A Rake for All Seasons: A Regency and Victorian Romance Boxset

by Samantha Holt

  “What was all that noise?” the woman demanded.

  “Mrs. Shaw. And a dog,” Rose blurted before hurrying through the pale blue breakfast room and the rear door into the servant’s quarters, where barking could be heard.

  The housekeeper followed her. “There’s a dog in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  They hurried down the stairs into the kitchen.

  “However did it get in here?”

  Rose paused as she nearly slipped on the bottom step. Miss Taylor grabbed her arm. “Be careful, Miss Rose. The last thing we need is you hurt as well as dealing with a stray dog.”

  Nodding, she ducked under the low beam to view the chaos. Mrs. Shaw usually kept a very tidy kitchen. With only Rose and Aunt May to look after, she had plenty of time to keep the place organized and they had no other servants aside from the gardener who lived in the village.

  The kitchen, big enough to feed a large family and their guests, was always neat. The large cupboard to one side dominated the room, while the tall ceilings allowing high shelving which housed the fine china they rarely used. The black hearth took up the other side, though they seldom used more than one oven. In between these was a large table that the cook had used to prepare their meals as long as Rose could remember.

  Usually the giant copper pans were hung neatly on the wall, but instead they were scattered across the table and floor. The large mixing bowl that should have been tucked in the cupboard was upside down near the rear door. Various utensils were in the oddest of places. There was even a puddle of something on the flagstone floor. She was not sure how long the dog had been in the house but, apparently, it had been long enough to cause utter chaos.

  Barks emanated from the store cupboard. Rose and Miss Taylor found the cook curled up in one corner while the dog eagerly stood guard, barking at her. The tiny cook, with her white curls peeking haphazardly out of her cap, shook a ladle at him.

  “Back off,” Mrs. Shaw ordered the animal. “Back off!”

  Behind Rose, Miss Taylor laughed.

  Mrs. Shaw narrowed her gaze at them both. “Stop laughing and help me. This blasted mutt is running riot and dirtying my kitchen. We shall have to clean it from top to bottom!”

  Rose eased down onto the cold stone floor and held out her hand. “Here, boy,” she said softly.

  The dog turned his attention to her, but Mrs. Shaw jumped up. “Don’t let him touch you. You shall get a disease!”

  Startled, the animal bolted once more, flying out the open rear door and up the steps to the outer courtyard. Rose sighed.

  “He was fine. He was likely hungry. Poor mite.” Pushing to her feet, she glanced around at the chaos.

  Miss Taylor shook her head and lifted a copper pot. “Was it really necessary to throw everything at the animal, Mrs. Shaw? He was only a small dog.”

  Mrs. Shaw thrust her hands upon her hips and glared up at the tall, slightly rounded woman. “He was a filthy mutt. I wanted him nowhere near me. I had to defend myself with something.”

  Miss Taylor peered at the cutlery strewn across the table. “With everything?”

  “What should I have done? Invited the dirty animal in and fed him?”

  Rose did not point out that perhaps if she had offered him some food, he might not have run all over the house. Instead, she drew back. The women had worked for her aunt as long as she could remember and knew each other better than anyone. That said, it meant they could argue for hours and it was looking extremely likely that was about to happen.

  “No doubt you left the kitchen door open and practically invited him in anyway,” the housekeeper accused. “You were lucky it wasn’t a fox.”

  Mrs. Shaw’s eyes flared. Rose took another step back, easing toward the steps to the servants’ quarters.

  “I did not leave the door open!”

  Rose coughed. “I think I shall take a walk, see if I can catch up with him.”

  The morning meal would not be served for several more hours and the day was turning bright, so the idea of remaining indoors amongst all the chaos did not much appeal.

  Neither woman paid any attention to her as they squared up to one another. She only hoped the argument was over before Aunt May awoke.

  Hastening back up to her room, she flung open the curtains and admired the burgeoning summer day. Aunt May had always told her she was far too English. The mere sight of sunshine had her excited, mostly because she found the dreary Scottish weather stifling, particularly when one had to remain indoors with one’s aunt. As much as she loved her aunt, and even Mrs. Shaw and Miss Taylor, she longed for some company closer to her own age.

  Not that there were any about. The village people were pleasant enough but were closer to her aunt’s age. Most of the younger people ventured south or to the bigger towns when they came of age. Aunt May was not one for socializing anyway. She preferred her own company, she always said. Rose suspected some thought her too proud to spend time with anyone of lower status.

  However, Rose knew Aunt May was never snobbish and whilst they had a large house, they lived modestly. No doubt Aunt May had to make her funds stretch, though she had never quite figured out where her widowed aunt gained her money. She had once said something vague about her parents leaving her money to look after her in their wills, but she had refused to answer any more questions and Rose had to assume her sister’s death was too painful for her to think about.

  It still seemed a little odd to Rose that she was not really allowed the opportunity to make friends with those supposedly below her own situation, particularly given Rose had no situation. After all, she had no rank, no fortune, no friends, and no family.

  Sighing, she set about her ablutions and dressed for the day in a simple sprigged muslin dress. Miss Taylor could be counted on to do her hair on the rare occasion she went any farther than the village, but today she would remain in the woods to see if she could find the dog so she braided her hair over one shoulder and left it at that.

  She supposed she could be grateful for many things about her situation, and one was the freedom to roam wherever she may like. In the many, many books she had read, young women were escorted everywhere and watched over constantly. Thank goodness she did not have to tolerate that.

  Rose stopped by the larder, ignoring the raised voices still coming from the kitchen, and put a little ham into a hamper. If the dog was hungry, perhaps he might sniff it out. She really did want to make sure he was fed and well.

  Throwing on a shawl, she headed out toward the woods. Aunt May’s house sat on a river bend, blocking it off from the land to the west. She doubted the dog had gone for a swim, so she would head in the other direction in the hopes of coming across him.

  The well-manicured lawns turned into wild fields before she reached the edge of the woods. She had been exploring them since she was a young child and knew each tree and rock and gulley with such intimate knowledge that she often boasted of never once getting lost.

  She hopped over the old tree that had fallen years before her arrival in Scotland and made her way down the natural path that her feet and that of others had worn into a permanent one.

  “Here, doggy,” she called and lifted the cloth of the basket, giving it a little waft in the hopes he might catch the scent.

  The only sounds around her were that of a few birds hopping from branch to branch. While she made her way through the woods, she did come upon a squirrel.

  But no dog.

  When she emerged from the other side of the woods, she had been walking for a good hour. She paused to look around at the open fields, some filled with tufts of bright purple heather, others a mix of green and yellow. Perhaps, if she waited, he would follow the scent. Her aunt had always said if she ever got lost to stay in one spot so she could be found. Well, she was not lost but maybe her aunt’s advice worked with stray dogs too.

  Rose found a flat piece of grass, uncovered the ham again, and lay back, her hands behind her head. She watched the clouds
pass lazily by until her eyes grew heavy. She yawned. No wonder she was tired with her early start, and the summer nights had made it hard for her to settle. Not to mention the odd dreams of strange men. The only men Rose knew well were the delivery man and the gardener. Why should she dream of faceless men? She had little chance to meet any and even less intention of trying to. A kiss would be nice, but she had decided several years ago that men were not worth all the trouble. If the books she read were to be believed, they only led to heartache and misery. Why would she wish to give up her freedom for a man?

  Chapter Two

  “Damned mutt.”

  Hamish paused to scan the hills. The blasted dog was too small to be seen amongst the heather and tall grasses. He’d been searching for nigh on two hours now and still no sign of him. He scrubbed a hand across his face and peered into the distance. Why had he let the animal out? Now he would likely have to spend the rest of the day hunting for Rupert instead of touring his cousin’s lands as he had planned. Not to mention all the work he needed to do on the castle. Since returning home to Scotland, he had yet to have a day that was not taken up with learning his new role, and he certainly could not afford a day off dog hunting.

  He climbed up the next slope and peered down toward the line of the woods. Here his land ended.

  His land.

  How strange it was to think of it as that. As the second cousin of a baron, he had never expected to inherit anything, yet here he was, nothing more than a Highland soldier, suddenly a laird and living in a castle in the lowlands.

  And fully aware of how poorly he filled the role. His cousin Malcolm had been an excellent earl and had trained from a young age for that role. The next heir would have been perfect too, had he not caught pneumonia some three days before Cousin Malcolm’s untimely death and followed him to the grave.

  Hamish shook his head as he marched down toward the trees. As for himself, he had been shot at, hit by shrapnel, nearly killed by cannon fire, been involved in vicious hand-to-hand fighting, and yet had survived. Who knew being at war was safer than remaining in Scotland?

  Something amongst the grass caught his attention. He paused and peered at it. Not a dog, to be certain. He moved closer. A woman. Closer still. No, a girl. He tilted his head. A sort of girl. A girl-woman perhaps. She had the figure of a woman, to be certain. Even lying down, he could see there were ample breasts and some curvaceous hips. However, her face was far too girl-like with a petite mouth, small nose, and pale lashes and eyebrows. Her hair was technically fair but not as light as the few fair women he knew who likely had a little help from cosmetics to get that bright, light look.

  Of course, he was able to observe all this at his leisure because she was sleeping. Fully and completely asleep. He looked at the basket at her side to see a small joint of ham. Why the devil was this young woman picnicking on her own with a mere slab of ham?

  He coughed. Hamish supposed he could have let her sleep on, but it did not seem safe to leave her out here all alone where anyone could do anything to her.

  Not to mention, he was wildly curious about this woman. He had only been in Scotland mere weeks, but he had met a few of the local families and his tenants, and she certainly was not one of them. He would have remembered.

  He coughed again.

  Lashes fluttered and mossy green eyes stared up at him. A crease appeared between her brows, and she jerked up to sitting. “Who are you?” Her gaze raked him from head to toe, making him far too aware of his traditional Highland garb that had no place in the lowlands.

  “Who are ye?” he demanded.

  Her scowl deepened and she stood, snatching up her basket as though he might be very interested in her lone piece of ham.

  “I asked first.”

  “But yer the trespasser.”

  “I certainly am not!”

  Those mossy green eyes were not so mossy when they stared up at him. In fact, they were becoming more interesting by the moment, and he’d certainly never been interested in moss. Dark green at the center, radiating out to an almost sea green, then finished with a ring of dark color that he supposed had given him that plant-like impression.

  She peered at him as though he was crazed, and he realized he was staring into them for too long.

  “Yer on my land,” he stated.

  Yet again, her gaze ran the length of him. He’d never been so aware of his height and stature before. In battle, his oversized body had been useful—apart from when it came to ducking bullets. But now he felt like an ogre or a giant, come to feast on this wee little lass.

  However, though there was certainly distrust in her gaze, she did not seem frightened of him. In fact, she raised her chin and directed her challenging stare at him.

  “This is the land of the Laird of Baleith.”

  “Aye.”

  She tilted her head. “The laird is six and fifty years.”

  “He was.”

  “Was?”

  “Aye. He died several weeks ago.”

  “He did?” Her eyes widened and she took a stumbling step back. He instinctively reached for her and helped her straighten, but she shook off his touch.

  He flexed the hand that had met her skin. A mild burning sensation had struck him the instant they had touched. He tried to shake it from his mind but he could still feel it, still recall the softness of her skin.

  Hamish opted for looking over her head. Golden strands of hair curled from it in wild disarray. What had once been a braid now looked to be a misshaped wodge of hair. Slightly brighter strands curled around her face, drawing attention to the pointed chin and tightly pressed together lips.

  Damnation, now he was looking at her mouth.

  He forced his attention back to her eyes. Aye, they were far too intriguing but if he continued on the path he was on, he’d end up staring at her figure and he could not allow that.

  “The laird had a fall. He died from his injuries, unfortunately.”

  “I did not know.”

  “Well, now you do.”

  “But why would I not know?”

  “I’m not sure. Do ye know all that goes on around here? Forgive me for not telling ye as soon as he hit his deathbed,” he said, his tone dry.

  “There’s no need to be rude. I am just sure my aunt would have known.”

  “I can be as rude as I like, lass. Yer standing on my land.”

  “You cannot really be a laird. No laird would speak in such a manner.”

  Whoever this stranger was, it was apparent she felt she should know all that occurred on his private land. He chuckled. “Well, this one does.”

  She clutched the basket close. “You should be ashamed, speaking such lies and besmirching the name of a good man.”

  “Aye, Cousin Malcolm was a good man, I shall agree with ye on that, but I dinnae think me speaking the truth counts as besmirching.”

  “Cousin Malcolm?”

  She took several steps back, nearly stumbling again. Though he went to steady her again, she dodged his touch, much to his disappointment. He could not help wonder if it would feel the same, if that strange tingling sensation would strike him again.

  “Aye, Cousin Malcolm. The late laird. Ye remember him? We were just discussing him.”

  “There is no need to be sarcastic.”

  There wasn’t, she was right. And yet he could not help himself. He was not sure why but this lass encouraged it in him. She clearly did not feel he was good enough to be a laird. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he was either. Yet it riled him that she should judge him instantly. Who was she anyway?

  “Ye shall have to forgive my manners,” he said as sincerely as he could. “I understand it is a shock, and I’m a merely lowly highlander to yer eyes. If it’s of any consolation, it was a shock to me too. I never expected to inherit, but, alas, I am the last male heir.”

  She eyed him for several moments, her lips puckered as though she had eaten something sour. At some point, that determined chin and those thin lips had gr
own appealing. He could not quite think when. Even when all wrinkled into a barely visible pout, he liked them. Her obvious disdain for him could not seem to change that.

  What a fool he was. He was addled in the head. That was it. The war had damaged him, and now, he could only like women who clearly loathed him.

  “You really are the laird?”

  “Aye. I returned from the war especially to be one.” He smirked.

  “I see.”

  He wasn’t sure what she saw, but at least she was no longer arguing with him that he was not in fact who he said he was.

  A blur of fur barreled toward him, and he turned his head in time to see Rupert scrabble up the lass’s legs. Her sour expression vanished, replaced with one that was utterly compelling. A wide smile and soft eyes greeted the dog as she lifted him up.

  “There you are,” she cooed, letting the dog lick her cheek.

  “Ye damned mutt,” he grumbled. All day searching for him and the animal did not care one bit that he had been worried to death for the dog he had picked up on his way to Scotland. “Ye see a beautiful woman and forget yer master instantly.”

  The woman turned her attention to him. “He’s yours?”

  “Aye. Well, sort of. I picked him up as a stray in Newcastle.”

  She petted the dog’s head. “I thought he looked well though he seemed to be hungry this morning.”

  “He’s always bloody hungry,” he muttered and scowled. “What do ye mean ‘this morning’?”

  She laughed. The sound did odd things to his insides. If he weren’t careful, he’d be staring at her, open-mouthed as if he had never seen a lass before.

  “He caused a little bit of trouble at my aunt’s house this morning. I think he was looking for food so he snuck into the kitchen.”

  Hamish shook his head. “Ye’ll have to forgive him. Rupert has not yet learned how to behave civilly. I have been trying to keep him in the castle until he’s better trained, but he escaped this morning.”