A Highland Duchess (26 page)

Her smile vanished as she looked over at him. “Do you want to know the horrid truth, Ian? Anthony’s sins were greater than those of his murderer. The only emotion I’ve ever seen expressed at news of his death was relief.”

He sat back in the chair, his gaze focused on Bryce’s face.

“Someone killed him,” he said. “Someone who might have poisoned Bryce.”

“I didn’t kill him,” she said. “Any more than I poisoned Bryce.”

The look of surprise on his face was gratifying. “Don’t be absurd,” he said.

“Is it absurd?” Again she clasped her hands together. “I certainly wanted Anthony dead.” She glanced at the bed. “I didn’t want Bryce as a husband.”

“The Duke of Herridge was a man of some stature. You wouldn’t have been able to strangle him.”

She nodded. “I could have hired someone to do it for me.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

She regarded him steadily.

“Why do you have such faith in me?”

“Because of the look of sadness in your eyes, Emma. If you’d murdered Anthony, I doubt you would be as sad.”

She was so overwhelmed by his words that she had to look away.

“But you may have an admirer,” he said, startling her.

“An admirer?”

Slowly, he turned toward her. “Did you never think of that? Anthony could have died because of what he did to you. And Bryce could have been a target because he was your husband. Someone who can’t bear you to be married might have killed them both.”

She’d never thought of such a thing.

“Is there anyone who’s expressed an interest in you?”

“Other than you?”

“Shall we both suspect each other?” His smile robbed the words of their sting. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

But they weren’t, a fact she had to keep reminding herself.

“After Anthony died, I made a list of people who might want him dead. I am not exaggerating when I say it was a very long list.”

“What about men who were interested in you?”

She smiled. “I was the Ice Queen. No one was allowed to speak to me.”

“There must have been someone.”

She was not going to tell him what it was like to be naked and shamed in front of a hundred or more people, held captive to her thronelike chair by threats.

If one of the revelers won a round of a game, or pleased Anthony in some way—by loaning a daughter or sister or wife for the night—he allowed the man to mount the three steps to the stage in order to taunt her.

Sometimes the winner was masked, but more often than not, he was naked in face and body. All activity on the ballroom floor ceased so that Anthony’s guests could witness the reward. The winner would circle the throne, stretch out a hand to Emma, fingers never quite touching. Sometimes he’d simply whisper to her all those delightful things he’d do to her if she were available to him. Sometimes he’d hint that Anthony was tired of her, and close to accepting that he’d never have an heir from her, so that she’d be fodder for their games soon enough.

Could one of those men, or one in the audience, have developed protective feelings for her? The idea that a visitor to Chavensworth might be behind Anthony’s death and Bryce’s poisoning was horrifying. The idea that he might think she felt something for him was even more frightening.

“I’ll try to remember,” she said, wishing he hadn’t asked it of her.

As if he knew she couldn’t bear any more talk of Chavensworth, he handed her another cup of tea.

“Eat your dinner,” he said softly.

She smiled her thanks and finished the dinner he’d brought for her, saying nothing when he reached for one of the rolls held in a small silver container. When she was done, Emma sat back against the chair, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was exhausted but determined to sit up with Bryce.

The hours passed slowly, ticking by without a clock to measure them.

They spoke of commonsense things, the time of night, the weather, Bryce’s condition. Emma bathed her husband’s face and hands again, and placed her palm on his forehead, thinking it odd that it was the first kind gesture she’d made toward him. When she turned, it was to find Ian staring at her, a look in his eyes she couldn’t decipher.

A few times they were silent, as if each wanted to absorb the nearness of the other. Words were unnecessary and would have been an intrusion.

In the lamplight Ian was even more handsome. His Celtic ancestors had bequeathed him high cheekbones, a sharply defined jaw, and lips that, although full, could be thinned in anger or irritation all too quickly.

He was not as controlled as other men she’d known. He left no doubt of his opinions on certain matters. There was a passion about him that carried into his daily life—a fascination with the work he’d chosen, an interest in the world around him, irritation at politics. He would love as deeply as he would hate, and the woman in his life would have no doubt of his feelings for her.

She wanted to ask him to move away. Or to speak of his fiancée, perhaps. Another person needed to be in this room. A chaperone, someone other than an ill husband. A minister, a confessor, a fiancée, even the housekeeper would do. Someone to keep her silent, to keep her from saying those things that would not be wise to say.

Words such as:
Hold me. Do not kiss me, because I have no right to ask you that. But simply hold me, so that I can be reminded of those hours when you did more. Hold me, so that I can feel your arms around me, and your chest against my cheek, so that I might hear the booming beat of your heart and be reminded of a sunny morning in London, of hedonism so perfect that every single moment of it was more real than this scene
.

Ian’s night beard darkened his cheeks. Shadows lay beneath his eyes. His shirt was creased from sitting for so long, and sometime in the passing hours he’d removed his shoes and stockings, leaving his feet naked and bare. Although horribly improper, his bare feet touched her in a silly way, made her want to move a footstool close and lift his feet upon its pillowed softness, push him gently back into the chair and cover him with a blanket.
Sleep,
she might say, if she were allowed such intimacies.
Sleep, Ian, and I’ll watch over you and him.

She found herself envying the woman he would marry, and that thought, forbidden as it was, had the power to make her realize that what she was doing was wrong. Wrong in the worst of all ways.

“You should leave,” she said softly, so as not to disturb Bryce.

He turned to look at her. She almost asked him not to look at her in such a way but stopped herself. He mustn’t know how she was affected by him, how her body recognized him as if it were a separate entity and not subject to her will.

Try as she might, she couldn’t quite forget what it had been like to be in Ian’s arms, to have passion sweep through her at his touch. She’d required no aphrodisiacs, no spirits or drugs to induce her euphoria.

She stood, walked to the window and parted the curtains again.

“No one would understand if they found us together.”

“You’re my cousin’s wife. Why shouldn’t we watch over him together?”

“Because Bryce and I have never had a wedding night,” she said, staring out at the darkness.

She gave him the truth when it would probably have been better to hide it. Yet he knew the deepest and ugliest secrets she’d hidden for years. What was a bit more candor?

She turned to face him.

“Because I’ve been in your bed,” she said softly, “and it’s something I can’t quite forget. Because I vowed that I would never be like those women at Anthony’s entertainments who bragged of their infidelity.”

He stood and walked toward her, but she held up her hand as if to block his approach.

The night was late and she was tired. Too tired, perhaps, to hold back her emotions. Even now they were very near the surface. She was suddenly surfeited by an overwhelming grief, although not for Anthony or Bryce.

She mourned for him, for Ian.

What would her life have been like if she shared it with him? What would each day bring if she allowed herself to be loved by him?

That was the reason he should leave. Not because of what anyone else might think but because of what she might do. She was too close to going to him, to framing his face with her hands, to pulling his head down so she might kiss him. Not in gratitude or friendship or a dozen other reasons, but in passion, in desire, to answer her body’s needs and perhaps to ease the ache in her heart.

Slowly, she dropped her hand. “If you hold any affection for me, Ian,” she said gently, “you’ll leave.”

“Hardly fair, is it, when you utter your request in such a fashion?”

He really shouldn’t smile like that. He really shouldn’t look at her with that expression in his eyes, as if he knew quite well what a temptation he was.

“Your Lordship,” she said, startled when the words sounded like an endearment rather than some measure of propriety. “Please.”

“I don’t like leaving you alone. Bryce might sicken still further.”

“Ian. Please.”

He studied her, as if he meant to imprint her face on his memory for all time.

“I’ll send a maid to you,” he finally said. “To help or just to keep you company.”

She should thank him for understanding. Instead, she remained silent, all too afraid that she’d revealed too much to him already.

At the door, he turned and faced her once again.

“Why did your uncle agree to this marriage?” he asked. “Why Bryce? He hasn’t a title or any wealth to speak of.”

They exchanged a long look.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I knew they were acquaintances, and thought they had some degree of friendship for one another. But they were arguing the morning we left for Scotland.”

“What about?”

“Money,” she said.

“If it was a Scot he wanted, I was available,” he said, words that were as explosive as pouring lamp oil into a fireplace.

She held her hands tightly clasped, feeling her heart swell and ache.

“You weren’t available,” she said. “You’re to be married.”

Had he forgotten?

“I would have changed my plans,” he said softly.

She didn’t think she could bear any more. She felt the tickle of one small tear trailing down her cheek, and turned her head so that he couldn’t see.

“Please leave, Ian,” she said. This time her voice didn’t sound so calm or untouched. This time it sounded as if she were grieving.

I
an left her because she asked, not because he wanted to do so. He stood at the window in his bedroom, unable to sleep. The night was deeply shadowed, cast into relief by a midsummer moon, full and pendulous like a woman’s breast. The shape of it, the size of it, the sheer magnificence of it jeered at him, reminded him of how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman.

Hell, since he’d been desperate for a woman.

Only since London. A matter of days, not weeks or months. Mere days, and yet it felt like a lifetime, a very long and very celibate lifetime.

She was in his home. Emma, the Duchess of Herridge, rumored to be among the most dissolute women in London, now married to his cousin. A complicated, fascinating, mysterious woman who intrigued him, nested in his thoughts, kept him awake.

Emma, his cousin’s new bride.

His ill, possibly dying, cousin.

Guilt knifed through him.

In his youth he’d been a sensualist, well on his way to dissolution himself. His curiosity had saved him, and he’d channeled all that force and energy into scientific discovery. Tonight it was as if he were twenty again, hot blooded and yearning, as needy as a bull in rut.

He slammed his hand flat against the pane of glass, daring it to break, almost welcoming the resulting injury. Instead, it held, shimmering with the force of his blow, defying him.

He wanted his wife to be a partner, needed someone to be with him, to listen to his frustrations, to accept those gifts he wanted to give, to share his dreams, and the successes of the future. He needed someone to stand hand in hand with him and create a perfect circle, or perhaps a wall. A bulwark against the world, in the shelter of which he could receive support and provide it as well.

Ian knew, deep inside where he’d always known, that Rebecca was not that person. Rebecca wanted a charmed life, one in which there were no challenges, one in which her husband did not go out and actively seek problems to solve.

In his heart he wanted a woman who knew life itself, who’d been through enough and experienced enough that each day was recognized as the gift it was.

He wanted Emma, and she was the one woman he couldn’t have.

Yet despite her name, despite the fact that there were documents proclaiming her to be his cousin’s wife, despite anything she might have signed, despite the damned entry in a London register, despite anything or anyone, she was his.

The knowledge was like a shard of glass embedded in his skin.