When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (18 page)

They walked a while in silence, the sound of the wind pushing lingering clouds back out to sea, the recent rain and fresh mud and quenched grass scenting the air green and brown and white. But she could not see the charm of Netherdunnie, as she had yesterday. She could only feel the ever-growing dread that had begun the moment she’d watched James stalk past his mother’s front gate without a word or even a glance for her, his wife.

Viola tried to reassure herself that he would not betray her, that there was nothing to fret about. Even Mam had implied that James’s infatuation with Alison was more the product of youth than heartfelt devotion. But she could not quite dislodge the thought that he had wanted to marry Alison.
Planned
to marry Alison. And he had tried mightily to avoid marrying Viola.

“It’s just over this rise,” said Nellie, gesturing ahead to where the road topped a roll in the land, splitting a low stone wall. “We shall retrieve my daft brother an’ ye shall see there be nothin’ tae worry ye.”

In minutes, they were treading the pathway to the long, narrow stone farmhouse. The front door was painted white and flanked by pretty red flowers. Nellie knocked. They waited. Viola’s heart pounded furiously, wondering what this woman would look like. Wondering what James would say when he saw that Viola had followed him.

Nellie knocked again, and again there was no response. She shrugged. “Luiks as though naebody—”

The door opened. An old, bent crone wearing a filthy mobcap gazed at them with milky eyes. “That ye, Nellie Abernathy?”

“Aye, Mrs. Campbell. How’s aw wi’ ye?”

“Storms cause ma boons tae curl oop an’ stab ma flesh. Apart frae that, I canna compleen.”

Viola prayed that this haggardly woman with the incomprehensible speech was James’s boyhood love and that he’d taken one look at the wizened old face and sagging, misshapen gown and run in the opposite direction. Alas, she was reasonably certain that could not be true. It would simply be too fortuitous.

After a baffling exchange of Scottish politesse, Nellie asked if the woman had seen James.

“Oh, aye. He’s oop on the brae.”

Viola frowned, thoroughly frustrated to realize she had no idea what the woman had said. Apparently, Mam and Nellie softened their brogue for her benefit.

Nellie had no trouble, however, and nodded, thanking Mrs. Campbell before turning to Viola. “He is on a hill, just the other side of the hoose. It is a special place tae the Campbell clan.” She turned and led the way down a path that wound around the farmhouse, past a row of apple trees, and through a patch of kitchen garden.

The wind came up, buffeting Viola and plastering her skirts to her legs. As they began to climb, she lowered her head and picked her way along the path behind Nellie, trying to decide what she would say when she finally saw him. Wondering if he would tell her she had worried herself over nothing. Wondering if the closeness she’d felt on their wedding night had been real or if she’d merely wanted him too much to see the truth.

She raised her eyes when she saw Nellie’s muddy boots and sprigged skirt, halted and swaying several yards away. Tilting her head so she could see past the brim of her bonnet, Viola followed Nellie’s gaze. At the crest of the hill, beneath a copse of old willows, stood James, his head bent, his arm braced against the trunk of the tree. And a woman stood beside him—tall and lean with glossy brown hair, wearing a dark gray gown.

The wind blasted through Viola’s pelisse. But she did not feel it.

She could not feel anything. Her flesh had gone numb.

Distantly, she heard Nellie say something. Her name, likely.

But she could only hear the drumbeat of blood in her ears. The echo of every time he had said he did not want her.

Because until this moment, she’d not believed him.

Until this moment, when she watched another woman—the woman he
did
want—reaching up and pulling his head down for a kiss.

Now, Viola knew. He’d never deceived her. No, she had done that entirely to herself.

“… Viola, dearie. It canna be …”

She shook her head. And turned. And stumbled to her knees.

Now, she was covered in mud. It smeared silver silk and white embroidery. She tried to stand, but her boots slipped on the slick ground.

Hands lifted her. Arms came around her shoulders.

“… home, lass. Everythin’ will be weel. I shall bash his fool, muckle heid fer this …”

If she’d still possessed a voice, Viola would have told Nellie that James did not deserve her anger. Viola had brought this upon herself. With great persistence and indomitable will, she had chased James Kilbrenner, a man who had not wanted to be caught. She had trapped him into marriage. Hounded him straight off a precipice.

And if she now lay at the bottom of a ravine, flailing and gasping among the shattered ruins of her own heart, she had only herself to blame.

*~*~*

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Mistake! Spilling tea upon a lady’s slippers is a mistake. Setting the draperies on fire is a mistake. Dallying in the stable with not one but two footmen is a mistake. This is an outrage.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford regarding the abrupt dismissal of another lady’s maid for an act too outrageous to mention.

James felt so hollowed out he was surprised the wind didn’t whistle through his bones. He’d spent an hour in Alison’s company. She had changed somewhat—her grief had made her quieter, more solemn—but he’d noted her laugh was still the same, her humor warm and comfortable, her voice only a shade deeper than it had been when she was a lass. She’d looked well, her skin unlined, her hair still shining and smooth.

And he’d felt nothing. Not a twinge of longing or regret. Not a tug of attraction or a single thread of heat. In truth, he’d struggled to remember what had so enchanted his sixteen-year-old self. Alison was a good-natured woman. She smiled often and possessed an earthy simplicity that held a certain appeal, he supposed.

But she did not carry an entire skyful of stars in her eyes. She did not set him afire just by breathing his name. In point of fact, she was too tall, too angular, too plain. He did not wish to be uncharitable, but there it was.

She had, however, been kind enough to allow him to see his son’s grave. And she had stood with him. Wept with him. Told him he wasn’t to blame, that many children had died from the same fever, and there was nothing he could have done. He disagreed, but he hadn’t argued the point. Later, she’d even attempted to kiss him and offer him “comfort,” but after a moment of surprise at her boldness, he’d set her away and informed her he would seek comfort with his wife. She’d looked at him with sadness, nodded, and wished him well.

Now, he wanted only to see Viola. To kiss Viola. To feel Viola’s hands upon him and hear her say his name.

As he opened the gate to his mother’s cottage, the blue-painted door opened. Nellie stood in its gap, arms crossed, face tighter than he’d ever seen. He froze. “What is it? Mam? Is she—?”

“Ye, Jamie Kilbrenner, are daft! And a
man.
A daft, dense man, an’ ye deserve every bit of what’s comin’ yer way.” His sister then charged past him, smacking his shoulder with bruising force and shouting, “Fix it, blast ye!” as she slammed the gate closed behind her.

Rubbing his arm and reeling at the mercurial nature of women, he walked inside the cottage. Mam was seated in her parlor, knitting. He removed his hat and set it on a small table beside the door, then glanced around the room. All was quiet except for the faint clack of his mother’s needles.

“Mam, is Viola—”

“She is at the inn.”

He flinched at the coldness of Mam’s tone. She still had not looked up from her knitting. “What is—why would she go—”

“She intends tae hire a carriage. I told her the inn may have one or two.”

Running a hand through his hair, he stared at the woman who had birthed him, wondering if some foreign substance had been slipped into her tea. “Why in blazes would you tell her that? And why would she wish to hire a bloody carriage when we have a perfectly functional coach waiting to carry us to England?”

Mam sniffed. “Because she asked. As tae the second question, I assume she takes exception tae spending a day inside a coach with ye, son.”

He moved to sit beside her, and when she did not look up or stop knitting, he laid a hand over her wrist. “Mam, tell me what’s happening. I was gone an hour. I return and my wife has decided she cannot bear to be in my presence.”

Finally, Mam turned her eyes to him. They were filled with a mother’s pain, a mother’s disappointment. “Where were ye during that hour, Jamie?”

His heart thudded. Twisted. “I went to see Alison Campbell. You know that.”

“An’ what dae ye suppose yer wife thought when ye left her here withoot a word of explanation?”

He frowned. “You told her, then. About Alison.”

“Aye. Because she deserved to know.”

He ran a hand over his jaw. Now, he understood why Nellie had been angry. Viola had apparently overreacted to discovering that he had gone to see a woman he’d once loved. Nellie had never liked Alison, and she adored Viola. His sister was both fiercely loyal and a mite volatile. Likely she had painted a rather ugly picture for his wife. “I shall explain matters to Viola when I see her. You needn’t worry. This is simply a misunderstanding.”

Mam’s eyes turned stormy. “It was a misunderstandin’ that made ye kiss that dairymaid in front of yer wife, eh?”

Good God. He felt the blood drain away from his skin. She had seen? Viola had seen Alison kiss him?

“Honestly, Jamie. I thought better of ye. Alison Campbell is pleasant enough, I suppose, but yer wife is bonnie as a sunrise. An’ gracious an’ kindly, too. She could charm the fish from the sea. What were ye thinkin’?”

“I must go, Mam. I must find her.”

“Indeed, ye maun. Ye may wish tae beg her forgiveness, as weel.”

He stood and strode to the door, stuffing his hat on his head.

“An’ son?”

“Aye, Mam.”

Her eyes swam. “Dinna give up. Marriage binna always easy, but love is worthy of battle.”

He charged from the cottage, loping at an unseemly pace. As he passed, he shouted to the coachman waiting in Mam’s small stable to ready the carriage and meet him at the inn. Long strides carried him swiftly down the road to the south end of the village. By the time he entered the inn’s dark interior, his heart was pounding wildly.

He needed to see her. He needed to explain. Everything would come right if she would only listen to him.

“We dinna accept bonnets fer payment, m’lady. Nae matter how bonnie they be.”

He recognized the voice of the innkeeper, a rotund man who wheezed with an odd, rusty squeak at the end of every sentence. Turning into the inn’s common room, he saw her. Viola. And he could breathe again.

Her back was to him, her silver pelisse peculiarly bright in the dingy space. She was thrusting her bonnet into the fat man’s chest. The blue bonnet with the little white feathers. Her favorite, if he did not miss his guess.

“It is worth twice what you would charge for a post-chaise,” she said. “All I ask is that you—”

James swiped the bonnet from her fingers and spoke to the rotund, wheezing man who appeared to be losing his patience. “Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. We’ll have no need for a carriage, after all.”

The man straightened his waistcoat and nodded. “Weel-a-weel, m’lord.”

Viola had gone strangely still the moment James had spoken.

Gently, he took her arm and steered her out of the common room, through the entrance, and out to the inn’s courtyard. When he turned her to face him, he saw where mud had stained her pelisse in large, smeared patches. Her skin was ghostly. She refused to meet his eyes.

He sighed, feeling his gut tighten and burn. “Viola, what are you about, lass? Hmm? We have a coach.” He waved the bonnet in her line of sight. “You should not be trading this. You should be wearing it.”

She took the bonnet from his hands, running her fingers along the brim. Otherwise, she did not respond.

“What you saw … it wasn’t … I pushed her away, Viola. That was her kissing me, not the other way ’round.”

She winced as though he’d trod upon her tiny feet.

“Say something, lass.”

For a while, he thought she might never speak to him again. Never look at him again. Then, she did. And he wanted to howl.

With muted tones and admirable composure, she said, “If you will kindly pay for a post-chaise, I shall return to Northumberland on my own. Once there, I shall travel to Cheshire with my father, and he and I will find a way to free you from this marriage. An annulment may not be possible. A divorce will cause a scandal for a time, but you will undoubtedly survive it.”

All thoughts of explaining and apologizing fled from him like so much smoke. He could not tolerate this … this travesty. The light—that enchanting, Viola starlight—had gone out of her eyes. She talked of divorce as though it were possible, even reasonable. Deep inside, where he stored the dark pleasure of binding her to him forever, he caught fire.

She would not travel to Cheshire. She would not subject herself to such a scandal. And she bloody well would not leave him. He would never let her escape that easily.

Seeing the coach pull up from the corner of his eye, he moved toward her and inclined his head nearer to hers.

She stiffened and held her bonnet tightly over her midsection.

“Here is what will happen instead, lass.” He kept his voice low, but even he could hear the ominous rumble of fury that ran beneath it. “Ye will climb into this coach with me, and together, we will return tae Grimsgate. Then, we will gather our possessions, yer maid and my valet, and we will travel on tae Derbyshire, where ye will live as my wife an’ the mistress of Shankwood Hall.” He hovered closer, his mouth near her ear. “There will be nae more talk of annulment or divorce or even a wee separation.” He noted with satisfaction that her breathing had quickened. Good. Perhaps she was sensing how bloody furious he was. “Ye wanted this marriage, Viola. Ye wanted me. Ye bluidy well ran me tae ground sae ye could have yer way. An’ now ye’ve caught me, ye canna simply loose the trap ye’ve set. It’s sprung. Ye’re as caught as I. Ye’d best resign yerself tae it, fer I dinna intend tae let ye go.”

The coach waited behind her. He waited for her to protest or express outrage. She did neither. Instead, she turned, nodded to the footman who held the door for her, and climbed inside with regal calm.

Watching her, his fury should have abated. She had acquiesced to his wishes. His breathing should be quieting. He should be calm. But he was not.

Acid churned in his gut and in his veins. He wanted to touch her, to lift her hand to his cheek and force her to gaze at him with something other than dull grief. He’d anticipated that she would regret forcing this marriage upon them both, that she would come to realize how ill suited they were. But he’d expected her to balk upon discovering his humble origins or the reality of lying with a man of his size. Not this. Not going colorless and stricken as though he’d broken the light inside her.

Remorse, cold and sour, turned his fury to ash. A rough breeze buffeted him, carrying with it the scent of sunlight warming the damp Scottish mud.

She will come ’round,
he reassured himself, feeling desperation squeeze his ribs and lungs.
She is overwrought at realizing the consequences of her pursuit. She’ll settle into a better understanding when you bring her to Shankwood. She is a born countess.

Yes, that would do it. She would see that she was his wife. That she belonged to him and he to her. Surely, she would recover her good sense, and this rubbish about divorce would be but a memory.

“My lord?” the footman said, gesturing toward the interior of the coach.

Consciously relaxing his fists and jaw, James nodded and removed his hat before climbing inside to sit beside his wife. She was tucked into the opposite corner, her bonnet beside her on the seat, her arms folded across her middle, her face turned away from him.

The coach rocked as he settled upon the seat. The door closed with a click.

“Viola,” he ventured, his voice cracking. “I am sorry, lass.”

Her eyes closed. Her lips pressed together, a small crinkle of pain forming between her dark brows. She swallowed. “It is I who am sorry, James.” Her voice was a thread, dull and thin.

The carriage jerked into motion, rocking them both.

“Won’t you look at me?” he coaxed, uncaring that it sounded like a plea for mercy.

Her sigh turned into a small shudder. “I fear my head is paining me. I should like to sleep for a while.”

Not wanting to cause her another moment of hurt, he gave in, holding his silence. And after a time, her head indeed fell against the tufted wall, her sweet breasts rising and falling with an even rhythm. She slept through their stop at Coldstream, where he purchased some bread and ham and a bit of ale, packing it in a small basket for his wife, should she grow hungry later. When he returned to the coach, she was still asleep, her neck crooked in such a way that he anticipated she would find greater pain upon awakening.

Setting his basket upon the opposite seat, he slowly, gently crouched next to his wife’s sleeping form. The mud upon her lovely silk pelisse had dried to a dusty stain.
She must have fallen,
he thought. His chest ached for some reason. He rubbed absently at the spot where the top button of his waistcoat met his cravat.
I need to hold her,
he decided. That thought eased the pain in his chest a bit.

Taking the greatest of care not to disturb her, he slipped his arms beneath her knees and behind her back. Then, in one smooth motion, he sat upon the seat, settling her tiny, precious weight upon his lap.

She sighed sweetly, her head coming to rest in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, her bottom settling upon his thighs. He cradled her against him, letting his hands stroke her fine-boned back and shoulders and arms. Letting his fingers trace the skin along her jawline, hover over her rose-petal lips. She breathed against him, dampening and heating his finger. Her hand came up to tuck itself over the spot where he’d felt that peculiar knot of pain earlier. Her touch unraveled it. Her sweet, soft breaths and the motion of the coach lulled his senses, soothed him until he, too, grew drowsy. Cuddling her closer, he wrapped his wee bonnie wife in his arms and fell asleep to the music of wind blowing and wheels turning and his own heart steadying its panicked beat at last.