Around the side? At the back?
Should she leave her trunk sitting here, practically in the middle of the drive, and go in search or simply knock on the front door? She was, after all, a viscount’s daughter and not a beggar or riffraff.
She’d decided to do that very thing, but the thundering of hooves yanked her attention to the sloping, cobblestoned path that ran underneath a great stone arch. Two huge ethereal figures atop equally gigantic destriers charged up the incline against the backdrop of the glorious sunset. The fading light cast them into eerie shadows, much like wild, emerging specters.
Gasping, one hand pressed to her chest, she reflexively retreated, stumbling into her trunk and a dog or two. With a small cry, she struck the back of her calves against the chest. The blow knocked her off balance. She flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to stay upright, sadly aware she very much resembled the crow she’d likened herself to this morning.
The horsemen skidded to a stop and, as she fell, her legs in the air in a most indecorous fashion, time slowed to a crawl. Over the top of the chest she sailed, catching sight of familiar tree trunk-like calves and the grass-green background of a colorful plaid. The blue stripes, she recalled inanely, were an exact match to a pair of startling blue eyes.
The same eyes which had so boldly stared at her this morning.
Nae. Nae.
Her eyelids slid closed, just before striking the ground hard, knocking the air from her lungs. A vise-like grip about her ribs, her head, shoulders and hips throbbing in pain as she lay there. She tried, unsuccessfully, to suck in a breath.
A dog licked her cheek and another snuffled her neck.
What is he doin’ here?
Chapter Five
Of all the Scots and all the places in Scotland, he had to be here? Now?
The echoes of several pairs of feet running in her direction, as well as all four deerhound snouts snuffling her, infiltrated her pain and humiliation-induced haze.
Bloody, damned perfect.
What a grand entrance and wonderful impression she’d made.
Clutching at her abdomen, she tried to talk but only made weird rasping, gargling sounds, and she still couldn’t draw an iota of air. Panic clawed at her, pain radiating in undulating waves from her diaphragm. The harder to tried to suck in a decent breath, the more constricted her torso felt.
“Och, dinna fash yerself, lass,” the Scot said, in that irritatingly wonderful voice as one of the hounds whined softly and nudged her shoulder. “Hounds, sit.” he ordered firmly, but gently.
At once, the dogs sank onto their haunches, their big black eyes gazing at him with adoration. Any lingering doubt that he wasn’t the same man as the one she’d breakfasted with this morning dissolved the instant he spoke.
A moment later, he shoved her trunk aside. With his big, surprisingly gentle hands, he settled her skirts over her legs, his fingertips brushing her intimately in the process. A frisson of awareness sliced through her. Here she was, practically dying, and she entertained wanton feelings?
He, however, and much to her consternation, appeared completely unaffected.
Murmuring soothing, inarticulate words, he raised her to a sitting position and braced her against his oversized chest. Hard as a brick wall chest. “Exhale slowly through yer mouth and push yer stomach out at the same time.”
Still only able to take in tiny puffs, she curled her fingers into her thighs and attempted to do as he instructed. Lord, would the unbearable pressure in her middle and lungs never cease?
People encircled them, casting more shadows over Berget and the man supporting her.
“Again. Breath in, nice and deep. Suck yer stomach in as ye do,” came that deliciously velvety resonance. “Now, breathe out, and push yer stomach out.”
Gradually, the cramping in her torso eased, and she was able to draw a normal breath. Well, as normal as she could with the muscled man’s arms encircling her, chagrin bludgeoning her, and with a dozen or so strangers peering at her as if she were the greatest oddity they’d ever laid eyes upon.
“Thank you,” she murmured, when at last she managed to speak. Chin tucked, she smoothed her hands over the heavy fabric of her skirt. God Almighty. Her legs had been revealed to her thighs for all to see. She wouldn’t blame her new employer for dismissing her on sight. “You may release me now, sir.”
At once, he did so and then offered his hand.
Forcing herself to meet his eyes, despite the bite of mortification scorching her cheeks, she placed her fingers in his palm and was soon standing.
The dogs stood, too, looking expectantly at him.
Nodding at the onlookers and with a commanding angling of his square chin, he said, “As ye can see, she’s all right. Ye can go about yer business again.”
With soft murmurs of concern and looks of reassurance, the assembled people drifted back to whatever it was they’d been doing when she’d toppled into an undignified lump.
“Are ye indeed well?” he asked solicitously.
“Yes. Only my dignity is bruised a mite.” And her shoulders and backside. Managing a semblance of a smile, she untied the ribbons to her lopsided bonnet. “I assure you, I’m not usually so maladroit.”
Never, actually, before this.
She pulled the bonnet off, only to thin her lips when several large hunks of hair tumbled to her shoulders. A growl of frustration throttled up her throat.
What else could go wrong?
Sighing, she ineffectually plucked at the hopelessly crushed back of her hat. Dropping it onto the trunk, she set to work tidying her hair. She refused to meet her future pupils looking like a deranged, unkempt crow.
He bent and placed her only slightly worse-for-the-wear hatbox and satchel atop the trunk beside her lopsided bonnet. He smiled, kindness, amusement and something warmer in his bright blue gaze. “Och, now. Mrs. Black. When I said we might meet again, I didna mean for ye to follow me home.”
“Home?” He lived here?
Wasn’t that just her rotten luck? Oh, God. Was he her employer? Once again, her thoughts flew to this morning. She hadn’t been terribly pretentious, had she?
But Mary had been truly horrid. So, to be fair, had he. She allowed her eyelids to glide shut as she summoned her composure and ventured the question burning her tongue. “This is your home?”
She repeated herself, then could have bitten her tongue in half because she didn’t sound like a poised, no-nonsense governess. No, she sounded like a befuddled clot head with cotton between her ears where a brain ought to have been.
“Aye.” He swept into a gallant bow, reminiscent of his behavior at the Hare and Hog’s Inn this morning. “Welcome to Killeaggian Tower, my ancestral home. I am Graeme Kennedy, Laird of Killeaggian.”
And everything just became worse.
He swept his cudgel-sized forearm toward another man, greatly resembling him, but possessing darker hair. “This is my brother, Camden.”
Younger, though just as arrestingly handsome, Camden, an arm across his chest, dipped his square chin. A chin much like his brother’s.
“Welcome to Killeaggian, Mrs. Black.” His curious gaze waffled between her and his brother. “Ye’ve met before?”
She’d have to set them to rights about her name at once, though what explanation she could give for using a false name that wouldn’t give her away, she hadn’t contrived yet. Mayhap the truth would serve. A portion of it at least. Aye, that should suffice.
Before Berget could respond, the laird indicated her trunk. “Camden, would ye mind takin’ Mrs. Black’s luggage inside, and ask Marjorie which chamber is to be the new governess’?”
So, he knew she was the governess.
Had he known this morning, too?
She couldn’t conceive how that was possible.
Graeme retrieved her hatbox, tucking it under one beefy arm, before seizing her satchel in his other hand.
Camden stepped forward, and Berget rescued the worse-for-wear bo
nnet from atop the trunk. A slight furrow pulling his hawkish eyebrows together, he peered intently between them again, and then giving a slight shrug, lifted the trunk with ease. With a sharp whistle, he signaled the deerhounds to his side. Balancing the chest on his shoulder, he marched up the steps as if caring nothing more cumbersome than her hatbox, the great deerhounds prancing behind him.
“What are their names?” she asked to fill the awkward silence.
“Thor, Vidar, Freya, Frigg.” He scratched his bristly chin. “Frigg is expecting soon.”
“Viking gods and goddesses,” she said slowly with a nod. “Befitting for such magnificent animals.”
“I didna name them. Camden did.”
Speaking of names…
“My lord, I must tell you that Mrs. Black isn’t my real name.” She gathered the ribbons of her bonnet and clasped them in one hand. “I wished to conceal my identity while I traveled.” That had made rather a muddle of her arrival here, however. But it had been necessary to prevent being followed.
“Aye, ye dinna say?” Only a simpleton could’ve missed his sarcasm and disbelief. “Are ye really even a widow?”
He cocked a brow several shades darker than his strawberry-blond hair, his keen azure gaze raking her from shoulder to toe, then leisurely making the return journey. The hardened planes of his angular face and the disapproving downward tilt of her mouth told her he questioned everything about her.
And trusted her not at all.
This wasn’t good. Was she to lose her position before even starting?
His eyes narrowed into shrewd slits. “Or…are ye runnin’ away from a husband?”
“Pardon?” From his unyielding expression, she realized he was entirely serious. “I most certainly am not a runaway wife. I give you my word.”
Of all the ridiculous things to be accused of.
Except…he wasn’t so far off the mark. She was a runaway betrothed; a fact she had no intention of revealing.
Quite simply, when she’d decided a false name was prudent, she hadn’t considered she’d have to explain her assumed identity to her new employer. What were the chances she’d encounter him prior to her arrival while using the fabricated moniker? Now, however, he believed her to be dishonest and, worse, a liar.
Within the cloak’s fabric, she fisted her hands, hiding her discomfiture. How much should she tell him? He was the laird, after all, and she presumed the person who’d communicated with the registry that had hired her.
“I am a widow, my lord.” No need for him to know the circumstances, or that she hadn’t grieved Manifred the way a wife ought to. But then, he hadn’t been the kind of husband a wife mourned either.
“Nae need to call me my laird. Nae one else does. Laird or Graeme will suffice.”
Use his given name? No. Much too familiar. “Might I call you Laird Kennedy?”
“If ye wish.” He hitched a massive shoulder, seemingly wholly disinterested.
A couple other less than complimentary names sprang to mind, but she pinched her lips tight. She needed this position. Berget had only been here a matter of minutes, but the phrase had already become a mantra.
Her stomach grumbled loudly, and she put two fingers between her brow where the onset of a headache niggled. The movement caused her back and bum to protest, reminding her of her humiliating tumble.
Likely, she’d be sore for several days, and no doubt sport a bruise or two as well. If only she were at home and could soak in a hot bath. She’d probably be fortunate to take a tepid hip bath weekly here.
Mayhap there was a loch nearby she could swim in, for personal cleanliness was important to her.
“I would be happy to explain everything,” she said. “But might I do so inside?”
Preferably, after I’ve eaten, bathed, and had a good night’s sleep.
She directed her attention to the people still looking on with acute interest. One could only endure so much mortification. She also prayed he would accept her explanation. The highly abbreviated version.
“Of course.” His astute gaze brushed over her once more before he tipped his head, causing his shoulder-length hair to swing. Many a woman would envy the color and the soft waves. “Marjorie will be anxious to meet ye. I’m sure Camden has told her and our nieces of yer arrival.”
Relief tunneled through Berget as she matched his steps. No easy task considering the length of his strides. She practically trotted to keep up with him as he marched toward the entry, not once looking to see if she kept up.
Oaf.
“Marjorie is your wife?” At least he hadn’t given her notice on the spot for her deception. “I know from what the agency told me that I am to be governess to two girls, ages six and seven, I believe.”
Never slowing his pace, Graeme glanced down at her, an undiscernible expression on his face. “Marjorie is my sister-in-law. My brother’s widow, and yer charges are her daughters, no’ mine.”
“Oh. I beg your pardon. My condolences.” She hadn’t been aware, but then why would she? She was the hired help, not a friend or family member.
“Sion’s been gone just over five years now.” Graeme’s voice grew gruff. “I still miss him every day, as I’m sure ye do yer husband.”
There was no way Berget was scampering down that uncomfortable trail. Instead, she asked, “How did you know I was the governess?”
They’d reached the top of the time-worn stone stairs, and the doors that had been so ominously closed earlier, now stood wide open. “Simple deduction. Marjorie said she hired a governess. I ken everyone livin’ in this area, and ye arrived with a trunk.” He gave her another one of those unnerving looks. “’Tis no’ typical for a widow to seek a governess’ position.”
Neither was it typical to hire one.
The unasked question hung heavy and uncomfortable between them. His demeanor hadn’t changed. He was still coolly polite, but she felt as if he tested her.
“That is true,” she replied with forced demureness. “But I assure you, I’m qualified and capable.”
“I’ve nae doubt that ye are,” he said a trifle too casually. “Marjorie wouldna have hired ye if ye werena.”
Some small satisfaction there.
“Can I assume yer late husband didna provide for yer future?” He indicated she should precede him into the castle.
“Your assumption is correct, Laird Kennedy.” That wasn’t a lie.
“Ye’re a verra bonnie lass and still young enough to have bairns. Why dinna ye remarry rather than take a position?”
Because hell’s fires would turn to ice first.
His question was far too personal for Berget’s comfort. She canted her head. “Ye’re a verra braw man and young enough to father bairns. Why havena ye married?”
Haud yer wheesht, Berget!
A shadow swept his rugged features, and his jaw tensed for an instant. However, rather than take offense, he suddenly chuckled. “I prefer yer brogue.”
He would.
“Nevertheless, I was informed that my employer prefers I speak the King’s English,” she said. “Or French. I also speak Italian and passable Spanish.”
Odin’s toes. She hadn’t meant to sound boastful, but the man made her feel sorely inadequate.
A speculative gleam entered his eyes. “Och, but I’m the laird, and my word is law here. Ye’d best remember that.”
As if she needed reminding.
“Do ye write and speak Gaelic?” he suddenly demanded.
He would hone in on her one deficit. “Yes, but not as fluently as I’d like.”
A grunt sounded in his throat. Disappointment? Disapproval? Condemnation?
Speaking Gaelic hadn’t been a requirement for the position, and she almost said as much before checking her retort.
They entered the keep, and a pert little maid stepped forward and took Berget’s cloak and bonnet. She offered a shy smile which Berget returned before the maid addressed the laird. “Lady Marjorie said she’d await ye in
the drawin’ room.”
He gave a brief nod. “Thank ye, Peigi.”
So, no introduction. Because Berget wouldn’t be here long enough that one was necessary?
She scarcely had a chance to take in the grand entrance, an even more impressive staircase, or the mullioned windows reflecting the sun’s last rays before he took her elbow and escorted her down a wide passageway, complete with suits of armor and portraits of what she assumed were various ancestors. They made several turns, and by the time he drew her before a closed door, she was thoroughly lost.
When he didn’t immediately press the handle to enter, she looked up at him questioningly.
“What is yer real name?” It wasn’t a question but a demand.
Chapter Six
Berget started at the question. Didn’t he truly know? He’d had no part in her hiring?
Clasping her hands before her, she met his gaze unflinchingly. “Berget Jonston.”
“Jonston is yer married name?”
“It is.”
“And yer maiden name?”
“Does it matter? I no longer use it.” Stewart was a common enough Scottish name, and in her family’s case, was their surname and viscountcy title. Nonetheless, she’d prefer to keep that knowledge to herself.
After a moment, he gave a disinterested shrug and made a rough sound in his throat. “Ye’ll be addressed as Miss Jonston to prevent gossip since, as we’ve agreed, ’tis singularly unusual for a widow to be a governess.”
He seemed much more concerned about that detail than she or whoever had retained her had been. She didn’t object to his suggestion, however. Truthfully, she’d prefer not to be encumbered with Manifred’s surname at all.
Angling her head in agreement, she dropped her gaze in what she hoped was a respectful manner and murmured, “As you wish.”
This reticent business would take some practice. A great deal of practice. Diffidence didn’t come naturally to her, but she bit the inside of her cheek and donned a benign countenance.
She needed this position, she repeated in her mind again for the…tenth? Twelfth time?
To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel Page 4
