Page 19 of I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot

Some part of his brain, or maybe it was the brain between his legs, asked him why he had not just taken what was offered and been done with it. But he refused to listen. Grace had not believed him when he gave his word. She had insulted him and that was why he was taking himself off for the day like a sulky wee lad.

It might also be because she was just too bloody tempting.

*

Lord Kilsyth was already waiting for Rory when he arrived to keep his appointment that evening. The club was subdued in tone with lowered voices and discreet service, and the few glances sent Rory’s way were curious rather than judgmental. After skulking about all day, he had gone home to change and was wearing beige pantaloons and a green jacket rather than a kilt. He didn’t expect to be stared at unless word had spread about his unconventional marriage.

“The food is very good,” Kilsyth said, as they were shown to their table in the dining area. “And it is usually quiet here. These days I find myself preferring quiet to chaos.”

“So do I.” Rory surprised himself by agreeing and was also surprised to realize that that was the truth. He had expected to throw himself into every mischief he could when he came to London, and so he had, but right now he just wanted to be left in peace to contemplate his situation. Who would have thought his good deed would grow into such a moral problem for Rory, the least moral man he knew?

Once the meal was served and they had sated their hunger, the conversation turned from the weather to personal matters. Rory discovered that Kilsyth was a widower.

“My wife died nearly five years ago,” his companion said. “Afterward, I thought I would never rejoin the human race, but what they say is true: Time heals. My daughter has grown up and no longer requires my interference in her life, although I love her dearly and I am sure she is fond of me. For a time I tried to interest myself in local politics, but I found it boring beyond belief. How many meetings can one attend with fellows discussing the boundaries of their land or poachers? I felt as if I was moldering away and made up my mind to come to London and resume my life here. And so here I am.”

Rory was not surprised by Kilsyth’s bereavement. It explained the other man’s somber nature, and his liking for quiet places. “I am sorry to hear about your wife,” he said, knowing he sounded awkward. He was not used to offering condolences. His friends were young enough not to have experienced much in the way of loss. The idea of losing one of his parents was unthinkable, but he knew that one day it would happen.

“Thank you.” Kilsyth smiled and sipped his wine.

“Do you think . . . That is, are you planning to marry again?” Rory winced, wondering if he had overstepped the mark.

Kilsyth grimaced. “She was the love of my life,” he said starkly. “At this point, I cannot imagine ever feeling that way again, and honestly, I do not want to. It is just too painful to lose one’s other half. Perhaps in time I will heal enough to consider it, but to love so deeply . . . I wonder sometimes whether the pain is worth it.”

As a proponent of the free and easy lifestyle, Rory could not imagine ever being so attached to one woman that he could not bear to live without her. To be in perpetual mourning. Was such a thing even possible? Not for him, he told himself arrogantly. And if a vision of Grace naked and in the moonlight flashed into his head, he pushed it decisively out again. Lust, he reminded himself, was not love.

“My marrying Grace is nothing like your own situation,” he blurted out. “After the duel, when I went to Ormsby’s house, I saw that she was in desperate need of someone to rescue her from her father. I agreed to do the rescuing, but I doubt I am the sort of savior she needs.”

Kilsyth considered his words. “Too late now,” he said drolly. “And why are you not what she needs? You took her away from that wretch Ormsby, didn’t you? I’m sure you can muddle along together. Not all marriages are like mine—love matches. Why can’t you learn to rub along together? You might see her at breakfast every morning and then not again until breakfast the next morning. Wouldn’t that suit you both?”

Rory knew that was true. They could be married and yet indifferent strangers. He wasn’t sure why he was struggling with the concept of marriage to Grace when he had never planned to be a proper husband to her. It was as if her appearance in his bed had thrown his whole life into chaos and he couldn’t seem to get past that.

“I think she wants more,” he admitted gloomily. “I mean, she wants us to be properly married and not just giving the appearance of it.”

Kilsyth stared at him for a moment and then burst into laughter. “You are in a fix then, MacKenzie,” he said.

After that they moved on to less personal matters, and by the time they rose and went their separate ways, Rory admitted he had enjoyed himself very much. It was pleasant to talk to a man who was so very different from himself. Was he maturing? At twenty-four, he considered himself grown up, but maybe he still had a way to go.

As he walked home to his aunt’s house, he remembered some of the exploits he had got up to at home. So much foolishness. At the time it had seemed important to sow as many wild oats as he could, to prove he was nothing like Callum or Donal. But now he discovered that instead of feeling proud about those times, he felt uncomfortable. It was as though when he looked back, his sight had cleared, and he was seeing the past through different eyes.

What of that time he had slept with the innkeeper’s sister and the innkeeper had come home unexpectedly? Rory had had to climb out of the second-story window, risking life and limb. As he fled, he had been sure he would feel shotgun pellets in his arse, but somehow he had escaped with only a few bruises and an exciting tale to tell his friends. It had felt like a great adventure, but he had always feared his parents would hear of it. He could imagine the disappointed looks on their faces. He’d told himself they knew what he was like and so they shouldn’t be surprised, but now the memory came back to him with a hefty dose of shame.

And why was he thinking of these things now? It must be London, he decided. He was a stranger in this city and he was out of sorts with himself. If he were at home then everything would be as it should be, and he would never have begun to delve so deeply into his actions and reactions. Only now that he had started, he could not seem to stop. He didn’t like it; he was not usually an introspective man. And he didn’t like what he was discovering as he dug deeper.

By the time he had reached Aunt Jennie’s house in Mayfair, he was even considering going out again. The man he had been only a week ago would have been eager to experience another night on the town, but somehow he just didn’t feel like that man. Not anymore. And that led to more deep thinking, because why? Was this change in him really so sudden, or had he been experiencing discontent for a while and just refused to consider what it meant?

The longcase clock in the hall was yet to strike midnight, and although the house was quiet and everyone else in bed, Rory felt restless. Would Grace try to sneak into his bed again? Once again, he remembered her body against his and the kisses they had shared. Rory didn’t trust himself to resist her a second time. Maybe he should pull some piece of furniture across his door to keep her out? A moment later he was laughing aloud at the very idea that he, Rory MacKenzie, was going to barricade himself inside his own bedchamber because a woman wanted him to tup her. His laughter faded. Or was he simply unable to resist the temptation she presented?

There was a noise.

It was coming from what his aunt loosely termed the library, which was in fact a sitting area with some bookshelves. There it was again, a rustling sound, and then a thump as if someone had dropped something. Rory knew his uncle was still at sea, busy with his latest trading venture, and his aunt was a sound sleeper. Was it Bothwell in there? Aunt Jennie had said something about that vicious brute going missing recently. Or could this be an intruder intent on stealing his aunt’s treasures?

He rather fancied some rough and tumble; it would help clear the cobwebs from his mind. Before Rory could think twice, he was striding over to the door and flinging it open.

There was a candle set on a round table, throwing a little light about the room. Enough light that he could see Grace was kneeling on the floor, holding a book in her hands. She was looking up at him, her dark eyes huge, her hair loose about her, and wearing a white nightgown that made her look like a ghost. A very beautiful and fetching ghost. Other than the nightgown, she wasn’t wearing a great deal, just a knitted shawl tucked around her shoulders.

For a moment they simply stared at each other.

Then Grace swallowed. “I was looking for something to read,” she explained quietly. Her gaze was watchful, as if she expected him to accuse her of accosting him. “I—I couldn’t sleep.”