Digby shook his head, looking as mournful as a basset hound. “Damned if I know.”
With a huff of impatience, Mrs Murray took back the tray and allowed Digby to open the door to the captain’s study for her.
He was sitting at his desk and looked up, a glint in his eyes as she entered that boded ill.
“Breakfast, sir,” she said, avoiding his gaze and cursing Digby, who was closing the door without entering, the great chicken-hearted feartie-cat.
“Digby!” the captain bellowed, making her jump so that the china rattled on the tray before she could put it on his desk. “Get your sleekit self in here now.”
Digby came in, looking as haughty as any duke, which would not save him from the captain’s wrath.
“I suppose ye think that was a fine night’s work?” he demanded of them, folding his massive arms, his green eyes furious. “The poor lass was feart for her life with all that damned caterwauling ye were making, an’ for all ye know I could ha’ taken the opportunity to ruin her an’ send her home with a bairn in her belly.”
“Ye would never do such a thing!” Mrs Murray objected at once, biting her lip as a triumphant light glinted in his eyes.
He surged to his feet, overturning the chair he sat on and pounding the desk so hard the china all jumped again. “So, ye admit it!”
“I never said….” Mrs Murray began, before giving up. “An’ what if we did? Someone had tae do something. What kind of life is it for ye, shut away from the world with nothing for company but your stupid plants? They’ll not keep ye warm at night, an’ who will ye leave this to?” she added, waving her hand at the castle around them. “Ye’ll have nae kin, no one to mourn ye or raise a glass in yer name.”
“Did I ask for an opinion, Mrs Murray?” he asked, his expression so icy she stiffened.
“No, Captain Moncreiffe,” she said, mimicking his formal civility.
“Remember that,” he said, before turning to Digby, pointing at him, eyes narrowed. “Last chance,” he said, his expression grim. “Now get out o’ my sight, the both of ye.”
Mrs Murray dipped a curtsey and headed for the door, pausing on the threshold.
“I’ll tell Miss Wycliffe she’s to make her own way back home then, sir,” she said, as she went out. The door had almost closed when she heard his muttered curse.
“Damnation. Tell the blasted chit I’ll escort her home.”
***
Ross sent a surreptitious glance at the young woman walking beside him, wishing she wasn’t so quiet. It didn’t seem natural.
“Did ye sleep well?”
“I did, thank you,” she said, not looking at him, before stopping in her tracks.
Ross stopped too, a little startled and wondering what came next.
“I… I think I was a little naïve yesterday,” she admitted. “I’m afraid… I think perhaps Mrs Murray—”
“Not just Mrs Murray,” he said with a sigh. “Digby is in on it too. They’ve been on at me to find a wife for some time now. I’m afraid ye’re their latest victim.”
“Oh,” she said, giving a little huff of laughter that sounded rather forlorn. “You must be a determined bachelor if they’re getting that desperate.”
He frowned at that. “I didnae mean—”
“Oh, I know,” she said, laughing and interrupting before he could explain further. “But there’s no need to spare my feelings now, Captain Moncreiffe. You made your feelings quite plain, I assure you, and I promise you there’s nothing to fear. I’m sure you’re not the man I ought to marry, either. It would end in disaster.”
Ross stared ahead of him, wondering why that comment rankled. He didn’t want to marry her, and it certainly would be a disaster.
“Why ought ye not marry me?” he demanded. “Am I nae good enough?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Of course he wasn’t good enough! Blithering idiot. No matter how she’d ended up, she’d been raised a lady, that much was obvious.
“Oh, I never meant that,” she said at once. The look of distress in her eyes was quite genuine and soothed his ego a little. “I think you are a fine man, for what my opinion is worth, and… something of a hero, from what Mrs Murray said.”
He said nothing, not wanting to further the conversation, though she did anyway.
“She told me a little about your service, you were mentioned many times at court for your heroics it appears. Especially at Quatre Bas. You saved your commanding officer’s life.”
Ross made a sound of disgust at that. His commanding officer had been a damned fool and he’d have been more heroic to let the bastard die. He’d have saved more than one life that way. He walked on, simmering with frustration, only to slow his strides a moment later as she struggled to keep up.
If he were any kind of a gentleman, he would offer her his arm, but he didn’t want her to touch him. It was too dangerous. He’d spent the whole of last night remembering her in his shirt, the curvaceous outline visible beneath the fabric. He remembered the moment when he’d noticed the dark outline of her nipples, imagined that he’d reached for her and cupped her breasts in his hands. In his dreams he’d lowered his mouth to her breast and suckled her through the material until she’d moaned and squirmed and begged him for more. He’d given her more, stripping off the shirt entirely and taking her to the floor and….
Her footing gave way on the scree, and he grabbed a hold of her before she could fall. She clung to him, clutching at his arms, breathless and staring up at him, rather as she’d just been doing in his thoughts.
She wants you, a little voice in his head taunted.
Take her.
She did, he could see it in her eyes, the desire to be kissed. He could kiss her, here and now, and she would not object.
He set her away from him and offered his arm. It was safer than having to do that again.
They had almost reached the cottage that had belonged to her uncle when an older woman walked out, heading back towards the village. On seeing them she stopped, gaped for a moment, and then hurried on her way.
“Was that Mrs Reid?” he demanded.
“Yes, she works for us,” Miss Wycliffe replied.
Ross cursed under his breath. “Aye, an’ she’s the biggest clishmaclaver that ever drew breath, not that she stops for breath, mind.”
“Clish ma… what did you say?” She looked so adorably perplexed he had to laugh despite his annoyance.
“Clishmaclaver,” he repeated, smiling. “A gossip, lass. Now the tattling will start about us. Ye’d be best served by staying away from me. It will do ye nae good. If they get the slightest scent of a scandal, ye are done for.”
She stared up at him and he stared into eyes the colour of an autumn day.
“I gave my word, Captain Moncreiffe. That means something to me.”
“From what I know of your uncle, he’d forgive ye, Miss Wycliffe. It’s a foolish thing ye’re undertaking with nae good outcome. Sell this place, take the money and go home. Ye dinnae belong here.”
“Are you so eager to be rid of me?” she said, turning away from him.
She said it lightly, with laughter in her voice, but he saw her eyes, saw that he’d hurt her.
He reached out, taking her hand before he could think better of it. She stilled, turning at once to stare at him in surprise. His thumb settled on her wrist, at the point between sleeve and glove where that tender skin was exposed. Though he didn’t mean to do it, his thumb moved back and forth. It was a soothing gesture, but whether for her benefit or his he couldn’t have said.
“I worry for ye,” he said. “I’m nae a man that’s fit company for a lady.”
“That rather depends on the lady, don’t you think?” she asked, sounding breathless and defiant all at once.
“Ach, ye are as stubborn as a mule for a wee slip of a lass,” he said, shaking his head.
“I am,” she agreed, grinning at him now.
That smile pleased him, a warm feeling expand
ing in his chest at that fact it was for him alone. He dropped her hand at once.
“Good day, Miss Wycliffe. Think about what I said, for yer own good.”
He strode away, unable to stop the smile that curved over his mouth as she called back to him.
“I’ll see you next week, Captain Moncreiffe.”
Chapter 9
“Wherein confessions and friends are made.”
Freddie received the benefit of a dark look from Maggie as she entered the parlour.
“How’s your ankle?” she asked, trying to act as if she stayed out overnight all the time and it was really nothing they should bother to speak about.
“How’s your maidenhead?” Maggie retorted, making Freddie gasp.
“Maggie!” she exclaimed, shocked. “Whatever do you think of me?”
Maggie snorted. “I think you’re a woman with a pulse and eyes in her head. I saw the striking Captain Moncreiffe from the window, and your tender goodbye. He’s just the sort of handsome brute a naïve creature like you would lose your head over.”
Freddie blushed, rather afraid that was exactly what she’d done, even if the accusation of having done anything about it was groundless. “My maidenhead is in the exact same state as it was when I left here yesterday,” she retorted, pulling off her gloves with snappish, impatient tugs.
“Hmmm,” Maggie said, the sceptical note audible. “I believe you, but I can’t help but feel you’re dying to add, more’s the pity, to the end of that sentence.”
Freddie glowered and sat down in a flurry of skirts, throwing her bonnet down beside her.
“And what if I do?” she said, folding her arms and glaring at Maggie. “You’ve seen him. He’s gorgeous. It’s not like it will happen. He can’t stand me, and I can assure you, seducing me is the last thing on his mind. Captain Moncreiffe can’t get out of my company fast enough, more’s the pity,” she added with a sarcastic huff.
Maggie sighed and held out her hand to Freddie, giving it a squeeze when Freddie reached over. “Silly goose,” she said with a sigh. “Tell me what happened.”
After confessing the whole sorry story over tea and cake, despite not long having eaten breakfast, Freddie felt a little better.
“Anyway, I do hope your ankle is better, as we are both visiting him next week.”
“Don’t bite my head off, Freddie, but… don’t you think he has a point? Why not sell this place, take the money? We could go back to London. At least you’d have a chance of finding a decent husband back there.”
Freddie frowned, considering the idea before shaking her head. A promise was a promise, besides which, she wasn’t ready to leave the captain yet. If his staff were so eager to see him married, they must be worried for him. They clearly thought the world of him. No, she would stay, for a while at the very least. During which time she’d have to try not to make a fool of herself, for Captain Moncreiffe was a man she suspected could make her very foolish indeed, if she let him.
***
Mrs Reid had made them rabbit stew and the rich scent drifted about the cottage in the hour before dinner.
“Does Mrs Reid know?” Freddie asked Maggie in an undertone as she helped her hop along to the kitchen. “About me being away last night?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, but I had to tell her you’d gone back there again. It was enough for her to raise her eyebrows, and if she saw you coming back arm-in-arm with the captain….”
Freddie groaned as she remembered the Captain’s words.
“That smells divine, Mrs Reid,” she said, smiling at the woman as she pulled out a chair for Maggie. “You’re a marvel in the kitchen.”
Perhaps if she buttered the woman up, she’d be less inclined to tattle about her.
“Aye, I’ve had had nae complaints,” Mrs Reid said, gesturing to the table. “There’s the stew, a dish of haricot and another of tatties.” She gave Freddie a curious glance. “How’s yon captain? We see little o’ him in the village, but he’s talked about often enough.”
“Oh,” Freddie said with a blithe smile. “Actually, I was visiting Mrs Murray. She’s a lovely woman and rather starved of feminine company up there by herself.”
Mrs Reid made a noise low in her throat that made Freddie suspect Mrs Reid and Mrs Murray were not the best of friends.
“Nice of the captain to walk ye home, though,” Mrs Reid said, a rather sly look in her eyes. “He’s a right grand gentleman these days, our Ross Moncreiffe, what with his snooty butler and all, not like the tatty little urchin that used to come beggin’ for scraps and fighting anything that looked at him, eh? I guess he’d enjoy the company of a fine English lady better than that o’ the local lasses nowadays.”
Freddie bristled, suspecting she ought to hold her tongue but finding herself unequal to the challenge.
“Captain Moncreiffe is a fine gentleman, and a war hero. I imagine the whole village must be incredibly proud of all he has achieved despite the tragic circumstances of his birth, but as I said, Mrs Reid, I was visiting Mrs Murray. The captain was simply polite enough to see me home as the road was so wet after last night’s rain.”
“As ye say, Miss Wycliffe,” Mrs Reid replied with a polite smile, though Freddie didn’t doubt she’d not believed a word of it. “I’ll bid ye ladies a goodnight, then, and see ye in the morning.”
“Good night, Mrs Reid,” Freddie replied, unable to keep the sharp tone from her voice. “Interfering old busybody,” she muttered, once the door had closed.
“Perhaps,” Maggie agreed, spooning a generous amount of stew onto a plate and handing it to Freddie. “But this is a small community, Freddie, and you’re not only an unmarried woman but a foreigner. They’ll love nothing more than to tell tales about the fancy English lady and her torrid affair with the handsome captain.”
Chance would be a fine thing, Freddie thought, though she knew better than to say it aloud.
“Well, let them gossip,” she said belligerently. “There is nothing going on, I was visiting Mrs Murray, and I’ll not visit the castle again without you to chaperone me.”
“As you wish, dear,” Maggie replied, apparently having said as much as she would on the subject. “Perhaps we ought to make some friends in the village, though. At least if there are some people who will speak up for us it should limit the damage.”
“Well, of course.” Freddie rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting we ignore them. It’s only that things have been a bit….” She trailed off, not wanting to suggest Maggie’s ankle was at the heart of most of their problems. After all, she could have stayed home as Maggie had wanted her to.
“Yes, dear,” Maggie said, her lips twitching just a little.
Freddie reached for the potatoes and held her tongue.
***
It was a pleasant walk down to the village of Torkeldy, and though Maggie was still limping, she seemed in good spirits and happy to be out and about. A fine autumn day shone around them. The sky was a crisp blue with tufted white clouds billowing in a stiff breeze that tugged at the trees until leaves of gold and bronze fell from the branches, buffeted this way and that to the ground.
The village itself had little to see, a higgledy-piggledy huddle of small thatched cottages which boasted a blacksmith, a butcher and a baker. It was necessary to go farther afield for anything else.
As they walked, a young woman carrying a baby on her hip called out to them. She was rosy cheeked and smiling and they walked over to speak with her. The cottage behind her was pretty and well-kept, with a few determined roses still blooming around the front door.
“Ye must be Miss Wycliffe,” the woman said, bobbing a curtsey.
“I am,” Freddie said, smiling and taking hold of the baby’s hand as the child gave her a gummy grin. “This is my companion, Mrs Runcible. And who is this handsome fellow?”
“Angus, Miss, and I’m Mrs Stewart. I hope you didnae mind me hailing ye, only we’ve not long moved here ourselves. James, my husband, is the blacksmith
here.”
“Have you settled in well, Mrs Stewart?”
“Oh, aye,” she said, hefting the baby to sit more comfortably on her hip. “James inherited the place when his uncle died a year since.” She pulled a face and scowled, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. “Nasty old skinflint he was, but I cannae say much more as he left us the cottage and enough to get us settled. Would ye care to come in?” she added, her manner so friendly it was impossible to refuse. “I’ve just baked some biscuits, they’re still warm.”
“We’d love to,” Freddie said, following the young woman inside. Mrs Stewart was a lovely young woman, her blonde hair curling about her face and with the plump softness of a new mother. She showed them about the cottage with obvious pride and Freddie found it almost identical to the one she shared with Maggie.
After playing with the baby and commending the quality of the biscuits, which were buttery and delicious, they chatted for a while and Freddie found herself relieved to discover she might have found a friend.
“I do hope you’ll come and call on us too, Mrs Stewart?” Freddie said, refusing the offer of a third biscuit with difficulty.
“Oh, I….” The young woman blushed and looked awkward. “I’d love to, only—”
“Only what?” Freddie asked, perplexed by her hesitation.
“Only you’re a lady, and—”
Freddie snorted. “Mrs Stewart, I worked as a governess until I inherited my cottage from my uncle. I can assure you, we are quite alike, except you’ve had the good fortune to find yourself a decent husband.”
Mrs Stewart gave a surprisingly deep chuckle at that. “Aye, I did that. He’s a good man and there’s nae many hereabouts. Though yon Captain Moncreiffe is a braw lookin’ fellow, so I hear. Nae that I’ve set eyes on him. Keeps himself apart, he does. Owns most of the land round here, though, and he’s fair with the rents as well. It’s strange as how everyone says he’s as bad tempered as starved dog, but I’ve only ever heard of his being a kindly soul.” She reached out untangled her hair from Angus’ fat fist. “Reckon perhaps the war changed him.”
The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 9
