She’d quite forgotten what that was like.
Turning from the door, she ventured on unsteady legs into the bedroom. Before, she’d been in too much of a rush to dress for dinner to truly take account of it. She ran her fingers across the smooth, polished wood of the dressing table and writing desk that seemed to be crafted by the same loving artisan as the mahogany poster bed.
Drifting toward the bed, she pressed on the mattress, relishing the downy softness. Greens and gold and chocolate hues added warmth to the cold stone of the walls. This keep was obviously bereft of a woman’s hand, done in masculine tones and clannish draperies. But Mena found that she rather liked the gothic feel of the place. It had housed centuries of Mackenzies of Wester Ross. Its stones had seen the births of heirs, the deaths of rebels, and more than its share of monarchies. Some would claim ’twas an English castle now, with an English titled lord.
And they’d be fools.
Laird Liam Mackenzie was a Highlander to the very marrow of his bones. His people claimed these lands before England, even before the Scots. His blood belonged to Pictish barbarians fortified with that of Viking raiders.
A thoughtful maid had turned down the bed, draped in a quilt made of the Mackenzie plaid, and fluffed the green and gold pillows for her.
Maybe dear Jani was right. Maybe there was hope that they would accept her … that she was welcome here.
By those in employ here at the keep, if not its master.
Mena pushed the laird from her mind, thinking instead of how small and simple the room was compared to her suites at Benchley Court. She’d been the lady of the house for five eternal years, and had hated every miserable second. Her husband had insisted she allow his mother, Esther St. Vincent, to decorate the home. Mena’s entire suites had been done in wicker and lavender draped in gaudy pink lace.
How she’d hated it.
But even Benchley Court was preferable to the infernal whitewashed walls of Belle Glen Asylum. Pure, cold, and sterile. Full of misery and helplessness. Even through the desperately unhappy years with her husband, she’d never suspected that a pure desolation existed until Belle Glen. She’d never known that inside every soul was a void so dark and lonely that it could take months of falling to find the true end.
And contained in the depths therein was only madness.
She hadn’t thought about Belle Glen since she’d left. Hadn’t allowed herself a moment to process the fact that she’d truly been rescued from the brink of utter despair. That if Dorian Blackwell had been seconds later, she might have been raped.
No. Mena ripped the ribbon from her neck, as it suddenly felt too confining. She didn’t allow herself to consider it. She needn’t mourn. Needn’t dwell on what was before, or might have been.
She’d stay busy, stay distracted, it was the only way to cope and thereby forget.
Mena remembered that she’d seen a wardrobe tucked in a small round turret just past the fireplace. Perhaps she should unpack. Though it would be better to prepare a plan for the children tomorrow and leave unpacking unnecessary things for later. Thinking of the wardrobe, she swept into the little round turret room.
And froze.
Something inside her shriveled as she spied what sat in the center of the room, awaiting none but her. Her heart kicked over again, and she could feel her features crumpling. Though she didn’t want to, she took small, plodding steps forward, forcing herself to approach what might become a nightmare.
What if she’d been dreaming this all along? The dashing and piratical Blackheart of Ben More. Farah and Millie. Her new clothes, her new identity.
Her second chance.
What if awaiting inside that large, gleaming, pristine white bathtub … was nothing but ice?
Mena gritted her teeth and ignored the sting of a lone tear as it slipped from eyes blurred with emotion. She pulled the glove from her arm, revealing fingers white and leached of blood. Reaching out trembling fingertips, she forced herself to dip them below the surface of the water.
A sob escaped her. Then another.
Finally her legs could handle her weight no longer, and she crumpled to the floor. But as the strength and courage she’d learned the last few days ripped from her throat in raw, ragged sobs, so did the grief, the rage, and the terror.
The bath, it had been real.
And it had been very, very warm.
CHAPTER FOUR
“One, two, three. One, two, three. Ouch!” Mena hopped back on one foot after rescuing her other from beneath the heel of Rhianna’s boot.
Again.
“Oh, Miss Lockhart, I’m so sorry!” the girl cried, following her as Mena hobbled away and collapsed onto a plump couch by the window in the solarium. “I’m hopeless at the waltz. I doona think I’ll ever become comfortable with dancing backward.”
“It’s all right.” Mena soothed both the girl and her own smarting toes. “The waltz isn’t easy to master.” She’d picked this room for dancing as its windows and French doors opened onto the balcony overlooking the sea, and a lovely piano hunkered on a plush carpet. The nursery-turned-classroom was a dreary place, and Mena had formulated a plan to relocate to a more cheerful set of rooms.
She’d begun the day with some classic literature and rudimentary French. After she’d found Andrew tucking a penny dreadful behind his Jonathan Swift, and listening to both the children reduce the language of love to the equivalent of a verbal assault, Mena decided that music and a dance lesson would provide a welcome diversion. Often she’d found the mind operated more usefully after dancing. Almost as though the music and rhythmic exercise opened pathways of thought not established on one’s own.
Evidently in the case of the Mackenzie children, she’d been mistaken.
Rhianna proved a willing and eager pupil, if not particularly accomplished. Though Andrew treated Mena with a solemnity bordering on contempt. He was, however, a brilliant musician, and played the pianoforte with effortless style and technique.
Mena was able to ascertain that they’d suffered a slew of tutors and governesses intermittently over the years. They’d been taught the basics of reading, writing, arithmetic, and history. But as they grew, their governesses had all deserted them in short order. Their knowledge of economics, refinement, conversation, etiquette, French, music theory, and the social arts was all but nonexistent.
Well, she was a viscountess, by Jove, and a gentleman’s daughter before that. She had mastered every British social policy, written and otherwise. There was no one more qualified to guide them than her. She was determined to succeed, not just because she needed this position to guard her secrets, but because the Mackenzie children desperately needed to learn what she could teach them.
And their father knew it.
“Come, Andrew,” she prompted. “Why don’t you dance with your sister, and let me play the piano? I need a rest.”
“I doona dance,” he informed her, studying his fingers curled against the piano keys.
“That doesn’t matter,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll teach you, then, while Rhianna practices her piano. We can go slowly.”
“Nay, I didna say I doona know how. I said I doona dance.” He thrust his jaw forward; his eyes alight with stubborn rebellion.
“But how are you going to impress the young ladies unless you perfect your waltz?” she tempted him.