Dearly Beloved
by
Mary Jo Putney
New York Times Bestselling Author
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1990, 2013 by Mary Jo Putney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Thank You.
Praise for
Mary Jo Putney
and her novels
Dearly Beloved
NJRW Golden Leaf Winner
"Marvelous characters and excellent plotting... charming and wonderfully romantic."
—Affaire de Coeur
"Wonderfully crafted... articulate and perceptive... sets a new standard of excellence for historical romances."
—Romantic Times
To my fishy friend John,
who was the first one to notice that I could tell stories
Prologue
Isle of Mull, Scotland, 1799
The young man in the corner of the smoky taproom drank alone. It was not just that he was solitary: a nearly palpable wall separated him from the islanders. It had been over fifty years since Bonnie Prince Charlie had led the clans to destruction on Culloden Moor, but Scots have long memories. Though their hospitality was legendary, none felt compelled to seek out a man who was obviously rich and English, particularly not a man whose cool gray-eyed glance conveyed no welcome.
Being alone bothered the Honorable Gervase Brandelin not at all; he preferred it. He swallowed the last of his raw Scotch whiskey, feeling it burn even though it followed numerous earlier drafts. There was nothing subtle about either the spirit or the effect it produced, but after a month in the Highlands and Islands he'd begun to develop a taste for it.
The tavern was replete with the signature scents of farmers and fishermen and the acrid, eye-stinging bite of burning peat. Glancing across the low-ceilinged taproom, Gervase caught the eye of the barmaid and signaled for another whiskey. He was drinking too much, but after a day of riding through Mull's relentless rain he was in the mood for warmth and comfort. This inn was an unexpected find, its English owners having created an un-Scottish air of conviviality.
The barmaid sauntered over to him. She could have left a bottle at the beginning of the evening, but then she wouldn't have had an excuse to parade her wares. Every time she poured a new drink, her bodice was pulled lower and the swing of her hips was more deliberate. "Will yer lordship be wanting something more?" she asked, her tone suggesting a wealth of possibilities.
Gervase responded with a half-smile, enjoying the warmth spreading through his loins. Their courtship, if it could be termed such, had been progressing for the last two hours. Gervase's man Bonner would have mentioned that the master was heir to Viscount St. Aubyn. The remark ensured the maximum in deference and service for both man and master. It would also add a few crowns to the price of bed and board, but both were still cheap by London standards.
"What more do you have to offer?" he asked lazily, brushing his dark hair back, grateful that it had finally dried. He had begun to wonder if anything in the Hebrides was ever dry.
Taking her time, she leaned across him as she poured more of the dark amber whiskey into his glass. Her full breast brushed his cheek and shoulder, and he could smell the musky, not overclean scent of her body. Gervase preferred a more refined kind of doxy, but he hadn't had a woman in weeks and this one was clearly available and willing. The girl was roundly attractive and he ran an appreciative hand down the curve of her hip.
Confident of her allure, she smiled provocatively. "We have anything you might want."
His gaze fell to her low-cut bodice, where half-exposed breasts were ripe for the plucking. "Anything?"
"Anything." The barmaid clearly had experience and enthusiasm for this sort of private business, which should make for a rewarding night.
Under the clatter of tankards and conversation, Gervase asked softly, "Do you know which room I'm in?"
"Aye."
"What time will you be through here?"
"Another hour, my lord. Will it be worth my while to visit you then?" Her tone managed to imply that while tall, dark, and handsome fellows like him were exactly to her taste, she was a poor working lass who needed to be practical.
Expecting this, Gervase had a gold coin ready to flip to the girl. She caught and hid it expertly before anyone else in the taproom could have noticed. "Will that suffice as a... token of my esteem?"
Her smile revealed strong, irregular teeth. "Well enough... as a beginning."
The price of the barmaid was inflated even more than the whiskey and the room, but since he was in a mood to buy, he raised his glass with a half-smile. "Until later, then."
Her hips moved in lazy circles as she strolled away. Gervase enjoyed the show, wondering if she could duplicate that motion in bed, then tossed back half the whiskey. This would be the last one, he decided, or he would be in no condition to avail himself of his purchase later.
* * *
The barmaid poured ale behind the bar, a satisfied expression on her face. Betsy MacLean, a cousin and the inn's kitchen maid, recognized the look. "Made an arrangement with the Sassenach lord, Maggie?"
Maggie MacLean smiled with satisfaction. "Aye, I'll be visiting him later. Handsome devil, isn't he? And generous."
Betsy looked across the room at the Englishman. He was a good-looking lad, no denying, lean with broad shoulders and a spare, muscular frame that looked incapable of fully relaxing. His lordship was in his early twenties, dressed with a simple, expensive elegance seldom seen in this remote corner of Britain. Though his features were regular, to her they were set too sternly to be considered handsome. His face gave nothing away, and in this crowd of drinkers he looked cool and distant.
"I dunno, Maggie, I seen him earlier close up and those gray eyes of his gave me a cold grue. You can have 'im. I like that man of his better."
"Have you been busy in that direction, Betsy?" Maggie asked, her eyes still fixed on her conquest.
"Aye. We're meeting later. He may not pay as much, but at least when he looks at me I feel warm, not cold."
Maggie snorted. "His handsome lordship's just a man, isn't he? I know what he wants, and he'll have to please me to get it."
"Suit yourself." Betsy shrugged and returned to the kitchen.
* * *
Gervase finished his whiskey, then decided to go out for fresh air. His head spun dizzily when he stood. He had stopped none too soon; another two drinks and he'd have been under the table.
The rain had ended, but even in mid-May there was a cold damp bite in the night air, and he shivered as h
e stepped outside. Ambling the hundred yards to the water's edge, he listened to the soft slap of waves on the narrow shingle beach. Behind him the sounds of revelry gradually faded as the locals headed back to their stark stone cottages.
His present mood of not unpleasant melancholy was a great improvement on the taut anger that had driven him away from his father in Edinburgh. In retrospect, Gervase realized that he should have delayed informing Lord St. Aubyn that the viscount's only son and heir had bought a commission in the army and was about to leave for India. By speaking up too soon, he had earned three weeks of constant hectoring as he and his father toured the far-flung St. Aubyn estates. The viscount allowed that the army was all right for expendable younger sons, but was no place for the heir to the enormous St. Aubyn wealth and responsibilities.
Since Gervase had inherited enough money from his mother to do as he pleased, Lord St. Aubyn had no leverage to change his mind. The two men were joined only by blood and duty; affection played no part on either side. It would have been pleasant if the older man had expressed a more personal interest in his son's continued existence, but that question had never arisen.
Gervase leaned over to scoop up pebbles and almost lost his balance. Straightening, he swore softly as he resolved not to underestimate the power of the local whiskey again. The benefits of self-discipline had appealed to him from an early age and he disliked the loss of control induced by too much alcohol. Not that this remote corner of the Hebrides presented many threats, but he preferred keeping his weaknesses at bay.
How long had he been outside... perhaps three-quarters of an hour? It was late and the taproom was silent behind him. Time to return to his room; perhaps the buxom barmaid was waiting.
The inn was claustrophobic after the fresh night air, and he felt another wave of dizziness as he climbed the stairs and tried to find his way back to his room. Damn the whiskey! The stone building had been built at random over several centuries, and was a rabbit warren of haphazard corners and uneven floors. The landlord had left him an oil lamp in the entry hall, and odd shadows swayed as Gervase carried the lamp upstairs.
When the upper hall split, he had to stop and think which direction to take. His tour of Scotland had encompassed other rambling inns much like this one, and they ran together in his mind. After a moment's thought he turned right, fumbling the iron key into the lock when he reached the room at the end of the hall. Either the crudeness of the hardware or his own jug-bitten state made the lock difficult, and the key required considerable jiggling before the door would open.
Any worry that the whiskey had inhibited his ability to function disappeared at the sight of the rounded form waiting in the bed. With a surge of anticipation, Gervase set the lamp on the small bedside table and quickly stripped off his outer clothes. The barmaid was dozing when he slipped under the blanket. She wore only a thin lawn shift, and as he ran his hand down her body, Gervase was dimly aware that the girl seemed less voluptuous than he had expected. But she was also cleaner, and her fresh female scent increased his arousal.
The reasoning part of his mind was almost totally disabled by lust and whiskey, and he hoped she would waken quickly since he was in a hurry. Surely the down payment he'd given the doxy entitled him to her conscious participation; she'd seemed warm and willing enough downstairs. This first time wouldn't last long, but there was a whole night before them and he would rather she didn't lie there like a poleaxed steer.
As he pulled the shift above her waist, he was glad to see her eyes opening. He leaned over for a kiss, and her soft lips parted easily under his, though her reaction was drowsy and without expertise. As his hand slid between her thighs, the slight body stiffened under him and began moving, inflaming him to the point where he no longer thought at all. He began kissing his way down her neck, and as he did, she twisted violently and screamed.
Her first cry was a breathless gasp, but she gained her wind and let loose with a high-pitched, mindless shriek so close to his ear that he thought the drum would shatter. Cursing himself for not taking the time to waken her properly, Gervase lifted his head and said soothingly, "Relax, sweetheart, it's just me. Quiet down before you wake everyone in the inn."
He tried to kiss her again as the one guaranteed way of quieting her, but the girl twisted her head away for another scream. He realized that the body under his was thin, not at all like the ripely curving barmaid.
He was just beginning to recognize that something was horribly wrong when the door burst open and a harsh, angry voice filled the room. "Ye filthy, rutting beasts!"
Gervase whipped sideways away from the girl, turning to face the intruder. The entrance to the room was blocked by a tall rawboned man dressed all in black.
As Gervase stared in shock, the whiskey slowing his reflexes, the innkeeper and his plump wife appeared in the hallway behind the intruder, both of them wearing hastily donned robes and appalled expressions.
The black-clad man's hoarse breathing filled the room. In one hand he held a candle and in the other was a cocked pistol. The weapon alone would have commanded caution, but what transfixed Gervase was the man's eyes. The whites were visible all around the dark irises and the gaunt middle-aged face shone with the unhealthy glow of a furious fanatic.
For an endless moment the mad eyes raked the scene, finding some obscure satisfaction in it. Beside Gervase, the girl's screams subsided to gulping sobs as she gripped the blankets tight around her, her dark hair obscuring her face.
"So ye succumbed to her whorish lures. She's been my punishment, Mary has." The man in black stalked toward the bed, his Scottish accent adding rolling power to his denunciation. "My name is Hamilton and I'm an anointed minister of the Lord. I've done my best to keep my daughter pure, but even my prayers can't save a female who was damned before she was born. I've seen how she looks at men, how they sniff around her. She's a bitch in heat, sent to tempt men to their doom. God knows I've tried to save her from her own vile nature, but no more. Now she's yours."
The voice dropped to a harsh whisper and the dark figure repeated, "Aye, she's yours," with vicious satisfaction. He stopped by the bed, looming so near that a hot spatter of candle wax scalded Gervase's chest. Oddly, Hamilton's clothing was that of a gentleman, in spite of the severe cut and color.
Gervase's mind was a jumble of sexual frustration and whiskey-sodden confusion. For the last ten years nightmares had haunted him, and he briefly wondered if this was another. But the self-proclaimed cleric prodded him with the pistol, and the steel barrel was too cold and hard to be a dream.
"Oh, yes, she's yours, my pretty lord." The words were almost caressing. Then he exploded, "You whoreson aristocrat! You couldn't control your lust and now she's yours for life, in all her corruption." The vicar was so close that Gervase could see spittle on his lips as he gloated. "You deserve each other, you do, and I'll be free to live a godly life again."
Fear began to clear Gervase's mind, closely followed by fury. "For God's sake, man, I don't know how this female got into my bed, but it was none of my doing. Your little trollop is as intact as when I found her. If she's your daughter, get her the hell out of here."
The man's eyes shone and the cocked pistol stayed centered on Gervase's heart. "Oh, no, you whoreson," he said, his voice harsh and uncanny. "You'll marry her. She may have the soul of a slut, but in the eyes of the world she's an innocent."
The madman paused to draw a breath, then continued with heavy sarcasm, "Even gentlemen such as you are not permitted to despoil gently bred girls. It's no' my fault you succumbed to her sly, insinuating ways. You'll marry her and you'll do it now, this very hour. And then I'll be free of her."
The words snapped the scene into nightmare focus and Gervase realized two inescapable facts. First, Hamilton was quite insane, a fanatic obsessed by sex and sin. And secondly, with the cunning of his madness, he had very cleverly trapped the Englishman in a compromising situation.
Gervase cursed himself for his stupidity. The only worldl
y caution his father had ever given was to beware of entrapment: rich young men with more lust than sense were vulnerable to the schemes of those who wanted to share their wealth. It was one reason Gervase limited his roving to round-heeled females like the barmaid. Wellborn girls were dangerous.
The barmaid must have cooperated in the plot. She had been very bold with her lures. Once he took the bait, she had only to step aside, doubtless for more money than she would have received for a routine carnal transaction. Since he expected his bed to be occupied, he hadn't thrown this other girl out when he'd found her. Something similar had happened once at a country house, but he'd been sober, not expecting company, and had gotten rid of the bitch before her mother could "happen" upon them.
Gervase glanced across the bed at the girl whose screams had triggered the trap. She was playing the role of outraged virgin to the hilt, her face invisible behind a dark tangle of hair from which artistic little sobs still emerged. Her father had surely planned the whole business, and the sight of the man's obscene pleasure in his handiwork destroyed the last shreds of Gervase's control. Damning the consequences, he leaned forward to grab the pistol with both hands and twist it from Hamilton's grasp.
The vicar was caught off-guard and Gervase was able to wrench the pistol away. The trigger was spring-operated and the weapon fired, jerking violently under Gervase's hands and sending the ball into the bed by his side. If the angle had been slightly different, half his chest would have been blown away.
Continuing his forward velocity, Gervase rolled off the bed and onto his feet, glad that he hadn't removed his drawers. He was at enough of a disadvantage without being stark naked as well. The pistol was an expensive weapon, elegant and deadly, the sort carried by a gentleman in London's meaner streets. An odd choice for a Hebridean madman. Gervase hurled it across the bedchamber to a corner where it would threaten no more.