A Borrowed Scot (2 page)

Chapter 2

N
ight draped over London as if to silence the noise, a mother’s protective blanket over the child of the city. London didn’t sleep. Instead, the night was always punctuated by the rhythmic clicking of carriage wheels as they traveled over cobbles laid down hundreds of years ago.

Even in this quiet and sedate square, lights flickered beyond the draperies, indicating that sleep wouldn’t visit some inhabitants that night. In the distance was the sound of laughter: a raised voice from a neighboring house, a faint far-off protest, whether male or female, he couldn’t tell.

Here, nature didn’t quiet to rest; night wasn’t surrendered to nocturnal creatures like in Virginia. Or perhaps the cycle of life was present in London as well, except the owls, ferrets, and foxes had been replaced by their human counterparts.

London was not a civilized place, unless civilization meant stuffing all the flaws and frailties of humanity into a few square miles. Amid the impressive architecture and culture of a revered society, a man could purchase an assortment of sordid and carnal acts.

Montgomery glanced over at the woman slumped on the seat opposite him. For the spectators, she’d been an entertainment, nothing more.

She’d been like a dazed and confused child when he’d dressed her in the robe he’d removed. The material had draped over her hips to puddle on the floor.

She was more victim than woman to him at that moment. Her hair was tangled in the cowl of the robe, but he didn’t reach out to free it. Ever since depositing her on the seat of his carriage, he’d carefully avoided touching her.

He’d given the order for his coachman to drive some distance away in case the members of the Society of the Mercaii thought to follow him. He doubted they would since he’d proven he was rash and improvident. A man who possessed those traits, as well as a gun, was someone to avoid at all costs.

The woman’s eyes were closed, her face unearthly pale. If he hadn’t seen her breathe, he would have thought her dead.

What the hell was he going to do with her now?

V
eronica woke with two thoughts. The first was that she was vaguely uncomfortable, sitting up in bed in an awkward position, and her nightgown was scratchy. The second thought was she was cold. She grabbed for the blanket only to find it missing.

Blinking open her eyes, she stared at two men. She was in a carriage, and strangers were staring back at her. One was evidently a gentleman from his attire. The other, holding his cap between his hands, was fidgeting and obviously uncomfortable.

She blinked several times, but the strangers didn’t disappear.

This wasn’t a dream.

She glanced down at herself to find herself attired in an ugly brown robe, and beneath it, she was naked.

What had happened?

For the first time in her life, she’d no clear recollection of the past hours. Only snatches of images that flew into her mind like pernicious birds.

The man whose blue eyes seemed to bore through her had been at the Society of the Mercaii. He’d rescued her.

His hair was thick and black. His face was strong, his cheekbones pronounced, his chin squared and rather pugnacious. His nose fit his face, proud and Roman. His eyebrows and lashes were thick, shielding eyes as blue as the cushions of the carriage. Lines radiated outward from the corners of his eyes, leading her to wonder if he’d spent most of his time outdoors. Or had pain caused them? Twin vertical lines bracketed his full mouth. She suspected they masked dimples that appeared when he smiled. If the man opposite her ever smiled.

“Sir, can I go now?”

She turned her attention to the man with the cap.

“No, Peter. You’re our chaperone.”

“Chaperone?” she asked. That one word was amazingly difficult to say. Her tongue felt furry and her mouth too dry.

Her rescuer frowned at her. “If you think I have any intention of being found in a compromising position, you’re mistaken.”

She licked her lips. “I doubt society would think it proper for two men to keep me company,” she said, sitting upright. “Now, if you had thought to procure a woman as a companion, that would be another story.”

The man opposite her looked disgruntled.

“You’re a Scot,” he said.

“You’re an American although I’ve never heard an American who speaks like you,” she said. She laid her head back against the seat but found it didn’t help the burgeoning headache. “Your words sound stretched out and coated with honey. How very odd.”

“I’m from Virginia.”

“Virginia?”

“You don’t roll your R’s when you say Virginia.”

He was correcting her pronunciation? She might have had a rejoinder for him if she hadn’t felt so peculiar.

“Go ahead, Peter,” he said to the man at his side.

As the coachman left the carriage, the chill of the spring night slapped against her face like a wet cloth. She blinked rapidly, inhaling deeply. The pure cold summoned her back to herself as if, for the last hour or so, she’d been floating somewhere not quite attached to her body.

She’d never been the type for hysterics. However, as she looked down at herself and plucked the robe with two numb fingers, she was close to panic.

How on earth was she to get home? Where was her dress? Her shift? The rest of her clothes?

“I have a robe on,” she said.

“I put it on you.”

She didn’t even want to
think
about that.

“If you’ll give me your address,” he said, “I’ll see you home.”

Panic clawed its way up her throat.

She raised the shade with her fingertip, just enough to see the milky whiteness of fog. Nothing but damp, clinging fog.

“Where are we?” she asked. “What time is it?”

Folding her arms over her chest didn’t make her feel more clothed, especially when she suspected that this man, the stranger opposite her, had seen her naked.

Once she was alone in her bedroom, she’d allow herself to feel the burn of shame. Till then, she simply had to remain as calm as possible. She must extricate herself from this deplorable situation.

“Past midnight, and in the square outside my house,” he said. “I thought it expeditious to leave the Society as soon as possible.” He hesitated for a moment. “Do you remember any of it?”

Some, but she wasn’t about to admit it to him. Another thing to contemplate once she was inside her room.

“I don’t feel well,” she said, a salty taste bathing the back of her throat. She closed her eyes, fighting against becoming sick.

“Did anyone make you eat or drink anything tonight?”

She opened her eyes. “I had a cup of something warm when I arrived. It tasted like grapes, but it wasn’t wine.”

“It was probably drugged.”

She’d been a fool to take it, but she’d been so grateful to the Mercaii for allowing her to attend that she hadn’t wanted to be rude.

“How long have we been here?” she asked.

“A little over an hour.”

He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her coldly. “I’ve been waiting for you to surface from whatever they gave you.”

“I shall not trouble you any further,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

He leaned forward and put his hand over hers.

“I’m not about to let you leave after I’ve rescued you from harm. Where do you live?”

“I didn’t ask you to rescue me,” she said, pulling her hand free.

“No doubt you would have preferred to be raped in front of thirty men,” he said, his voice deceptively mild.

She glanced at him, horrified by his comment. Was that what they’d planned for her?

“Thank you,” she said faintly, feeling nauseous. “Thank you for rescuing me, but you needn’t do more.”

“Where do you live?” he asked, his tone bordering on exasperation.

“I beg you, please do not escort me home. If you do, I’ll be found out, and the punishment will be severe.”

“You’re afraid you’ll be dismissed.”

Thank heavens, he thought she was a servant.

“Shouldn’t you have thought of that before you went to the Society?”

She pulled the robe even closer, gathering the folds in front of her, as if doubling the robe would offer further protection for her nakedness.

“Do you think they’ll say anything?” she asked faintly.

“I’ve no doubt your tale will be bandied about in certain quarters. Whether it comes to the attention of your employers, I can’t say.” He hesitated for a moment. “What would make you go to such a place?”

That was a question she wasn’t going to answer.

“Why were you there?” she asked.

“A bit of stupidity on my part,” he said, glancing toward the bag at his side. “I’d thought to learn about the origins of an object.”

Curious, she leaned forward, her fingers brushing against the cloth. A tingling began in her fingertips, traveling up her arm. She jerked back her hand, looking up at him.

“What is it?”

“A mirror,” he said.

She leaned forward again, daring herself to touch the bag. When she did, and the vibration didn’t recur, she wondered if she’d imagined it.

He didn’t say anything when she picked up the bag. Surprised at the heaviness of it, she sat back and balanced it on her knees. Slowly, she loosened the string at the neck of the bag, then removed the mirror.

Three indentations on the handle were a perfect resting place for her curved fingers. How many hands had held the mirror over the years? Age had mellowed the gold and softened the trailing roses pattern incised on the handle as well as the writing on the back. The most surprising thing about the mirror was the row of diamonds around its circular face.

Still, for all its adornment, it couldn’t be called pretty. She turned it over to see that the glass had turned brown with age.

“Why would you take this to the Society?” she asked.

“Damned if I know,” he said, glancing at her. “Someone I know thinks it’s magic, that it shows the future.” His look revealed what he thought of that.

“I’ve heard of people seeing the future by staring at a bowl of water,” she said. “Never a mirror.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen anything,” he said.

She glanced down at the glass again. As she stared, the brown color faded. In its place was her face, smiling. She was surrounded by people, and although she couldn’t see their faces clearly, she knew they were smiling, too. The mirror, held in both her hands, trembled as if was alive. In the reflection, her eyes were soft with love, her smile curving and tender. The feeling of happiness was so deep and pervasive, she felt her heart swell with joy.

She was herself, yet she was not. The woman who faced her in the mirror was different. Was it age, experience? In that moment, she wanted to be the woman she saw more than the person she was.

Abruptly, he held out his hand, and she had no choice but to surrender the mirror to him reluctantly. Once he’d replaced the mirror in the bag, he glanced at her again. A look of speculation lingered there. Or was it compassion?

Dear God, and she didn’t think it untoward to petition the Almighty for assistance in this regard, please don’t let anyone who knew Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Lilly discover anything about this night.

Uncle Bertrand was set upon advantageous marriages for his daughters, and a future for his sons, none of which would be accomplished if a relative was known to be scandalous. And what could be more scandalous than what had happened tonight?

Surely, the members of the Society would not comment on tonight’s actions. To do so would be to admit they were present. Would it matter to any of them? A man was judged by a different set of criteria from a woman, and often exempt from censure.

She, on the other hand, would be seen as shocking.

Attending a meeting of the Society of the Mercaii had seemed worth the risk. They might have been able to answer her questions. But they weren’t the learned scholars she’d heard but simply a gathering of men interested in other pursuits entirely.

Either her thoughts were making her sick, or whatever they’d given her to drink was affecting her stomach. Her headache was getting worse as well.

She glanced at the opposite seat, wishing she could look into her reflection again. Had she really been happy? Had she been surrounded by people who loved her? Was that a vision of her true future, then, and not the abysmal one she imagined?

Or had the drug made her delirious, too?

“Give me your address,” the stranger said.

“You mustn’t take me home. If you do, someone will see.”

“I didn’t want to rescue you,” he said. “Since I did, I’ll see it to its conclusion. You won’t walk home alone.”

Something sounded in his voice, some emotion that summoned her curiosity. For a moment, she pushed it away. Curiosity had been at the root of this disaster. Despite herself, she glanced at him. His returning gaze was shuttered, flat, as if he felt nothing.

People were never without emotions.

She closed her eyes, sent her Gift reaching toward the man opposite her. She stilled, clearing her mind, and immediately felt something. He was impatient and irritated; but beneath both emotions, surging like the tide, she felt his anguish, so sharp it felt like a knife slicing through her.

In that moment, she almost asked why he was so troubled, halted only by the memory of Uncle Bertrand’s words. How many times had he lectured her?

“Veronica, you must not tell people everything you feel. They’ll label you a candidate for Bedlam. I have my position to maintain, and it will do me no good to have my niece rumored to be daft.”

“I’m not daft, Uncle Bertrand,” she’d said. “I cannot help what I feel about people.”

“Your mother encouraged you too much, girl. There is no such thing as your Gift.”

What had she said in response? Something about not wishing to hear anything bad about her parents. Or had she simply remained silent, knowing any rebellion, however small, was simply not worth the effort?

No doubt she was fortunate not to be locked up in a third-floor attic somewhere, or relegated to an out-of-the-way place, labeled the slightly odd woman who felt the emotions of others.