Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (36 page)

Their knees brushed. Sitting across
from Lyon, Millicent looked in time to see that every muscle in her husband’s
face had gone taut. She looked out the other window to follow the direction of
his gaze.

In the distance, perched
dramatically on a rocky rise, a monstrous castle reared up imposingly through
the fog and rain. She did not have to ask what place it was.

*****

“They lied to the clerk. They
didn’t say a word about Lord Aytoun and his wife already having left for Scotland,” Platt explained. “If your Harry hadn’t happened upon Ned Cranch in the village
on his way back, I would be going up to Hertfordshire thinking I am meeting
with Lady Aytoun.”

Jasper Hyde had been wracked with
pain during a bout that had struck him earlier this morning. It was over, but
he could not shake off the feeling of doom hanging over him. 

“Where is Ohenewaa?”

“Still at Melbury Hall.”

“A steward would not take it upon
himself to do such a thing. Who is running the estate up there?” 

“Ned told Harry that the earl’s
mother, the dowager Countess Aytoun, was still there. She is the same meddling
old woman who arranged for Millicent’s debts to be paid off.” Platt sat down on
the chair across from the plantation owner’s desk. “She was the start of all of
our troubles. I am not wasting my time going up there to talk with the likes of
her.”

“You
shall
go!” Hyde
snapped. “If you had gone up yourself sooner, we would not have missed her. But it does not matter. They sent a message back saying Lady Aytoun has agreed to meet you. They
didn’t lie. You will go and meet with the old woman yourself. She has no
loyalty to Ohenewaa. It may be easier to pry her loose from this stranger. I
will make every attempt to settle this in a peaceful manner.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then I have to proceed with my
other plans.”

“Do you intend to use force?”

“The less you know the better.”
Hyde pushed to his feet. “Just know this—I
will
take what is mine. They
cannot stop me.”

****

Millicent had chosen to stay inside
the carriage and wait until the valets had lowered Lyon into his chair. Lyon understood her apprehensiveness. The grim faces of the servants forming the long
receiving line were more appropriate for a funeral than a welcoming.

A hard, cold rain continued to fall
steadily; nonetheless, Lyon ordered his valets to leave his chair on the wet
ground beside the carriage as Millicent climbed out.

If she had been nervous before, she
looked terrified as she surveyed the gathering of liveried servants. He reached
for Millicent’s hand. She was quick to take it.

“I’m sorry for this bloody
formality,” he said under his breath. “They are here to greet us; that’s all.
They are not here to judge you. They really just want to see how injured I am.
Remember that. Once we get through this, I shall have Howitt show you to your
rooms immediately so that you can change and rest.”  

Peter Howitt, the young secretary whom
Sir Richard had brought with him from London, appeared at his elbow. “If ye are
ready, m’lady.”

Millicent was reluctant to let go
of his hand. From the direction of her gaze, he could see she was worried about
walking by all these people without any introduction.

“Where the hell are you, Truscott?”
Lyon growled.

“Here, m’lord.” His cousin’s deep
voice answered from behind. He looked up to find the man’s rugged face, already
dripping with rain, smiling down at him. “It is good to have you back, Aytoun.”

“What are you trying to do, you
blasted mongrel, terrify my wife?” He motioned at the reception line.

“M’lady.” Walter Truscott bowed
politely.

“Please call me Millicent,” she
responded in a quiet voice. 

“It would be an honor, Millicent.
My deepest apology, but our people have been very keen for Aytoun’s return, and
if not for the rain, I believe the courtyard would probably have looked more
like fair day. The tenants and farmhands and the folk from the village are
equally eager to see him.”

“You are fortunate they didn’t show
up, or I would have had to bite your head off. Now take her in out of this
weather.”

“Good to see you’re back to your
old self, Aytoun. And my sympathies to you, Millicent, for having to put up
with him in a confined carriage for such a long journey.” 

“Somehow she managed to handle me
perfectly well.” Lyon squeezed Millicent’s hand knowingly. Her cloak was
already soaked, and droplets of water were glimmering on her face. There was a
spark of mischief, though, in her eyes, and he was glad to see it.  “This dog
Walter here will make the introductions to Mrs. MacAlister, the housekeeper,
and the steward Campbell, and will accompany you and Howitt as you pass along
the line inspecting the troops.”

She was reluctant to go ahead
without him, but at seeing Walter’s proffered arm, she finally let go of Lyon’s hand and headed toward the house.

He watched Millicent walk in the
rain with the gray stone structure looming above her. He saw the introductions
being made and the bows and curtsies as she moved along. When she disappeared
inside, Lyon raised his face into the rain and breathed in a chestfull of air.
Everything from the scents in the breeze to the chill rising from the ground
told him that he was home. 

When the valets lifted his chair, Lyon saw all those lining the courtyard staring at him. The last time he left Baronsford, he had been sedated to such a degree that he didn’t know his name, never mind where
he was or where they were taking him. Now Lyon focused on every face. He
answered the greetings with a nod. With the housekeeper and the steward
flanking him, he was carried in through the front door.  

He motioned for his chair to be
lowered in the entrance hall, and the valets started removing his wet cloak and
jacket.

“Mrs. MacAlister, where have you
situated my wife?” he asked of the housekeeper.

“On the second floor, m’lord. In
the west wing.” The tall, wiry woman spoke in her usual clipped manner. “The
apartments looking over the lake. Hope that suits ye.”

“It does indeed. Be sure she gets into dry clothes.” He turned to the steward next. “Campbell, I plan to spend
the next two hours with you and Truscott. After that, I shall meet with anyone
from the village or the farms who needs to see me immediately.”

“Aye, m’lord. I’ll arrange it and
join ye right off.”

Lyon’s gaze was drawn to the wide
curved stairwell. Truscott was descending from the upper floors. Hundreds of
paintings covered every inch of available space on every wall. Going back for
generations, the likenesses of his ancestors were portrayed on canvases large
and small. Lyon’s eye lit on the life-sized Reynolds portrait of a woman on the
first landing. The bright red of the roses covering an arbor formed a perfect
frame for the beautiful woman dressed in white. He looked up into the proud
face of Emma.

“Take it down.” Lyon snarled as he
motioned to his valets to take him away. “Take it down now.”

****

The bedchamber of her master and
mistress had been completely swept and aired days ago. Her ladyship’s dresses
had all been cleaned and replaced in the wardrobe that had been moved in.
Violet had no good reason to be up here now, and she knew it. But she had come anyway in the late hours of the night. She sat hidden in the shadows of the
darkened window watching Ned Cranch leaving Melbury Hall.

Tonight, waiting for his supper, he
had been flirting with one of the young serving girls. Violet had not missed
the whispers passing between them, the light touches, the deep blush on the
young victim’s face as Ned had directed all of his charm her way. Violet had
felt sick witnessing the man’s treacherous manner. She had heard all his lies
already.

But what had made her feel even
more ill was the realization of how much she still hurt just watching him.

Violet saw Moses, with a lantern in
one hand, cross the gravel of the courtyard. A dog limped from the direction of
the stables, and Violet’s heart warmed when she saw the way the giant black man
leaned down to greet the animal. Violet remembered days not so long ago, during
Squire Wentworth’s days, when it was more common to find Moses
in the stocks
on the muddy
banks of the stream in the Grove.

The first time she had ever seen
him there he had been lying back on the wet ground, one arm draped across his
face. She’d watched him for the longest time. No movements. She had not even
been able to see if his chest was rising and falling with each breath. Despite
her fears, Violet had approached. She had called out to him, asking if she
could fetch him some water or food, and Moses had moved his arm. She had been
shocked at the face, scarred and misshapen from countless beatings, she had
heard later. But what was more frightening to her, looking on him for the first
time, was that the old man had no ears. They must have been cut off long ago,
for the scars were long healed.

He had looked so wretched and old
and lost that Violet’s impulse to run away had left her. She had given him
water and had stayed beside him for a short while that day. She had just
talked. She didn’t remember what she had said, but whatever it was, Moses had
never forgotten, and a friendship had been forged on that muddy ground.  

Every
nerve in Violet’s body went taut when she looked down into the yard and saw Ned
Cranch walk casually back into the courtyard to speak to Moses. Though the
black man showed no concern, the dog seemed wary of the stonemason, her hackles
rising and her back legs stiffening. Violet watched Ned try to touch the
animal’s head, only to have her scramble back a few steps. 

“Don’t give him even a moment of
your time, Moses,” she whispered, fighting a worry that was forming deep in the
pit of her stomach. Why Ned would be spending time chatting with him had
Violet’s mind reeling with suspicion. They were so different. While Moses was
kind and naïve, Ned was brutal and devious. The black man spoke only the truth;
the other never did, it seemed. Unless it suited his fancy.

Violet let out a breath of relief
when Moses finally picked up his lantern to continue on his rounds. She saw Ned
light a pipe and slowly start walking down the road, too. She was about to
close the curtain when she saw the same serving girl with whom he had been
flirting before appear from the servants' wing. Violet found herself choking
with sudden tears. As she stared, Ned turned and waited for the woman. Together
they disappeared into the dark.

The urge to scream, to tear at
everything of hers that he had ever touched, flooded Violet’s mind. She wanted
to forget. She wanted to go to sleep and wake up to find herself free of him.
She didn’t want to have memories of their lovemaking. She didn’t want to touch
her stomach and think of the child that was growing there. A child whose father
was Ned Cranch. 

Violet’s face was covered with
tears when she closed the curtain and immersed herself in the darkness of the
room. If she could only take back the time, correct the horrible mistakes she
had made.

The sound of a door opening and
then closing across the corridor startled her. Ohenewaa. She was just going to
her room. Ohenewaa, who had borne a child out of wedlock herself. Her friend’s
words came back to her:
Those were the days before she learned how to end a
pregnancy before it showed…before it showed.

Violet slipped through the door and
started toward the old woman’s room.

*****

“What is it exactly that you want
from me?” Ohenewaa asked.

She had not missed the red and
puffy eyes, the trembling voice, the shaking hand of the young woman when she
had come to her door. She had also understood Violet’s whispered words about
how she had been sick to her stomach for days. But now inside, with the door
closed, she wanted to hear the truth.

“I wanted you to…” Violet
hesitated. “I was hoping you would help me to rid myself of this illness.”

“Do you have a name for this
illness?” She drawled out the word.

The pretty chin of the young woman
sank to her chest. No words formed on her lips. Her nervous hands were hidden
in the folds of her apron.

Ohenewaa saw and heard much more
than others thought. It was no secret to her that Violet was with child. And what disappointed her was Vi’s choice of the man who had fathered it. From what little she
had seen of Ned Cranch, he was a man without a soul when it came to his
dealings with women. 

“I know that you can help me."
Violet spoke softly. “I have heard you know ways to end what I am suffering
with.”

“Illness? Suffering? Young woman,
these are certainly not the right words to use to describe the gift of life.”  

“You know?” The blue eyes started
tearing when Vi looked up. “But I don’t want it, Ohenewaa. So please help me
get rid of it. I beg you, free me of this curse.”

“I cannot help you.”

“Please don’t say that,” Violet
pleaded. “I heard the other women talk. They spoke of the ways you helped women
on plantations end their pregnancies. I cannot—”

“Was this child forced on you?”

Ohenewaa’s sharp question silenced
Violet for a second. She wiped the tears off her face, but they continued to
come. “No, but I didn’t know—”

“Did you go willingly to the man’s
bed?”

“I did, but that was before I found
out how horrible he was.”

“I cannot help you.”

“But why?” She sobbed. “You have
done it before. You have your ways. What difference does it make if I was
willing at the time or not? I was stupid. I was tricked and made to believe
that we would have a future together. Why can you not think of me as one of the
women you helped in Jamaica? Or on board the slave ships? Please, Ohenewaa,
give me a new life to live.”