“I love you for your fierce heart, for your courage, for your passion,” he went on. “And because I love you, you must know the truth: I publicly compromised my general’s daughter, and I did so while my wife of less than two years lay dying. My disgrace took place”—he kissed her fingers and then deposited her hand back in her lap—“my disgrace took place at the regimental ball.”
Cold shivered over Mary Frances, a cold even worse than when, after deflowering her, Gordie had poured himself a drink and toasted their future.
“You would not do such a thing.” She wanted to reach for his hand, but his posture was so calm, so self- contained, she stifled the impulse.
“I did such a thing. The girl—she was only twenty-two—went home under a cloud of scandal. I resigned my commission and put it about that my father was demanding my return. Ask anybody billeted to the Crimea, and they’ll tell you all about the corrupt colonel. They have worse names for me too, of course…”
The cold became something worse, something like panic, dread, and rage, all rolled into Mary Fran’s middle and jammed against her heart. “I don’t believe you.”
“You must believe me. It is the truth. We were found in a shocking embrace by no less than the girl’s mother. Had I been single, the girl would very likely be my wife now.”
“Did you make love with her?”
Why this should matter, Mary Fran did not know. For most men, particularly aroused men, the difference between kisses, caresses, and coitus was simply a few more minutes of privacy.
“I kissed her thoroughly, had my hands where a gentleman’s hands do not belong, had my tongue—”
“But not your cock.”
He reared back a bit, as if he’d just walked in on a scene such as the one he was describing. “Not my cock, but you have only my word for that, and the word of a cad should never be trusted.”
Except he wasn’t cad. Could not be.
She’d had the same argument with herself over Gordie. Told herself he would never take advantage of her curiosity, never proceed if she decided to call a halt. Gordie had made no pretense of withdrawing, and Fiona was the result. Matthew had tried to protect them from such consequences, and Mary Fran had prevented him.
“Tell me the rest of it, Matthew. If I can put this in context…”
He rose from the trunk and straightened a bridle hanging on the opposite wall. “I compromised a decent woman. What context could possibly excuse that?”
“You were grieving.” Mary Fran hunched in on herself, the very idea of making excuses for him rankling—he would never make excuses for himself. “Maybe the girl grabbed you and threatened to scream if you didn’t oblige her. Maybe you were drunk—very drunk. Maybe you were trying to distract her from a fellow who would make her miserable or give her diseases.”
He shook his head and tidied another bridle, but in his very silence, another idea tried to crowd into Mary Frances’s misery, more a feeling than an idea.
“You aren’t telling me the whole of it, Matthew Daniels.” She knew this the same way she knew when Fiona was lying or her brothers had done something they were uncomfortable with. “What do you think to spare me? I’ve been compromised. I’ve been labeled a whore. I’ve watched my family work themselves nigh to death just to keep up appearances. I’ve buried a husband I had no intention of grieving, only to find myself devastated by guilt. I’ve put up with groping old men and sly young ones…”
He did not look at her. He faced the whips lined up from longest to shortest on the side wall, though Mary Fran doubted he saw what was before him. “I wanted to dally with you, Mary Fran. I wanted to give you some pleasure, some relief and comfort.” More catechism, which only confirmed Mary Fran’s suspicion he was holding back.
“Oblivion and desire, Matthew?” She wanted to slap him, to slap the sadness off his handsome profile. “We’ve agreed that isn’t enough. When you’re ready to tell me the whole of your folly, then I’ll be ready to listen.”
She hopped off the trunk, her limbs protesting the sudden movement, her heart breaking to leave things thus.
“Mary Frances?” He did not touch her, but his gaze pleaded with her for—what?
“Why not Lady Mary Frances, if we’re to have so little trust to go along with our oblivion and desire?”
The damned wretched man smiled, a slow, gentle curving of his lips. “If I could tell you the whole of it, I would. That’s as much concession as I can make.”
His admission
“I’d marry a cad and a bounder—I’ve done it before, if you’ll recall—but I cannot marry a man who won’t trust me.”
***
“Break my sister’s heart, and I’ll kill you. Connor and Gilgallon will dig your grave, and the entire Deeside branch of the clan will dance at your funeral.” Balfour offered his promise cheerfully, sporting a grin that revealed even white teeth in abundant number. “A wee dram to ward off the chill, Mr. Daniels?”
Matthew nodded. They were alone in the library, and the earl’s warning was probably the Scottish equivalent of permission to court, which was ironic.
“And what if you break
Balfour’s dark brows rose, and then his expression became thoughtful. “Wearing a kilt takes a certain confidence. Try it before you mock us for it.”
“I have a kilt, not the full-dress business, but a McDaniel plaid.”
That had been a perfectly unnecessary admission, and it didn’t seem to make any impression on the earl.
Balfour poured out two stout servings of whisky. “The McDaniel dress plaid is a pretty pattern. You could wear it to the ball next week, and we’d kit you out in company style. I was serious about you breaking Mary Fran’s heart.”
Ian MacGregor held forth like a general, his speech—it wasn’t exactly conversation—leaping from one topic to the next without any pretension of manners. Matthew followed him easily.
“And I was serious about you breaking Genie’s heart.” Matthew lifted his glass slightly. “To the ladies.”
Balfour saluted with his whisky and took a sip. He served it neat, the way it deserved to be consumed. “Your sister Genie wants nothing to do with me. I can’t see how I’d break her heart, unless it’s by marrying her. I’ve reason to wonder why your dear papa has his heart so set on this match when the lady isn’t exactly willing.”
“Are you insulting my sister, Balfour? Implying she’s in some way tarnished goods?”
Balfour scrubbed a hand over his face. “And people claim the Scots have bad tempers. I would not insult your sister, Daniels. She’s sweet, pretty, endearingly stubborn, and scared to death of your father. That is not a sound basis for a marriage.”
“I
Made with such casual, weary assurance, the observation stung. “Genie has a notion she’ll marry only for love, Balfour. I don’t know where she came by it. Altsax thinks marrying for love is vulgar, stupid, and common.”
“Not common enough,” Balfour muttered. “I had some questions to put to you on another matter, if you’ve a moment.”
And now the man with the piercing green eyes who made casual death threats and summarized Matthew’s sister accurately in a few words took to studying a portrait of some crusty old Highlander over the fireplace.
“Balfour, I do not share my father’s opinion on the matter of marriage. I married once for duty, for Queen and Country, and while it was not a horror, it was not what either I or my wife deserved. Ask me your questions. If I know the answers, I’ll gladly share them, though I have to warn you—the press of business means I must travel south in the morning.” The press of business and the dictates of sanity.
