Page 75 of In the Highlander's Bed

Seventeen

London

“Constance, may I come in?” Miranda asked from the other side of the bedroom door.

In response, Constance turned over in her bed, pulling her pillow over her head and pretending she didn’t hear her sister.

She’d been in London over a week and had yet to leave this room. But if someone had asked what color the drapes or walls were, she wouldn’t have been able to tell them.

For almost a fortnight she’d laid awake on her pillow, unable to sleep. Nor had she been hungry for food and drink. Her stomachcouldn’t seem to keep anything down, especially in the morning.

She knew her sisters worried. Both Charlotte and Miranda had petitioned her relentlessly to eat and drink more. Miranda was always kindly encouraging, while Charlotte’s temper often found the best of her. She would plead, cajole, and then order.

Except, ordering didn’t work with Constance any longer.

The sister they had known had changed. She blamed them for playing a hand in turning Gordon away from her. Every part of her being wanted to reject the memory of him leaving. She couldn’t escape that terrible moment. It sucked her dry, stole her will to live, and destroyed the courage that had once been so much a part of her.

Even the duke’s wife, Francesca, had joined their entreaties.

None of them understood. They thought she would recover. Recover into what? The life they chose for her? That was what she’d attempted to escape from in the beginning.

Miranda knocked once more on the door and then did not wait for an invitation to enter. They never did. Not even the maids, of which there were an overabundance. After the simplicity of life with the clan, the duke’s London mansioncame across as overly lavish. Constance missed the fresh Scottish air and going to bed tired and happy after a good day’s work.

She stared at the far wall, refusing to acknowledge Miranda in any way…then remembered there was something she wanted to say to her sister. It had haunted her through the wee hours of the night before and she could not find peace until she said, “Alex shouldn’t have cut Brian’s ear.”

There was a beat of surprised silence, and then a distinctlymalevoice said, “Brian? Brian McAllister?”

Constance shot bolt upright, moving so fast her head went dizzy. She turned and was shocked to see the Duke of Colster standing by her bed instead of her sister. “Where is Miranda?” She pulled the covers up to her shoulders to modestly hide her night dress.

“She’s outside,” he said, reaching for an upholstered chair and pulling it up to the bed. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down. “We’ll need to light the lamp soon. It’s almost dark.”

“I don’t want it lit,” she informed him. “I like the dark.”

“Your sisters are concerned,” His Grace said. The burr in his voice reminded her of Gordon’s own soft accent. “They’ve patiently come to seeyou almost every hour for the past several days. I thought I would try my hand at talking sense into you. But first, what happened to Brian’s ear?”

“Alex cut it,” Constance said, not trusting him.

The duke made a commiserating sound. “Miranda warned me that Alex can go to what we would consider excess. It’s the Shawnee side of him. He told me he’d put the willies into you all, but didn’t say what he’d done. But we Scots can be an equally bloodthirsty lot. Brian likes the ladies. He’ll have to let his hair grow so they won’t notice a piece of him missing.”

“It was terrible,” she said, sounding even to her own ears a touch self-righteous.

“Kidnapping is terrible, too. Alex was just protecting his own.” The duke paused a beat and then said, “I have word of Gordon Lachlan. Are you interested?”

All thoughts of modesty fled Constance’s mind. “Yes,” she said, leaning forward. “Tell me. What do you know? Has he contacted you?”Is he looking for me?She prayed he was. He had to be—and then she realized how terrible she must look. Her hair was unkempt and there had to be deep circles under her eyes.

The duke’s gaze dropped to the untouched supper tray on her bedside table. “I will answer you but first you must eat.”

“It’s bad news,” she whispered.

“No, not completely.” He took a glass of lemonade off the tray. “Try this.”

Constance didn’t like being pandered to, but she was also pragmatic. The easiest way to gain the information she wanted was to do as he asked.

She took a sip. The lemonade was sweet and tasted surprisingly good. She drained the glass, realizing at the same time that the walls of the room were painted a soft, dusky rose. The bedding was rose, too. Rose and cream. The carpet was a pale green over dark wood floors.

Handing the glass back to him, she demanded, “What word have you had of Gordon?”

He held up a finger, reminding her of the bargain they’d made. He took the covers off a bowl of rich, dark broth. “Oxtail. Simple but tasty.” He offered the bowl to her and picked up a spoon.