Saving the Scot, page 25
…
He hadn’t seen the look on her face, but he had heard the pain in her voice. He was a bastard of the first order. He was the one to lose control, to say a stupid thing like I love you, to come inside her, even a little, and yet he’d punished her like it was her fault.
As he passed Miss Robertson’s bedchamber, he heard female laughter and a deep voice. Lucky for them. They were meant to be together. Why did things work out so nicely for everyone else but him?
He knew the reason. It was waiting for him in Edinburgh. The boy. His son. A child he’d fathered through careless, callous, thoughtless behavior. He’d walked away never knowing of the child’s existence—for six years. And because of his ignorance, he’d lost his opportunity to make his own son legitimate. He would live this perdition for the rest of his life. No mercy. No joy. Every attempt at love would be snatched away at the last moment most cruelly.
Once inside his room, he put the latch on the door and crawled into bed without undressing. Lavender. His bed, this place, this nest where she’d shared her secret word with him, smelled of her. He drank what was left of the whisky and closed his eyes.
And what of Miss MacQuarie? He’d broken her, ruined her, he might have even left her with his child. It was possible. It had only taken one lapse in judgement to get Alice Crawford pregnant. If he’d known, if the letter had reached him, maybe he would have been there. Maybe she wouldn’t have died, and he would have made things right for his son. But he’d been six years too late.
His head began to throb.
Dear God, not now, not now.
It wasn’t too late to make things right with Miss MacQuarie. He could make it right. He would make it right.
The next morning, the thing in his brain woke him. Chaos. He’d allowed his well-ordered, well-disciplined world to fall into chaos. His ship, his books, his things were miles away in Boston. His crew, out of reach and out of his control. He’d debauched Miss MacQuarie, allowed Kirby to debauch Miss Robertson, Reverend Wynterbottom had fallen off the wagon again, and Will had had his first taste of fun yesterday. Had Ian kept the lad close, he’d have never known what he’d been missing. He’d never have known what a life on board the Gael Forss as a cabin boy cost him.
He made a vain attempt at appeasing the itch. He washed, folded the towel perfectly and hung it next to the washstand. Dressed meticulously. Tied and retied his neckcloth three times. Made his bed with military corners. Straightened the fringe on the counterpane and made certain the bed curtains were evenly pleated before he went below stairs.
When he entered the breakfast room, he found only Reverend Wynterbottom. Apparently, no one else had risen.
“Morning,” the reverend said between bites.
Ian poured a cup of tea from a samovar, helped himself to buttered brown bread, and sat. “I apologize for yesterday, reverend. You are freshly sober and vulnerable to temptation. I should have remembered that and taken more care.”
“My dear, captain. You are kind to say so, but the blame falls squarely on my shoulders.” The reverend dashed away a tear. “I’m only grateful my host and Miss Robertson didn’t see me in my sorry condition.”
“Nor shall they hear of it.” Ian smiled.
Miss MacQuarie entered the room with, “Good morning.” He and the reverend rose. She didn’t look at him like she usually did. Why would she, and how could he expect her to?
“Good morning, Miss MacQuarie.” Fortunately, he stopped himself from the automatic did you sleep well question. Any answer would have been awkward.
Having finished his breakfast, the reverend excused himself. “I am preparing a few words to share with Miss Robertson and Mr. Kirby on their wedding day. Not a sermon, mind you,” he chortled. “Just a few words.”
“That’s lovely, Reverend,” she said. “Miss Robertson will be especially pleased.”
The reverend left them in an uncomfortable silence. He looked at her, stared at her, willed her to look at him. She kept her eyes on her damn teacup, blast her.
He heard himself blurt an angry, “You have to marry me.” Ha! There. That got her attention. Her green eyes flashed bloody murder at him. It was a good thing he still had possession of her pistols.
“Have you lost your wits?”
“Possibly. But you have to marry me.” His heart was banging away in his chest. Was he going to have an apoplexy?
“I most certainly will not.”
“Don’t be stupid. You could be carrying my child.”
She laughed out loud. “I never took you for a romantic, Captain Sinclair.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.
“Very well, I’ll get on my knees, if that is what you require.” He was good at sarcasm, too.
“Do you honestly think marrying me will assuage your guilt for having ruined me last night?”
He’d bolted to his feet. “Morning,” he shouted over Miss MacQuarie’s words but it was too late. Miss Robertson and Mr. Kirby entered the breakfast room. They’d heard.
Miss MacQuarie flushed crimson.
“Shall we continue our conversation in the garden?” Ian was careful to imply it was a command and not a suggestion.
She pinched her lips together so tight they turned white, then threw her serviette on the table, stood, and marched out of the room.
“Excuse me,” he said to the couple, whom he hated right at this moment because they were so obviously infatuated with each other.
He rushed after her, which of course fueled his anger. He’d never chased a woman in his life. He caught the back of her skirt just as she was about to run upstairs to her room. “Not so fast. We’re having this out. You can do it where everyone can hear us or you can come to the garden wi’ me. Which will it be?”
“If you’ll recall, Captain, I do not like to be ordered about.” She was breathing fire now. Why did that excite him?
“Is that since this morning? Because, last night, ye didnae mind at’all.”
She slapped his face so hard, he had to blink to see straight. “You are a monster!” she hissed.
“Right then.” He wrapped his good arm around her waist, heaved her onto his hip, and headed for the front door. She kicked and flailed and protested, but not hard enough to hurt him. Not hard enough at all.
Halfway to the garden, she demanded, “Put me down. I’ll walk the rest of the way myself. I promise.” They were far enough away from the house to speak comfortably anyway, so he set her on her feet. She sputtered and huffed and jerked her bodice back into place. While he waited, the gravity of what they were about to discuss set in.
“Sorry,” he said. “I should have asked you, not told you.”
Mollified—temporarily, at least—she said, “Even if you had asked me, my answer would be the same. No.”
The word no jabbed him in the gut like a dull knife. How could a word so small hurt him? “Please be reasonable, Mairi.”
“I asked you not to call me Mairi.” Tears welled in her eyes. He needed to proceed with more caution.
“Lass. I’m no’ sorry last night happened. I’m sorry the way it ended. I got carried away and…well, I forgot myself. Even if the chances are slim, I cannae leave you here knowing that you might be carrying my child.”
“And what of the last part?”
“Which part?”
“You know. The words of love,” she said. “Did you mean them?”
He swallowed hard. “What if I did?”
“I would…” she began and averted her gaze. “I would tell you to save those words for someone worthy of your love.”
…
Louisa was close to tears, though whether from disappointment or pain she couldn’t tell. She held her throbbing right hand in her left. “I’m sorry I slapped you.” A red splotch had bloomed where her hand had connected with his cheek.
“Did you hurt your hand, love?” he asked.
Bollocks. Why did he have to be so bloody decent about everything? She preferred it when he was being an ass like at breakfast. Demanding and ornery. She did not like his blue puppy-dog eyes. Not one bit. They made hers water and she hated crying like a ninny.
“No,” she squeaked.
“Let me see.” He took her hand and she didn’t resist. “Och, lass,” he said, grimacing at her pinkish palm, then he kissed it.
“I’m sor—I’m sor—I’m sorry—” A kind of hysteria overcame her, leaving her sobbing and hiccuping uncontrollably. The more she tried to hold it in, the worse it got. Captain Sinclair wrapped her in his arms and hugged her tight against his hard chest. She buried her face in his perfectly tied neckcloth and disintegrated.
He held her, rocking ever so slightly, alternately rubbing and patting her back, laying kisses on the top of her head. So bloody sweet and understanding. Damn him.
“It’s all right, love. You’re overwrought. It’s a lot to take in, but, once you’ve had time, you’ll see I’m right about this. We have to marry.”
“I cannae marry you.” With her face planted in his neck, her words came out muffled.
“What?”
She pulled away and wiped her eyes with the tail of his neckcloth. “I said I cannae marry you.” She sniffed.
“I ken you had your heart set on being an actress, but—” He craned his head around. Someone was calling.
“Captain! Captain!” Will came racing across the yard waving his hat, his face alight with excitement. He practically barreled into them. Captain Sinclair steadied Will by the shoulder.
“Easy lad, what’s amiss?”
“Mr. Foley’s taking Mr. Kirby into town, and he said I could come along and visit the park with the other lads so long as you gave your permission. Can I go, sir?”
Captain Sinclair looked at Will with such despair it made Louisa’s heart ache. What had upset him? With great effort, he choked out, “Aye. Be sure and help Mr. Foley if he needs you.”
Will’s eyes became even rounder. “Thank you, sir,” he said and tore off toward the coach house.
The captain watched him for a moment, his hands on his hips, his mouth working. He turned away from her suddenly and dipped his head.
“What troubles you?” She walked around to face him, but his head was lowered, one hand rubbing his brow shielding his eyes from her. “What is it, Ian?”
He lifted his head, eyes glistening, face rippling with grief. “He’s a boy. He should have a mother and father. He should have brothers, friends. He should have fun. But he works for me on my ship and has since he was ten. Ten!” He poked himself in the chest. “Do ye ken what I was doing at ten? I wasnae carrying water and food and slops all day, that’s for damn sure.”
“Ian, Peter told me he found Will starving and filthy, but you took him in. You saved his life, and the lad worships you for it. He loves you as much as any boy could love a father. You are his father.”
He broke away from her and shouted, “I’m a horrible father. I’m a monster. You said so yourself.”
“And I was wrong. You are not a monster.”
“And I’m not a father. I’m—” He stopped himself. “I’m raving.” But Louisa got the impression he was raving about something other than Will.
She tried to reach for him again, but he put up a hand to stop her and turned away. “I’ll wager you had a wonderful father,” she said. “One who loved you very much. Spent time with you.”
He nodded. “Aye. He’s a great man.”
“Children can have family, a home, an easy life even, and still have no love. Will has love. He has you. That’s more than most.”
When he faced her again he had regained his composure, but his eyes had shuttered. They’d taken on that dull quality, masking his thoughts and emotions. “We’ll talk more about marriage later. Meanwhile, consider my offer. You’ll come to see I’m right.”
He walked toward the coach house with long determined strides, back rigid, fists clenched. Something was wrong. He was hiding something from her. She longed to know what it was, to smooth away his grief like she had his migraines. But revealing intimacies always required an exchange, and she’d revealed too much of herself already. Every time he asked her to marry him, it was harder to say no. And every time she said no, the pain of regret grew more difficult to manage. Perhaps it was time to leave this place.
Mairi greeted her in the entry. She was a beautiful lass, but this morning she looked absolutely radiant. “What’s got you so pleased?”
“We’ve decided not to wait. Mr. Kirby asked the reverend to marry us tonight.”
“Tonight? What about the wedding?”
“We’ll still have the wedding feast. Edward—Mr. Kirby has already invited the guests and Mrs. Foley’s ordered the food from the market and hired the staff. But Reverend Wynterbottom will marry us this evening before supper.” She hugged Louisa then. “Oh, it’s all so romantic. It’ll be just you, the captain, Mr. and Mrs. Foley, and the reverend, of course. All the people that matter. You’ll be my maid of honor, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Where’s the captain? I want to ask if he’ll give me away.”
“I saw him go to the coach house. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Louisa wasn’t altogether certain about the time of his return. He may have intended on going into town with Will and Mr. Kirby. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Mairi ticked off items on her fingers. “My dress is finished. Mrs. Foley knows to make a cake. Mr. Kirby’s gone to town to collect the ring…” Her eyes darted up. “Would you help me make my wedding bouquet?”
Louisa smiled through happy tears. “With joy, my darling friend.”
…
He’d accompanied Kirby to town under the pretense of requiring masculine company. The truth was, he felt compelled to look after Will. The lad was his responsibility. Yet, as he sat in Kirby’s fine carriage, he realized what he really wanted was to witness Will’s fun, experience his joy vicariously, taste what it would be like to be a real father. Did he have the patience and the heart to be a father? Was he as selfless as his own da? And, more importantly, would Rory want him as a father?
Ian hollered for Will to slow down, but it was no use. The lad sprinted halfway up Huntington Street before Ian made it out of the carriage. He and Kirby parted company with plans to meet at the Pettibone Tavern for food and refreshment shortly after the noon hour.
Ambling down the main thoroughfare toward the public park area, Ian paused outside a bookseller, and debated for only a moment before stepping inside to browse. He’d never been able to pass up an opportunity to look at books. He perused the shelves for a quarter of an hour—the shop was small and not particularly well stocked. He asked the shopkeeper if he carried vol. 2 of Southey’s epic poem, Madoc. When the man replied in the negative, he bid him good day. On the way out of the shop, his gaze fell upon Moll Flanders.
That morning in the bookshop came back to him vividly—that first moment he’d set eyes on her—the cloud of lavender, the roses blooming in her cheeks, the perturbed set of her lips, the angry flash of her green eyes and, of course, the book she’d clasped protectively to her breast.
At the time, he’d been shocked that a young gentlewoman would be so bold as to open such a novel, much less enjoy what she read. That was before she’d swaggered into his life wearing trousers and carrying pistols. Before she had held his head in her lap and smoothed away his migraine. Before they’d shared their bodies and their pleasure. Now, of course, he knew this was exactly the book for his green-eyed lady.
Some minutes later, Ian sat under the same tree he and Miss MacQuarie rested under yesterday. Was that only yesterday? It seemed like a week ago, so much had happened. Yesterday, she was an innocent. Today, she was ruined. And possibly pregnant. By him.
Bloody frigging hell.
As he watched Will and his new friends play, he recalled himself as a youth about Will’s age, spending all day with his brother Alex, and cousins Magnus and Declan. He remembered the games they’d played in Mam’s bee field—Attack the Keep, and Capture the Brigands—games they’d invented to hone their battle skills by pretending they were warriors, games in which they tested their mettle by imagining real danger.
How had Rory gotten on without a father or an older brother all these years? Did he have friends to play games with? He and his gran had looked healthy when Ian had met them on the docks. They were well clothed, well fed. Though not wealthy, Alice Crawford’s husband had left her with a modest income which would have passed to Rory and been managed by his gran. But Ian should have been the one supporting them. He should have been the one seeing to their needs. If only he had known, things would have been different for the boy.
He picked a long blade of grass from the ground next to him and examined it. The leaf was wide and brilliant green, just like the grass that grew in Scotland. Ian had lived his childhood carefree. Completely ignorant of hunger, cold, and sickness. Balforss House had been his home, a fortress of love and protection built a century and a half ago when safety and security were never taken for granted. And his father had been the one to teach him and his brother how to be good men. What kind of men would they have become had it not been for Laird John’s gentle but firm education?
Ian positioned the blade of grass taut between his thumbs, held it to his mouth and blew, producing the duck call he and his father would use when hunting. The call was loud enough that Will and his friends paused in the middle of their game, searching for the source. He blew again. Like the Pied Piper, the boys were drawn in.
“How did you do that?” the tallest lad asked.
“Sit down, and I’ll show you,” Ian said.
“Are you really a captain?” another one asked with skepticism.
“I’m captain of the merchant vessel, the Gael Forss. Will is a member of my crew.”
Will gave the skeptic a bland eye. “I told ye.”
The collective interest in whistle-making with a blade of grass became feverish, and Ian patiently, contentedly, gratefully spent the next hour demonstrating how to perfect a grass-whistle duck call.
On the carriage ride back to the house, Kirby showed Ian the ring he’d purchased. “Do you think she’ll like it?”
