Page 70 of The Scot Beds His Wife
And second, that she was Gavin St. James’s mother.
They didn’t resemble each other in the least. Gavin was sculpted of steel and sin, and this woman was naught but an ethereal whisper. But those eyes. Those unbelievably green eyes. They were unmistakable.
“No… I… um…” Samantha turned, and then gripped the ledge with gritted teeth at the stab of pain the movement caused. When she could breathe again, she closed the windows with the hand she wasn’t using to clutch the sheets to her, secured the latch, and contemplated closing the shutters, as well. Immediately she felt foolish, the lighting wouldn’t matter, not to her guest.
And, thankfully, neither would her nudity.
“There was a draft,” she finished lamely, cursing the obvious tension that escaped on the words.
Her visitor’s face remained placid as she took three more steps and reached out for the high back of a chair, one of a handsome set arranged artfully by the fireplace that could have comfortably housed a small family.
“Worry not, dear. It’s always a bit blustery out to the west. ’Tis why all the outbuildings are over on the other side of Inverthorne, so they can be protected by the structure and its high walls from the buffeting of the sea. Nothing but the moors and bogs out this side of the tower all the way down to the beach. Though that makes the view bonnier, does it not?”
There was that word again, “bonny.”
“Sure.” Samantha had the idea that the woman was babbling, though why the fine lady had reason to be nervous was beyond comprehension. She breathed a sigh of relief, confident her erstwhile chamber pot had a good chance of remaining hidden in the bogs. Thus encouraged, she began the painful journey back over the cold stones toward the bed. “Are you—are you looking for Lord Thorne?” she asked through teeth clenched with pain. “I’m not sure where he’s gone off to.”
God, she was ridiculous. Caught out half naked in her fiancé’s room by his sweet, blind mother while trying to rid herself of the evidence of a most terrible deceit.
Dear Christ, what if the woman thought they were in love?
“I didn’t come to see my son. I came to meet the woman he’s about to make his wife.” The lady smiled at where Samantha had been three hobbles ago.
“Oh! My God—I mean gosh—goodness. Of course. He must have told you before he left.” Shit, had she just cussed in front of a marchioness? “I’m… Alison Ross, but my friends call me Sam.” She felt like she should do something. Curtsy?
No, not to a blind woman! Christ. What was the matter with her? She should probably go shake her hand or… kiss it or something, but walking the span of the grand master suite might as well have been paddling across the Atlantic. Her leg was going to give out any moment now. And all she needed to do was reach that damn bed. Suddenly she changed her mind about the laudanum. She’d give her right arm for a healthy dose right about now.
“And I am Lady Eleanor Megan Mackenzie.” Running her hand along the chair, Lady Eleanor drifted forward, reaching out for the next chair, finding it, and letting it guide her toward the bed, as well. “But you can call me Mother, if you’d like. That is, if your mother wouldn’t object.”
Samantha suddenly ached to aid the poor woman, but as close as she was to collapse, she’d rather make it to safety.
Mother.She’d never called anyone that before.
“My mother passed,” Samantha explained simply, knowing it was true of Alison, as well.
“I knew her,” Lady Eleanor said, her lashes sweeping down. “I was always so sorry…” She let that thought trail away, before picking up another thread of their previous conversation. “Gavin didn’t tell me he was considering a match between the two of you, but there’s little in this castle that a blind woman doesn’t hear.”
Reaching the bed, Samantha collapsed onto it with a sigh that quickly became a moan as she scooted toward the headboard with only the strength of her arms. The bedclothes were in complete disarray, but she was covered and warm enough, so she couldn’t summon the strength to care as she lay there, panting and hurting, wishing the kind woman would leave and alternately not wanting to be alone.
“You’re… a Mackenzie, not a St. James?” she queried, plucking the first question out of the nebulous of them drifting just beyond her pain and mortification.
Samantha had the impression that Lady Eleanor was counting as she took measured steps toward the bed, her silvery, diaphanous gown magically insinuating that she was some sort of floating angel.
Once she reached the bed, she perched on the edge everso delicately before answering. “St. James was my maiden name. I’m unable to extract myself from the Mackenzie as Gavin has done. I am the dowager Marchioness of Ravencroft, after all. A distinction I cannot escape, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry.” It was all Samantha could think to say.
“I feel as though I rather earned the title.” Lady Eleanor smothered a bleak expression with another of her soft, polite smiles.
“Oh.”
They were both silent an uncomfortable moment.
“It is no secret why Gavin should like to so suddenly marry you, Miss Ross,” Lady Eleanor began. “You are from an old and respected family, and we both understand how desperately he desires Erradale.”
Good, so she knew it was a marriage of convenience. That uncomplicated things a great deal.
“The question is, why would you agree to marry my son? Has he… gotten you into trouble?” she asked meaningfully. “Does it have anything to do with what you tossed out the window?”
