by Karen Ranney
Michael didn’t seem inclined to gamble, which was probably an asset in a future husband. He wasn’t interested in the Hearthmere bloodline, either, which was disturbing. Despite her bringing up the subject on numerous occasions, he seemed not to want to discuss her home.
She’d met her fiancé at a ball. He’d been pointed out to her by Jenny Woolsey, who’d become her friend by dint of having attended most of the same social functions. The poor thing was always laced too tightly and had the misfortune of perspiring when anxious.
Perhaps as a result of being shunned by the other girls—as well as potential suitors—or because she was naturally observant, Jenny could identify most of the guests at the various events they’d attended. She knew a man’s title, if applicable, and what his yearly income was rumored to be. She’d spotted Michael immediately.
“It’s the Earl of Wescott,” she said, her voice excited. “He’s recently returned from the Caribbean.”
Eleanor had given him a quick glance, but she hadn’t paid him much attention. After all, he was an earl and she hadn’t aimed that high. Yet by the end of the season they were engaged. Her entire future had changed.
“My dear girl,” her aunt had said, “aren’t you the sly puss? You’ve managed to acquire the most eligible man in London, perhaps all of England.”
She’d never been the focus of her aunt’s attention, let alone her praise. Eleanor found herself bemused by the situation and the speed at which it had happened. One moment Michael had called upon her aunt’s husband, and the next she was being feted for her charm, poise, and grace.
Not to mention being the object of speculation and endless rumors wherever she went.
Now she began the long trek down to the stable complex, noting changes that had been made in the past year. She knew about all of them, thanks to her steward’s monthly reports: the new fencing in the north pasture, the construction of an area for the foals to be trained.
Mr. Contino’s office was in the middle of the long stable building. She nodded to several men she knew, and stopped and had a conversation with a few of them before finally hesitating at the stable master’s door.
“Good morning, Mr. Contino,” she said.
She normally didn’t simply show up at Mr. Contino’s door without a prior announcement. He didn’t like to be startled and was apt to take out his irritation at her verbally in Italian. She’d never learned the language, but she was almost certain Mr. Contino swore at her from time to time.
He’d come from Italy, around Genoa, she’d been told. The man was an expert when it came to horses, at least according to her father. From the records her steward had sent her, Mr. Contino had continued with his expertise in the years since her uncle’s death.
The stable master had only tolerated Uncle William, but he’d had a genuine affection for her father. Archie could be found here at any time of the day or night. After dark, the two men would open a bottle of her father’s favorite wine. During the day it was the strongest coffee, never made more palatable with a touch of cream.
Mr. Contino had been given rooms on the third floor of the house, but preferred to make his home above the stable office.
“He likes being close to the horses,” her father had explained to her.
She’d wondered how the stable master had tolerated the smell of the stable before realizing it was probably like Daphne’s perfume. After a while, you no longer noticed how dreadfully overpowering it was and how it even seemed to flavor anything you ate.
“What is it you want?” The man’s heavily accented voice sounded annoyed, but that was Mr. Contino. He always sounded annoyed.
“To speak with you,” she said, stepping into the doorway.
He’d cleaned his office since she’d last seen it. Instead of a series of bridles and bits being strewn over the top of his desk, everything was neatly hung on hooks on the opposite wall. The two chairs in front of the desk were empty of blankets and a saddle—another change. Two large ledgers were spread open on the surface of his desk. When she appeared, he laid down his pen and scowled at her.
“You’re late.”
“Late?”
“You’re normally here in July,” he said. “It’s September. Where have you been?”
She smiled. “I almost didn’t come at all,” she said. “As it is, I’ll only be here for two weeks, not the full month.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. When he did speak she wasn’t surprised at his comment. Mr. Contino had never approved of Deborah.
“Your aunt?”
Not really. Michael had made the decision that she was only to remain here two weeks this year.
“He’s going to be your husband, Eleanor,” Deborah had said. “If Michael says that he only wants you to stay in Scotland for two weeks, then it’s a decision you should obey.”
Michael wasn’t her husband yet. Nor was she sure she liked the idea that he could decide—without any input from her—where she was to go and how long she was to stay. According to her aunt, that was marriage. A wife could not directly contravene her husband’s orders. Instead, she had to be inventive and clever. In other words, a woman had to be cunning in order to achieve her own wishes and wants.
Evidently, being duplicitous was simply a trait of smart women. Eleanor wasn’t altogether certain she agreed with that, either, even if it was the way of the world.
Mr. Contino made a gesture toward one of the chairs in front of his desk and she entered the room and sat, trying to get up her courage.
“It’s better to do something unpleasant right away, lass, than let it blister.” Her father had given her that advice.
“I’m to be married,” she said.
Mr. Contino was the first person she’d told at Hearthmere. Yet she didn’t doubt that the rest of the staff knew. Somehow, they always ferreted out important information and there was nothing more important than this. Not because of her. She was well aware of who she was and how unprepossessing. But she was engaged to a peer and that pulled her out of nondescript status and shone a spotlight on her.
“He’s an earl. It’s quite a remarkable thing, really. I never thought to attract the attention of an earl. Or any member of the peerage.”
“Like will seek out like,” he said. “It happens in the animal kingdom and it happens among people.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She certainly wasn’t a member of the peerage. Nor was she entirely certain she wanted to become a countess, for that matter. Now Daphne, that was a different story. If anyone should have been a countess, it was Daphne.
“We survived your uncle,” Mr. Contino said. “We can survive a husband.”
Although her uncle had grown up at Hearthmere, he hadn’t been the least interested in the Hearthmere bloodline. He’d made incredibly stupid decisions that she and Mr. Contino had to reverse behind his back. William Craig was more suited for his avocation—writing poetry.
“Can I saddle Maud?” she asked, standing.
“She’s ready for you.” He stood, too. Although Mr. Contino was shorter than she by nearly a foot, he always seemed larger, mainly because of his personality. “We’ve exercised her well since you’ve been gone, Miss Eli.”
His use of her father’s name for her almost pushed the smile off her face. No one else called her that.
“Thank you, Mr. Contino.”
He only nodded in response.
Without another word she left the stable master’s office and headed toward Maud’s stall.
Maud was a Highland pony, a garron, originally purchased to breed with one of their Arabian stallions. Her father thought that the result would be an attractive offspring with greater speed and an amenable temperament. Unfortunately, Maud had never produced a foal, but her father hadn’t sold the pony. Instead, she’d become Eleanor’s mount.
As a garron, Maud was tall, a chestnut with a full body and well-built quarters. Her eyes, set wide apart, were intelligent and knowing. Her head was arched a
nd her mane was long, as was her tail, which fell nearly to the ground.
Maud wasn’t a young animal, but she hadn’t developed any significant signs of age. Although Eleanor wished she could have brought Maud to London, it wasn’t the right place for her. She was better off at Hearthmere where there weren’t crowds and endless noises to startle her.
Eleanor left the stable, heading east. She wanted to explore slowly, giving both Maud and herself time to be reacquainted with their normal route.
She hadn’t expected the sheep.
Normally, Hearthmere’s flocks were taken to the pastures south of the house, not here. But these didn’t look like her sheep. They raised black-faced Scottish sheep at Hearthmere, not animals with white, elongated faces and sharp, pointed ears. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to the steward’s last report. Had they begun raising a different breed?
She debated retracing her steps, but she wanted to go onward. She tried guiding Maud through the white bleating cloud except that they weren’t parting for her. Instead, they milled around her, keeping her from making any progress on the road.
Maud didn’t like the animals being so close to her legs. Twice she skipped to the side. Dismounting, Eleanor grabbed Maud’s reins, deciding to lead her through the flock rather than attempt to do so mounted.
She thought the sheep would part for her if she pushed her way through them. The opposite was true. They seemed to relish bumping against her and announcing their displeasure in a high, irritating, whining bleat.
Abruptly, the sea of white thinned, leaving her staring at a black-and-white dog with a huge ruff and a set of impressive teeth. Like the sheep, he was not pleased with her appearance, but unlike the flock, he was poised to attack.
Chapter Three
Logan McKnight had always known that sheep weren’t quiet animals. They might move in a cloud of fleece and feet, but they weren’t silent. On the contrary, they were loud and in an annoying way. They bleated in tandem and then separately. Just when he got used to the rhythm of their noise, they changed it again.
However, he hadn’t known about the spitting.
A few of the ewes had sized him up from the first day and decided that he was wanting. Without warning, they’d spew spittle on him if he ventured too close. He learned to keep his distance.
Thank heavens for Peter and Paul. Without the two border collies, he didn’t know where the flock would be right now. Not headed toward the upper glen, that was certain. They’d probably be halfway to the Hebrides.
Some of his contemporaries—should they be unfortunate enough to spy him in his current role—would say that he was hiding. He preferred to consider this time away from London as a sabbatical. He needed a week or two in the Highlands to clear his mind and maybe clean his soul.
As long as the sheep obeyed the dogs’ commands he could follow along and act like he knew what he was doing. At night the dogs herded the sheep into a tight circle and remained on guard, one of them at Logan’s feet and the other in front of the flock.
The solitude had originally been a balm to his nerves. Lately, however, he almost craved the sound of another voice—other than his as he rehearsed a forthcoming speech. The dogs never offered comment, although the sheep didn’t seem to approve.
He hadn’t seen another human being in days. Nor had he seen a newspaper in all that time, a fact for which he was grateful. He didn’t want to read about himself.
The time hadn’t been wasted, however. He’d had time to think, and at first his thoughts were filled with what had happened in Abyssinia. Then his mind traveled back a few decades to the freedom he’d experienced as a child. It had been years since he’d felt that carefree.
This was, perhaps, the closest he’d come in a long while, acting in Old Ned’s stead while the shepherd visited a sick relative.
One of the dogs barked. Logan turned his head to find Peter standing rigid on the road, staring down a horse and rider.
Eleanor stayed where she was, conscious that Maud was as unsettled as she felt. Although the mare was exercised every day, it was in a closed corral, not the countryside. This experience of the sheep and now the dog was unusual—and frightening—for her and she was reacting with her normal skittishness.
The dog’s eyes hadn’t veered from them.
“All I want to do is pass,” she said to the dog. “You needn’t look at me like I’m your lunch. Go away.”
The dog didn’t stop growling. In fact, he took a few steps toward her. If the sheep hadn’t been milling so close she would have backed away.
“I mean it,” she said in a more forceful tone. “Shoo!”
“He’s only doing his job.”
She looked up to find a man standing there holding a crook, and a knapsack, watching her.
“You’ll never get him to move with a command like shoo,” he added.
Eleanor was torn between feeling ridiculous and being justifiably annoyed.
“This is a public thoroughfare,” she said. “One not set aside primarily for sheep.”
“I agree.”
“Then you need to move them so that I can get by,” she said.
“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to simply go around?” His accent was that of Scotland. Stronger than hers, given her five years in London.
He was smiling at her. A very charming smile as it turned out, one that she told herself not to notice overmuch.
Although he was dressed in a cream-colored shirt, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves, he didn’t look like a shepherd. First of all, he didn’t have a beard and his black hair was closely cut. Except for his attire, which included loose trousers showing several stains—one of which appeared to be blood—he looked like any of the men she’d met during her two seasons.
She didn’t make a habit of paying attention to a strange man’s appearance, but this shepherd made it somewhat difficult not to notice him. He had a rough-hewn appearance: black hair ruffled by the wind, a broad face with strong features, a nose that was almost too large for his face, and a mouth still arranged in a smile. His was a stubborn chin that warned her this encounter might not go to her satisfaction. Nor did he look the least bit abashed by the situation.
Surely he knew that she was his employer?
“Our sheep are never moved here,” she said. “You’ve taken them too far afield.”
“Have I?”
“You have. You should rectify this situation immediately. No one needs to know.”
“Don’t they?”
She shook her head, wishing he would do something about the dog. Every time she directed her attention somewhere else, the dog moved closer to her. If she wasn’t careful, the border collie would be only inches away.
“You needn’t be afraid of him.”
Anyone with half a brain would be cautious of a growling dog, especially one as large and as ferocious as that one. To make matters worse, now there were two dogs, the second one circling around and actually coming closer to her and Maud than the first animal.
“You really must call them off,” she said. “Right now.”
“Do you always give strangers orders? I’ve counted three so far.”
“I’m your employer,” she said. “I’m Eleanor Craig of Hearthmere.”
“Are you, then? I’m pleased to meet you, Eleanor Craig of Hearthmere, but you’re not my employer.”
“Of course I am, and those are my sheep. Now do something about them,” she said, trying not to look at the dogs. Instead, she focused her attention on the shepherd, surprised when his smile faded.
“You really are frightened, aren’t you?”
She wanted to protest that she wasn’t afraid, but it seemed ludicrous to make that claim when she could feel herself shaking.
“Are you going to command them to move?”
He whistled. Only a two-note whistle, and both dogs turned and came to sit at his side. Why hadn’t he done that from the beginning if it was so easy? Why had he thought it ne
cessary to put her through such distress?
“Miss Craig, those are not your sheep. They belong to the Duke of Montrose. In fact, you’re on the duke’s land.”
She’d come farther than she thought.
“Are you very certain they aren’t my sheep?”
“Yes.”
“Then by extension, you’re not my employee.”
He smiled. “Indeed, I’m not.”
She’d sounded imperious and dictatorial, and in a few words this shepherd had made her feel small and petty.
“Will you move your sheep so that I can pass?”
He studied her for several long moments. She half expected him to question her further. Instead, he took a few steps toward her, the dogs accompanying him. When she stiffened he stopped where he was.
“Are you afraid of all dogs or is it just these two?”
“Yours are sufficiently big to warrant some caution.”
“You have the wrong impression of them. They’re exceedingly gentle dogs.”
To him, perhaps. They didn’t look gentle to her.
She shook her head, remaining still. Maud had settled a little behind her, the mare acting as a living bulwark from the rest of the sheep.
The shepherd gave the dogs a command and they remained where they were as he approached her.
“Please make them go away.”
He startled her by putting down the crook and knapsack on the road and moving behind her. When she glanced at him over her shoulder he only smiled once again.
“Trust me, Miss Eleanor Craig of Hearthmere.”
Why should she? He was a stranger to her, one with some degree of arrogance.
When he put both hands on her waist she made a sound too much like a shriek. The dogs stood, ears alert.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m convincing you that they don’t mean to harm you.”
“But you do?”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said.
“Foolish? Please, let go of me.”
“I shall, in just one moment. Sixty seconds, that’s all I ask.”
