The Pretender (8 page)

Caroline pulled her tear-streaked face away from her mother’s neck to look at him, sniffed, blinked twice, then nodded.

He smiled at her and touched a fingertip under her
chin. “What were you thinking then? Were you trying to become a marmalade in your da’s big jam jar there?”

The lass smiled at him. A collective wave of relief passed over the room, and eight-year-old Caroline Henrietta Phillipa Drayton silently vowed that funny name or not, she would love the bloody Scot for the rest of her life.

Douglas heard voices coming from inside the formal drawing room as he made his way down the hallway.

It had been nearly two hours since his meeting with the duke and the subsequent rescue of his daughter, two hours during which Douglas had walked the periphery and intersecting pathways of the duke’s knot garden, and then, because he didn’t have anything else to do, had walked them all again.

He hadn’t seen Elizabeth since the incident in the study with the urn. When peace had been restored and the broken porcelain had been swept away, she’d followed her sisters from the room without giving him a backward glance. Douglas told himself to be glad of her indifference, that whenever she was near, trouble wasn’t far behind. The less he saw of her then, the better.

Several times, however, while he’d been walking in the garden, a small part of him almost seemed to sense her presence on the gentle waft of the breeze, as if she were there but somehow hidden from view. Once, he even thought he’d caught a glimpse of her passing by a window, but decided it was probably nothing more than the flutter of a curtain, a shift of the light.

As for her father, Sudeleigh had also retreated after their meeting and had yet to give Douglas an answer to
the proposal he’d made. After he’d freed the wee lassie from the urn, the man had said simply he needed time to consider it more closely and had holed himself up behind the closed door of his study ever since.

If there was one thing Douglas didn’t have, it was time. He was needed at home, had been gone from there too long, and with or without the duke’s blessing, married or no, he had every intention of resuming his journey home on the morrow.

As he neared the drawing room door, Douglas happened to catch a glimpse of himself in the hall pier glass. He was unshaven, his clothing rumpled from two days’ wear, and his shoes looked as if they’d just walked all the way from London, which indeed they had. It was no wonder they all looked on him as they had. He looked every bit the shabby, impoverished,
barbaric
Scot they believed him to be. But then, when he’d set out from London a handful of days before, he’d never expected he’d find himself calling at the home of the Duke of Sudeleigh. Nor had he expected to end up the man’s son-in-law, either.

Only the duke and another gentleman, whose back was to Douglas, were present in the drawing room when he arrived. Douglas hesitated in the doorway, taking in their rich coats, tailored knee breeches, and polished shoes. Absently he ran a hand back through his hair to neaten it.

“Ah, MacKinnon, there you are,” said Sudeleigh. “Allow me to introduce you to—”

“Douglas! Good God, is that you?”

“Allan,” Douglas answered, genuinely taken aback at
the sight of a familiar face in such an unfamiliar surrounding.

It had been probably a dozen years or more since the two had seen each other, but there was no mistaking that square jaw and dimpled chin, the shrewd dark eyes that caught every detail, sign of the true artist himself. The two men shook hands warmly. “This is unexpected,” Douglas said.

“I should say it is.”

“You are acquainted with Mr. MacKinnon, Ramsay?” asked the duke.

“Aye, your grace. We were at university together.”

“University?” The man looked incredulous, as if the artist had just told him they’d once met on the face of the moon.

“As a matter of fact, your grace,” said the artist, “Douglas’s uncle, the MacKinnon chief, was the subject of one of my first skilled portraits. I traveled all the way to Skye just to paint him. A great man he is, Iain Dubh MacKinnon.” Ramsay looked at Douglas. “How do things fare at Dunakin?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. I’ve just learned we lost young Iain at Culloden.”

Ramsay’s expression dimmed. “ ’Tis a terrible loss. So young. But try, if you can, to take heart in his passing. Your brother was a warrior in every sense of the word and left this world in the way he would have wanted. Fighting.”

“Aye, what you say is true.” Noticing the duke’s interest, Douglas quickly turned the conversation away from his family. “So how fares your da? Still living in that goose pie of a house in Edinburgh?”

“Aye, that he is. Still calls it that, too. In fact it is known across town now as Auld Ramsay’s Goose Pie.”

“Och, no. You canna be serious. It was meant as a jest when I called it that.”

“Aye, Douglas, but you know my da. Says ’tis the best name he’s heard yet to describe it. So the name just stuck.”

The three men chatted quietly over the next quarter hour, filling the time with commonplace topics, the weather, hunting, even card play. At precisely the stroke of eight, the ladies came into the room to join them.

From the moment they arrived, resplendent in silks and lace, Douglas forgot all about the duke and their discussion earlier that day. As soon as he saw them, as soon as he saw
her,
he was captivated.

Elizabeth wore her hair up, with thick glossy curls gracing her neck, a neck adorned by a single strand of pearls the same creamy color as her skin. Her gown, cut low over her breasts, was a smoky blue satin edged in golden lace that glimmered beneath the candlelight whenever she moved. She was exquisite, a vision, indeed, like an apparition who could tempt a man with just the arch of her brow or a single crook of her finger. And all the while he was standing there watching her, marveling at her, yes, even desiring her, it never even occurred to Douglas, not once, that this same bewitching woman was his wife.

“Supper is now served, your grace,” said a footman who’d just come into the room. Douglas had been so intent on Elizabeth, he hadn’t noticed the man’s arrival.

“Indeed,” said the duchess, “then we shall all move on into the dining room.”

The duke, however, called Douglas back, motioning for the duchess to go on with the others. “We’ll join you in just a moment, pet.”

When they were alone, Sudeleigh turned to face Douglas. The expression on his face was grave, purposeful. He’d apparently reached his decision in the matter of this marriage.

“Your grace.”

“A question, if you please, sir, before I make my answer to your proposal.”

Douglas inclined his head. “Aye.”

“Why did you conceal from me the fact that you were of the Scottish nobility? Mr. Ramsay made mention of your estate, Dunakin. That would make you the Earl of Dunakin?”

“The title was forfeit with the land. I hid nothing, your grace. You simply saw what you wanted to see. A poor, uneducated
bloody
Scot who had seized the opportunity to wed a duke’s daughter.”

The duke’s face colored only slightly at having been overheard earlier that day.

“Few farmers can tell the difference between a Ming vase and a Japanese imitation,” he said. “Apparently few dukes can either.” Sudeleigh smirked at himself. “I don’t suppose you’ve told my daughter the truth of your identity.”

“Like her father, your grace, Lady Elizabeth saw only what she wanted to see. I saw no reason to tell her otherwise.”

The duke stared at him for a long moment. Finally he said, “Mr. MacKinnon, as I’m sure you must be aware, if I were to seek the annulment of your marriage to my
daughter, it would produce a scandal of unfathomable proportion in London.”

“I cannot see that anyone would care.”

“I would care a great deal, as it could have an effect on my position at Court. Obviously I am reluctant to arouse such a stew of gossip, but at the same time, I am also a father who loves his daughter, and thus does not wish her to live a life of unhappiness.”

Douglas merely nodded.

“I’m sure you are aware that my daughter has a tendency to be . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “A bit headstrong.”

Douglas saw no reason to affirm the obvious.

“She was our first, and I have been too indulgent with her, I admit. She has never had to learn what it is to face the consequences of her deeds. I come to think, however, after this most recent affair, that she is badly in need of a lesson. I would like to propose a counter-offer, if you will, to your proposal. I will grant you my sponsorship in the petition for the return of your lands
and
your earldom, and I will guarantee you an audience with the king, in exchange for your cooperation in an annulment—only after you take my daughter with you back to Skye and live with her there for the space of two months.”

Douglas’s mouth dropped open. “You canna be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. I believe there is a term for such a thing in Scotland. What is it called? Handfasting? Well, consider this to be like a handfasting. . . .”

“Your Grace—”

“Allow me to finish, MacKinnon. As part of the bargain, I do not wish for you to reveal the truth of your
circumstances to Elizabeth. She got herself wed to a man she believes is but a poor Scottish farmer. She must therefore see what it is to be a poor Scottish farmer’s wife.”

Douglas frowned. “Such a deception does not sit easily with me.”

“MacKinnon, regardless of my other imperfections, which my wife would tell you are many, I do believe in the sanctity of marriage. I cannot in good conscience seek to annul what the good Lord has brought together, whatever his reasons, without giving it a sporting chance. I also cannot allow my daughter to continue to skirt responsibility for what she does. If, after two months, the two of you still wish this marriage dissolved, and if you give me your word as a gentleman that there has been no consummation of the marriage, I will petition the Crown myself for an annulment, regardless of the scandal or damage it might do to my name at Court. Otherwise, if you refuse my request and do not take Elizabeth with you back to Skye, I will have you brought before the courts, the
English
courts, on charges of deserting your wife. And as for your lands. . .” Sudeleigh played his final card. “I understand His Majesty is considering deeding those estates formerly held by the Jacobites to his loyal
Sassenach
subjects, in hopes of preventing a further insurrection by the Young Pretender.”

Douglas’s vision blurred. “Bastard! This is absolute blackmail!”

“That, sir, is what your people term it. I prefer to call it a simple bargaining maneuver. Be that as it may,
MacKinnon, these are my stipulations. The choice, and its outcome, are entirely yours.”

Douglas felt as if his insides had just turned to solid stone.

Why had he stayed when she’d asked him to that night? Why hadn’t he listened to his better sense and gone, regardless of her fear, regardless of her pleading with him to stay? He could be halfway to Skye by now, untroubled . . . and unmarried. If only she hadn’t looked at him with those bewitching hazel eyes, eyes that somehow reached to his very soul.

Both he and the duke knew well that Douglas had no choice in the matter. He needed the annulment just as much as she did. But more than that, he wanted his lands, and he would do just about anything to get them back.

Even if it meant he had to play at being a husband for a couple of months.

“It is agreed, your grace.”

Having won, the duke quietly nodded.

As the Scotsman turned and strode from the room, his effort to contain his rage was evident in his very stride. Standing behind him, the duke couldn’t help but smile. For he had seen the way MacKinnon had looked at his daughter when she came into the room, how he hadn’t been able to take his eyes from her. He knew well that look. He knew well what it meant. It was the same look he himself had had for his own Margaret that night at the opera, the first time he’d seen her after his return from the Continent nearly a quarter century before.

It was the look of desire—undeniable, unavoidable, unintended desire.

And
that
was the finest kind of desire of them all.

The duke waited until the last of the supper’s six courses had been served before making his announcement.

“You want me to do
what?
”

Elizabeth nearly choked on a spoonful of her lemon syllabub. Always her favorite sweet, the spiced cream went quickly sour in her mouth. As she chased it down with a small sip of mint tea, she could only hope that she hadn’t heard him right.

She prayed that Caroline might have coughed, or Agamemnon had barked, or the clock in the hall had been chiming nine o’clock, anything to explain why she’d
thought
she’d heard those most impossible words.

But if she’d been mistaken, if her father hadn’t just said that, then why had everyone else sitting around the table suddenly fallen so silent, unless . . .

Oh, God.
She had heard him right.

Not for a single moment during the ride home from Scotland and in the hours since they’d returned had
Elizabeth even once considered the possibility that her father would want her to stay married to the Scot. The Duke of Sudeleigh, after all, was a sensible man.

Well, most of the time, anyway.

“Surely you’re not saying you mean for me to
stay
married to him, that you mean for me to
live
with him? No, Father, you couldn’t have said those things. For if you had, that would only mean you haven’t considered even one of the surely ten thousand and twenty-three reasons why we”—she looked at the Scotsman and decided she really didn’t wish to speak of them as one—“why Mr. MacKinnon and I cannot possibly spend eternity together, beginning with the fact that we are complete and utter strangers and have absolutely nothing in common with one another. This is not what I expected of you. Not at all.”

“Is that so?” The duke crossed his arms. “Then tell me, just what did you expect me to do when you returned home with this bit of news, Elizabeth?”

She faltered. “I . . . I expected you would write a letter, or send for your solicitor, or do whatever else it might take to terminate this . . . this matrimonial pretense!

“I don’t even know how I allowed Isabella to convince me to do it in the first place. All I can think is that it must have been the effects of that wretched whisky. It befuddled me, but you have no such excuse. I mean really, Father, what can you possibly be thinking?”

The duke looked at her across the length of that crowded supper table.

“What I am thinking, Elizabeth Regina, is that I’m a man who believes there is a reason behind everything
that happens. And whatever it is—be it the work of the Lord, the saints, or even the spirit of your dead grandmother—there is a reason why you came to be the wife of Mr. MacKinnon.”

“This was Isabella’s doing, Father, not the Lord’s, certainly not Grandmother Minna’s. Grandmother would never approve of something so unconventional as this.”

“Unconventional as it may be,” the duke said, “I cannot in good conscience seek to put a marriage—any marriage—asunder precipitately. The bond of matrimony is a sacred thing. Did I not wed your dear mother even though I was a young man and had never before laid eyes upon her? At the time, I did not wish to marry anyone, much less a girl of thirteen, but I did so out of respect for the wishes of my parents”—he looked at his duchess—“and it was the best decision I have ever made.”

Elizabeth frowned. This was getting nowhere. She tried another approach. “So, fine, then I’ll stay married to him for the two months if that is what you wish. But why must you send me all the way to Skye as well?”

“Because your husband is needed there, and as his wife, it is your duty to go with him.”

Husband . . .

Wife . . .

Duty.

The words sent a distasteful shudder weaving down her backside.

Elizabeth scarcely realized her father was still talking, until he said, “So I have discussed the matter thoroughly with Mr. MacKinnon, and together we have determined upon this compromise.”

Together?

She turned on the Scotsman. “And did either of you ever once consider that perhaps
I
might like to be included in this discussion? Particularly as it does pertain to me, and to the rest of my life, did you not think I should have some say about what I think is best?”

The duke stood his ground. “That is precisely what got you into this entanglement in the first place, Elizabeth, thinking you knew what was best. Which is precisely why I am not inviting your commentary now. This has already been decided for you. You will travel with Mr. MacKinnon to his homestead on Skye, and will live with him as his wife for the next two months. And that is my final word on the matter.”

He was serious, truly, horribly, serious. This was not some hideous jest. Or a nightmare she might hope to wake from. This was
real
.

The beginnings of a severe headache pressed sharply against Elizabeth’s forehead, causing her to wrinkle her brow. What had happened to her father? Why was he refusing to see how ridiculous this was? Why wasn’t he listening to her?

In the face of his obvious pigheadedness, Elizabeth did the only thing she could think of. She turned to the duchess.

“Mother . . .”

Her grace, bless her shoe buckles, came immediately to her daughter’s defense. “Alaric, I cannot help but agree that Elizabeth would be ill suited to life as a farmer’s wife.” She quickly added, “I mean no offense, Mr. MacKinnon.”

The Scotsman merely shrugged. “No offense is taken, your grace.”

Elizabeth turned to him. “Do you mean to say you honestly agree with this . . . this absurd stipulation?”

He nodded over a sip of wine. “Aye, lass, I do.”

“But you didn’t even wish to get married. If you will recall, you were forced to do it.”

“Aye, but I find I’ve had a change of heart, lass.”

“What?”

“Aye.” He looked at her. “After speaking with your da, I’ve opted to give you a go.”

“
You
’ve opted to give
me
a go?” Elizabeth’s vision blurred. “How dare y—!”

She drew up, narrowed her eyes, and prepared to launch into a storm of invective—until a realization suddenly and clearly dawned on her.

“Of course. You saw this house and everything in it and thought you’d just stepped into a fortune, didn’t you?” She looked to her father. “Can you not see what he is about, Father? No doubt he assumes the longer he stands fast, the more you’ll pay just to be rid of him.”

But the duke didn’t seem concerned, not at all. “Truth be told, Elizabeth, at first I offered Mr. MacKinnon any sum he chose to agree to the annulment, but he refused it.”

“Of course he refused it. He’s a cattle drover! He knows what it is to bargain for the most lucrative price. You’re a duke, and I’m your oldest daughter, so he must realize you would give him anything he wanted to—”

“Actually, I tend to believe he would have agreed to the annulment for nothing.”

Nothing?
Then why didn’t he?

Something wasn’t right, and when the two men
exchanged a private glance, Elizabeth knew there was something about the matter she wasn’t being told.

She lifted her chin. “And if I should refuse to go with him?”

The duke’s expression sobered. “I thought this might be your response, Elizabeth, so I have come up with a compromise for you.”

“Compromise?” This brought Elizabeth forward in her chair. “What sort of compromise?”

The duke leveled her a stare. “If you will give me your word that you will try, really try to make the best of this marriage for the next two months, and if you still wish for the annulment afterward, I will petition the Crown myself for it. Furthermore, I will settle on you an annuity that will allow you to live comfortably for the duration of your life. I will never again beleaguer you with prospective husbands or make any attempt to influence you to marry. You may live here at Drayton Hall, or you may even take up residence at one of the other properties, if you so desire. They most of them stand empty as it is. The choice is up to you.”

Elizabeth could only stare at her father, dumbfounded. “Even the house in London?”

“Yes, Elizabeth,” the duke said calmly. “Even the house in London.”

London.

All her life, Elizabeth had dreamed of living a life of her own in that wonderful, extraordinary city among the noise and the people and the hundreds of millions of
things
that simply awaited her pleasure—the theatre, the museums, the menagerie in the Tower. She could dress however she liked, even if it wasn’t considered “
fashionable,” and eat porridge for supper if the mood struck her. She would surround herself with a circle of acquaintances from every walk of life—writers, scientists, politicians, even royalty. She would hold soirees where they would have intelligent discussion about literature and other topics of the day amongst both men and women together. And she would write,
oh,
would she write. . . .

The duchess spoke up then, breaking Elizabeth from her grand imaginings.

“Alaric, do you realize what it is you are saying?”

“Yes, Margaret, I do. Believe me when I say I have given this quite a lot of thought. From the time she was a little girl, Elizabeth has always told us she has no wish to marry. To this day, she has never wavered in that wish. I simply want her to see what it is she is refusing before she resigns herself to a life of solitude. So I am just choosing to delay a bit before seeking an annulment. The damage is done. They are already wed and there will be a scandal no matter what comes of it. So we might as well take advantage of the opportunity that has presented itself. Trial marriages have been done in Scotland for centuries. Whether she wants to believe it or not, I do want Elizabeth’s happiness, and if this is what it takes, and she will agree to spend the two months on Skye as I am asking, then I am willing to make this compromise.” He took up his glass of wine and swallowed a sip. “Granted, of course, that at the end of these two months, the marriage has not been consummated.”

There was silence from around the table as everyone considered the duke’s most unconventional proposal.

Finally, it was the littlest one who spoke first.

“Father?”

“Yes, Caroline?”

“What does that word mean?”

“Which word, my dear?”

“Um . . . that word you said.
Consummate.
”

The duke looked across the table at his wife. “Margaret, why is the child not yet in bed?”

“I thought, after the ordeal she went through earlier today with the vase, that she could . . .” At the duke’s deepening frown, the duchess gave it up and called for a maid to come and take charge of her daughter.

Caroline, of course, immediately protested.

“But Mama, I haven’t yet finished my syllabub!”

“You’ve had more than enough, Caroline, dear. Your father is right. After-supper conversation is not appropriate for young girls. It is time for all you little ones to go off to bed now. Good night, sweetings.”

“Ohh,”
chorused the younger three Draytons.

While her sisters gave their mother sulky parting kisses, Elizabeth sat at the other end of the table, chewing over her father’s offer.

Two months alone with the Scotsman.

In exchange she would receive a lifetime of freedom, to do what she wanted, when she wanted.

Could she survive it?

Elizabeth smiled.

It would be the easiest thing she had ever done.

“Good night, Bess.”

Elizabeth looked up to see that Caroline had finished circling the table and was standing before her now, arms open, waiting. The sight of her small face immediately
made the troubles she faced melt away into the background.

When Elizabeth had heard Caroline’s screams earlier that evening, and had seen her tiny body knotted so tightly inside that urn, she had known, truly known, how terrible a thing fear could be. She’d been paralyzed by it, unable to think what they should do to free her. But she hadn’t had to think. She hadn’t had to do a thing. It had been MacKinnon who had known, who had acted without hesitation and without a care for whether the vase he shattered were a priceless treasure or a clever copy.

Elizabeth realized then she had never thanked him for it.

“Sweet dreams, puss,” she said and kissed Caroline on the tip of her nose. “Off with you now.”

But when she reached the door, where her nursemaid awaited, Caroline paused a moment, then turned slowly to make her way back across the room.

“Good night to you, too, Mr. Dubh.”

Elizabeth watched as the Scotsman smiled warmly at her sister, not in the way adults generally did, but with genuine, heartfelt affection.

“Good night there, wee lassie,” he said tucking a finger underneath her chin. “Now you hie yourself off to your dreams and no more trying to be a pretty marmalade in a jam jar, aye?”

Caroline smiled. “Thank you again for saving me today, sir. I shall never forget it.”

She reached up then, wrapping her tiny arms tightly around his great neck. And then Caroline did the unimaginable. She kissed the man on the tip of his cragged nose, just as Elizabeth had always done to her,
whispering to him in a voice that only Elizabeth could hear.

“And if Bess decides not to be married to you anymore, don’t be sad. When I grow up, I will marry you.”

The Scotsman grinned and kissed Caroline on the nose in return. “I’ll be certain to remember that, lassie.”

It was well into the early hours of morning when Douglas finally resigned himself to the fact that he was not going to achieve sleep with any success. He’d spent several hours since supper lying in the bed he’d been given for the night, staring at the pattern of light cast by the moon across the decorative plasterwork ceiling. The fire in the hearth was nearly spent. The rest of the family had long since retired, and he hadn’t heard a servant walking in the hall in over an hour. Any moment and the clock ticking against the wall was going to strike the unholy hour of two.

When it did, Douglas finally got up and headed off for a quiet walk through the house.

This restlessness he felt was really nothing new to him; it was a feeling he had known since he’d been a lad. When he was home at Dunakin and unable to sleep, he would often climb the tower stairs to the castle ramparts, looking out over the sleepy waters of Loch Alsh. He would think about his father living far away in France, outlawed from his homeland for standing by what he’d believed in. His hands would rest on the same mortar and pitted sandstone that had protected the MacKinnons for over five centuries, and he would draw comfort from the wisdom, the honor of his ancestors who had stood on
those same ramparts before him, the sons of kings, warriors, men of honor.