demand satisfaction.’

Simon sneered. ‘My pleasure. Shall we say short swords, tomorrow at first light in Holyrood Park, at the common between Arthur’s Seat and Dunsapie Hill?’

‘Agreed.’ Robert stepped back abruptly and thrust Simon away from him, toward the splintered door. ‘Now get out, before I slay you like a dog right here and now.’

Simon stumbled back into the doorway just as MacGowan and Gordon appeared in the hall outside. Wiping blood from a long shallow cut across his brow, he bowed to Robert, a derisive smile twisting his features. ‘Until tomorrow then, dear brother. Seven sharp if you’ll pardon the pun. I look forward to the opportunity to skewer you with my sword.’

‘See that my brother leaves, gentlemen. Take his keys then lock and bolt all the doors,’ ordered Robert. MacGowan and Gordon, both white-faced and grim, nodded their assent and escorted Simon away.

Robert turned his attention to Jessie who had remained as he’d found her, her fingers still clutching the pitcher handle. She stared at the floor, trembling.

He approached her slowly, carefully. ‘Jessie lass,’ he murmured gently.

She raised her ashen face to his. Tears misted her eyes. ‘He broke the pearl necklace, Robert,’ she whispered. She took a great shuddering breath and seemed to realise that she was still holding the pitcher handle. She looked at it, then tossed it on the floor with the other shards. She stepped toward him.

Robert’s arms came up around her, cradling her as she buried her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking as she gave herself up to tears. Running his hand down her slender back he noticed the fabric of her bodice had been torn. Even though he murmured soothing words into her hair, anger shook him to his very bones. He’d already noticed bruises about her neck; he dreaded to think what other injuries had been inflicted.
Oh yes, Simon would pay dearly for this outrage.

When Jessie at last raised her head, he gently brushed away the remaining tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. ‘Jessie,
mo ghaoil
, it doesn’t matter about the necklace,’ he whispered, holding her gaze, mentally preparing himself for the worst with his next question. ‘What I need to know is—as difficult as it may be for you to tell me—how much did Simon hurt you?’

Jessie’s eyes grew wide for a moment when she realised what he was asking her and cold dread froze his blood. But then, thank the Lord, she smiled shakily. ‘Aside from a few bruises, I’m all right, Robert. Unlike yer brother, I’m verra pleased to say. It’s true tha’ I bit his hand an’ hit him with the pitcher though. It was the only way I could get him off me.’

‘Thank God, Jessie.’ Robert drew her into his arms again and kissed her hair. ‘You fought bravely, my love.’

Inwardly he vowed—
and I promise you that come tomorrow, you will never have to worry about that cur again.

As if hearing Robert’s thoughts the hall clock portentously began to herald the hour of midnight. As the last of the chimes ceased, Gordon appeared in the doorway again, a wide-eyed Janet and grim-faced Mrs Duncan trailing him. Mrs Duncan was bearing a tray of tea and scones.

‘Forgive my presumption, milord,’ Gordon began, his gaze fixed discreetly on a point somewhere on the other side of the room. ‘I thought per’aps tha’ Miss Munroe would like some … assistance.’

Robert reluctantly released Jessie from his embrace; however, he continued to hold her close, his arm about her waist. ‘You are quite right, Gordon.’ He turned to the female servants and addressed them in turn. ‘Janet, please find some suitable night attire for Miss Munroe and take it to my suite, along with a basin of warm water and some linen bandages. Mrs Duncan, you may take the tray to my sitting room.’ He didn’t much care what the servants thought about the fact Jessie would be installed in his rooms. The whole evening had ended in disaster. The servants’ sensibilities were the least of his concerns.

He returned his attention to the butler. ‘How fares the rest of the household, Gordon?’ No doubt others—including his father—had heard Jessie’s scream and the ensuing commotion.

Gordon was succinct in his appraisal. ‘All is secure downstairs, milord. MacGowan has explained the situation to his lordship. Lord Strathburn kindly requests tha’ you speak to him when ye have the opportunity. Her ladyship hasna stirred from her rooms. The other servants havena been told anything, other than to mind their own business for the moment.’

‘Well done, Gordon. Perhaps I could also ask you to summon your most reliable footman. I’ll need him to deliver a message to my ship at Leith Docks.’ Robert wanted to warn Drummond ahead of time that he was going to need a second for the duel. ‘I will ring for him shortly, after I see Miss Munroe settled.’

‘Verra well, milord.’

Once Gordon had departed, Robert drew Jessie closer and gently tilted her chin upwards so he could gain her attention. During his exchange with the servants, she had remained mute and strangely still. She was clearly in shock.

‘Jessie lass,’ he said softly and was relieved to note that she met his gaze when he spoke. ‘I’m going to carry you upstairs to my sitting room.’ He’d noticed that she was only wearing silk stockings when she had stepped toward him, and he didn’t want her cutting her feet on all the shards of broken china.

Without question, she reached for him and he swung her up into his arms. He kissed her temple, swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat. Her complete trust in him meant so much.

His rooms lay on the second floor, occupying the north-eastern corner of the house. As Robert carried her into his sitting room, he was pleased to see a fire burning brightly in the grate, and that Mrs Duncan had laid out the tea and scones on a low table on the hearthrug. Robert gently eased Jessie into a leather chair by the fire, then ignoring the pot of tea, went to a sideboard and poured a tumbler of whisky. Returning to the fireside, he pulled up a low footstool and sat in front of her, offering her the glass. ‘This will ease the trembling, my love.’

Jessie dutifully took a few sips of the strong malt, coughing a little, but it seemed to revive her. Almost straightaway she seemed less disconnected from her surroundings—and from him. She gave him a small smile, a glimmer of golden warmth returning to her brown eyes. ‘This is no’ how I envisaged our evening would end.’

Relieved to see her spirit returning, Robert’s lips curved slightly into a smile. ‘No. It certainly hasn’t progressed the way I had anticipated either.’ He reached out slowly, and tenderly pushed a tangled lock of hair away from her face. ‘Jessie, would you mind if I let the rest of your hair down?’ he asked, praying she wouldn’t reject his touch. But if she did, he would understand. ‘I must confess I have been dying to do just that, all evening.’

‘Of course,’ she said softly, then blushed as she put a hand to the collapsed arrangement of curls. ‘I know I must look a fright.’

‘Never. You could never look anything but beautiful to me.’ He leaned forward so he could more easily loosen the remaining pins and in no time, her red-gold curls were cascading about her shoulders. He sat back again on the stool and forced his hands to stillness; his fingers were itching to ease the ruined dress from her shoulders, but he would not push her for further intimacies after what she’d been through.

Besides, he had other matters to take care of.

He smiled ruefully. ‘As much as I would like to stay with you a while longer, unfortunately, I am going to have to leave you. I need to tell my father about what has happened … and I need to make some arrangements for tomorrow.’

* * *

Jessie frowned in confusion, then with a sense of mounting horror, she suddenly recalled Robert’s exchange with Simon before he’d been forcibly ousted from her room. The memory returned to her in full force—it was as if a veil had suddenly been ripped away from her eyes.

Her heart seizing, she reached forward and gripped Robert’s hands. ‘You’re making arrangements for the duel,’ she breathed. ‘Please do no’ do this, Robert. I know what Simon did was … wrong, unforgiveable. But dinna risk yer life or yer freedom, defending my honour. After all you’ve been through, I do no’ want you to throw it all away … because of me.’