The Pretender (12 page)

“Aye?”

“I wondered . . . if I might beg your assistance before you go.”

“What is it, lass?”

She felt her face grow flushed. How utterly humiliating. “My abigail, Dulcie, wouldn’t travel to the Highlands with me. Apparently she didn’t wish to give up the comforts of home, which in itself isn’t really any
problem. Dulcie is older and I don’t really mind having to fend for myself. But she laced me into my things this morning—more specifically she laced me into my
corset
—and it seems she has employed her famous secret knot, one for which she alone knows the secret for loosening. Without the aid of eyes on the back of my head, I don’t think I will be able to get the thing undone.”

“I see.”

Douglas stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him. “Well, then, I’d best see what I can do about that knot.”

It never even occurred to her to call for Màiri. Elizabeth turned away, shielding her burning cheeks, and quickly unfastened the buttons on the front of her riding coat. She was nervous and her fingers shook, taking some effort, but she finally managed to get them all free. She slipped off her jacket, then the linen shirt she wore underneath. She undid the tapes of her skirts and let them drop to the floor before turning to face him once again.

Limned by the firelight, blushing before him, Douglas felt his throat tighten around his breath. She was the picture of loveliness, wearing naught but a thin linen chemise and white stockings that were gartered with small ribbons just above her knees. The corset she wanted him to remove circled her, bringing her waistline to nothing and the fullness of her breasts to a definite something.

Oh, good God.

She came to stand before him, sweeping the length of that red hair over one shoulder. Her neck and shoulders
were pale above the strings that crisscrossed her backside, soft as silk when he brushed her with his fingertips. He saw her shiver, saw the gooseflesh rise along the back of her neck, and was seized with the solitary wonder of what it would be like to cover that same spot of shivering skin with his mouth.

The room was growing hotter, and Douglas had a difficult time concentrating his attention on the knot that lay nestled at the small of her back. He gave a string a tug, but it didn’t budge. He tried another. He realized he needed to get closer and knelt behind her, to where his eyes were inches away from the rounded curve of her bottom, discreetly covered by only that thin scrap of linen chemise.

The awareness between them sparked like the fire in the hearth. He yanked on the strings, tried pulling at the knot, but it wouldn’t yield. “Good God, woman, what sort of knot is this?”

“ ’Tis some sort of trick to loosening it. But I’ve never actually done it myself.”

Douglas struggled with it some more, becoming so intent on unraveling it, he never even realized that one of his hands had spanned her waist, his fingers resting on the flare of her hip.

But Elizabeth realized it. Oh, did she.

From the moment of her birth, the hands of others had cared for most every intimacy in her life. Dressing, bathing, even the combing of her own hair was something which she was accustomed to having done by others. But this was the first time in her four-and-twenty years that she had ever been touched so familiarly by a
man. Instead of troubling her or shocking her, however, it set her heartbeat to racing.

“Perhaps I should just call Màiri.” The awareness between them had become so real, so tangible, it could have been a living, breathing thing.

“No, I think I’ve almost got it—oh, bloody hell!”

Before Elizabeth could turn to see what was happening, Douglas had unsheathed the small knife that he kept tucked inside his stocking and sliced through the stubborn lacings.

Her corset fell free.

Elizabeth turned around to face him, clad only in her thin summer chemise. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were wide. Douglas took in a slow breath and held it, staring at her mouth, the fullness of her bottom lip. He remembered how it had felt against his mouth when she had kissed him. He was seized by the almost uncontrollable need to taste her. He even took a step toward her, and when she didn’t step away, he knew that if he did, if he kissed her right then, she would let him.

He also knew that he wouldn’t stop at just a kiss.

Douglas stepped away.

“I’ll be in the taproom while you have your bath, lass. I’ll return in a hour.”

Without a look back, Douglas turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

He came back precisely an hour later.

Elizabeth, however, was still in the tub.

Elizabeth stirred, opening bleary eyes onto a sluggish fire that lay smoldering in the hearth beside her. The room was splashed with shadows that rose and fell with the gentle flicker of the flames. Quiet surrounded her, and for the first few moments she felt quite as if she were floating.

She had no idea that she wasn’t in her own chamber at home in Drayton Hall. At any moment she expected Caro or another of her sisters to come bursting through the door with some frightful dilemma for her to solve, like which gown Catherine should wear to the Sanderson ball or what color riband looked best with Matilda’s hair. It wasn’t until the room around her began to come into focus, the bare stone walls glowing pink in the light of the fire, the earthenware claret bottle that served as a vase for a cluster of wildflowers, that she remembered where she was, not at all at Drayton Hall, but at a remote inn somewhere north of the Scottish border.

Good God. She had fallen asleep in the bath.

The long hours of riding had obviously taken their toll on her. She couldn’t remember how she’d even gotten to the room. She knew she had eaten but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it had been.

She remembered Douglas saying he would return in an hour, and realized she had no idea of just how much time had passed since he’d gone. It could have been moments. It could have been more. Judging from the chill temperature of the water, it had been quite a while.

She glanced quickly at the door. Had he locked it before he’d gone? Or could he walk in at any moment and find her there, still in the tub? In fact he could be climbing the stairs at that moment, heading even now for the door. Surely he would knock before coming in, warn her of his return. Wouldn’t he?

The most likely answer to that question brought Elizabeth upright with a splash, had her dashing for the door to turn the key until she heard the click of the lock. Only then did she take another breath.

She turned and arched her neck sideways to ease the cramp that pinched there from having been slumped against the side of the tub. She watched the dance of the fire in the small stone hearth. She listened to the silence of the night. Her hair, which she’d washed with the floral soap Màiri had given her, hung in damp twisting strands down her shoulders and back. It dripped onto the floor beneath her. Standing before the hearth, she reached for the thick cloth she had been given to dry with, dried her arms and her hair, and wrapped the length of it around herself. The night air gave her gooseflesh despite the warmth of the fire. She was so tired, she
could have sunk to the floor and stayed there till morning. All she wanted was to slip beneath the bedcovers, bury herself against the pillows, and sleep.

She turned for the bed and the nightclothes that awaited, with the thought to do just that—and promptly let out a shriek worthy of a banshee.

“What are you doing in here?”

Douglas lay in the shadows on the bed. His arms were linked behind his head and he was watching her in the soft hearth light. She couldn’t see his expression. All she saw was his eyes.

“I was but waiting for you to finish at your bath.”

“My—? Why didn’t you alert me? Allow me time to cover myself? In case it has escaped your notice, I am undressed!”

At that he merely nodded. “Aye, lass, that you are.”

Elizabeth flushed red at his words, and was suddenly very grateful for the darkness in the room. “You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t right.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, lass, that rug you’re dripping on is to be my bed for the night.”

Elizabeth
had
forgotten, until just then when he’d mentioned it. She looked down at the water puddling at her feet, then looked at him. “But did you have to come in while I was bathing?”

“I came in while you were
sleeping
. ’Tis a very different thing. I knocked at the door. Twice. When you didn’t answer, I thought you must have already gone off to bed. I knew you’d be spent after the day we’d had, and I didn’t want to wake you, so I decided to come in. The room was dark, and it took a few minutes for me to see
clearly. When I realized you were still in the tub, I thought it best just to sit and wait for you to awaken.”

Elizabeth tightened her grip on the towel, but he simply shrugged, as if finding a naked woman was a commonplace occurrence. And perhaps it was. For him. But being a naked woman in front of anyone other than her maid, her sisters, or the pier glass in her bedchamber was not at all commonplace for Elizabeth.

“You should have turned immediately when you realized where I was and left the room.”

“I told you I’d wait an hour, lass. And I did. Precisely an hour.”

He was right. And she knew he was right, but just the thought of him standing there,
watching
her as she lay naked and asleep in the tub, was mortifying. It stripped her bare all over again. “And just how long had you stood there, seeing more of me than anyone else in my life ever has?” She held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I really don’t wish to know.”

She snatched her nightgown from the foot of the bed, all the while keeping a death grip on the towel wrapped around her. “A gentleman would have made his presence known,” she muttered more to herself than him.

Douglas fixed his gaze to hers. “And as you are well aware, lass, I am no gentleman.”

Elizabeth looked at him. She could think of absolutely nothing to say in response.

When she continued to stand there wrapped in the towel, clutching her nightgown and staring at him like a garden statue, Douglas said, “The night grows late, and we’ve another long day’s ride ahead on the morrow. You best get to bed, lass.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re in it.”

They stared at one another through a long moment. Douglas slid from the bed. He waited.

“Might I at least be given the courtesy of dressing in privacy?” It seemed ridiculous to say, given the fact that not five minutes earlier he had seen every inch of her, but she said it nonetheless.

“Take yourself in there.” Douglas gestured toward the adjoining room. “I’ll have the lads come to fetch the tub and the supper dishes away whilst you dress.”

Elizabeth waited until Douglas had gone, then retreated through the adjacent doorway. She dried herself quickly, toweling her hair, and slipped on her nightrail, a heavy linen shift that buttoned to her chin and fell to her toes. She fastened each button, even the topmost one that felt too tight against her throat. She waited in the antechamber until after she was certain the tub had been removed before stepping back into the empty bedroom.

When Douglas returned almost a quarter hour later, Elizabeth was sitting in the chair before the fire. Her feet were tucked up beneath her as she pulled a comb through the tangles in her damp hair. It was a commonplace task, one performed every day by countless many, but somehow she managed to make it charming. Douglas found himself pausing in the doorway and feasting on the picture of her in the firelight.

It was the very contrast of her, having gone from the noble lady filled with hauteur and indignation, to a simple maid, that intrigued Douglas most. Feet bare, face scrubbed pink, no one would know that her father was
one of the most powerful men in England. In fact, no one would even care. They would only care that she looked and smelled as soft as a summer morning.

“What is it?” Elizabeth asked when she noticed him standing there, gawking at her like a half-witted fool.

“I . . .” He hesitated. “ ’Tis nothing.”

Douglas left the doorway and withdrew to the shadows of the antechamber to undress. As he hauled his shirt over his head, he noticed Elizabeth’s clothing lying there, the skirts and riding coat draped neatly over the back of a chair. On impulse, he reached out and touched a hand to the cloth, measuring the texture of the heavy brocade against his fingertips.

She had been right, he knew. Earlier that evening, when he had returned from the taproom to discover her asleep at her bath, he should have woken her, should have allowed her to dress in privacy. Any gentleman would have, but somehow, he hadn’t been able to help himself. Instead he had stood staring at her in the firelight. Even now, with just the very thought of her, his blood seemed to grow warmer.

He was a fool. He was a complete and utter idiot to be thinking such thoughts about her. Tempting though she may be, she was still the daughter of the Duke of Sudeleigh, a spoiled, pampered princess who thought the world turned only for her.

Hadn’t she tried to manipulate him into a sham marriage just so she could horrify her father with a poor Scotsman for a son-in-law? She could never understand him, the things that mattered to him. Her life was fancy balls, pleasure gardens, and afternoon tea. His way of life, his
Scottish
life, would never be a life for her. He
was daft to even consider it could. His thoughts should focus only on the getting rid of her, and the quicker, the better.
Dunakin. Home.
That was where his thoughts should be, high above the Kyle of Akin on Skye’s eastern shore.

Douglas took up the woolen blanket Màiri had left for him and headed for the other room. Elizabeth was no longer in the chair by the fire. Instead she was curled upon the middle of the bed, huddled beneath a nest of bedcoverings, her hair fanned out against the pillow beneath her head, asleep.

Dropping his pillow onto the floor, Douglas eased to the carpet that would serve as his bed. As he rolled onto his side and lay quietly in the darkness, listening to her breathing, he could only hope that the next two months would pass quickly.

“ ’Tis time to wake, lass. The hour grows late. The road beckons.”

Douglas had been shuffling about the room for over an hour, trying not very subtly to stir her. They had miles to cover, and he was eager to be on the road to home, back to familiar ground. At home, he told himself, he would feel more himself. He could put aside the oddness of the past few days and occupy himself with matters needing his attention.

He watched her as she stirred, her hair mussed from sleep. She was slow to waken, like a sunflower that slowly lifted its face to the sun. Her expression was lost in a fog of wakening; he wondered if she’d had as restless a night as he. He hadn’t slept more than a wink all night on that rug on the floor, had passed the hours
staring at the ceiling, listening to her wrestle with her dreams.

As the glow of morning streaked across her face, Elizabeth opened her eyes and peered at him.

She blinked.

“There is food,” he said, “on the table by the fire. Porridge, warm bannocks, fresh tea. Màiri brought them a little while ago. Are you hungry?”

She nodded. “Famished.”

Elizabeth glanced to the small window across the room. “The sun, it has been out for some time. Why did you not waken me earlier?”

Douglas lied, “I was more tired than I thought I was. I slept late. ’Tis all right, though, the day promises clear so we’ll make good time.”

In truth, he had risen at dawn, ready to quit the place.

They ate their breakfast quickly and were on their way.

While Douglas went off to see to the horses, Elizabeth dressed, choosing a simple riding habit of black bombazine with a frothy cravat and tricorne. She was relieved to find a pair of stays that laced up the front among the things in her traveling valise, for she had no intention of asking Douglas to help her dress every morning. Unaccustomed to the dressing of her own hair, she simply brushed it free of tangles and plaited it down her back, tying it off with a snip of black riband.

The next few hours, and for that matter, the next few days, passed quickly enough, uneventful but for the occasional rain shower or lumbering flock of sheep. Elizabeth spent her time drinking in the Scottish
countryside—the cragged hills, the brilliant heather—it fascinated her unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The further they rode from England, it seemed, the more rugged the landscape became. Fine whitewashed stone cottages with quaint windows and bright flower boxes gave way to crude thatched huts tucked against stark mountain faces. Trees became sparse, almost impossible to find in some places, and the roads narrowed to little more than meandering pathways. An hour, sometimes several, would pass without seeing another living soul. When they did encounter anyone, it was most often barefoot urchins or hopeless mothers pulling carts filled with their only possessions.

These were the true victims of the failed rebellion. They would speak to Douglas in Gaelic, telling him how they had been driven from the hills, their homes put to ruin by the marauding English troops. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t joined the rebellion. The Duke of Cumberland, son of George II and leader of the English forces that had quashed the Jacobites, intended to ensure there would never be another rebellion in Scotland. Ever. They were Highlanders, and thus they were to be punished.

It was one night at an inn where they stayed deep in the Highlands that Douglas met up with a familiar face.

“Roderick!”

He was a young man, very near to Douglas in age. His hair was a sandy auburn and he was dressed in a dark coat and a plaid woven in shades of dark green and blue. His face was handsome—not in the rugged way of Douglas, but with finer features, his eyes softly gray.

When Douglas introduced him, Elizabeth found herself taken aback.

“Your brother? But I thought you told me your brother had . . . you said he . . .”

“That was my brother Iain. Roderick is my
foster
brother. He is a MacKenzie but we were raised together after my mother died. Roderick, this is Elizabeth.” He stared at him. “My wife.”

If the man found it astonishing to find Douglas suddenly in possession of a wife—an English wife at that—he didn’t outwardly show it.

“Indeed?” He glanced at Douglas, but that was all, then bowed over her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

“Elizabeth,” Douglas said then, “I’ve some things I need to discuss with Roderick. We’ll likely be up half the night, so why don’t you go on to bed? It’s been a long day and we’ve another, longer one on the morrow.”