The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (14 page)

“No.” Lips thinning, he searched her eyes. “I've told them nothing of how I planned to gain your necessary support.”

“So those here have leapt to the conclusion?”

“It's not such a great leap.” His voice grew harder, his tones crisper. “Those here have been with me for years, and none of them are unintelligent. They know what sort of man I am, and Griswold at least appreciates exactly what sort of lady you are. On top of that, you've been behaving as my countess-to-be—learning about them, me, the clan, and this house. That a marriage between us is pending isn't an assumption they've been given any reason to question.” His eyes narrowed on hers. “So no, I didn't seek to force your agreement by letting it be known that I would offer or have offered for your hand.”

Despite being pinned by those gray-green eyes, she appreciated his candor. She nodded. “Very well. Now, tell me about your wards. Gavin and Bryce.” He blinked, and she explained, “Jessup mentioned them.”

The change in him was palpable, visual—real. Under her fascinated gaze, the tension in his shoulders eased; his face, that hard, impassive, tell-nothing face, softened in a way she hadn't suspected was possible.

“They're my late cousin's sons.” He smiled.

At the sight of that smile, her heart turned over. He was utterly charmed by and devoted to his wards, protective, caring . . .
loving
. That was what she saw in his face.

My God.
The expression of mingled pride and love lighting his countenance, which had banished every cloud from his eyes, was identical to the expression she saw in her brothers' and cousins' faces whenever they looked upon their children.

Utterly entranced, she sat and listened as, with little further prompting, he told her of the pair—how they'd been orphaned, how their guardianship had fallen to him, how he'd been their surrogate father since they'd been just two and three years old. How, just as he and their father had done, they now ran wild in and about the castle; it sounded as if Jessup had been nothing more than accurate in labeling them scamps.

“Gavin—he's the elder—is the master of the clan. My heir.” Dominic glanced at her. “At least at the moment.”

She let the comment slip past but couldn't resist testing him. “What color are their eyes?”

“Blue, and blue—Bryce's are a touch paler.”

“Hair?”

“Lighter brown and darker brown, either side of the middle.”

She'd never met a man who could answer such questions without even pausing to think. “Jessup mentioned that they'd been badgering him to start them on their first pony. He was contemplating doing so on returning to the castle.”

“That's been a sore point—they've been limited to the donkeys until now.” Across the desk, he caught her eye. “Once you see the land around the castle, you'll understand—it's not the sort of terrain you want two boys with inflated notions of their equestrian abilities to be racing over. As those two would. But . . .” He leaned back in his chair, fingers idly turning the seal ring he wore on one finger. “Jessup's right—that's a bridge we'll need to cross soon.”

She nearly offered to help, but a niggling doubt over whether he'd welcome her assistance in an arena he clearly held so close to his heart—at least not until he and she had grown closer and he'd learned to trust her—held her back. There would be plenty of time later, once they'd reclaimed the goblet and she'd met the two terrors. She shifted in the chair; one leg was going numb. “Given Jessup and Mulley are here with you, who's looking after them? I assume they're not nestling under your mother's wing.”

He muttered what sounded like a Scottish curse and shook his head. “Not likely.” He hesitated, then, lips thinning, said, “She can't abide them. They're too noisy, and yell, and run, and track mud inside . . .” He spread his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, then looked at her as if suddenly wondering what her stance would be.

She grinned. “Good heavens—they're
boys
. Surely she knows that's how such beings are? Well, she had you, after all, and I'm sure you and your cousin Mitchell were even worse.”

His grin was unabashed and utterly boyish; for the instant it lit his face, she saw the boy he once had been. “True. But at that age I was her golden-haired—figuratively speaking—boy and could do no wrong. And Mitchell always hid behind me.” The grin faded, to be replaced with a look she interpreted as looking north, far north, in his mind. “Mrs. Mack, and Gillian, their nurse, will have them in hand indoors, and Scanlon, my gamekeeper, and his lads will keep them close outside the keep.”

She blinked. “You have a keep?”

He met her gaze. “I have a castle.”

“Yes, I know, but . . .” Most castles she knew didn't have keeps, or if they did, said keeps had long been buried within the expanding structure, but she didn't think that was what he meant.

The clock on the mantelpiece further down the room whirred and bonged. Eleven times. She glanced at the papers on his desk. “Have you finished with those?”

He looked down. Grimaced. “No.”

She shut her similarly neglected book. “I'll let you get back to them.”

He looked at her as she rose, arched a questioning brow.

“My questions about the castle and the keep will . . . well, keep. We've a long journey in a few days' time, plenty of hours in which you can tell me all I need to know.”

He nodded. “Good night.”

Smiling, she headed for the door. “Good night.”

Letting herself out, she walked to the front hall and slowly climbed the stairs. Over the last minutes, when they'd been talking of his wards, he hadn't bothered to keep his rigidly impassive mask in place. He'd lowered it and had allowed her to see the man behind it.

She hadn't realized she'd been waiting for that moment, for him to stop seeing her as someone to be held at a distance and allow her within his circle.

Allow her to see the huge heart he hid behind the rigid mask.

With the insight, the realization, had come a nearly overpowering temptation to reach out and touch . . . but it was too early yet.

No. In the matter of stalking and capturing her very own wild, highland earl, she, of all ladies, knew the value of patience. Tonight she would retire satisfied with knowing she'd made very real progress, and looking forward to what tomorrow might bring.

H
alf an hour later, Dominic signed the last of the agreements his manager at the distillery had sent him for approval. Putting down his pen, he raised his arms, stretched . . . and let out a long sigh.

Lowering his arms, he leaned back in his chair. Shifting his gaze to the chair facing him, with the Robertson lying closed on the table alongside, he finally let his mind change tracks—to his coconspirator.

That he thought of her as that testified as to how far his view of her had changed. Over her, his coldly rational, logical side and his instinct-driven side were rapidly reaching agreement. In all that was to come, not simply in their immediate future but later, too, she would be an asset, a major one. Instead of the long-term disaster his mother's scheme might have wrought—forcing him to take to wife some sweet ninnyhammer utterly unsuited to meeting the needs of the clan, or his own—he'd been handed Angelica. Difficult or not, fiery-tempered or not, she was a boon, one he hadn't in the least expected.

He still wasn't certain he trusted fate, that something wouldn't arise to throw everything askew again, but for now he had to take the situation at face value and move forward, which meant he had to learn how to deal with her, how best to . . . he supposed the correct term was negotiate with her.

Stretching out his legs, he crossed his ankles, crossed his hands behind his head, and stared upward. With every hour he spent in her company, he felt increasingly drawn to her, increasingly caught in the web of her attraction; he now felt the effect as an almost physical tug.

Another issue they would have to negotiate at some point, but luckily not until later.

Tonight she'd revealed another dimension, another aspect to her allure.

Her interest in the boys had been genuine. If he was any judge, she would take them under her wing—would without question stand beside him in rearing them, in giving them the love and sense of belonging they'd lost with Mitchell and Krista's deaths.

That meant a lot to him.

In all honesty, he couldn't think of anything more he could ask of her. She'd done what she could to deflect her family, had helped work out a plan to elude them and reach the castle, and had thrown herself into the arrangements. She was interacting well with his staff, taking appropriate interest in his house, in learning all she needed to go forward, and, given her recent questions, she was already turning her mind to the challenge of dealing with his mother and her mad scheme.

Admittedly, she'd refused to simply agree to their wedding, but that was merely a temporary quibble. He couldn't fathom her reasoning—presumably another of her female-only perspectives—but even tonight, she'd tacitly acknowledged that she would eventually agree.

Which meant he was going to have to give more thought to what she might want of him. To what he was prepared to give her in return for all she was giving him.

If there was one truth his years of business dealings had taught him, it was that successful negotiation required give as well as take.

He suspected he would be wise to define what he was willing to give, before she decided what she would take.

Chapter Seven

“I
'm going to go out and wander the streets to practice passing as a male.”

Dominic raised his head and stared down the breakfast table at Angelica, seated as usual at the other end. Her reply was definitely not what he'd expected in response to his query about her plans for the day.

Admittedly, he'd asked because she was dressed in her disguise.

An authoritarian veto burned the tip of his tongue, but when she glanced up and met his gaze, he swallowed it. “You can't risk being seen by your family.”

“True. But there are only so many of them, and I know where they spend their days. There's a lot of London where they never go.” She looked down at the porridge she'd elected to eat. “I'll just go there.”

“The areas where your family never goes—” He cut off the sentence. Telling her such areas were dangerous for young ladies wasn't going to get him anywhere. He scooped up a mouthful of porridge, just to give himself time to think. “Your disguise is good enough as it is—during the journey, you won't need to pass any terribly close scrutiny, not while you're beside me.”

“Not from any females, perhaps, but we discussed the likelihood that my family will have alerted or even paid the staff at the various inns to keep an eye on all coach passengers, and while said staff might be looking for a young lady, there's no saying one of them won't spot some telltale mistake I make, and so see through my disguise.”

She'd rehearsed—prepared all the arguments she needed to win this one. He realized he was frowning, that he'd set aside his usual impassive mask, but he didn't care. “You can't seriously imagine that you'll be safe wandering London's streets and staring at unknown men.”

Aside from all else, she made a far too attractive youth.

“Of course not.” Laying aside her spoon, she lifted her napkin and dabbed at her lips—those outrageously feminine curves—and his unruly body reacted. “I'll take Thomas with me. He'll be able to protect me.”

Down the length of the table, he met her gaze, read her determination. Ungraciously growled, “All right. I'll go with you. As we both know, Thomas isn't an appropriate companion for a youth of your supposed station, especially not in areas where such youths congregate, and those youths, after all, are the ones you need to mimic.”

The smile she bent on him was equal parts triumph, approval, and pure pleasure. “Excellent! I knew you'd see my point.”

And if that wasn't an admission of blatant manipulation, he didn't know what was.

She capped her performance with a cheery “So! When can we leave?”

T
he hackney Dominic had sent Jessup out to hail so he could bundle her into it in the mews without anyone seeing her became Angelica's initial classroom.

The first thing she learned was that Dominic's house was in Bury Street. “Good Lord!” She stared at him in shock. “We're just around the corner from my home!”

He didn't say anything, just looked at her.

She grinned and looked around. “No wonder you didn't want me heading out on my own.” She examined the carriage's interior. “Are all hackney coaches like this?”

“You've never ridden in a hackney before?”

She shook her head.

Inwardly sighing, he replied, “More or less. Some are bigger, others smaller, but they operate on the same system . . . one you clearly do not need to know.”

“A well-bred youth would know about hackneys.”

She was teasing him again. Rather than respond directly, he viewed her critically, then sat up. “First lesson.” Leaning forward, he closed his hands, one about each of her breeches-clad knees, and spread them apart. Saw shocked surprise flash across her face. “No youth sits with his knees together. Not unless he's forced to.”

“Oh.” The word was breathless. Eyes locked with his, she licked her lips, then nodded. “I see.”

The feel of her quintessentially female knees under his palms, the way her breeches had pulled taut across her lower hips . . . he nearly closed his eyes and groaned. What was he doing? The answer came instantly: Paying her back.

Slowly, his long fingers caressing, he drew his hands away and leaned back against the seat. Kept his gaze on her face, saw the faintest of blushes tinge her cheeks.

But she refused to look away. “All right.” Her chin tipped up a fraction. “What else?”

If she wanted to joust . . . “Your hands.” She had them folded in her lap. He dropped his gaze to them. “You should rest them at your sides, on the seat, or palms down on your thighs. Never in your lap like that.”

Angelica chose the latter option, spread her fingers slightly, then moved her palms back and forth a fraction and saw him tense. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment.” His voice had dropped half an octave. His gaze—at that moment not remotely cold—lifted to her face, rested there. “For the moment, you'll do.”

She inclined her head, looked out of the carriage window, and started plotting his downfall.

Twenty minutes later, the carriage rocked to a halt in the shadow of the Tower. Dominic stepped down to the pavement first; she bit back her frustration when he just stood there, blocking her way out while he checked their surroundings. Eventually, he moved. While he paid the jarvey, she clambered down the steps by herself, remembered to shut the door—no footmen there—then waited on the pavement, closer by the wall.

She felt oddly exposed without skirts to screen her legs; the unsettling feeling hadn't afflicted her in the house, but the open and very public street west of the Tower was a different matter.

Determined to show no hint of her sudden attack of missishness, she flashed Dominic a bright smile as he joined her.

He halted directly before her, his height and width effectively screening her from passersby. Like her, he was dressed in breeches and riding boots, in his case with a severely cut topcoat over a plain waistcoat; in attire, at least, he could have passed for a well-heeled tutor. He studied her, then said, “You're going to have to keep your head down, the brim of your hat tilted down. There is no way in hell anyone getting a good look at your face is going to imagine you're male. And no smiling. No youth ever born smiles like you do.”

She started to smile again, fought to straighten her lips. She nodded, obediently tipping her head down. “All right.” She waved to the street ahead of them. “Let's go.”

He hesitated just long enough for her to remember that giving direct orders to men like him didn't work, then he swung around and started strolling.

Slowly, so she could keep up.

Her first task was to learn to walk like him. Or at least well enough to pass. After having studied Thomas, then having checked in the mirror, she was well aware that her normal stride—which she reverted to the instant she stopped thinking about it—would immediately identify her as female, no matter her disguise.

Quite aside from wanting to spend the day with Dominic, she'd been sincere in demanding to go out so she could observe, adjust, and practice. If she could work at being a youth for a whole day while in her male clothes, she'd be a lot less likely to forget and revert to being feminine when in them.

And they had a whole day to spare.

Having got what she wanted—her pacing a public street with Dominic beside her—she put her mind to accomplishing the more urgent of her goals.

By the time they reached the Custom House, Dominic was seriously questioning his sanity in having agreed to—allowed himself to be jockeyed into—the outing. She was, he had to admit, diligently applying herself to copying his walk, modifying his stride to suit her shorter legs, but that laudable endeavor required her to glance constantly at his legs, his hips. Which wasn't helping his stride in the least.

A result that in turn made her continued scrutiny even harder to nonchalantly ignore.

“You know,” his tormentor said, “you're going to have to make some adjustments yourself if you want anyone to believe you're a tutor.”

He didn't glance at her; she'd been keeping her head tipped down. “Why?”

“Because you walk like a nobleman, talk like a nobleman, and you positively radiate arrogance.”

“I'm the scion of a noble house come down in the world and forced to earn my living.”

“And the arrogance?”

He didn't reply. His arrogance, what she meant by the term, was an innate part of him; he couldn't pluck it out . . . but perhaps he could mute it somewhat. Making a mental note to bear that in mind when dealing with others while in his role of tutor, he paced on.

Increasingly aware of her, a burr under his skin, and a peculiarly titillating temptation in her youth's garb.

He should have sent her out with Mulley or Jessup . . . no, he couldn't have. Neither would recognize danger approaching . . . speaking of which. Halting at the corner of the Custom House, he looked at what lay ahead.

She'd obediently halted beside him, more or less in his shadow.

“The market.” Billingsgate Fish Market lay ahead on their left, filling the area between the street and the river. “Your brothers, cousins, and their wives might not be there, but what about their staff?”

From beneath the brim of her hat, Angelica viewed the bustling throng filling the market and spilling out into the street. It was one of the well-known places in London no young lady would ever venture into, which was the reason she was keen to walk through there. “What's the time?” She didn't look at Dominic; from observing other men talking to each other, she'd realized they rarely looked each other in the face as they did.

Women almost invariably watched each others' faces when conversing.

Dominic consulted his fob watch. “Almost eleven.”

“There's no danger, then—if any of the staff had come to buy anything, they'd be gone by now. But most of the households have their fish delivered to the back door.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “All right. But we walk straight through and out the other side, and on over London Bridge.”

She set off, pacing along, letting her arms swing. She was getting into the way of it, and she'd been right; the practice was helping.

They'd agreed on a route that would keep them away from the streets her brothers and cousins, let alone their wives, might for any reason walk or drive down.

She'd expected the market to be busy and noisy, but it proved to be more crowded than a duchess's drawing room, with humanity, largely unwashed, jostling on all sides, and wincingly loud, raucous screams, yells, and exhortations vibrating through the air. Long before they reached the exit, she was inexpressibly grateful for Dominic's large presence beside her, supporting her and shielding her from the worst of the melee.

Jaw clenched, Dominic caught her arm and literally hauled her out, into the less crowded area around the church at the market's western end. He released her. Watched as she shook herself, then readjusted her jacket and checked the stability of her hat and the hair it concealed. “Satisfied?”

Somewhat to his surprise, she didn't flash him a teasing smile; she just nodded. “At least I've seen it—and now I understand what's meant by ‘screeching like a fishwife.' They
do
screech.”

Without prompting, she walked on.

Pacing side by side, they rounded the church and walked on to London Bridge.

T
hey halted for lunch in a tavern south of the river, not far from the docks. Dominic thanked his stars that he'd been able to steer her away from the rougher, dockside haunts, yet as he led the way into the tavern's main room, he felt instinct roil just beneath his surface.

If he'd had any doubt that his inner self already considered her his, the impulse to snarl and figuratively show his teeth to the men sitting supping ale at the other tables slew it. But he couldn't even look at them in silent warning; even that would mark him as what he truly was. She'd been right in stating he'd have to adjust, but it wasn't only his arrogance he had to rein in.

Reaching a table by the wall, he pulled out a chair and forced himself to drop into it before she sat. Treating her like a youth would have been much easier if he could have seen her as a youth, but his imagination balked at the task.

A slatternly serving woman slouched to the table. “Right then, what'll it be?”

“Two servings of your pie, a pint of ale for me, and”—he glanced at Angelica; her eyes met his beneath the brim of her hat—“watered ale for my charge.”

The serving woman grunted and left.

His “charge” glanced swiftly around, then, mimicking one of the other men, propped her elbows on the table and clasped her hands.

It had been her suggestion to go strolling along the docks. As it transpired, it had been safe enough, just like their slow amble across London Bridge. Regardless, for the entire time he'd been hyper-alert, trying to watch every way at once while simultaneously appearing to be a bored tutor accompanying his charge on a day's outing.

She'd halted in the middle of the bridge, leaned on the railing, and looked eastward down the river; only he'd been close enough to see the pleasure in her eyes, in her face, as she'd drunk in the scene. The sight had gone some way to placating him for all the tense moments she was putting him through. And he had to admit that even on the docks, she'd been watching the men—the messengers, the navies—as they'd swarmed, picking up traits here and there, trying them out, incorporating some into her new persona. She was definitely improving, which was why he'd agreed to bring her into the tavern.

Leaning on the table, she murmured, “What do men generally talk about at a venue such as this?” Her natural voice was a faintly husky contralto; by lowering the tone, she could make it pass for a youth's.