Neil tied another bundle of thatch into place and stretched the muscles of his lower back. He had known how to thatch. He had learned the process while studying architecture under Christopher Wren, but his study had been all theory and no practice. Using thatch as a roofing material was illegal in London. It had been outlawed during the last part of Queen Elizabeth’s reign because the closeness of the buildings in London made the danger of fire sweeping through the city a constant threat. The thatch-roofed buildings that preceded the law were allowed to remain and to be re-thatched but it was against the law to put a thatched roof on a new construction. And the fear of fire sweeping through London had been completely justified. Sixty-odd years after Queen Elizabeth’s reign the Great Fire raged through the city and nearly destroyed it. Neil wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Straightening to his full height, he braced his body against the gusting wind and surveyed the half-finished roof with a sense of pride and accomplishment. He’d had no idea that thatching was so backbreakingly hard or that the view from the roof could be so satisfying. He looked down at the bailey below and caught sight of the MacInnes.
The wind swirled around her, lifting strands of her reddish brown hair free of its braid and plastering her skirts against her legs, silhouetting her body. Neil inhaled sharply and she looked up at the same moment, almost as if she’d heard him. Her gaze connected with his and Neil noticed that the silver chain she usually wore around her neck sparkled against her bottom lip as she held the key in her right hand and absent-mindedly ran it back and forth across her lips, occasionally flicking it with the tip of her tongue.
Neil felt the impact of that almost imperceptible gesture from fifteen feet away. His heart seemed to slam against his ribs and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, carefully straddling the ceiling beams to accommodate the sudden swelling in his groin.
He ached to touch her again. He wanted to feel her firm breasts in his hands and taste the texture of her smooth skin against his mouth and tongue. He wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her again and caress her and show her that their wedding night had been the exception to the rule, that he had a reputation for being an excellent lover and that he would be more than happy to live up to his boasts. If only she’d give him another chance …
“Major? Sir?”
Neil turned to find Stanhope had been trying to hand him another bundle of thatch to tie into place. He had no idea how long Stanhope had been waiting for him to cease his erotic musing over the MacInnes.
Stanhope grinned at him. “I’m obliged to you, sir, for helping me thatch the roof. I know you have better things to do with your time. But Magda and I are grateful to you and to your lady for giving us the cottage.”
“The MacInnes gave you the cottage,” Neil said. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“I know, sir, but you’re the one who volunteered to fix the roof. And well, Magda’s a loyal daughter, sir. She would never complain about living with her father, but she waited a long time to get married and she wanted a house of her own and well, being newlyweds and strangers to one another, we needed some privacy.”
Neil was amazed by the other man’s conviviality. He’d known Corporal Stanhope for months and until he’d been abducted by Clan MacInnes, he’d never heard Stanhope say more than a couple of words at the time. Now, it seemed nothing would shut him up. “You sound quite pleased with your new married status, Stanhope.”
“I am, sir. You can set your mind and your lady’s mind at ease on that account, sir. Magda and I suit each other very well. I imagine we can make a very good life here once I learn a trade other than soldiering.”
Neil finished tying the bundle of thatch into place and raked his fingers through his hair. “You intend to stay in Scotland?”
“I do, sir.” Stanhope said. “Once I’m out of the army. There’s nothing for me in London. I’ve no family or friends left and even if I did, Cheapside is no place for Magda to live.”
Neil lifted his eyebrow in surprise. How strange that he had married the laird of Clan MacInnes, without ever seriously considering the possibility of living in Scotland for the rest of his life. “What will you do?”
Corporal Stanhope shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what trade I’ll take up yet, but Magda’s used to fresh air and trees and heather and plenty of clean water for drinking and washing. She can’t get those things in London. Not on what I’d be able to earn. And she’d die without them.” He paused for a moment, then glanced over at his commanding officer. “I know you feel differently, sir. I know you hate Scotland and I know you want to return to London and build those grand mansions and cathedrals you’ve planned. And that’s all right for you. London is a good place to live if you’ve got money and a title. But I don’t have money. And as far as I’m concerned, any kind of life here is better than in London.”
Neil accepted another bundle of thatch from Stanhope. “The villages are too far apart for effective commerce, the soil’s too thin and rocky to cultivate, food is scarce, the roads practically nonexistent, the summers are too short and the winters are too harsh and the highland clans are too proud and prickly to tolerate King George’s rule.” He snorted. “Compared to London, Scotland’s a veritable paradise.”
“It is to me,” Stanhope said.
Neil shook his head. “I don’t understand how it could be.”
Corporal Stanhope shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it depends on what you want out of life. You want to leave your mark on the world by building grand cathedrals and squares, and roads and government monuments for all of London to see and admire. I just want to build a good life for my wife and family.”
Stanhope’s words echoed through Neil’s mind long after the conversation and the thatching of the cottage roof came to an end. Before he’d been abducted by the members of Clan MacInnes, before he’d married the Machines, he had known exactly what he wanted out of life. He’d lived for the day he could bid King George’s army and Scotland adieu. He had planned to return to London as swiftly as possible and resume his work with Christopher Wren. There were palaces to build and slums to clear away and the neat little houses he planned to construct. Houses for men like Stanhope who wanted more than shabby rooms in Cheapside. But his life and his plans for the future had been changed through the scheming and interference of his grandfather and a few old Scotsmen. He had married the MacInnes and sent for the bribes that he hoped would entice her back into his bed, but he hadn’t really thought beyond the presentation of his gifts and his immediate sexual gratification. Now, he owed it to himself and to the MacInnes to decide if he wanted more than just a marriage and a quick tumble. He had to decide if he wanted to share his life with her. Neil sneaked another glance at his bride—at the way she carried herself and of the way she led by example. He watched as she brushed back a wisp of hair with the back of her hand and left a smudge of dirt across her cheek, watched as she diligently concentrated on gathering and bundling an armload of heather for use as thatch. She was beautiful, he decided. And loyal and proud. He wanted London, but he wanted the MacInnes as well. The question facing him was whether or not he wanted her as much as he wanted his dream, whether he could give up his dreams or make her a part of them. And whether she wanted to share them.
Chapter Seventeen
London
By the time the distinctive coach bearing the blue and silver coat of arms of the marquess of Chisenden rolled to a stop in front of the elegant little townhouse on Bond Street, the employees of some of the most fashionable shops in London were already whispering tales of the marquess and marchioness’s extraordinary shopping spree. Although the owners of the shops had been handsomely paid for their discretion, it was impossible to keep quiet about the enormous amounts of cash and merchandise exchanging hands. Word had leaked out and the resident of the house on Bond Street had begun her own shopping spree.
The marchioness of Chisenden heard about it from two excited dressmakers and decided t
hat the time had come to pay her a visit. She exited the coach and walked to the front door unescorted, rang the bell and waited.
“I’m sorry,” the butler said as he opened the door, “but the mistress is unavailable.”
“She’ll be available soon,” Lady Chisenden remarked. “But until then, I suppose she’s out shopping.”
“No, madam.” The butler shook his head. “The mistress is at home, but she’s not receiving visitors.”
“She’ll receive me,” Lady Chisenden replied, removing her card from her reticule. “I’m the grandmère of the gentleman who pays for this dwelling.” She stepped past the butler into the entrance hall where she dropped her calling card on the silver tray on the antique table beside the door.
The butler glanced at the calling card, CHARLOTTE, MARCHIONESS OF CHISENDEN. “The mistress has just broken her fast, Lady Chisenden. May I show you into the salon while I apprise her of your arrival?”
Lady Chisenden nodded. “Please inform your mistress that I am here on matters of some importance and that I will await her appearance in the salon within the hour.”
“But, my lady, the mistress is engaged in her toilette. She is not presentable.”
“Mistresses rarely are.”
The butler stared at her open-mouthed.
“Yes, yes. My reputation for speaking my mind is well-earned. Now, run along, my good man, and tell her she needn’t dress up. I’ve no wish to prolong my visit by cooling my heels in the salon any longer than necessary.” The marchioness gave a dismissive wave of her hand and sent the butler on his way.
Left alone, Lady Chisenden took the opportunity to survey her surroundings. Although much smaller than the salon at Chisenden Place, the room was furnished with tasteful furniture, carpets and paintings by several of the lesser Italian Renaissance painters. She immediately noted Neil’s hand in the arrangement of the furniture. Instead of in the more common and more formal arrangement of furniture situated along the walls of the room, the sofas and chairs were placed in conversational groupings near the fireplace and the windows along with several small tables. Neil used the same arrangement of furniture in his townhouse and advocated the use of it in the houses he designed. He had clearly made himself at home here. Lady Chisenden smiled. Her grandson’s man of business had been quite surprised when she’d paid a visit to his offices earlier in the morning. It had taken very little persuading on her part to convince him that her grandson had asked the marquess to break the news of his marriage to his mistress and that she had convinced the marquess that the news would be better delivered by a woman. She agreed that it wasn’t the sort of thing a lady normally did, but since her grandson was serving His Majesty in the wilds of Scotland she felt she must do as he asked. Neil’s man of business had insisted on accompanying her and she’d agreed as long as he agreed to wait in the coach until her business with the widow was concluded. She smiled. Her visit here would serve two purposes. It would satisfy the burning curiosity she felt about Neil and the widow Sheridan and it would protect Neil, his bride, and his future heirs from any greedy demands the widow might make. Somehow she didn’t think she would have as easy a time convincing Deborah Sheridan to give up Neil as she had convincing his man of business to part with the property deed the marquess’s solicitor had delivered to him the day before or the cash settlement Neil had arranged for Deborah to have at the end of their liaison.
“My mistress sends her regrets, my lady, but she will be unable to attend you within the hour,” the butler announced when he entered the salon moments later.
“Really?” The marchioness raised one of her exquisitely arched eyebrows. “How unfortunate!” She walked to the doorway of the salon, then turned and marched up the stairs.
The butler caught up with her as she reached the room at the end of the hallway. “Madame! You cannot go in there.”
The marchioness fixed the servant with her most regal stare, knocked once on the door, then placed her hand on the doorknob, opened the door and stepped over the threshold.
Deborah Sheridan greeted her coldly. “I’m afraid I’m not receiving guests this morning, Lady Chisenden.”
“I know,” the marchioness replied, “The butler informed me that you were engaged in your toilette.”
The widow Sheridan smiled. “I had Fenton say that so you’d leave.”
“Then you’re a liar,” Lady Chisenden remarked. “Are you a coward as well?”
“Sometimes,” Deborah replied.
Lady Chisenden lifted an eyebrow.
Deborah gave an elegant shrug. “You might say I’m whatever the occasion calls for.”
“This must be a rude occasion,” Lady Chisenden studied the perfectly groomed young woman her grandson had taken as his mistress. Although she was slightly disappointed that her grandson had chosen a rather obvious and commonplace sort of beauty, Lady Chisenden wasn’t surprised. Dressed in a fine silk morning gown that clung to her body, Deborah Sheridan showed off the look men of all ages seemed to find perpetually intriguing. She had the oval-shaped face and delicate features, the white blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes, curvaceous bosom, flat stomach and rounded hips that were all the rage in fashionable London. The marchioness knew the young woman had been a widow for several years and assumed that she and Neil were much the same age. She had seen the widow from a distance at the opera, the ballet and the theater and upon occasion, at gatherings in the homes of the fashionable members of society but she hadn’t realized Deborah Sheridan was so young—barely twenty—despite the lines of discontent bracketing her lips and the cold light in her eyes. “Someone must have neglected to teach you how to curtsey to your betters.”
“I have no betters.”
Lady Chisenden didn’t blink an eye at the insult the younger woman delivered. “Perhaps not when you’re flat on your back, but you’re on your feet now and in the presence of someone who cannot be flattered by your attention or entranced by your looks.” She stared at the widow. “I cannot see what my grandson saw in you.”