A Borrowed Scot (11 page)

“Is it?” he asked, his eyes glittering in the semidarkness.

She nodded. “It’s like putting on a pair of leather gloves after they’ve been treated. Snug, but not uncomfortable.”

“You’re feeling a little snug yourself,” he said. “Whereas, I’m feeling pretty damn good.”

He drew slowly out as she watched his face. All amusement gone, his expression was now intent.

Her hips rose again as if to entreat him to reconsider. He entered her again, taking his time, deepening the penetration. She felt a slight pinch, but nothing more than that.

Her hips rose when he left her, fell when he returned, repeated the dance with her hands clenched on his shoulders, her eyes wide, her gaze fixed on his face. He braced himself on his forearms, entering her, then pulling out just as gently, a slow, measured, careful seduction.

Her breath caught; her throat unexpectedly closed on tears.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, closed her eyes, and held him as the rhythm between them quickened. He reached down between them with one hand, stroking her, coaxing pleasure with his fingers. She shivered where he touched, felt herself falling into darkness, then soaring higher. Her body bowed, arched up to meet his, and she cried out in surprise as pleasure washed through her again.

He buried his face in her hair as his body tightened. A second later, he whispered her name, drawing out the syllables in a voice turned silky, then collapsed on top of her.

She kept her eyes shut, her hands smoothing over his shoulders and the broad planes of his back, reveling in his body lying heavy on hers as if he claimed her still.

Too soon, he rolled over, his forearm over his eyes.

Was he disappointed in her? For long moments, they remained like that, neither speaking, or moving toward the other. Had she done something wrong?

“I was not supposed to move,” she said in the silence.

He turned his head.

“A proper wife simply endures,” she said.

She glanced at him in the gray light. “Is it proper to couple in the middle of the day?”

“It’s not the middle of the day,” he said, turning away from her.

Did other women feel the same as she did? Her lips were swollen, her cheeks chafed by his emerging beard. Her breasts were different, somehow, as if they were larger, more sensitive. Beyond the physical sensations, she was filled with both contentment and confusion.

Were other women as amazed?

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, steeling herself for his cutting reply.

She told herself what they’d just experienced was mating, pure and simple. It had not been a spiritual joining or a deepening of their understanding of each other. They’d not become lovers; they’d merely consummated their marriage.

“Was it your aunt?” he asked. “Or your mother?” He turned his head and regarded her. “The person who told you that you shouldn’t enjoy the marriage bed?”

“My aunt.”

He nodded as if he’d suspected it.

“You did nothing wrong, Veronica,” he said, sitting up on the other side of the bed.

He didn’t say anything further, but she had the decided impression he could have filled volumes with what was left unsaid.

M
ontgomery moved from the bed to the washstand behind the screen. His trunks had been sent on to Doncaster Hall, so he went to his valise, where he’d packed enough clothes for the stopover in Inverness.

He believed in planning.

Planning had kept him sane.

Planning had kept him alive.

Planning had gone to hell the day he’d met Veronica MacLeod. Veronica Fairfax.

He didn’t like confined places, and the room was just small enough to qualify. The other reason for wanting to escape lay in the bed, hair tousled, lips well kissed, a flush coloring her cheeks, a lambent look in her eyes.

She’d managed to seduce him when all he’d wanted was to consummate his marriage.

He’d lost himself in her. Exquisite pleasure had taken over his mind, his memories, and any anxiety he felt about coming to Scotland. Even with the memory of their lovemaking barely faded, she tempted him.

He left the room without looking at Veronica again, knowing if he did, he’d probably return to the bed. Passion was an opiate stronger than drink. He wanted her again and after that, probably again.

Outside the hotel, the air was balmy, almost soft to the touch, reminding him of summers at Gleneagle, when heat boiled up from the ground, and the breeze off the river cooled his skin.

Carriages and pedestrians forced him away from memory for a time, into an appreciation of the wooden bridge stretching across the River Ness, and a sky turning purple with dusk.

At home, when he was restless, he’d stroll from room to room at Gleneagle, or spend some time reading the newspapers he’d ordered from Washington. If his mind wouldn’t settle, he’d leave the house and walk down the hill to the river. Occasionally, he’d take the road to the church that had once been at Gleneagle but had been relocated where it had found a larger congregation.

Sometimes on his walks, the moon was high and full, casting shadows and bluish white light over the fields. Sometimes, like now, the moon hadn’t yet risen, and only a softly scented night greeted him.

Occasionally, either Alisdair or James would accompany him, as if his older brothers knew when he needed company. Trained for the law, he was not prepared to be a planter, but he’d handled his duties as well as he was able, stepping in when his family had needed him.

“You need to marry, Montgomery,” James had said one night. “Your wife would keep you home and in bed.”

James had been the tallest of the three, whipcord lean with broad shoulders and black hair. His angular face was covered by a beard, but his mouth was wide and habitually curved in a smile. His eyes were intense blue, the Fairfax eyes. They all had them.

“Ah, but you’ve stolen the best of the available women, James,” he’d answered. “Why should I settle for second-best?”

“Caroline has a sister,” James said. “You’d be doing me a big favor if you’d consider courting Ethel.”

He’d only sent James a look. Ethel was a petite blond with a habit of simpering and giggling. “One night with Ethel, and I might start walking and never stop.”

“Well, it was worth a try,” James said. “We’re going to Richmond to visit Caroline’s family before the unpleasantness starts.”

“You just wanted company for future visits.”

“Good Lord, yes,” James said.

They hadn’t spoken for a few minutes, and whatever they’d said after that he couldn’t remember. Something one brother would say to another, a comment not meant to be recalled.

The unpleasantness had started, especially between the brothers. Alisdair and James had fought for the Confederacy. Montgomery had no choice but to join the Army of Northeastern Virginia. Ethel had stopped giggling and become a nurse, an example of selfless dedication. She’d died of a fever she contracted while caring for her patients.

And Caroline? He didn’t want to think of Caroline.

On this wet and balmy spring night in the middle of Inverness, his brothers felt especially close. If he turned quickly, would he see James leaning against one of the bridge supports? Or Alisdair, staring off at the distance, transfixed by the view of Inverness, glittering in the near darkness?

What would they have thought of this journey of his?

They’d talked of coming to Scotland, to see the place where Magnus Fairfax had been born and raised. He’d never thought to make the journey without them, but then he’d been forced to do many things without family.

What would James have thought of Veronica?

She certainly didn’t giggle, but she did act oddly from time to time. Claiming she was clairvoyant, for one. Being a virgin who took to lovemaking like it was water and she’d been thirsty all her life, for another. Not that he would have told his brothers either fact.

He nodded to a few people, surprised at the friendliness of the Scots. The brogue of Scotland flowed around him, reminding him of his grandfather. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t wanted to come. He’d not wanted to be reminded of Magnus Fairfax. He’d been closer to his grandfather than even his father, and his grief felt fresh here in Scotland.

The child he’d been had always thought his grandfather’s rumbling voice sounded like thunder. He heard it then in his imagination.

“You’re thinking dour thoughts, lad, when it’s spring. It’s time to think of the earth. Planting. Life.”

Magnus Fairfax had always been so much a part of Gleneagle, it was odd to think he’d never walk the fields again, never look to the sky for rain.

A spring in Virginia was a busy time, filled with planting, readying the earth. Long, exhausting days measured the progress of the season. When they hit the beginning of the summer, they had a little respite from the sheer physical labor of planting time, not to mention the record keeping.

Montgomery leaned back against a support, watched the river flow beneath the bridge. Sometimes his heart was so filled with Virginia, he couldn’t see anything else around him.

Inverness, and maybe Scotland, was tapping him on the shoulder and reminding him that it was the birthplace of the Fairfax dynasty.

A dynasty with only one member remaining.

His grandfather had been born here, had lived and left for something new and better and more rewarding. Yet Scotland had locked itself into Magnus’s heart. When his grandfather told a tale of Scotland, there’d been longing in his voice.

Tomorrow, they’d reach Doncaster Hall, and Montgomery would assume the responsibilities that circumstances had labeled his. Magnus wouldn’t be with him. Nor would Alisdair or James.

He was the last Fairfax. The last member of his family, and it was somehow fitting he return to Scotland where it all started.

The question was, did he stay in Scotland?

Have I done something wrong?

Even here, Veronica’s voice found him, plucked at his conscience. He wasn’t comfortable talking to people, especially one who disturbed him as much as his wife.

Not only had the Fairfax family come full circle, but so had his thoughts.

What was he going to do about Veronica?

What was he going to do about Scotland?

Chapter 12

“W
e should reach Doncaster Hall soon,” Veronica said the next morning.

“Did you speak to the coachman?” he asked, surprised.

Edmund had, with his usual competence, arranged for a coachman from Doncaster Hall to be waiting at the hotel the next morning. The comfortable carriage they traveled in now was Montgomery’s, the coachman his employee, and the woman sitting opposite him his very annoyed wife.

She didn’t look at him when she answered, but she hadn’t looked at him the whole morning. Even their breakfast had been a restrained affair, with Veronica deliberately focusing on her meal.

“Doncaster Hall is not far from where I used to live,” she said.

“You never told me that, Veronica.”

“If you recall, Montgomery, I’ve not been encouraged to converse.”

In that, she was correct, but it annoyed him she refused to do so when he wished her to.

“Tell me about your home,” he said.

“No,” she said, glancing over at him. “I don’t think I will.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently. “Quite the contrary,” he added, fascinated by the dull red flush sweeping over her face.

“Tell me about your home,” he said.

“No,” she said again.

She stared out the window, leaving him no recourse but to frown at her.

“Then tell me about Doncaster Hall.”

“You’ll see soon enough for yourself,” she said.

“Are you angry with me? Because of yesterday?”

She still didn’t look at him.

“I thought it was quite wonderful,” she said, finally. “However, I don’t wish to discuss that, either.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She stared down at her hands, smoothed the leather over the backs of her gloves.

“Yesterday. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“As I said,” she said, raising her face to look at him, “I thought it quite wonderful. Didn’t you?”

None of the women he’d bedded had ever asked him that question. He should have expected it of her. He didn’t know if he was disconcerted or embarrassed.

“I was quite pleased,” he said. What the hell did she want to hear? That he’d been astonished at her passion? That, even now, watching her work at her gloves, he wanted to pull her across the seat and make love to her? Or engage in a little play as they had in the parlor?

“Enough to do it again?” she asked.

No, it wasn’t embarrassment he felt, but heat.

“I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I?”

She kept jerking her gloves tighter on each finger. He couldn’t help remember what she’d said about his fit. He found her actions so arousing he had to turn and focus on the scenery.

He’d not expected the mountains around him, their scraggly peaks still capped with snow. The soil was barely a thin layer over a base of rock, as if the Almighty had sprinkled it over the Highlands as an afterthought.

As they traveled farther west, the earth began to sprout green, turning from rock to undulating glen. In the distance was the glimmer of a lake surrounded by a forest of pine. For a time, the road followed a glistening silver river before the rolling hills hid it from view.

He liked Scotland, and it surprised him that he did. He liked the mountains surrounding him, the scent of the air, different from Virginia. His home was young and vibrant. A seed dropped in the ground would boast a budding plant within days. This ground was harder and older. Any coaxing would be done with oaths and threats.

They stopped for a drink a few hours later at what Donald, the coachman, told him was the Well of the Phantom Hand. The water was cold, crystal clear, and welcome, as was the respite from the silence in the carriage.

When they resumed their journey, it was with the information they’d arrive at Doncaster Hall within the hour.

The hills varied in shape and size, some large, some smaller, all in varying shades of green from olive to emerald. The far-off glint of water hinted at the river they’d followed for a time.

The slope of one hill ended where another began, almost like interlocking fingers. The packed-earth road, wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast, wound up and over each incline. Two deer looked out from behind a cluster of boulders, curious about the strangers.

“We’re nearly there,” Veronica said, as they crossed a wide planked bridge, the wood darkened to a rich umber.

A glen, shaped like an arrowhead, opened up before them. On either side, the tree-covered hills seemed to point the way to another hill, one carpeted in emerald grass and topped by a sprawling house. A river, now wide and placid, sat like an engorged snake beside the home of the Lords Fairfax of Doncaster.

The breath stilled in his chest.

Before him, as if it had been magically transported from Virginia, was Gleneagle. Two long red brick wings jutted from either side of a center structure boasting a tall pitched roof. White-framed windows glittered in the morning sun. The river flowing around the base of the hill might have been the James, and the mature trees, some looking to be well more than a hundred years old, might be those he’d played in as a boy.

He closed his eyes. For a long moment, he kept them closed, fighting against a spurt of longing so intense it threatened to unman him. Then he tested himself again and opened them to find the scene unchanged.

“What is it, Montgomery?”

He forced himself to glance over at Veronica.

“Nothing,” he said. How could he explain the rush of memory? Or the sudden awareness his grandfather had built Gleneagle as a reminder of all he’d loved in Scotland. How could he tell her that the ghost of the old man was beside him now, patting his shoulder in approbation?

He would sound as odd as she did when speaking of her Gift.

She remained silent, kindly allowing him his lie.

As they approached the house, the past surged up to welcome him. The circular drive to Doncaster Hall was the same as Gleneagle’s. He half expected, when the carriage stopped in front of the door, to see all the people he’d loved rushing out to greet him. His brothers, Caroline, ghosts who had never seen this place, and never walked this ground.

The silence remained unbroken for long moments.

Finally, he gripped the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped down. He half turned toward Doncaster Hall as the front door opened, the yawning cavern revealing nothing for a moment. In that second, he held his breath, waiting. Was this heaven? Had he somehow died on the voyage to England? Had God rewarded him for his minuscule good deeds by conveying him to this place, this mound of earth so resembling the home of his heart?

Instead of Magnus or James, Alisdair, or even Caroline, the man who opened the door was a stranger to him, followed immediately by Edmund Kerr, his solicitor.

He turned, extended a hand to Veronica, and clasped hers too hard as she stepped down from the carriage. His wife then did something odd. She stood on tiptoe, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and kissed him on the cheek.

Before she pulled away, she whispered, “I’m here, Montgomery.”

He was startled to see a look of compassion on her face. Was he so transparent she could tell what he was feeling?

“Welcome to Doncaster Hall, Lord Fairfax,” Edmund said, striding to the carriage.

He turned to face his solicitor, conscious that Veronica had slipped her arm through his. Who was supporting whom?

“You made good time,” Edmund said, smiling widely.

How odd that his solicitor had lost his dour appearance and now appeared almost jocular.

He nodded, still uncertain if he could speak.

Edmund gestured with a hand toward the house. “As you can see, this is Doncaster Hall.”

Montgomery made a great show of patting Veronica’s hand and studying the gravel before following Edmund up the path.

The wind surprised him. Soughing through the trees, it was almost a welcome, a greeting in some native Gaelic. He’d learned some of it from his grandfather, but not well enough to speak it without prompting. The sounds of the birds, however, fit into his memory of Virginia, as well as the sight of the eagles soaring overhead. This, too, was another facet of his home he suddenly understood. His grandfather had named the house in Virginia for an eagles’ aerie in Scotland.

His entrance into Doncaster Hall was accompanied by the same odd feeling that he was in two places at once. Stretching up for three floors was an oval staircase, wide and dramatic, and carpeted in emerald wool. At the top of the staircase was an oval ring of Corinthian columns, each column a floor high. The view from the ground floor as well as the top was an ornately designed ellipse.

“The oval staircase, Your Lordship,” Edmund said. “Designed by Adam himself in the last century. It leads to the public rooms. Would you like to have a tour now?”

He shook his head. “I think my wife and I would like to be directed to the family quarters,” he said, turning toward the left wing. “They’re through here, are they not?”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Edmund said, looking confused.

“The second floor,” he said, testing himself. “The first door leads to the state bedroom, then a series of smaller bedrooms and dressing rooms and, finally, the owner’s bedroom.”

“The state bedroom was converted to His Lordship’s bedroom,” Edmund said. “A dozen years or more, sir.” The man hesitated. “Have you been here before, Your Lordship?”

“No,” he said.

“Yet you know the layout of the house.”

He only nodded. His grandfather couldn’t have known about the changes, but everything else about Doncaster Hall had been replicated at Gleneagle.

“I’ve heard about it,” he said, an answer that evidently placated Edmund.

He glanced at Veronica, who was looking at him with a studied gaze. He hadn’t fooled her. He needed time to understand what he was seeing before he discussed it with anyone.

Magnus had been a Scot, through and through, but he’d left the Highlands with bitterness under his tongue.

“The land couldn’t support us, Montgomery. Not with all those sheep. It’s why I’ll not have the devils on my land.” Magnus had ruffled his hair, then. “I’m raising a fine family of Scots here in America, boy. Men who are Highlanders in their hearts.”

His grandfather had died before the war, before seeing his family torn in two. He’d died and been buried in the churchyard down the road before knowing what had happened to Gleneagle.

Now, Magnus Fairfax was here, his ghost as companionable as those of Alisdair and James and Caroline. Gleneagle was here, sprung forth from the land to welcome him in Scotland.

Who was being fey now?

“The staff would like to greet you,” Edmund said. “They’re arranged in the Round Parlor, Your Lordship.”

The last thing he wanted to do was play Lord Fairfax, but he waved Edmund toward the other wing of the house. He glanced at Veronica. She’d not released his arm, and, as they turned, she squeezed it, a wordless gesture to indicate her support.

“Shall we go introduce ourselves?” he asked.

She nodded, and he couldn’t help wonder if she felt as dazed as he, albeit for different reasons. He decided to push his thoughts away until he could deal with them. Nothingness was easier.

They followed Edmund through double doors and into the River Wing, the side of the house facing the River Tairn. Although its dimensions were the same, the Round Drawing Room was different from its twin at Gleneagle, a fact Montgomery found to be a relief.

The room overlooked the sloping banks of the river and featured views of the rolling glens. Was this room used like the one at Gleneagle: a place for visitors to be greeted and impressed by the view, or impressed by Gleneagle itself? The power and the influence of the Fairfax family were evident once a visitor had been welcomed to their Virginia home.

Above him, the ceiling was festooned with ornate carvings, complete with plaster ribbons trailing from a center bouquet to each corner, where a dimpled cherub held one end. He was grateful to note that the mania for fringe and crimson dominating the living spaces of London hadn’t reached Scotland. Instead, the walls were covered in a pale green fabric, the gilt furniture arranged in such a way that guests could walk close to the windows, or perhaps utilize the door to the left to wander to the terrace outside. A trio of sofas, accompanied by the requisite number of tables and lamps, were arranged in front of the massive white stone fireplace.

Arranged in a line from the windows to the door were the men and women who comprised the staff of Doncaster Hall. An impressive number of people—short, tall, portly, slender—each attired in what were probably Fairfax colors, pale blue and white. Each woman and man bore a singular expression, one of sincere welcome that would have been flattering had he not felt as if the last quarter hour was out of time and place.

He forced a smile to his face and greeted each person, nodding as Edmund introduced them. Ralston was the majordomo, an older man with stiff, broad shoulders and boasting a thatch of white hair tamed in a leonine fashion. Mrs. Brody, the housekeeper, in turn introduced the rest of the staff, from Cook to the gardeners. He heard Veronica murmur greetings beside him, grateful she, at least, had been suitably trained in such details.

What the hell was a Virginian, schooled in the law, forced into war, and interested in an odd avocation, doing playing at being a lord of Scotland?

V
eronica had never felt such blistering pain from anyone. The sight of this place, this house, had opened a door in Montgomery, emotions she’d only fleetingly felt earlier. Grief, mixed with despair and longing, rolled in waves from him. Even without her Gift, she would have seen the anguish in his eyes.

She gripped his arm tighter, just to let him know he wasn’t alone. She was here, and she’d help in whatever way she could to banish that look in his eyes and the set, frozen expression on his face.

His responses were proper, if distant. His greetings were polite and a little cold. The warm welcome on the faces of the staff faded to caution. Here was a master who would not be as benevolent, their eyes said. Here was someone who would not care for their welfare as much as the 10
th
Lord Fairfax of Doncaster.