The Lass Wore Black (35 page)

“She did?” She slid along the wall until they weren’t so close. “I’m not surprised. I’m likable.”

He grinned at her.

“Very well, I haven’t always been pleasant to you,” she said. “But I was goaded.”

His eyes were twinkling at her. He had to stop doing that.

“You threw a tray at me,” he said.

She looked away. She’d forgotten about that.

“Very well,” she said, pushing past him. “If you insist on spending your money on Mr. MacLean, do so.”

She moved to the doorway, turning for one last glimpse of him. He looked tired, and she had the most absurd desire to tuck him up in bed, make him soup, and kiss him senseless.

Whatever was he doing to her?

“Catriona,” he said, his voice making her name sound entirely too sensuous.

“Yes?”

“I won’t give up,” he said, smiling again.

She nodded, not entirely certain if he was talking about her watchdog or something else entirely.

“I
can’t do this no more, sir,” Artis said, wringing her hands.

Andrew smiled and opened the back door wider. He was too close to success; she couldn’t rabbit on him now. He led her to the table, took her raggedy cloak, and hung it on the peg beside the door.

“What is it now, Artis?” he asked, pretending a compassionate air.

He was glad he was almost quit of Scotland. He hated the country and would be glad to see the last of it—and this woman especially.

She slipped across the square every morning to report on Catriona, and of late he’d had to reassure her that she was doing the right thing, the honorable thing, in assisting the course of true love.

He’d come close to gagging when he told her that.

Catriona Cameron was incapable of loving anyone but herself. He’d be doing the world a favor by eradicating her.

Did the maid see the rifle on the table behind her? He’d made no effort to hide it. He might well be going to the country over the weekend and needed to ensure it was in proper order. She wouldn’t know that the only hunting in this part of the country was normally done with a shotgun.

Any fool could aim a shotgun and hope to hit something. The Pattern 1853 was a treasure of an instrument, a rifle possessing a deadly beauty. He’d become proficient with it in the last few years. It had become an extension of himself, an extra limb or a tool.

“Where is she going today?” Andrew asked, demonstrating a patience he didn’t truly possess. He’d had years of practice feigning various emotions, however. With his amiable smile, the maid would have no reason to be nervous or afraid.

After all, she wasn’t the one he was trying—unsuccessfully, so far—to kill.

Twice Catriona had foiled him. She wouldn’t do so again.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

“I don’t pay you not to know, Artis,” he said, still affable. “I pay you to give me Miss Cameron’s schedule.”

“Why, sir?”

She stood before him, shoulders drooping, twisting her hands until they were red. Her brown eyes were flat with fear.

“Why?” he asked, not revealing his anger over such a daring question. Who was she to question him? “I’ve told you that I’m a cast-off suitor. I’m seeking a way to convince her of my love.”

She looked doubtful, but at least she’d ceased twisting her hands.

“I don’t think she feels the same, sir.”

He kept his smile anchored by sheer will.

“Why do you say that, Artis?”

She shook her head.

“Perhaps she doesn’t know her own feelings, Artis. Perhaps she will change her mind once I plead my case. I need your help.”

She nodded, which meant that she’d continue to be his eyes and ears as long as he paid her well.

He wondered if she’d ever know how close she came to dying first.

Chapter 32

D
ina sat in the parlor, folding clothes once again. For some reason, her smile wouldn’t fade. Well, she certainly had enough reason to smile, hadn’t she? The donations for the poor had been pouring in of late. She had witnessed the transformation of Catriona’s character, becoming as sweet and kind as she’d always thought the girl could be. One day, perhaps, she would rid herself of her veil entirely, and venture out into the world.

There would be times when Catriona would be rebuffed, no doubt. Although she believed in aiding her fellow man, sometimes her fellow man left a great deal to be desired. People would hurt the girl’s feelings, but Catriona must rise above that. The alternative was to remain as cloistered as a nun, and Catriona, with her loving personality, was not destined for dark corners and silence.

The only thing she would have changed was that the two of them—Dr. Thorburn and Catriona—would be more intelligent in their secret courting. But people in love rarely thought of the outside world. Foolish young people to waste so much time on posturing.

Dr. Thorburn was a definite catch, and so was Catriona, as soon as she realized that her appearance was not all she had to offer the world.

“Mrs. MacTavish?”

She looked up to see Artis standing in the doorway. Even Artis had changed over the past few weeks. She wasn’t nearly as surly as before, and had taken her punishment so well that it ended.

“Yes, Artis?”

“Have you a minute, ma’am?”

“Is anything wrong?”

“I need to speak to you,” Artis said.

She frowned. Was the girl going to complain about either Elspeth or Isobel again? She had enough of Artis’s complaints, and here the girl had been doing so well.

“I need to tell you something I’ve done, Mrs. MacTavish.”

A strange request, but she nodded, moving a stack of clothing aside so Artis could sit beside her. Instead, the girl remained standing in front of her.

“You were kind to give me a position.”

“I’d do it again, Artis.” She sent a smile in the girl’s direction, but Artis was still studying the floor.

She didn’t have a good feeling about this.

Artis twisted her hands in her apron and bit her lip between words.

“I like having a roof over my head, and clothes to wear that smell good,” she said. “I like that you don’t tolerate drunkenness in your house.”

The girl looked as if she were about to cry, and kept looking down at the floor other than at her.

“I like it here, ma’am. I just want you to know that, and if you give me another chance, I’ll never do something like this again.”

“Have you stolen the silver, Artis?” she asked, half in jest.

The girl’s head rose, and Artis stared at her. “I haven’t. I’d never steal from you, ma’am.”

“Well, if it’s not theft, what has you so worried? Your new duties?” She’d put Artis in charge of the inventory of all the linens. They had more sheets than they truly needed, but since they didn’t belong to her, but to her nephew, all she could do was count them, launder them, and ensure they were kept in good repair.

“I’ve done a bad thing. She doesn’t deserve it, I’m thinking. I’ve put her in danger, and myself, too. I’ve dealt with the devil, Mrs. MacTavish, and he won’t be denied.”

At the end of that impassioned speech, Artis burst out weeping.

She stood and enfolded the girl in her arms.

No, she really didn’t have a good feeling about this.

M
ark left his bag on the carriage seat and told Brody, “Go around to the kitchen. There’s no need for you to freeze waiting for me.”

“I’ll do that, sir. Mrs. MacTavish’s cook makes a fine scone, she does.”

He grinned, since he and Brody shared a love of anything sweet.

He turned back to the steps, taking them two at a time. Today he was beginning his courtship in earnest. If he delayed, Catriona would have enough time to put up all sorts of objections to his suit. He wasn’t going to be denied.

He’d wanted to be a physician and had overcome all objections. Perhaps the obstinacy he demonstrated then had only been preparation for this moment, his siege on Catriona Cameron.

After knocking on the door, he rocked back and forth on his heels. What mood would she be in today? Would she allow him to massage her leg again? Had she known that his pulse escalated when he’d touched her? Or that he’d had a hard time letting her leave him yesterday?

His house had seemed emptier without her.

Sarah, bless her, had decided not to comment on Catriona’s arrival, his comment, or his sudden silence at her departure.

The door opened, and his smile immediately vanished.

“Thank God it’s you,” Mrs. MacTavish said, reaching out, grabbing the lapel of his coat and dragging him inside.

W
ould she always be frightened in a carriage? Would her heart always race? Would she always hear the shattering of glass, the screams of the horses?

Catriona’s hands trembled and she clutched them together, the black leather feeling cold and constricting against her fingers.

She was on an errand for her aunt. That’s what she needed to remember. Not that night in London. Not the fog outside the window, and Millicent’s smile.

Did Mark feel the same way whenever he had to travel in a carriage? As if he were trapped, confined, and a prisoner?

How horrid to have had such a tutor and a father, too. She was not going to be polite to Mark’s father when she met him.

Her thoughts stumbled to a halt.

She was not involved with Mark Thorburn. She was not paired with him. She would not be meeting his father. He’d pretended to be someone he wasn’t and insisted on being a nuisance now, that’s all, but there was nothing more to their relationship. His offer of marriage was just an act of kindness.

Marry me.

Her heart stuttered at the thought.

They’d been lovers.

Somehow, she was going to have to forget that. She shouldn’t recall the shape of him, his beautiful, strong back, the column of his neck, or the angle of his stubborn chin.

Of course you’re sad about your changed circumstances.
How she’d disliked him when he’d said that.

You’re only seeing a part of you.

How arrogant he was. Did he always get his way?

Why was she smiling?

Would she ever see him again? He would have no need to come and visit anymore. How foolish she was to feel pain at that thought.

So many people needed him, but she needed him in a different way. She needed the quick smile that lit his face and carried to his eyes. She needed to hear his voice with its rolling burr. She needed to feel the touch of his hand, to see that clear look in his eyes when he saw her ruined face. No pretense there. No pity or compassion, only understanding.

Marry me.

Perhaps it hadn’t been an act of kindness after all.

Dear God, would she ever cease missing him?

Did Jean feel the same about her earl?

Perhaps she should go to Ballindair and nurse her wounds there. She’d hide at Ballindair for a while, then return when she was feeling stronger, more able to tolerate the absence of the most annoying man she’d ever met.

He had a quality about him that made her notice him immediately. When he entered a room, her body was suddenly alert. Yet he seemed unaware of his attractiveness, of the charming nature of his smile or the seductive twinkle in his eyes. Looking at him was dangerous; falling under his spell had been even more disastrous.

Her hands trembled and she clasped them more tightly together.

He couldn’t have meant what he said yesterday.

She frowned at the carriage window. She couldn’t stop thinking of him, no matter how often she told herself to concentrate on something else. Anything or anyone else other than Mark Thorburn.

She’d never been fixated on a man before in her entire life. But then, she’d never acted as foolish around one, either. What did that mean?

Isobel, sitting opposite her, ventured a tentative smile, then looked away.

No doubt the poor girl thought she was cross at her.

“How is your arm feeling?” she asked.

The girl smiled again and nodded. “Better, miss. It just aches from time to time, but Dr. Thorburn says that’s to be expected.”

“We need to ensure that he sees you again,” she said. “Just to make sure you’re well.”

Truly, there was no need for that surge of excitement she suddenly felt. Did she intend to go around wounding the maids just to see him? How foolish she was.

“Thank you, miss.”

She smiled in return.

Had people ever thanked her as much as they were doing recently? She couldn’t get through the day without someone coming up to her and thanking her. She wasn’t doing all that much. In fact, Dina was the example, the charitable one, the woman who did the most. She was just trailing after her, following her lead. But when people said thank you, they did so with genuine emotion. They smiled at her a lot more, even clad as she was in her veil.

How odd that she wasn’t attracting their attention with her looks, but her actions.

She wasn’t, however, being charitable or selfless in this errand. She’d been given a choice and picked the easiest one. Rather than visiting Old Town again, she chose to pick up donated clothing.