Page 68 of My Highland Rogue
“That’s not why he’s here,” Harrison said, kicking out a chair. He sat heavily, propping hiselbows on the table. He looked as if he had continued drinking after the funeral supper for Sean had ended. “He’s here to check on me. To ensure than I’m being a dutiful husband. The bastard thinks he has the right to dictate my life.”
“Does he know how much time you spend in London? If that’s the case, perhaps he does.”
“You always were a disloyal bitch, Jennifer.”
She bit back her irritation. “I’m only stating the truth, Harrison. You can’t ignore your wife for eight months and have anyone think that’s acceptable behavior.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Why do you always have to be nasty when someone calls you out on your behavior, Harrison?”
“Because I’m tired of people telling me what I should do and what I shouldn’t do. Especially you, Jennifer. You’ve turned into a scold.”
She sat back against the chair, took another sip of her tea, and tried to compose herself. Every conversation with Harrison devolved into an argument.
“Spend a little more time home and less in London. Or gambling. Then Mr. Campbell won’t have any grounds for criticism.”
Yes, perhaps she was a scold, but she knew what her brother was doing to Adaire Hall. The Adaire fortune he’d inherited wasn’t going to last forever, especially at the rate Harrison was going through it.
“Why do I need Campbell criticizing me when I have you, Jennifer? You don’t know anything about my life in London.”
She put down her cup, clasped her hands in front of her, and prayed for patience. “I know what I read, Harrison. You’re in the papers more than you should be. If Lauren and I can read about your exploits, so can Mr. Campbell.”
She stood and put her napkin beside her plate. She hadn’t finished with her breakfast, but she wasn’t going to sit there and argue with Harrison.
“Who do you want me to act like, Jennifer? Your precious Gordon?”
He got up from the table and advanced on her. She wisely took a few steps toward the door. She’d seen Harrison’s temper up close, and she had no intention of being a victim of it again.
She’d always considered her brother a handsome man, but not this version of him. It was as if all of his insecurities, all of the hatred and envy and rage he’d ever felt was compressed into the look on his face now.
“First Gordon and now Mr. Campbell. You don’t like anyone showing up at Adaire Hall, do you?”
“Not if they think they can dictate my movements.”
“God forbid someone tells you what to do. You’re so much better than the rest of us, aren’t you?”
Harrison had struck her before, when he was inebriated. At least that’s the excuse he’d given her the next day when he apologized. He’d claimed that she’d been in the wrong by goading him. The only thing she said was that he needed to watch his expenditures in London.
Now she stood where she was and folded her arms, looking up at him and praying for courage.
“What are you going to do, Harrison? Hit me for daring to question you? Would that make you feel better? It seems to me that it would be a hollow victory to hurt someone weaker than you.”
He raised his fist and for a moment she thought he was going to carry through with the threat. A second later he turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room.
Only then did she take a deep breath.
For the first time she was grateful her mother was dead. At least she didn’t have to witness what a bully her son had turned out to be.
Because of her actions the night of the fire in helping to save the countess, Margaret McBride had been treated as a heroine. For thirty years she’d worked directly for the countess until such time as age crept up on her and made accomplishing her duties more difficult. Since she’d been promised a place to live until the day she died, she essentially retired at Adaire Hall.
He remembered her as a tall, thin woman with graying hair, a sharp nose, and suspicious eyes.
He made his way to the third floor and, thanks to a friendly maid, found Margaret’s room.
The woman sitting by the window in an overstuffed chair had aged a great deal in the past five years. Her hair, now almost entirely white, was worn in a tight bun. Her face had folded in on itself, a network of lines on top of lines. Her eyes, brown and still suspicious, focused on him.
“Miss McBride?”
