Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (23 page)

Malcolm had already urged the horses into a canter, as fast as they could manage on the slick and treacherous road. “Fire,” he said.

His voice was grim, intent on the village, not their previous conversation. Fire was always a risk, but she had seen many burned out crofts and dwellings when she and her family had traveled through the Highlands to reach Malcolm’s home — more than she had ever seen between London and her family’s estate in Lancashire.

“Is lightning particularly problematic here?” she asked.

“No more than anywhere, I should think. Why?”

“We passed many scorched ruins while driving here. Is it something about the thatched roofing?”

He pulled back on the reins, navigating the horses around a fallen branch in the road. After he flicked the whip above their heads to urge them on, he spoke in a voice she’d never heard from him before. “That wasn’t lightning. That was improvement.”

“Improvement? But there were no modern houses to replace them.”

The words crackled between them like a storm about to break. “I wouldn’t call it improvement either. But most landlords are clearing their tenants to make room for sheep. It is easier to keep the tenants off the land if there are no houses for them to return to.”

“You can’t be serious,” she said, looking at his profile. There was little to see in the darkness, but his spine was a stiff line of rage. “I thought the clans were families?”

“That was true decades ago. And a few of us still hold to the old ideals. But if you’re a distant landlord, living in London, and needing funds to fuel your gambling or drinking...”

He flicked the whip again. In the crack of sound, Amelia heard his judgment.

They covered the mile to the village much more quickly than was advisable on the sodden road. She wrapped the blanket around herself, but the wind cut through the wool. If someone’s home or livelihood in the village wasn’t being destroyed in front of them, it might have almost been funny. Malcolm had tried so hard to warm her up, to keep her safe, only to freeze her and risk dismemberment on the way home.

She didn’t make the jest, though. When she glanced at him, she knew he focused solely on what lay ahead of them, not on the relatively new burden at his side. He’d cared for his clan long before he’d had a wife — and she understood the pull of old desires over the unexpected bond they found themselves in.

Her thoughts wandered, away from Malcolm and toward the stories whispering through the glens. There were tragedies lurking in the trees, stalking her in the mist. The modern MacCabes, who had been so exuberant at her wedding, seemed relatively happy. But over the centuries, the Highlanders had drunk to the very dregs of a cold, bitter cup. Tonight’s fire was yet another stain on the fabric.

She hadn’t lied when she told Malcolm that she could write about the Highlands for decades. She didn’t know the individuals affected by tonight’s fire, but she was already creating a story around them — perhaps a blacksmith with a beautiful daughter, whose forge was destroyed by arson so a nefarious stranger could force the father to sell the girl?

By the time they reached the village, she had constructed an entire plot in her head. They pulled to a halt near the burning cottage, separated from the flames by a brigade of men with buckets and shovels.

Half the village was watching the spectacle, but there wasn’t a nefarious stranger in sight. As usual, the reality was almost disappointing in comparison to the story she had told herself.

One of the twins broke away from the crowd as Malcolm leapt from the curricle. “It’s a complete loss,” Duncan said, dusting soot off his hands before clapping Malcolm on the back.

“And Sean and his family?” Malcolm asked, signaling for one of the children from the throng of bystanders.

“All safe. And they rescued their cow, even though it was the cow that caused the ordeal. A lightning strike frightened her and she knocked a lamp over. The fuel spread and reached her feed trough before Sean could put it out.”

Malcolm handed the reins to the boy, along with a coin for minding them. Amelia threw off her blanket and slid down from the curricle. “How did the fire spread from the barn to the cottage?” she asked.

Duncan stared at her as Malcolm answered. “Most of the crofters keep their livestock with them in their cottages. A cow is too valuable to leave out, but none can afford a barn if they only have one animal to house.”

The heat from the burning cottage prickled against her blush. “It must be different on Alex’s estate.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, but a shout from someone near the cottage cut him off. “Stay here,” he ordered, turning on his heel to cut through the crowd.

She didn’t like to be left behind, but she knew there was little she could do in a fire brigade beyond getting in the way. So she remained with the rest of the observers, who were too occupied with watching the fire to notice her ruined dress and unkempt hair.

Malcolm didn’t hang back, though. He charged into the very heart of the fight, picking up a pole when the men began pushing the smoldering thatched roof into the ruined interior. The building was mostly stone, and as soon as the roof was off, it would be less likely for a stray spark to spread to its neighbors. They were lucky it had rained earlier — while a fire started from within hadn’t been contained by the rain, the nearby cottages were safer than they might have been.

There was an energy to Malcolm that Amelia hadn’t seen with other peers — a driving need to satisfy and protect those around him. So far, she’d only seen that energy expended in their bed, with vastly pleasant results. But it was no wonder he dreamed of saving the Highlands. It was the type of battle he would feel honor-bound to take up.

She had wanted freedom and someone who wouldn’t notice the hours she spent writing. But despite that desire, she hoped that when Malcolm did turn his attentions to politics, he would still have time to spare for her.

*    *    *

When the roof was off, Malcolm tossed aside his pole. The cottage was completely destroyed, as Duncan had said, but at least the village was safe.

He tramped around the side of the cottage and found Sean MacRae sitting on a stool, taking a rest after the worst of the fire had been fought. He stood when Malcolm clapped him on the back.

“Ye needn’t’ve come, Laird,” Sean said. “Nothing to be done yet.”

“Your wife and children are all safe?” Malcolm asked.

Sean nodded. “Anne isn’t happy I saved the cow, though. She thinks the beast is cursed, and this proves it.”

“You can trade me for a different cow if that will make her feel better.”

“Can I sell it to you instead? We will be wanting shillings more than milk, I think.”

Malcolm frowned. “You don’t want to give up your cow, Sean. I will find you a cottage for free for the next quarter, until you can get back on your feet.”

Sean rubbed his forehead, smearing the soot that had settled on his skin. “I’ve a cousin — you remember Billy MacRae, don’t you? He went to Nova Scotia last year and says if I join him, we can start a mill together.”

“Canada? You can’t be serious,” Malcolm said.

“It’s not that I want to go,” Sean said hastily. “But wouldn’t it be grand to see my boys be mill owners someday instead of shepherds?”

Malcolm tried his best to talk him out of it. He even said there was no use discussing it until morning anyway, and promised to visit again when the sun was out and Sean had calmed himself. But Malcolm knew, even though he wasn’t ready to acknowledge it, that there was nothing he could say to change Sean’s mind.

He cursed himself for it as he walked back to where Amelia and his curricle waited. Not that he wished his father had died sooner — he wished his father had lived many more years, of course. But maybe if Malcolm had inherited sooner, started this battle earlier, men like Sean would see opportunity here instead of thinking they had to sail across an ocean and start again.

Amelia was sitting on a stump a dozen feet away from the nearest villager, staring off into the middle distance between herself and the smoking ruins of the cottage. Even with the grime on her dress and the pensive, brooding look on her face, he wanted to see her. Maybe she could talk him out of his blue devils. Maybe in their bed, he could forget tonight’s failure.

He froze. She hadn’t seen him yet and didn’t notice his hesitation. But why was he thinking in terms of forgetting? He should be working, not playing. These precious days after their wedding had been lovely.

But they were just a dream of what could have been, if neither of them had responsibilities to anyone else. Malcolm did have responsibilities, though — responsibilities he’d utterly neglected in favor of spending time between her thighs.

Amelia came out of her daze and looked around. When her eyes met his, he realized she was looking for him. She smiled slowly, wonderfully, radiantly, and even though the village was dark, she burned as bright as a torch for him.

Malcolm shook his head, hard. Her smile faltered just a bit. But she stood and walked toward him, extending a hand to take his arm.

“I hear the family is all unharmed?” she asked.

He nodded.

She patted his forearm, an instinctual gesture of comfort. “You must be relieved.”

He wasn’t. Their lives were saved, through no effort of his, but they would leave the Highlands. He couldn’t save them from that. But he also couldn’t keep delaying his plans, not if he wanted to save the rest of them.

“They’ll live,” he said shortly. “Let’s return to the castle. I have work to do tonight.”

Amelia frowned up at him. “You never work in the evenings.”

He ignored the censure in her voice and escorted her to the curricle. He had always worked in the evenings before she came, at least in the year since his father’s death. He wouldn’t — couldn’t — regret the last two weeks. But he couldn’t keep ignoring his duties for the pleasure she offered.

If their honeymoon was a dream, it would end tonight. And he would take up the life he was supposed to live immediately, whether either of them were ready or not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The rest of the evening passed in silence. The storm had ended hours earlier, but Amelia felt another wave about to break.

And it wasn’t just her worry over Prudence. Malcolm had barely said anything after the fire — not as he drove her home, not as he escorted her into the castle, not as they had a makeshift supper of warmed over food at a corner of the dining table. His answers were clipped, lacking all of the brogue he usually charmed her with. And his hand as he helped her out of her seat at the end of the meal didn’t linger on the curve of her back.

“I trust you can find your way to your room,” he said.

“I know where it is, but I haven’t slept in it yet,” she said. It connected to Malcolm’s chamber, but she only used it for dressing — all of her nights since their wedding had been spent tangled in his sheets.

He nodded, feigning oblivion at the undercurrents between them. “I have papers to see to tonight and wouldn’t want to disturb you when I finish.”

She looked over his shoulder to the footmen who waited to clear the table. “If you could escort me before you return to your study, I would be most grateful.”

He saw the line of her gaze and looked over his shoulder. He offered his arm to her, but as soon as they reached the foot of the stairs, he stepped away. “You don’t need me, Amelia. Go to bed.”

She frowned. “What is the matter? You’ve never behaved like this before.”

“Never?” He laughed. “You’ve known me less than a month. Perhaps this is who I truly am.”

His voice was grim. His mouth was hard, as though she’d stolen every last kiss his lips could ever give her. His eyes weren’t the ones that had enchanted her in the library — they were the slate grey of rain on stones. Standing this close to him, he smelled of soot and peat and damp wool, ancient and elemental.

She shivered. “Tonight was difficult and I am sorry for it. But perhaps a bath and a bit of rest is all you need.”

Malcolm stared at her. “You think a bath will solve this?”

“It might. There’s no harm in trying, is there? You can join me if you like.”

He’d shown her the pleasures of bathing together earlier in the week. She would have sworn that he enjoyed it too — and they could both use the distraction. But he showed no sign of taking her invitation. “I must work. If you cannot sleep, I’m sure you have a correspondent to write to.”

The comment slapped at her like a gauntlet, part taunt, part question. “My letters can wait for the morning.”

“How gracious of you to put off your letters for me,” he said.

“Is that what is bothering you? My writing?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes met hers. His gaze was a battering ram attempting to break through her calm façade.

Amelia refused to blink. She might not be Amelia Staunton anymore, but even as Lady Carnach, she hadn’t changed so much that she would give anything away. She held his gaze steadily, unflinching even as his eyes narrowed.

He pulled back abruptly, raking a hand through his hair. “You are a cold one, aren’t you?”

He had finally found the words to make her flinch. “What are you going on about, Malcolm? Is this about my writing? The fire? Something else?”

“Nothing, darling.” The endearment sounded like a curse. “Go to your bed. I’ve much to consider after tonight’s fire.”

She thought about reaching out to him. Her hand was already lifting, drawn to him.

But she dropped her hand. She couldn’t face the questions in his eyes, not when she didn’t know what the consequences would be — or whether she could confess her sins without losing him. Prudence’s letter was still tucked in her reticule, and while she didn’t know what Prudence had apologized for, the note felt like a dangerous scrap of treason that Amelia might hang for in the end.

She feigned a yawn. “Very well, Malcolm. I’m sure I appreciate a night without you.”

He scowled. Amelia wanted him to argue. She wanted him to demand that she take back the words. It was crazy, that desire for a fight, but her whole body throbbed as anger rushed through her.