A Scandalous Scot (38 page)

For whatever reason, the weather mimicked the mood of those within Ballindair. A whistling wind sent the branches of the nearby trees fluttering like a scandalized matron’s fan. Black-bottomed clouds scuttled overhead and the air felt heavy with rain.

Morgan used the library as his den, as restless as an old lion facing its mortality, pacing back and forth before the window. For two days, he’d handled what business needed to be transacted, gave orders, inspected inventories, and answered questions, but all the while, his mind was focused on a certain set of rooms on the second floor.

Jean had moved her belongings out of the Laird’s Tower and back into the Countess’s Suite.

He’d let her. He hadn’t said a word or lifted a hand to prevent her. Why the hell not? he wondered. Perhaps he could claim surprise. Or confusion, again. Or a dozen other emotions he couldn’t recall ever experiencing except around her.

Almost immediately, however, he knew he’d made another mistake.

He’d gone to the Countess’s Suite three times, and three times she ignored his knock. She wouldn’t listen to him, and even returned the notes he sent her, unread. The last time he’d gone to the suite, just this morning, he caught the glance of a passing maid, her look of pity reminding him of London.

This was not, however, London.

Andrew was wrong. Perhaps he didn’t care about what his staff thought, or the whole of Scotland. Throw London into that category, and the world, while he was at it. But he cared very much about the opinions of one particular person: the wren, the ghost hunter, the maid, and his wife, the Countess of Denbleigh.

A woman who wasn’t his wife, after all.

For the first time, he understood why Jean had argued so vehemently against their marriage. Why, also, she’d looked so horrified when he gave her a sum of money.

She didn’t consider herself married.

She didn’t think of herself as the Countess of Denbleigh.

She knew she wasn’t his wife.

If his father was alive, what would he say to this situation?

Morgan stopped, staring out the window. Most of his life, he’d cared about his father’s opinion. He’d worked like a demon at the distilleries in order to prove himself worthy of the great man’s approval.

Now, he didn’t care a jot.

Something odd had happened to him since coming home to Ballindair. Instead of finding only the memory of a better time, he’d found purpose.

He knew every expenditure for his home. He knew the exact number of people he employed, and most of their names. He knew if they were married, where they lived, what their salaries were, and their stories. He knew the groom and the maid who planned to marry in the spring, about Mrs. MacDonald’s insistence that all her maids be able to tally their own sums and read and write. He knew the West Tower had a roof leak and that everyone at Ballindair was heartily sick of mutton. He knew the exact acreage he owned, how many fish were caught, the number of cattle and sheep, and every single crack in the foundation.

Because of a man he’d come to admire, and mourned now, he’d learned even more about himself. He might have held the title, but he’d never been Laird of the MacCraigs until the last month.

His mood had mellowed and warmed. He felt like smiling all the time, at least until the last few days. He had even done something he’d never have done a month ago—he sent instructions to his solicitor to sign over the Paris house to Lillian. Perhaps she only wanted to find a measure of peace for herself, something similar to what he’d found at Ballindair. Let her live there and be happy.

As far as his own happiness, Providence had delivered a surprise to him, right to his doorstep, to his very person, when Jean had blinked down at him on the floor of the Laird’s Tower.

Here, I give you a woman to challenge your thoughts of all women. Here is one who hunts ghosts, speaks bluntly, and fascinates you beyond measure.

Jean had confused him, pushed him to the edge of incompetence, and amused him. She’d nudged him into looking at those facets of his life he’d heretofore cherished: his father and the concept of honor.

What had she said? Something about beginning to see his father as a fallible human being, someone who made mistakes. He saw that now, and also something else. His father had obeyed a code, but it was one he’d devised for himself. The world had simply flowed around it, like a burn cascading around a boulder.

His sister-in-law was, surprisingly, the same kind of person. Centered in herself, with no apologies to anyone. Catriona did what she did because she wanted to do it.

His father had always appeared contented with his life. So, too, Catriona. Was that the secret to happiness? To live for oneself, and to hell with anyone else?

He couldn’t live that way, not when he cared, very much, what one particular person thought. Someone who was refusing to speak to him, see him, or even listen to him.

He continued pacing, startled when a shaft of sunlight illuminated the window. The dark clouds parted, revealing a sky of brilliant blue.

Leaving the library, he approached the housekeeper’s office, a small chamber beside the kitchen where Mrs. MacDonald settled her accounts and planned for the week ahead.

“Mrs. MacDonald,” he said, opening the door the way the housekeeper had so often, without notice or knock. “You and I have to talk.”

J
ean sat in the Countess’s Suite, unattended and unbothered. Her aunt was her only visitor, and her words were bracing, rather than compassionate.

“You’re grieving for him,” she said.

She had only nodded, not explaining that she mourned twice: for Mr. Seath and for her short marriage.

Morgan had said nothing when she had her things moved from the Laird’s Tower. Nor had any of the maids. No one had sent her any sidelong looks, either.

Catriona was in Edinburgh, but she wouldn’t have been a great source of comfort anyway. Her sister had always tended to her own problems first, exactly the way she herself was acting now.

“There are things to do, Jean,” her aunt had said. “Things requiring your participation.”

When she looked at her aunt, the older woman held up her hand to forestall her words. “Whatever your issues with the earl, they can wait until later.”

Jean nodded.

“For now, it’s important you lead the women to the grave site.”

She frowned. “We’re having the funeral today?”

Her aunt jerked her head toward the door. “When will you be ready?”

“An hour,” she said.

“I’ll send Betty to help you,” her aunt said.

Perhaps it was a clue to her distraction, but she didn’t think to stop her until after the door had closed.

She had no mourning. There hadn’t been time to dye any of her new dresses, either. Besides, Catriona had appropriated half of her wardrobe.

“I’m going to Edinburgh,” her sister had said. “You’ll just be here.”

Since she couldn’t argue with that comment, Jean had turned over three of her new dresses, leaving her only one, plus her wedding dress. The yellow of the wedding dress would be a little glaring on such a somber occasion, so she opted for the dark blue with the white lace collar and cuffs.

On this day, of all days, she shouldn’t be concerned about her attire.

She missed Mr. Seath. She wanted to seek his counsel, listen to his stories of Ballindair and the 8th earl, and the adventures Morgan had gotten himself into as a boy.

Would he have approved of her honesty, even as late as it had come?

She stood, thanked Betty for helping with her hair, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was flushed, her lips pink, her eyes sparkling. For all her desolation, she looked pretty.

She was a fallen woman now. An unmarried woman who’d had congress with a man. A harlot who was finding it difficult to regret the past weeks.

Betty left the room, leaving the door ajar.

Jean stepped into the hall, listening to the silence. The castle was in mourning for one of its own, the absence of sound as solemn as tears.

She bent her head, composed herself to see Morgan, and went to lead the procession of women. Only the men would go into the churchyard. The women would stand at the gate and wait for them.

The utter stillness of Ballindair struck her as she descended the curving staircase, went through the foyer and to the iron-banded front door. No one hastened to open it for her, and it proved to be a difficult task to move.

Finally, she was through, to be greeted by a day as lovely as she’d ever seen in the Highlands. A sky so blue it rivaled Loch Tullie for purity hung over the glen of the MacCraigs, hued with purple and pink, and spots of yellow on deep green.

She could smell the scent of heather wafting on the gentle breeze, along with, surprisingly, sandalwood.

When she looked around and saw the mass of people, she took a deep breath, preparing herself to take her place at the front of the gathered women.

Except that Morgan stepped out of the crowd to greet her, holding out his hand. He was wearing a kilt again, his black jacket setting off the colors of the MacCraig plaid. He’d never looked so handsome. Nor had she ever longed for him as much.

Slowly, she placed her hand in his.

His smile should have warned her, but she was left in ignorance until he walked with her to the open courtyard, then turned her around.

Aligned in a horseshoe shape in front of Ballindair was the entire staff. Her aunt stood at the head of the maids. Footmen, stable boys, gardeners, those who worked in the farms and outbuildings all stood there solemnly regarding Morgan.

She would have thought it the Laird’s Greeting but for the occasion. There was only one thing missing, however: Mr. Seath’s casket.

“Isn’t there to be a funeral?” she asked.

“No,” Morgan said, startling her. “Not today. We’re having another type of ceremony. The minister is in the chapel, waiting.”

He turned her to face him.

“Marry me, Jean MacDonald,” he said. “Or Jean Cameron. Or whatever your name might be. Marry me before God and our people.”

She blinked at him. In his eyes was a warmth she’d never thought to see.

“I’ll have this marriage blessed by God and the law,” he said. “So you can never say it’s illegal.”

She took a step back. “I won’t be used, Morgan.”

He frowned at her.

“I won’t be used to atone for past sins. Or because you’re afraid of scandal.”

He smiled, a curiously wicked smile. “There’ll be scandal aplenty for the whole of Scotland to hear about,” he said, reaching out and grabbing her hand to gently pull her toward him.

He lowered his head and spoke next to her ear. “I can hear the whispering now. ‘Did you hear about the Earl of Denbleigh? One of the Murderous MacCraigs? He captured one of his maids and wouldn’t let her go. Made her live with him the rest of her days. When their children were born, they were all bastards, poor dears, but he wouldn’t relent.’ ”

“Morgan,” she said, pulling back and looking up at him in shock.

“Jean, married or not, you’ll live with me at Ballindair.” He shrugged. “I’d prefer you were my countess, but if you’re set on remaining a maid, I’ll make sure Mrs. MacDonald knows you’re to have only one duty.”

She could barely breathe, let alone speak, but she managed to frame the question. “And what would that be?”

Evidently uncaring about the interested staff of Ballindair, he kissed her gently on the forehead, nose, and then softly on the lips.

“To be my love.”

She looked up at him, her hand flat against his chest and her heart full.

“Oh, Morgan.”

“Say yes. Say you’ll marry me.”

She began to smile. “I’ll marry you, Your Lordship.”

“And be my love?”

“How can you doubt it, my darling Morgan?”

There, in full view of the staff of Ballindair, he pulled her into his arms. Dimly, she registered the cheers before Morgan kissed her again.

A few moments later Morgan MacCraig, 9th Earl of Denbleigh, took Jean Cameron, maid, into the chapel and before the staff of Ballindair made her a countess in truth.

I
n the Highlands, ghosts were common. If a visitor asked a group of ten Highlanders to tell him a tale, eight of those would relate a firsthand account of meeting a ghost in person. Sometimes the stories incited a chill. Occasionally they amused the listener.

At Ballindair, the French Nun was known to try to prevent the fate that had befallen her from happening to another woman. For nearly two hundred years she’d flitted among Ballindair’s rooms, occasionally viewed by a foolish maid or a man with less prudence than lust.

The Green Lady lamented her short life, and wished she’d chosen more wisely. The Herald played his pipes and was rarely heard, for all the talk to the contrary.

Now, the curtain in the Long Gallery shivered, solidified to become a familiar shape, that of a human form. As his body lay in the Clan Hall, the spirit of William Seath lingered at Ballindair, the place he loved most in all the world.

This new ghost, strong and powerful as he hadn’t been in the last months of his life, stood at the window, surveying his domain and witnessing the celebration of love and life in the courtyard below. If a ghost could be said to smile, he did.

In the next moment, sunlight streamed into the room, dissipating the illusion.

The sound of cheers banished the silence. A sense of joy, along with the scent of wild roses, filled the room. Then the Long Gallery was truly empty, if only for a little while.

Author’s Note

T
he rules for staff were adapted from actual rules issued to servants in the nineteenth century.

Whiskey/whisky has always had two spellings. Whiskey is an American and Irish spelling, while whisky is most definitely a Scottish and Canadian spelling. Since I’m an American author writing about Scotland, you can imagine my conundrum. I’ve settled for whiskey, and my apologies for not using the more proper Scottish spelling.

The Anglican wedding service (dating from 1549) reads: