Pleasured (5 page)

4

D
amon gazed down in astonishment
at the torn pieces of notepaper his valet held out to him somewhat hesitantly. “Well. I presume Miss Munro was not interested in dining with me this evening.”

“She is a foolish girl, sir.” The valet lifted his chin in such a haughty manner that one might suppose he was the nobleman, not Mardoun. “And may I say, sir, I think you would have found her much too coarse.”

“You are, as ever, loyal, Blandings. However, you need not soothe my wounded feelings. I have been turned down before.” But in truth, Damon would be hard-pressed to remember such a situation. Women of any class were not likely to reject a wealthy earl. It was, in fact, so unusual and unexpected that Damon was not sure exactly how he felt.

There was the bite of disappointment—not of any great consequence, but he had been looking forward to the evening’s diversion. He had hoped that Meg Munro might prove to be a continuing entertainment during his stay
here. Probably a country girl had little to hold his interest other than beauty, but this woman was extraordinarily beautiful.

Had he misread Meg? It was difficult to reconcile the shredded invitation with the saucy rejoinder she had thrown at him in parting. It occurred to him that perhaps this rejection was simply a coy maneuver. His lips tightened. If Meg Munro thought he would dance to a tune of her making, she was sadly mistaken. Damon enjoyed a chase as much as any other man, but he was not about to let some slip of a girl dictate terms to him.

“Well, ’tis a matter of little importance.” He tossed the pieces of paper into the fire. “I did not travel to the Highlands to dally with a female.” However attractive she might be.

His daughter was what was important; his purpose in coming here had been to spend time with her, to reestablish the relationship they had once had. From the moment she was placed in his arms as a red-faced, squalling infant, Lynette had captured his heart. But after his wife’s death, he had realized that he had over the years become something of a stranger to his daughter. It was far better, really, now that he thought about it, that Meg Munro had not accepted his invitation—though perhaps he would have preferred it done in a less insulting manner.

“I believe I shall take a ride around the estate with my daughter this afternoon.” Damon turned toward his desk. “But first, send for the estate manager. I want to hear an explanation for this fire last night.”

MacRae, however, seemed uneager to provide one. A few minutes later, when he stood in front of Damon’s desk, he
shifted from foot to foot, turning his cap in his hand. “It’s all under control, my lord. No one was harmed.”

“That is fortunate, but I would scarcely describe the place burning to the ground as ‘under control.’ ”

“It’s just a few ruffians, sir. I will sort them out soon enough.”

“
What
is ‘just a few ruffians’? I heard nothing about ‘ruffians’ in your report yesterday. As I recall, you spoke only of the profitability of turning the land over from raising crops to raising sheep.” And a damned tedious report it had been, too.

“There have been some incidents, hardly worth mentioning, my lord.”

“Why don’t you mention them now,” Damon suggested, keeping a rein on his temper. It was not the man’s fault that Damon was already in an irritable mood.

“These Highlanders are an unruly lot. They took exception to my bringing in men from the Lowlands, and they tossed one in a lochan. The brigands attacked one of the wagons, but now I send armed guards with any supplies coming in or money going out.”

“Attacked a wagon?” Damon’s brows rose. “Are you saying these miscreants are armed?”

“I believe so, sir.” The man shifted, his brown eyes taking on a muddier hue. “No one was injured either time. They are more bluff than anything, and I assure you I have taken steps to find these men and punish them. There won’t be any more incidents.”

“Good. I should hate to have an insurrection on my hands,” Damon said drily.

“Yes, sir. Of course, my lord.”

“You might find it useful to do something to calm the troubled waters. Perhaps if the citizens are resentful of the men you brought in, you could hire some of the locals.”

“I have, sir. They are all too apt to be laggards.”

“Then I suggest you find something that works.” Damon stood up, fixing the manager with a cool stare. “My daughter is with me. Whether it’s ruffians or brigands or a whole bloody band of Scots, I will not have my daughter exposed to danger.”

Dismissing the man, Damon went in search of Lynette. A ride would improve his spirits, and it seemed a good way to begin to reestablish his relationship with his daughter; horses had long been a bond between them. He found Lynette walking in the garden, her governess scurrying along beside her, attempting to shield the girl from any stray touch of the pale northern sun.

“. . . but I won’t get lost,” Lynette was saying as Damon came up behind them. “I’ll take a groom.”

“But it is so wild up here,” the governess said with something of a whine in her tone that set Damon’s teeth on edge. “Think, Miss Lynette. Almost anything could happen. You and your groom could be set upon.”

“By whom?” Lynette flung her arms wide out to the side. “Why would anyone attack us?”

“I’m sure I don’t know why, but I have heard such tales about the Highlanders! Did we not read about the massacre of the MacDonald clan at that place, Glencrow?”

“Glen
Coe
, Miss Pettigrew,” Lynette corrected. “But that was ages and ages ago; everyone seemed to be murderous back then. Anyway, it wasn’t near here, and I don’t think there are any
Campbells
around. In any case, my great-grandmother’s family were MacKenzies, Papa said.” Lynette turned and saw
her father. He was gratified to see that a smile brightened her face. “Papa! I was just talking about you.”

“So I heard.” Damon’s face softened as he looked at her. “You are right; your ancestors were MacKenzies. And I think we need not worry about any blood feud here.”

“Then it would be perfectly safe for me to ride, wouldn’t it?” Lynette went on triumphantly.

“But what of your horse, Miss Lynette?” Miss Pettigrew’s forehead creased with worry. “Your Freya is still at Rutherford Hall; there may not be one suitable for you.”

“Freya is like a rocking chair,” Lynette said somewhat petulantly. “I can handle a more spirited mount.”

“I should think you could,” Damon agreed. “Do you mean to tell me you are still riding your old pony? I thought I put you up on that bay mare a couple of years ago.”

No, he realized, it had been more like three years now. Lynette’s tenth birthday. He remembered cupping his hands to vault her up onto the horse’s back and the way she had trotted around the yard, showing off her skills, black braids bouncing on her back. Something in his throat tightened. That had been the week before that last bitter argument with Amibel that had sent him back to London. Guiltily, he realized he had returned only at Christmas since then.

“Guinevere!” Lynette’s fine-boned face lit up. “That is what I called the mare. She was beautiful!”

“You don’t ride her now?”

“I—I had to stop.” The light in Lynette’s face died.

“Miss Lynette was injured,” the girl’s governess explained in a hushed tone. “Lady Mardoun could not let her get on such a spirited animal again.”

“I did not know you had been hurt.” Damon frowned in concern.

“I broke my arm.” Lynette looked away with a stubborn jut to her jaw. “But it was not Guinevere’s fault. I rushed the fence.”

“We all come a cropper at one time or another,” Damon replied easily. “Best thing is to get back on. I would have thought Ned put you up on her again once your arm was mended.”

“He wanted to. I wanted to. But Mama—” Lynette stopped and swallowed. “She did not want me to continue to ride; she thought it was too dangerous. Finally she agreed, but only if I would go back to Freya.” Lynette turned entreating eyes to Damon. “But I can ride a better horse than Freya, I know it.”

“Of course you can.” Damon tamped down his irritation. Sometimes it seemed to him that Amibel had done her best to turn Lynette into a fellow invalid, but it would do no good to criticize the girl’s dead mother. “There is a mare in the stables that would be just the thing for you. Her name is Pearl, and she is indeed a jewel. Hudgins had the head groom procure mounts for us, and the man did a good job of it. What do you say you and I try them out?”

“Could we? Really? Oh, Papa!” Lynette reached out to curl her arm through his, squeezing it. “I would love it!”

“So would I.” Damon smiled at his daughter, ignoring the wrinkling of concern on the governess’s face. “Why don’t you and I go down to the stables so that you can meet Pearl? I am sure Miss Pettigrew will excuse you from your studies this once.” He cast a glance at the governess.

“Yes, of course, my lord.” Miss Pettigrew gave a bob of
acquiescence before turning to Lynette. “Have you your handkerchief, Miss Lynette? Perhaps a wrap against the chill . . .” The governess dug into her pocket. “Here are your smelling salts, just in case you feel faint, and—”

“I am sure Lynette will be fine.” Damon covered Lynette’s hand on his arm with his hand and, giving a dismissive nod to the governess, started away. “I believe the stable yard is in this direction.” In an undertone he murmured, “Is that woman always so anxious?”

A burble of laughter escaped Lynette. “Sometimes even more so. I think she worries that she will be blamed when I fall ill.”

“Are you ill so much?”

“I suppose I am.” Lynette sighed. “I try not to, I really do. I used to—to find it hard to breathe sometimes. I would cough.”

“I remember.” He could recall all too well Lynette’s small, pale face, the fear that tainted her eyes as she struggled to breathe. “I held you upright; it seemed to help you.”

“Did you?” She looked at him with rounded eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. You were a mite of a thing then. Three, I think, that winter when you had such a terrible cough.” He saw no sense in bringing up the terror he had felt as he held the child in his arms, hearing the rasp of breath in her throat, afraid the spark of life in her would dim and disappear altogether. “As I remember, your nurse rather resented my presence there, but it seemed to quiet you.”

“It scared me when I couldn’t breathe,” Lynette said in almost a whisper. “But once when I fell off my pony, Ned told me to let go and be easy, trust that the breath will come
back. It worked then, so afterward I tried it whenever I had one of my ‘spells,’ and it helped.”

“Clever girl.”

“Miss Pettigrew shoves those foul-smelling salts at me, but I do not think they work.” Lynette looked up at him earnestly. “I don’t have those attacks often, not anymore. I really don’t. I
can
run without having an attack. And I have never had one when I was riding, I promise.”

“Good.” He looked down at her, touched again by the uncertainty that had come to him more than once the past few months. Was he looking after Lynette properly? If she did come home wheezing after their ride, it would be his fault.

Amibel had told him more than once that he expected too much of their daughter, just as he did of Amibel herself. “You have no idea what it is like to be delicate,” she had said, her voice filled with resentment. “You’re so big and . . . and robust.” Her tone had made the word sound like a sin. “Lynette will ruin her health trying to please you, just as I have.”

He had retorted that he had never noticed Amibel’s attempts to please him, and their row had progressed in its customary bitter way. But he could not forget her words, now that he was his child’s only parent, the one entirely responsible for her well-being and happiness. He had never experienced ill health, at least in any serious or lengthy way. Was he wrong to dismiss Lynette’s governess’s warnings of cold drafts and open windows and too much excitement? Would Lynette suffer for it?

“You must promise me you will not overdo it,” he told her now. “When we go out, you must tell me when you are tired.”

“I won’t be tired.” Again that smile flashed like the sun. “I know I won’t. I don’t get tired when I am riding.”

Damon chuckled. “You were an eager little horsewoman. You never wanted our rides to end.”

“Did you ride out with me?” she asked, amazed.

“Of course. ’Twas I who put you on your first pony.”

“Really? I don’t remember.”

“I should think not, as you were only two at the time.”

Her eyes widened again. “Mama must have been very upset.”

“Indeed.” His voice was dry. “But you loved it. Do you not remember our rides?”

“I remember when you brought home Guinevere. And I remember one Christmas when we rode in the snow. I had on my favorite scarf.”

“I recall. It was bright red.” His smile was bittersweet. “I did not realize . . . how quickly children forget.”

“Are you sad?” Her brow creased as she looked up at him. “I shall try to remember more.”

“No, no, you have done nothing wrong. There is no reason you should remember what happened years ago. Lynette—” He stopped and turned to look into her eyes. “I want to apologize to you.”

“Apologize!” She gave him a puzzled look. “Whatever for?”

“Because I . . . have been too little with you in recent years. I should have come home more often. I should have stayed longer.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Perhaps interfered more. I can see now that I chose the easier path. It was wrong of me.”

“You and Mama did not get along.”

He cast her a startled look, but did not argue the point. “That had nothing to do with you. I told myself I was doing what was best, that a girl should be with her mother. That you would be happier without our quarreling. But I think I failed you.”

She was quiet for a moment. “But you came for me after Mama . . . was gone.”

“Yes, of course. Did you think I would not?” He saw the flash of uncertainty in her eyes, quickly concealed, that told him she had indeed wondered exactly that. He bent down so that his face was level with hers. “I would not abandon you. It was never that I did not want to be with
you
. You must believe that.”