Once Upon a Highland Summer (6 page)

“Scotland,” she replied. “I’m going to be governess to three young ladies of quality, to teach them English manners.”

Mrs. Hindon gasped, and Mr. Scroop coughed. Brill chuckled. “Manners, eh? You’ll be hard-pressed to do that, I daresay.”

“Barbarians!” Mrs. Hindon said, pressing a hand to her vast blue bosom in horror. Caroline swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Hadn’t the gentleman who’d assisted her been a Scot?

“Scotland is no place for a decent Englishwoman,” Scroop pronounced, like God giving a commandment.

“Why? What have you heard?” Miss Best squeaked out the question that hovered on Caroline’s own lips.

Mrs. Hindon made a frightened mewl and widened her eyes as she looked to the men to explain.

Mr. Brill leaned forward. “They don’t wear clothes, for a start. Well, not clothes as you and I know them.” He held up a hand as Mrs. Hindon gasped. “I know ’tis an indelicate topic, but it’s the truth. They dress in rags, and eat their meat raw, or they eat oats, like horses.”

Caroline frowned. Her grandmother had told her stories of Scotland. Though she’d died when Caroline was very young, Caroline didn’t remember any mention of raw meat or naked savages. Her grandmother had spoken of meadows blooming with heather, fast-flowing rivers filled with salmon, and—

“If we English had not put down Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion all those years ago, and forced a modicum of civilization on the Scots, I daresay they’d be completely wild by now,” Mr. Scroop said, shutting his book, and concentrating on giving Miss Best the benefit of his opinion.

“But I have a letter from a countess, a real countess, who lives in the Highlands. She writes well enough.” Miss Best opened her reticule and fumbled for a folded letter, which she held out like a talisman.

Scroop sniffed, declining to touch it. “She likely had a proper English cleric write it for her. The Scots can’t read and write like we do. They don’t even speak English outside of Edinburgh, and even there, they maul and molest our language until it’s nearly gibberish!”

Caroline recalled her rescuer’s soft Scottish burr. He’d been perfectly understandable, and he was certainly kinder than either of these men. She noted the hard light of malice in Scroop’s eyes, the dull ignorance in Mr. Brill’s. Indignation heated her skin. They were frightening Miss Best. She watched the young woman put the letter away with shaking fingers.

In fact, they were frightening
her
. Caroline bit her lip. Had she made a terrible mistake? She should have stayed in London. Perhaps she could have talked Somerson out of making her choose a husband yet, pleaded for time. Her Scottish rescuer hadn’t said anything about the terrors of Scotland. Of course, he was expecting her to have an escort, a bridegroom, who would marry her quickly over the anvil, then bring her straight home again to England.

She bit her lip and stared out the window at the passing scenery. She’d made an impulsive decision that could affect the rest of her life, something that could result in a far more tragic future than she’d face as wife to Speed or Mandeville. She’d trusted a stranger on the street and rejected the counsel of her own half brother, an earl and a gentleman. She held her breath. She should turn back, go home, apologize, and marry as she was expected to. She considered her choice again, and shuddered.

She shut her eyes, wondering what her Scot truly looked like, trying to conjure a kind face out of a shadowed cheek, a fragment of dark brow, and a single gleaming eye. He
had
been kind, and she was determined that he should look so, and be exceedingly handsome as well. She imagined a smiling countenance with blue eyes and auburn hair—or perhaps brown eyes and dark hair?

Beside her, Miss Best swallowed audibly, holding back tears. Caroline laid a hand on her arm. “Surely it isn’t as bad as they say. The Rebellion of ’45 was long ago, and Bonnie Prince Charlie is gone,” she soothed. “My grandmother used to tell me stories about Scotland, and there wasn’t a single mention of—”

Another gasp of horror filled the coach. “You’re a Scot?” Mrs. Hindon warbled, as if she feared Caroline was about to produce a claymore from under her cloak and murder everyone present, starting with her.

“No, I’m English!” Caroline said quickly.

“And where are you traveling to?” Mr. Brill asked.

Caroline swallowed. “To Sc-Scotland.” This time the word rolled awkwardly off her tongue, and a tidal wave of doubt swept through her belly.

Mr. Scroop’s brows lowered suspiciously. Mrs. Hindon gasped. Mr. Brill laughed coldly.

Miss Best turned to stare past her bonnet at Caroline. “Have you been there before?”

Caroline swallowed. “No.”

“Then why go now?” Mrs. Hindon demanded. Everyone looked at Caroline, fixed their eyes on her like hungry vultures eyeing prey, someone weak, vulnerable, and far from home, where she should have had the good sense to stay.

But her future, whatever it might be, lay ahead. Of that she was certain. The tidal wave receded. She could hardly admit that to her fellow travelers, or tell them the truth.

“I’m going . . .” Caroline racked her brain for a story they’d believe. “I’m on my way to—” Another hard jolt cut off her words.

“That was a bad one!” Brill said, but the passengers were watching Caroline, waiting for her to answer. She felt a bead of sweat slip between her shoulders. “I’m going to a wedding!” she managed. Hadn’t her rescuer assumed she was eloping?

“A wedding!” Curiosity replaced the suspicion in Mrs. Hindon’s pale eyes. “Bride or groom’s side?”

“Um, bride,” Caroline managed. “In Edinburgh. My sister is marrying an English soldier stationed there, you see—a captain.” The romantic story sprang fully formed to her mind. “He’s very handsome, and my sister is so very happy.” Everyone was staring at her with rapt fascination. She took a breath, ready to add the next chapter, but the coach hit another bump.

“That was a bad one!” Brill and Scroop said together, and Mrs. Hindon giggled.

“You’d best pick flowers for the wedding on this side of the border. Nothing grows in Scotland. Scots eat mutton, and the mutton eats everything else. It’s a barren place where the sun never shines,” Brill said.

“God’s blight upon a heathen land,” intoned the clergyman.

Miss Best whimpered again and clasped her gloved hands together tightly, as if she were praying.

The coach pitched like a ship on stormy seas as the horses turned into a muddy inn yard. Mrs. Hindon whooped as she was thrown against Miss Best. Scroop grunted as Mr. Brill’s elbow knocked his Latin history to the floor. Caroline clung to the seat.

The passengers sighed as the coach came to a halt, righting bonnets and hats as they descended from the vehicle, blinking at the late afternoon sun and stretching cramped muscles.

Miss Best picked up her skirts and hurried into the inn, and Caroline followed, with Mrs. Hindon coming behind, picking her way through the mud like a fussy hen, complaining loudly about the ruination of her half boots.

Caroline’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal since supper the night before last at Somerson House. How far away it seemed now, a place just as foreign as Scotland. Was her half brother looking for her? She glanced around the low-ceilinged inn, scanning the faces of the inhabitants, but they stared back dully, with little interest in who she might be.

“When is the next mail coach going south?” Miss Best was asking the innkeeper. “I wish to purchase a ticket!” she said.

“But you just got off the London Mail!” he said in surprise.

“I’ve changed my mind! I want to go back to London this very minute,” she said desperately, an edge of panic in her voice.

Caroline caught her sleeve. “Oh, Miss Best, I’m sure Scotland isn’t nearly as bad as they say!”

Miss Best blinked away tears, and snatched her arm out of Caroline’s grip. “How would you know? You said you’ve never even been there!”

“But—” Caroline began.

“Do you want the ticket or not?” the innkeeper said.

“What do
you
know of Scotland?” the girl asked him.

“It isn’t England,” he said cryptically.

“Then I’ll take the ticket!” Miss Best opened her reticule to retrieve her money. The letter fell out, and Caroline stared at it, white paper against the aged black boards of the floor. Coins rang on the wooden bar, and Miss Best snatched up her ticket and turned away.

“Wait, your letter!” Caroline said, bending to pick it up.

The girl backed away from it as if it were poisoned. “I don’t want it!” she said. “Burn it!”

With that, Miss Louisa Best fled into the ladies’ waiting room without a backward glance.

Caroline felt the letter tingle in her gloveless fingers. She glanced down at the cracked seal. Was that a lion or a bear? She couldn’t read the name, or the motto. She unfolded it.

I am pleased to offer you the post of governess at the sum of seven pounds per year, plus your room and board here at Glenlorne Castle. You will be responsible for teaching English to my three daughters, aged eighteen, seventeen, and twelve, as well as advising them on English manners and dress. We shall expect you at Glenlorne by the first of the month.

The letter was signed by the Countess of Glenlorne.

“Glenlorne,” Caroline whispered. It was a destination, a respectable paying job with a mother and three daughters. The countess wanted someone to teach English and manners. Who better than an English earl’s daughter?

She opened the Scotsman’s purse, and reached for a coin to pay for a meat pie and a cup of tea, feeling hope soar in her breast. She silently thanked her unknown benefactor once again, and the imaginary face in her mind’s eyes smiled, his hazel eyes twinkling as his red-gold locks floated on a fresh Highland breeze.

Her heart lifted a little. This was an adventure, an opportunity, a true tale to tell her children and grandchildren, and Caroline wasn’t about to be as foolish as Miss Best and turn back now.

In her mind, her Scottish hero chuckled, a warm, low, seductive sound. His blue eyes twinkled and a lock of blond hair feathered across his broad brow as he held out his hand to her.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

A
lec stared into the amber depths of his whisky, ignoring the denizens of the modest gentlemen’s club. Devorguilla’s letter sat in his pocket, and he’d read it a dozen times.

She needed money. The estate needed repairs, and all her meager funds were going to care for her young daughters. Her late husband, the seventh earl, had left numerous debts to be settled, she pleaded. If she could find a way to declare Alec dead and sell Glenlorne, she could make arrangements that would provide dowries for her girls. She wanted nothing for herself—or so she said. She said not one word of Glenlorne’s people, or the fact that the land beneath the crumbling castle represented four hundred years of MacNabb history—her daughters’ history, and his own.

“Good evening, Glenlorne,” a fellow patron greeted Alec by his new title as he passed, heading for the gaming rooms. Alec gritted his teeth, but didn’t acknowledge the man. Within hours of meeting with Westlake, a dozen men had greeted him as Glenlorne instead of plain MacNabb. He silently cursed Westlake, and Devorguilla too. How long would it take for news to spread that his earldom was penniless, and his family would prefer it if he were as dead as his father? There was no doubt that Devorguilla wanted to sell whatever there was left to sell. Alec wondered how much the castle and the land might be worth. He’d come to one conclusion in the hours since his meeting with Westlake—when he returned to Scotland, if he returned at all, he’d need money. It was now up to him to provide for his half sisters, at the very least. He’d probably be forced to do exactly what Devorguilla intended to do and sell Glenlorne. Or—he looked at the door to the gaming room—he could go home with at least a little brass in his pocket, perhaps, if he was luckier than he’d been recently. If he was far luckier than that, he might even win enough to fool them into thinking he really had been in Ceylon. He had to try at the very least. He swallowed the last of his whisky and rose from his seat.

A
n hour later, Alec stared down at the worthless cards in his hand.

“Well, my lord earl?” Jasper Kendrick asked.

Alec ignored the use of his title. The balance of his coin already lay before Jasper, and the man was about to win yet again. Alec felt a thin trickle of sweat crawl down his spine. He forced himself to grin, as if he’d inherited a rich dukedom instead of a penniless Scottish ruin, and laid down his cards, and tossed his remaining few guineas onto the table. “I’m leaving Town for a few weeks, so I’ll save you the trouble of carrying my vowel till I come back.”

“You’re leaving in the middle of the Season?” Jasper’s pale blue eyes bulged. “Now? You must know a title improves a man no end in the eyes of potential brides. You’re bound to be the talk of every hen party in London now you’ve inherited. The ladies won’t be happy to see a handsome, strapping, titled bachelor leave during husband-hunting season.” He picked up the money without bothering to count it.

Alec rose. “Flattering though the attention might be, I’m in not in the market for a wife.”

Jasper chuckled. “You say that now, but have you considered a lady like Miss Anne Devereaux? She has a thousand pounds a year, but she’s lonely for a title. Countess would suit her nicely.”

“Then I hope she finds a nice, willing earl to give her what she wants,” Alec said. “Good night, Kendrick. Enjoy my coin.” He eyed the pile of coin in front of his wealthy opponent regretfully and turned away, heading for the door.

A glided cane blocked his path. “Good evening, Glenlorne. I was hoping I might have a private word before you leave.” Alec looked at the cane, considered grabbing it and snapping it over his knee. The bearer hadn’t even bothered to stand up to stop him. He sat at a table near the door, half in shadow. Alec glared at him, an obscene rebuke on the tip of his tongue. His mouth dried as he looked into the dull face of the Earl of Bray. The earl held his eyes, his expression cold and unreadable.