She shook her head with a sigh. She should have stuck to her guns—helping him was undoubtedly a mistake that she would live to regret, yet what else could she have done? At least she’d been brisk and surly about her assistance, so if he remembered anything at all, which was really doubtful, he’d think her help had been given grudgingly.
But help him she did. She’d even relented and removed some of his clothes once she got him into his bed, at least his shoes and coat, to make him more comfortable. And the moment his head had touched the pillow, he’d fallen asleep.
However, that didn’t last, as she discovered the first time she tried to leave him. When she’d moved away from the side of the bed, he would groan as if he were dying. And he never even opened his eyes. He just somehow sensed it. And each time it happened she thought he’d settled down enough so that she could get back to bed herself.
It wasn’t a mere ploy either, as she first suspected. For all his talk and cajolery earlier, he had been in a really wretched state. And she had attended it all, with cold compresses when his body tried to sweat out the poison, with a gentle hand when it came out quicker into a handy basin. He’d rested easier after that, yet still, when she left his side, he’d make some sound to draw her back.
She could barely keep her eyes open now. She’d had only an hour or so sleep before he’d disturbed her last night, and none afterward. But moaning and groaning from him or not, she was going to be in her bed this morning before Mary arrived to wake her. That gossipy maid of hers was not going to be given the opportunity to speculate on where Kimberly had spent the night.
She moved back across the room to stop by the bed for one last time. Lachlan’s sleep did seem to be more peaceful now. And he looked so innocent she had to smile. But even the devil, she supposed, might look innocent in sleep. And there was nothing innocent about the things this man could make her feel. Even now, she had an urge to smooth back that unruly lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead again—just as she’d done a number of times during the night. She got out of there before she gave in to the urge.
It wasn’t all that much later that Kimberly was rudely awakened, not by Mary’s gentle tones, which had come and been ignored, but once again by pounding on her wall. It brought her sitting up in bed, blinking, trying to get her eyes to open, or at least, to stay open.
It came again though, not the pounding, but a very obvious crash of some sort. Something, or someone, had definitely fallen to the floor. And it was that noise that recalled to her sluggish mind Lachlan’s condition and what had passed during the night. The fool man was up and about already, yet his head was probably coming off with the worst headache of the century, and that was why he was stumbling into things and making another God-awful racket.
Her head turned slowly to glare at the wall behind her, but she knew damn well she wouldn’t get back to sleep until it was quiet again. However, there was no rush this time as there had been last night. She wasn’t even angry. She was too tired to be angry. So she took some time to slip on her robe and a pair of slippers, and even spared a glance in the mirror above her vanity—which was a mistake.
She really did look as exhausted as she felt. Her eyes were still drooping, refusing to open fully. Her hair was in wild disarray. It was the wanton look that Lachlan had found so appealing, but Kimberly found it unladylike, and so totally unacceptable.
But a brush and a quick splash of water righted her appearance to some degree, the best she could hope for, she supposed, when all she wanted to do was crawl back into her comfortable bed. But during the few extra minutes she took, there was yet another crash next door, and some serious sounds of complaint, grunts and groans and the like. She was beginning to think that Lachlan was just falling out of his bed, albeit more than once—except, there had been that pounding against her wall again, and his bed was nowhere near the wall that separated their rooms.
She sighed, wondering how the devil she had been drafted to be his nursemaid. But there was no help for it. No one else would come to his aid so early in the morning. And where were those two clansmen who had come here with Lachlan? Sleeping off the same overindulgence in their own beds? They should be assisting their lord, not her.
Kimberly left her room before she worked herself into a real disgust. But all thoughts in that direction ended abruptly, as did her step, when she discovered Lachlan’s door wide open, and the Duchess of Wrothston standing there, biting her lips, wringing her hands, and otherwise looking quite distressed as she gazed into the room.
Moving again, quickly now, Kimberly came to stand beside Megan, but she had trouble believing what she could now witness in that room for herself. The Duke of Wrothston was in there and he was quite simply beating Lachlan senseless. And Lachlan, that idiot, wouldn’t stay down to put an end to it—if that would put an end to it. Kimberly wasn’t so sure. The duke was clearly enraged. Yet it was a moot point as long as Lachlan kept getting to his feet each time he was knocked down. And how many times had that happened already?
By the look of him, too many. His nose was bleeding, his cheeks bore the prints of Devlin’s fists. A punch to Lachlan’s belly produced one of those grunts Kimberly had previously heard through the wall. Another to his jaw sent him back to the floor again, his arm slamming against a side table, which managed to topple with him.
Kimberly winced, imagining how each pain he was receiving was likely being multiplied a thousand times by his headache. He was holding up remarkably well, all things considered, but he certainly wasn’t defending himself; he seemed to be too dazed to even know what was happening to him…and Kimberly was unable to just stand there and watch as Megan was doing.
She was definitely awake now, wide awake, and she demanded, “What, may I ask, is going on?”
Megan was startled at first, not having noticed Kimberly’s quiet arrival. But she glanced her way and tsked before she answered, “You know, I was actually starting to like that Highlander, now that he’s stopped pest—ah, well, it’s a shame he reverted to form and tried his thieving here. I am really quite disappointed, truly I am.”
Kimberly was given pause, nearly blinked, did finally gasp. “Thieving? Are you saying he has stolen something from Sherring Cross?”
Megan nodded. “Not just something, mind you, but one of our finest stallions, as well as two of the breeding mares. It’s obvious he had intentions of starting his own breeding farm, to assist in his financial difficulties, I suppose. And so unnecessary, when a wife was all that was needed to put an end to those difficulties of his.”
Kimberly was about to point out that it really was unnecessary. So why would Lachlan take that risk? But she got distracted by another crash. Lachlan had slammed into the wall next to one of the windows. Someone had flooded the room with daylight by opening the drapery, possibly Devlin before he dragged Lachlan out of bed, so he could better see to slam his fists into the Scotsman. But with the drapery open…if Lachlan had fallen back just one foot to the left, he could have gone right through that window, or at the very least, severely cut himself by breaking the glass.
Seeing that, Kimberly’s temper exploded. “Stop it this instant!” she shouted into the room, or to be more accurate, right at the duke. “Can’t you see he’s in no condition to receive such treatment? He was so foxed last night, it will be days before he is completely sober.”
When there was no immediate response from the duke, Megan added her worried tones, “Devlin, she’s right, stop it. Haven’t you noticed that MacGregor isn’t defending himself?” and turning to Kimberly in a whispered aside, “How did you know about his condition?”
Kimberly blushed, but recovered quickly and improvised, “He woke me, a number of times, with his retching, falling down, groaning. I could have sworn he was dying, he sounded so awful—and you did say he’d gone off yesterday to get foxed, so I assumed…”
“Yes, quite right and a logical deduction—Devlin, stop it, d’you hear me? You’re killing the miserable wretch.?
??
“Did I…neglect to mention…that was my…intention?” the duke huffed between blows.
Megan tsked again, but in another side whisper to Kimberly, she confided, “I believe Devlin wants to know what MacGregor did with the animals. Otherwise, he’ll have him carted off to gaol. He could possibly be made to see reason if he gets the horses back. Possibly, mind you. Although with the way he feels about that man…”
It wasn’t at all likely was what Megan had left unsaid. Not very encouraging.
“Has he bothered to ask where the horses were taken?” Kimberly thought to ask.
“Certainly, but the Scot denied any knowledge of the theft.”
“But you had proof, of course?”
“Well, yes—I suppose.” Megan frowned. “The young man who discovered the theft, one of the grooms, claims he heard a Scottish brogue just before his head was bashed. And with Lachlan’s well-known, as well as admitted, history of reaving, I’m afraid that’s all the proof my husband needed.”
It did sound bad. And Kimberly certainly had no reason to defend the man, despite the most ridiculous urge she had to do so. However, that wasn’t concrete proof by any means. A mere accent? There were other Scots on the property, including some of the servants. If the duke and duchess would think about the theft logically, it was much more likely the thief had sneaked onto the property to do his stealing and was long gone by now.
There was, of course, the fact that Lachlan obviously resented the duke, just because he was married to his true love, and so would probably have no qualms about stealing from him. There was also the straw that had been clinging to his coat, proving he’d been in a stable, though that could have been any stable, and at any time prior to his reaching his room last night.
However, from what little Kimberly knew about him, she was sure he had more honor than to steal from a man who had offered him hospitality, no matter how he felt personally. He might be despicable in some ways, but she would wager that wasn’t one of them.
Furthermore, the fact that Lachlan was a known thief did not convict him out of hand, especially since he had no need to take such a risk. Also considering his sottish condition yesterday, considering he hadn’t actually been seen taking the horses…His condition…?
“When was this theft supposed to have occurred?” Kimberly asked.
“About an hour before dawn.”
Kimberly swayed in her relief. “But he was wi—”
She stopped abruptly, horrified that she had almost said with me. There was no way she could admit that, unless she wanted to destroy her reputation completely. There had to be another way to prove Lachlan’s innocence, and now she knew he was innocent, without condemning herself.
She coughed to cover her blunder, even sputtered a bit, then finished, “—was in a wretched state, from what I could hear of it. And I’m sure he woke me with his groaning long before dawn. Actually, I’m sure it was closer to midnight the first time I heard him stumbling about in here. Are you certain of the time?”
It was the duke who answered. Apparently Lachlan had been knocked out cold by his last punch.
“My man said he checked the time before he left his room in the stable to investigate the noise that woke him. An hour before dawn, it was. Are you certain, Lady Kimberly, that it was MacGregor you heard in here, or could it have just as likely been one of his lackeys, deliberately making enough noise to wake you so you would assume it was this blackguard?”
Kimberly groaned inwardly. She couldn’t answer that truthfully either. But she was angry again, because Lachlan was lying there on the floor unconscious, severely beaten, when he was innocent.
So she said in a condemning tone, “I’m certain of one thing. I don’t see a mark on you, Your Grace, so I can only assume the Highlander there did not fight back a’tall. I can only assume that he didn’t defend himself, either because you are his host, or because you are the Duke of Wrothston, or perhaps because he had consumed more spirits than any man could tolerate and was still too foxed to understand what you were accusing him of. And in that case, which is the more likely case, he would also have been in no condition to have committed this crime.”
“Or he could have been so foxed he foolishly thought he could get away with it.”
Devlin St. James obviously wasn’t going to listen to reason. He’d found Lachlan guilty in his mind, and that was that.
However, Kimberly wasn’t about to concede now. The alternative was the truth, which could be used as a last resort, but hopefully, that wouldn’t be necessary.
“I would say more investigation is called for,” she said. “I believe I have raised doubts that can’t be easily ignored. At the very least, this matter should be postponed until Lord MacGregor sobers up completely and can answer your accusation with a clear mind.”
“Perhaps she’s right, Dev,” Megan intervened. “He really didn’t seem very clearheaded when you woke him.”
He glared at them both. He really was in no mood to postpone anything.
But he finally nodded curtly and allowed, albeit in a grumble, “Very well, I will wait to summon the magistrate. However, guards will be posted at his door. He’s not going to escape this time, by God, without paying for his actions, I promise you that.”
Kimberly sighed with relief. Well, she’d bought Lachlan some time at any rate. Now, hopefully, he would be able to defend himself to everyone’s satisfaction, without dragging her into it—that was if he could talk at all when he regained consciousness and sobriety. Those swelling and cracked lips from one of Devlin’s meaner punches suggested he might have some difficulty in that regard.
Damn, she was going to have to play nursemaid again.
26
The door opened after one brief knock. Not that Lachlan would have said anything loud enough to be heard, to keep the intruder out, when he didn’t want to disturb the lass who had fallen asleep in his arms. But he did swear beneath his breath, and again when he saw it was his cousin Gilleonan who had just barged in.
Lachlan scowled at him as an attempted warning to keep him from saying anything, but his scowl turned into a wince before Gilleonan noticed it—his face was just too battered to accommodate a scowl comfortably. And his cousin was too surprised to pay attention to it anyway. That was if he could get his eyes off of Kimberly to even notice anything else.
“What is she doin’ in here and—” Gilleonan paused to bend down so he could better see Kimberly’s face, tucked away as it was on Lachlan’s chest. “Sleepin’? D’ye ken she’s sleepin’ on ye, mon?”
Lachlan could hardly miss that fact, as he’d been sitting there holding her for more than an hour, without moving an inch for fear of waking her. They’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, after she’d managed to rouse him with her wet cloths, and she, sitting sideways, had been dabbing at one of the cuts on his lips when between one moment and the next, she’d simply nodded off to sleep.
He’d caught her just before she started to topple over—toward the floor. So she’d swayed against his side instead, dropped one arm into his lap, snuggled her head halfway onto his chest, and, after a small sigh, she hadn’t made another sound since.
But Lachlan wasn’t going to explain all that to his cousin. “Be quiet,” he mouthed.
“What?”
“Shhh!”
Gilleonan blinked, then comprehended, “Oh, aye,” he said, reverting to a whisper. “But what is she doing in here? And for that matter, what’re those two braw Sassenachs doin’ outside yer door as if they be guardin’ it?”
“Perhaps guarding it?”
Gilleonan snorted at his dry tone, but finally happened to glance at Lachlan, and that prompted a sharply indrawn breath that was quickly followed by, “Faith, who took a mallet tae yer puir face?”
Lachlan winced, this time intentionally. “It looks that bad then, does it?”
“It doesna look good, mon. Did she—”
Lachlan tried again for a scowl. “Dinna be rid
iculous.” He settled for scoffing. “’Twas our hot-tempered host—at least, I think it was.”
“Think? How could ye no’ be sure aboot the worst beatin’ ye’ve ever taken? And believe me, Lachlan, ye’ve never looked this bad.”
Lachlan half hissed, “Because I was no’ quite awake when it began, or completely sober yet, for that matter. I was seeing double, triple—”
Gilleonan’s eyes widened. “So ye did go off and get foxed? I figured as much, as angry as ye was yesterday mornin’. Punching that puir lord, and for no good reason as I could see. Knew ye’d be regretting that—”
“Let’s no’ discuss that, if you please. I canna imagine what devil got into me either. But the condition I ended up in somewhere in the wee hours o’ the night bears no description that I know of,” Lachlan said in self-disgust. “I dinna remember half o’ it, if you mun know.”
“Dinna remember?”
Gilleonan started to chuckle, but Lachlan managed a scowl finally, despite the pain it caused him, and he sobered quick enough, coughed a bit, then asked, “So why was he beatin’ on ye—och, dinna tell me ye finally bedded his duchess and he found out?”
“I did not,” Lachlan said indignantly.
“Then why?”
“I’ve a wee vague memory that he’s thinking I stole some o’ his bonny horses.”
“Ah, did ye then?”
It was a bit hard to whisper and threaten at the same time, but Lachlan managed it with, “I’m going tae be murdering you for that, Gill.”
“Och, since when can ye no’ ken I be joshin’ ye?” Gilleonan demanded.
“I could say the same.”
Gilleonan blinked, then softly chuckled. “Oh, aye, I knew that.”
That being one of Ranald’s favorite phrases, rather than Gilleonan’s, Lachlan would have grinned if it wouldn’t have hurt to do so. “I’m no’ sure about any of it, Gill, but if I’ve got guards at my door, I’m sure I’ll be hearing about it all soon enough.”