A Scandalous Scot (13 page)

What would the earl’s reaction be? He might be so irritated by Catriona’s seduction plan that he’d tell Aunt Mary to get rid of her. Or worse, he’d take Catriona as his mistress. Despite his talk of honor, he might be so charmed by her beauty that he could do nothing less.

She would dwell on that thought—and the unexpected pain of it—later. For now, she needed to answer her aunt, who was looking at her with narrowed eyes.

“No, Aunt,” she said, uttering yet another lie. “Nothing’s wrong.”

By the time she’d finished all her work and reached their room, there was no sign of Catriona. Her brush had been moved, but nothing else looked out of place.

Please, dear God, don’t let Catriona have gone to the Laird’s Tower. Please, grant my sister some sanity.

She could barely breathe. Her chest felt tight, as if bands of anxiety were tightening around her.

Dear Lord, something needed to be done. She couldn’t just sit here and pretend everything was fine. Catriona was about to throw her life away. Yes, her sister only thought of herself. Yes, Catriona could be annoying and small-minded. But there had been plenty of times in the past when she’d been kind and caring.

The past two years had been difficult ones, but even more so for Catriona. She’d gone from being a cosseted and spoiled, cherished physician’s daughter to a servant.

Somehow, she had to rescue her sister.

Going to the Laird’s Tower alone wouldn’t prove wise. Look what had happened the last time she was there. She needed someone to accompany her.

Jean ran through the roster of maids and footmen. While Catriona was popular, she wasn’t. A few people might assist her, but she’d have to ask them to lie. Otherwise, they’d be honor bound to report Catriona to Aunt Mary.

Only one person at Ballindair might help her and also keep silent: the earl’s friend, Mr. Prender.

She straightened her cap, changed her apron for a spotless one she’d laundered herself, and brushed off the tops of her shoes with a rag. There, she looked presentable enough to go calling on a man in his bedroom.

A nervous titter escaped her.

She was doing exactly what she’d begged Catriona not to do.

What if Mr. Prender was forward with her? How would she handle that?

She would just have to chance it. Before she could talk herself out of it, Jean left the room, intent on saving her sister.

F
iona removed her lace cap, now sodden because she’d been sweating all afternoon. She pushed her hair back from her face and knew she’d have to bathe in cold water. She hadn’t the energy to go and fetch hot water for herself, and the boiler pipes didn’t reach the servants’ floor.

It wasn’t fair what Mrs. MacDonald had done, but she wasn’t unduly surprised. Jean and Catriona were the housekeeper’s nieces, for all they’d tried to keep the relationship as quiet as possible. Sometimes Mrs. MacDonald did go out of the way not to show any favoritism. But most of the time, like today, anyone who wasn’t related to the housekeeper was punished unfairly.

She’d cleaned the library as well as one person could. She shouldn’t have been taken from that task and sent to work in the laundry.

The unfairness of it all burned in her chest. More than once she’d wanted to report Catriona for dallying with a footman. Twice now she’d seen the girl in the stable loft where the lads slept. She was cutting a wide swath through Ballindair, and neither Mrs. MacDonald nor her sister, Jean, acted as if they knew.

She was so weary by the time she reached her room, she opened the door and leaned against the jamb for a moment, surveying her small, precious chamber. She had the bed, chest, and chair all to herself.

A noise made her turn her head. She watched as Jean slipped out of her room and down the back stairs. Was she as frivolous and light-skirted as her sister?

Fiona was weary enough to close the door and simply disregard what she’d seen. But after today’s injustice, she closed the door behind her and followed Jean.

T
he earl’s sitting room was empty, which suited her purposes perfectly. Catriona softly opened the door between the sitting room and the bedchamber, wishing the drapes were open. Wishing, too, the night was a moonlit one. She looked her best in moonlight.

She moved to stand at the door, listening.

A shadow moved, alerting her. The earl wasn’t asleep.

She smiled.

In silence, she began to unbutton her dress. Before taking it off, however, she’d bent to untie her shoes, slipping them from her feet. Her petticoat and corset were next. Slowly, she removed her stockings.

Clad only in her shift, she moved toward the bed, stretching out one hand to touch the edge of the mattress.

The strike of the match startled her. But not as much as the man staring back at her from the earl’s bed.

Mr. Prender lit the lamp and smiled at her.

“You aren’t the earl,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I’m not. For once, I’m rather glad not to be him. He’s not here, but I am.”

“You should have said something earlier.”

“And miss the delightful sight of you disrobing? I think not.”

She stood there, clad only in her best shift, the one that had taken her hours to embroider the roses around the neckline. The fabric was threadbare, revealing every single crevice and hollow. Her breasts pressed up against the worn linen, her nipples erect.

She should put on her dress again.

But she’d never seen anything as appreciative as the look on Mr. Prender’s face, almost as if he were worshiping her.

“Come,” he said, leaning forward.

He placed his hand on hers, tugging gently.

“I should leave, Mr. Prender.”

“Call me Andrew,” he said. “I’m not the earl, but I promise you’ll not find me lacking.”

The lamplight caught the glint in his eyes, and the wickedness of his smile.

Catriona placed one foot on the step.

A second later she was pulled onto the bed, tumbling over the mattress.

A
n annoying thing, a conscience. Just when it was supposed to sleep, it popped up again, shook its tail at him and dared him to ignore it. Right at the moment the damn thing was waving at him.

He shouldn’t have sent Andrew after the girl.

Andrew was a cocksman, a term he’d used to describe himself. Catriona, for all her wiles, might be an innocent still. The situation could well be like sending a fox after a particularly succulent and full-breasted young hen.

Morgan had undressed for bed and was now in the process of dressing again.

Why should he be wary of any woman’s machinations after Lillian? Instead, he should’ve remained in his bedchamber, just bid the little maid farewell and sent her back to her room. Or visited the housekeeper and had Catriona dismissed. That would’ve been the better alternative to cowering here in Andrew’s room.

The accommodations were equal to those in his own suite. The furniture was polished to a sheen. The mattress was firm, without lumps. The sheets had been changed this morning and still smelled of the sun, and the pillows of rosemary.

His trousers donned, he stood looking out at the Highland night. How many times had he raced through the glen in the enchanted gloaming, feeling as if God had given him those extra hours to play?

Those days felt like a thousand years ago. Had he become so jaundiced and bitter over time?

A timid knock sounded at the door. He debated whether to pull on his shirt, then another knock sounded, this one not as reticent.

He opened the door, frowning.

The little wren stood on the other side of the door, her fist upraised as if to knock again.

Persistent little bird.

“What is it?” he asked.

She stared fixedly at his bare chest, her face going from pale to bright red.

If she hadn’t wanted to see him half dressed, she shouldn’t have knocked on his door at this hour. But then he realized that she wouldn’t have known he was here.

Had she come in search of Andrew?

She looked stricken. “I apologize, Your Lordship.” She looked away, down the hall, then resolutely back at him. “This isn’t your room.”

Now, she frowned at him, her cheeks pink, and her eyes narrowed.

He wondered if she knew how attractive she was with her pink cheeks and her flashing brown eyes.

She looked beyond him, taking in the room with a sweeping glance.

“Is my sister here?”

“What makes you think she’s here?” he asked.

“Because you’re here,” she said. “Why are you here?” She peered beyond him once again.

Annoyed, he stepped to the side so she could see into the sitting room.

“Would you care to examine the bedchamber as well?”

To his surprise, she ducked around him and entered the room, marching toward the bedchamber as if intent on some holy mission.

She stood at the doorway, looking in, before turning to him in confusion.

“Where is she?”

“I can assure you she isn’t here.”

He folded his arms over his bare chest and watched her.

The little wren was agitated. Her hands twisted together, and she was biting her bottom lip.

“Where is Mr. Prender?” she asked.

“Why do you want to know? For that matter, why are you here?”

“I was going to ask your friend to go with me to the Laird’s Tower.”

He remained silent. His patience was rewarded a moment later.

“My sister has some idea of becoming your mistress, Your Lordship. I thought to dissuade her.”

Her honesty surprised him.

“Am I too much an ogre to approach on your own?”

“It wouldn’t look right,” she said. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

He held his hands out. “Is this proper? Being alone with me now?”

Her eyes widened and she moved quickly toward the open door.

“What were you going to do, Jean? Interrupt us? If I am, like you think, a satyr, what success do you think Andrew would have of separating us? No doubt I would’ve spirited your sister away to my dark dungeon and had my way with her.”

She stopped in mid-flight, her shoulders straightening. She turned, her frown still in place, the look in her eyes cold, as if she judged him in that moment and found him wanting.

“I never said you were a satyr, Your Lordship. What you think of yourself is your concern. I was merely worried about my sister.”

“I don’t think your worry is merited,” he said. “Your sister is a grasping, greedy fool who would use anything—even her beauty—to get what she wants.”

“Have you such a foul opinion of all women, Your Lordship?”

“Only about those who use their bodies in an attempt to manipulate others. Yes, I do.”

“And you are, of course, a perfect being.”

“I’m neither satyr nor perfect, Jean.”

She turned as if to go. He wanted to say something to stop her. Why, he hadn’t the slightest idea. Leave her to her ghost hunting, or her sister protecting, anything but bothering him.

“Where are you going?”

“If you’re here in your friend’s rooms, then it’s because you’ve switched places.” She turned back, her face a study in anger. “You knew, didn’t you? Why else would you be here?”

“Perhaps I did know,” he said, feeling his conscience sit up and wave to him again.

No, he’d been wrong. She wasn’t angry. She was about to cry. Her face paled. Her hands were clutched together so tightly he could see each individual knuckle.

Again she turned to leave. To stop her, he reached out and touched her on the shoulder.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Laird’s Tower,” she said, her voice sounding choked.

“How long has she been gone?”

“I don’t know,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “An hour, perhaps two. Maybe even longer.”

“It might be too late,” he said, as kindly as he could. “Nature has a way of speeding up these things, especially if both parties are amenable to it.”

“It isn’t your friend she wants,” she said with some asperity. “It’s you.”

“It’s my title,” he said. “And, no doubt, my wealth.”

“Of course it is,” she said, a little too quickly for his peace of mind. If he had been plain Mr. MacCraig, laboring in a Glasgow factory, surely some woman would have seen his merit.

“Fine,” he said, grabbing his shirt. “I’ll come with you.”

He was donning one sleeve when he realized something was wrong. Jean was utterly still. Not one word emerged from her.

He turned his head to see the housekeeper, accompanied by four other people, standing in the hallway, staring at him.

Not a damn thing came to mind.

He was still bare from the waist up. His shoes and socks had been removed earlier. He looked, for all the world, like someone who had just risen from his bed and donned his trousers in an act of semi-modesty. Exactly what he’d done, except his bed had not been shared.

Mrs. MacDonald’s face was a thundercloud on an already dark horizon.

“This isn’t what it appears,” he said.

Mrs. MacDonald didn’t respond either by gesture or word. He’d never been as repudiated by silence as at this moment. Not even in London had he been so thoroughly rebuffed.

“I think, madam, you misunderstand the situation,” he said.

A quick desperate look from Jean silenced him. Evidently, she didn’t want him to announce the reason for her presence here. She’d rather be considered a harlot than cast aspersions on Catriona.

He doubted if it would concern Catriona overmuch, as long as she achieved her aims.

Perhaps Andrew had some gentlemanly instincts and would leave the girl alone. Morgan quickly pushed that thought aside—Andrew had never demonstrated any restraint in regard to women—and directed his attention to the farce before him.

T
ruly, this was not happening. She was sleeping, and dreaming of a disaster that had befallen her.

From the moment the earl had returned to Ballindair, her life had changed, become a disaster of monumental proportions.

He stepped closer, reminding her that this situation was all too real.

When was he going to put on his shirt? Jean noticed that Fiona was much too interested in the earl’s physique, and Aunt Mary was frowning at his bare chest.