Pleasured (15 page)

15

M
eg tied her dory to
the dock and started up the path to Baillannan. Though some would consider the looming gray-stone house gloomy, the sight of it lifted Meg’s spirits. It would be good to see Isobel’s sweet, if somewhat vague, aunt, and perhaps Aunt Elizabeth would have word of Isobel. More than ever, Meg wished Isobel were here.

Yesterday evening, back at home after her confrontation with Damon, Meg’s anger had given way to a flood of tears. Not over the Earl of Mardoun, she told herself, but the realization of how foolish she had been, the death of that fanciful dream she had inhabited for one night. That had not made the pain and regret any less piercing.

This morning she found herself turning toward the comfort of Baillannan. Her friend might not be there to hear her woes, but still, she had spent much of her childhood there, sheltered within its thick walls from the sting of gossip as much as from the cold and wind.

She entered through the kitchen, pausing for a bit of gossip with the servants and to listen to various complaints regarding their health. Passing into the main part of the house, she took the staircase to the pleasant sitting room. Elizabeth Rose, a graying woman with the tall, spare build common to the Rose family, came forward to greet Meg, her face wreathed in smiles.

“Meg! Hamish told us you were here. Come, sit down and talk to us. How pretty you look.” Elizabeth took Meg’s arm, leading her over to the chairs by the fireplace where another middle-aged woman sat.

“Meg.” Millicent Kensington also set aside her embroidery and rose to kiss Meg’s cheek in greeting. Jack’s mother was a short, plump woman, pretty of face and fluttery of movement.

“I hope you are well,” Meg told them both, and handed Elizabeth a small sack. “I brought you some more of your tonic, and also a tin of the chamomile tea for you both. I believe that you enjoy it as well, Mrs. Kensington?”

“’Tis most soothing for my poor nerves,” Millicent responded. “Almost as effective as your delightful plum cordial, though of course I don’t drink that any longer.”

Her avoidance of the cordial, as well as any other alcohol, Meg knew, was due more to Isobel’s edict than to any restraint on Millicent’s part. Still, the woman did try, and she had managed to repair, at least to some extent, her relationship with her son, Jack.

“Thank you, dear. You are so sweet.” Elizabeth beamed at Meg. “Barbara and I were just talking about you.”

“Millicent, dear,” the other woman corrected.

“What? Oh, yes, Millicent, I mean. Did I say Barbara?
How silly of me.” Elizabeth’s memory had been slipping for some time now, but Meg’s tonic had helped her over the past few months, as had, apparently, Isobel’s marriage to Jack and the addition of his mother to the family group. As dissimilar as the two women seemed in personality and background, they had quickly become friends, united not only by their enjoyment of needlework, but also their love of romantic tales.

“We wrote you an invitation and were going to send it over, but now we can give it to you,” Millicent told Meg. “Just let me fetch it.”

“Isobel and Jack are on their way home,” Elizabeth went on.

“That’s wonderful!” Meg had already heard the news in the servants’ hall, but she was not about to spoil Elizabeth’s surprise.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Elizabeth’s cheeks were pink with excitement. “Millicent and I have decided to have a party to celebrate their return. It is Saturday; do say you will come.”

“Of course. I would not miss it for the world.”

“Here it is.” Millicent hurried back, waving the white square. “Jack and Isobel will be so surprised, don’t you think?”

“I am sure they will be very pleased, as well.” Meg only hoped the two women were not off in their estimate on the couple’s arrival. Travel through the Highlands could be difficult to calculate.

“Now tell us what is going on in the world,” Elizabeth said.

“Have you seen the earl?” Millicent added breathlessly. “What is he like?”

“Yes, I have seen him,” Meg said carefully. She should
have known that the two women would be eager to talk about this.

“I have heard he is very handsome,” Elizabeth went on. “Is that true?”

“He is indeed handsome.” Meg smiled determinedly, leaching all her emotions out of her tone. “Black hair. Black eyes. Tall. He came to the Griegs’ wedding celebration.”

“Really?” Elizabeth rounded her eyes. “They were always such a snobbish lot at Duncally before. We sent him an invitation, too, of course, but I don’t expect him to attend our little party.”

“Mm.” Meg’s stomach clenched. She hoped Elizabeth was right. Damon was the last person Meg wanted to see, but she could not forgo the celebration for her dearest friend’s arrival home.

“Ooh, I hope he does,” Millicent breathed. “I have never spoken to an actual earl—indeed, I do not think I have even seen one.”

She prattled on merrily, and Meg resigned herself to a long discussion of the Earl of Mardoun. Fortunately, neither of the women needed much help from her to keep the conversation going, and they did not seem to notice Meg’s lukewarm participation. Meg allowed herself to be persuaded to stay for luncheon, then dropped by her brother’s cottage on the estate. Coll was not at home, which was something of a relief. It would be much more difficult to convince Coll that she was in good spirits than it had been Elizabeth and Millicent. And she absolutely could not talk to her brother about Damon.

She rowed back across the loch and tried to work, but her mind kept drifting back to Damon. Whether she
thought about the pleasure of the night they had spent together or the pain of her confrontation with him yesterday, it brought her no joy. She could not even maintain her sense of satisfaction at telling him what she thought of him yesterday. He plainly had not cared. No regret had been on his face, no unhappiness—not even anger. He had merely been stiff and arrogant and oh so polite in that maddening British way. As if her wrath were a minor annoyance. The strongest reaction from him, she thought, had been his indignation at her calling the necklace he’d given her a “trinket.” Clearly the piece of jewelry held more value to him than her opinion of him. No doubt he had already found some other local girl to take to his bed, just as he’d told her he would.

This entirely wasted day was followed by a night spent tossing and turning. When she arose the next morning, finally having fallen to sleep not long before dawn, she decided that she would be better served to spend the day outdoors. She tended to her garden in the morning and early in the afternoon set out to gather plants in the woods.

Grabbing up a basket, Meg started up the trail toward Duncally, but soon turned aside and wound deeper into the woods. In the cool, green, peaceful dimness beneath the trees, she found it easier to escape her thoughts as she poked about, searching for flowers or seeds or leaves she could use.

She raised her head when she heard a crackle of twigs. A scuffling of leaves followed, then a little thump, and a female voice exclaimed, “Drat it!”

Curious, Meg started in the direction of the sound, her own steps silent. She spotted a girl among the trees ahead, swiping at the dirt and leaves that dotted her skirts. Meg
had seen this lass riding with Damon that day at the Troth Stone—his daughter.

The girl’s black hair was fashioned into long braids, but strands of it had pulled free and straggled around her face. A ribbon had come loose from its bow on one side and dangled from the end of the braid; the ribbon on the other plait was missing entirely. Dirt smudged her cheek; a ladder climbed one of her stockings; and dirt and leaves clung to her skirt despite her efforts to brush them off.

“Hello,” Meg said quietly, trying not to frighten her, but the girl jumped at the sound and whirled around.

“Oh!” She peered at Meg. “Oh,” she repeated, this time in relief. “You’re that lady. The one at the stone.”

“Yes.” Meg came forward. “I am sorry if I startled you. My name is Meg Munro.”

“I know. I mean, I’ve heard your name.” The girl blushed. “I’m sorry; I’m a bit . . . rattled. I think I am lost. Indeed, I am quite certain I’m lost.” She came toward Meg, saying again, “I’m sorry. I am Lynette Rutherford. How do you do?”

“I’m very well, thank you.” Meg took the girl’s hand.

Lynette was a slip of a girl, fine-boned, with none of her father’s height or strength. But Meg could see something of Damon in her dark hair and eyes and even, a bit, in the set of her far daintier chin and firm mouth.

“I am Mardoun’s daughter.”

“Yes, I thought you must be.” Meg smiled and turned to lead the girl back to the path. “Come, I’ll show you the path to Duncally.” She meant to take Lynette to the trail and set her on her way, but after a glance at the weary sag in the girl’s posture and the clear track of tears through the dirt on her cheek, Meg went on, “My house is near here. Perhaps you’d
like to rest a bit before we start up to Duncally. Have a cup of tea? Or will they be searching for you at the house?”

“That sounds lovely!” Lynette brightened. “I should love some tea; I am rather parched.” She paused, considering Meg’s question. “I do not think they will be worried. Miss Pettigrew was taking a nap; that is how I was able to slip away. She never wakes up before three. And if she does, she will assume I have gone out to the gardens. I guess it is fortunate that I got turned around rather soon after I left.” She grimaced. “It is so difficult to tell which way is which in the midst of all the trees.”

“It is indeed.”

“But
you
don’t get lost.”

“Oh, I have done so once or twice. But over the years, I’ve come to know this place well. Fortunately, the woods are not large. When you get lost, the best thing is not to twist and turn about, trying to retrace your steps. If you but go straight, before long you will come out of the trees. And from most clear spots, you can catch sight of Duncally or the loch or the circle of stones, and you can orient yourself from that. Ah, here is the path. If you continue in that direction, you will reach Duncally, but my cottage is this way.” She turned and led the girl toward her house.

“It’s very pretty here. You must like living in this place. Are your parents here as well? Or, I suppose perhaps you are married. You are much too pretty not to be.” Lynette cast Meg an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. Miss Pettigrew says I should not ask personal questions. It’s just that I always want to
know.
 . . . I am a terrible snoop, aren’t I?”

Meg could not help but laugh at the girl’s artless questions. “I don’t mind. I understand just how you feel; I have
always been curious, as well. Many people have deemed it a fault. Anyway, it is difficult to get offended by such a compliment. But to answer your question, no, I am not married. My mother is dead, but my father is still alive. I have a brother as well, but I live by myself.”

“Truly?” Lynette looked at Meg with wide eyes. “You must be very brave. I think I should be scared, all alone out here.”

“I have lived here all my life.” Meg shrugged. “I’ve never been afraid in the woods.”

“I wish I were like that.” Lynette’s smile wobbled. “You will think me a terrible rabbit.”

“Yet I saw you riding with your father. That would frighten me, being up on a horse.” Meg flashed a smile at Lynette, but thought of the moments when she had been on a horse behind Damon, clinging to him. There had been no fear then.

“A horse?” Lynette was the one who chuckled now. “Oh, no, horses don’t frighten me. Riding is like flying, as close as one can get to that, anyway. The ground rushing beneath you, the wind whipping past your ears, that lift when he jumps a wall.”

“I would say you are not a rabbit at all.” Meg liked the girl, who displayed none of her father’s arrogance. Indeed, Lynette seemed most friendly and eager to please.

When they drew close enough to see Meg’s home, Lynette clasped her hands together with a soft cry. “Is that your house? What a cunning cottage! The flowers and, oh, that tree that spreads out over it as if it is protecting it—it’s all perfect.”

“Thank you.” Meg smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. “That is how I have always viewed it.”

Meg opened the door and ushered Lynette inside, and the girl stared with wonder. Meg could not help but remember the way Lynette’s father had glanced around when he entered the house, as if he had stumbled onto something foreign. Meg showed the girl the washstand, then went to boil water for tea. When Lynette finished washing up and tidying her clothes and hair as best she could, she wandered around the room, taking in all the jars and bottles and sacks, the bundles of drying herbs, the unguents and tonics and teas, the spices and honey. Meg wondered what she was thinking.

Lynette turned to Meg with a smile. “It smells wonderful here. Like—I’m not sure what—the kitchen, the stillroom, the outdoors, all in one.”

Meg chuckled. “Aye, I always loved the smell of the cottage, especially when Ma was baking.” She added cups and spoons and little plates to the table, along with a tin of biscuits. Lynette’s eyes widened in appreciation, and she was quick to take a biscuit when Meg offered her the tin.

“These are wonderful.” Lynette giggled. “I keep saying that, don’t I? But everything is so . . .”

“Cunning?” Meg suggested, her eyes twinkling.

Lynette laughed, blushing a little. “I am acting like such a wet goose. You must think I have never been out of the house before. It’s just—everything is so different. Are all the houses in the Highlands like this?”

“Nae. I am the only one who deals with plants and such.”

“One of the maids said you were a witch, but Papa said that was nonsense.”

“Your papa is right,” Meg replied lightly.

“Cook says that you heal people.”

“I try to. Sometimes I cannot.”

“And you use all these things? What are they? How do you get them?”

“I will show them to you, if you like.”

“Oh, yes, please.”

Meg took her on a tour of the cabinets when they’d finished their tea and biscuits. She expected Lynette to grow quickly bored, but the girl intently followed Meg’s words, asking questions and peering into the containers, breathing in their scents.