“The problem isn’t yours,” Lowell reminded him. “Your friends are still hobbling about after that last fracas. You can’t ask them to do more.”
He’d already had visits from Zane and Blair and knew they were recovering and enjoying the coddling of their wives, despite their protests otherwise.
Gerard didn’t want to be coddled. But he didn’t want a woman as passionate and courageous as Iona to marry a milksop either.
He wanted her for his.
That realization had him breaking out in a cold sweat.
Iona finished repairing the hackle covering a Calder hive and wiped a straying hair from her face. Her hair was starting to grow out. Perhaps she should have it trimmed off again. It was so much easier not dealing with the heavy length—and it wasn’t as if her fiancée cared if she wore snakes on her head.
A golden leaf fluttered past. It would snow soon. She needed to leave before then. Arthur could stay and petition the queen all he liked. She wanted to return to the comfort of Wystan and lick her wounds.
And use Arthur’s wealth to improve lives, she reminded herself sternly. He’d agreed to her settlement, poor fool.
Isobel raced down the hillside, waving a letter, her dark skirts fluttering in the breeze. Iona had no curiosity about its contents. Everyone in her world was safe and accounted for. Even Gerard was reported to be up and about.
“It’s from Balmoral,” Isobel cried as she came closer. “The queen agrees to take the title from abeyance. She wants to speak with us!”
Ah well, Iona could gift her fiancée with her title in exchange for his wealth. She had no idea how to go about rewarding him with a title of his own, but perhaps the queen could help. Or her staff. “I daresay the queen doesn’t wish to see us. It’s probably an interview with a secretary.” She took the letter and skimmed the contents.
“It doesn’t matter. We can go to Balmoral! I’ve always wanted to visit. They say it’s even larger than Holyrood!” Isobel practically danced in anticipation.
“A lot less historical.” Iona folded the letter and handed it back. “I hadn’t realized you were interested in palatial mansions. Perhaps you should marry Arthur. He wouldn’t know the difference.”
Isobel laughed. “I don’t want to live in a mansion or with Arthur. But I might learn things from the estate. And I can wear one of your new gowns!”
“You can have gowns of your own. Did you think I’d let you go back home looking like a ragpicker while I dressed in silk? We are to be very wealthy.” She took Isobel’s arm and steered her toward the librarian’s castle.
“I can’t go home if Mortimer is still about,” her sister said mournfully. “Although I like it here very much. I don’t think Lydia or Mr. Ives will let him come near me.”
“I have taken a lesson from Lord Ives, and I’m making arrangements.” Grimly, Iona marched up the hill. “I will simply not be as polite about it. Now that we have funds of our own, I intend to use them wisely. Once I have Arthur’s, I’ll fritter them.”
“I don’t know whether to laugh or be afraid.”
“Mortimer should be afraid. You should laugh. I now have friends who can tell me when ships leave for China and Africa and South America. It’s only a matter of choosing between Edinburgh and Glasgow. The train goes both ways from here, so I think I’ll give myself a wedding present, pour laudanum into his drink, and see that he’s on one.”
“Won’t he wake before he reaches the coast ? How will you put him on a ship?” Isobel stopped in the courtyard to watch her worriedly.
“Hire men.” Iona had spent lots of nights plotting. “If I have to spend every penny of my money, it will be worth it. Once he’s gone, we can keep what we earn.”
“We won’t need to earn anything if you’re wealthy,” Isobel reminded her. “But I should like to see if I can make the estate pay for itself again. I like your idea so well that I might even go with Mortimer to be certain he sails away.”
Iona hugged her. “And then we’ll go to Balmoral!”
“I think I shall like being an independent woman. Perhaps I shall travel, too.” Isobel straightened her shoulders and marched toward the house.
“Probably not a wise idea until you’re cured,” Iona called after her. Isobel ignored her.
Iona didn’t much care if she was independent so long as she had the wealth to do as she wished. Perhaps she would follow Lord Ives if he went to Italy. Wouldn’t he be surprised?
The question was more—would he be pleased?
She hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d been reported as recovering.
Once she was married, she could take lovers, she supposed. She just didn’t think she’d find anyone who interested her in the way Gerard did. Simply thinking about him. . . left her weak with hunger. She hoped he felt the same.
He’d never admit it. He’d hide behind his aristocratic boredom and not acknowledge her existence once she was out of sight.
Arthur strolled out to greet her. He was currently experimenting with wearing tweeds, breeches, and boots like a country gentleman. He’d even gone hunting and brought home a goose. Already bordering on stout, he reminded her of an overgrown St. Bernard puppy, eager to please and to play.
“I hear we are to go to Balmoral,” he said proudly, offering his arm to escort her inside.
It had not once occurred to her that he would go with them, but she supposed he would be her husband then. She had just thought he would wander off and do whatever it was wealthy men did, but of course he would hope to hobnob with royalty. That was why he was marrying her.
Once inside, she was swept into the wedding planning that she had
