A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2)
Page 4
Shite, Donell better not have dropped her in the middle of an epidemic to boot.
She wrinkled her nose and hastened her step.
“An architectural assistant, he said.” She’d read that the first duke had commissioned some architect in England to design his new residence. Other than a few details on the matter and an aesthetic appreciation of old buildings, that was the sum of her architectural knowledge. The only upside was that she knew what the end product would look like and possessed artistic skills enough to sketch it out satisfactorily. Hopefully that would be enough to get through the early design phase if she were here long enough to be expected to work. “I should start at the castle, aye? Talk to the duke? Does that sound like a reasonable start?”
Rab flicked his gaze to her then ahead once more. That was an affirmation, wasn’t it?
It seemed a logical course of action. Och, what if it wasn’t? What if Auld Donell had sent her on a mad chase that landed her in a castle dungeon? Or worse…?
“Fuckery, I tell ye. Pure unadulterated fuckery. That’s what this is.”
“Woot’s fookery, mistress?”
Aila looked down at the grubby-faced lad tagging along in her footsteps, a cap pushed back far enough on his head to reveal a shaggy mop of blond hair. A nearly identical female version of him hovered a few steps behind. Both had wide hazel eyes tinged with too much innocence to be repeating anything that slipped from Aila’s lips.
“It’s a word a lad as young as yerself shouldnae be repeating, that’s what it is.”
“Indeed. Nor is it a word a lady should be using.”
* * *
To her credit, she didn’t stammer or hem and haw. In fact, Aila uttered not a single word as she whirled about at the growling agreement to find another pair of hazel eyes — these not so wide, nor as innocent as the others — narrowed at her from beneath slashing brows. She did manage to catch her toe on the hem of her dress as she turned. If not for a solid retaining wall in the form of a massive German shepherd, she might have found her arse and dignity deep in the mud right along with her shoes.
“Have ye naught to say for yerself?”
Apparently not. Not a sound passed her lips, though her eyes widened of their own accord, with nothing close to innocence either. Her focus expanded from the man’s piercing eyes, taking in his broad forehead marred by the deep furrow, closely cropped sandy hair, razor sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jaw with a stretch of taut skin between them. His severe features were softened by the most kissable lips she’d ever imagined on a man. Or they would be, if they weren’t turned down at the corners and compressed with irritation.
“I — I —” Had she been able to locate her wits, Aila might have summoned some of the sarcasm she was known for. A sharp retort maybe. Perhaps both. In the face of such brooding beauty, it was all she could do to remember how to breathe.
He was a pure bonny male specimen to be sure.
“Ye’ve frightened the lass, Finn. Cease yer glaring.” It wasn’t the man staring down at her who spoke, but another by his side. This one was dark-haired with warmer, if not entirely welcoming, brown eyes. As ruggedly handsome as the first, both were tall, broad, and divinely muscled beneath long wool jackets that fell to the knee and tight knee breeches that hugged their thick thighs. If they had been in kilts, they would have been swoon-worthy.
Neither was the least bit soft or bulgy-eyed.
“I’m no’ frightened,” she found her tongue. “Startled perhaps.” Dumbfounded, definitely. “To be honest, I’d always thought the telly exaggerated the — ” She rocked her head from the first man to the second but managed to bite her tongue before the rest slipped out.
Exaggerated the braw…nay, raw, brooding masculinity of the average historic Scotsman. The overall manliness of Brontë’s century-old beau hinted that time and genetics watered down the species. Add to that another century or more….
Well, Aila had always been one for empirical evidence over the hypothetical.
Now she had it.
In magnificent abundance.
She shook her head at her wayward thoughts. She was here to complete a mission. Nothing more.
And to have a spot of fun.
Nay, while the blond one in particular — Finn, was it? — looked like he could provide a pure good time indeed, that couldn’t have been what Auld Donell meant by his suggestion.
“Woot’s a telly?” The young lad still by her side gaped up at her revealing a pair of missing front teeth. “And I still dinnae ken what fu—”
“Wheesht, lad.” Finn hushed the child with a fierce scowl.
The boy’s face fell into a similar frown. “But Da, ye always said curios—”
“Wheesht!” The man slashed an impatient hand downward.
“But Da—”
“Wheesht, I say!”
Aila sighed at the clash of male wills. “If I might—”
That hand sliced the air again. “I said wheesht!”
A righteous burn of offense washed away Aila’s star-struck awe. She pierced him with a scowl of her own. “Did ye just shush me? For real?”
To his credit, for a passing moment Finn appeared shame-faced by the deed. Most like, his impatience with his inquisitive child had boiled to the surface and he hadn’t intended to include her in his exasperation. In her experience, men said and did many things they didn’t intend. She might have let it pass if she hadn’t been shushed just so by another arrogant man recently enough for the reprimand to sting. If the humiliation of being schooled like a child didn’t still burn in her heart.
“Mayhap if ye guarded yer tongue…”
“Guard my tongue?” The sarcasm began to flow as she interrupted before he had the opportunity to somehow justify himself. She took a step toward him, glaring up — aye, up. Way up. Och, but he was a mountain of a man…. Nay, she wouldn’t allow his magnetism to sidetrack her. “Who are ye to censure me on the words I choose to employ, may I ask? I dinnae need some arse of a man telling me what to do.”
Aila bit her lip, her face afire. Displacement, her therapist would have called it. Blaming all men for the sins of one.
The man’s eyes snapped with anger. He bent his head until they were practically nose to nose. “The bairns dinnae need to be hearing —”
“I wisnae talking to them. I dinnae even ken they were there.”
“Then who were ye talking to?” His scowl deepened at her silence. A low growl rumbled from deep within Rab’s throat bore a distinct don’t talk to my human like that vibe. “There’s nae one else about.”
“She might’ve been talking to the pup, Da.” This from the little girl. Rab’s grumble ceased as he panted merrily at the child.
Da? This cranky, smoldering man had fathered these two sweet children? Their mother must have been an angel to provide balance to the gene pool.
“Och, she isnae talking to the dog, Effie. She’d have to be off her heid to think he’d understand,” the boy said.
All eyes on her, that frisson of apprehension that had been washed away by this man returned. Aila recalled where she was. When she was. In her time, one might be called a variety of names. Witch, bitch, or worse. However, she’d watched enough television to know there were two things people never made light of in the ancient times.
Witchery and madness.
If the truth were known, in their eyes, she’d be guilty of both.
Ten minutes in and she was faltering. She didn’t like the feeling. She hadn’t liked it when her relationship with her mother toppled. She’d hated it when she and Kyle had fallen apart. Bugger it, she was better than this.
“Of course, I wisnae talking to the dog.” Aila squared her shoulders as far as the heavy trunk would allow and met Finn’s skeptical gaze straight on. Though the heat in his eyes was not at all sensual, his impact had that effect. She felt it to her toes and reminded herself about his angelic wife out there somewhere. “I was merely talking to myself,” she managed. “As one do
es.”
“As one does?”
“As one does,” the other man who stood in silence until then repeated in a more agreeable tone. “Aye, we’ve all been known to mutter a curse or two under our breath when things go awry. Pax, Finn, ’tis clear the lass is nae Sassenach despite wearing the latest London fashion. Have ye nae tolerance for yer fellow countryman?”
Aila breathed a sigh of relief at gaining her first ally in this place and cast him a slight smile. Her ire at being over-dressed she’d save for Donell when she saw him next.
“Nae Sassenach?” Finn didn’t allow his suspicion to slip. “She sounds like one to me.”
“I beg yer pardon?” Indignation flared hot at the insult, as it certainly was one. True, her brogue wasn’t as thick as the two men’s or the children from what little she’d heard, but she was a born Scotswoman. “I’m as much a Scot as ye.”
“Are ye now?” Finn’s gaze pierced hers a moment longer before he turned away with a noncommittal grunt. “Come along, Niall,” he said to the boy and held out his hand to the girl who was tentatively stroking Rab’s ear. “Effie, come.”
The shepherd let out a low whine as the trio walked away. “Some protector ye are,” Aila muttered under her breath.
“No’ talking to the dog, eh?”
She winced and peered up at the lingering Scot. “’Tis a habit, nothing more.”
He nodded. “Dinnae fret about my judgment, lass. I talk to the air more than I ought.” A shadow of something resembling sorrow darkened his eyes before they cleared once more. “Ye maun forgive my friend. Finn is merely an angry man, as are we all these days.”
These days? What days were these? Aila offered a vague hum in response and shifted her arms. His gaze immediately fell to the trunk.
“Och, allow me, lass. Yer pardon. A true gentleman would have relieved ye of yer burden long ago.”
“I can carry it myself.”
“Aye, for certs, but allow me. I insist.” He took the trunk from her and tucked it under one arm as if it weighed no more than a shopping bag. “I should introduce myself as well. Ian MacKintosh.”
“Aila Marshall.”
He managed a slight bow despite his burden. “A pleasure, Mistress Marshall. Tell me, how did a lady such as yerself, trunk and all, come to be in bonny Inveraray?”
“My ride…er, left me some ways back rather than taking me straight to the castle.”
“The castle?” A hint of disgust curled his lip.
“Aye, I’m the duke’s new architectural assistant.”
His jaw sagged before a ghost of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Och, are ye now?”
Chapter 5
“Assistant?”
“Aye, the architectural assistant, sir.” As if repeating herself would make the bit of fiction more believable. Her education and work experience were in theatrical makeup. She’d spent enough time on stage in school to project confidence she’d didn’t feel.
“You will address me as Mr. Derne.” Haughty grey eyes sunken into a withered, skeletal face raked over her once more. “I’ve never conceived of a female capable of the position. Moreover, have no recollection of requesting one. Have you a letter of introduction?”
Tall and gaunt, the old man with the starchy black suit and imperious gaze had all the stereotypical earmarks of aristocracy. It had come as a surprise to Aila that he wasn’t, in fact, the duke she sought. Or any form of peerage. The duke, she’d learned, wasn’t even in Inveraray and this man was nothing more than the duke’s steward. The power, it seemed, had gone to Derne’s head.
As it had Donell’s. First the outlandish clothing, now this. Putting her in such an indefensible position. Working her way through the castle’s chain of command, it had been evident that her adopted persona was not only unexpected but implausible. A quick rummage through the trunk had produced no letters of introduction or anything else to support her aim. She’d be out on her arse before the sun set. A blight on the old man’s head.
“Mr. Derne, sir?” The thin voice of a bespectacled young man seated at the desk in the corner broke the awkward silence. He lifted a thick sheet of parchment from a pile on the disorganized surface and held it aloft between two fingers as if the thing might poison him. His voice trembled as the steward pinned him with that uncomfortable stare. “I do have a letter here from the Misters Adam indicating that they would send someone to aid in Lord Keeley’s efforts.”
In two long strides, Derne crossed the room and snatched the letter from the unfortunate man. He gave the contents the same scathing review he had her with a grimace. “It says here that an Ailan Marshall would be sent. Not a female.”
“Aila, not Ailan,” she corrected, sending up a prayer of thanks for the letter.
With a trembling finger, his subordinate pointed to the page. “I believe that’s a flourish at the end of the name rather than an N. You can see it employed here.” His finger lowered. “And again there.”
“Thank you for pointing out my error, Mr. Elliot,” Derne snapped.
Aila’s inner thanks was a tad more sincere.
The steward’s glare found her once more, not an ounce kinder for the confirmation. “A pox upon William Adam for turning his respected business over into the hands of two untried youths.”
“Er, Mister Adam died only a few months ago, sir,” Elliot murmured.
“A bloody inconvenience it is, too.” Derne slapped the letter down onto the desk. “I cannot imagine what use you’ll be to the process, Mistress Marshall. I assure you I shall be writing to the duke regarding this flight of fancy.”
As if flight of fancy wasn’t what prompted this new castle nonsense to begin with, she snorted softly under her breath.
“House her in the northwest tower with the others.” He snapped his fingers at Elliot. “Then inform Mister Keeley that she shall be his problem from here on until the duke responds to my query on the matter.”
Elliot jolted and bowed before scurrying toward the office door with a glance over his shoulder that indicated she should follow. Aila did, though with none of his frantic haste despite her eagerness to leave the dark room with its oppressive display of draping tapestries behind. She’d be damned if she’d cower before any bully. “What a bawheeded jobby.”
“I — I beg your pardon?” The young man’s expression was curious but unoffended. Sassenach that he was, given his accent, he hadn’t a clue to her meaning.
Good thing.
A uniformed footman opened the door as they approached. Another in the antechamber that separated the office from one of several public rooms had been commissioned with holding Rab. He released the growling animal with a thankful sigh. The dog circled her with a sniff of her skirts and a chuff that sounded suspiciously like disgust as he peered through the open door with a grumble low in his throat. “I dinnae care for him either,” she told him as the dog claimed a place by her side.
“Pardon, mistress?”
“Nothing.” She waved aside the clerk’s question. “So, what now?”
“I’ll have your trunk sent to your room, unless…er, that is…”A flush rose in Elliot’s pale cheeks to blend with his fiery hair. “The northwest tower is largely a bachelor’s quarters. Perhaps a room at the inn would be preferable? Mr. Derne need not know.”
“I would hate for ye to get in trouble.” Aila toyed with explaining to him the concept of the coed dorm she’d lived in while at university simply to see if his blush could grow any brighter but decided against it. Poor lad seemed beleaguered enough already. “I’m safe enough with my guard dog at my side, aye?”
And it wasn’t as if she planned to be here long.
“Very well.” He issued instructions to the footman. When Aila moved to follow him, Elliot caught her arm with an apology. “I feel I should see you to the building supervisor straightaway, that is, if you don’t mind, mistress,” he said with a pleading glance. “Mr. Derne is…”
“Many unmentionable things?”
As much as it would please him, she wasn’t about to lose her only friend in this place. “He stays with me, Mr. Elliot.”
His eyelid ticked however he made no argument. “This way then, if you would.”
They worked their way through the existing medieval castle with the young man leading the way. One chamber opened into the next until he paused at the far end of the dining hall where the dark mouth of a gaping passage awaited them. He pointed to a tight spiral staircase set into the wall. “These stairs lead to the tower where your rooms are located. When Lord Keeley dismisses you for the day, I’ll show you the way.”
He waved her into the hallway. A series of flickering candles dotted the way ahead at wide-spaced intervals. The smell of burning tallow followed along with Aila and mingled with the stench of mildew and stale earth. Shafts of meager sunlight from the narrow openings far above illuminated particles of dust or worse floating in the air. Weighing the odds of airborne spores, she held her breath. Dark and dank as it was, misery pressed in from all sides of the arching passage. Rab’s nails clicked on the stone floor as he hugged her side. He let out a soft whine of protest she was hard put not to echo. Good thing Aila wasn’t claustrophobic.
Each weak circle of light she passed through revealed another piece of the statuary that lined the hall. One by one, they emerged from the shadows like a ghoulish specter as they passed. Stony figures of armored knights and uniformed soldiers, heads bowed over their weapon of choice held in silent homage to their chieftain. Natural light finally broke the darkness and the long passageway opened into a large servants’ hall and from there to a warm, bustling kitchen.
Aila drew a deep breath, thankful for the yeasty aroma of baking bread that vanquished the mustiness clinging to her nostrils. They made their way through a scullery, pantry, and buttery, then outside at last. Rab sprinted with a joyful bay into an expansive courtyard with a cluster of animals opposite her — the stables, she supposed — and a blacksmith complete with anvil at work. The bailey, she believed it was called. A real architect would know. Obviously the oldest part of the castle, the thick fifteenth century curtain wall cast long shadows and a chill over her once again as she was led to the smaller postern gate.