03 - Dreams of Destiny Page 8

  He wanted to make love to her.

  He had to ask the question, though, that had been hovering in his mind. “But what of the villain you were running away with? Are you carrying his child?”

  Her body immediately stiffened. She tried to push him away, but he kept her where she was.

  “Indeed I am,” she said fiercely, looking away again. “The bairn is due within the month.”

  “Do not do this to me, Gwyneth,” David said more harshly than he’d intended. He turned her face until he was looking into her eyes. He gentled his tone. “Please, ‘tis important for me to know.”

  “And would you believe anything I tell you now?”

  He gently pushed a lock of hair off her brow. He rolled to his side, releasing her in case if she wanted to go.

  “About something as important as this,” he said quietly, “of course I would believe you.”

  She immediately sat up. Without looking at him, she pulled angrily at the bits of straw covering her sleeves and skirt. She batted at the creases on her skirt and pushed herself to her feet.

  “The answer is no,” she said over her shoulder. “I am carrying no one’s child.”

  ****

  The candles had been snuffed out. The window had been left wide open. The only light in the room was the reflected glow of the moon coloring the floor beside the bed.

  Gwyneth was back to the same room she’d been trying to escape from before. She was lying on the narrow, musty bed, and fighting a very different feeling than the one she’d been struggling with before she’d gone out the window.

  David was here, too. From her place, she could see him lying on the thin blanket he’d spread by the door. He’d discarded his jacket. His shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his tanned skin and curls of chest hair. One hand was tucked under his head, and his gaze was focused on a ceiling beam.

  He confused her badly. She wanted to hate him. He gave her so many reasons. She could not stand his meddling, for one. But the way he’d kissed her tonight! This was no mistake caused by excessive drinking. He knew who lay under him. He knew who it was that he was kissing. The fact that he was physically attracted to her made Gwyneth burn with excitement, in spite of herself. Those few moments of lying tangled with him on the bed of straw was perhaps the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. This was David, after all.

  His question, though, had brought her tumbling back to reality. She could have lied about carrying another man’s child. In fact, if she’d only been able to go through with the deceit, he might have escorted her to Gretna Green and then remained to make certain Sir Allan married her. But she couldn’t.

  Gwyneth understood David. She understood his family. She knew what they had gone through and how they had suffered. She could not lie to him, just as she could never bring another scandal to their door. They’d had enough to last any family a lifetime. Emma had seen to that.

  David rolled to his side, and he found her awake. “You cannot sleep, either?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why?”

  “You have been snoring too loudly.”

  He smiled. “I have a perfect remedy for passing the time.”

  An enticing warmth ignited in her belly and moved with tingling speed to the juncture of her legs. She drew her knees onto her chest and pulled the sheet more tightly around her shoulders.

  “I think not, thank you.” She pretended a yawn. “I can manage just fine by myself.”

  He chuckled as she closed her eyes. A few minutes later, she heard him roll again onto his back. She opened her eyes. He was staring at the ceiling again.

  He would need only a trace of encouragement. And how much she would love it if he…

  No, she told herself, rolling over and trying to ignore the unsettling ache within her. It was desire, she knew it, and it seemed to be growing stronger with each passing hour…with each passing minute.

  This feeling was one that she tried to capture in certain scenes in her stories. She never imagined it to be so enticing in real life. She never thought it could be so strong.

  ****

  Over the years, there were many people in London who had become acquainted with Augusta Douglas, the Countess of Cavers. A woman with pleasing looks and extravagant tastes, she attended many social gatherings but also had many friends to accompany her to functions that she might otherwise have not attended. Augusta’s place within the ton was such that upon the death of her daughter Emma last year, she bragged to have received over five hundred letters of sympathy.

  The one thing that Augusta was quite proud of, but never boasted openly about, was her awareness of everything that was happening in society. There was not a secret anywhere from London to Bath that she did not get wind of. And she took great satisfaction in the fact that she had trained her servants well to keep their ears open and to come to her immediately. People talked, gossip spread, and the rarest kinds of news were sure to reach her. She even heard that Lady North, the wife of the Prime Minister, had once told a friend that if Lady Cavers were in league with the French, fat old Louis would never have lost Quebec. A very satisfactory report, indeed.

  Despite Augusta’s penchant for being in the know, the news that arrived this morning was both surprising and distressing. She and Lady Lennox were taking breakfast in the morning room of the country house her friend kept in the hills near Bristol. Augusta’s personal maid entered and quietly relayed the information that Gwyneth was back in London only a day after she’d left. The more upsetting part of this news was that Gwyneth had been accompanied by David Pennington and that they had departed inexplicably in a coach together.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what that young man is doing back in England, but I do not like it,” she complained to her friend, pushing her chocolate away. Unable to quell the rush of heat her temper had brought on, she snapped open her fan and waved it in agitation before her face. “The last I heard, he was with his regiment in Ireland. He has no business in calling on Gwyneth. I cannot imagine how the two of them could have possibly connected in London. Gwyneth was not planning on attending any parties or receiving any visitors. She told me herself that she was leaving directly for Edinburgh the day after I left. She was going to remain there unil I arrived and from there we would travel together to Greenbrae Hall. So what, I’d like to know, is she doing back to London…and with someone like him as the escort?”

  Still fanning herself, she rose to her feet and walked to the window for some air.

  “I see no reason to worry so much, my dear,” Lady Lennox said soothingly. “There could be hundreds of explanations for why Gwyneth returned to your townhouse when she did—and I assure you all of them understandable. As you have told me yourself many times, she is a very responsible young woman. And to my way of thinking, if there are any gentlemen who might be escorting her about town, who would be better suited than Captain Pennington. I have only had occasion to see him once or twice over the past several years, but he is quite a catch if—”

  “The man is a Pennington.” Augusta spat out the name as she turned away from the window. She touched her forehead and found beads of perspiration. She was so upset that she was becoming feverish. Or maybe this was more of those incomprehensible flashes of heat that she’d been afflicted with more and more lately. No, she decided it must be due to the upset that Gwyneth was causing her. “I for one have had enough of that family. I would not care if he were to become the ward of King George himself. I tell you the way the whole lot of them have been treating me has been simply horrid. They ignore me completely. And the way they neglect the memory of my daughter…’tis simply unconscionable. Well, no Pennington will ever get his paws on Gwyneth’s fortune, let me tell you. And between us, I believe that is exactly what they are all about. That old Methuselah, Beatrice, is surely behind this whole thing…scheming to take control of Greenbrae Hall and add it to the Pennington holdings. Since my poor Emma didn’t inherit the estate, I always knew ‘twas just a m
atter of time before she’d send another of those young rogues after it.”

  Lady Lennox sipped her chocolate and sent a doubtful glance in Augusta’s direction of the edge of her cup. “Greenbrae Hall and everything that goes with it is a pittance in comparison to what that family is worth. With all of their wealth, my dear, do you really think they’d even bother—”

  “Wealth?” she snapped at her hostess. “What value does wealth provide to a family so riddled with depravity? That family is the embodiment of scandal. Just because Lyon Pennington has a title and ten thousand a year, does that excuse him from murdering my daughter?”

  “Really, my dear. Those…those were only rumors. No one saw him do it. And think of the way he was injured himself.”

  “I’ve seen better staged injuries at Drury Lane,” she scoffed. “How else could he be back on his feet and walking less than a year later? And married again, too. Why, they didn’t even wait a respectable period of mourning after Emma’s death. Imagine, giving the title that belonged to my daughter to a plain-faced, slave-loving, impoverished woman. Why, he and his wife are already expecting a child, and my poor Emma is not even cold in her grave!”

  Augusta took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the tears that spilled on her cheeks. She was relieved when Lady Lennox rushed to console her.

  “You are still grieving, my dear. Time is the healer of all wounds. You should not torment yourself with such thoughts. You must let go of the past. You must try to forget.”

  “How can I when another Pennington is obviously forcing himself back into my life?” She turned to the window again, shedding more tears. “I wanted to be rid of Greenbrae Hall last year after Emma’s death, sell it off, be done with the memory of it…but Gwyneth would not let me. ‘Tis hers, you know. My late husband was so worried about his precious niece’s future that he totally neglected to look after his own wife.”

  Her friend sat her down on the settee near the window. “You are distraught. You mustn’t give in to these feelings. You told me yourself that you were left well provided for, my dear. You live the same lifestyle than you did before Lord Douglas passed away. You have not suffered in that way, nor should you.”

  “That is only because Gwyneth is not married, yet. I am forced to rely on her charity, her servants, her cast off clothing…” She impatiently waved away the rest of what she was going to say. “Charles left her at least three times what he left me. Tell me what is fair about that?”

  Lady Lennox, about ten years older and a widow herself, sat down beside her and gave Augusta’s hand a gentle pat. “I am lost myself at how men’s minds work. But you are allowing too much to depress you, and I believe you should stop worrying about what was done. Remember that Gwyneth cares for you and respects you like a mother. Whatever she has is yours…though I know you have your own income. Still, Gwyneth is not one to deprive you of anything now or ever.” She gentled her tone. “I would have gladly forfeited everything…well, nearly everything…if I had someone as loving as that young woman to look up to me as a mother. Look at all you have, my friend. You are not alone. You will never be.”

  “You are right about her, of course.” Augusta wiped her tears and nodded. “She is a goodhearted girl. But that is why I am so worried about her. She is too trusting, especially when it comes to those vile Penningtons.”

  “You do not know what the circumstances were that brought Gwyneth and Captain Pennington together like that,” Lady Lennox said soothingly. “The two of them could have already gone their separate ways. You might be fretting over nothing.”

  “I might be,” Augusta said reflectively. She rose to her feet and looked sadly at the breakfast she had no desire to eat. “But the worry will not allow me to remain here. I fear I must desert you and journey north in pursuit of her. My mind will absolutely not rest until I know what is happening to my innocent niece.”

  “You are in no condition to travel without a companion.”

  “I have my servants.”

  “No, my dear. You need a friend.” Lady Lennox took Augusta’s hand. “We shall travel together to London, as Gwyneth might still be there. But if we do not find her there, then we shall find another friend who can escort you to Scotland.”

  “You are too, too kind, my good friend.” Augusta dabbed at more tears before tucking the handkerchief in her pocket. “But I am causing you too much trouble.”

  The older lady patted Augusta’s hand gently. “My dear, this is what friends are for.”

  ****

  Throughout the rest of the summer, his infatuation turned to hurt and then anger. Jealousy battered away at him. He could not escape it. He could not escape Emma. She was everywhere, even haunting his dreams. i> span>

  There were other times when he again found Emma and David kissing each other. In the stables. In the deer park. On the bluffs overlooking the Tweed.. Their swims in the loch or in the river no longer appeared to him to be so innocent. She made certain that he knew where she had been, and with whom she’d been alone.

  He was not rising to her bait, though. She was playing a game—trying to punish him for pushing her away. He knew she expected him to take out his frustration on David, to challenge him and fight him. But he wouldn’t. He knew David had as little to do with all of this as he did himself. No, this was Emma’s doing.

  Besides, he was happy where he was. He had a home. He had been given a second family. He even had the possibility of a good future. He had much more now than his own family had ever given him. And he was not about to give it up. Not for Emma. Not for anyone.

  With his mother gone, his father, Sir William, had long ago given up caring for his two sons. Deep in debt after decades of drinking and gambling and womanizing, Sir William was seen occasionally in London. At sixteen, Walter’s older brother had boarded a ship for the American colonies. The younger boy’s salvation had been his father’s half-sister, Beatrice Archibald Pennington, the Countess of Aytoun.

  No, indeed. Walter Truscott was not about to ruin the chance he’d been given by this family years ago. He was determined to not become a pawn in Emma’s hand.

  CHAPTER 6

  “The doctor ye sent from Melrose arrived before suppertime, Mr. Truscott,” the cotter’s wife explained as Walter dismounted from his horse. It had rained most of the night, and his boots were covered with mud from his morning’s travels. He scraped what he could from them. “The old gentleman looked in on her and said the bairn was coming…as if I couldn’t have said so myself. He said it looked to be far too early, though. Either that or the bairn would just be a wee thing. The midwife came before dark, and we stayed with the poor lass through the night. ‘Twas to nae avail, sir.”

  “What happened?” he asked impatiently, fearing the answer.

  As the woman shook her head, he walked quickly to the open doorway of the cottage. The place where she had lay was empty. The cotter’s wife had cleaned out all traces of the visitor.

  “The wee lassie was stillborn,” she said, standing at his side.

  He leaned a hand against the doorjamb. Giving birth was risky business. Many healthy and well-to-do women died in childbirth every day. He should have known someone like her would have little chance of surviving. What he couldn’t understand was how she had cast a spell on him so quickly. Last night, in his rooms at Baronsford, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her. All morning, as he went about his business around the estate, he’d found himself continuing to worry about her.

  And it had all been for nothing.

  “We asked the poor lass about He leanedsband or other kin, but she’d say naething of them to us. So my Jamie dug her a wee grave right outside the kirkyard of the auld ruined kirk. Buried the bairn in unconsecrated ground, we did. It would’ve been much better for the young mither, though, if she’d have stayed away. In her condition—”

  Truscott turned away from the door. “The woman is still alive?”

  “Aye, sir. For now, at least.”

  “Wher
e is she?”

  The cotter’s wife pointed along the path. “She went up to the kirkyard… just o’er the brae. I warned her about the fever and the need for her to be staying put, but she’d have none of it. The lass got up and took herself off to the bairn’s grave. There was nae holding her, sir. I went up there myself before noon to look on her and to take her some water.” The woman’s voice cracked. “’Twould break yer heart, to be sure, to see her just lying there keening and moaning o’er the wee pile of dirt, rocking herself like she had the bairn in her arms and weeping all the while.”

  Walter started for the hill.

  “I have bedding laid for her in the shed if ye can bring her back, sir,” the old woman called after him. “Yer doctor from Melrose said she should stay put. The lass has eaten naething and drunk less since the bairn came.”

  It took only a few minutes to reach the base of the hill. This young woman—whatever her name was and wherever she came from—was still alive. Suddenly, he felt like a man who had been given a second chance. He didn’t know for what purpose, but the feeling was real and strong within him.

  Walter’s shadow lay on the hill ahead of him as he climbed through patches of heather and long grass. Beyond the rock-studded crest he could see the top of the ancient gray stone of the deserted kirk’s squat tower. Past the tower, heavy clouds of even darker gray were rolling toward them.

  It was a desolate place, that kirkyard on the hill. A low stone wall separated the consecrated ground from the vast moors of the Border highlands. A stunted, twisted pine stood alone against the rising wind, and a chill went through him. It was a cold wind for this time of year, and Walter knew the rain would be cold, as well.