What Happens in Scotland (4 page)

“I accompanied the lady to
her
room.” James knew it wasn’t chivalrous, but something in him balked at the innkeeper’s presumption. He had a perfectly good house and a perfectly good bed that he paid rent toward each month. “She did not cover the cost of the room when she departed?” he asked, his throat thick with irritation.

The innkeeper shook his head, the very picture of an affronted businessman.

“Do you happen to know the lady’s name?” James wanted a name to attach to his new flash of annoyance.

The innkeeper hesitated. It was clear as the birthmark on the man’s right cheek he didn’t know the lady’s name either. “Er . . .
Mrs.
MacKenzie, wasn’t it?”

Behind him, William chuckled. James’s fingers tightened to fists. “She is not my wife.” At least, he didn’t think she was.

The innkeeper cocked his head and his feet spread out mulishly. “ ’Tis not my business, Mr. MacKenzie, but you do the lady a disservice. If you have misplaced her, ’tis no one’s fault but your own. Treat your wife with a bit more respect, and she will be more likely to stay ’round come morning.”

“It is not your affair,” James ground out. “You know nothing about it.”

But the man was not yet done with him. “I suppose, out of all the MacKenzies, it would be you to do this. Your father, Lord Kilmartie, would never be involved in the likes of this.”

“I am not my father.” The old familiar beat of guilt began to pound in James’s chest. “And she is not my wife,” he repeated again, this time through tightly clenched teeth.

“And I did not stumble into town yesterday, sir.” The innkeeper’s cheeks had gone ruddy. “Last night was an odd state of affairs, I will rightly admit, and I am sorry for it. But I
will
have my five pounds.”

James felt near to boiling over. Only William’s big hand on his shoulder stayed him. The woman in question had assaulted him before she had sashayed out the door and left him with her bill, and the proprietor was lecturing
him
on respect? If he had been better rested, he would have lodged a more effective argument. Arguing the facts was what he did best, after all. But his brain was still fuzzy, and he reluctantly acknowledged he was tired enough to cut his losses. Anything to escape the stink of the place, and the memory—or lack of memory—of the woman who had brought him so low.

James ran a hand over his jacket. His account ledger was in its usual place, stashed in the left pocket of his coat. He remembered going over his practice’s accounts the day before, and intending to make a deposit at the bank, only to arrive—as usual—five minutes past closing. He dipped into his right pocket to find the ivory-inlaid cuff links his mother had given him for Christmas.

But something was missing. He forced his eyes to meet William’s. “Have you seen my money purse?”

William let out a low whistle. “She took your purse?”

“That depends,” James said slowly. “Did you
see
it in the room?”

They returned to the scene of his downfall, accompanied by the inn’s proprietor. Together they searched. Pulled back the bedclothes and looked under the bed. Rummaged through the ruined wardrobe. There wasn’t much space in the cramped room, and deucedly few places a full money purse could hide.

“It’s not here,” James finally admitted.

“Aye, and now that I’ve seen your room, the bill is now six pounds.” The innkeeper swept an arm around the scene.

William dutifully pulled out his own purse and counted out the outrageous sum the innkeeper claimed was due. It made James want to smash something to see his brother hand over money on his behalf.

“I’ll pay you back,” he choked out.

“No need, Jamie-boy. Only too happy to help.” William leaned in close. “I only require your everlasting gratitude, of course.”

“You’ll have the money,” he growled. There was no way he was giving William the satisfaction of bailing him out without repayment. Confusion and resentment fell away to anger as reality set in. That damned missing purse had contained over fifty pounds, the equivalent of a half year’s salary given his current slow rate of practice. And she had taken it.

It did not matter if she had the face of a fairy sprite, or the mouth of a courtesan. It did not matter if she had given him a cockstand
and
a headache. There was more at stake here than regaining his memory or his pride.

The purse his evening’s escort had absconded with held more than mere money. He had been scraping and saving with only one goal in mind, a goal that now seemed to have been stripped from his reach. There were surely worse things than serving as a solicitor in a little town like Moraig, but in the year he had been practicing here he hadn’t found a single one.

He dreamed of establishing a practice in London. But setting up a practice took money, and in Moraig, soliciting didn’t pay. Or, at least, it didn’t pay
him
. Too often, townsfolk looked at him and saw only the miscreant youth James had once been, and now that he was doling out legal advice, his past proved difficult for some of Moraig’s residents to forgive. Worse, the town’s currency was little more than eggs and salted pork, and James had little to do other than negotiate the tedious thread of life running through this sleepy village. Sometimes James was tempted to strangle someone, just for the privilege of finally having a real trial to attend.

He
needed
that money, or he was set six months back. Needed it, or he would be stuck in Moraig, fighting his history and being heckled by William for the rest of his life. The flash of resentment he felt now toward the pale, angelic vision that haunted his mind made his earlier irritation seem like mere chafing.

He wasn’t dealing with just a heartless wench who had taken him to bed and then awakened with buyer’s remorse.

He was dealing with a bloody thief.

And he would see her hang.

Chapter 4

G
EORGETTE STARED GLOOMILY
at the house Randolph had leased for the summer. In his letter some weeks ago inviting her for this visit, her cousin had mentioned neither the house’s small size nor its isolation. It lay on the grounds of a larger, more reputable estate. Like many in Scotland, the house sported a traditional thatched roof and small, dank rooms. The fireplace leaked smoke, coating the furniture with gray soot and making the upholstered furniture smell perpetually of winter even though it was newly May.

The most that could be recommended of it was that it made one very much want to spend more time out of doors.

She had been disappointed when she had first seen it and realized her two-week holiday was to be spent brushing shoulders with Randolph in such tight quarters, without benefit of a maid or female companion. The cousin she remembered preferred marble foyers and fine china and a bevy of domestic servants. That he had leased a house best suited for said servants’ quarters bespoke either a lapse in the man’s financial well-being, or a significant change in his tolerance of such things.

She was no longer sure she knew or understood the pale, brooding young man beside her. They had once been close, but since he had set off for university some four years ago and she had been married off, they had seen each other very little. As her cousin’s carriage jostled up the pitted drive, Georgette acknowledged that perhaps the house
did
fit Randolph’s new scholarly image. He was supposed to be spending the summer prowling the surrounding acreage examining seed pods and root systems, not moldering away inside some old Scottish edifice.

“Are you sure you can’t remember his name?” Randolph asked again as he reined in the curricle in front of the little stone structure.

Georgette bit her lip to keep from uttering the insult that came to mind. The same bookish instinct that Randolph applied to his study of Scottish flora had been summarily directed toward her since her hasty confession. Even the kitten seemed to object to Randolph’s oft-repeated question, twisting and mewling within the confines of her bodice.

No, she didn’t know the mysterious Scotsman’s name, which meant she didn’t know
her
name. “I cannot remember his name any more than I can recall the second and third glass of brandy I had last night,” she retorted as she gathered her skirts.

A stooped figure lumbered from the shadows of the stable to assist her from the carriage. The one servant Randolph had seen fit to hire, other than the woman who came to cook every other day, was this groundsman who also served as groom. He was a local, with weathered hands and the perpetual beard that Scotsmen seemed to prefer. The man lurked in the background and mucked out stalls and brought in the wood, but was helpless against the quarter-inch layer of dust that had accumulated inside the house. As she stepped down onto the springy loam of the yard, Georgette could not help but think, a bit uncharitably, that it was no wonder Randolph seemed so anxious to acquire a wife, with only this groom to ease his bachelor’s existence.

“Good morning,” she told the man, summoning the courage to put on a smile.

The servant’s gaze darted toward Randolph, who was clambering down from his side of the curricle. No doubt he was wondering where they had been all night—not that he was the only one. “ ’Tis good to see you safely returned, Lady Thorold.”

Georgette winced. Only yesterday, that had been her name. She had been accepting of her title and her future. She had a comfortable inheritance that was hers to control and a new life waiting without the bonds of an unpredictable and often drunk husband. True, she was lonely at times, but widowhood had much to recommend it. She was finally out of mourning and she intended to explore her newfound freedom.

But today she was no longer so certain who she was. The groom’s deference aside, she was no longer Lady Thorold. If her suspicions regarding how she had acted last night were correct, she was no longer a lady. Everything had changed.
She
had changed.

And she only wanted to pretend it had never happened.

Instead of correcting the servant’s presumption, she asked, “Has anyone come by today? The cook, perhaps?” She cupped a hand around the fabric that held the kitten, still curled up between her breasts. Though her own stomach was not up to the task of breaking her fast, the little thing needed milk. Although, to her recollection, the cook had not brought a bottle of milk during her previous visit. Her cousin was vocally averse to dairy, claiming it affected his bowels in a disagreeable fashion. It had not occurred to her when she had accepted the little burden that such luxuries would be as hard to find at Randolph’s home as ladies’ maids.

“No, miss.” The groom shook his head. “ ’Tis Mrs. Pue’s day off.”

Concern for the kitten tugged at her. It was but a bit of fur and claw, and it would certainly not survive long without sustenance.

The servant looked nervous. “But there is—”

“There is bread and cheese in the larder,” Randolph interrupted, coming around to stand too close. He handed the reins to the servant, who, after casting an uncertain glance toward Georgette, began to unhook the traces from the swaybacked gray mare.

“It is a blessing Mrs. Pue is not here to see you looking like this,” Randolph went on, pulling her to the side and whispering fiercely. “Why, the woman is a notorious gossip and would spread the tale far and near.” His gaze scoured her misshapen neckline. “You look shameful, Georgette. And I think just the bread for you this morning. It is clear you cannot be trusted to have a care for yourself, and I do not want to have to clean up after you when your stomach objects to heavy fare.”

His cutting words stung. Georgette forced herself to stand still, to bear the heavy touch of his hand. Randolph scolded her as if he had a right to do so. Her husband had used just that tone, all too frequently. She was never good enough. Never obedient enough. Never desirable enough. Nausea pricked at her like a needle threaded with painful memories. Her husband stumbling home, another woman’s scent on his skin.

Her husband trying to touch her, and her pulling away.

The vicious doubts her life as a married woman had conjured had not disappeared with her husband’s untimely, drunken death. She had felt inadequate then, a failure as a wife. She felt inadequate now, a failure as a woman. What sort of lady spent a forgotten evening frolicking with a stranger, but could not bring herself to bear a husband’s touch? Perhaps that was why her husband drank so much during their short time together. To forget his disappointment in his wife.

Perhaps that was why she drank last night—to forget her cousin’s similarities to her dead spouse.

But she was no longer a wife. At least, she was not
Randolph’s
wife. He had no right to speak to her as if she was. Georgette drew herself up. “It is my mistake, and my problem. We are not married, and you do not control me.” Resentment colored her voice. It felt good to speak so directly after a morning mired in guilt.

Randolph’s eyes narrowed, making his nose appear a thin, sharp hook. “I daresay if you had married
me
you would be enjoying the morning a bit more.”

Bile, hot and acrid, knocked against the back of her throat. The idea of sharing a bed with her cousin made her knees buckle in revulsion. She could not imagine doing with Randolph what she had apparently done with her mysterious bed partner.

“I did not say my morning was without enjoyment.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. But it was the truth. On some level, she
had
enjoyed the view of her naked, brawny Scotsman this morning, more so than she was enjoying the course of the current conversation.

Randolph’s eyes bulged behind his spectacles, bringing to mind a myopic frog. “Acting the lightskirt does not become you, cousin.” The light pressure on her arm shifted to a forceful push on her elbow. “Go inside while I sort out what to do about you and this marriage you have gotten yourself into.”

Georgette stayed planted in place. “There is nothing to sort out.” She pulled away from the unwelcome pressure of his fingers. “We shall pretend it did not happen. I cannot remember who the man is, and I do not wish to.” The idea of escape beckoned, and she gratefully turned herself over to it. “I shall return to London immediately, and neither of us need speak of this ever again.”

Randolph’s face turned a mottled shade of red, making his blond hair almost seem to glow in contrast. “You cannot be that naïve,” he snapped. “You cannot simply hie yourself back to London and pretend a marriage didn’t happen, Georgette. What if you wished to marry again? Would you add bigamy to your crimes?”

Georgette stiffened with shock. She had never heard Randolph say such mean-spirited things, not even as a carelessly cruel child. “What crime?” she protested. “I am a widow, and past mourning. ’Tis no crime to seek an evening’s pleasure. And I will not marry again, so I do not see . . .”

“If you do not track him down and annul the thing, the man will have access to your fortune,” Randolph interrupted. He canted his pale head and took a menacing step closer. He enunciated slowly, as if she was a dimwitted child. “There is more at stake here than memory, Georgette. You have thrown away your future on a man you do not know.”

She chose to ignore the condescension in his tone and focused on the message. It was the first time Randolph had mentioned her marriage settlement, which would be controlled by a new husband on marriage. She thought of those funds sitting safely in the coffers of the Bank of London. Thought of what a new, living husband could do to them.

And she was stunned to silence.

She had not thought this morning, had simply run. But she could see, reluctantly, that Randolph was right in this. She needed an annulment, or she would risk her future to a man who appeared nothing of the gentleman.

And to procure an annulment, she needed to first find out who her Scotsman was.

“My God,” she breathed. “You are right.”

“Of course I am right.” The smile Randolph offered seemed to grip his face in a painful embrace. “And if you had only taken me up on my offer last night, you would not be in this muddle.”

Georgette shuddered against the venom that laced her cousin’s words. A niggling thought surfaced, one that refused to be pushed away. Randolph, for all his uttered contrivances about wanting to protect her, seemed a little too focused on the financial difficulties of her impulsive night. She looked around, wondering where the groom had gotten off to. Her cousin’s interest bordered on indecent at times, and she wanted a body to step behind if the need arose. She spied the man leading the horse to the stable, within shouting distance if the circumstances called for it. She was reminded again that her decision to stay here, without proper escort, had quite possibly given Randolph inappropriate ideas about her own interest.

She curled her fingers into her palms and dug until it hurt. “How do you propose we find him?”

“There is no ‘we’ in this.
I
will find him, and you will stay here and resist doing further damage.”

“But you do not know his name,” she protested. “You do not even know what he looks like. This is my fault, and it is my responsibility to undo it.” She worried the gold ring on her finger, the only piece of tangible evidence left from her eventful but ultimately unmemorable evening.

Unless she was pregnant. Her toes clenched in her slippers as she considered such a fate. Dear God, she had not even considered that possible outcome when she had fled the scene this morning. She could not go through such a thing again, could not survive it.

So why did a part of her seize up at the terrifying, tantalizing thought?

As she stood frozen, her silent thoughts locked up tight, Randolph’s gaze fell on her hand. “Let me see the ring.”

Georgette drew back, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“The ring.” Without waiting for her concurrence, he snatched up her hand and inspected the stamped gold seal, a heavily antlered stag on a shield.

“Do you recognize it?” Georgette choked out.

His fingers tightened around hers, and his mustached upper lip thinned to a razor’s edge. “Did the man have a beard, or no?”

“He had a beard,” Georgette, answered, confused by the question, unsure how that narrowed the field. What man in Scotland
didn’t
sport a ragged, filthy beard? “Why do you ask?”

Randolph flung away her hand without answering. “Saddle the mare immediately,” he shouted to the groom, who had just emerged from the little stone stable. “I will ride out from here without the curricle.”

Georgette burrowed her hand and the ring in the safety of her skirts. “You are leaving me here?” she accused. “
Alone?
”

“I am securing our future.” Randolph pivoted toward the startled groom. “A future which you seem all too willing to toss away.”

Georgette reached out a hand to stop him, but she clutched empty air. Her cousin was already striding toward the stables, his ungainly stride and loose-limbed posture the closest thing to a walking slouch. She watched him with a dawning sense of horror. Randolph thought he was securing their joint future, a future that she had repeatedly denied wanting. She thought of a lifetime spent with him and felt suffocated by the same certain sense of repulsion that had forced her objection to his offer—or insistence—of marriage earlier this morning.

In the end, she was left with no answers, and no further chance to protest. Randolph swung up on the aged mare, dug his heels to the beast’s flank, and cantered off with the gracelessness of a man far more comfortable in a library than in a saddle. She watched him ride away with rising panic.

The sharp pleasant scent of the surrounding pine forest should have been a balm to almost any hurt, but she could feel nothing but panic. She had a kitten needing milk. A husband she didn’t want and a pressing need to find him. And she was stuck here, without a horse, no idea where her cousin was going or when he would be back. Was Randolph trying to help her?