Pleasured (19 page)

“Mrs. Keith, I am Lord Mardoun.”

“Aye, I ken . . . an earl . . . in my hoose.” Her skeletal face held a look of wonder. She gave a little laugh, which turned into a cough.

Alarmed, Damon reached out and put his hand under her back, lifting her up to aid her breathing. Her bones felt horribly fragile and exposed. “Ma’am.” He turned his head toward the other woman uncertainly.

“Nay,” the old woman murmured, and drew a shaky breath. “’Tis done now. I shouldna laugh, you ken.” Damon laid her back down as gently as he could, and she gave him a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“I wish . . .” His throat tightened.

“Och, there’s nocht you can do. Life is what it is, and it’s all too short at that.” She smiled faintly, and her eyes closed as she drifted back to sleep.

Damon stood up, nodding to the other Mrs. Keith, and left the house. Jack, chatting amiably with the men, straightened when he saw Damon and quickly made their good-byes, following Damon as he mounted and rode away.

Damon wanted to race away, to ride as if the hounds
of hell were after him, aching to put the house and the people—his
thoughts—
far behind him
.
Prosaically, though, he pulled up, realizing that he could not find his way back on his own. Jack caught up with him, and without comment they rode on.

“I’ve never known, I’ve never seen—” Damon burst out, then stopped.

“How other people live?” Jack’s inflection was faintly sardonic.

“Yes. No. I mean, I have seen the houses, I have seen the East End; nothing could be worse than parts of London. But not on my own lands; my tenants at home are not so . . . hopeless.”

“This is a hard land. And they have been treated harshly.”

“I know. I know—and it was by my hand. You need not tell me. But what is one supposed to do?” Damon turned toward Jack. “The crofts are small, the land is poor. MacRae was right about that; it’s neither efficient nor profitable. The crofters are able to live only hand to mouth. They’d be better off to leave, to do something else.”

“But what? And where?”

“I don’t know,” Damon shot back in frustration. “But does that mean I must leave everything as it is, forget progress, forgo the profits of wool, give my lands over to these people so they can continue to scratch out a miserable existence here? Is that what you have done? How do you manage it?”

“I cannot claim credit for anything done at Baillannan. I am only lately come to it. It is my wife and Coll who have managed the estate, and they have been able to turn a profit. But to Isobel, the crofters are ‘her people.’ They are as im
portant to her as the money she makes. She loves Baillannan in a way I cannot quite understand; I certainly cannot explain it. The loch, the glen, Kinclannoch—it’s all her home.”

“And it is not mine.”

After a long moment of silence, Jack said quietly, “Are you doing this to win Meg back?”

Damon let out a short, harsh laugh. “No. There’s nothing could change Meg’s opinion of me now.”

“You could try talking to her.”

“Go begging to her?” Damon wasn’t about to admit he had thought of doing just that, of going to Meg and pleading with her, apologizing, begging, whatever she asked. He wanted nothing so much right now as to lose himself in her, to feel her arms wrap around him and her warmth envelop him, giving him comfort, soothing away the tumult inside him. But surely he must preserve some tattered shred of dignity.

“I have found that groveling works wonders with a woman,” Jack said mildly.

Damon let out a dismissive grunt. “It’s much harder to grovel when you actually mean it.” He gave a weary sigh. “Handing Wes Keith a bag of coins cannot undo the past. Or change all the previous clearances. I am still the Earl of Mardoun, a man who cared more for profit than people. No, I fear I am firmly entrenched as the villain of this story. Meg Munro is lost to me.”

He would have to learn to live with that.

Meg dug the fork deep into the ground, prying up the
onion. She had spent the day harvesting her crops, striving to keep her mind off last night and the Earl of Mardoun. At the sound of a voice in the distance, Meg looked up.

A slim girl was hurrying up the path toward her. “Meg!” The girl waved her hand, breaking into a trot.

“Lynette?” Meg blinked in surprise and stood up, stripping off her gloves. “Hello! How are you?”

“I am just perfect, thank you!” Lynette beamed. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“It is, indeed. Does your father know you are here?”

“Yes, he told me I could come. Isn’t that wonderful?” Lynette paused, adding candidly, “Well, at least for me. Is it all right with you if I visit you? I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re no bother. I was just about to stop for tea. Would you like some?”

“Oh, yes.” Lynette followed her inside, chattering away happily.

Meg put the kettle on to heat and measured one of her teas into the teapot, her mind churning with speculation. Why had Damon suddenly changed his mind? “How is everything at Duncally?” she asked casually as she set out the dishes. “Your father is well, I trust?”

“Oh! Have you not heard the news?”

“What news?” Meg’s heart began to pound. Had something happened to Damon? But, no, his daughter would not be so cheerful.

“Mr. MacRae is gone.”

“Gone?” Meg stared. “What do you mean?” The awful thought that one of Coll’s men had done something dreadful to the man leapt into her head. “Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know where he went.” Lynette shook her head, taking a bite of one of the oatcakes. “Papa dismissed him. MacRae cleaned out his things from the gatehouse and left.”

“Damo—I mean, the earl let him go?” Meg set down the teapot with a thump and dropped into her chair. “Really?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. Everyone shuts up when I come around, but all the servants are talking about it. One of the maids said the dairyman told her he saw Mr. MacRae this morning loading things into a wagon, and he had a big split lip.”

“Oh! My. What do you suppose happened?”

“I think MacRae got into a fight with someone, and Papa must not have liked it. The coachman said he let Papa out at Mr. MacRae’s house last night when he came home from the party.”

“He did?” Realizing she was gaping, Meg collected herself and smiled. “You certainly seem to have heard a great deal for someone around whom no one will talk.”

Lynette’s eyes twinkled. “I am very quiet. And if I am in the library reading, the chair back hides me.”

Meg laughed, turning her attention to the tea to hide her thoughts. Damon had gone to MacRae as soon as he left Isobel’s? And MacRae was sporting the hallmarks of a fight this morning? She did not think Lynette’s guess was accurate, but neither could she believe the scene that was unfolding inside her head. “What will your father do now?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he must hire a new estate manager, mustn’t he? Do you think that will take very long?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope it does. I worry that Papa will want to leave soon.”

Meg’s head popped up, then hastily went back down as she finished pouring the tea. “Why do you say that?” It was doubtless terrible of her to pump the poor child for details, but Meg could not help herself.

“I’m not sure—he is bored, I think. He rides out a lot—even when he and I have already gone out in the morning. And I hear him walking about late at night sometimes. I was glad he went to the Kensingtons’ party last night. He used to go to his club when we were in London; I think he must miss it.”

“No doubt. Well, perhaps he will become friends with the Kensingtons.” Not if Isobel had anything to do with it, Meg thought. And really, it should not give Meg this sick, cold feeling to think of Damon’s departing.

“I hope so. I don’t want to leave. I like it here.”

“I’m glad.”

“It’s ever so much better than London. Better than home, too. I can ride, and there are all those rooms to explore—and the mews. We did not have birds of prey at home. Jamie said he would teach me how to hawk. And Papa sometimes overrules Miss Pettigrew. He lets me do things. He doesn’t
hover
.”

“Ah. And Miss Pettigrew does?” It was better, Meg thought, to keep the conversation to such subjects as the governess. She should not use this friendly, sweet girl to get information about Damon.

“Yes.” Lynette nodded. “It drives me mad sometimes. She . . . she means it for the best. She worries about me. So did Mother.” Lynette frowned. “I was sickly when I was young—coughs and catarrh and such. But I am much better now.” She gazed at Meg earnestly, as if Meg might dispute her words.

“Yes, I have seen that happen.”

“Really?”

“Yes, children sometimes grow out of such things.”

“I knew it!” Lynette’s smile was dazzling. She polished off the rest of the cake and said, “What are you doing this afternoon? Will you make something?”

“I was thinking of starting on a cream for Angus McKay.”

“Who is that? Why does he need a cream?”

“He’s a cantankerous old fellow. His joints hurt, and as I want a favor from him, I intend to sweeten him up with something to make him feel better. I have been experimenting with different recipes.”

Lynette was eager to help, and they spent the rest of the afternoon on the cream. It was easy working with the girl, who was both quick of mind and carefully precise. Varying the recipe each time, they produced three small bowlfuls, which Meg deemed an adequate trial.

“I’ll take him all three and let him test them for me,” Meg said. “It will make it easier for his pride if I tell him it is a favor to me.”

“You mean because he can’t pay for it.”

“Aye. Angus bristles at the idea of charity—and a number of other things as well.”

“Papa has a friend like that, a man who used to teach him. Papa has to disguise the things he does to help him.”

“Does he now?”

“Yes, I’ve met the man.” The girl giggled. “Mr. Overton is very sweet, but he’ll walk out without his hat if you don’t watch him. Papa says his head is occupied with more serious matters, like the Punic Wars.”

“The what?”

“I don’t know, either, but it sounds funny, doesn’t it?” Lynette sighed and reached up to untie her apron. “I’d better go now. Miss Pettigrew will worry.” She looked at Meg a little uncertainly. “May I come back another afternoon?”

“Yes, of course. I enjoyed having you here. I will walk with you toward Duncally.”

“Thank you, but I know my way now. Anyway, one of the grooms will be waiting for me where the path splits. Papa insisted I bring him with me.”

Meg saw Lynette to the door and watched her start off down the path, then turned back to the cabinet and began to clean up the remnants of their experiments. At the sound of a knock on the door, she stopped and glanced over, thinking Lynette had returned. But it was her brother who opened the door and stepped inside.

“Coll! This is a sur—” She stopped, registering that one of Coll’s eyes was swollen and red and his cheek was scraped. “Coll! What happened?” She rushed to him, taking his hand and pulling him over to the table so she could inspect his wounds.

“Ah, Meg, dinna start to poke and prod at me. Isobel’s already done enough of that.”

“Sit.” She gave him a push, and he sat down at the table. “Was it
you
who got into a fight with MacRae?”

“MacRae? No. I have not seen the man. Why would you think that?”

“Lynette told me he had a cut lip. She thought he’d been in a fight and her father had dismissed him for that.”

“Lynette? Her fa—you dinna mean the earl’s daughter, do you?” Coll heaved a disgusted sigh. “So now you’ve taken up another of the Rutherfords?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “She is a sweet girl. Only a child. I found her wandering about lost one day, and she was interested in what I do, so she came to visit me. I think she’s a mite lonely up there in that grand house, no other children around.”

“No doubt she is, but I don’t see why you have to be the one to take her in.” Meg bustled about, picking up supplies and bringing them back to table. “She said Mardoun let MacRae go?”

“Aye. This morning, apparently. Had you not heard? It seems he tossed the man out. MacRae loaded up all his possessions this morning and left. And he was sporting a split lip.”

“So Mardoun popped him, too,” Coll mused.

“I think—wait.” Meg grasped her brother’s chin none too gently and turned his face up to her. “ ‘Too?’ Are you saying it was Damon who did this to you? Coll! What have you done?”

“Why must it be me who did something? It might have been Mardoun who caused it.”

“So you’re saying the Earl of Mardoun sought you out this morning so he could start a fight with you?”

Coll glowered. “He showed up at Baillannan. There he was, just strolling up to the front door as if he was welcome there.”

“Well, he was invited to a party there last night.”

“Why are you taking up for that man? You think just because I said nothing I dinna see your face last night? That I could not tell that you’d been crying over the man?”

“So you saw Damon in front of Baillannan and you hit him.”

“It wasn’t like—well, yes, I did.”