Joan Wolf Page 11

  Life just seemed more vivid and exciting around Ian. Very few refused to follow where he led. The final act that had rung down the curtain on his Cambridge career was still talked about among undergraduates five years after it had happened. Campbell had heard men boast of having been in that race; it had gone down as one of the epic escapades in university history. The fact that Ian had been the only one expelled was a measure of how accurately the authorities had understood the power of his leadership. The race had gone unnoticed in the world at large, but Campbell knew it was one of the landmarks of his own generation.

  So now he stood waiting for Ian Macdonald, a trifle angry with himself for feeling the way he did. He remembered Ian as being larger than life, he told himself. Doubtless he would find that the reality fell far short of his schoolboy memory.

  It didn’t. If anything, the Earl of Lochaber was even more overwhelming than Campbell remembered. Ian filled the doorway, his dark eyes fixed interrogatively on James Campbell. “Ardkinglas?” he said in his deep, slow voice. “My business is with the Duke.”

  “My uncle is in London, Lord Lochaber,” replied Campbell. “Perhaps I may be of assistance to you.”

  “Damn,” said Ian and came into the room. He wore buckskin riding breeches, topboots, and a coat of blue superfine that fit perfectly across his broad shoulders. There was nothing in his attire to suggest that he was anything but a well-born English gentleman.

  His face gave the lie to the subdued fashion of his clothes. It was as Campbell remembered, full of strength and vivid life and the suggestion of suppressed violence. It was not precisely a handsome face, but it was one you did not forget. “Do you expect him to return anytime in the near future?” Ian asked the slender man who was dressed like himself in ordinary riding clothes. The kilt was no longer proscribed in Scotland, but very few wore it except on dress occasions.

  “No. I believe he plans to remain in London for several months.”

  There was a silence as Ian looked speculatively at James Campbell, obviously trying to decide whether or not to deal with him in place of the absent duke. Campbell’s mouth tightened in annoyance. He did not like being made to feel insignificant. Ian’s arrogance was all the more damning, he thought, because it was totally unconscious. “If I cannot help you, my lord,” he said, an edge to his voice.

  Ian had made up his mind. “You have lands not far from here, Ardkinglas, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you bringing in sheep?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Good. If you can spare me a few minutes, Ardkinglas, I have a plan I should like to talk over with you.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” said Campbell stiffly. “Won’t you be seated?”

  * * * *

  Forty minutes later he was looking at Ian with respect on his face. “It sounds like an excellent scheme to me,” he said, “In fact, I might be interested in trying the same thing at Ardkinglas. We are not nearly so wealthy as Inverary, I’m afraid.”

  “No one is,” said Ian ruefully, and Campbell laughed.

  “You surprise me, my lord. I did not think to find in you an agrarian reformer.” Ian’s brows rose slightly, and in response to his unasked question Campbell continued, “I was at Cambridge the same time you were.”

  Ian grinned. “I take your point.” He looked more closely at Campbell. “I don’t think I remember you, Ardkinglas. Did we meet there?”

  “I was at King’s,” James Campbell said in an expressionless tone. “We didn’t meet.”

  What he did not say was that a quiet, scholarly boy who bore the name of Campbell would hardly have dared to introduce himself to the notice of Ian Macdonald.

  Ian nodded, satisfied by the spoken reply. His dark gaze looked appreciatively at the quiet figure before him. James Campbell was a good-looking young man with the typical Campbell coloring of chestnut hair and blue eyes. His six feet of agile height was disposed casually in a comfortable chair, his long fingers idly tapped a letter opener against its arm. Ian liked the steady way the other man’s eyes met his. “Do you think the duke would be interested?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do.” Campbell sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Can you go to London? The kind of backing you are looking for is best found there, you know. It would be easiest to see my uncle and then, if he agrees, see about negotiating a loan at the same time.

  “I suppose I can.” Ian smiled crookedly. But it’s the devil of a time, Ardkinglas. I’ve not been married four weeks yet.”

  “Married?” James Campbell looked surprised. “I didn’t know.” There was a pause. “Perhaps you could take Lady Lochaber with you,” he said tentatively.

  Ian found himself feeling as reluctant as Robert Sedburgh had been to take Frances to London. “Perhaps.”

  “In my experience one rarely has difficulty in getting a woman to go to London,” Campbell said good-humoredly. “At any rate I strongly suggest you go to see my uncle. In fact, I would be willing to speak to him myself on your behalf.”

  “Would you now?” Ian said slowly.

  “Yes.” Campbell leaned forward and his voice became tinged with definite enthusiasm. “The more I think about this scheme of yours, Lochaber, the more I like it. It would benefit the tenants economically and anything that brings more income in to them will naturally benefit us as landowners. Everyone would profit.”

  “If it works.”

  “If it works.” Campbell’s dark blue eyes held Ian’s. “I think it will.”

  Ian smiled and, irresistibly, James Campbell smiled back. “I think it will too, Ardkinglas. I shall see you in London, then?”

  Campbell rose. “You will. In three weeks’ time?”

  Ian held out his hand and James Campbell took it. It was a simple gesture but momentous in the history of their clans, and both men knew it. “You can get my direction from my cousin, Douglas Macdonald. He has a studio in Queen Anne’s Gate. I don’t know yet where I’ll be staying. I’ll have to talk to my wife; she is more familiar with London than I am.”

  “Oh, is Lady Lochaber English?”

  “No.” The brown eyes looked ironically at Campbell. “Perhaps you know her, Ardkinglas. Frances Stewart.”

  Campbell felt his jaw drop slightly and with an effort closed it again. “Frances Stewart? Do you mean Lady Robert Sedburgh?”

  Ian did not care to hear Frances called by that name. “Yes,” he said shortly.

  “We were introduced once in Edinburgh,” Ardkinglas said faintly, “but I doubt she would remember me.”

  “Well, I will introduce you again in London.” Ian then firmly refused all offers of hospitality by saying he hoped to make it home that day, and James Campbell watched his tall, broad-shouldered figure leave the room as easily and arrogantly as he had entered it. Campbell’s eyes were narrowed as he sat down slowly again in his chair. Then he laughed out loud and shook his head in admiration. Trust Ian Macdonald to come home and calmly walk off with the most sought-after woman in Britain, he thought. Perhaps the legend had not been wrong, after all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My hairt is subject, bound and thrall

  --ALEXANDER SCOTT

  Frances was supremely happy. She had forgotten how it was to feel this way. During the week she went about with a light step, soft-spoken and patient and joyful in all her undertakings. She and Ian’s mother had no difficulty in coming to terms. The Dowager had spoken seriously to Frances before the marriage and told her she had intended to take a house for herself and Margaret in Edinburgh. Frances had answered readily, “I think that would be a good idea, Godmama. That way if you ever feel the need to get away from us you’ll have some place to go. And you will be able to entertain at your own pleasure. But if you plan to abandon Castle Hunter for Edinburgh permanently I shall be extremely distressed.”

  Lady Lochaber had said bluntly, “It never works out, Frances, this sharing of a house. Look at the Dunkelds.”

  “My dear ma�
��am,” said Frances with real warmth, “I am not Mary Dunkeld and you are not the Dowager Lady Dunkeld. There is certainly enough to do in Castle Hunter for the two of us to keep busy and out of each other’s way.”

  As Lady Lochaber really had not wanted to leave her home she allowed Frances to talk her into staying and the result seemed to be satisfactory to all parties. Frances had lived at Aysgarth for three years with a mother-in-law with whom she had not the childhood ties that she had to her godmother. They were both anxious to get along with each other, and had mutual affection and respect to act as the foundation for their new relationship. They managed extremely well.

  The day after Ian had left for Inverary, Nell went about looking slightly lost and lonely. That evening as Frances was reading a book to her before putting her to bed Nell brought up a subject that had been on her mind for a few days. “Mama,” she said in the middle of her favorite story, “what am I supposed to call Ian?”

  They were sitting in the upstairs drawing room and Margaret was there as well, working on some embroidery. The two women’s eyes met briefly and then Frances said, “What do you mean, darling?”

  “Well, I can’t call him Papa; my papa is dead. Should I call him Ian like you do, Mama? Only Nurse told me it was rude for me to call grownups by their Christian names.”

  This was a question that had been perplexing Frances as well, and she had not come to any satisfactory conclusion. As she hesitated in answering, Margaret said, “Ian and I always called my father ‘Dada,’ Nell. I know Ian would be pleased to have you call him that if you feel you’d like to.”

  “‘Dada,’” said Nell experimentally. She looked at Frances.

  “I think that would be just fine, Nell. What do you think?”

  “I like it,” the little girl said. “It sounds Highland.”

  Margaret laughed. “It is.”

  “Finish the story, Mama,” Nell said impatiently, anxious to return to her evening ritual.

  “All right, all right,” said Frances and her smiling eyes met Margaret’s in a brief glance of gratitude before she turned once again to her daughter’s book.

  * * * *

  Frances went upstairs early that evening. It had begun to rain, but as she did not expect Ian until tomorrow at the earliest she was not concerned. She let her maid brush her hair and help her undress and then dismissed her for the night. After the door closed behind the maid, Frances was drawn irresistibly to the window. Ever since childhood she had loved to listen to the rain at night. On impulse she threw open the window and shivered as the cool, wet air poured into the room. She got her warm robe from the wardrobe and pulled a chair around so it was only a few feet away from the window. Then she curled up comfortably, her eyes on the rain as it drummed on the windowsill.

  She was not aware Ian was home until she heard the door to the room next to hers open. She knew his step instantly. Then she could hear him moving around, the deep tones of his voice as he spoke to his valet. She stayed where she was until she heard the connecting door between their rooms open and then she turned her head. “I didn’t expect you tonight. You must have gotten drenched.”

  “I did,” he replied. “It’s much nicer to be in here looking out.” He walked across the room to where she sat and stood for a moment looking down at her. Her hair had been plaited for the night and fell in a braid as thick as his wrist over her shoulder. It looked very pale against the crimson velvet of her robe. Her eyes were wide and mysterious as they gazed up at him. “I missed you,” he said, and, picking her up, sat down in the chair with her in his lap.

  Frances rested her cheek against the broad shoulder of his dressing gown. “How did it go?” she asked softly.

  “Argyll wasn’t there. I talked to his nephew, Campbell of Ardkinglas. He seemed to think the duke would be interested.” He didn’t want to tell Frances tonight of the necessity of going to London.

  “Good.” Frances too did not want to talk. They sat together in silence for perhaps ten more minutes, Ian’s cheek against her hair. Then he stood up, set her on her feet and went to close the window. He turned back. “Come, mo chridhe,” he said in Gaelic. “Let us go to bed.”

  * * * *

  Later, as Ian slept beside her, his arm heavy across her breast, Frances lay awake still listening to the rain. She felt as though there were a spell on her; as if Ian had carried her straight from the small cottage in Surrey where first he had made love to her, to this room tonight. It seemed as though she must have lain in his arms and dreamed the long years in between. The rain tonight was the selfsame rain as then and the five lost years were as nothing. She moved a little closer to him in the bed and in a few minutes she too was asleep. The next morning over breakfast, which they took together in Frances’s sitting room, he told her in detail of his visit. “Oh, Ian,” she wailed. “I hate the thought of dragging off to London now.”

  He buttered a piece of toast. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

  She stared at him. “Are you out of your mind? Do you think I’m going to turn you loose in London by yourself? Of course I’m coming.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her but held his peace. “Where do you suggest we stay, Frances? I told Ardkinglas to apply to Douglas for our direction.”

  She looked thoughtful. “We can’t stay at a hotel,” she murmured. “It wouldn’t be at all suitable for Nell.”

  “Nell!”

  “Yes, Nell. You certainly don’t think we can dump her here on your mother and take off for London for a few months.”

  ‘‘ My mother won’t mind.”

  “Nell will,” said Frances uncompromisingly. “She’ll kick up a fuss about leaving because she is having fun, but she would be far more distressed if we left her. Then she would hate you.”

  There was a little silence, then, “I see what you mean,” Ian said.

  “Good. Furthermore, I think we should take Margaret.”

  Ian stared at his wife’s serene face as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “You do?”

  “Yes. She is a beautiful girl, Ian, and she deserves to meet some interesting men. Most definitely she should come with us.”

  “How about my mother? And your father? And of course there’s always Angus the gardener. He might feel left out if we neglected to take him as well.”

  Frances gave him an enchanting smile. “Don’t be sarcastic, Ian. Surely you see that we should take Margaret?”

  Very few people were proof against that smile. “Oh, all right,” he said resignedly. “But to get back to my original question—where shall we stay?”

  “Well I always stayed at Aysgarth House before,” said Frances reflectively, “but I hardly think it would be possible to do that under the present circumstances.” She looked up from stirring her coffee, a mischievous glint in her eyes, and was startled by the suddenly grim expression that had come over Ian’s features. “I think, we should hire a house for a few months,” she said hastily. “I’m sure Douglas can find something for us. Why don’t you write to him, Ian? That way we’ll have a house when we arrive.”

  There was a pause. “Very well,” he said finally. “I suppose that would be best. Have you any idea what this little venture is likely to cost me?”

  “Enough. Houses in London don’t come cheap.” She bit her lip, then said, “Why don’t you let me help, Ian? I have money. I could pay for the London trip.”

  “We have been over this before, Frances,” he replied evenly. “Your money is yours, for you and for Nell. I won’t touch a penny of it.”

  “You didn’t feel like that five years ago,” she said stubbornly.

  “We were talking then about your mother’s money. The money you inherited from Sedburgh is quite another matter.’’

  “I don’t see why where it came from should make any difference. It is mine now.”

  He gave her a long tight-lipped stare. “I don’t care to discuss it any further.”

  “Very well,” she replied stiffly. “If
you want to be pigheaded go ahead. But it is there for you to use should you ever need it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “No,” she replied with a trace of bitterness. “I don’t suppose you will.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Albeid I knaw Of luvis law The plessur and the panis smart

  —ALEXANDER SCOTT

  They traveled to Perth and from there to London by boat. Ian had been horrified by the amount of baggage that Frances brought with her. “I moved whole armies with less equipment than that,” he said to her while staring in fascinated horror at the luggage being loaded on the carriage.

  She had giggled at the expression on his face. “You’re a married man now, and a father, my love. Life will never be the same again I’m afraid.”

  He shook his head. “I can see that.”

  But he made no more complaints. He had become completely reconciled to taking Nell the moment she had swung from his hands and called him “Dada.” To the deep delight of his wife, mother, and sister he was rapidly becoming like wax in the little girl’s hands.

  “She is going to be a terror when she grows up,” Frances confided to Margaret. “She certainly knows how to manage men.”

  Margaret laughed. “She must get it from her mother,” she retorted unsympathetically. Frances had simply raised her eyebrows and gone off to supervise some more packing.

  * * * *

  They arrived in London three weeks and two days after Ian’s conversation with James Campbell of Ardkinglas. They went first to Grillon’s Hotel where Frances, Margaret, and Nell gratefully sank into wide, comfortable beds. Ian left to seek out Douglas.

  His cousin was at home, working in his studio. It was the first time the two had met since Ian had returned from South America. They talked for half an hour before they got round to the topic that had brought Ian to London. “I rented you a house in Mount Street,” Douglas said. “It belongs to Sir Horace Cherney, but he is spending the next few months on the Continent, so it was available. The staff comes with it, so you won’t have to worry about engaging people.”