Pleasured (29 page)

“Jamie?” David let out a little cackle. “Nae, it wasna him; I’m certain of that. The lasses did favor Jamie, it’s true, but he couldna get a glance from Faye. If she had picked him, he couldna hae passed up the chance to crow aboot it, at least to me. Anyway, the time was not richt, was it? Jamie was already off following the prince afore then.”

“The time? Oh! You mean she was certain about when the bairn was conceived?” Meg asked in surprise.

“Aye. I never heard a woman be so sure about the date. The wee one came a mite earlier than she thocht, but she swore the lassie was early. She maun hae known the exact day, you ken?” David shrugged. “It’s said the Munro women hae the sicht, isn’t it? They called her gran the spaewife, and I reckon Faye was, too.”

“Did her mother know, you think?”

“Who the father was? Nae, I dinna think anyone knew but Faye.”

“So you had no idea who he might be?”

“Some said it was wan of the lobsterbacks that forced himself upon her, but . . .” David shook his head. “I dinna believe that. The way she acted about the babe when she was carrying it, the way she talked—I canna think she would hae been that way if the da was a man she despised. But I think it was someone not frae the glen.”

“A stranger?” Meg straightened. “Why do you think that?”

“Faye wouldna hae taken up with just anyone. He maun hae been special. Better than the local lads. Sometimes I wondered if it could hae been the prince himself.”

“Bonnie Prince Charlie?”

“Aye. Some said it was. But I dinna think so. He was just a lad, that one, and Faye wouldna hae chosen a stripling. It’s my opinion he was a ship’s captain. She was not wi’ him often; she couldna hae been, or else her ma would hae known.”

“I guess that is true,” Meg agreed.

“Or if he was a Sassenach, he would hae been an officer, a gentleman, you ken, and she fell in love with him despite whit he was. But I think, more like, he sailed in now and then, not just a fisherman, but the captain of a merchant ship. She ayeways used to sit, you see, staring out to sea.”

“Angus said she did, that she seemed sad.”

“Aye, I saw her there often enough, and she looked fair despairing. It was ayeways in the same spot on the cliff where the loch meets the sea. Above the caves, there’s a wide, flat rock just richt for sitting.”

“I know where you mean.” Meg nodded.

“Weel, it’s the way you’d watch if you was waiting for a ship from the sooth. I think she kept watch for him, but he never returned.”

“I see.” Meg sat back, considering his words.

“I hae—” He paused, looking torn. “Truth is, I hae something to gie you.”

Meg looked at him in surprise. “You do?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “She gied it me, that last nicht, when she knew she wouldna live. She dinna want to lea’ it with her mither, but she wanted her bairn to hae it. She asked me to gie it to Janet when she was auld enough. But I couldna part with it. It was wrong of me, but it was all I had of her. But now . . . weel, I willna be lang for this world, will I? And
you should hae it.” His old eyes glimmered with tears again. “Looking sae like her as you do.”

The old man put his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself upward. Damon sprang forward to help lift him and waited until David was steady on his feet before he let him go. The old man gave him a nod, then shuffled across the room and out the door.

Damon turned to Meg. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” She smiled at him a bit tearfully. “I wish I know who Faye loved, what he was like. But I am glad to learn whatever I can. It’s a sad story.”

“Do you think his notion of the seafarer is right?”

“I’m not sure. It makes sense that it was not his brother Jamie. But he may just not want to think that she was raped by a passing soldier. It could have been that horror that haunted her.”

“True. But that would not explain her hair comb. That is the gift of a lover.” He reached out to brush her hair. “I know what I feel when I look at her comb in your hair, knowing the feel of your hair beneath my hand, having the pleasure, the intimate knowledge of watching you do up your hair. I know how much more it would be if I had been the one to give it to you. I think whoever he was, he gave that comb to her. And I doubt that it was purchased anywhere around Kinclannoch—probably not even Inverness. The stones are not emeralds or diamonds, but neither are they glass. They are less valuable gems—my guess is peridot and citrine—but they are gems nonetheless, and the workmanship is excellent. I could buy nothing more finely wrought in London.”

“But a man who traveled could have bought it in Edinburgh or London or even farther away.”

“Exactly. The cost would not have been out of reach for someone such as a ship’s captain or a merchant. Yet they are not obviously expensive; people could have easily believed they were mere paste.”

“I wonder . . .” An elusive thought teased at the back of her mind, then slipped away as David MacLeod shuffled back into the room.

In one hand, he held a book, tied around with a faded blue ribbon, which he extended to Meg. “Here you are, lass.” He clutched it for a second longer as Meg reached out for it, then let it go.

Meg gazed down at the leatherbound volume for a moment, then untied the ribbon and opened it. “Damon!” Her voice was reverent. “This is my grandmother’s journal.”

26

T
his is wonderful!” Meg held
up the thick, leatherbound journal, opened, to Damon. It was late afternoon, and they were sitting on their bed in the inn, legs stretched out before them and Meg leaning back against Damon’s bare chest as she perused her grandmother’s journal. “It’s full of recipes for her remedies. Here is a drawing of a woundwort, leaves and flowers. And a few lines about a dream she had. This is a treasure. A window into my grandmother.” Meg glowed up at him. “I am so grateful. How did you find Mr. MacLeod? Why?”

“I wanted to see you smile like that.” His own lips curved up. “You told me his name one day, you remember. So I sent a man to look for him.”

“You are very kind.”

“It was the only gift I could think of that you might accept from me,” he told her lightly. “You are a damnably difficult woman to pamper.”

Meg laughed. “I am very glad you did. I cannot think of
anything I would like more than meeting him and hearing about her . . . and this journal!”

He kissed her head, his fingertips idly stroking her arm, and Meg went back to carefully paging through the old book. “She must have done a great deal of writing. It’s quite thick.”

“Mm. She recorded a lot of things. I think he gave it to her.”

“Your grandfather?”

Meg nodded. “Yes, she says something here in the beginning about him giving her this precious gift and only he could know how much it meant to her.”

“She doesn’t say his name?”

Meg shook her head. “I shall study it thoroughly, you can be certain of that, but the times she’s referred to him, it’s been ‘he’ or ‘him.’ Sometimes she’s called him ‘my love.’ She said something here about leaving a message for him at ‘our spot,’ but nothing about where that spot is. It’s as if she is making a great effort to be secretive.”

“Maybe she feared her mother might read it.”

“I am not sure her mother
could
read. One of the things that pleases her is that she will be able to write down the recipes for the remedies that have been handed down by word of mouth. Her writing is very plain; she always prints. I think he may have taught her, for she seems to connect it with him.” Meg’s eyes sent a twinkling gaze Damon’s way. “Another man, you see, who understood the way to a Munro woman’s heart.”

“Ah. A clever sort, then.” Damon smiled and kissed the point of her shoulder, his breath teasing over her skin. “Meg, dear, tell me again—why did you put your chemise back on?”

“It seemed a bit improper to sit about reading a book in the altogether.”

“I rather like a bit of impropriety.” He raised her arm and pressed soft kisses on it, working his way down from her shoulder.

“Do you now?” Meg laughed and closed the precious journal, setting it aside. “It so happens that I do as well.” Reaching down, she whipped her chemise off over her head, tossing it aside, and went into his arms.

They spent another day in Aberdeen, lingering over their happiness, before they set sail back to the loch. The closer they drew to home, the heavier Meg’s heart became, and for the first time she could remember, she felt no joy when she saw the familiar ring of the standing stones.

“Nae,” she said, her voice a trifle husky, when Damon started to follow her out of the carriage. “Do not walk to the cottage with me. I—” She swallowed hard; she knew she would start to cry if she had to take her leave of him at home, and she feared she might cling to him and beg him not to go. “It’s better here.”

She could see the reluctance on his face, but he said only, “Very well.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for everything.” Meg grabbed her bag and hurried away.

Damon watched her go, not signaling the coachman to move forward until she disappeared among the trees. He felt . . . lonely. It was silly. It was not as if he would never see Meg again. They would have many days together before he
and Lynette returned to London—and the thought of that day gave him no joy. He leaned back against the soft, padded seat, letting out an unconscious sigh.

He and Lynette would have to leave before many months passed. It was September and already turning chilly. It would not be pleasant here in the winter. And yet . . . he thought of Duncally frosted with snow. They would light the massive fireplace in the hall and sit cozily in front of it, the three of them, reading or playing some game or simply talking. Meg would have the shawl he had bought her draped around her shoulders. He smiled faintly.

But, no, he could not leave her. Perhaps Meg would come with them to London—not forever. Meg would not want to live long so far away from all she loved. But she had said she would enjoying seeing other places. For the winter, perhaps. It would be as it had been on the trip. Well, no, not exactly, for she could not live with him in London; they would be far more open to scandal in the city with all the
ton
about. He could buy her a house, though, not far from his and spend as much time as he pleased with her there. Not all the time he pleased, for he could not leave Lynette alone that much. Nor could he could take the two of them together to any of the amusements London had to offer. Italy then, as they had discussed. But Meg was right, damn it—word would be bound to get out and the scandal would haunt Lynette in the future.

He was not in a pleasant frame of mind when the carriage set him down in front of his home, and his mood grew even darker when he started down the hall and heard the sound of Lady Basham and her guests in the drawing room.
Silently, he slipped around to the servants’ stairs, startling a passing maid, and went up to greet his daughter.

Lynette was gratifyingly happy to see him, and he spent a pleasant few hours with her. The evening, however, with its overly long meal spent in the company of Lady Veronica and the Twitherington-Smythes brought him back to boredom and gloom, and he hastened over to Meg’s cottage as soon as he could escape.

It was balm to his troubled thoughts to lie beside Meg through the night, holding her soft body against him and falling asleep to the sound of her gentle breathing. However, awakening early the next morning to return to Duncally irked him, as it always did, and it set his teeth thoroughly on edge when Harry Twitherington-Smythe decided to join him for an early breakfast. The man then made his day even worse by insisting on joining him and Lynette on their morning ride.

When they returned from the ride, Damon immediately sent a servant to request Lady Veronica’s presence in his study. This, at least, was one thing he could remedy.

Veronica swept into his office a few minutes later, her eyes alight with some emotion—he wasn’t sure what, but he had no interest in finding out. He rose politely and went around her to close the door. Oddly, this action brought a smile to her lips.

He had spent the last few minutes searching for a tactful way to phrase his words, but in the end he simply thrust nicety aside. “It will soon be fall, Veronica. I am sure you will wish to get started back to London before the weather turns cold.”

Veronica looked taken aback. She lifted one brow. “Life in the country has made you distressingly blunt, Damon.”

“No doubt. You said you came here to see your niece. Now you have. Lynette is healthy and happy, so you can be at peace with yourself, knowing that my daughter is not ill cared for.”

“Damon, really, you act as though I thought you were a bad father.”

“I see no other reason why you would come haring up here—though I cannot conceive why you chose to bring that mutton-headed Harry and his wife. It’s doing it too brown to pretend you missed your niece’s company, given that you had seen her in London only a month before—not that you spent much time with Lynette there.”

“I am quite fond of Lynette. She is my niece, and as her closest female relative, I find it incumbent upon me to see that she is prepared to take her place in society.”

“Good gad, the girl is only thirteen. She’s hardly about to make her come-out.”

“Turning a young girl into a lady is not done overnight. Lynette needs feminine guidance, Damon—and I do not mean traipsing about the Highlands with your latest paramour.”

His mouth tightened. “Have a care how you speak about Miss Munro.”

“Spare me the pretense of defending her honor. It is clear you are having an affair with the woman. However, that is the way of men. What is alarming is that you allow your daughter to spend time with her. Lynette acts as if she were a member of the family.”

“Lynette is very fond of Miss Munro. I believe I mentioned that she nursed my daughter through a difficult illness.”

Veronica forced a smile and went toward Damon, smiling and extending her hand. “Come now. Let us not quarrel. You and I both have Lynette’s best interests at heart. And we have always dealt well with each other, I think.”

“I have no interest in quarreling with you, believe me.” Damon avoided her hand, linking his own behind him. “I appreciate your concern for Lynette. It is gracious of you to offer to help my mother bring her out.”

“Of course. I look forward to that day.”

“However, I still do not understand why you are here.”

Veronica let out a little laugh. “Really, Damon, you do put a woman to blush.” She paused, walking a few steps away, then turned back, an ingratiating smile on her face. “I suppose I must be equally blunt. I hoped you would come to realize how well we suit.”

“How well we suit what?”

She made a moue of annoyance. “I am talking about marriage.”

“Marriage!” Bloody hell, Lynette had obviously been much more perspicacious about the matter than he. “Veronica, if I have ever given you any reason to suppose that I had hopes of marriage . . .” He stopped, then said more firmly, “Indeed, I am very certain that I have not! You are Amibel’s sister!”

“It is not as if you and I are related. There is no reason to have any hesitation in that regard. It is one of the things that is so advantageous. Lynette is my niece, and I am already fond of her. I am quite prepared to take up the task of raising her correctly. And she, already knowing me, will have none of the fears or jealousies that often afflict a girl when faced with a stepmother. We shall get along admirably.”

“Veronica, no. Stop. I have no intention of marrying.”

“I know the wounds of Amibel’s death are still too recent. Certainly we would not even announce it until the full year of mourning is over, and—”

“It is not a question of propriety or how long it has been since your sister died. I do not plan to marry.”

“What nonsense! You must marry someday. You have no heir. I am two years younger than Amibel, and I was never one to indulge in the sort of ill health my sister did. I have a number of childbearing years left. Basham was far older than I and never in the best of health; you must not regard the fact that we did not have children as an indication that I am incapable of producing an heir.”

“For God’s sake, Veronica, I am not looking to purchase a brood mare,” Damon snapped. “
If
I should decide to marry, I have a number of years to do so.”

“Do you intend to wait for some silly chit making her first come-out to catch your eye? A romantic goose who will cry and complain about your affairs? Who would expect you to dance attendance upon her? I have no such delusions. Give your carte blanche to your little barque of frailty if you wish. I will make no objection.”

“Veronica!” he snapped. “Enough. I do not love you.” He dropped each word like a stone.

Veronica stared at him. “Good heavens, Damon, what does that have to do with anything? I am speaking of marriage, not love. I have no expectation of love nor any need for it.”

“Perhaps I do.”

She let out a trill of laughter. “Do not tell me you have turned into a romantic! I had thought you were a man more ruled by his head than his . . . other parts.”

“I married once for family and duty; I tied myself to almost fourteen bloody years of misery and boredom. I do not plan to do so again.”

“What
do
you intend to do, marry your little Highland fling? I should love to see you introduce your witch-woman to the
ton
. Lord, Damon, tell me you have more sense than to marry someone common?”

“Meg Munro is anything but common, I assure you,” he shot back. “But I know such a thing is out of the question.” He whirled and stalked over to the fireplace.

“Thank God for that, at least.”

“Good day, Veronica,” he grated out, not turning around.

With a little huff of outrage, Veronica turned and left. Silence smothered the room. Damon rubbed absently at his chest. It felt heavy and sore beyond measure. He stared into the low flames of the fire. Picking up the poker, he stabbed viciously a time or two at the coals.

What bloody good was being an earl if he could not marry the woman he loved?

The woman he loved.

Suddenly everything inside him eased. What a fool he was. He’d been one from the first with Meg. Of all the blundering, idiotic things he’d done, of all the kinds of narrow-minded simpleton he’d been, this last bit of blindness had been the worst.

But no longer.

He slammed the poker back into its rack. It was time to put things in order. Retrieving a box from his desk, he turned and hurried to the door.