Timeless Desire (30 page)

M
RS
. B
ROWNLOW SCURRIED AROUND THE ROOM AS IF SHE WERE
running on several double shots of espresso. The deadline of one hour had sent her into overdrive. It had sent Panna into something akin to shock.

With the taste of him still on her tongue, Panna bounced between sizzling desire, a deep sense of pride, and the certainty that she was making a mistake.

Jamie had been banned from the room while Mrs. Brownlow worked. Panna’s gown had been declared “not right at all for a bride,” and the muscles in her legs were jittering inside her skin as if she were a rabbit about to bolt.

“I need a drink,” Panna declared.

Mrs. Brownlow, who was busy brushing Panna’s hair into something that didn’t resemble the communal scratching post at a cat shelter, peered at her. “Aye, I think that’s a good idea.”

Panna expected her to call for a servant, but instead Mrs. Brownlow lifted her skirt and withdrew a flask from the top of her stocking. Panna clearly needed to explore this area of undergarment subterfuge in more detail.

Panna took the flask, popped the cork, and took a long swallow.

“You can rest assured,” Mrs. Brownlow said, “the second time will be better than the first.”

Panna coughed, sending a fine spray of sweet sherry through her fist. Mrs. Brownlow was
not
talking about marriages.

“And if Master Jamie is the man I think he is, the third time even better.”

Panna thought the first time would be crackin’ fantastic— that is, if she and Jamie ever got to it.

“He’s a good man,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “You must tell him it’s like a wriggling fish.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The place between your legs,” she said under her breath. “And he must hook it with his finger. My Bobby went at it like he was trying to cudgel a tuna with a fence picket. That dinna work, lass. Oh, it works fine for them, but then again, what doesn’t? A tiny fish. And it must be his finger. Though, in a pinch, yours will work as well.”

Panna considered this advice, downed another gulp of sherry and said, “Do you suppose Jamie is much of a fisherman?”

Mrs. Brownlow’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I should think so, don’t you? And if not, I’m sure he has it in him to learn. I can see it in the way he looks at you.”

Panna flushed. “I hope.”

“There are
other
things a man will want to do.” The approbation with which Mrs. Brownlow said this made it seem these other things would not be cured with something as simple as a hook and a wiggle.

“Oh?”

“You have to understand, they hold their cocks in very high regard.”

Uh-huh.

“I think if they could do so without damage,” Mrs. Brownlow added, “they would happily wear it in their cap.”

Panna thought of Sunday strolls along the waterfront. “I see.”

“There is no place too grand to hold it. So you must not take offense.”

“Too grand?”

Mrs. Brownlow surreptitiously passed a hand across her mouth.

Panna bit her lip. “Oh, dear.”

“Tis not as bad as you think. And if you are in no mood to linger—for sometimes you will not be—tis the fastest way home. I have three sisters, and we’ve had eight husbands between us. Not a one could last longer than a sheep’s shearing.”

Eight
husbands. “So Bobby . . . he was your first husband?”

“No, my second. The first was Davey. A good man, he was, though he drank more than was good for him. Took to his bed with a fever one Hogmany. Never got up.”

Mrs. Brownlow had returned Panna’s hair to a glossy shine and was now weaving it into a series of braids. Panna played with the pins in her hand. “Was it hard for you to remarry? Did you feel like you were abandoning Davey?”

“I mourned him for a year, lass. But a woman’s heart is large. A man can only love one wife. But a woman can love many husbands. I haven’t abandoned Davey. I’ve locked him away. He’s in his own place there, safe and secure.”

“Like a chamber of a nautilus shell.”

Mrs. Brownlow smiled. “Aye, I suppose.”

The safe spaces in one’s memory. Where we preserve those we’ve lost. But unlike a nautilus shell, the spaces aren’t separated by walls. They are connected by doors that one can reopen whenever one needs to.

Mrs. Brownlow ran to fetch an aged hand mirror from the dresser and gave it to Panna. Her hair had been pinned into a loose French roll and decorated them with ropes of tiny braids. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Truly. Thank you.” She turned the mirror and saw that a loopy
S
had been engraved on the back of it. “Do you think Sorcha would be pleased with the way Jamie has turned out?”

“Oh, aye. Handsome, brave, smart. Of course, he’s always been handsome. Even as a tiny bairn.”

Panna wheeled around. “You knew him as an infant?”

“Shh,” the woman said, glancing toward the door. “You mustn’t tell Hector. I visited Sorcha once when he was but a fat baby. I gave him a turkey bone. Sorcha said it was the first food he held for himself. He sat in front of the fire and gnawed on it for an hour, happy as a pup.”

“But Sorcha died giving birth to Jamie.”

“Oh, no. That was later. I sent Annan’s best surgeon. The one Hector himself used. Paid with my own coin. Not that it did much good.” Mrs. Brownlow sat down next to Panna on the bed. “I also gathered her things when she passed. There wasn’t much. A gown or two I gave to the poorhouse. A trinket box from the earl,” she added disapprovingly. “Three or four books. They’re on the shelf in the wardrobe.”

Panna turned to look but the wardrobe’s doors were closed. “Could I give them to Jamie? I have no other present for him.”

“Aye, and give him the little ark, too. You should have it for your children.”

The morning sun was high in the sky now. The Cumbrian hills looked like emerald cabochons, and Bridgewater’s castle sat like a carved piece of ivory in their midst, the peaked roof of the chapel rising from the design.

“Do you think Jamie’s grandfather regrets what he did?”

“Aye,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “Though I think it’s taken him many years to come to that. And he would not want anyone to know.”

“But people know he built the chapel for her. Or is Jamie the only one?”

“Built the chapel for her?” Mrs. Brownlow laughed. “Oh, no, lass. When that chapel went up, Hector was furious. ‘Who dares to touch my castle?’ Of course, the lands had been taken by the Crown, so he had no basis for the complaint. He thinks the priest sold Sorcha’s jewelry and built it to rub the MacIver’s nose in his wickedness.”

“The priest who cared for Jamie and his mother?”

“Aye.”

“I know Jamie finds great comfort in that chapel.”

“Maybe he’s the one who built it, lass. He’s made a good bit of money on water pumps.”

If he had built it, he certainly had tried to hide that fact. He had railed against his grandfather’s attempt to assuage his guilt by building it.

“Are you ready, lass?” Mrs. Brownlow gestured toward the door.

Panna’s heart leaped in her chest. Had an hour passed already? She lifted the flask and drank.

“Careful, now,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “A little is good. A lot . . . well, let’s just say a lot can be as bad as none. I saw a bride once drink so much whisky she fell asleep in the carriage of one of the wedding guests. She slept all the way to his estate in Glasgow. Awoke with the cock’s crow. And that reminds me: If Jamie tells you the only way to get rid of a cockstand is for you to tend to it, you look him in the eye and tell him you know better.”

Panna wondered which eye she meant.

B
RIDGEWATER SWALLOWED AND TRIED TO CLEAR HIS THROAT
. H
E
found his mouth drier than he’d ever known it. He wished he had his uniform. It didn’t seem right to ask Panna to stand beside him while he wore a dusty, shot-riddled coat. He rubbed his sweating palms on his breeks.

“You look fine.” Hector said. “A groom shouldna outshine the bride.”

“No chance of that, I’m afraid.” Bridgewater wondered where Hector had drummed up a priest on such short notice and if banns would have to be posted, but then he remembered Scotland’s lax marriage laws and realized one of the castle’s blacksmiths could probably perform the ceremony as well as anyone.

“Was the girl relieved?”

Bridgewater felt the blood rise once again on his cheeks. Exactly how much censure was he going to have to endure for a fornication that had not taken place? Had she been relieved? Hardly. She’d agreed, but he’d seen the hesitation in her eyes. And her words had made it clear that whatever they shared, it was not love.

And you say this vow will mean no more to you than it does to me?

“Aye,” Bridgewater said, “I believe she was quite beside herself with joy.”

“As I would expect. You have done quite well financially for a bastard whose father has given you nothing.”

Not to mention a man whose grandfather has denied me what might also be considered mine.

MacIver saw the unspoken sentiment in his eyes. “Aye, well, the time has come for you to claim what is yours.”

“I have no need of your money.”

“Nor do I offer it.”

Bridgewater swallowed. “But if my grandmother had a ring that should have been passed to my mother, I would like to have it.”

The Scot stared, his rheumy eyes appraising the man before him. “Your mother was disinherited. There is nothing of mine or my wife’s that belongs to her—or to you.”

Bridgewater tried to keep the disappointment from showing on his face. He had hoped for something to give to Panna.

“However,” MacIver said wearily, “I know your grandmother would have wanted you to have something. Let me see what I can find.”

He made his way stiffly to the door and said a few words to the guard standing in the hall. When he turned, Bridgewater said, “When are you planning to speak to the clan chiefs?”

“Lower your voice. No one commands me, especially not an English army officer.” MacIver closed the door. “The council begins after our breakfast. You and your bride will join us for that.”

An unpleasant tingle went up his spine. “I cannot be seen here.”

MacIver held up a boney hand. “Dinna fash yourself. A wedding answers nicely. Your superior officers can hardly complain about a man running off to Scotland with his sweetheart to marry. If only that had been the reason you’d brought her,” he added under his breath.

“Even I could have managed an excuse for being found in Scotland,” Bridgewater said with irritation. “Tis being
here
, in Nunquam, that will get me hanged.”

“Is it a crime for a man to enjoy a wedding breakfast thrown by his grandfather?”

“Where the only guests are the heads of the Lowland clans?”

MacIver shook his head. “You inherited your father’s lack of imagination. ‘The guests, General? My grandfather’s closest friends.’”

Bridgewater rolled his eyes at the suggested explanation and straightened his cuffs. “I think you should tell the clan chiefs that the army has taken some actions that concern you.”

“I do not need advice from a man who was still in a clout when I’d led my thirtieth charge. I will keep my own counsel, thank you. I have little enough reason to trust you.”

“I am marrying the girl,” Bridgewater said with steel in his voice. “As you asked.”

“That was not all I asked. Come.” MacIver waved him to his side.

Bridgewater joined him reluctantly.

“Hold out your hand.” MacIver withdrew a blade from his belt.

Bridgewater felt a sickening chill. “Why?”

“Tis time to take your rightful name.”

“I have a name.”

“The name is not yours. Sorcha could not remove the stain of bastardy with a pen and a prayer any more than she could put the earl’s ring on her finger.” He laid his cane against the table and took Bridgewater by the wrist. “Open your hand.”

Bridgewater unclasped his fist, and MacIver said, “Your blood spilt in fire or battle. That is how you become a MacIver.”

The old man raised his blade, its edge sharpened to a gleam.

The door opened, and Panna gasped. “What are you doing?” she cried.

“Panna,” Bridgewater said, “you have not been formally introduced. This is Hector MacIver. My grandfather.”