Chapter Ten

Louisa resisted calling the captain a bad name and climbed inside the coach. Why did he have to insist on coming along for the wedding? He’d done his job, fulfilled his obligation. Now it was time for him to go back to Scotland and report to her father. She could imagine how that would go. Captain Sinclair standing at attention in front of the general, glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done, and fully expecting his hard-earned commission.

Delivered the goods just as you asked, sir. A few minor incidents at sea. Nothing out of the ordinary. Chased by a hurricane and shot by a pirate. Nothing I couldnae handle. What’s that you ask? Any problems with the Daughter from Hell? None at all, sir. Quiet as a mouse, she was. Stayed in her cabin like a good girl the entire time. It was her companion that was the real problem. A blasted actress. Wore trousers and carried pistols with her. Nearly got me killed.

And then her da would know. The Tartan Terror would fly into a rage. If he didn’t kill Captain Sinclair on the spot, he’d put him in irons. At the very least, he’d dismiss him, disgrace him, leave him dishonored and disbarred from the army forever.

Oh God, what have I done?

“Are you feeling unwell, Miss MacQuarie?” Mr. Kirby asked. He and Captain Sinclair were seated facing Mairi, Reverend Wynterbottom, and Louisa in the sumptuously appointed carriage. The interior was lined with velvet and trimmed in polished brass. Even more impressive, the seats were upholstered with plush leather squabs.

“I fear she has the land sickness,” Captain Sinclair said. “Odd because she didnae have the sea sickness at all. I ken the lady was made for the sea.”

Louisa wanted to smack the smirk off the captain’s face. How could he be such a beast after she’d chased away his migraine and nursed his wound for weeks?

Mr. Kirby leaned a concerned face Mairi’s way. “Was it a difficult journey for you, Miss Robertson?”

Mairi batted her bloody eyelashes. “Och, dinnae fash yourself, Mr. Kirby. I didnae have any trouble with the seasickness. I come—came to like the sea just fine.”

Mr. Kirby glowed. “Charming.” He turned to the captain. “Isn’t she charming?”

“Oh, aye,” Captain Sinclair said, sounding bored. He leaned an elbow on the open window and pretended interest in the scenery. Impossible man.

“I don’t know if your brother Nathan told you, but I’m English. Well, my mother was a Scot, but I was raised in the Lake Country near Penrith.”

“Beautiful country. I know it well,” the reverend said.

“Do you know it, Miss Robertson?” Mr. Kirby asked. Mairi stared blankly, and he gushed an apology. “No, of course, you wouldn’t. I’m sorry for babbling. I’m just so…happy.”

She sent him a dazzling smile, the one that never failed to slay any man she targeted. “As am I, Mr. Kirby.” She held him in her blue-eyed gaze. Even the big bounce the carriage took when it hit a particularly deep rut didn’t shake the man loose from his trance.

Captain Sinclair lifted his chin from his fist to examine Mr. Kirby, then darted a look Louisa’s way. He was probably thinking the same thing as she: Poor Mr. Kirby is done for.

“How much longer?” Louisa asked.

Mr. Kirby came to and answered, “Oh, em, not much longer. Another mile, I’d say. I hope you like the house. We call it Quaker Hill. It’s in desperate need of a woman’s touch.”

“I’m interested to see your foundry,” Louisa put in, if only to change the subject. It worked, too, because Mr. Kirby and Captain Sinclair launched into an involved conversation about furnaces, Fahrenheits, ingots, and iron. She turned her attention to Mairi. “You look very happy,” she said and squeezed her hand. “Is he all that you hoped for?”

“Aye. And more. So much more.”

Even though her grand idea had become something not so grand, at least she’d done one thing right. Mairi was happy—blissfully happy—and so was Mr. Kirby. Once Louisa began her acting career, she’d be happy, too. If only there was a way to make things right for Captain Sinclair. He was the only person to suffer from her deceit.

That wasn’t exactly true. When she’d hatched this idea, changing identities with Mairi and running away to be an actress, she had hoped that her father and her brothers would regret their cruelty. If she was perfectly honest with herself, she’d hoped they would suffer from guilt for sending her away.

She’d imagined a scene, a sort of tableau, with her father weeping and her brothers at his side, hats in hand and heads bowed low, all three grieving for the loss of their beloved sister. Years later, she would arrive in Edinburgh as a celebrated actress, and her fathers and brothers would come to her beautiful hotel suite, kneel before her, and beg for forgiveness. She would, of course, forgive them because she was a kind-hearted person.

She now knew those scenarios to be pure fantasy. Nothing like that would ever happen. Rather quite the opposite and much worse. Her father would shake his head in disgust and shout something like, “I expected nothing more from my Daughter from Hell.” Her brothers would laugh and celebrate having seen the last of their ridiculous sister. She’d never be welcomed home. And Captain Sinclair. Oh God. How perfectly horrible for him. Would people laugh? Would he be ruined? Would he give up hope and—

“Miss MacQuarie. Lass!”

“What?”

Captain Sinclair narrowed his eyes at her as if assessing her health. “We’ve arrived.”

Good heavens. The reverend, Mairi, and Mr. Kirby had exited the carriage and she hadn’t even noticed.

“What’s wrong, lass?”

“Nothing at all.”

He slid out of the door and reached a hand back in to help her out. There was a mud puddle at the base of the step and Captain Sinclair lifted her by the waist and set her down on dry land. “My God, have you lead in your pockets?”

She felt her cheeks color.

“Bloody hell, woman. Are you carrying your pistols?”

“You can never be too careful.”

He rolled his eyes. He rolled his bloody eyes at her. And to think, a moment ago she had felt sorry for the bastard. Well, not anymore.

“Give them to me,” he said, holding a hand out.

“I will not. They’re mine.”

The carriage had stopped in front of the stable. The others were already halfway to the house, a three-story brick house. Not palatial by any means, but a hundred times grander than Mairi could have hoped for had she remained in Edinburgh and married the coal man.

“Give them to me before you shoot off your foot.”

The driver was staring at them, waiting for them to clear the carriage.

“You’re making a scene,” she hissed. The captain didn’t move, just stared at her dull eyed. Damn. “Fine.” She retrieved the weapon from her skirt pocket and handed it to him.

“Now the other one.”

Bollocks. She pulled the second pistol from her other pocket. “I want these returned to me when I leave for New York. They were a gift from my gran.”

“Damn it, woman. These are loaded.”

“Well, they’re not much good to me empty, are they?”

He tucked them in his coat pockets.

“I would also like our travel documents back, please.”

“I gave them to Mr. Kirby after the harbormaster checked them.”

“Why?”

“For safekeeping.”

“We are not children. We are grown women—”

The driver interrupted. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“No. No problem,” the captain called out. “Just sorting out a few details.”

…

Ian had reached the end of his tether with the bloody woman. Actually, he’d thought he’d reached the end several times before, but each time his tether seemed to lengthen another yard or two. But really, this had to be the end.

He turned her about and ushered her toward the house. Mustering his last scrap of patience, he said, “You’re exhausted from traveling. You’d best find your room and have a lie down.”

She marched ahead of him at an angry pace. “The only thing that has me exhausted is an irritating captain named Sinclair.”

“The only thing that has me irritated is the Daughter from Hell’s infernal companion.”

She froze in place for a moment before her head slowly turned on her slender neck a near 180 degrees, as if she were possessed. Even more terrifying was the look on her face. Just like a gorgon. Ian thought he might turn to stone. He couldn’t believe it, but he actually heard himself say, “Oops.”

She opened her mouth to fire some insult his way. He was spared by Miss Robertson.

“Come on, you two. Mr. Kirby’s going to give us a tour.”

Kirby hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said the house was in need of a woman’s touch. It had no touches at all. They stood inside the hallway, walls plastered, but void of any paintings, sconces, or embellishments. It was a good-sized entry, though nothing like Balforss House with its grand two-story hall and central staircase that was roomy enough to hold parties and family gatherings.

A sturdy woman about his own mother’s age stood at the foot of the stairs wearing an apron and a pleasant smile.

“Everyone, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Foley.”

Mrs. Foley said, “Welcome to Quaker Hill. Or should I say, welcome to America.”

“This is Miss Robertson’s companion, Miss MacQuarie, Reverend Wynterbottom, and Captain Sinclair,” Kirby said, and then, in a honeyed tone, “and this is my fiancée, Miss Robertson.”

Miss Robertson curtsied, which was slightly odd. Looking confused and probably not knowing what else to do, Mrs. Foley curtsied in return.

Kirby picked up the lost thread. “Em, Mrs. Foley and her husband, Mr. Foley—my driver, you met him—they pretty much run the place. Since it’s just me, she does all the cooking.”

“Will you no’ be overburdened with all the house guests, Mrs. Foley?” Miss Robertson asked.

“Not at all. My two nieces have come to help out,” Mrs. Foley reassured her.

“I’m giving everyone a tour of the place,” Kirby said.

“Of course. I’ll have tea ready in an hour.” Mrs. Foley added, “I hope you like fish cakes. They’re Mr. Kirby’s favorite.”

At the mention of food, Ian’s stomach made a loud sound.

Miss MacQuarie looked at him as if he’d done it on purpose, then said, “Sounds delightful, Mrs. Foley.”

Kirby led them into what he called a “cozy little parlor.” The echo of their footsteps bounced around the room. No carpet, no paintings, and no draperies. The only thing cozy about the room was that it was smallish. On the positive side, there were several comfortable-looking overstuffed chairs, a secretary, a settee, and a card table with four ladder-backs. The ceilings were high, too, and the two tall windows allowed in plenty of afternoon light.

Kirby waited anxiously while Miss Robertson strolled around the room. At last she turned to him radiating delight, and said, “It’s absolutely perfect.”

Mr. Kirby exhaled as if the judge had just announced, “No, Mr. Kirby, you will not hang today.”

“I’ll buy whatever things you need to appoint the room as you see fit, of course.”

Too bad for Mr. Kirby, Ian thought. The poor besotted fool was headed for financial ruin.

“All it really needs is drapes,” Miss Robertson said. “If you’ll help me choose the fabric, I can make those.”

Ian made a quick reassessment of Kirby’s fate. Maybe the fellow was a lucky besotted fool.

Jealousy slid its long knife into his chest much the way he’d seen his cousin Magnus sink a fourteen-inch dirk under a pirate’s armpit straight into his heart. Instant death. Only jealousy didn’t kill a man. It just made him stupid. And Ian felt himself growing stupider by the minute.

“Shall we go look at the dining room, now?” Kirby asked.

“You all go on ahead without me,” Miss MacQuarie announced. “I think I’ll sit here and rest until tea.”

“Sounds like a good idea. I’ll join you,” Ian said. “Dinnae let us hold you up. Miss MacQuarie and I have things to discuss.”

They stood silently as Kirby, Miss Robertson, and the reverend’s voices trailed away into other parts of the house. The fire had gone out of Miss MacQuarie’s eyes. He was sad to see it go. He rather liked her temper. She was beautiful when she was angry. She was beautiful when she was happy, too. The only time she wasn’t beautiful was when she was unhappy. Which was, of course, a lie. She was always beautiful. He was just bothered today because he suspected he was the cause of her unhappiness and he’d rather be the reason for her joy.

“Why are you here?” she asked. A simple question. Why was it so hard for him to answer her?

Tell her the truth, ye bampot. Tell her you’re here because you couldnae bear to let her go. Tell her you wish you could take her home with you.

But he couldn’t tell her that because then he would have to tell her that his carefully planned future had exploded into a million bits before they’d left Edinburgh, that he had a son, a six-year-old son he hadn’t known existed until six weeks ago.

“I want you,” he said. The words had spilled out before he’d had time to calculate the risk in saying them.

“You want me to what?”

He shook his head and took a step closer. “You dinnae understand. I want you. I want to have you. Do ye ken what I mean, lass?”

It was plain Miss MacQuarie understood exactly what he meant. As plain as the blush on her cheeks and the perfect O on her lips. He’d never had such a pretty pink reception to one of his blatant advances. Unable to stop himself, he took advantage of her momentary silence and kissed the O from her lips. She kissed him back with a startling ferocity that made him rock hard. If she didn’t take her wicked hands out from under his waistcoat immediately he was going to ruck up her skirts and have her against the—Jee-sus.

He pulled away and Miss MacQuarie teetered on her pins until she opened her eyes and stomped her foot. “You infuriating man. Why do you always stop?”

Ian sputtered. “It’s, it’s, it’s the middle of the day and we’re in a strange house.” He gestured toward the door. “It’s unlocked. Anyone could—” Bloody hell. A second ago he was in control.

She pointed that deceptively delicate finger at him. “You-know-what-I-mean.” She punctuated each word with a jab to his chest. That made him angry.

He managed to keep from shouting, but his voice shook from the effort of holding back his rage. “I stopped because you fire a passion in me that I cannae control and I willnae take you like some animal.” He paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. “When I have you, it will be in a bed, naked, and with full control of my body and my mind. I would have your first time—”

She tried to make a protest and he held up a hand to stop her.

“No matter what you say, I know that privilege will be mine and I value it. Maybe more than you do.” The look on her face softened, encouraging him to continue. “But I will make your first time one you will never forget.” He sank his fingers into her hair. “One by which you will measure every man after me.” He kissed her cheek and whispered, “And find them all lacking.” He kissed her mouth until she leaned against his body and groaned.

“Ahem.”

They startled and stepped away from each other. Ian turned toward the back of the room, aware that he was in a shockingly aroused state. Miss MacQuarie, brave lass, faced the intruder at the door.

“Will. Good. You’ve arrived safely. No Indians, I trust.”

Ian sidled discreetly behind one of the wing-backed chairs. “Well done, lad.”

“I brung Miss Robertson’s trunk to the green room, and put Miss MacQuarie’s trunk in the red room. Then I brung your bag to the blue room, sir.”

“Where are you sleeping?”

“Mr. Foley says I can stay in their garret, but if you want me to sleep on your floor—”

“No-no. I want you to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Foley. I’m sure you’ll be of use to them with all the wedding arrangements.”

Will smiled broadly. “I never been to a wedding afore, sir.”

He took in Will’s shabby coat and trousers, aware they were probably the best he had. “We’ll need to visit the tailor tomorrow and get measured for new clobber. Captain and his mate need to make a good show for Miss Robertson, aye.”

“Aye, sir.”

Mrs. Foley appeared at the parlor door. “Tea is ready in the dining room.” She turned to Will. “And you, Master Will, I’ve got a slice of cherry pie that needs eating. Come with me.” She put a hand on Will’s head of hair and steered him out of the room. One afternoon in the back of a dray and the lad was already filthy again. Ian hoped she’d make him bathe before he took him to town for new clothes.

Two sets of heels clicked in the corridor and before anyone else could interrupt them, Ian whispered, “Expect me at your bedchamber door tonight.”

She gazed at him with such…God…was it appreciation or anticipation? Whatever she was experiencing, he wanted to taste it, drink it, drown in it. Tonight. He could last for another six or seven hours, couldn’t he? Shite. Which was the red room? Better get up there and sort it out now before all the doors were shut.

“I’ll be back in a trice.”

…

Louisa could barely breathe. Captain Sinclair had dashed out of the room leaving her dazed and, if truth be told, excited by his proposal.

Expect me at your bedchamber door tonight.

Tonight. It would happen tonight. Once everyone in the house was asleep, Captain Sinclair would come to her room, and she would give herself to him. After which, she would be perfectly and irreversibly ruined. As every professional actress should be.

“Are you coming, Miss MacQuarie?” Mairi called from just outside the parlor door.

“Yes, of course.” She hustled to Mairi’s side, and together they walked casually toward the dining room.

“Where’s the captain?” Mairi asked.

“He went above stairs. He’ll be right back.” Louisa gave Mairi’s arm a gentle squeeze and whispered, “I take it you are happy with your soon-to-be husband.”

“Oh, I am. It’s a bloody miracle. And do you know what?” Mairi gazed ahead at some imaginary horizon, her eyes unfocused, her enraptured expression like those in paintings of ecstatic saints. “Mr. Kirby said I was more beautiful than he had ever imagined and that the day we marry will be the best day of his life. He’s so romantic.”

Captain Sinclair hadn’t wasted any romantic words on Louisa. He’d simply said, “I want you,” and she had agreed to welcome him into her bed. No mind. Louisa didn’t need flowery words. She wasn’t marrying Captain Sinclair. They weren’t silly romantics. They were practical people. They understood each other. A lasting relationship between them was out of the question. In fact, in a couple months, he wouldn’t even like her. He would despise her for destroying his life. Perhaps, if she made tonight good for him, he might not hate her so very much. He’d promise to make tonight unforgettable for her. She must do him the same favor.

Mrs. Foley laid out a lovely tea—fish cakes, hot buns, and two kinds of cheeses—but Louisa had little appetite. Captain Sinclair had taken the seat opposite. Every time she glanced up from her plate, he was looking at her like he was a cat and she was his dinner. Come to think of it, the captain did have rather catlike eyes. Steel gray when he was angry and China blue when he was…well, whenever he was in whatever state he was in now.

“Sour pickle?”

She sat up straight. “I beg your pardon.” Mr. Kirby held out a relish tray. “Oh yes, of course.” She accepted the dish, skewered one green spear for her plate and handed it to Captain Sinclair. He accepted it with that wicked smile again, as though he could see right through her clothing.

Louisa had seen him naked—most of him, at least—and he was wonderfully made. Men would say he was “well set.” Women would say he was beautiful. He must have worked many hours without his shirt because the sun had burnished the skin on his muscular chest and broad back to an appealing golden brown. She’d seen his arms and legs, too. Long and sculpted. He moved with grace for one so large. Even his fingers were elegantly formed. But it was his big bony feet she’d fallen in love with. Powerful enough to hold his towering frame erect, and yet so vulnerable looking when naked. She’d had a fleeting glimpse of his privates, but not a good enough keek to truly understand what they were about. Tonight, though, she’d not only get to see them, she’d touch them, his todger and his…

“Figs,” Mrs. Foley said, placing a serving dish in front of Mr. Kirby.

“Ah, what a wonderful treat, stewed figs,” he exclaimed.

“You’ll want to feed up on those with your wedding so near, Mr. Kirby,” Reverend Wynterbottom said. “I have it on good authority, figs are an excellent aphrodisiac.”

The men chuckled at the reverend’s uncharacteristically bawdy remark.

Mr. Kirby, who had turned red in the face, said, “Very well then. I’ll take two.” To which Mairi replied, “And I’ll have three.” Everyone had a rollicking good laugh at that.

When the dish of figs came the captain’s way, he spooned two on his plate and winked at Louisa. She bit her lower lip and spooned two on her plate, as well.

…

It had been the longest eight hours of his life. One hour over tea stealing glances at Miss MacQuarie with her cheeks freshly flushed from his announcement that he would deflower her tonight. Three hours touring Edward Kirby’s coach house, hay barn, dovecote, hot house, and garden—all, he had to admit, enviable. Another two hours over dinner, trying not to stare at the tops of Miss MacQuarie’s breasts, the way they plumped up and made an inviting crease, a perfect place to put his—

Jee-sus. When had he become a degenerate?

And these last two hours, sitting in a room the size of a closet, ruminating on what he was about to do. His bedchamber, if one could call it that, had space enough for three bits of furniture: a narrow bed not long enough for his body, a ladder-back chair on which he hung his coat, and a washstand with basin and ewer. Will must have referred to it as the blue room because the bed had a blue counterpane. He pushed open the window to let in a light breeze, tugged off his neckcloth, and leaned back on his pillow to wait for the sun to go down.

Was he doing the right thing taking a virgin to bed? He had rules about that sort of thing. Always stay the middle course. No extremes. No virgins. No trollops. Only the married or recently widowed variety of female where the terms of commitment—or lack thereof—went unspoken, yet were clear. And never more than two nights in a row with the same woman.

He would be breaking one of his cardinal rules by taking Miss MacQuarie to bed. He’d broken one of those rules before. He’d spent seven nights in a row with Alice Crawford and the result had been fatal for her—and life changing for him. Damn. Why would he think of her now, at a time like this?

Guilt, he supposed.

Guilt. Bloody frigging guilt. It had always hovered in the back of Ian’s mind when it came to sex. When he was in school, the vicar had told the boys they would go blind if they played with their peckers. He’d been so terrified that for months he wouldn’t touch it even to piss. Fortunately, his da had set him straight on that matter, saying that it was more likely he’d go blind from not playing with himself.

During his time in the army, when he had been far too promiscuous, he’d kept guilt at bay by creating his set of rules—no virgins, no whores, no more than two nights—as if that would make womanizing acceptable. At the time, he’d told himself he was a rake, but an honorable rake. He’d known it was utter bullshit, but his cock hadn’t cared.

If he was a good man, a decent man, a repentant man, he would observe Alice Crawford’s passing by denying himself any pleasures of the flesh for a year, at the very least. But he knew that was bullshit, too. No amount of abstinence would atone for Alice Crawford’s death.

He was done with guilt. He wanted Miss MacQuarie, and she wanted him. He would have her tonight, bury himself in her slick heat and not feel guilty about it. Not even for a second.

He sat up. The sun was down, and he hadn’t heard movement outside his door in quite some time. The women had retired first. Kirby had suggested a nightcap, and since the reverend was no longer drinking, he’d excused himself. Neither Ian nor Kirby had lingered over their brandy. They’d made a few tentative plans for the following day, said good night, and trudged up the stairs yawning and stretching and saying things like, “I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow,” and, “I’m dead on my feet,” and, “The house could fall down around me before I woke up.”

Right at this moment, Ian hadn’t been this alive and awake in years. He was about to bed a woman. Jee-sus. He’d promised Miss MacQuarie he’d be the best lover she’d ever have. In a matter of minutes, he’d have to make good on that boast. He hoped he remembered how to do it.

He crept to his door only two steps away. Everything in the room was only two steps away. The door opened with a squeal that set his teeth on edge. He poked his head out and peered up and down the hall. Dark as hell. He couldn’t see a damn thing. Fortunately, the hallway was carpeted.

When he’d done his reconnaissance this afternoon, he’d determined that Mr. Kirby’s room was on the far end of the hall on the other side of the staircase. The door to the red room was to the left of his, and Miss Robertson’s directly opposite Miss MacQuarie’s.

He left his door open rather than risk another deafening squeal, and slowly made his way down the hallway with his hand trailing the wall as a guide. When his fingers met the first doorjamb on the left, he leaned his ear against the cool wood. No sound. He rapped lightly and the door opened.

“Oh, Edward, I’ve been waiting.”

“Miss Robertson?” Why was Miss Robertson in Miss MacQuarie’s room?

Shite. Wrong room, ye dafty.

Ian tried to think of a plausible excuse for knocking on her door other than, “I thought this was Miss MacQuarie’s room,” when a door at the end of the hallway opened.

“Miss Robertson?” Mr. Kirby rasped.

“Actually, no,” Ian said in a voice slightly louder than Kirby’s.

The door behind him opened and Miss MacQuarie whispered, “Is that you, Ian?”

Ian felt as though he’d just stepped into some sort of farce. How had he made such a compromising blunder? And then the answer came to him. Bloody frigging hell. Will was color blind. “Sorry. I…em…got turned around.”

“As did I,” Kirby said, and quickly added, “I mean, I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d…um…um…”

“I couldnae sleep, either,” Ian said. “Another nightcap, perhaps?”

“Yes. Excellent idea. I’ll find a lamp.”

“Sorry for the disturbance, ladies. Please, go back to bed,” Ian said to the dark, and then two doors shut with a click. He was going to strangle wee Will.