Rose In Scotland (12 page)

My wife
. The possessive phrase exploded in his mind, and he took a few moments to savor its unexpected sweetness. Concern for Loch Haven and the simple struggle to stay alive had occupied all of his thoughts for more years than he cared to remember, and marriage was something he’d never allowed himself to consider. But the few times such thoughts had crept into his mind, he’d imagined marrying some fire-haired Highland lass, a woman of a neighboring clan who’d fill his days with contentment and his nights with searing passion. The last thing he expected was that he’d one day agree to a temporary marriage of convenience with a golden-haired English aristocrat. It was too ludicrous by half.

“Mr. MacColme?” A soft, hesitant voice jolted him out of his musings, and he glanced up to find Caroline regarding him with a worried look on her face.

“Is everything all right, sir?” she asked, her blue eyes filled with concern as she studied him.

He unfolded his arms, forcing himself to relax as he met her gaze. “We are husband and wife, Caroline. I do not think we shall risk censure were you to call me by my given name,” he said, his lips curving in a teasing smile. “It is Hugh.”

Her cheeks grew delightfully flushed, but her expression remained somber. “Hugh,” she agreed, still studying him. “Is something amiss? You look as if something is troubling you.”

Her acuity surprised him, and he cast about in his mind for some explanation. “I am only thinking of all that is to be done.” It was as close to the truth as he dared go. “We’ve some hectic days ahead of us, so perhaps it is best we were making our plans.”

She looked surprised and then intrigued. “What sort of plans?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

“Your uncle and how best to deal with him is our first concern,” he said. “The general sent him a note yesterday announcing our marriage, so I think we can expect him to be waiting on our doorstep when we arrive. Don’t worry,” he added when he saw her eyes widen, “I’ll keep you safe. If the
rabiator
thinks to cause mischief, he’ll learn soon enough the error of his ways.”

His vow of protection seemed to reassure her. Her look of uneasiness vanished, only to be replaced by a puzzled frown. “What is a rabiator?” she asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. “Is it Scottish?”

“Aye,” he said, managing not to laugh at her pronunciation. “It means a ruthless scoundrel, and from what I’ve heard of the earl, it is a term that suits him well.”

She nodded, not bothering to deny his charge. “That other word,” she began, peeking up at him through her lashes, “the one you called me after the blessing. Is it Scottish as well?”

He knew which word she was referring to, and reached out to capture her hand in his.
“Annsachd,”
he said, his gaze holding hers as he slowly removed her glove. “And ’Tis Gaelic.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss on the warm flesh. “It means
beloved.”

Her cheeks heated once again, but she didn’t attempt to free her hand.
“Annsachd,”
she repeated, her voice sounding slightly breathless. “It’s a beautiful word.”

Hugh’s fingers tightened about hers. How easy it would be to use his hold to pull her into his arms and taste her sweet lips, he mused, gazing at her lush mouth with mounting hunger. She was his wife; his to kiss and make love to as he pleased. It was a heady realization, made all the more intoxicating by the knowledge she didn’t seem repelled by his touch. For a moment he was wildly tempted to follow the urging of his body, but instead he released her hand and leaned back against the squabs.

“As I am not of your social class, I leave it to you to decide what is to be done,” he said, frustration and anger making his voice harsh. “But I warn you, if you think to parade me about in silks and velvet, my face painted up like a macaroni’s, you had best think again. And I’ll not wear a wig for anyone.”

Eyes which only moments before had been as luminous as a moonlit sea grew distant. “Wigs are usually worn by gentlemen of the court,” she
informed him, her manner as rigidly polite as his own. “But as they are no longer required, I am sure there will be no problem. What of your hair?” she added, her gaze briefly resting on his queue. “I note you do not powder it.”

“Nor do I intend doing so,” he said, scarcely believing he was spending his bridal journey discussing his coiffure. “I had enough of that nonsense in the army. You don’t powder yours either,” he added, gazing at the thick blonde hair arranged in an elaborate pile of frizzes and curls.

“It is falling out of fashion,” she replied, reaching up to touch her hair. “This new style is called
à le hérisson
; it is French, and all the rage. Do you like it?”

Hugh didn’t answer at first. As it happened, he spoke French, having learned it at university, and it took him but a few moments to translate the word. “Hedgehog?” he repeated, a wide grin splitting his face. “You are wearing a hedgehog on your head?” And he burst into laughter.

“It’s not a hedgehog, you wretch!” she exclaimed, tossing one of the long curls over her shoulder. “It is obvious you know nothing of fashion!”

“So I do not,” he agreed, his dark mood vanishing. “And I pray I may never learn if it means putting rodents upon my head. You English—you never cease to amaze me.”

They had gone several miles before his wife deigned speak to him again, and when she did it was with a brisk formality that made Hugh chuckle. It was obvious he had wounded her vanity with his laughter, and he knew he would have to work fast to put himself back in her good
books. Fortunately she wasn’t so miffed as to refuse to cooperate, and he listened to her plans for the next few days with growing respect. In addition to her deep-blue eyes, it was obvious she had also inherited her grandfather’s skill for organization as well.

“It seems a great deal of work for naught,” he commented, when she finished outlining her plans to introduce him to Society. “What does it matter what your London friends may think of our marriage? Once my business is done we shall be leaving for Edinburgh, and from there, God willing, to Loch Haven.”

There was a brief pause before she replied. “Grandfather and I are agreed that the more who know and accept our marriage, the better,” she said, her gaze fixed on the scenery outside the carriage window. “Uncle Charles will be hard-pressed to cause difficulties once everyone knows we are wed.”

Since it made sense, Hugh swallowed the rest of his objections. However much he might dislike the notion of scraping and bowing to a bunch of rich and arrogant lords, Caroline’s safety must come first. And, his common sense added, the more people he had on his side, the stronger his case. For the clan’s sake, he supposed he could drink a glass or two of punch.

“When do you think we should make our first appearance as man and wife?” he asked, putting aside his own feelings to concentrate on what must be done.

“Grandfather’s announcement should be in the papers in a matter of days,” Caroline replied. “But I think it best if we are established by then.
We could go to the theater; that is always a good place to be seen. Or we might attend a ball,” she added, looking thoughtful. “I am promised at a ball at Lady Gresham’s this evening. I’d thought to send a note of apology, but perhaps it might be better if we put in a brief appearance instead.” She glanced at him for a hint of his inclinations on the matter.

“The ball sounds fine,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “What rank does her ladyship hold? A countess?” The name was familiar to him, but he could not seem to place it.

“Duchess. Her husband is John, duke of Gresham.”

He was also one of the powerful men the general suggested he contact, Hugh remembered, and felt smugly pleased with the easy way everything was falling into place. He settled back against the cushioned seat when a sudden thought had him shooting straight up. “Will I have to dance?” he demanded, sending her a horrified look.

The smile she gave him was closer to a smirk. “It
is
a ball,” she reminded him, her tone dangerously sweet. “Some dancing is to be expected.”

“Hell.” He uttered the curse with heartfelt conviction. It had been over a decade since he last stepped foot upon a dance floor, and he could only imagine the fool he would make of himself. Mayhap ’Twould be better to attend the theater instead, he brooded, turning his head toward the window. At least then it wouldn’t be him who was providing the entertainment.

They stopped for tea at a small inn outside of
Reading, and while they dined Hugh took the opportunity to observe his wife. Her manners were impeccable, he noted, watching as she treated the inn’s staff with unfailing courtesy. Having been on the receiving end of snapped orders, oft accompanied by a swift kick to the backside, he could appreciate the degree of consideration she displayed to the servants.

As if sensing the weight of his gaze, she glanced up to give him a quizzing look. “Is your tea not to your liking, sir?” she inquired worriedly. “I can ring for another cup if you wish.”

“No. ’Tis fine,” he assured her, and to prove his point he lifted the cup to his lips for a healthy sip. “I was but trying to recall the last time I had so lovely a lady prepare my tea.”

A pleased flush touched her cheeks, and her lashes swept down over her eyes. “I wish my uncle might be present to hear you say so,” she said wryly. “I fear he thinks little of my feminine skills. Indeed, the last time we spoke he called me a shrew.”

The artless confession made Hugh pause. “And are you?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

She gave a light laugh. “And how am I to answer that, since I do not know what you might mean by the term?” she asked. “Have you much experiences with the species, sir?”

Hugh thought of Aunt Egidia and grinned. “Aye, that I have. But that doesn’t answer my question, Caroline. Are you a shrew?”

Her flush grew more pronounced, and he was amused to note she appeared to consider the matter before replying. “If speaking one’s mind and refusing to suffer fools gladly makes one a
shrew, I suppose there are many who would name me such,” she said, her gaze level as it met his. “And I am the first to admit I am possessed of a rather independent nature. That is why I had yet to wed. I treasure the little freedom I do enjoy, and I see no reason to place myself under some man’s thumb.”

Hugh stared at her with something akin to horror. He’d been comfortable regarding her as no more than a spoiled chit, too rich and too willful for her own good. Learning she was capable of feelings so similar to his own was decidedly disconcerting, and he felt an uncomfortable stab of guilt.

“Caroline,” he began, setting his cup aside and leaning forward to take her hand, “we’ve not yet talked about how we mean to conduct this marriage of ours, and I think this might be a good time to do so. To begin, I want you to know I have no intention of keeping you ‘under my thumb,’ as you put it. Within reason you may enjoy whatever freedom you please, and I’ll not try to stop you. I hope you would not think me such a tyrant as that.” He offered her a teasing smile. It was not returned.

“ ‘Within reason,’ ” she quoted, eyeing him coolly. “Might I ask what you mean by that?”

Hugh frowned. He’d thought his offer more than magnanimous, and could not like having it tossed back in his face. “I mean, ma’am, that short of picking up your skirts and dancing a jig in the middle of Piccadilly, you may do as you please.

“But,” he added, annoyed by her obstinacy, “I would caution you to remember you are now my
wife, the lady of Loch Haven, and I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly. I’ll countenance no behavior that reflects poorly on either my name or my honor.”

She was silent for several more seconds. “I see,” she said at last, pouring fresh tea in her cup and raising it to her lips.

He waited impatiently, but when she made no further comment he shot her an impatient scowl. “And what, madam, is it that you see?”

“That I was right to avoid the married state,” she informed him in a voice edged with ice. “It would seem to contain little to recommend it to a lady of even moderate intelligence. I thank God I need only endure it for a year before being truly free. I shall live for that day, Mr. MacColme. It cannot come soon enough to suit me.”

I
t was early evening when the carriage halted before her grandfather’s residence on Hanover Street. Caroline cast the imposing edifice a worried glance as Hugh lifted her down from the carriage. She’d walked past the house any number of times, but she’d never been inside. Now she would be entering it as the temporary mistress, and as a married woman. The prospect was most daunting.

“Caroline?” Hugh’s hands lingered on her waist, and she glanced up to find him studying her. “Is something wrong?”

She shook off her trepidations to give him a quick smile. “Everything is fine,” she replied. “I was but wondering if Uncle might be waiting inside.”

Hugh’s expression darkened ominously. “If he is, you are to leave him to me. I’ve dealt with bullies before, and I know how best to deal with his sort.”

Caroline’s gaze dropped to the sword he’d buckled about his lean hips. “You aren’t going to kill him, are you?”

“Only if he deserves killing,” came the oblique
reply as he turned her toward the door. “If he keeps a civil tongue in his head and makes no move to cause you harm, he may live to be one hundred for all of me, If not …” He shrugged, leaving the threat to dangle tantalizingly.

The alacrity with which the front door was opened made it plain their arrival had not gone unnoticed. A short, plump man in butler’s togs stepped forward to greet them.

“I am Begley, His Grace’s butler,” he said, bowing first to Caroline and then to Hugh. “Pray allow me bid you welcome to Hawkeshill House.”

“Thank you, Begley,” Caroline said, standing quietly as Hugh removed her cloak and handed it to the waiting footman. “Have we had any callers?”

The butler proved his worthiness by not pretending to misunderstand. “The earl of Westhall was here not a quarter of an hour past,” he said, his gaze flicking to Hugh. “He wished to wait, but I had orders from His Grace he was not to be admitted under any circumstance. His lordship was …” He paused delicately. “… most distressed.”