The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 5

  Cameron glanced at her over his shoulder. Peat had quieted and was hiding behind her skirts. It took a firm hand to quiet that deerhound once he was onto a scent, something his own mother never managed to accomplish. Yet there Peat sat, tongue lolling from his mouth. Cameron raised his gaze to Miss Starke’s with a bit of admiration.

  “First we should secure her ankle so it doesn’t move. Can you help?”

  He knew instinctively that the mouse would be of little assistance. Miss Starke gathered napkins from the dining room and tied them together. He asked his mother to bring a few of the small pillows from the davenport. Using the pillows and napkins, he buffeted the ankle on all sides. Once the ankle was steadfast, he lifted Miss Huddleston into his arms. “What shall I do with her?”

  “Both she and Miss Townsend have rooms facing the loch. Greer can direct you to the proper one,” his mother said.

  ***

  Claire watched Faith slip her hands around the laird’s neck for support while he easily carried her upstairs. She couldn’t deny the little squeeze of jealousy she felt seeing her friend nestled against that strong chest. It wasn’t his chest that caused her envy, she reminded herself. Being carried by any man would do. While she had accepted long ago that she’d not likely experience that particular pleasure, it didn’t mean she had to enjoy that particular denial.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Miss Townsend said. “I’m not going to stay here a day longer than tomorrow. Who knows who that beast will injure next?” She turned to Claire. “What about you?”

  Claire wasn’t certain which male had been labeled a “beast”—the gentle dog by her side, or the man who was so quick to render aid to Faith. Not that it mattered. Her answer would have been the same.

  She watched the devil whisk her closest friend up the stairs.

  “As long as Faith remains in this house, I’m not leaving.” She straightened her spine and steeled her resolve, then lifted her skirt to follow them up the steps. “Even if it means we must live with Lucifer himself.”

  Chapter 6

  “A sprain? That’s a relief. We thought the ankle was surely broken, given the amount of swelling.” Claire’s spirits lifted even as her heart twisted to see Faith’s pained grimace. The doctor held the swollen, puffy heel and slowly manipulated the foot, while Faith clasped the blankets tightly to her chin. A whimper escaped her lips.

  “If it’s only a sprain, we should be able to return home in no time.” Claire patted Faith’s buried shoulder. “I’m certain Miss Huddleston will heal faster under her mother’s care.”

  “I wouldn’t be so hasty.” The doctor gently returned the foot to the pillow they’d used to prop it out of harm’s way. “A severe sprain such as this can be more painful than a clean break, and it takes longer to heal. While I realize you’re both anxious to return home, your friend will need to avoid placing weight on this ankle for at least a month. Then you can consider—”

  “A month?” Claire gasped. “I only packed for two days!” She turned toward Faith. “Did you pack for a month?”

  Faith’s pretty blonde curls swayed to confirm that she had not.

  “Accidents rarely take travel plans in consideration.” The young doctor smiled indulgently as if he’d heard similar objections before. “Let me show you how to wrap the ankle to keep the swelling down.” The doctor, a tall, thin, attractive man, pulled a roll of a gauzy cloth from his bag. “You’ll need to rewrap the ankle every four to six hours to keep the pressure taut and steady.”

  Starting mid-foot, he wound the bandage around and around Claire’s ankle and leg, overlapping the edges so no skin peeked through. He nodded toward the basin, where ice was afloat in the water. “Was it James who thought to pull ice from the ice house?” he asked.

  Faith nodded, her pale lips tightened in obvious discomfort.

  “He has good instincts. I’m sorry I couldn’t come immediately last night, but I knew he would know what to do. Most likely the cold rags reduced the initial swelling, but they won’t be as effective now. In a few days, the swelling will diminish and the foot and ankle will discolor, especially by the toes. This is normal and is nothing to be concerned about.” He raised his gaze to Faith’s face and smiled. “Rest is the best medicine for you, young lady. The human body is good about healing itself, but it requires some assistance from time to time. Keep this foot raised and let the Macphersons take good care of you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Faith managed to say, with a weak smile. “I’m sorry to have brought you out of your way on such a rainy morning.”

  “Och, not to worry on that account. You’re a much prettier patient than the lambs and horses that typically require my services.”

  “Lambs and horses . . .” Claire’s head jerked. “You’re an animal doctor?”

  “Indeed. The sheep outnumber the people in the Highlands,” he explained with a laugh. “But fortunately the ailments are similar. Otherwise, the laird would have had to send to Perth for a doctor.” He looked back at Faith. “You stay off that foot now, miss. Not that you’ll be anxious to go outside in this weather. I’ll look in on you in a few days and make sure all is as it should be.” He tipped his hat and left, stopping to give Peat a pat on the head where he guarded the door.

  “A month.” Faith sighed once they were alone. She released the blanket’s edge and it slid down her pillow-propped torso. “I doubt Patricia will stay a month.”

  “I do too,” Claire added, hesitant to admit that Faith’s fair-weather friend had already departed. James had bundled her off to the train stop at her loud insistence earlier that very morning. What sort of friend deserted another so far from home? Claire suspected Miss Townsend had no understanding of the word loyalty. Not like Claire did. Not like one who personally knew the pain of abandonment.

  “My aunt Sophie and her five corgis were to arrive this week for a visit. It’s probably better that I’m here rather than in London. Those dogs are constantly underfoot, not like that fellow.” She nodded at Peat. “I should be grateful that I’m not in that chaotic household.”

  Claire forced a smile to her face, imagining that her sojourn in Scotland would eliminate her chances to win the Sober Society purse. She couldn’t very well distribute pamphlets to pubs and taverns on Oxford Street from Ravenswood. She doubted her slogan project alone would be sufficient for the prize. Most likely Lucy Ledbetter would snicker with glee when she heard of Claire’s plight. But Faith didn’t need to know that.

  “It was fortuitous as well that I followed you to this house,” Claire said, patting Faith’s arm. “I won’t forsake you, especially not while you’re in a distiller’s residence. However long it takes, no matter what happens back home”—she swallowed past the constriction in her throat—“I’ll remain right here by your side.”

  ***

  “I see the doctor has left.” Lady Macpherson stood in the doorway with a bundle of red plaid wool. The pattern seemed familiar, but Claire couldn’t immediately place it. Something about the woman’s unusually warm and generous smile, though, made her suspicious. Lady Macpherson hadn’t been that accepting of her personally, but she managed to present a different face to Faith. While this wasn’t the first time Claire had been overlooked in favor of the more attractive Faith, the cut never failed to sting. Claire buried it deep, along with the other slights and snubs.

  “While that’s a lovely chemise, dear, it probably isn’t an appropriate garment in which to entertain gentlemen visitors,” Lady Macpherson softly scolded.

  Pink flushed across the skin visible above Faith’s lacy neckline. Claire bristled. She had helped Faith undress last evening—not easy while lying in bed with a foot propped on a pillow. Though bed jackets were popular among the frivolous, fashionable crowd, Claire didn’t own one. If Faith did, she hadn’t thought to pack it for this short trip.

  “He was a doctor,” Claire said, bristling, �
��not a gentleman caller.”

  “That’s why I thought you might have use of this,” Lady Macpherson said, effectively ignoring Claire’s outburst. She placed the folded length of wool plaid on Faith’s lap.

  Faith fingered it lightly. “It’s a beautiful weave . . .”

  “It’s the Macpherson tartan,” the older woman declared. “Here, let me drape it around your shoulders.” Only a small portion of the length was needed to cover Faith’s shoulders and chest; the remaining bulk pooled heavily in her lap.

  “That’s a fair amount of material,” Claire observed. She imagined it was sufficient to make any number of things . . . a jacket, a skirt . . .

  “Nine yards,” Lady Macpherson said. “The length needed to make a proper kilt.”

  Suddenly, Claire remembered why the material looked familiar. The last time she had seen that pattern, it was riding rather jauntily on the laird’s hips. The memory warmed her belly. The pleats of the kilt had accentuated the green and blue striping, not the red valleys between. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t immediately recognized it.

  “’Tis often a gift to a new bride,” Lady Macpherson continued, “but it’ll serve you well as you rest your ankle. I would imagine you didn’t pack a quantity of attractive bed jackets for your visit here.” She laughed lightly at Faith’s nod. She glanced up at Claire. “You must be longing for a breath of fresh air after having been cooped in this tiny room with your friend. Perhaps you’d like to stretch your legs while Miss Huddleston and I have a small chat.”

  While tempted to remain in spite of Lady Macpherson’s dismissal, the thought of exploring beyond the confinement of the bedroom had appeal. She began to leave, but Faith put a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Speaking of clothing, I’m certain Miss Starke did not anticipate spending a month waiting on an invalid in the Highlands. I’ve offered her the use of my gowns, as I will have no need of them while confined, but even I had not anticipated spending more than a few days here. I wonder if . . .”

  “Of course,” Lady Macpherson exclaimed, with a quick, irritated glance toward Claire. “There are boxes of discarded gowns in the storage rooms upstairs. If you’re handy with a needle, I imagine you might find something that will supplement your wardrobe. You could explore there now if you like. Miss Huddleston and I have matters to discuss.”

  ***

  With Lady Macpherson’s reluctant blessing, Claire set out to explore the house with the intent of finding the storage rooms. She was pleased to find a rather large library not far from the small bedrooms assigned to herself and Faith. She didn’t take the time to examine the contents of the shelves, as she could save that for later. It was enough, for now, to know that it existed.

  She discovered larger, more extravagant bedroom suites near the front stairway, but they all appeared to be vacant, which was not the case on the next level. She met a maid named Molly, who explained that Lady Macpherson occupied most of the third floor when she came to visit Ravenswood. Claire made a mental note to steer clear of that level. While the main stairway ended on the third floor, Molly directed her to a smaller stairway that would take her to the turret room where trunks and castoffs were stored.

  “But be careful up there, miss,” she said with wide solemn eyes. “Strange noises have been heard in that room a time or two.”

  “Rats?” Claire tried hard not to shudder.

  “Ghosts,” Molly whispered.

  Chapter 7

  Curiosity and anticipation carried her up the circular stairway that ended in a large, cluttered room high above the main shingled roof of Ravenswood. The rain tapped a soothing rhythm on the conical roof overhead, while dust motes, drifting in the soft light cast by several high windows, settled on shrouded furniture and abandoned rugs, which were rolled and tied and leaning against corners. A pensive garden angel with a clipped wing sat beside a box of discarded bottles and broken pottery. Two bamboo fishing poles lay across a box of old, musty books. If a ghost inhabited the castle, she had no doubt it would reside here—a graveyard of a different sort. Fortunately, she didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Spying a series of wooden chests and trunks along a back wall, she wove a path through the castoffs, some covered, some not.

  The first chest released a scent of wood and leather and revealed a variety of discarded toys: wooden blocks, tin soldiers, and two bags of marbles, which surprised her in their redundancy. She’d picked up one sack and peeked in the small canvas bag, then picked up the second, recognizing the click and feel of the glass orbs. Why two sacks of marbles and not one? She shook her head, replaced the marbles, then moved on.

  The next chest yielded a collection of men’s clothes. She ran her fingers over a linen shirt, noting the narrow shoulders. This must have come from an earlier time, as the laird’s muscular frame would have ripped this to pieces. Still it might prove useful. While her father’s Prince Albert might not be fashionable for a lady, it had served her well. So might these. She removed a few plain shirts and a pair of pants that might fit with a belt tightened about her waist and set those aside.

  Pleased with her discoveries, she moved some dusty pottery balanced on top of a third chest. Lavender and patchouli teased her nose as she uncovered several fancy bonnets wrapped in paper and resting on yards and yards of fabric. After carefully setting the bonnets aside, she removed the heavy dresses that were cut to fit over the old crinoline cages of decades past. It would take substantial altering to mold those dresses into current styles, but then what else was she to do? She set the dresses aside. Near the bottom, she found a beautiful paisley shawl with tiny moth holes near the fringe. The tiny holes shouldn’t affect the warmth provided by the material, so she added that to her collection, along with a delicate silk chemise and a skirt that must have at one time been part of an elaborate ensemble.

  She returned all but one of the heavy dresses to the chest, but paused as she lifted one of the bonnets. Lacy filaments of feathers peeked from beneath the paper. They softly shivered with her movements, teasing her curiosity. She carefully unwrapped the bonnet, revealing a most ostentatious creation of straw, lace, feathers, and ribbon. The bonnet itself had a high bill that towered over the forehead, the space filled with downy ostrich feathers that seemed in constant motion. Lace dripped down the sides of the bonnet and formed a curtain that would drape over the back of the neck. Hats of the current fashion were practical affairs that sat flat on the top of the head and shaded the face. She turned the bonnet in her hand. Unless the wearer had her back toward the sun, this straw concoction would offer no shade at all.

  But there was something about the pure non-practicality of the froufrou trimmings that called to her. Never having owned such a frivolous confection, she quickly glanced right and left to verify that no one would witness her foolishness. She slipped the bonnet over her head and tied the wide silk ribbons under her chin.

  Just wearing the frothy bit of fashion made her a bit giddy. She glanced around the dusty space, hoping to find a mirror. Her gaze settled on a tall, flat shape against the wall, draped with white sheeting. Climbing over similarly draped tables and chairs, she made her way to what she hoped would prove a mirror. Tossing back the sheet, she suddenly saw herself in a way she had never before been presented.

  Not that she was suddenly beautiful. No magic, and certainly no hat, would miraculously make that sort of change. Her nose was still too large for her long face, her eyes too bold and assessing. No, she certainly wasn’t beautiful, but the impractical hat flattered her face in the framing as if she were. And somehow, that made all the difference.

  A smile twisted her lips as she studied herself from side to side, imagining she was a belle strolling through Hyde Park on the arm of a beau. Someone wearing a bonnet with dancing ostrich feathers would do just that. Or maybe she’d be asked to dance at a ball instead of relegated to the chairs by the wall. Suddenly she wanted to try the other outd
ated bonnets in the chest and preen in front of the mirror with her own foolish fantasies. No one would ever know.

  After sampling the other two bonnets, she returned to the first, her favorite. She slipped it on her head, most likely for the last time, and moved to the mirror to try her hand at tying the blue ribbon in a saucy bow to the side of her face, just as she had recalled seeing in old magazines.

  The bow tied, she twisted and turned before the mirror. She even pursed her lips in a pretend kiss. Lips that touch liquor will never touch mine—the slogan slipped into her mind. An image of the laird’s very sensual lips beckoned in her imagination, but before she could consider the unlikely possibility of a kiss, a cold, wet nose pressed her wrist. Her heart jumped, chasing all rational thoughts from her brain. She looked to her side.

  “Peat! How did you sneak up here? You scared me.”

  She bent to pet the dog, who rewarded her with powerful swings of his long tail, stirring up dust and snagging some of the protective sheeting. One bold swish and he partially exposed what she immediately recognized as a camera lens.

  Hurtful memories of her father slammed hard into her chest, weakening her knees. She slumped onto a sheet-covered table while Peat tried to snake his head under her hand.

  It’s all your fault! Don’t bungle that frame! I don’t believe you’re mine. I could never sire such an ugly child. Is it a wonder I drink? Go away, you useless thing.

  Even though the man was dead and buried, his drunken rants still reached her from the grave. While he had made such comments in anger, they were all the more hurtful because she knew them in her heart to be true.

  Who was she fooling? She was ugly, and a silly bonnet wouldn’t make her beautiful. She was unwanted by everyone except her friends of the Rake Patrol. Living in fear that one day their friendship would vanish, she’d kept a ferocious grip on them. Still, Edwina had married, leaving her behind. It was only a matter of time until Faith and Sarah found their matches. Then she would have no one. She would be alone and useless, with only her talent for creating temperance slogans to keep her company. Her eyes burned at the prospect of her reality—hardly a fairy-tale existence.