Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (37 page)

“How could I ever think of you as
one of those women?” Ohenewaa said harshly. “I cannot, but do you know why?”

Confusion flickered in Violet’s
eyes.

“Can you even imagine what ‘tis
like to be an African woman? To be a young girl stolen from your home and your
family and dragged on board a slave ship? Do you know the horrors these women
endure?”

Violet’s chin sank onto her chin.
“I…I have heard the stories. I cannot imagine, even in my worst nightmares,
such suffering.”

Ohenewaa approached Violet.

“Then how could you believe I could
ever, in my conscience, think of you in the same way as one of those I did
help?”

A choked sob escaped the young
woman’s throat. She shook her head.

“Do you believe this child growing
inside of you has the same fate awaiting him or her as those slave children?”

She shook her head.

“Is she a curse, girl? Is she a
sickness?"

“Please—”

“Will you hate her because she is a
reminder of a
mistake
?”

“No! I can never hate her…him.”
Violet covered her face. Sobs wracked her body. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“I…I should never have come here.
I’m just so lost. So sorry…” 

Without another word, Ohenewaa took
the weeping young woman into her arms and held her.

"Overwhelming" was a word
that kept pushing into Millicent’s brain as she followed Mrs. MacAlister, the
housekeeper, on a tour of the house. At some point during the afternoon,
Millicent had lost count of the number of bedrooms, and the location of the old
Eating Room and the second-floor salon, and which wing contained the old
armory, and what floor the new library was on, and which sitting room she was
supposed to write her correspondence in.

It was beautiful. It was
comfortable. It was a marvelous representation of Robert Adams’s ideas of
aesthetics. No question about any of that.

But Baronsford was too big.

After having a brief dinner with a
rather preoccupied Lyon in the old dining room, Millicent found her way back to
her apartments, while her husband continued his discussions with Truscott.
Wandering into the sitting room off the bedchamber, Millicent collapsed into a
lovely upholstered chair and looked into the fire.

Though she should have been warm,
she was cold. Though the tiredness of the days of travel should have begun to
seep out of her, she was becoming more tense. The grandeur of Baronsford was certainly impressive, she supposed, but it was not the main thing lying like a
weight on her spirit.

It was the memory of Emma.

She was everywhere. With
Millicent’s first steps into the entrance hall, she had found herself faced
with a life-sized portrait of the woman. She was clearly beautiful. Then, in
the course of her tour, she had picked up bits and pieces of information that
told her Emma had had a greater hand in shaping Baronsford as it was today than
had any previous mistress of it.

This had come through most clearly
when Mrs. MacAlister had taken her through the east wing. The six luxurious
bedrooms there, looking out over the gardens and cliffs and the river, had been
renovated and decorated by Emma for a specific purpose. She had forbidden
having family, friends, or guests stay in any of them. No, the entire second
floor of that wing was to be a private haven reserved for her and Aytoun.   

And there was more. The drawing
room in the old tower was also for Emma’s private use. 

Millicent had also been told about
the parties in the ballroom and the dinners in the formal dining room and the
choice of dishes imported from France. “None of Mr. Wedgwood’s things for her,”
Mrs. MacAlister had informed her.

Even the arrangement of the
portraits and the specially woven carpets ordered from Persia. All Emma’s doing.

Hours later, Millicent’s head still
echoed with everything she had seen and heard.

Before long her maid appeared, and
Millicent moved into the dressing room while Bess helped her get ready for bed.
As she stood watching the young woman hang her dress, Millicent questioned her
decision to come. She was of no use here, no use at all. In fact, with all the
work that faced Lyon, Millicent had no idea when she would even see him again.

Millicent felt insignificant at Baronsford, and she hated that feeling.

At a knock at the outer door to the
bedchamber, Bess went to answer it. Millicent was surprised to see both doors
from the hallway swing open, and Will and John carried Lyon in.

“I am glad you are not sleeping
yet. I would have hated for these two clumsy brutes to have awakened you while
getting me ready for bed.”

Millicent gaped, lost for words. And the way his gaze moved down her body, as if she were not wearing a thick dressing gown, but
rather the most revealing of nightdresses, did not help her to recover. To
share a bedchamber with him at Melbury Hall, when they had been short on
available rooms, had been one thing. But here! With so much space!

“Are you done with your work for
tonight?” she asked for lack of something better to say.

“Tomorrow is another day.”

The valets were wasting no time in getting
him ready, moving quickly in and out of another dressing room on the far side
of the bedchamber. Millicent dismissed Bess, then went to wait in the sitting
room, giving her husband privacy.

She took a book from a shelf and
sat on the chair. She tried to focus on the first lines. It was so like him to
confuse her. Just when she felt totally useless, here Lyon came. And then, to look at her the way he did. She reread the first paragraph again. And then again. No use. No comprehension. She rose to her feet and went to the small writing
desk. Perhaps she should write a letter. Again the words were not there.

“Are
you
not done with your
work for tonight?”  

Hearing his question, Millicent
laid her pen down and moved to the doorway of the bedroom. Lyon was already
sitting in bed. The valets were gone.

“Tomorrow is another day,” she said
softly, leaning against the jamb. In a hundred years, she thought, she would
never get her fill of him. He looked so handsome, so confident.

“Then come to bed.”

She started slowly toward him. “I
am surprised to find you here tonight. I was told today that his lordship’s
apartments are in the east wing.”

“You were misinformed. My rooms are
where yours are.” He reached for the belt of her robe when Millicent arrived at
the side of the bed. “I missed you today.”

“We have been apart only since this
afternoon.” She looked down as his hand undid the belt and let it fall to the
floor. “And we did have dinner together.”

“Too many people there. Tell me
what you did this afternoon.”

“I was shown around Baronsford.”

“It is too damn big.”

“It is impressive.”

He pushed the robe off her
shoulders and let it drop down around her feet.  “Do you approve of the place?”

“Baronsford doesn’t need my approval.”

“I say it does.” His gaze met hers.
“You are the mistress of Baronsford now.”

“I have never had aspirations so
high,” she replied softly. 

Lyon’s fingers looped around a
tendril of hair that was dangling by her chin. He tugged it gently, bringing
her lips closer to his mouth. “There must be something you aspire to.”      

Millicent placed her hands on his
shoulders. She brushed her lips against his. Lyon’s arm wrapped around her
waist, encouraging her onto the bed. She pulled herself up and nestled against
his side. 

“Tell me about it.” His lips placed
feather kisses on her face.

“I aspire to this.”

“This bed?” He smiled, pulling her
more tightly against him. “This demesne of the night is yours to rule, m’lady.”

“And I should like to rule your heart.”

The seriousness that took
possession of his features made Millicent sorry to have voiced her thoughts
aloud. She searched for something to say to bring the smile back into his eyes.

“This is what being so far away
from Melbury Hall does to me. I’ve become foolish, rambling on and saying
things that should not be said. I—”

“You already do rule my heart,
Millicent.” 

She watched in bewilderment as Lyon lifted his right arm tentatively, and his fingers brushed away the tears that had
fallen on her cheeks. 

“You are the only woman whom I have
ever known who would have me—as incomplete as I have become—over this place.”

She hugged him fiercely. “There is
nothing incomplete about you. I love you as you are.”

His arms wrapped tightly around her
in return. “And will you stay with me always?”

“I shall stay with you as long as
you want me.”

“Or need you?”

“Yes.” Millicent pulled back to
look into his face. “I need to belong, though. I need to feel that I can make a
contribution. I want to give.”

“And take. Is that not part of
marriage as well?”

“With someone like you, in a place
like this, I am afraid that the scale may tip too heavily to one side. You have
title and wealth and every means to give more than you take.”

“And you object to that.”

“Of course. I want to carry my
weight. I want to feel I am as much needed as I need.”

“Then perhaps my injuries add that
balance to our lives.”

She pushed herself up to a sitting
position. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do, Millicent.”

Lyon’s hand was wrapped around her
wrist. She wondered if he could feel her pulse beating wildly in her veins.

“If you and I had not married under
the conditions we did…” He shook his head. “Let’s go back even beyond that.
Let’s say that I was never injured. If I were to approach you, if I wanted to
court you…”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Why?”

“Because I am plain. Because there is nothing special about me, Lyon. Not to mention the fact that I would not even
travel in your circles in society. You would have had no opportunity.”

“And I am telling you, you are
wrong about all of that. But what would you have done if I had made a proposal
to you and asked you to become my wife?”

“I would have said no. I wouldn’t
have known you.”

“What if we had a torrid love
affair, and you could not keep your hands off me? What would you have said
then?”

“Still no. We are just not from the
same—”

“Same what, Millicent?” he asked
sharply. “At what point in our relationship would you feel comfortable enough
to trust me with your love?”

“I would have told you I love you,
and that would have been enough.”

“But it is not enough. I would have
wanted a future for us together. I would have wanted to know that your love for
me was stronger than the unfounded fears that you had been living with for
years.”

Raw emotions welled up in her. “I
am here now, Lyon. Is that not enough?”

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he
asked.

“I will.”

“And the day after, and the month
after, and the year after?”

“I will be here as long as you want
me.”

“And need you?”

“And need me.”

****

Rain spattered steadily on the roof
of the carriage waiting to take the lord of Baronsford to the village.  In the
old days, no carriage had been required. It was a familiar sight, for both
tenant and villager, to see their laird sitting atop one of his fine horses and
riding through the hills. In fair weather and foul, they would see him stopping
to talk as they made their way out of their cottages, ready for a day’s work.

Aytoun had always been an early
riser, and he knew that many of his people cherished this daily connection with
their earl. Grievances and complaints did not need to be made in formal
settings. Good news passed from one family to another without any difficulty.
Someone’s hardship was often alleviated before it became a crisis. They were
valuable rides he took those mornings. Though he had also been their landlord,
the Earl of Aytoun was first and foremost a friend to all of them.  And no one missed these morning travels more than Aytoun himself.

Lyon intended to start again.
Instead of riding his horse, though, a carriage would have to suffice. Rather
than going alone, he would need to take his two valets and his secretary, Peter
Howitt, with him.

It would be different, but life
down in the village and on the farms was different too, he was told. The
village was crowded with vagrant families huddled together, protected from the
weather. In the eyes of everyone, Truscott had said, one could see the worry
about what lay ahead.

This morning before he left, he had
asked Truscott to bring the housekeeper and the steward to the library. What he
needed to talk to them about was as important to him right now as anything
happening in the village or on the farms.

“I want the two of you to get every
available worker and make a sweep of the house immediately.” His words were
specifically directed to Mrs. MacAlister and Campbell. “You will search out and
remove every item that might in any way be associated with my late wife. This
includes paintings, clothing, personal items, whatever might remind the new mistress
of her predecessor.”

Neither one of them seemed
surprised by the request.

The steward spoke first. “I can
only guess, m’lord, but I’m thinking the collection could be very extensive.
What shall we do with it once we’ve gathered it all together?”

“Put everything in one of the
bedchambers in the east wing, if you like. Just lock the door.” He turned to
his secretary. “Send a letter to Emma’s mother, and tell Lady Douglas she is
welcome to anything she wishes of it…starting with that bloody portrait.”