Lord of the Highlands (22 page)

She sprang from the bed, striding from her room before she could change her mind.

She made her way downstairs, and then for the first time ever, headed lower, down the other set of steps, to belowstairs. The stairway was dimly lit, and Felicity descended slowly, rehearsing what she’d say if she ran into one of the Rollo household’s many servants.

She froze, hearing shouts. Some sort of argument drifted up to her. She definitely didn’t want to walk in on a fight. Faltering, she thought she could turn back, ask Will to find her a vase instead. He’d
love
to find a vase for her.

But this was her place now. If she was going to be with him, to make this place and time her own, she needed to just deal with herself—and these ridiculous anxieties.

Lady of the house
, she chanted to herself.
I am lady of the house.
And, setting her shoulders, she made her way to the bottom of the staircase.

“Badly done!” Rollo’s mother’s voice echoed down the corridor.

Oh crap.
Felicity froze, her foot hovering on the last step. Why did it have to be Rollo’s mom? That’s the last argument she wanted to walk in on.

But she really wanted that vase.

You can do this.
Punishing servants was standard operating procedure for seventeenth-century ladies, right?
I can do this.

“That . . . was . . . ill . . . done.”

She heard a distant smack. Good Lord, was the woman beating someone? Felicity made a mental note never to let her alone with the grandkids.

She stepped out into the hallway. The floorboards creaked, and she stopped, her heart pounding.

“Naughty!”

Felicity bit her knuckle. What was his mother’s deal, anyway?
Sheesh.

If the woman was beating a servant, maybe she should do something to intervene. His mom, though—total ice queen, and Felicity was terrified to cross her.

But . . . if she was going to be with Will, she’d need to make herself at home. Be a part of the household.

Maybe she could bring some twenty- first-century sensibilities to the ways in which Lady Rollo treated her staff. She could enlighten the woman. Maybe it’d even bring them closer together.

The thought girded her. Giving herself a determined nod, Felicity walked down the hallway, in the direction of the shouting.

A knocking began to sound. A hollow
thump-thump-thump
. She hurried up.

“Bad, bad boy!”

That was it. She walked faster. Reprimanding an adult was one thing, but if Rollo’s mom were beating some poor boy, she’d have to put a stop to it.

She paused just outside a darkened room. It was where the shouting had come from.

What on earth . . . ?
Why would Lady Rollo be in a dark room? Felicity stood there, letting her eyes adjust.

His mom was there, facing the wall, just in front of a low shelf. There were lots of jars. A servant stood behind her. Not a boy, Felicity saw. He was tall, like a man.

“Youuu . . .” his mother growled.

Felicity squinted, desperately curious now, waiting to see what jam- or sauce-related transgression the man/boy had perpetrated.

He moved, and the abruptness of it was violent, startling. Grabbing Lady Rollo’s shoulders, the servant swung her to the side.

Felicity gasped. Was she being attacked?

It was when Lady Rollo landed on her elbows, leaning over a wine barrel, that Felicity realized in horror what was happening.

Lady Rollo was getting it on with one of the hot, young servant guys.

The older woman’s head rose in slow motion, an eagle sighting its prey. Felicity, mortified, met her gaze.

And backed out of the room, fleeing back up the stairs, all thoughts of flowers and vases shocked right out of her head.

 

“When will you do something about this Felicity person?” Lady Rollo clinked her spoon impatiently on the rim of her teacup.

“Don’t fret, Mother dear.” Jamie kicked his legs in front of him, taking a slow sip of tea. He loved when his mother got nervous. Rare were the times she let that perfect ivory façade crack, and he found it eminently amusing. He watched her, stirring her tea with such menace. Biting the inside of his cheek, he told her, “The situation is well in hand.”

She pinned her son with a cold stare. “Don’t condescend to
me
, Jamie. You forget. I remain in control of the purse strings. And don’t think that wealthy wife of yours can help you. The wars have gutted the Campbells, and their family coffers run low. That woman, pining away for you on Campbell land,” she mused. “It’s shameful what you did marrying her.”

He bristled, and then cursed inwardly, knowing his mother had seen it. She knew him too well.

“That’s right,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Until your father dies,
I
am the only one able and willing to forgive your perpetual gambling debts.”

He had to look away. Studied the cup in his hand instead. It was precisely those debts that kept him under her thumb. She knew it, and always Jamie tasted a son’s love curdling into resentment whenever she chose to lord it over him.

He’d thought before, in his drunken moments, that he could cut her loose. Claim that his father was as good as dead. Jamie would inherit. But he’d find himself in debtor’s prison, with the Rollo fortune as forfeit.

His mother was harping on. “I am the one who looks the other way when you bring home your unsavory . . .
friends
. Or should I call them accomplices? No, Jamie, if you weren’t so weak—”

“Weak?” He finally snapped. Weak he was not. He’d leave
weak
to his pathetically crippled baby brother. “Speak not to me of weak, Mother, when you seem to raise your petticoats for the nearest strapping cottar to hand.”

He let the accusation hang, enjoying the flush of outrage suffusing her cheeks. His mother was indeed an attractive one, but the thought of her bedding blacksmiths and stable hands disgusted him.

“No,” he said. “It seems we are a pair. If word got out that you’re not a wife in truth to my father? Think you on what might happen to that precious fortune you keep harping about.”

“Enough.” She raised her hand to silence him. Despite her furrowed brow, she bore a smile for her favorite son.

He knew she enjoyed their sparring. He did too; he’d learned it from the best.

Shaking her head, she told him quietly, “ ’Tis a sad day when a woman finds the only man able to stand up to her is her own son.”

He spared her a smile and raised his teacup to her as if in a toast.

“Just promise me?”

“Anything, Mother.” Jamie tossed back the last sip of his tea and stood to go.

“Just promise you will deal with the woman.”

He gave her a nod. He’d take care of Felicity. And convenient it would be too, seeing as it also took care of his brother.

Jamie took his mother’s hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips in a formal kiss. “As you will it, Mother dear.”

Chapter 20

Feeling Felicity writhe and moan her pleasure in the sculpture garden had Rollo musing she was no less than a gift from those very marble gods.

And the notion had given him just the idea.

He’d left before dawn for the journey to Perth, arriving during peak market hours, making it back to Duncrub in time for a late supper.

He wanted to give her a gift, somehow show her how much she’d come to mean to him. Though no gift on earth would be adequate to the task, Will found he wanted to buy her something all the same.

He hurried from the stables, patting the flap of his sporran over and again, making sure he’d not somehow lost the bundle he’d tucked in there. He hoped she’d like it. Rollo smiled, thinking she might.

He hesitated in Duncrub’s entryway. Should he find Felicity first, or eat first? He’d not eaten since before noon—and that while horseback—and he found he was fair starved.

But he wanted to see her. Needed to see her. He’d spent the better part of the day fantasizing about the give of her flesh under his grip and the feel of his mouth on hers.

Debating the needs of his loins versus the needs of his belly, he heard his mother approach. He’d grown up hearing the telltale elegant skim of fabric over stone and the unwelcome sound never failed to identify her.

Rollo realized he was not overly fond of that sound. He girded himself.

“You dare bring such
filth
into my home?”

“Mother,” he said, facing her. “I’d expected your usual frost, but this . . . venom, this is a surprise.” He forced a casual smile. “To what do I owe such an uncharacteristic display of emotion?”

“What?” she sputtered, staring trembling at her son. “Who do you think you are to speak to me so? If your father were here, you’d never dare to speak thus—”

“Father
is
here, Mother.” He’d spent his life avoiding his mother. His brother. But if Felicity had taught him anything in the past weeks, it was that life was too precious not to speak one’s mind and one’s heart with the same single voice.

“Mostly, Mother, I speak so, because it’s high time somebody addressed you truthfully. My brother has spent his life tiptoeing around you. But I never have, and there’s the rub, aye? It wasn’t that you couldn’t stomach a broken son, it’s that you couldn’t abide a willful one. It’s no secret you harbor few affections—”

“Affection?” Her voice was a strained hiss. “You speak to me of affection? What do you know of it, when all you’ve done lately is bring your . . . your witch whore into my home?”

Fury crackled through him, ice crystallizing his veins in a single, rapid wave. Rollo stepped to his mother, stopped, checked himself. He’d not threaten her. Never could he stoop to that.

Despite the vitriol, despite the twisted charade that was their family, Will would never raise a hand to one of his parents.

His free hand balled into a tight fist at his side. The feel of his nails digging into the meat of his palm gave him focus. “You will not speak of Felicity—”

“
Nobody
will speak of Felicity,” she interrupted, her tone a carefully modulated chill. “And if you hope to call even a single farthing of the Rollo fortune your own some day, you will keep her presence a secret. The fact that she spent even a single hour here, a secret. You will take it to your grave, young man.”

“Felicity is where she belongs now.” Jamie’s voice came from the doorway, where he’d been standing, hovering in silence.

“Skulking about in the shadows again?” Will sneered at his brother. He should’ve known. Jamie would’ve seen Will’s attachment to Felicity, and now he’d worry it like a dog his bone.

“You may get as testy as you like,” Jamie said. “It won’t save your pretty little witch.”

Will grew utterly still. “What do you mean?”

“She is where she belongs,” his mother chirped.

But Will’s eyes didn’t swerve from his brother. “What are you saying?” White noise buzzed in his head. “What have you done with Felicity?”

Jamie only shrugged. “She was a peculiar bird, your woman. It was only a matter of time.”

“A matter of time before what?” Will faced his brother, strode to him, but his fury seized his muscles, made him awkward, and his approach was labored, wooden.

Jamie eyed his younger brother with disdain. “Before she was imprisoned, cripple.”

“Imprisoned?” Will’s world went red. “What have you done?”

“I’ve not done a thing.” Jamie casually rested his head back on the doorjamb.

“The minister and his men came for her,” his mother said. “For
witchcraft
. Never have I felt such shame.”

“Alexander Robertson?” The thought of the man touching Felicity, of any man touching her . . . Horror swept him, turned his belly to ice.

Foreboding followed quick on its heels. Robertson was a madman with a taste for the smell of burnt flesh, his favorite pursuit throwing women on a witch’s pyre. Dozens of them. “And none of you tried to stop him?”

“Well,” Jamie chuckled, “your woman tried. A wee spit-fire that one. She’d scald any man.” He raised his brow in a lewd smirk. “Or have you already discovered that?”

“Where did they take her?” Will’s voice sounded like the edge of a knife blade.

Jamie only shrugged.

“You can’t bear to see me happy, can you? Or is it you can’t bear that she chose me over you?” Love for Felicity had stoked something to life in his soul. And this time, rather than weathering his brother in bitter silence, Will raged. Plainspoken words his seven-year-old self would’ve cheered to hear. “Horses, women . . . they all seem to prefer me, don’t they, Jamie?”

“You bloody bastard,” Jamie hissed, and in three great strides, he had his sword unsheathed.

But Will was ready for him. He whipped his cane, slashing at Jamie’s sword, sending it clattering across the foyer.

“Boys,” their mother shrieked. “You will not shed blood in my home.”

Will cast a cold eye on his mother. “You’d not look ill on it spilt elsewhere, though, would you?”

He turned on his heel, away from his detested family, grateful for once that purpose gave ease to his gait.

He’d leave Duncrub, at once. He’d not have time to gather his things. Who knew what more mischief Jamie might rain down.

He’d see his father, one last time. Then leave. Forever, if need be. Fortune be damned. His family be damned.

But first he needed to find paper, pen a letter.

Rollo needed help, and he knew just the place to find it.

 

Alexander Robertson was a creep. Felicity couldn’t believe she’d actually thought he was cute at first.

She eyed that blond hair, pulled back in a little ponytail. She hated little ponytails on men.