Rules for a Proper Governess

  “It’s worth your life?” Sinclair roared.

  “I know it was stupid of me,” Bertie said quickly, “but I couldn’t let the poor thing go. You saw what it did to Cat. It was like losing her mum all over again.”

  “I know, but damn it, Bertie, don’t you dare do anything like that ever again!”

  Bertie put her hands on her hips, her own temper rising. “Were you going to skim down there and get it? We’d have been scraping you from the rocks for sure. I’m limber, and I know how to climb.”

  “I would have fetched Macaulay and some lads to help, and rope,” he shouted. “Not thrown myself over the side and hoped for the best.”

  “Macaulay was off showing people how to shoot things, remember? I wager most of the lads who work here were out with him. Sun was already gone by the time we reached home—not enough light left to organize a rescue party. And there’d be dolly, hanging from that rock all night. Or maybe carried off by some bird to line its nest. How do you think Cat would have felt about that?”

  “That doesn’t mean you should have risked your life for it!” Sinclair’s bellow rivaled the noise Andrew could make. “It’s only by the grace of God you didn’t fall, or I’d be out looking at your body on the rocks now, you broken and gone . . .”

  His words choked off, his chest working as he struggled for air. Bertie reached for him, her own heart hurting. “I’m sorry. I truly am. You all right?”

  “No. Can’t . . . breathe.” Sinclair backed away, sitting down hard on her bed, his breath coming in hoarse gasps. “This happens to me whenever I’m . . .”

  Bertie went to him. “Let me help. How can I help?”

  “I’ll be all right in a minute.” But Sinclair’s breathing still came with too much difficulty, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

  Bertie sat on the bed beside him. “Now you close your eyes.” She moved her hands up his back in a caress and started kneading his shoulders. “Let me ease you.”

  “Can’t. When I close my eyes, I see . . . you . . . falling away from me . . .”

  “But I didn’t. I’m here, right next to you.” Bertie wriggled her thigh against his. “See? You just let me look after you now.”

  Sinclair turned his head to look at her. “Bertie . . . damn you.”

  Bertie climbed up behind him on the bed, put her arms around him, and drew him back to her. He resisted at first, stiff, but then he leaned into her bosom, his eyes at last drifting shut.

  “We’re all here, safe and whole,” she said into his ear. “That’s all you need to remember.”

  She caressed his chest, finding his heart banging hard beneath her hands. She continued to rub gently, kneading his tight muscles, smoothing his shirt over his hot skin. Bertie rested her cheek against his hair, breathing the warmth of it, moving to kiss the scars that decorated the top of his cheekbone.

  Sinclair’s breathing at last began to slow, the gasps easing, until he drew a long, relieved breath. He coughed once, then he closed his eyes again and lay back against Bertie, relaxing.

  Bertie lightly kissed his cheek. His skin was flushed, warm, his whiskers rough on her lips.

  When she kissed his cheek again, Sinclair turned his head and met the kiss with his lips.

  Bertie stilled, fire rising at his warm breath, the smooth touch of his mouth. Sinclair took over the kiss, parting her lips, sweeping his tongue inside. The icy chill of the wind across the ruins, plucking at her as the rocks cut her hands, vanished under his heat.

  The next kiss was a little deeper, Sinclair cupping her cheek. He slowly turned her over onto the downy mattress, sliding on top of her, his breathing no longer ragged.

  Sinclair undressed her slowly, with gentle hands. Bertie helped pull his clothes away as well until he was bracing himself over her in nothing but his kilt. Sinclair didn’t bother taking off the kilt itself—he simply shoved its folds up as he slid inside her.

  He moved slowly, heat building between them, sultry and close like a summer night. His body was touched with sweat, his mouth hot as he kissed her.

  The glorious friction of his kilt on her skin, of Sinclair stiff inside her, sent Bertie floating on ripples of joy. She latched her fingers around his shoulders as the ripples lifted her. She saw herself on the mountainside again, only this time, her grip slid away from the rocks, and she fell down, down, tumbling freely as the doll had.

  She cried out, but Sinclair was there to catch her, sweeping her up into his strength. He buried his face in her hair as his hips moved, languid pleasure giving way to fiercer need.

  “I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “Never, never, Bertie, lass. I can’t.”

  “I’m here,” Bertie said, or thought she said.

  You’ve done something to me, Basher McBride. I’ll never be the same again, no matter how far I go or what I do. I’ll never be just Bertie ever again. Some part of you will always be part of me.

  “Dear God,” Sinclair groaned. His thrusts came faster, harder, until both of them were filling the air with cries of need.

  They crashed together, their bodies slick with sweat, Sinclair’s kisses hot on her flesh. Sinclair drew Bertie to him, holding her solidly, keeping her in safety with him.

  The next day was subdued. The rest of the McBride and Mackenzie families heard the tale of the doll’s fate and Bertie’s daring rescue. Bertie was celebrated with many toasts to her bravery, and tight hugs from the ladies. “Damn fool thing to do,” Hart growled, though he looked at her with new respect.

  Ian gave her a quiet nod. “Thank you,” he said. His evenhanded thanks warmed Bertie more than Mac’s and Daniel’s wild applause.

  “When I pick out a wife, she’s going to be just like you,” Daniel said, his strong hand on her shoulder.

  “A governess?” Bertie asked, giving him a grin. Or a pickpocket?

  “One who knows the world and isn’t afraid of it.” Daniel kissed her cheek. “And one as pretty. Mmm, let me just kiss you again.”

  “No.” Sinclair got around Bertie and scowled at Daniel. “Leave her be, Danny.”

  Daniel only laughed, studied the two of them together, and gave Bertie a big wink. “Right you are, Uncle Sinclair.”

  Macaulay broke the celebration to hand Bertie a telegram that had come from the train station. Bertie took it in surprise, wondering who’d be telegraphing her, but she stilled when she read the terse words.

  “What is it?” Sinclair asked, warming her shoulder as he leaned to read it.

  “It’s me dad.”

  Bertie wasn’t certain what emotions ran through her. The telegram wasn’t from Gerry Frasier—Mrs. Hill had sent it, saying that a woman who called herself Mrs. Lang had come looking for Bertie. Bertie’s father was very ill, Mrs. Lang had said, and was asking for Bertie to come.

  Sinclair plucked the telegram from her cold hands, read it, and immediately told Macaulay to purchase tickets to London.

  Bertie had supposed that Sinclair would send her back alone with either Macaulay or Aoife to look after her, but Sinclair packed up the whole family to return with her. Sinclair wanted Cat back in a house she was used to, he said. She’d rest and recover better without the other families hovering around her, even with all their sympathy. Cat was unnerved by it. So London it was for all of them.

  Bertie was sorry to leave the families and festivities behind, but she too wanted Cat to rest. Also she did feel anxious about her father. Even if the old sot could be a brute, he was still her dad.

  “London at Christmas can be fine too,” Bertie told Cat as she settled the girl into the compartment she’d share with Andrew. Andrew was with Sinclair, Sinclair carefully letting him explore some of the train, so Bertie, at her request, could put Cat to bed first. Bertie wanted Caitriona settled in before Andrew bounced around the room with his usual vigor. The stay at Kilmorgan had healed him almost compl
etely.

  “Your dad promised to take us to a pantomime,” Bertie continued. “One of the lavish ones at Drury Lane. That’ll be a treat, let me tell you.”

  Cat nodded without much interest. Bertie propped the doll, which had been mended by Macaulay and Daniel, on the table near Cat’s bunk. The doll’s porcelain face had a big crack across it, and she was missing part of her cheekbone, but her blue eyes still shone, and her smile was as wide. Her hair, which had been dark like Cat’s, was blond now, her original hair now scattered about the hill below the old castle. Eleanor had found an old wig in the attics at Kilmorgan and had given it to her maids to be cleaned and brushed, then to Daniel to cut up for the doll.

  Daniel and Macaulay had done an amazing job, but there was no denying that the doll had been ruined. She was dressed in the brand new frock Sinclair had given Cat this Christmas, her old dress far beyond repair.

  Bertie straightened the rust-colored skirt of the doll’s gown. “There. She looks a bit tattered, but she’s still with us.”

  Cat only nodded. When the repaired doll had been returned to her, Cat had looked it over, thanked Daniel and Macaulay politely, then set the doll aside and didn’t pick it up again. She hadn’t carried it with her since, and told the maid to pack it with the rest of her things when readying themselves to leave.

  “Bertie,” Cat said in a small voice as Bertie continued to lay out Cat’s clothes for the morning. “I know you all think I’m mad, but I’m not. I didn’t think the doll was my mother, or anything like that.”

  “No, sweetie,” Bertie said quickly. “I don’t think you’re mad.”

  “You do. Or at least you did for a while. Others do. But I’m not. I know she’s just a doll.”

  Bertie left the clothes and returned to the bunk. “Now, you stop this nonsense, Cat McBride. I understand, and so does your dad. I explained that I’d have been climbing down that hill if I’d dropped my locket, and your dad understood, even if he’s still riled with me for doing it.”

  Cat pleated a fold of the sheet. With her hair in a braid, in her white nightgown, she looked like an ordinary child, but her eyes held more sadness than an ordinary child’s should. “Mama left Daisy—the doll Daisy—to watch over me, you see. Mama told me so when she was sick. I didn’t really understand, but I thought if I kept the doll with me all the time, some part of Mama would be with me too. When I dropped her, when I saw her fall . . .” Cat’s throat worked. “It made me realize that Mama was truly gone.”

  Bertie sat on the bunk next to her. “But she’s still watching, you know, your mum is, up in heaven. Mums always look after their kids, don’t they?”

  “I was only four when Mama died,” Cat said. “I didn’t know what ‘died’ meant. It was a long time before I understood she was never coming back. I was very angry, I remember. I was angry at Papa for letting her go.” She looked morose. “Is that bad of me?”

  “Naw.” Bertie had spent years furious at her father, even when it was clear he’d done nothing to cause her mother’s death. Her mother had fallen ill of a fever that had invaded most of the streets of the East End, and no amount of nursing by Bertie and her father had been able to save her. “Your dad, he’s one of the good ones. He loves you with all his might.”

  Inspector Fellows had said something like that to Bertie before she’d left for the train station that afternoon.

  “I grew up in the gutter, same as you,” Fellows had said after pulling her aside. “And in the gutter, a man like McBride seems like an easy mark. But he’s not.” He’d fixed her with a sharp look very much like those of his half brothers. “McBride is one of the good ones, Miss Frasier. Never forget that.”

  Bertie had nodded, agreeing with him, and had started out of the house again, only to be stopped by Ian Mackenzie. “Take care of them,” was all Ian had said. He’d given her one of his rare direct stares, then he’d walked away without a good-bye.

  “One of the good ones,” Bertie repeated.

  And I’m in love with him, she continued silently. This very good man is going to break my heart.

  London greeted them with billows of coal smoke, every house stoking its fires to stay warm. Down in the slums, they’d be shivering and burning anything they could find, in stoves, fireplaces, barrels, and tin coal boxes. In Mayfair, fires danced on bright hearths, and maids brought tea and scones to warm the belly.

  Sinclair summoned his coach to take Bertie to visit her dad, and insisted on coming with her.

  “You’re daft, you are,” Bertie said in alarm as he followed her out, Richards waiting patiently on the box. “If Basher McBride is seen about the backstreets of Whitechapel, things will go bad for you.”

  Sinclair only gave her his scowl. “I’m sure everyone in Whitechapel knows full well you’re looking after my children. I’m not letting you go alone, and that’s the end of it.”

  No amount of arguing could sway him. Bertie gave up, knowing they could stand all day on the street and fight about it while the neighbors watched with interest.

  Bertie, resigned, let him hand her into the coach, and they set off.

  The East End hadn’t improved since Bertie had left it. The mud was frozen in streets and lanes, fires burned in barrels with dozens of men and women standing around them, trying to soak up the heat. No sun penetrated the gloom of the afternoon, the tall buildings shutting out any hint of light.

  The dark and cold struck Bertie harder now, after the wide-open spaces of Scotland and the splendid comfort of Kilmorgan Castle. She’d survived here because she hadn’t known any different, but now she did. There was a world out there, oceans of it, and Bertie meant to see it.

  A few of the younger lads of the street were huddled around the front of the lodging house where her father lived. They swarmed the coach when it came to a stop, trying to look pathetic as they held out their hands. The pugilist Sinclair had borrowed from the duke’s house in Grosvenor Square jumped down and tried to scatter them.

  “Oi, it’s Bertie,” one of the boys yelled when the pugilist opened the carriage door for her. “It’s Bertie-girl, dressed up all swank. Is that your protector in there?” They looked past her to Sinclair. “Looks like he could spare a bob or two. Give us a coin, Bertie.”

  “Why’dya think I came here, to drop all my bread in your hands?” Bertie asked good-humoredly. “I came to see me dad. He’s poorly.”

  “He’ll fall over dead if he spies you with your posh coach,” another of the lads said. “Come on, Bertie. We’re your old mates.”

  The pugilist waded among them, the lads diving away from his bulk without him having to touch them. “Clear off,” he growled, his accent as Cockney as theirs.

  “It’s all right.” Bertie dipped her hand into her pocket and passed out pennies. “They don’t mean no harm. He’s not my protector.” Bertie gestured to Sinclair, who’d climbed down beside her. “You lot leave him alone.”

  She started through the press of boys to the door of her old lodgings, and Sinclair came directly behind her, not letting her get more than one step ahead of him. The pugilist followed as far as the doorway, then turned around and faced the street, blocking the lads from following them in.

  “Why are you coming with me?” Bertie asked Sinclair as they went up the stairs. “What happened to you not showing your face where it’s dangerous?”

  “I’m not letting you in here alone,” Sinclair growled. “You have no idea what or who is waiting for you.”

  “I thought you’d at least stay in the coach,” Bertie said, throwing him a glare.

  Sinclair scowled back. “Then you were wrong.”

  Maddening man. The door to the rooms on the third floor was locked, but Bertie still had her key. She opened the door and walked inside. “It’s me,” she called.

  Mrs. Lang, a plump woman with dyed black hair and a perpetually red face came out of Gerry’s bed
room. “Bertie,” she said, smiling a genuine smile. “How grand to see you.”

  She opened her arms and folded Bertie into a well-cushioned hug. Mrs. Lang always smelled a bit of whiskey, which she liked, and a faint scent that was the fancy soap she saved her pennies for.

  “How is he?” Bertie asked when Mrs. Lang released her.

  “Not well. He wants to speak to you. Is this him?” She looked around Bertie at Sinclair.

  “This is Mr. McBride,” Bertie said, a bit stiffly. “My employer.”

  Mrs. Lang looked Sinclair up and down, her scrutiny admiring. “Well, you’re a fine one, ain’t you? Very handsome, in that way a Scottish bloke can be. Better wait out here, duckie. Old Gerry might get upset at the sight of you.”

  Sinclair didn’t look happy, but he nodded as he took off his hat. “I’ll be right here, Bertie. Shout if you need me.” He gave her a look that told her she’d better. He might barge right in if she lingered longer than he liked, in any case.

  Bertie gave him a nod, squared her shoulders, and followed Mrs. Lang into the bedroom.

  “Well, look at the cat who swallowed the cream.” Gerry Frasier, his face grayer than Bertie had ever seen it, gazed at her over the bedcovers. His face was also lined and haggard, but he wasn’t hung over. This was true illness.

  “How are you, Dad?” Bertie said. She pulled off her gloves and went to the bedside, holding out her hand.

  Her father clasped her fingers with his hard ones. “Dying. So nice for me own daughter to bother to come and see me.”

  “I was in Scotland. I know Mrs. Lang wouldn’t a’ sent for me if it weren’t bad.”

  “It’s bad.” The hand that pressed Bertie’s was strong, though. “That flash bastard you’ve taken up with out there? I heard a voice.”

  “Yeah, he’s here. Making sure you didn’t set me up.”

  Gerry looked hurt, but he didn’t let go of her hand. “As if I would. I’ve always been good to you, Bertie-girl, haven’t I?”