The Scottish Companion (18 page)

Very well, if she had nothing in her future, she would certainly enjoy the present.

She pulled him down to her, threading her fingers through his hair and gripping the back of his head to keep him in place. With all the skill of which she was able, with all the passion she felt flowing through her, she kissed him. Not because he was the earl, but because he was Grant, and she wanted him, needed him, desired him, or all three.

Impatiently, she pushed away the sheets that came between them, until she could feel his long and naked
body over hers. He was hard already, and she reached out one hand to grab his shaft and guide him into her.

He reached out with one hand and cupped her buttocks, jerking her to him on each downward stroke. She bit back the sound she made, and then let it escape. He felt so good. They felt so good. She wrapped her feet around his calves, holding on to him as the sensations began to grow.

He shuddered, his arms braced on either side of her. He pinned her to the bed with the force of his thrusts. She planted her feet on the bed and pushed up, desperate for that last bit of feeling. Finally she was over, the crest reached; the precipice descended in a flurry of outspread legs and arms and halted breath.

“Tell me about your lover,” Grant said. The request didn’t surprise her; the fact that he asked now did.

“Robert? He was someone I knew in Edinburgh.”

“Tell me about him.”

She turned her head. “Do you truly want to know about Robert? Or do you simply want to know about my fall from grace? What led me to turn my back on my parents, society, and all the manners and lessons I’d learned in my lifetime?”

“I think they’re one and the same question,” he said softly.

“I fell in love,” she said, turning her head to survey the ceiling.

After all was said, there was no other explanation. She had been rapturously, deliciously, foolishly in love. She had seen his smile as a demonstration of his devotion. She’d repeated every word he’d said to her
in the quiet of her mind, seeing a meaning that never truly was there. She’d thought him constant, and worried about him, and considered his opinion each time she made a decision. She’d spent a great deal of time being involved in Robert, never noticing, until it was over, that he did not demonstrate the same devotion toward her.

She had been a young and impetuous fool, a comment she made softly now.

Gillian hadn’t even suspected that he’d been using her for ill until the day she’d gone to his home. He hadn’t met her in the garden as they’d arranged. She had news for him, the greatest and most monumental type of news. When she’d been worried enough, and desperate enough to travel to his home, a place she’d been socially since his father and hers had business together, she’d been met by his sister.

She could close her eyes and be transported back to that instant in time. She was standing on the broad stone steps of the McAdams town house. Mary had dismissed the maid who’d opened the door to greet Gillian herself. She’d not invited Gillian inside, and her expression had been rather cruel. Or perhaps Gillian only felt that way now, looking back. The scene had, no doubt, been played out many times before, and would be so again. A foolish girl, a man without honor, and the inevitable betrayal.

“He isn’t here, Gillian. He’s at the Andersons’. He and Helen are deciding the date of their wedding.”

“Wedding?”

“Didn’t you know?” Mary asked, her smile brittle. “Robert’s engaged to be married.”

Only later did she pull apart the words and give
them weight and meaning, but at that moment, Gillian was still youthfully naïve and innocent. No one should be that innocent.

She pulled out a small note from her reticule, something she’d jotted down in case she missed Robert.

She handed it to Mary. “Would you see that Robert gets this?” she asked.

“Why bother, Gillian? You aren’t important to him.”

She’d ignored Mary’s words, to her great sorrow.

At the time, she’d not given any thought to the idea that Mary would go directly to her parents, and Robert’s parents would go to Gillian’s home, to confront her father and stepmother and Gillian herself.

Through it all, Robert never came. Why should he? He had scores of other people to rid himself of the complication of a discarded lover.

“Being in love, I’ve found, does not strip the intellect completely from your mind,” Grant said now. “All lovers have lucid moments. Did you never think he was being false?”

She smiled. “I confess I didn’t. I never thought it. How foolish is that?’

“Young and innocent, perhaps, but not truly foolish,” he said.

“And have you been in love very many times?”

“I was desperately in love when I was younger,” he said softly. “But circumstances change, and so do emotions.”

She remained silent.

“Unfortunately, the lady in question was already married. Not happily but well. She was all for indulging in a liaison, but I wanted something more permanent.”

“And respectable, no doubt, bearing in mind that you’re an earl.”

“Not because I’m an earl,” he said, “but because I found myself very much wanting to set up a household with her. To meet her across the breakfast table. To ask whether she slept well, or to know that she did because she’d been in my chamber all night.”

She felt herself warm, not from his words as much as from the image of Grant being a solicitous husband.

“Did you have no one to guide you? No one at all? Where was your father?” he asked.

She smiled ruefully.

“When you have children, Grant, you’ll discover that you can control a great many things about life but you’ll not be able to control who they love. I doubt I would have listened to him even if my father had counseled me.”

She stared up at the ceiling, remembering the idyllic interlude. How different those days were from this moment, as a stream is from the ocean. She smiled at her own whimsy.

“What happened to your child?”

She froze.

He was lying on his side facing her, his head propped on his elbow. Slowly, he pulled down the sheet, and after a moment she gave up the battle, allowing him to bare her body. Gently, he placed his hand across her stomach, marking the faint lines there with his fingertips.

“You’ve given birth, Gillian.”

She closed her eyes, waiting for his words, feeling shock wash over her. Of course he’d seen. Of course
he would have known. Passion had stripped the sense from her.

Several moments passed, and still he didn’t speak.

She moved, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. She’d never told anyone the story, never shared her grief with a single soul, and now it felt too heavy not to be revealed.

“What happened to your child?”

She lowered her head, wishing he wasn’t so curious. Or that he was as arrogant as she’d first thought him. There was a gentleness to his tone, a kindness and a warmth to his voice that made the account all the more difficult to tell.

“When they discovered that I was with child, my parents sent me to live with a second cousin. After all, I’d brought scandal to the family. I didn’t learn until much later that she had plans to give my child away. I suppose I was a fool, thinking that I could live as I had once done, with no punishment for my crime.”

“Is that what happened to the baby?”

She shook her head. “I knew that I would die before I simply gave away my child. So I left. Another bit of foolishness. I had a little money, but I did not expect to be robbed, to have my valise stolen. In less than a day I had no money, no belongings, and no future.”

He didn’t question her further. She smiled. It wasn’t a pretty story, but not quite as dire as Dr. Fenton had portrayed. “Dr. Fenton found me standing on a street corner in Edinburgh. He intervened before I was forced to sell myself, however. He took me home, and he and Arabella cared for me.”

He didn’t say anything, only sat up, moving close to her. She could feel the warmth of his body, and for
a moment was tempted to simply turn to him. Passion, however, would only delay this tale; it wouldn’t erase it.

“I was too ill, frankly, to care very much about anything. I seemed to survive for the baby. If I ate, it was for him, more than for me. When I slept, it was exhaustion more than a wish to rest. But when he was born, everything changed.”

She took a deep breath. “He was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. He was perfectly formed, with a full head of hair. He had blue eyes, my blue eyes. The first time I held him, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. I found love, the most pure and beautiful love in the world. It didn’t matter that Robert had deserted me. He’d given me this amazing gift.”

Grant didn’t speak, but she felt the touch of his palm on her bare back. She stood, oblivious to her nakedness, and donned her chemise. Slowly she walked to the window, surveying the sunny afternoon at Rosemoor.

“I had one perfect day. One absolutely glorious day of happiness. Not many people can say that for a span of twenty-four hours their life was absolutely perfect, that there was nothing in that time but joy.” She heard him rise, and wished he’d remained on the bed. Instead, he came and put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back against him.

“He lived only a day. Dr. Fenton said such things happen. A baby’s heart sometimes doesn’t beat as strongly as it should.” Her tone was level, as if she’d told the story before, when the truth was that she’d never spoken of her son to anyone.

“Dr. Fenton was very kind,” she said. “He took me in when no one else would, and gave me a home. He gave me a position as Arabella’s companion. He was very kind.”

“And he’s never let you forget it.”

“He does not mean to be the way he is.”

“
You
are too kind.”

She smiled. She turned her head slowly and regarded him. “All I ask is that you do not tell me that you forgive me. You have no idea how tiring it is to be forgiven so often. Dr. Fenton does so endlessly.”

“Would it make you feel better if I didn’t forgive you?”

“Actually,” she said, “it wouldn’t matter. You’ve no right to judge me. No one has. I cannot help but wonder what people would do with themselves if they simply lived their own lives and didn’t involve themselves with the actions of others. Whatever would they do with their time?”

“Perhaps they would spend it less in philosophy, and more in passion,” he said, gently turning her so she faced him.

“I am sorry, Gillian. Stupid words, because they don’t say enough.”

He bent and kissed her, and then pressed her cheek against his bare chest. Only then did she realize she was weeping, soundless tears that wet her face.

G
rant looked around his laboratory and realized that there was something missing from his study of the newest theories, something he didn’t quite understand. Or perhaps it had nothing whatsoever to do with his experiments, and everything to do with the fact that he was performing them alone.

Where was Gillian?

Ever since he’d left her a scant hour ago, he’d been wondering at the wisdom of his actions. Everything she’d said about her reputation was probably true. As long as she remained at Rosemoor, she was safe from rumor and conjecture. Or was she? Surely, if he simply commanded it, people would not speak of her in shocked whispers. The servants wouldn’t gossip. No one would look askance at her. Part of him knew that such an autocratic view of the world was doomed to fail. People would do as they wished behind his back. To him, they would be polite to the point of being servile.

But to Gillian?

He had no right to damage her further. He would be no better than that idiot Robert. He was angry at
both her and Robert, the lover about which she so fondly spoke. How dare she not guard herself with more care, treat herself with more reservation? Give herself to someone who would understand the enormity of the great gift she offered?

He must tell his valet to order new shirts. The material of this one felt almost coarse, but then it could be because he was remembering the touch of Gillian’s skin.

Where was she? Michael had brought him hot water for bathing, and assured Grant that he’d done the same for Miss Cameron.

“She didn’t speak, Your Lordship, other than to thank me.” Michael smiled, and Grant couldn’t help but wonder if Gillian had made another conquest.

Another conquest?

He’d be a fool not to admit that such was the case. Despite his grief, despite his anger, despite the fact he was certain someone was trying to kill him, he couldn’t relinquish the thought that his life would be a great deal grayer without Gillian.

She interested him, and made him laugh. He was confused by what he felt for her, and the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking of her. None of which was her fault, and all of which was because of her.

She enlivened a room simply by entering it. She made him forget what he was concentrating on, a singularly novel experience. She amused him and elicited his compassion, to such a degree that he felt himself, oddly enough, feeling pain where she was concerned. No other woman of his acquaintance had ever summoned his empathy before, and he wished there was someone to whom he could go and confess his utter state of confusion.

Why did he feel rage when she’d cried? He’d never felt that way for any other woman or for any other individual, for that matter. What did that make him? A man without caring or concern for his fellow man? Or had he simply been too occupied with his own concerns, too impatient to be involved in the lives of others?

He certainly wasn’t too unavailable to be interested in Gillian, and it wasn’t simple lust that kept her at the forefront of his mind. If he’d had only a physical awareness about her, he’d be able to dismiss her after today. Instead, he suspected she would become more and more important to him.

Vitally important to him.

What the hell had he done? Something he couldn’t undo and wouldn’t if he had the opportunity. Something he’d forever remember, even when he was an old man on his deathbed. Something he had to rectify even now.

Perhaps to the rest of the world Gillian would be a fallen woman, an unfortunate girl who generated whispers and warning lessons. To him she was simply Gillian, lovely, large-hearted, intelligent, and possessed of the ability to charm him utterly. For that reason, he should protect her, even from himself.

But he’d never lied to himself, and now was not the time to begin. Nothing but death could keep him away from Gillian Cameron.

Gillian hesitated at the door to his laboratory, watching him for a few moments before he caught sight of her. In the past few hours they’d loved each other, and she had revealed her grief. She had shared
with him the depth of her pain, and the loss of her child. The Earl of Straithern knew more about her than any other single individual in the world, and that knowledge, more than their shared nakedness, made her suddenly shy with him.

“You’re here,” he said, looking up from the table and seeing her.

“Yes.”

“What are you thinking?” he asked. “You look as if you want to run away.”

“It would be easier.”

“Would it? Don’t you find that it’s better to face a problem than run from it?”

“Is that what you are?” she asked. “A problem?”

“I think I am,” he said, coming around the table. “At least from that look on your face. Are you wishing it hadn’t happened?” he asked as he approached her. “Are you thinking that you shouldn’t have come to Rosemoor? Are you wondering about whether or not people will think differently of you now?”

“Will they know?”

“Not from me,” he said.

“I’m under no illusions as to what other people might think. I clearly broke the rules once. And did it again. Perhaps I should be punished for that.”

“I didn’t take you for a martyr,” he said.

“I am not a martyr, Grant. But neither am I ignorant of society’s reaction to what I’ve done. I have not acted in a way that is expected of young women. My parents disowned me for it. My friends shunned me. My relatives were disgraced, and the man I loved…”

“Was not worthy of the title,” he said.

She smiled. “You might be correct. I thought he would act differently.”

“Tristan and Isolde? You and he were going to live idyllically somewhere where society’s rules and regulations do not apply?”

“It does sound ridiculous now that you verbalize it.”

“Just naïve,” he said. “There are countries other than Scotland where the rules are not so puritanical. Where a man and woman can live outside the boundaries of society.”

“Like Italy?”

“Exactly like Italy,” he said.

“Is that why you spent so much time there?”

“Actually,” he said, “I spent time in Italy in order to be close to scientists I admired. And to be as far away from Rosemoor as I could,” he added surprisingly. “We can create our own country here, if you like. A place where we decide the rules.”

“Do you want to make me your mistress, Grant? Because of what I told you? Do you think my virtue is for rent?” she asked, careful to keep her voice emotionless.

“I have wanted to bed you, Gillian, from the moment I met you. From that first day you arrived at Rosemoor. When you drank tea and surveyed me with your cool gaze. I was enthralled from that moment. Should I be punished for the truth?”

She didn’t quite know how to answer that.

“Are we going to be lovers?”

“I sense an inevitability to it.” He smiled.

“And if I protest? If I run away to Inverness or Edinburgh?”

“I would find you,” he said easily. “But I would certainly feel a measure of guilt that my actions drove you to such a foolish thing.”

“And if I should enjoy being your lover too much?”

“I would be inordinately pleased. I would probably be insufferably proud of that fact. And flattered. I’ve never had a woman behave that way toward me. Perhaps I do not induce strong feeling.”

They were both tiptoeing around each other, throwing down little pieces of their souls like rose petals, and then bending to pick them up when they went unnoticed. Perhaps it was time for less delicacy and more truth.

“I could love you,” she said. “Women do, I think. Women fall in love while men fall in lust.”

“You think that’s what I feel?”

“I don’t think you know what you feel, Grant. I think it surprises you as much as it does me. I do know that we have the ability to hurt each other. Badly.”

“But love, Gillian?”

They studied each other for a long moment, and thankfully, he didn’t press her for an answer.

Michael entered at that moment, bringing Grant his luncheon. He placed it on the sideboard, bowed once, and disappeared again.

“Is he always around?”

“Almost always,” Grant said. “Does it bother you?”

“A little,” she answered, and wondered if that confession marked her as hopelessly bourgeois. She wasn’t used to servants obeying her every desire.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “It’s been hours since breakfast.”

“I didn’t eat breakfast,” she said. “A certain impatient earl was waiting for me.”

“Then you must eat,” he said.

He joined her at the sideboard, and as she watched, a little bemused, he lifted the top from a small tureen to reveal a rose-colored, creamy bisque.

“Cook prepares a wonderful fish stew,” he said, ladling some of the bisque into a small bowl. He took a silver spoon from where it rested on a snowy white linen napkin and filled it with the soup, holding it out for her as if she were a child.

“I can assure you, Your Lordship, that I can feed myself quite ably, thank you.”

He didn’t say a word in reply, but the corners of his mouth lifted into a small and almost tender smile. He stood there unmoving, and she had the decided impression that he wasn’t going to cease in his efforts to feed her.

“Very well,” she said somewhat crossly, and opened her mouth. The bisque was delicious. She closed her eyes to savor it.

Cook had used numerous spices to give the bisque a robust flavor, something that wasn’t excessively fishy but had a hint of heat to it. Perhaps she’d added some carrots and potatoes as well. When she opened her eyes, Grant was smiling at her, and the spoon was full again.

This time she shook her head.

“A roll, perhaps,” she said. Without waiting, she grabbed one from the silver tray, sliced it in two, and held one part out to him.

“It’s only fair,” she said when he initially refused. “You must eat as well.”

“My appetite isn’t for food,” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

She smiled and bit into the roll. It was, like anything Cook made at Rosemoor, absolute perfection, light and flaky and crusty all at once.

He held out the spoon again, and she allowed him to feed her. She really should move away. At the very least, she should protest again. But she didn’t. Emotions seemed to pulse in the air, a beat of rhythm that her heart strained to match. There was something almost pagan in the silence, something almost wicked and abandoned in the simple act of nourishing each another.

She pulled back, and he finally relinquished the spoon to her, pulling up a chair and assisting her to the small table as if he were a footman. For a moment she thought he was going to leave her, but he did so only momentarily, long enough to procure another chair from some other place in the palace.

He sat opposite her and poured some wine into a goblet.

“Wine and bisque and an earl for company. It will be hard to go back to my normal way of life.”

“Must you?”

She felt light-headed, almost woozy. For a moment, she thought it might be simply being so close to him. What was the scent of the soap he used while shaving?

How very odd. What had he asked? Something dangerous. Something wrong.

She was finding it very difficult to concentrate. She stared at his mouth. She wanted to lift her hand and place her fingers against the fullness of his bottom
lip, but, surprisingly, her arm wouldn’t obey her instructions. She lifted her gaze to his and watched as he frowned. She wanted to reassure him that she was fine, but suddenly she wasn’t at all certain she was.

She raised a hand with difficulty, pressed it against his chest. But then it appeared in front of her, fingers wiggling.

“Help me,” she said, but the words came out garbled. She couldn’t understand them herself, so she tried once again. Speech was suddenly beyond her as the world began spinning.

She was a child again, twirling with her arms spread wide around and around and around until she collapsed on the ground in a burst of giggles. Instead, she slipped soundlessly from the chair and sprawled at the Earl of Straithern’s feet.

“Help me,” she said once again, but the cry was deep inside her mind.