One Night With the Laird (6 page)

“Everyone thinks you are his fancy piece now,” Frazer said sourly. “And that I am some sort of pander who delivers Mr. Rutherford’s women for him as and when he wishes. The landlord congratulated me on such a profitable job. He promised his discretion.”

“Oh dear,” Mairi said. She knew she should feel exasperated, but she could not help her lips twitching. It was so obvious that Frazer was more annoyed to have been mistaken for a procurer than he was for the damage to her reputation. As the carriage rolled out onto the road to Achallader, Mairi reflected wryly that Jack’s had been a clever revenge. She had turned him down, but despite that he had given everyone the impression she was his mistress.

* * *

J
ACK
REINED
IN
his horse when he reached the summit of the track above Bridge of Orchy. The view was spectacular: the great sweep of the mountains painted in green and gold, the glint of sunlight on the water below. There was an ache in his chest, a knot of nostalgia. He had not traveled this way in years. He was not really sure why he had ridden up here today when the road to Methven should have taken him along the wide glen below.

Nothing he had seen in Canada or beyond could surpass the peerless beauty of this land. He had turned his back on Scotland over ten years before, but eventually it had called him back. When Robert had returned to take up his title and estates, Jack had thought of staying on. Unlike his cousin he had no particular reason to return to his ancestral land, but in the end he had sold his business at vast profit and taken ship for home.

Below him on the road to Achallader he could see something that resembled a royal progress, a line of four traveling carriages rumbling along in convoy. Lady Mairi MacLeod was on the move. His mouth twitched into a smile. She was making such a grand statement of wealth and status with the carriages and the servants, the endless baggage train. He wondered how she had felt when she had discovered that he had paid her shot at the inn. Damned annoyed, he would imagine. She did not appear to have much of a sense of humor, and for that reason alone it had felt irresistible to provoke her.

He wondered suddenly if Mairi ever rode out as he was doing this morning, free of all the trappings of luxury, alone with nothing but the wide sky overhead. He doubted it. She was hedged about by so much protocol and protection. She had probably forgotten what it was like to be alone. But perhaps she was wise. She was fabulously wealthy and it was not so many years since rich widows in these parts had been kidnapped and forced into marriage.

Marriage, he suspected, was not on Mairi MacLeod’s agenda, and why should it be when she had everything she could desire and the freedom to take lovers as she pleased? He did not particularly resent her refusal of him the previous night. They were playing the game; she knew the rules as well as he did, and it would not be long before she succumbed. She desired him, and waiting only made the anticipation sharper and sweeter.

He frowned a little, remembering the bitter tone in Mairi’s voice the previous night when she had dismissed him as a rake. Rakes made the best lovers if not the best husbands, but perhaps that was where her antipathy arose. He had never met Archie MacLeod and had heard nothing but praise for the man, but perhaps there was something he did not know. Perhaps MacLeod, extraordinary as it seemed, had kept a harem of mistresses stashed across Edinburgh.

The carriages disappeared from sight, and the dust settled on the road. It was early morning and the air was cold and fresh. Silence enclosed Jack, pierced only by the song of a skylark as it rose higher and higher into the blue arc of the sky. The isolation was almost eerie, poised on the edge of loneliness. Jack urged the horse to a walk and headed on down the track into the next glen.

As the road wound downhill he passed a scattering of white-washed crofts at the side of the track. They were empty, the walls starting to crumble, ruined chimney stacks pointing to the sky. A little farther there was a tiny kirk, foursquare and gray, with its bell still hanging from the tower.

Jack paused. Memory was pressing close now. He could almost feel the ghosts at his heels. This had been one of his father’s livings though the Reverend Samuel Rutherford had not been a particularly devoted minister of the church. As the son of a baron, he thought it was his right to collect rich livings as he might silver or porcelain. They were an adornment to his status, but he had little interest in the congregations for whom he had a responsibility. Jack’s mouth twisted wryly. He had often thought that his obsession with work was a direct rebellion against his father’s deplorable laziness.

He tied the horse to the railings around the old churchyard and walked slowly up the path. This was where his parents were buried. His father had built a grand manor a quarter mile down the road, a house that Jack had taken great pleasure in abandoning to wrack and ruin. When he had returned from Canada and was looking for an estate of his own, Black Mount was the very last place he would have considered.

The dew was still fresh on the grass, though the sun was hot and would dry it soon. Jack paused by the graves of his parents. There was a ludicrously ornate mausoleum for his father, which was completely out of place in the stark simplicity of this country churchyard. His mother’s stone was less elaborate: “Beloved wife of Samuel Rutherford...” Those words, Jack thought, hardly did justice to the all-consuming love that his parents had felt for each other.

He felt chilled all of a sudden, though there was no cloud covering the sun. His parents’ love for each other had been exclusive, violent and in the end utterly destructive. When he was a child, it had been something he had not remotely understood. As an adult, he could see how dangerous love had proved to be for them.

He went down on his knees in the grass. Here, overgrown with strands of dog rose and bramble, pink and white, was a simple stone engraved with the name Averil Rutherford and the dates 1791–1803. He brushed the undergrowth aside. Suddenly his hands were shaking.

The harsh call of a black grouse made him jump. A shadow had fallen across the path. Looking up, he saw a man in black cassock and white collar, his father’s successor, perhaps, in this remote spot.

“Can I help you?” the man said, but Jack shook his head. Suddenly he was keen to be gone.

“No,” he said. “Thank you.”

He felt the man’s eyes on him all the way down the path, but he did not look back. He unhitched the reins and threw himself up into the saddle without bothering to lead the horse over to the mounting block, and kicked the stallion to a gallop. He knew he could not outrun the memories.

And he knew that no one could help him.

CHAPTER SIX

M
AIRI
STAYED
THE
second night of her journey with Lord and Lady Gowrie at Lochgowrie Castle near Kinlochleven. It was nice to be in a private house rather than an inn, to eat well, to have good company, hot water and a bed the size of Dunbartonshire. As she took a bath before dinner to wash away the aches and pains of the journey, she reflected that she was in all probability spoiled. Wealth and privilege tended to do that to a person even when that person was as aware as she that the privilege came with a very high price.

Maria Gowrie was a friend of hers and fellow member of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society. They dined quietly together, just the three of them, for Maria said rather plaintively that their neighbors, the Duke and Duchess of Dent, had refused their invitation since they too had a guest.

“The cousin of the Marquis of Methven,” Maria said. “Jack Rutherford. I did ask him if he would like to join our party here, but he is so in demand. He already had three invitations.”

Mairi rolled her eyes. Even here it seemed impossible to escape Jack. If he was not actually present, then people were still talking about him.

“I asked the Dents if they would all care to join us for dinner, but Anne Dent wishes to keep Mr. Rutherford for herself,” Maria continued.

“Probably has him in mind as her next lover,” her husband grunted, signaling to the footman to serve more beef. “I hear Dent isn’t up to much these days.”

“I hear Jack Rutherford is the best lover in all Scotland,” Maria said.

“I hear he’s a fine fly fisherman and a first-rate shot,” her spouse countered.

“And I hear far too much about him,” Mairi said. She felt irritated. It seemed that people could not get enough of Jack, whereas she had already had far too much of him.

“May we speak of something else?” she said. “Do you anticipate good sport on your salmon rivers this summer?”

The conversation turned from fishing to the series of scientific lectures that were taking place in Edinburgh later in the year and from there to a variety of other topics, but much to Mairi’s annoyance when she retired to the cavernous bedroom, taking a Highland terrier with her for warmth, she found she could not sleep. The dog’s snores rose to the ceiling, but Mairi lay wakeful, thinking of Jack Rutherford. It was not that she wanted to think about him. In fact, it annoyed her immensely that she could not seem to stop thinking about him. And when she finally fell asleep, it was to dream about Jack too and all the vivid, heated detail of the night they had spent together. In her dreams the loneliness she felt was banished and she was loved. It was intense and overwhelming and wonderful, but then she woke and realized that she was alone and the sense of isolation almost crushed her. She hugged the dog tightly. It was hardly the same, but its warmth was comforting.

She felt tired and heavy-eyed at breakfast, and not even the sparkle of the sun on Loch Leven and the softness of the Highland air could lift her spirits. It seemed as though she felt every jolt and jerk of the carriage that day. She pressed straight on at Fort William and finally stopped for the night at the Cluanie Inn long after the sun had dropped behind the mountains and the thick blue shadows of dusk were gathering over the glen. The inn was quiet; from behind the parlor door came the low murmur of voices and the clink of glasses, but Mairi was too tired to wish for anything but supper in her chamber and the comfort of a well-sprung bed.

“Mr. Rutherford is staying here tonight,” Jessie said, bringing in a steaming ewer of hot water. “Only fancy the coincidence!”

Mairi groaned aloud. In truth, it was not much of a coincidence. There was only one route to Methven, and there were not many inns along the way, but it irritated her that Jack was making the same journey at the same time she was.

“As long as he does not think to share my parlor tonight,” she said.

“The landlord says he dines with the lord lieutenant and some military gentleman,” Jessie announced importantly as though she had made it her life’s work to study Jack’s social diary.

While Jessie took one of her gowns to be pressed for the next day’s journey, Mairi slipped down the stairs to make sure that Frazer and the men were comfortably accommodated for the night. They had rooms over the stables, as the inn was small. The cobbled yard was quiet and the sweet scent of hay mixed with the more pungent smell of the dung. Only one of the boxes was open and a fine bay stallion poked his head inquisitively over the door as Mairi walked past, nudging at her for a stroke on the nose. He was very powerful—Mairi was a strong rider herself, but she was not sure she would be able to control him—and he was beautiful too with the rising moonlight gleaming on his coat and reflecting in his dark, intelligent eyes.

Mairi jumped as a man pushed open the tack room door and strolled out into the yard, whistling under his breath. It was Jack, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, a bucket in his hand. He had not seen her in the shadows; he moved across to the pump, put the bucket down on the cobbles and splashed the water over his head and neck. The droplets glittered in the darkness, the water running down the strong line of his throat to soak the linen of his shirt. He looked damp and disheveled and thoroughly delicious, and her throat dried to see him and her heart gave an errant thump. It was annoying, this effect he had on her, even if it was no more than a physical reaction. She could have done without it.

She must have made some movement because Jack turned quickly, his hand going to the knife that was stuck in his belt.

“Interesting reactions,” Mairi said, “for a man who lives in these peaceful times.”

Jack laughed, his teeth showing white in the darkness. “It’s always best to be prepared, Lady Mairi, peacetime or not. I beg your pardon if I startled you.”

“Not at all,” Mairi said. “I carry a knife too.”

“I remember,” Jack said. There was something in his voice that made Mairi wish she had not reminded him, something of their previous intimacy when she had given him her dirk and let him slice through her laces. She shivered to remember the raw desperation that had driven her then. She felt her cheeks warm and was glad that it was too dark for Jack to see. She did not want him making her blush as though she were a debutante.

“What are you doing here at Cluanie?” she said. “Are you following me?”

Jack’s smile mocked her. “There is only one road to Methven,” he said, “so forgive me for using it at the same time as Your Ladyship.”

He came over and leaned on the stable door, stroking the velvet nose of the stallion, speaking softly to him. His shoulder was turned to her and it felt as though he was pointedly excluding her.

“He’s a beautiful horse,” Mairi said. “Do you tend him yourself?” She was not sure why she was prolonging the conversation with him when it was clear he had no particular desire to speak with her. Perhaps it was the darkness that was hovering at the corners of her mind, so much blacker and more suffocating than the Highland night. It stalked her, this depression of spirits, waiting until she was alone and vulnerable, and just now she was afraid to be on her own in case it swarmed in to claim her.

“Unlike you, I do not travel with an army of servants,” Jack said dryly. He closed the stable door and started to roll down his sleeves. “I prefer it this way,” he said. “I have always worked for a living one way or another. I would be lost with nothing to do.”

“Your implication being that I live a life of idle luxury,” Mairi said. The criticism stung her. He had no notion how hard she worked.

Jack gave a half shrug. “If you like.”

“I don’t.” Mairi said. She felt a flash of temper that he should judge her so carelessly. “You have no idea what I do with my time.”

Jack straightened up, propping his broad shoulders against the doorjamb, and looked at her unsmilingly.

“I know that you seduce men at masked balls,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” Mairi said. Her anger burned a little brighter. It felt good, warming, making her feel alive. “You know only your own experience of me,” she said. “You have no idea how I behave with other people. You are basing your judgment on a sample of one.”

This time Jack smiled, and dipped his head, conceding the hit. “You
are
a bluestocking,” he said. “Are we going to have a philosophical discussion about probability? About the likelihood that I was not the first?”

Their eyes met, locked. “I don’t think so,” Mairi said. “I prefer not to explain myself to anyone.”

“No,” Jack said. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You simply prefer to control everyone.”

Mairi felt startled. She realized it was true. She also realized that no one had put it into words before. It was odd that Jack Rutherford, who knew her so little, could apparently read her so easily—odd, and disconcerting.

“I have been on my own a long time,” she found herself explaining after all. “It breeds independence.”

“Four years since your husband died,” Jack said.

A lot longer than that....

The words seemed to hang between them even though she had not spoken.

“Do you miss him?” Jack sounded abrupt.

“Of course.” She had to be careful. There was danger here. Everyone thought that she was the archetypal merry widow who hid her grief beneath a mask of gaiety. They thought her brave and stoical, her flirtations a distraction from the grief of loss. And to a large extent that was true. Except that it was not a husband that she grieved for.

“He was my best friend,” she said.

She felt Jack shift beside her. “An interesting choice of words,” he said. “Not your soul mate, or—” He sounded mocking. “Your love?”

The word lacerated her with its irony.

“We were childhood friends turned—”

“Lovers?”

“Husband and wife,” she corrected.

And even that was a lie
.

She could sense Jack looking at her through the gathering darkness.

“No passion, then.” He was quick, too quick. She felt vulnerable, unmasked already. “I see.”

He waited for her to contradict him, to issue some conventional denial, but the words were locked in her throat and she could not force out the lie. She stared at him whilst the shadows gathered more deeply about them. He put out a hand and touched her sleeve quite gently, but suddenly it felt as though the slight contact scalded her. She felt it again then, the lightning flash of attraction and the awareness that was exciting and terrifying at the same time. She trembled.

No, there had been no passion between her and Archie, but now, here with Jack, she was shaking with the force of it.

She started to walk across the cobbled courtyard, heading for the inn door. If she could only make it into the light, where there was noise and people, she would be safe from this dangerous temptation. But Jack kept pace with her effortlessly, within touching distance. She only had to reach out and she knew she would be in his arms, and she wanted to kiss him, she wanted
him,
with a hunger that was even fiercer than before.

“I hear you stayed with the Dents last night,” she said. Her voice sounded thin even in her own ears. She was trying to think of anything to distract herself now from the urge to kiss him. She felt dizzy. Her head buzzed. She had never known physical attraction and certainly had not realized that it could feel as though she had drunk too much too quickly.

“You seem very interested in my movements,” Jack said, “for someone who claims to want nothing to do with me.” He sounded amused, assured. He was making no effort to touch her and yet she felt like prey. She shivered and quickened her pace.

“I heard that
you
stayed with the Gowries,” Jack said.

So he had been asking about her too. Mairi felt a quick flicker of pleasure even though she knew she should not. If it was as easy as this for Jack to seduce her again, she should be ashamed.

“Dinner was good,” she said. “You missed some fine salmon. But I understand you were too busy to join us. So many people competing for the pleasure of your company.”

Jack grinned. “It’s a constant problem for me.”

“I’m sure,” Mairi said tartly. She was starting to feel a little steadier, and the inn door was only twenty feet away now.

“Don’t you find the same?” Jack asked. “When you are rich beyond the dreams of avarice, Lady Mairi, the world wants to be your friend.”

“No,” Mairi said. “I don’t find that. But then I am not as cynical as you are, Mr. Rutherford. Or perhaps I just have nicer friends. We tend to attract the friends that we deserve.”

Jack laughed. “Touché,” he said. “Where do you find yours? Do you pick them up at masked balls, as well?”

Mairi just managed to repress a gasp. “Very seldom,” she said. “That usually ends badly.”

“Do you think so?” Jack said. “I thought it ended rather well.”

“It ended,” Mairi said. “That is the point.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jack said softly. “Your continued interest in me rather argues the reverse.”

Mairi smiled. “Unfortunately my interest in you will always be a pale imitation of your fascination with yourself. You don’t really need any other admirers, do you, Mr. Rutherford?”

She reached for the handle of the door and stepped inside. Instantly light, warmth and sound enveloped her. She felt ridiculously relieved as though she had escaped some sort of danger. Foolish. She had probably imagined it all, the flare of attraction, the leap of desire and that troubling but exciting undercurrent of antagonism, as though he had not quite forgiven her for deceiving him.

“Please don’t pay my shot here like you did at Inverbeg,” she said. “And preferably spare me the pleasure of your company again until we reach Methven.”

She saw Jack smile. He shut the door very quietly behind them.

“You are trying to take control again,” he said. He looked at her, his gaze thoughtful. “I don’t take orders.”

Without warning he stepped closer to her, narrowing the gap between their bodies to nothing. In the small flagged hallway, there was nowhere to go. Mairi could not breathe for the smell of his skin, the mingled scent of sweat and fresh air and leather. It went straight to her head again like champagne, and like champagne it also made her knees feel weak and her toes curl in her shoes.