Читать книгу: «One Night with the Highlander»

Chapter One

“Bad news, my lady?”

Startled from the perusal of her letter, Annabelle, Lady Merton, realized from the post office clerk’s avid expression that she had revealed her shock. Folding the note she should have known better than to open in public, she forced a pleasant smile. “Not at all.”

Bad did not begin to describe the news. Disastrous came closer. The bank, deeming the case against her dead husband’s family hopeless, had refused to extend her further credit, and the lawyer was politely asking how she intended to settle his fees.

She couldn’t. Her stomach fell away in a sickening rush. She was destitute except for a few remaining jewels. She’d be lucky if their sale kept her and Mother for as much as a month. What on earth would she do now? A cold hand clutched at her heart. There was nothing she could do. Except marry. Something she had hoped to avoid. Keeping her smile cool, she tucked the letter in her reticule and turned to leave.

The shop doorbell tinkled merrily. A broad-shouldered man wearing a greatcoat boasting several fashionable capes strode in with a decisive air.

Her heart lurched. An odd kind of tumble she’d experienced only once in her life. Joyful recognition. A sweetly painful sensation that stole her breath.

Gordon McLaughlin of Carrick. The last person she had expected to see in the sleepy village of Barton Sidley, even if it was but a few miles from the Scottish border. He’d been a well-looking young man at twenty. At closer to thirty, he was spectacularly handsome. He’d grown into his large nose and dark heavy brows. Broadened out to stand monument-square on long athletic legs encased in dazzlingly shiny black Hessians. With eyes the bright piercing blue of a clear winter sky.

Her heart clenched and her body hummed with sensual appreciation. As it had when they had first met. Before she fully understood those sensations. And it seemed the sparks were still there, hot and ready to be reignited.

Shaken by this second shock following on the heels of the first, she lowered her face beneath her wide-brimmed bonnet and edged around his large form. Fresh air and daylight lay not three yards away. Two yards. A few feet and she would be outside on the pavement. Yet even as she made to scuttle past, she sensed his attention. A searing intensity arcing across the space between them.

“Annabelle?” The soft Highland burr sounding out the syllables of her name was just as she remembered. A recollection so sharp it could have been yesterday. She had met him only once, at the local assembly. Against all propriety, she had slipped away from her mother to meet him outside in the courtyard. Her lips tingled at the memory of his gentle kiss. The scent of his spicy cologne. The feel of his strong arms holding her close. Heat stung her cheeks as she remembered how she’d reveled in his stolen kiss that night. How wicked she’d felt at deceiving her mother. And how very womanly, in his embrace. So foolish. So young and heedless. A youthful romantic adventure that had come to nothing.

“I mean Mrs. Jenkins?” he said, correcting himself, bringing her mind back to the present.

Bracing herself, she looked up, squaring her shoulders against whatever emotion she might see in his face, whether it be derision, disdain or simply coldness. A false smile curved her lips, a tight little grimace, even as her gaze roved his face. “Lady Merton now, Mr. McLaughlin.”

The only expression she read was surprise. She almost sagged with relief. Though why she would care about his good opinion she didn’t know.

His bow was of exactly the right depth and elegance to recognize her superior rank. “Lady Merton. I was unaware you had married again. Please, accept my sympathy for your earlier loss.”

She clenched her hands tighter around the strings of her reticule. At any moment he would recall hearing her name. He would recollect what he knew of the infamous Lady Merton. And she would see revulsion instead of warmth.

“My first husband died many years ago,” she said calmly enough. She dipped a curtsy, intending to hurry on, like a coward. To avoid the embarrassment of small talk. Of trying to pretend they were friends.

He shifted. A small move, but it effectively blocked the path to freedom, to cool fresh breezes that would drive the heat from her face.

“I had not heard you were in the neighborhood,” he said. “Are you visiting your family?”

If forcing herself on her mother could be called visiting. And based on the news Annabelle had just received, she would be less welcome than she’d expected.

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I am visiting.”

He looked a little nonplussed.

Good manners required she say more. “I called in for the mail on my way to see my mother.” She offered a tentative smile. “And you? Are you visiting Mrs. Blackstone and her niece?” she asked, recalling it was because of Mrs. Blackstone’s niece, Lady Jenna, he had come to Barton Sidley that first time. He’d brought the girl, too. An elfin, sad-faced child he had escorted to her aunt after her father died. A curiously independent little creature who must be twenty by now.

He frowned. “Mrs. Blackstone passed away a few days ago. I am charged to bring Lady Jenna back to Carrick Castle.”

A feeling of disappointment hollowed Annabelle’s chest. What? Had she thought he might have returned on her account? After all this time? That really was being foolish. “I’m so sorry. Poor Lady Jenna, she must be devastated by the loss of her last family member.”

“Her aunt had been ill for some time. Quite frankly, I do not think she should have been left to manage here alone.”

Annabelle hesitated, trembling inside with fear of rejection. Cowardice, when she had resolved never to let what people thought beat her down. “May Mother and I call on Lady Jenna? To offer condolence? If she is receiving, that is?”

He looked pleased. “I am sure she would be delighted.”

Then he must not have heard the gossip. Yet. Her heart lifted.

“I am just returned from America,” he said, filling the growing silence.

The smile on her lips seemed to have a life of its own. She was probably grinning like one demented. “America? Were you there long?”

He gave a short laugh. “For more than five years. Looking after my father’s business interests.”

America. So faraway. It sounded wonderful. “But now you are back.”

His face sobered. “For a while.”

Other questions hovered on her tongue. Married? Children? Happy? Patience, she cautioned herself. These were all things she would learn on the morrow. “Mother and I will come in the afternoon. If you would be so good as to let Lady Jenna know.”

He bowed. “She will look forward to it. Feel free to bring Lord Merton, if he accompanies you.”

The mention of her husband brought the evils of her situation back in a rush. “Lord Merton passed away earlier this year,” she said, keeping her voice emotionless. “Good day, Mr. McLaughlin. I look forward to seeing you and Lady Jenna tomorrow.”

No amateur in the ways of the world herself, she took a small step toward the door, forcing him to stand aside and bow his farewell. “Until tomorrow, Lady Merton.”

She did not miss the spark of interest in his eyes.

Was she wrong about him? Had he heard, and decided to try his luck? But surely he would not knowingly expose his precious cousin to a woman with her reputation? Edinburgh’s wanton Black Widow.

* * *

Gordon could not help but watch the sway of her skirts at her quick firm step as she departed the shop. Or the proud tilt of her head on her slender neck. She’d been lovely as a girl of eighteen, with dove-gray eyes and hair the color of amber. A spirited girl. All laughter and passion. As a woman she had new depth. A new reserve. And secrets. But the passion between them remained. Held in check. Controlled. But there nonetheless, as it had been the first and only time they met. Like last time, he had only to look at her to want her.

And she was a widow.

Available. His body tightened in anticipation. Attractive widows were fertile hunting grounds for a man who wanted the satisfaction of mutual pleasure without ties. More than one of his liaisons had thrown their caps at him over the years, but he’d never had the wherewithal to support a wife, let alone a family, in the way he thought he should. Finally he’d saved enough money to leave his father’s business and strike out on his own.

Gordon thrust his inconvenient lust to the background. “Do you have a package for me?” he asked the hunched, balding clerk behind the counter. “Gordon McLaughlin.”

“Yes, sir. Arrived on the mail.” He reached beneath the counter and produced a bulky package. “From London.” He eyed it with interest.

As he would. In this quiet backwater in the north of England, the death of one of its prominent citizens and the subsequent arrangements would be of interest to all. But this package had no relevance in the death of Jenna’s aunt. Mrs. Blackstone had been her brother-in-law’s pensioner. This package was Gordon’s own personal business. His father had demanded he see Lady Jenna back to Carrick Castle the moment he stepped off his ship from Boston. Impatient at the delay, Gordon had sent word to his man of business to forward the contract to him here.

Once he signed the papers he would be the owner of his first merchant ship. He hefted the parcel in his hand and wandered out into the street, surprised when he caught himself glancing up and down, seeking sight of the lush figure of Lady Merton, like some randy youth.

But lust didn’t completely cover the things he had felt on seeing Annabelle, though there was no mistaking its presence. There was also a sense of words unspoken. Promises not kept. Even a sense of loss.

He was imagining things. Had to be. All he felt was unrequited lust. Not something he couldn’t control. Yet he found himself looking forward to meeting her again on the morrow.

Blackstone Manor lay about half a mile from the village. It was a fine day for a walk along a country lane. The scrub-covered foothills of the Cheviots, while not as rugged, reminded him of the hills around his home in Scotland. He felt a twinge of regret. With his plans set in motion he was likely to see as little of them in the future as he had these past few years. His father would likely be less than pleased with his decision. It was not an interview he looked forward to with pleasure.

Unlike seeing Lady Merton again. The passage of years had certainly added to her feminine appeal. His palms tingled yet with the desire to explore her lush curves. And if the flush on her creamy skin and the answering warmth in her gaze spoke true, she, too, had felt the pull of desire.

And she’d been widowed twice. He stopped, staring unseeing at a flock of sheep in the field on the other side of a stone wall. Two husbands. Envy for those unknown men twisted sharply in his gut. It would be another five years of hard work before he could think of supporting a wife.

Inside he froze, shocked that he was even thinking about the idea. He wasn’t. He was thinking about how he would break the news of his departure to his father. He’d let thoughts of a pretty woman distract him from an unpleasant duty. And now there was no time left for contemplation.

Nestled at the edge of a forest that marched up the hill behind it, Blackstone Manor was typical of the stone houses hereabouts. A pony and trap tied to the fence indicated Jenna had a visitor. There had been several visits of condolence since he arrived two days ago. Groaning inwardly at the thought of another round of stiff conversation, he passed through the gate in the fence surrounding the neat little garden, and entered the front door.

The housekeeper took his hat. “Lady Jenna asked me to tell you that Mrs. Tracey is sitting with her in the front parlor.” She jerked her head toward the closed door. “There is a cup laid for you.”

From that he gathered he was to rescue Jenna from the vicar’s wife. He glanced regretfully down at his package. He would far rather go through the papers and make sure all was in order, but he could hardly leave Jenna in the lurch. He strolled into a room with closed drapes and black crepe adorning the pictures. Only one candle had been lit. Poor Jenna. She felt bad enough about losing her aunt without being forced to be reminded of it in such a gloomy way.

And he was glad he had decided to join them when he heard the relief in Jenna’s voice as she made the introductions and he made his bows.

He sat down and Jenna handed him a cup of tea. “How very kind of you to call on Lady Jenna in this sad time,” Gordon said with a smile.

“I am not one to be found lacking in my duty, Mr. McLaughlin. Lady Jenna tells me she is to return to her cousin at Carrick Castle.”

“Yes,” he said calmly, trying not to show annoyance at the woman’s obvious prying. “My mother anxiously awaits her arrival. Since my sister married last year, she has been lacking female company.”

Jenna gave him a smile, her heart-shaped face lighting up with pleasure. “I look forward to seeing her, too.”

“I met Lady Merton in the village,” he said, by way of filling an awkward pause in the conversation. “You knew her as Annabelle Dawson, Jenna. She plans to call tomorrow.”

Mrs. Tracey’s lips thinned in disapproval. “You surely will not entertain that...that woman here, Lady Jenna.”

Jenna bristled at the admonition in the woman’s tone. Gordon did a bit of bristling of his own. He held his temper and replied before Jenna’s quick tongue doused them both in hot water. “Lady Merton is the daughter of your husband’s predecessor,” he said mildly. “Is there a problem?”

The woman’s eyes gleamed. She glanced over her shoulder as if she expected the subject of their discussion to appear from nowhere, then leaned forward. “Both of her husbands died under very mysterious circumstances. In Edinburgh they call her the Black Widow.”

Gordon’s jaw dropped.

Mrs Tracey nodded, clearly satisfied by his reaction. “The first one died of a supposed fever, but now there is talk that it might have been something in his food or drink. And the night Merton died, there were unexplained comings and goings, according to neighbors. My brother, a magistrate in Edinburgh, says it was a havey-cavey business, indeed. He is sure Lady Merton knows more than she admits, and so do her servants.”

Their visitor sat back with a jerky nod. “And her no better than she should be, by all accounts. Not the sort of woman you should be admitting to the house, Lady Jenna.”