gave one tremendous wrench and somersaulted back onto the floor with the pincers, holding the decayed tooth clutched triumphantly in one hand.
The earl gave a great groan of relief. “Och, Morag, my love, my precious,” he cried. “Naebody could ha’ done that like you.” And Morag laughed with pleasure at being able to help him.
Lord Toby had gone to Morag’s room and had found it empty. He stood in the corridor, frowning. She couldn’t be in her husband’s room. Could she?
And then he heard the noises from the earl’s room. Drawn by some awful fascination, he moved slowly forward and listened. He heard the creaking of the bed, the grunts of exertion and the earl’s wild groans culminating in a great shout of relief. Then he heard the earl’s shout, “Och, Morag, my love, my precious. Naebody could ha’ done that like you.” And then he heard Morag’s laugh.
Lord Toby felt the bile rising in his throat. Strumpet! Morag was no innocent but a devilish woman who could drive him to the point of madness and then bed with her aged husband—that obscene bag of wind—as if nothing had happened. He remembered the earl’s bawdy praise of his wife in Edinburgh and felt sick to his soul.
In vain did Morag wait out the rest of the night. As a livid dawn rose over the snow-clad landscape, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
She awoke late and to new hope. Of course, he had not come to her bedchamber. He was a gentleman, after all. She loved him the more for it. But today was a new day and she would see him again.
Despite the freezing chill of the castle and an itching in her toes which presaged chilblains, she dressed herself in her new muslin gown and ran lightly down the stairs.
The rooms were cold, stale and deserted. Hamish was hunched over the drawing room fire as if he had been there all night.
“Good day, my leddy,” he said, turning round. “That young lord has left. Now I told him, I told him straight, he’d be as dead as a doornail before he ever saw Perth—riding out in this weather. Och, the English are all mad.”
“Did he leave a message?” asked Morag faintly.
“Yes, a wee note. I have it here. It’s for my lord.”
Morag tore open the letter, her eyes darting along the few lines.
Nothing. Nothing for her. Only a chilly, formal note thanking the earl for his hospitality.
Gone.
She turned and ran from the room, ran to the top of the castle, scarcely feeling the bite of the icy wind cutting through the thin muslin of her dress as she balanced on the leads and gazed frantically over the countryside.
There was a little black dot moving slowly in the distance.
“Toby!” she screamed. “Toby! T… o… b… y!”
But the black dot became a speck and then was swallowed up in the cold, staring whiteness of the landscape.
“Toby,” she sobbed, clutching the stone battlements and feeling her heart break.
There was a shuffling, lumbering, wheezing step on the tower stairs and then the earl was beside her. He gently prised her fingers from the battlements, mopping at her tear-streaked face with the tail of his coat, muttering half-forgotten phrases, the kind you use to a hurt child.
“There, there. You come with me. We’ll get cozy over the teacups and we’ll forget about the whole thing. I could see what was in the wind. But we’ll say nae mair. Come, come. Come with old Roderick. Roderick’ll tak’ care of ye.”
“Yes, Roderick,” said Morag brokenly, clinging to him. And even in the depths of her misery, she realized that she had never spoken the earl’s Christian name until that moment.
Chapter Five
By the end of another month, Lord Toby was nothing more than a dragging, shameful ache in Morag’s heart. She had nearly broken her marriage vows and all because of some callow, philandering, English buck who had led her on. No doubt in the clear light of dawn he had been thoroughly shocked at her wanton behavior. She could only, bitterly, hope he was shocked at his
The earl gave a great groan of relief. “Och, Morag, my love, my precious,” he cried. “Naebody could ha’ done that like you.” And Morag laughed with pleasure at being able to help him.
Lord Toby had gone to Morag’s room and had found it empty. He stood in the corridor, frowning. She couldn’t be in her husband’s room. Could she?
And then he heard the noises from the earl’s room. Drawn by some awful fascination, he moved slowly forward and listened. He heard the creaking of the bed, the grunts of exertion and the earl’s wild groans culminating in a great shout of relief. Then he heard the earl’s shout, “Och, Morag, my love, my precious. Naebody could ha’ done that like you.” And then he heard Morag’s laugh.
Lord Toby felt the bile rising in his throat. Strumpet! Morag was no innocent but a devilish woman who could drive him to the point of madness and then bed with her aged husband—that obscene bag of wind—as if nothing had happened. He remembered the earl’s bawdy praise of his wife in Edinburgh and felt sick to his soul.
In vain did Morag wait out the rest of the night. As a livid dawn rose over the snow-clad landscape, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
She awoke late and to new hope. Of course, he had not come to her bedchamber. He was a gentleman, after all. She loved him the more for it. But today was a new day and she would see him again.
Despite the freezing chill of the castle and an itching in her toes which presaged chilblains, she dressed herself in her new muslin gown and ran lightly down the stairs.
The rooms were cold, stale and deserted. Hamish was hunched over the drawing room fire as if he had been there all night.
“Good day, my leddy,” he said, turning round. “That young lord has left. Now I told him, I told him straight, he’d be as dead as a doornail before he ever saw Perth—riding out in this weather. Och, the English are all mad.”
“Did he leave a message?” asked Morag faintly.
“Yes, a wee note. I have it here. It’s for my lord.”
Morag tore open the letter, her eyes darting along the few lines.
Nothing. Nothing for her. Only a chilly, formal note thanking the earl for his hospitality.
Gone.
She turned and ran from the room, ran to the top of the castle, scarcely feeling the bite of the icy wind cutting through the thin muslin of her dress as she balanced on the leads and gazed frantically over the countryside.
There was a little black dot moving slowly in the distance.
“Toby!” she screamed. “Toby! T… o… b… y!”
But the black dot became a speck and then was swallowed up in the cold, staring whiteness of the landscape.
“Toby,” she sobbed, clutching the stone battlements and feeling her heart break.
There was a shuffling, lumbering, wheezing step on the tower stairs and then the earl was beside her. He gently prised her fingers from the battlements, mopping at her tear-streaked face with the tail of his coat, muttering half-forgotten phrases, the kind you use to a hurt child.
“There, there. You come with me. We’ll get cozy over the teacups and we’ll forget about the whole thing. I could see what was in the wind. But we’ll say nae mair. Come, come. Come with old Roderick. Roderick’ll tak’ care of ye.”
“Yes, Roderick,” said Morag brokenly, clinging to him. And even in the depths of her misery, she realized that she had never spoken the earl’s Christian name until that moment.
Chapter Five
By the end of another month, Lord Toby was nothing more than a dragging, shameful ache in Morag’s heart. She had nearly broken her marriage vows and all because of some callow, philandering, English buck who had led her on. No doubt in the clear light of dawn he had been thoroughly shocked at her wanton behavior. She could only, bitterly, hope he was shocked at his
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