Her hips moved in lazy circles as she strolled away. Gervase enjoyed the show, wondering if she could duplicate that motion in bed, then tossed back half the whiskey. This would be the last one, he decided, or he would be in no condition to avail himself of his purchase later.
* * *
The barmaid poured ale behind the bar, a satisfied expression on her face. Betsy MacLean, a cousin and the inn's kitchen maid, recognized the look. "Made an arrangement with the Sassenach lord, Maggie?"
Maggie MacLean smiled with satisfaction. "Aye, I'll be visiting him later. Handsome devil, isn't he? And generous."
Betsy looked across the room at the Englishman. He was a good-looking lad, no denying, lean with broad shoulders and a spare, muscular frame that looked incapable of fully relaxing. His lordship was in his early twenties, dressed with a simple, expensive elegance seldom seen in this remote corner of Britain. Though his features were regular, to her they were set too sternly to be considered handsome. His face gave nothing away, and in this crowd of drinkers he looked cool and distant.
"I dunno, Maggie, I seen him earlier close up and those gray eyes of his gave me a cold grue. You can have 'im. I like that man of his better."
"Have you been busy in that direction, Betsy?" Maggie asked, her eyes still fixed on her conquest.
"Aye. We're meeting later. He may not pay as much, but at least when he looks at me I feel warm, not cold."
Maggie snorted. "His handsome lordship's just a man, isn't he? I know what he wants, and he'll have to please me to get it."
"Suit yourself." Betsy shrugged and returned to the kitchen.
* * *
Gervase finished his whiskey, then decided to go out for fresh air. His head spun dizzily when he stood. He had stopped none too soon; another two drinks and he'd have been under the table.
The rain had ended, but even in mid-May there was a cold damp bite in the night air, and he shivered as he stepped outside. Ambling the hundred yards to the water's edge, he listened to the soft slap of waves on the narrow shingle beach. Behind him the sounds of revelry gradually faded as the locals headed back to their stark stone cottages.
His present mood of not unpleasant melancholy was a great improvement on the taut anger that had driven him away from his father in Edinburgh. In retrospect, Gervase realized that he should have delayed informing Lord St. Aubyn that the viscount's only son and heir had bought a commission in the army and was about to leave for India. By speaking up too soon, he had earned three weeks of constant hectoring as he and his father toured the far-flung St. Aubyn estates. The viscount allowed that the army was all right for expendable younger sons, but was no place for the heir to the enormous St. Aubyn wealth and responsibilities.
Since Gervase had inherited enough money from his mother to do as he pleased, Lord St. Aubyn had no leverage to change his mind. The two men were joined only by blood and duty; affection played no part on either side. It would have been pleasant if the older man had expressed a more personal interest in his son's continued existence, but that question had never arisen.
Gervase leaned over to scoop up pebbles and almost lost his balance. Straightening, he swore softly as he resolved not to underestimate the power of the local whiskey again. The benefits of self-discipline had appealed to him from an early age and he disliked the loss of control induced by too much alcohol. Not that this remote corner of the Hebrides presented many threats, but he preferred keeping his weaknesses at bay.
How long had he been outside... perhaps three-quarters of an hour? It was late and the taproom was silent behind him. Time to return to his room; perhaps the buxom barmaid was waiting.
The inn was claustrophobic after the fresh night air, and he felt another wave of dizziness as he climbed the stairs and tried to find his way back to his room. Damn the whiskey! The stone building had been built at random over several centuries, and was a rabbit warren of haphazard corners and uneven floors. The landlord had left him an oil lamp in the entry hall, and odd shadows swayed as Gervase carried the lamp upstairs.
When the upper hall split, he had to stop and think which direction to take. His tour of Scotland had encompassed other rambling inns much like this one, and they ran together in his mind. After a moment's thought he turned right, fumbling the iron key into the lock when he reached the room at the end of the hall. Either the crudeness of the hardware or his own jug-bitten state made the lock difficult, and the key required considerable jiggling before the door would open.
Any worry that the whiskey had inhibited his ability to function disappeared at the sight of the rounded form waiting in the bed. With a surge of anticipation, Gervase set the lamp on the small bedside table and quickly stripped off his outer clothes. The barmaid was dozing when he slipped under the blanket. She wore only a thin lawn shift, and as he ran his hand down her body, Gervase was dimly aware that the girl seemed less voluptuous than he had expected. But she was also cleaner, and her fresh female scent increased his arousal.
The reasoning part of his mind was almost totally disabled by lust and whiskey, and he hoped she would waken quickly since he was in a hurry. Surely the down payment he'd given the doxy entitled him to her conscious participation; she'd seemed warm and willing enough downstairs. This first time wouldn't last long, but there was a whole night before them and he would rather she didn't lie there like a poleaxed steer.
As he pulled the shift above her waist, he was glad to see her eyes opening. He leaned over for a kiss, and her soft lips parted easily under his, though her reaction was drowsy and without expertise. As his hand slid between her thighs, the slight body stiffened under him and began moving, inflaming him to the point where he no longer thought at all. He began kissing his way down her neck, and as he did, she twisted violently and screamed.
Her first cry was a breathless gasp, but she gained her wind and let loose with a high-pitched, mindless shriek so close to his ear that he thought the drum would shatter. Cursing himself for not taking the time to waken her properly, Gervase lifted his head and said soothingly, "Relax, sweetheart, it's just me. Quiet down before you wake everyone in the inn."
He tried to kiss her again as the one guaranteed way of quieting her, but the girl twisted her head away for another scream. He realized that the body under his was thin, not at all like the ripely curving barmaid.
He was just beginning to recognize that something was horribly wrong when the door burst open and a harsh, angry voice filled the room. "Ye filthy, rutting beasts!"
Gervase whipped sideways away from the girl, turning to face the intruder. The entrance to the room was blocked by a tall rawboned man dressed all in black.
As Gervase stared in shock, the whiskey slowing his reflexes, the innkeeper and his plump wife appeared in the hallway behind the intruder, both of them wearing hastily donned robes and appalled expressions.
The black-clad man's hoarse breathing filled the room. In one hand he held a candle and in the other was a cocked pistol. The weapon alone would have commanded caution, but what transfixed Gervase was the man's eyes. The whites were visible all around the dark irises and the gaunt middle-aged face shone with the unhealthy glow of a furious fanatic.
For an endless moment the mad eyes raked the scene, finding some obscure satisfaction in it. Beside Gervase, the girl's screams subsided to gulping sobs as she gripped the blankets tight around her, her dark hair obscuring her face.
"So ye succumbed to her whorish lures. She's been my punishment, Mary has." The man in black stalked toward the bed, his Scottish accent adding rolling power to his denunciation. "My name is Hamilton and I'm an anointed minister of the Lord. I've done my best to keep my daughter pure, but even my prayers can't save a female who was damned before she was born. I've seen how she looks at men, how they sniff around her. She's a bitch in heat, sent to tempt men to their doom. God knows I've tried to save her from her own vile nature, but no more. Now she's yours."
The voice dropped to a harsh whisper and the dark figur
e repeated, "Aye, she's yours," with vicious satisfaction. He stopped by the bed, looming so near that a hot spatter of candle wax scalded Gervase's chest. Oddly, Hamilton's clothing was that of a gentleman, in spite of the severe cut and color.
Gervase's mind was a jumble of sexual frustration and whiskey-sodden confusion. For the last ten years nightmares had haunted him, and he briefly wondered if this was another. But the self-proclaimed cleric prodded him with the pistol, and the steel barrel was too cold and hard to be a dream.
"Oh, yes, she's yours, my pretty lord." The words were almost caressing. Then he exploded, "You whoreson aristocrat! You couldn't control your lust and now she's yours for life, in all her corruption." The vicar was so close that Gervase could see spittle on his lips as he gloated. "You deserve each other, you do, and I'll be free to live a godly life again."
Fear began to clear Gervase's mind, closely followed by fury. "For God's sake, man, I don't know how this female got into my bed, but it was none of my doing. Your little trollop is as intact as when I found her. If she's your daughter, get her the hell out of here."
The man's eyes shone and the cocked pistol stayed centered on Gervase's heart. "Oh, no, you whoreson," he said, his voice harsh and uncanny. "You'll marry her. She may have the soul of a slut, but in the eyes of the world she's an innocent."
The madman paused to draw a breath, then continued with heavy sarcasm, "Even gentlemen such as you are not permitted to despoil gently bred girls. It's no' my fault you succumbed to her sly, insinuating ways. You'll marry her and you'll do it now, this very hour. And then I'll be free of her."
The words snapped the scene into nightmare focus and Gervase realized two inescapable facts. First, Hamilton was quite insane, a fanatic obsessed by sex and sin. And secondly, with the cunning of his madness, he had very cleverly trapped the Englishman in a compromising situation.
Gervase cursed himself for his stupidity. The only worldly caution his father had ever given was to beware of entrapment: rich young men with more lust than sense were vulnerable to the schemes of those who wanted to share their wealth. It was one reason Gervase limited his roving to round-heeled females like the barmaid. Wellborn girls were dangerous.
The barmaid must have cooperated in the plot. She had been very bold with her lures. Once he took the bait, she had only to step aside, doubtless for more money than she would have received for a routine carnal transaction. Since he expected his bed to be occupied, he hadn't thrown this other girl out when he'd found her. Something similar had happened once at a country house, but he'd been sober, not expecting company, and had gotten rid of the bitch before her mother could "happen" upon them.
Gervase glanced across the bed at the girl whose screams had triggered the trap. She was playing the role of outraged virgin to the hilt, her face invisible behind a dark tangle of hair from which artistic little sobs still emerged. Her father had surely planned the whole business, and the sight of the man's obscene pleasure in his handiwork destroyed the last shreds of Gervase's control. Damning the consequences, he leaned forward to grab the pistol with both hands and twist it from Hamilton's grasp.
The vicar was caught off-guard and Gervase was able to wrench the pistol away. The trigger was spring-operated and the weapon fired, jerking violently under Gervase's hands and sending the ball into the bed by his side. If the angle had been slightly different, half his chest would have been blown away.
Continuing his forward velocity, Gervase rolled off the bed and onto his feet, glad that he hadn't removed his drawers. He was at enough of a disadvantage without being stark naked as well. The pistol was an expensive weapon, elegant and deadly, the sort carried by a gentleman in London's meaner streets. An odd choice for a Hebridean madman. Gervase hurled it across the bedchamber to a corner where it would threaten no more.
Hamilton had lost none of his self-possession, even disarmed and with his victim upright and able to look him in the eye. In his harsh, panting voice he said, "Ye'll not get away from me that easily. You've compromised my daughter and there are witnesses to prove it. She's yours."
Gervase would have given half his inheritance to have a clear head. Glancing at the landlord in the doorway, he said tightly, "For God's sake, get this madman away from me. I don't know what kind of rig he's running, but I'll have none of it."
Hamilton said with mad cheer, "Aye, Hayes, come in. You and your wife can be witnesses to the marriage."
The landlord and his wife had been out in the hall, but they stepped in now, their faces stiff and wretched over the disaster befalling their inn. More figures hovered back in the passage, prudently keeping their distance.
Gervase drew a deep breath, then said in his most aristocratic voice, "We can talk about this in the morning. I can't marry the girl in the middle of the night."
"Oh, no, my pretty lad, it will be now." The wild eyes were implacable, and carried a mesmerizing air of conviction. Money may have been the motive behind this charade, but the cleric had convinced himself of the virtue of his cause. Perhaps he thought persecuting the ungodly was his duty, or that this was a profitable way to dispose of a daughter he clearly despised.
"If it's money you want for the injury to your darling daughter's nerves, I'll pay it," Gervase snapped. Much as he loathed being compelled, giving in to blackmail might be the better part of wisdom.
"Keep your filthy money." Hamilton sneered. "Nothing less than your name will redeem your wickedness." The gaunt face grimaced with vicious satisfaction. "Ye couldn't marry her so soon in England, where the established church is just another name for the Whore of Rome, but this is Scotland. No banns, no archbishop's license required. These God-fearing people know me, and they'll stand witness. They know how hard I've tried to keep her pure. They know it's not my fault I've failed."
The nightmare was worsening. The ease of getting married in Scotland had made Gretna Green, the southernmost corner of the country, the destination of eloping couples for years. By ancient tradition, a man and woman could wed with a simple declaration in the presence of witnesses, so a ceremony performed by a legitimate clergyman would surely be valid.
But beyond the legal questions was a devastating realization that tightened the sick knot in Gervase's stomach. A clergyman was by definition a gentleman, and the nubile daughters of the upper classes were sacrosanct. No matter that it was entrapment, Gervase had been caught in bed with the girl, and by the code of his class, there could be only one honorable solution.
In the struggle between confusion, fury, and his own inflexible sense of duty, duty won.
The details of the ceremony were never clear in Gervase's mind. Holding a candle, Hamilton recited the words of the marriage rite from memory, pausing only long enough to ascertain the groom's name before beginning. The bride stayed in the bed, held fast by modesty or hysteria, while Gervase stood a dozen feet away, taut and bare-chested, his back to the wall.
Mary Hamilton mumbled the responses in a halting, almost inaudible voice. The landlord and his wife shifted uneasily in the background, wanting the sordid business done and forgotten before it ruined the good name of their house.
After the ceremony Hamilton produced pen, ink, and wedding lines so speedily that it confirmed Gervase's furious conviction that he had been entrapped, a rich pigeon for the plucking. As he withdrew, the vicar's eyes glittered with triumph. "I wish you joy of the slut, Brandelin." He licked his lips with his pointed tongue; then, with a last satisfied chuckle, he was gone.
Before the door closed, Gervase snapped to Hayes, "Get my man up and tell him to prepare the horses and baggage. We're leaving within the hour."
The landlord stared as if the order confirmed that Gervase was the madman, but nodded obediently before he scuttled away. Then the door closed and Gervase was alone with his bride.
With angry deliberation he turned the key in the lock, as he should have done when he first came in. If he'd had enough sense to do that before ripping his pantaloons off, perhaps this whole bloody-
minded farce could have been avoided. The only light was from the lamp he had brought up earlier, the guttering flame testifying that it was almost out of oil.
He stood over his bride and studied her with coldblooded contempt. The nondescript figure was turned away, the blanket pulled armor-tight against him. Grabbing her shoulder, he pulled the girl around to face him, exposing a pinched face swollen and blotched with tears. Hardly surprising that her father had married her off the way he had; no one else would ever want her. Only a man as obsessed with sex and sin as Hamilton could imagine that this unappealing waif would attract men's admiration.
Gervase had been played for a fool, and this little bitch had been a party to it or she wouldn't have been in his room. How many other beds had she slithered into during her career in extortion? How many times had she screamed with outraged virtue? Her act was well-polished, and her father's was downright inspired.
Gervase was doubtless the richest prey to come their way, so he had been awarded the dubious honor of marrying her. Unless this scene had been played identically, before, and little Mary Hamilton was a bigamist?
The line between anger and passion can be very thin. As he gazed at the girl, Gervase's fury rekindled the appetite that had been suppressed during the bizarre wedding. The whiskey he'd drunk blurred any inconsistencies in his logic while it hardened his desire. He said harshly, "Well, Mary Hamilton, you wanted a rich husband and you've got one. Unless you're a bigamist, someday you'll be the Viscountess St. Aubyn. Was it worth this sordid little game? Or were you just doing your father's bidding?"
The dark eyes watched him warily from behind the veiled hair but she said nothing. Her silence infuriated him as much as anything else this ghastly night, and Gervase ripped the blanket away, exposing the thin, shift-clad body. She gasped and reached vainly for the bedclothes, and he grabbed her wrist, feeling his wife's sparrow-delicate bones under his fingers.
It was hard to believe that a girl so young could behave with such duplicity, but she made no attempt to deny the charges, and the flickering light revealed a smirk behind her tangled hair. Her smugness fanned his outrage and contempt, and in a soft menacing voice he said, "Oh, no, my lady, it's too late to play the innocent. You've gotten what you wanted, and a good deal more. You already know how to be a whore. Now I'll show you what it means to be a wife."