“You must reduce what you need while you look for ways to increase your income.”
“Thank you.” She walked around to the front of the desk and abruptly shut the ledger—on his hand.
“Ouch,” he said with a grimace.
“I am aware that our expenses exceed our income, Lord Professor. But we canna sell a cow.”
“I think you can.”
“You know nothing about Thorntree! You donna understand the way it functions!”
“It functions precisely as one might expect an estate without a means of income to function—in debt! Tell me something, Lizzie. Why would Carson come from the north?” Jack asked.
The question, posed out of the blue, confused her mightily. What had that to do with cows?
“He came from the north,” Jack said again. “What is north of here?”
Puzzled, Lizzie said, “I donna know. There is hardly a thing worth mentioning north of us.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” she said impatiently, her mind on cows. “I have ventured several miles north in search of berries and nuts, and I assure you, there is nothing but hills and rocks entirely unsuitable for habitation or fodder. What has that to do with selling a cow?”
“Eh, what?” he asked, momentarily distracted. “No’ a thing,” he said, and looked at the window, his gaze distant.
“What are you thinking?” she demanded. “Do you think you can escape north?”
“There is a reason Carson wants to ruin your chances for marriage and keep you living in poverty at Thorntree.”
“Are you just now coming around to it?” Lizzie sighed impatiently.
“And I think the answer lies north,” he added, looking at her.
“All because he came from the north?” she said with disbelief, and picked up the ledger, holding it tightly against her chest. “How sinister that is! Did you think that he might possibly have gone for a ride? Or perhaps he went hunting?”
“The weather is hardly conducive to riding today. And one does not hunt in the middle of the day, aye? Moreover, there was quite a lot of mud on his boots, as if he’d done some trekking.”
Lizzie laughed. “Of course there was mud on his boots, Jack. The weather has been rather wet of late.”
“Scoff if you will,” Jack said with a frown, “but there is something about Thorntree that has your laird’s attention. A dislike of a man’s last name is hardly reason to go to such extraordinary lengths to keep you from this Gordon fellow. I have a hunch that the answer lies north.”
“And what am I to do, journey north until I find it?”
Jack smiled. He stood from his chair and peered down at her, his gaze drifting to her lips. “I donna expect you to journey north,” he said, and surprised her by tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “At least no’ without me.”
Something inside Lizzie tipped, and the world seemed to tip with it. She should move, step away, discourage him from looking at her as he was. But she didn’t. “Is that all?” she asked a little breathlessly. “Sell a cow and ride north?”
His eyes dipped to her décolletage, and then up again. His hand slipped to her neck, his thumb on the soft hollow of her throat. She silently cursed herself; she could feel the heat rise up in her, could feel her heart begin to beat at a clip. “No’ all,” he said, caressing her skin. “But all for now.”
Lizzie sucked in a breath.
Jack dropped his hand, letting it drift over her bodice. His gaze was soft and…and…and he smiled like a man who ate women like her with tea.
“I’ve…I’ve sent for Mr. Gordon,” she said uncertainly.
His languid smile dimmed a bit, but he said, “Splendid.” His hand fell away from her, and without another word he walked from the room.
When he’d gone, Lizzie sank onto her chair, still clutching the ledger. Still feeling as if something was tipped at a strange angle inside her.
No, no, no, she could not be having such feelings of…of desire, of raging desire for that man. No! “Buck up, Lizzie,” she muttered angrily to herself. “Think of Mr. Gordon.” Mr. Gordon, Mr. Gordon, Mr. Gordon, she chanted in her head.
Chapter Eighteen
It took the tale of a rather bawdy soirée at Montagu, the house in the Blackheath district of London that Princess Caroline called home, to earn Jack his supper.
Dougal was on the edge of his seat as Jack recounted attending a gathering there and playing an inappropriate game of charades. Even the old man Kincade was listening and staring at him with rapt attention. It was Kincade who went to fetch a bowl of chicken stew for him.
But, Jack noted lamentably, when he’d finished his tale, he was once more treated like a pariah. There was no hint of the hospitality for which Scots prided themselves. Just that afternoon, Dougal had suggested a cup of tea, then instantly reversed himself, saying, “Aye, that’s right…no tea, then.”
Frankly, Jack could not imagine what slight he’d given these people, what thing he’d said or trait he’d presented that had earned him such disdain. And they did not seem to trust him in the least—Old Man Kincade went about shutting doors and locking them in advance of Jack.
It had been a very strange day, all in all, beginning last night with that passionate kiss he’d shared with Lizzie, a kiss that was still churning his blood, prompting his imagination to run amuck.
In the library, where he’d reviewed her pathetic ledger, he could scarcely think of anything but that kiss. He wanted to kiss her again, feel the soft surface of her skin. But then she’d ruined it by mentioning Gordon, and Jack quickly filled with angry passion. He suspected that Lizzie would be an exciting lover, and he envied her knight in that regard.
Jack himself would give a fortune to taste her flesh, to feel her legs encircle him…
He shook his head. That was an unhelpful fantasy, one that would never come to pass. Pure Miss Lizzie had made that quite clear. She had to be the only woman in his acquaintance who was so very clear about it.
But Jack had made it quite clear too that, in spite of his reputation, he was not in the habit of bedding proper young women for the sake of it. Only once or twice. Perhaps thrice. All right, so he had. But that had all been long ago, before he’d realized how untidy those situations could become. And Lizzie was different. He couldn’t do that to her. She exasperated him no end, but she deserved better.
So Jack took comfort in the fact that at least he had a roof over his head. He’d allowed Dougal to escort him up to her empty room and fell into a deep sleep in the storage room.
Jack spent a few days in this way, passing Lizzie in the house much as a ship would pass another at sea. She retired quite late and woke very early. Jack kept to his little sitting room when she was about, and even coerced Dougal into finding him a bed. To pass the time he plotted his escape, banking on the assumption that the prince would lose interest in him as soon as the social season started in London and there were other, more diverting persons—namely women—to capture his attention.
Several days into Jack’s stay, a man who bore an undeniable resemblance to Dougal arrived. It turned out to be Dougal’s brother, delivering oatcakes the lad’s mother had sent along. Dougal’s brother, Donald, also had a bit of news: the prince had hired Highlanders to comb the glens north of Lambourne Castle. The posses boasted they’d have the earl by Easter, and were methodically working their way north.
Diah, but George was quite angry, then, and apparently as irresponsible with his funds as the morning newspapers had always alleged, Jack thought. What an extraordinary expense to soothe a wound! But the news also meant he’d best stay put a few days more.
Every morning began the same for Jack. He awoke ravenous—there was something about the Highland air that stimulated his appetite—and Mrs. Kincade would inform him that breakfast was served promptly at the hour of seven o’clock and put away at eight o’clock and, as it was a quarter to nine, the breakfast was over.
“Seems as if someone might have mentioned it or mad
e accommodation,” Jack would mutter crossly, and then tell Mrs. Kincade another tantalizing story of London, for which he’d earn the bannock cakes she always seemed to have set aside for him.
From that point forward, he found each days activity around the manor to be crashingly dull. He caught glimpses of Lizzie here and there, marching past with a broom or a bucket, her boots echoing down the hall, and with at least one dog, if not all four, trotting after her.
He also stumbled upon Charlotte, who had been placed before a big window. Jack pitied her. She was a very handsome woman who should be dancing and riding and raising children. But here she sat, put away in a ramble-down manor, a prisoner of a wheeled chair.
He could not imagine how tedious it must be for her. Even with two legs, Jack found nothing to occupy him—not even Dougal, his constant shadow. So he wandered about, making note of the many things that needed repair. He rather doubted that the ancient Mr. Kincade was up to the task of many of the most obvious tasks, what with all his other chores. Perhaps, Jack mused, if he were to be about a few days, he might make a few of the repairs to bide his time. Perhaps if he were useful, they’d feed him.
One afternoon, on a gray day with a flurry of snow falling, Jack begged some cheese and bread from Mrs. Kincade and wandered outside, where he spotted the very stoic Kincade and Newton. Dougal wandered over to the pair as Jack ate his bread, and seemed to be working very hard to convince Newton of something, judging by the way his hands flew about. When Jack approached, all three men stopped speaking.
If he wasn’t very assured of himself, Jack might have believed they were speaking of him.
Dougal looked at his feet. Mr. Kincade, his arms propped on a rake, looked directly at Jack, but if he was embarrassed or curious or perhaps even dead, Jack could not say. Newton, however, folded his arms across his chest and eyed Jack closely.
“What now?” Jack asked, holding his arms wide, holding a half-eaten chunk of cheese. “On my word, I’ve no’ done anything but wander about with Dougal nipping at my ankles.”
“Ye tell outrageous tales, sir,” Newton said. “Ye put ideas into the heads of good Scotsmen about the prince.”
“You say that in a manner that would suggest that I am no’ a good Scotsman, Mr. Newton.”
“Ye’ve no’ seen any of us living among the English, have ye, then?” Newton shot back.
“Living among the English does no’ make me any less a Scotsman!” Jack said defensively. “And I’ve no’ told outrageous tales! I’ve merely relayed my experiences in the company of both the Prince and Princess of Wales.”
“Aye, indeed, you have relayed yer experiences,” Newton said. “And ye’d have these good men believe that our prince impregnated a lowly innkeeper’s wife?”
“Among others,” Jack replied evenly.
The poor giant looked sincerely shocked. “But…he’s the prince, the king’s heir,” he said, as if trying to work out the moral decay in the royal family. Oh, but if he knew….
“Diah,” Newton muttered.
“Once, a young woman wearing a white muslin of the finest fit in all of England,” Jack said, moving closer and tracing her curves in the air, “approached the prince. Gentlemen, you must believe me when I tell you that this young woman possessed a most spectacular bosom,” he added conspiratorially, holding his hands up to his chest to demonstrate just how spectacular. “She said, ‘Your Grace, there is something I would show you, if you give me leave.’”
The three men seemed to hover, moving so close as to not miss a word. Jack did not disappoint them. He went on to tell them about a very shapely leg, a breast as smooth and plump as a baby’s bottom. He told them of a young woman’s promise that was so promiscuous, so morally perverse, that no man could turn away from it.
Certainly George had not turned away. Jack did not add that the young woman need not have promised him anything, for a dog never turns away from a bone, but Newton seemed troubled by the prince’s moral fabric as it was.
Jack had just begun to tell them about a private party in the prince’s apartments when Newton suddenly looked at something over Jack’s shoulder and cleared his throat. No one had to tell Jack that Lizzie had walked into their little gathering. He could tell by the averted gazes and shuffling of feet. He steeled himself and turned around. “Lizzie!” he said, as though they’d been expecting her.
She was wearing a drab muslin gown and an arisaidh, but her eyes were shrewd and bright blue, peeking out from under the plaid hood. She had an empty basket on one arm. She narrowed those lovely eyes and, one by one, gave them each a withering look that only a woman could manage. When she’d eyed them into feeling sufficiently guilty, she looked pointedly at Jack again. “What are you about?” she asked, dispensing with any greeting.
“Lass!” he said jovially. “What makes you think I am about anything at all?” He tossed the last bit of bread into the grass and clapped Dougal collegially on the shoulder.
Lizzie frowned at him, then shifted that frown to Kincade. She didn’t have to speak; the old man picked up the rake and walked on, almost as if he’d paused only to straighten his cuffs and hadn’t heard a word of what Jack had said.
“He knows the Prince and Princess of Wales,” Dougal interjected helpfully.
That did nothing to appease her. If anything, it seemed to agitate Lizzie even more. “Aye, so I have heard on several occasions now. I believe that His Lordship must leap from person to person claiming, ‘I know the Prince and Princess of Wales,’” she said, gesturing in a leap-about sort of way. “I suppose that at the very least I should be happy that you are all thus engaged and no’ a bother to me or to Charlotte, aye?”
Dougal and Newton sheepishly hung their heads, but Jack grinned.
“If you will excuse me,” she said regally, “there is real work to be done.” She sailed past them, the basket bouncing against her hip as she walked down the path and turned left, disappearing behind a brick wall.
The men looked at one another when she was gone.
Newton glared at Jack, then strode toward the house, muttering in Gaelic under his breath. Dougal looked eagerly at Jack, obviously wanting to hear more, but Jack shook his head, and Dougal winced with disappointment.
“Where’s she gone, then?” Jack asked, nodding in the direction Lizzie had marched.
“Hothouse, I’d wager,” Dougal said.
“Ah,” Jack said. “Come along, my friend. I’d like to see this hothouse.” He set off, not caring if Dougal followed. Jack couldn’t help himself; she was like a siren, her impatience and indifference sparking a longing Jack had never felt quite so acutely. Not physical longing as such but that unfortunately desperate feeling one experiences when one desires to be at least liked by another human being. Part of him feared he might suffer from the same desperate longing his mother had felt for his father. That was hardly appealing, yet he could not seem to help himself.
The hothouse was the smallest hothouse he’d ever seen, barely larger than the laundering room that stood nearby. He could see Lizzie through a window, bent over a plant, plucking dead leaves. “Wait here,” he said to Dougal.
“Milord! It’s freezing!” Dougal complained.
“Then go and tell Newton where I’ve gone,” Jack said impatiently, and opened the door to the hothouse. As he stepped inside, he saw that Lizzie had lifted a pair of pots, apparently with the intent of moving them, but one of them was slipping from her grasp. Without thinking, Jack strode in and grasped the pot.
Naturally, Lizzie surprised him with a cry of alarm and tried to wrest it away from him. “Stop that!”
“You are about to drop it. I’ll hold it for you,” he said, surprised by her strength.
“I donna need your help, Jack.”
“Aye, so you keep insisting, but as usual you are too stubborn to admit what is obvious. Let go.”
Lizzie shoved with all her might, thrusting the potted plant into his abdomen at the same moment she let go. Jack smiled triumph
antly.
“A scoundrel of the first water, that’s what you are,” she said, and set the second pot down with a loud thwap.
“Mary, Queen of Scots, why does everyone in this blasted glen seem to believe that I am?” an exasperated Jack exclaimed heavenward.
She whirled around to face him, grasped the pot he held with both hands, and yanked hard, managing to pull it from his grasp. “Hmm, let me think on it,” she said as she put that one on the table beside the other one. “Ah, here’s a thought—perhaps it is your chaste tales of London, aye?”
“And how would you know if they are chaste or no’? I’ve no’ told you a single tale, have I?”
“I heard you, Jack! I heard you relate that…that unspeakable gossip to Newton and Dougal, and, Diah, even Mr. Kincade!”
“If I’d known you were eavesdropping—”
“—I most certainly was no’ eavesdropping—”
“—I would no’ have finished the account. It was a story for men, Lizzie. And the men liked hearing it! That is what men do, they tell one another bawdy tales!”
“That’s preposterous! Gentlemen do no such thing! You do yourself a disservice, Jack.”
And now this provincial miss would chastise him? “Do I, indeed?” he snapped. “Perhaps I should have sung for my supper then. Is that what you wanted?”
She looked at him as if he were speaking Greek.
He made a sound of utter disbelief. “You will stand there and pretend that you’ve no’ tried to starve me out of Thorntree? Ach, donna deny it, woman! Yet, in spite of your manipulations, I have managed to survive by my wits and stories of a life in London that these men will never know!”
“Go on, then,” she said, gesturing wildly to the door. “Go and tell them all your awful tales!”
“Thank you, but no,” he said curtly. “I’ve had quite enough of your disdain, and Dougal shadowing my every step, and Kincade locking every door ahead of me. And as I am allowed no suitable occupation”—he glanced at the table and the array of pots lined along the center of it—“I shall help you.”
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