A Scandalous Scot (15 page)

This bend of the river, sometimes shallow, occasionally deep, curved through the basin of the strath. Gray and black rounded boulders sat at the bend of the river, as if offering a place for a picnic—nature’s banquet hall. On either side fertile ground supported both animals and crops. Or would have if the previous earl had allowed it.

She stood for a moment, closing her eyes, listening to the river tumble over the rocks, smelling the sweet scent of the heather and feeling as if her heart were being squeezed.

She turned and began to slowly walk back to Ballindair, uncomfortable within the shadow of the kirk.

Had the builders thought to place the church just so, as warning to any who would act in a sinful manner? The minister would say she’d been a sinner indeed. Perhaps not for the deeds she’d performed as much as her thoughts.

Twice now she’d seen Morgan MacCraig almost naked. Well, once naked and once half naked. Her mind had mentally stripped him of his trousers, and he was standing there just as he had that day in the bath.

What kind of woman was she? She was shameful, loose. Nor was Catriona any better. Why, then, had she been singled out as a harlot and not her sister? Everyone evidently felt the same, or they wouldn’t be avoiding her with such assiduousness.

The thunder sounded like God’s displeasure. Would he send a bolt of lightning to purify her? To strip thoughts of the earl from her mind?

She’d heard of a farmer once, who’d been struck by lightning and survived, but his wits had been addled from then on. Is that what God wished for her, to scrub the sight of the Earl of Denbleigh from her memory?

For a week no one had spoken to her except Catriona, and her sister’s remarks were cutting. Once Catriona heard that she and the earl had been caught in a compromising position, she lost no time in letting her know exactly what she thought of all her many lectures.

The one time she’d tried to explain, Catriona cut her off.

“Oh, Jean, you will say anything now to save yourself. It’s evident you had your eye on the earl from the very beginning.”

Had she?

Had she been concerned about Catriona’s reputation that night? Or had she wanted to keep the earl for herself?

Perhaps she deserved to be sent from Ballindair.

Were there any convents left in Scotland? Would they accept a penitent Presbyterian?

At least she’d been spared the sight of the earl for a week.

But how could she bear to leave Ballindair?

Rather than being tossed out without a job or a recommendation, she’d been given the choice to work at the great house at Dumgoyne. Not the measure of Ballindair, to be sure, but the residence of the manager of the Dumgoyne MacCraig Distillery. She’d be a housekeeper to a staff of seven. A promotion, Mr. Seath had told her.

She knew she hardly merited a promotion, any more than she deserved being sent from Ballindair. No more ghost hunting. No more feeling of being home, just when she needed a place to anchor herself.

No more Earl of Denbleigh.

She wrapped her cloak around her, miserable and alone.

W
illiam Seath’s path had been charted from the time he was a young man and had first come to Ballindair, falling in love with the castle in a way that startled him even then. Familiarity had only encouraged his affinity for Ballindair. Over the years, he’d grown more appreciative of the original builders and architects, and those Earls of Denbleigh who had built onto the structure.

He thought of himself as a captain, of sorts, sailing the ship of Ballindair through choppy waters and onto a placid sea. Whatever needed to be done at the seat of the Earls of Denbleigh, he’d somehow accomplished.

Now he saw the horizon, and knew he would have to relinquish his tasks to a man ill-prepared for them. Morgan MacCraig didn’t lack the intelligence to care for his own property. Quite the opposite. The man had a mind for weighty matters. He’d worked at the MacCraig distilleries, increasing their profits, establishing new work rules, making a name for himself as a fair and equitable employer. But then politics had taken his fancy, and they’d lost the earl to London.

William wondered if they’d ever get Morgan MacCraig back.

Soon, the earl would need to assume sole responsibility for Ballindair. So far, however, Morgan had failed in each test he’d given him. Take the figures he’d sent the man last week. Not once had the earl challenged him on the tally of the sums, even though he’d deliberately made more than one error. Not once had His Lordship asked about the expenditures. The cost of seed, for example, was outrageous. The man would throw away his entire fortune if he were not educated.

And educate him he would, even if Morgan MacCraig fought him all the way.

T
he day was gray, the sky the color of a pigeon’s belly, the low hanging branches sodden with rain. Even the air felt wet as Morgan breathed deeply, grateful to have escaped Ballindair for the moment.

The service he’d received from his staff for the last week had been excellent, as it had been since he arrived at Ballindair. But the ever present, accusatory atmosphere was beginning to annoy him.

Mrs. MacDonald had not repeated her entreaty for him to act with honor. Nor had his steward mentioned the matter. Each person who served him did so perfectly, but he was being driven to madness by silence.

Even Andrew, the most voluble of companions, was oddly quiet. Nor had Andrew bragged of his conquest with the little blonde once.

Truth be told, he hadn’t divulged what happened in his room to Andrew, either. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d instigated nothing. All he had been guilty of, if guilt could label his actions, was avoiding Catriona. He should have simply sent her away.

Nor had he been bothered by Catriona since that night. She didn’t come to his door, she didn’t smile in his direction, and she didn’t lie in wait for him in the corridor. In other words, life at Ballindair was damn near bucolic.

Then why was he so dissatisfied?

Twice, he’d found himself in the Long Gallery after midnight. No ghosts were there. Neither was Jean. She was nowhere to be found.

The wren had flown away.

She was leaving. That was simply idiotic. Given enough time, people would simply forget the matter.

As well as they’d forgotten his divorce?

A black-cloaked figure slipped from behind a bush, heading toward him on the graveled path. He stopped, waiting, knowing who it was before she noticed him and hesitated.

He crossed the few steps between them, wanting to ask her where she’d been for a week. Had she deliberately been hiding from him? Was she happy to be going away?

Instead, he stood in front of her and asked, “Are there any ghosts out here?”

A stupid question, and one not worthy of an answer, but he received one anyway.

“No, Your Lordship,” she said, her voice low.

That was all. Just one comment, and she retreated into silence.

Bloody hell.

“You’re soaked.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Shall I have your death of pneumonia on my conscience as well?”

He wished she’d push the cowl back so he could see her features. She was only a shadow, a ghost of herself, a wraith come to wordlessly chastise him.

“You needn’t worry about me, Your Lordship. I absolve you of any responsibility for my welfare.”

Had she always been so mocking?

She turned and walked some distance away, following the gravel path. The rain was coming in earnest now, the hem of her cloak dragging against the stones. He ignored his own discomfort and followed her.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Why aren’t you cleaning something?”

She turned to stare at him.

“Have you turned housekeeper now, Your Lordship? Do you truly care where all your maids are?”

He didn’t know how to answer the question, since he’d only ever wondered about one maid, tart-tongued and intriguing as she was.

“I’ve been given the day,” she said. “I’m leaving Ballindair tomorrow.”

Bloody hell.

“Where are you going?”

When she told him, he frowned. “A distance away.”

“I believe that’s the intention, Your Lordship.”

“Do you want to go?”

She walked away, and once more he followed her.

“Well?” he asked.

“I don’t have a choice, Your Lordship.”

“You always have a choice.”

She turned to face him, pushing back her cowl. “No, Your Lordship, you don’t.”

“Why haven’t you married?” he asked.

“Am I required to answer such personal questions?”

Her irritation pleased him, somehow. It was better than that damnable sadness of hers, which shielded her better than her rain-soaked cloak.

“In this instance, yes,” he said.

She shook her head and turned away.

“Is there anyone you fancy?”

“You’ve asked me before, Your Lordship. The answer is the same. It’s none of your concern.”

Strange, but it felt like his concern.

Her hair was a jumble of curls around her face. The color on her cheeks, the mist clinging to her eyelashes, transformed her from plain to startlingly lovely. He was unprepared for her transformation.

“Your aunt says I should do the proper thing by you,” he said, surprising himself by admitting that.

“What does my aunt wish you to do?”

“She hasn’t told you?”

She shook her head, dislodging some of those curls. He wanted to reach over and loosen the rest of them, let them flow around her shoulders, take one and pull it until it was stretched as long as it would go, then wind it around his finger.

His experience with women, however, dictated he not touch her coiffure. Lillian had hated him to “mess her.”

“What does my aunt want you to do?” she asked again.

Emotion sparkled in her brown eyes, color deepened on her cheeks.

“You’ve no idea?” he asked, feeling remarkably refreshed at the moment. No doubt it was the rain.

She shook her head.

He smiled. “Don’t stay out too much longer. You’ll grow chilled.”

“Are you my keeper, Your Lordship?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I do believe I am.”

He strode to her and before she could say a word grabbed her arms, pulled her close, and placed his mouth on hers. A startled gasp was her only response. Her lips were cool, full, enchanted. He angled his head and deepened the kiss, placing his palms on either side of her jaw. Not to hold her immobile as much as to simply feel her.

If he was going to be excoriated for being devoid of honor, let it be based in fact. Let him do the very worst thing he possibly could, come upon a defenseless woman on the grounds of his estate, someone who was dependent upon him for employment. Let him kiss her until her lips grew warm and pliant, until they fell open beneath his gentle assault.

Let him pull back and stare at her in wonder.

He turned and left her while he still had some honor left.

Yet as Morgan walked away, he couldn’t keep from smiling.

Chapter 14

RULES FOR STAFF:
Never, under any conditions, offer your opinion to your betters.

M
ary MacDonald was startled to see the Earl of Denbleigh standing in the doorway of the storeroom.

She motioned with one hand for the two maids with her to curtsy quickly, and did so herself.

“Your Lordship,” she said, wondering why he’d sought her out.

Before she’d met with the earl, she worried that the options she and Mr. Seath had devised would be too onerous. The earl would bridle at the suggestion of marriage. Worse, Mary knew he might dismiss her, and where would she be then? Unable to help either Jean or Catriona or a score of other young maids who stood between their families and starvation.

But he hadn’t dismissed her. Neither had he agreed to her shocking suggestion, leaving her no choice but to find another position for Jean. It worked out in the end, though, hadn’t it? Jean would be elevated to housekeeper, and far enough away from Ballindair that she wouldn’t be a temptation for the earl.

Now he stood there, smiling amiably, but appearances weren’t to be trusted. A garden snake could still strike.

“Have you a moment, Mrs. MacDonald?” he asked.

“Of course, Your Lordship.”

“Then attend me in the library, if you will.” He consulted his pocket watch. “In ten minutes’ time.”

She nodded, suddenly terrified.

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

She watched as he left, took a deep breath and turned to the two maids.

“I will be checking your figures,” she said. “Be sure and count correctly.” The two girls nodded.

Mary went to her room as swiftly as decorum would allow, checked her collar and cuffs, patted her hair into place, and tried to lessen the red of her cheeks by use of a cold compress. After consulting her brooch watch, she made it to the library with two minutes to spare, but didn’t knock until exactly ten minutes had passed.

Instead of sitting at the massive desk, the earl was pacing in front of the wall of windows. She knew better than to speak, so she stood there, her fear growing with each agitated second.

Was he going to dismiss her? Was he going to dismiss the girls? Or was he going to dismiss all of them? She had a little money put away, some savings for her old age. But it wasn’t enough for a cottage, not yet.

She’d spoken her mind after a lifetime of keeping silent. Worse, she’d implied that he was lacking. She closed her eyes, said a quick prayer, and when she opened them, the earl had stopped, turned, and was regarding her with narrowed eyes.

“Where was Jean born?” he asked.

Surprised, she answered, “In Inverness, Your Lordship. She lived there all her life before coming to Ballindair.”

He nodded, crossed his arms and turned away. Evidently, he preferred the view of the rainy gardens to looking at her.

She’d often done the same, especially when giving bad news to one of her staff.

Her stomach hurt. She chewed on her bottom lip, then forced herself to calm. It would do no good to let the earl know how frightened she was. She’d done what was right, what she and Mr. Seath had decided must be done.