The Laird Who Loved Me (7 page)

“He couldn’t keep his eyes off you all evening.”

“Only because he was trying to find ways to make me angry.”

Sally blinked. “And did he?”

“Yes. Several times, in fact. Some of the things he says seem innocuous, but—” Caitlyn folded her lips in a straight line.

“Why would he wish to do such a thing?” Sally shook her head. “Men are so perplexing.”

“Not all of them.”
Some
of them were clear in what they were trying to accomplish. Alexander was obviously trying to goad her into some sort of impropriety. But why? What did he hope to accomplish? Tomorrow she’d find out. If there was one thing she knew, it was that Alexander MacLean was a—

“Caitlyn, may I ask you a question?”

With difficulty, Caitlyn pulled herself into the present. “Of course.”

“What did you think of the Earl of Caithness?”

“Who?”

Sally’s cheeks pinkened. “You may not have noticed him, for he is very quiet and sat beside Countess Dumfries at the other end of the table.”

“Ah yes. He seems like a very nice man.”

Sally looked pleased. “I thought so, too.” The talk turned back to dinner and the gowns the other women had been wearing, but soon Sally was unable to hide her yawns and they said their good nights.

Muiren met Caitlyn inside the door. “Och, miss, how was yer evenin’?”

“Lovely.” Caitlyn loosened her ties and allowed Muiren to assist her in shedding her gown and petticoats and climbing into her night rail.

Muiren slipped a shawl around Caitlyn’s shoulders. “Have a seat at the vanity, miss, and I’ll brush out yer hair.”

Caitlyn did as Muiren suggested, watching the maid in the mirror as she unpinned Caitlyn’s hair and then gently began to brush it out.

Muiren smiled. “Did ye enjoy yer dinner?”

Soothed by the rhythm of the brush, Caitlyn replied sleepily, “The food was superb, and almost everyone was very nice.”

“Almost?”

“Everyone except Lord MacLean and the duchess, who—” Caitlyn caught Muiren’s gaze in the mirror. “I mean—”

“Och, that’s no’ a surprise,” Muiren said as she pulled the brush through Caitlyn’s hair. “I daresay MacLean took a likin’ to ye, seein’ as ye’re so bonny and all, and if there’s one thing her grace dinna like, it’s when her beau pays attention to another.”

Caitlyn frowned. “Her ‘beau’?”

“Well, not now. They were close last year, but then he stopped visitin’. I dinna think the duchess liked that, fer she was a shrew till he came back, several months ago. Now he’s here, but”—Muiren glanced at the door before leaning forward to say in a loud whisper—“he doesna stay overnight in her bedchamber as he did before.”

“I’d imagine the duke would have something to say about that!”

“I dinna think he cares. So long as the duchess graces
his table and makes sure his house runs smoothly, he canna be bothered with her involvements. I think that’s the way ’tis with a lot o’ the gentry—and a sad thing ’tis, if ye ask me.”

Caitlyn recalled how the duchess had watched MacLean when she thought no one was looking, and how the older woman’s expression had turned more and more sour as the meal wore on. “So he is the one who ended the relationship?”

“Aye, although her grace’s maid told me this morning tha’ her grace is hopin’ t’ win him back.”

Caitlyn realized she was gripping her hands in her lap, and she uncurled them and forced herself to relax. It didn’t matter who MacLean was sleeping with. He was an irritant to her, nothing more. “I find it difficult to believe that the duke doesn’t have issues with the duchess’s … proclivities.”

“La, miss! Did ye see ’im at supper this evenin’?”

“Yes, but—”

“Was he e’en awake?”

“He was for part of the evening.”

“An’ did ye note that he’s a good thirty years older than her grace? She was practically a child when he first seen her and took her to wife.” Muiren’s voice dropped back to a whisper. “Her grace’s maid got tipsy on strawberry wine last summer, and she once told me that the duchess was no’ born a lady.”

“She certainly seems to be one now.”

“Aye, and mighty conscious she is of it, too. She was a weaver girl in one o’ the duke’s mills. Once’t he seen
her, the duke had to have her. But even as a lass she was a smart one, and she held out fer a ring. Once’t he married her, he brought in all sorts of tutors, dressmakers, and dancing masters—an army o’ people to teach her how to behave and talk.”

“Goodness! Does … does everyone know about that?”

“Only a very few. I know ’tis a fact, though, because the day after I heard it, her grace’s maid tried every way she could to convince me tha’ she dinna mean a word she’d spoken.”

Caitlyn couldn’t imagine the elegantly disdainful woman who’d presided over the supper table as anything other than a duchess.

Muiren placed the silver-backed brush on the dressing table. “Miss, are ye ready fer bed? ’Tis late and I know ye must be weary.”

Caitlyn climbed into bed, snuggling into the warmed sheets, listening as Muiren extinguished the lights and stirred the fire. “Good night, Muiren.”

“G’night, miss. Sleep well.” The maid left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

Caitlyn yawned, scooting farther under the covers as her tired mind whirled with the knowledge that the duchess had once been a mill worker and Alexander MacLean had once been the duchess’s lover. The idea of the beautiful red-haired woman with MacLean made Caitlyn’s stomach clench. She fluffed her pillow and tried to think of something else … and failed miserably. It wasn’t that she’d expected MacLean to be
a monk of some sort—heaven knew he’d never presented himself as anything other than a sensual libertine. It was more that her imagination was unable to leave the thought be. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined MacLean’s dark head bending toward the duchess’s pale, beautiful face and—

“Oh, blast it!” She sat upright and thumped her pillows with a balled fist. The bed was obviously too lumpy for a good sleep. She dropped back on the pillows and stared into the darkness overhead, wishing she could erase the pictures from her mind. She didn’t have the slightest claim on MacLean—and didn’t want one, either! She was simply overtired. Yes, that’s what was wrong with her; she was overtired and the surprise of finding MacLean here, of all places, had been an additional strain on her nerves.

She sighed. It was too bad she hadn’t thought to bring a book from her father’s library. As tired as she was, it was going to be a long, long time before she fell asleep.

Watch yer tempers, me dears. Fer if ye dinna, it’ll watch ye.

O
LD
W
OMAN
N
ORA FROM
L
OCH
L
OMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

Caitlyn opened her eyes to a darkened room, a streak of bright sunlight breaking through a crack between the heavy curtains. She looked at the clock and immediately sat up, her sleepiness disappearing. Almost ten o’clock! Goodness, she’d slept late!

She started to rise, then realized that no sounds permeated the house. With a smile, she dropped back onto her pillows and snuggled beneath the covers. Muiren had already been here, since the fire crackled merrily in the grate. She’d been so exhausted when she’d finally fallen asleep that she’d slept right through the maid’s morning visit.

It was all so different from the vicarage, where thinner curtains let the morning light stream in and stirred the inhabitants to action at the break of dawn. It was luxurious to lie in bed in a blissfully warm room
in the middle of a cool fall morning, the heavy sheets soft on her skin. She smiled and tugged the heavy feather counterpane up to her chin. She could easily grow accustomed to this. Probably too easily.

She yawned, then rolled to her side, tucking an arm under her cheek as she watched golden dust motes float in the single beam of sunlight that streamed between the curtains. Three months ago, she’d been in a similarly luxurious bed at her aunt’s London house. She’d also been in the midst of her relationship with MacLean and had been consumed with thoughts of him. Then she’d feared that she was falling in love and had even wondered if he felt the same. He’d aggressively sought her out, and she couldn’t forget how his eyes had gleamed whenever she’d walked into a room.

Now she realized she’d been a momentary distraction to him and nothing more. Thank goodness she hadn’t made a fool of herself by telling him of her feelings; he would have burst into incredulous laughter.

She winced. It was painfully obvious that he was angry with her. Surely he wasn’t holding her completely to blame for what had happened in London and the near scandal that had ensued? Caitlyn was more than willing to take her part in the blame; she’d been foolishly thoughtless—but so had MacLean. They’d
both
allowed their urgent passions to interfere with their obligations to their families, and they deserved equal blame.

It was a pity they hadn’t had time to sort this through when it had happened, but Caitlyn’s parents
had whisked her back to the country so fast that she’d never had the chance to speak to him. After that she was confined to the vicarage for three long, dreadfully dull months, left with nothing but her memories and an odd sense of loss.

Away from MacLean’s intoxicating presence, she’d convinced herself that the hot tug of attraction she’d felt whenever he was near hadn’t existed, that it was nothing but a figment of her too fertile imagination.

But the second she’d seen him walk into the duchess’s sitting room, Caitlyn knew she’d been lying to herself. She was just as affected by him now as she’d been in London.

Memories flooded her, her mind lingering on the feel of MacLean’s hot mouth over hers, his large hands sliding over her breasts and hips, his warm breath brushing her neck . . . She took a steadying breath and forced the memories away.

Before, when the attraction between MacLean and her had flared, she’d allowed it, going with the fiery flow, and repercussions be damned. She couldn’t afford that luxury now. Perhaps it was a good thing MacLean was over their mad flirtation, for she wasn’t certain she could say the same of herself.

Caitlyn groaned and sat up. “
Forget
about him! What I need is food.”

She pushed back the blanket and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, her gaze falling on a delicate tray holding a teapot on the table before the fireplace. Unfortunately, no cakes were with the tea; she’d have
to take her rumbling stomach downstairs to breakfast.

She rose and tugged the fringed pull by the fireplace that would ring a bell in the kitchen, then sat and poured herself a cup of tea.

Holding her bare feet toward the fire, her fingers wrapped around the warm porcelain teacup, she thought about home. There, everyone would have risen hours ago. Father would be teaching Robert and Michael their Greek lessons, while Mary, once she’d been dragged away from whatever book she was burying her nose in, would be helping Mother with the mending.

Caitlyn sighed. She missed the noise, the creak of the stairs and the slamming of doors, the sound of laughter. Even from her room on the third floor, she could easily hear the murmur of voices from the sitting room on the bottom floor where Mother gathered her chicks to her like a mother hen. Or so Mother liked to think of it, although Father always suggested that as soon as she’d gathered her “chicks,” she would then disperse them more like a general issuing orders than a fluffy chicken. That always made Mother protest laughingly that she wouldn’t have to be a general if she had less unruly chicks.

Caitlyn smiled wistfully. One day, she wanted a relationship like theirs, based on respect and love. She hoped her sister Triona had found that with her new husband, Hugh. From Triona’s letters, it seemed she might have. A twinge of envy made Caitlyn feel even
lower. Would she ever meet a man she could respect and love enough to marry? The only man she’d ever felt a true attraction for had spent most of last evening doing his best to show her how little he thought of her.

The door opened as Muiren arrived, and Caitlyn was soon dressed for breakfast.

As she waited for Muiren to find her blue shawl, Caitlyn found herself wondering yet again how MacLean’s onetime lover had come to invite Caitlyn to visit. The more she thought of the circumstances of her visit, the odder it seemed.
It doesn’t just seem odd—it
is
odd.
Caitlyn would pay close attention to the both of them; that she and MacLean were invited to the same house party was too much of a coincidence. Something was going on—and whatever it was, she’d find out and put a stop to it.

Muiren brought Caitlyn the shawl and she went down to breakfast.

“Are you going to eat that?” Roxburge asked.

Alexander was sitting at the breakfast table, idly swinging his eyeglass on a ribbon as he waited for Caitlyn to appear.

“I said,”
the voice came again, querulous and even closer, “are you going to
eat
that?”

Alexander reluctantly turned to face the aging duke, who stood not two feet away, his ever-present snuffbox clenched in one hand. Alexander lifted his
quizzing glass and eyed him. “I beg your pardon, but am I going to eat what?”