Susan Johnson (22 page)

“Are you saying the women are married?”

He sighed again. “Generally, yes. Why are we on this subject?”

“I was simply thinking how pleasant it would be to have your child.”

“Oh, Lord …” Even as his groan wafted upward, his brain went on full alert.

“Don’t be alarmed. I’d never be coercive.”

“It’s a little late to be discussing this,” Johnnie said, not alarmed at female coercion with his finely honed instincts of avoidance, but distinctly wary. His voice had taken on an edge, and unfolding his arm from around her, he rolled onto his side, braced his head on his hand, and settled an exacting look on her. “Are you suggesting I should have thought of the possible consequences?” he gruffly said, wondering if this conversation was moving toward either of two unwelcome topics in bed—marriage or money.

“Neither of us were thinking much,” Elizabeth calmly replied. “And you needn’t worry. I’m not positioning myself for advantage.”

“Rumor has it you’re barren,” he softly said, thinking at least one topic of discussion was eliminated. As for money, he was generous to all his lovers. He just didn’t care to count guineas in bed.

“You see, you’re safe then,” she briskly replied. But her eyes grew bright with unshed tears, and her bottom lip began to quiver. She’d never reconciled herself to her deprivation; she’d always hoped.

“Oh, Lord … I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching for her, gathering her in his arms. He gently stroked her hair. “I didn’t mean to be unfeeling.”

“How could … you know … it mattered—” she replied in a tiny voice, fighting back her tears, his comfort and concern only deepening her melancholy.

“Don’t cry, darling. Please …” he whispered, the coolness of her tears sliding down his chest. “Maybe you’ll
have
a child someday,” he said, his words so exceptional
in the context of his amorous pleasure, he questioned his sanity for a moment. But he was oddly touched by her distress; she seemed suddenly so vulnerable, so exposed.

“It’s not your problem,” she replied in a wisp of a breath, bravely trying to stifle her sorrow, aware the subject of babies made Johnnie uneasy. All her old feelings of emptiness were causing her discomfort as well. “Consider the topic closed.”

“Gladly,” Johnnie said with the haste of a profligate rake. No different from any male of his class, he enjoyed a self-indulgent life in terms of entertainments. There were few rules for wealthy peers. It was a time of carnal license for aristocratic men, for men of wealth, for men of any station who could charm. And the law required only the poor and middling sort to marry the mothers of their children. “I think you need some cheering up,” he softly said, lifting her onto his chest so her toes brushed the rough hair on his calves, the warmth of his body solid, strong, a lush inducement to happiness. “I could sing for you.” A roguish smile accompanied his offer.

Gazing down into his handsome face, the candlelight modeling its fine bone structure in graceful shadow and plane, his sky-blue eyes under his heavy dark lashes lazily offering her anything she wanted, the elegant curve of his mouth suggestive of options other than song, Elizabeth basked in his seductive charm. Her answering smile, delicious and winsomely amused, radiated a palatable heat. “Now, Ravensby, consider.… why would I want you to sing,” she huskily whispered like any modish coquette bent on seduction, “when that glorious cock of yours is nudging my stomach?”

“You have something else in mind then,” he said, his grin creeping into the sky blue of his eyes.

“I have a few hours more to take advantage of you.”

“And I to amuse you.” His voice was hushed.

“How fortunate we agree.” She reached up to trace the perfect dark curve of his brow.

“But don’t we always, Bitsy, my pet?” he whispered, moving her hand down from his brow, easing one
of her fingers into his mouth, softly nibbling on the tender pad.

Morning came too early, too swiftly. As the sun rose over the rim of the Redesdale horizon in a glorious flux of gold and dazzling peony, the two lovers witnessed the melting away of shadow in their private universe, the soft glow of sunshine drifting in. And both knew the ride to Edinburgh could no longer be delayed.

Replete, full of love and longing, cradled against Johnnie’s powerful body, Elizabeth said, “Remember to come and visit me sometime when the business of state allows. I’ll have some new walls for you to see.”

“I will,” Johnnie promised, warmed by the heated afterglow of passion, his fingertips tracing the silken curve of her spine. “The first chance I get.”

A kind of love or affection or fondness had grown between them, indescribable and nameless, a strangely blissful enchantment. And their good-bye kiss was sweet with tenderness.

Their public farewells took place on the graveled drive before Munro, Redmond, servants and bodyguards. He politely bowed, she graciously smiled, and they exchanged all the expected social phrases of leave-taking. Then he kissed her hand lightly, already reverting to the polite courtier, and, mounting his horse, joined Munro, who’d been waiting patiently for some time.

“Good-bye, Johnnie,” Elizabeth said, lifting her hand in a last salute.

Leaning over to check his stirrup leather, he seemed not to have heard until Munro nudged him. Looking over, he said, “Good-bye, Elizabeth,” with a small distance in his voice, as if his mind had shifted away in those few short moments.

She tried to ward off that urbane coolness—or rather, she told herself to be realistic. Johnnie Carre was
a busy man, hours late to meet his obligations in Parliament, with a trading fleet to manage and estates to oversee. His life couldn’t possibly revolve around her wishes. But her heart wouldn’t so easily respond to the rationale of logic, and an incipient small sorrow insinuated itself into the extraordinary happiness he’d given her.

The men rode at a hard, steady gallop, both aware of the distance to Edinburgh. Johnnie knew he shouldn’t have stayed so long. Munro didn’t think they’d reach the capital in time for the meeting in the morning. There was no opportunity for conversation on the swift ride north unless they cared to shout at each other over the sound of the wind and pounding hoofbeats.

Just as well, Johnnie thought, knowing Munro was going to take issue with the nature of his sojourn at Three Kings. He had a right to. But it was as if a page had turned or a chapter had closed in Johnnie’s mind; his thoughts were focused on the session ahead—so pressing was the decision on the Act of Security. If London agreed to approve it, nothing so monumental had occurred in Scottish history since the two countries had merged. If London continued to resist … they would have to see that support continued strong against the Court party. If the Queen’s money had found some additional necessitous Lords during the short adjournment, London might have gathered enough votes to pass a limited act of supply. And his mind began the documenting of names, the certain votes, those against, the wavering—a methodical looping litany through his brain so familiar now after two years it had taken on an intimate cadence.

When the two men stopped briefly to rest their horses and eat, Johnnie braced himself for the expected discussion or, if Munro’s expression was any indication, he reflected, handing his reins over to the ostler, perhaps “interrogation” would be the more appropriate word.

Their conversation began politely enough over ale while they were waiting for their food. They spoke of the unique beauty of Elizabeth’s building site, of the neighborhood
gentry they’d met, of the Gerard sisters, of Redmond’s exceptional skill with a knife.

“You didn’t see all of his exhibition, did you?” Munro said.

“Lord Ayton dragged me off to the stables for a short time to see his hunter after five or six throws by Redmond, but I was impressed—no doubt. The man could cut the wings off a fly at fifty paces.”

“Elizabeth is fortunate to have him as her captain.”

“And he her,” Johnnie said with a smile. “I imagine she’s an improvement over Hotchane as master.”

“She’s genuinely kind, not a quality often found in beautiful women. And she’s wonderfully accomplished. Didn’t you think her plans for the facade were well done?”

“They were remarkable;
she’s
a remarkable woman,” Johnnie agreed, responding to Munro’s observation as the serving lass put the fowl and fresh-baked bread before them. “I wish she were more available.”

Munro’s glance swiveled up, the knife he held poised above the roast chicken on his plate arrested in midair. “You sound as though she isn’t available.”

“She isn’t to me. You know I’ve no intention of marrying anytime soon, and Elizabeth isn’t the quality of woman you can take as mistress.”

“You mean she’s too wellborn? What of Roxane?” He’d laid his knife aside.

“She’s not my acknowledged mistress, as you well know, nor is Janet Lindsay or any of the others,” Johnnie added, anticipating Munro’s challenge to the issue of nobility. “Perhaps I simply hate Harold Godfrey more deeply than I despise any other man on the face of the earth.”

“She’s estranged from her father.”

Johnnie looked over the chicken leg he was about to take a bite from. “Is this a debate?”

“I don’t want you to cause her unhappiness. You know that.”

“I haven’t. I won’t.” Johnnie put his food aside, his eyes steady on his cousin. His voice when he spoke was
carefully modulated. “Elizabeth and I both understood the parameters of our … tryst.”

“Elizabeth sounded as though she was expecting a future visit from you when we left.”

Johnnie had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I may have said something like that to her.”

Munro leaned forward the merest distance. “But you won’t be going back.”

Johnnie hesitated: Munro’s posture, his tone of voice, were stamped with temper. “No,” he said after a short moment. “Regardless of how you feel,” he softly added. “She’s the daughter of my most hated enemy, of the Carres’ traditional adversary; England at the moment qualifies as a mortal foe with swords locked as we are in the Parliaments, with the Border garrisons being strengthened. But at base, politics aside … very selfishly,
I don’t wish to marry
.”

Munro leaned back in his chair, his vehemence abruptly muted. “Which you’d have to do with Elizabeth Graham,” he quietly declared.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Johnnie knew the affection Munro had for Elizabeth. He, too, was briefly sorry, Elizabeth Graham wouldn’t be easy to forget.

“She’ll survive, I’m sure,” Munro said with surprising calm, as if he’d reached some emotional accord with Johnnie’s decision. “After eight deplorable years with Hotchane Graham,” he said with the bluntness of long friendship, “her disappointment over you should be negligible.”

“Exactly.” Johnnie smiled disarmingly, gratified to recognize the Munro of old; his cousin as gallant knight was a more recent aberration. “Elizabeth often speaks of the new freedoms gained in widowhood. She won’t pine away for lack of my company.”

“Not with the foundation beginning next week and a building schedule to oversee for the next two years.”

“Not with George Baldwin constantly underfoot,” Johnnie facetiously added, although he experienced a swift twinge of discontent at the thought—as quickly brushed aside. “Now do you care to wager on who’s been bribed over to Tweedale’s party while we were gone?” he
went on as if a change of subject were suddenly necessary. “I’d say Belhaven and Montrose, perhaps Selkirk.”

“I’ll only give you odds on the amount it took to buy their votes,” Munro replied, applying himself to his food once again. “All three have sold Scotland away.”

Johnnie paused for a moment before responding as the rancor clutched at his stomach. “It’s a dirty game England’s playing,” he bitterly murmured, “and the poverty of Scotland is making it easy.”

“The Court may not win.”

“Over time I’m not so sure.” A weariness infused the Laird of Ravensby’s voice.

“We’ve kept them at bay for almost two years now.”

Johnnie smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. Who knows … our David might succeed after all against their Goliath. If the war on the Continent serves us.”

“And if the Act of Security’s approved by London.”

“Yes, if …”

And the serious state of Scotland’s affairs superseded further discussion of Elizabeth Graham’s future.

They rode into the outskirts of Edinburgh the next morning, their horses lathered and worn, both men aching with weariness. Arriving at Ravensby House a short time later, Johnnie had barely time to bathe, eat, and dress before leaving for his prearranged meeting with Roxburgh and Fletcher. The Country party planned to discuss strategy that day, prior to the session on Monday.

“You look like hell,” Roxburgh exclaimed as Johnnie dropped into a chair at their table in Steil’s tavern.

“And I look better than I feel.” Running his palms over his still-damp hair, Johnnie slid lower in his chair. “I haven’t slept much lately,” he said in a voice rough with fatigue. “Tell me what I missed.”

“You missed Roxie’s sailing party, for one thing,” Roxburgh quipped.

“Oh, Lord,” Johnnie groaned. He’d forgotten to send his regrets.