The Highland Countess (13 page)

“Enough!” he cried. “I am grown older and wiser, that is all.” He looked down at her. He had wished to speak to her about her son. The boy should go to school or at least have a tutor. He needed the company of fellows of his age before he turned into a precocious calculating monster. In fact, thought Lord Toby grimly, he already
was
a precocious monster. He was about to tell her so when he realized she was trembling and that her face was quite pale.

He found himself saying, “
Why
, Morag? I went to your room and you were not there. It was very wrong of me, I admit, for you were married. But to agree to see me and then fly to make noisy love with your husband…”

“I have never…” began Morag and flushed.

She had been about to say that she had never made love with her husband. But then, how could she account for the presence of Rory? Instead she said in a suffocated voice, “My lord called for me. He was in great pain. He wished me to pull a tooth for him… which I did. It was very difficult to get it out and it took some time. I had to get up on the bed and kneel over him and pull as hard as I could, and…”

She stopped amazed as Lord Toby let out a great shout of laughter. Those words and noises and bed creakings which had burned like fire into his brain all those years ago were now very simply explained. At last he stopped laughing and said almost dreamily, “And when you had got it out, the earl said, ‘Och, Morag, my love, my precious. Naebody could ha’ done that like you.’”

“Yes, something like that,” said Morag.

“But don’t you see what I thought from hearing that?” cried Lord Toby.

“Oh.” said Morag after a moment, with a slight blush. “Not that evening,” she continued in a small, chilly voice. The secret of Rory’s birth must be kept at all costs.

Her words hurt but he had to admit that again he was behaving badly. The earl had been her husband, after all.

“I gather congratulations are in order,” Morag continued, throwing more ice on his fire.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Thank you.”

Lord Toby thought wearily that he should put a good word in for Rory to prove to the boy, if nothing else, that at least someone was prepared to help him without being forced to do it.

“My Lady Murr,” he began in formal tones when Morag gave a little cry and started as some small nocturnal animal ran across her foot. She stumbled and fell heavily against him.

Lord Toby’s social poise, his arrogance, his coldness melted away and before his brain could relay any warning to his churning emotions, he had caught her in his arms and was desperately kissing her hair, her nose, her ear as she struggled and tried to escape.

He muttered something incoherent under his breath and forcing her chin up pressed his mouth violently down on her own. He wrapped his arms tightly round her, moulding her body against his own. He felt he was being driven crazy with a mixture of intolerable lust and a burning sweetness.

Her initial resistance was gone and she kissed him back with a strangely innocent passion. She was wearing that elusive perfume which smelled of a mixture of heather and the summer wind.

At last he drew away, his green eyes glinting down at her in the pale light of a rising moon. Her mouth was bruised and swollen and her lips were trembling.

“Oh,” she cried, putting a shaking hand to her mouth. “You are
faithless
!” And with that, she turned and fled, leaving him standing, staring after her.

What on earth could she mean? She was no longer married.

Henrietta! Morag was free. But he was not. Hell and damnation! He had forgotten Henrietta!

Rory awoke and stared around, confused for a moment. Then he remembered where he was. He had fallen asleep on a small sofa in a corner of Lady Montclair’s drawing room. He shifted lazily against the silken cushions, wondering vaguely why his mother had not come in search of him.

Then he heard a vague murmur of voices. One of the voices, a man’s, sounded vaguely familiar but he could not place it immediately. His mother had so many admirers.

The sofa on which he was lying was tucked into a recess at the window so he was concealed from the room. He would wait until whoever it was went away. He felt too tired to cope with the inevitable adult questions about why he was not at school. Then the man’s voice, the familiar one, rose slightly. “The Corsican fishermen are loyal?” it said.

Then another man replied in French—no doubt one of the French actors from the play.

The familiar voice spoke again.

“The fact that I am English makes no odds. You think I am doing it for money, my dear chap. True enough. But I am loyal to Boney, have no fear…”

The voices faded away and he lay very still. How strange.

Then he heard his mother calling him.

He slid down from the sofa and ran to the door of the drawing room.

Morag looked very white and strained. “I was asleep, mama,” he cried. “Do not look so worried. I was tired but some men talking woke me.”

He thought he heard a sudden indrawn hiss of breath and swung round. But there were various familiar faces in the crowd, crossing and recrossing the hall. He forgot about it immediately. He wanted to go home as soon as the firework display was over.

Morag was strangely quiet on the road home but Rory was too sleepy to care. He felt he could sleep for a whole day.

Soon they were moving through the still-busy streets of London. Morag, who had been gazing idly out of the carriage window, gave a sudden exclamation. “Do but look, Miss Simpson,” she cried. “That little child.”

Miss Simpson followed her pointing finger. Although it was midnight, there was almost as much traffic as there was at midday. Through the coaches and carriages drove a small boy. He must have been only twelve years old. He was quite alone and driving a small cart pulled by a large dog, which he tooled with masterly ease through the press of carriages.

“All alone!” said Morag in wondering tones.

“Nothing so strange in that,” said Miss Simpson wearily. “In this country, ma’am, the children are men at eight and hanged at twelve.”

Rory stared with envy after the disappearing child. Morag held him very close. Lately she had begun to worry that she was perhaps overprotective toward Rory. But now she was sure she was doing the right thing. Children seemed to become adult so soon, and childhood was a precious thing. Rory should be protected for as long as she could possibly manage.

Rory was awake before anyone else and the first thing he remembered was that letter Miss Simpson had been writing. He dressed himself and ran downstairs. The morning’s post had not yet arrived but there was a sealed letter lying on the half table in the hall on the silver tray which had been placed there for calling cards.

He looked around quickly. No one.

He picked up the letter and scampered back to the safety of his room. He cracked open the seal and quickly read the contents, his eyes widening as he read a concise catalogue of his sins.

An idea started to form in the back of Rory’s brain. He read the letter again. Miss Simpson had made no reference to her own position in the household.

Dear Lady Murr,

Do not consider me Presumptuous. I am writing these unwelcome Facts for your Own Good. Rory is spoilt beyond Comprehension. He accepts Bribes from your callers, desirous of seeing you. He tells Lies. He drew that Unmentionable Word on poor Lady Montclair’s portrait, for one of the maidservants told me.

I pray you, before his character has become Degenerate beyond recall, see that he is soundly whipped as he deserves. It is often better to be Cruel in Order To Be Kind. Such Sins if not beaten soundly out of a child, foment and nourish.

I have nothing more than yr Best Interests at Heart.

Yr Humble and Obedient Servant,

A. Simpson.                                 

Rory stared long and hard at the signature. Then he crossed to his little desk in the corner of his room and sharpened a quill pen to a fine point. Dipping it in the standish, he bent over the parchment and carefully and with delicate flourishes changed the “A” to an “H.”

Then he changed the “i” of Simpson to an “a” and, sanding the letter, ran downstairs again.

He rummaged in an old desk of the late earl until he found a small anonymous-looking seal, and melting a blob of red sealing wax over the old broken seal, he stamped it firmly, and returned the letter to the tray in the hall.

His mother would get the letter, only it would appear to have come from Henrietta—a female that Rory remembered from the breakfast with intense dislike. He knew his mother disliked Miss Sampson also. She would ignore the letter, Rory judged, and assume that Miss Henrietta Sampson had run mad.

But this piece of mischief did not soothe his ruffled feelings as he had expected and he ambled aimlessly into the drawing room and stared out into the street.

How long it took for the days to begin in London!

Everyone who was anyone stayed up half the night and then spent most of the day in bed.

The Tsar of Russia and the King of Prussia were expected to make their state visits in June. Rory had enjoyed the parades and galas for the visit of the restored French monarch, Louis XVIII, and the celebrations for the Russian and Prussian monarchs promised to be grander still. That old hero Blücher, the Prussian commander, and Platov, the leader of the Russian Cossacks, were also due to arrive. Although his mother frowned on stories of war, Rory had picked up enough to admire and long to see these great allied commanders who had helped Wellington defeat Bonaparte… although Rory, like most Britishers, secretly thought the great Duke of Wellington could have done the job himself and with both hands tied behind his back.

There were also great Peace Celebrations planned for July.

But whatever was happening, whoever was arriving, you could be sure nothing would happen in the morning.

It was a miserable morning with a damp, wet fog pressing against the windowpanes.

Rory pricked up his ears as he heard the confused sound of voices coming along the street. Perhaps it was a raree man, come to display his bag of tricks on the doorstep. Rory polished the window with his sleeve and peered out into the mist.

Three rough-looking boys were walking along the street, carrying a sack between them and arguing loudly.

Rory continued to watch. There was nothing else to do anyway.

The boys stopped outside and one of them opened the sack and dragged out a wriggling striped cat. One of the others threw a rope over the lamppost and started to make a noose.

They were going to hang the cat.

Rory watched with interest.

Then the mist thinned and he saw the cat clearly. It was a big, shabby animal which had seen many back-alley fights. One ear was ragged and its mouth had once been torn, giving it a strange lopsided smile.

It had eyes as green as Lord Toby Freemantle’s and it fought and clawed and struggled for its life.

But the boys were strong and they got the noose round the demented animal’s neck.

Rory didn’t know what happened to him that moment, but the next thing he knew he found himself out on the pavement, punching and clawing and biting like a fiend. The boys were much bigger than he but Rory took them by surprise. They dropped the cat, which crouched against the railings.

Rory placed his small figure in front of it and put up his fists. The boys had had time to recover from their shock and let out jeers of laughter at the sight of Rory in his frilly shirt, knee breeches and golden hair.

“Let’s spoil ’is pwitty phiz,” laughed the biggest and drove his fist into Rory’s face—but fortunately Rory had been in a few scraps with the village boys and had learned every dirty trick in the book.

He proceeded to use every one he could. He managed to get in a few good jabs, but they were beginning to inflict more damage than they received. Blood was pouring from Rory’s nose, his head was reeling, his clothes were torn.

He took a fierce pride in the fact that he was still somehow standing, that the cat was behind him, but he knew he could not last another minute. He had not even thought to cry for help.

The street door behind crashed open and Hamish hurtled out. Rory’s assailants took to their heels and fled.

Rory wiped the blood from his face with his cuff and knelt down beside the cat. It lay very still, its eyes half closed. He put out a hand and stroked its great, awkward head.

“Now, laddie,” began Hamish, “down to the kitchen wi’ ye afore yer mither finds…”

“I want this animal taken care of,” said Rory.

“Havers!” snapped Hamish. “Leave the dirty, mangy beastie alone and get yerself inside at the double.”

“I want him,” he said slowly. “If you help me keep him, Hamish, I shall give you…” He broke off as the cat completely opened its eyes. There was something in that unwavering green stare that reminded Rory of Lord Toby.

He stood up and swung round, facing the butler with a quaint dignity. “I mean to say, Mr. Hamish, if you will help me to attend to this animal, I shall be extremely grateful to you. It is a kindness which I do not deserve but if you will not do it for me, at least do it for this unfortunate cat.”

Hamish listened to this pompous little speech in amazement. The eyes that looked pleadingly up into his own seemed to be the eyes of a child for the first time.

“Och, well, laddie,” muttered Hamish, feeling strangely embarrassed. “It’ll do nae harm to tak’ a look at the beast.”

Hamish bent down and the cat lashed up at him. “There ye are!” said Hamish. “Disnae want tae be touched.”

Rory bent down and lifted the heavy cat gently in his arms. It gave a faint miaow but lay still as he carried it into the house and down the stairs to the kitchens.

Hamish followed wonderingly behind. “Wheesht!” he shouted as two of the maidservants screamed at the sight of Rory’s bloody face. “About your duties! Now, laddie, don’t you think I’d better look at your ain injuries?”

“No,” said Rory. “The cat first. He is bleeding a bit. See—on his side. Please may I have some warm water, Mr. Hamish?”