by Karen Ranney
For a moment she didn’t think the woman was going to answer, merely point her nose up toward the ceiling and sigh heavily as if she were annoyed to have to speak to Elsbeth.
Anise stopped pacing to look at her. “Why would you do that?”
“You evidently don’t wish to. I don’t mind.”
Anise studied her for a moment, long enough that she was growing uncomfortable.
Did they know, could they tell, how fascinated she was by the new duke? How she wished to speak with him further? She might have a chance at breakfast again, especially if he rose as early as she. But to be able to show him Bealadair would be a treat rather than a duty to be dreaded.
She kept silent, knowing that if she said anything further, it would just incite their curiosity.
When the maid arrived with her tea, she occupied herself by taking the cup and then selecting a piece of jewel cake.
“Mother will not be happy,” Anise finally said.
Elsbeth couldn’t dispute that.
“As long as the tour is done, what does it matter?” Lara said. “Why can’t he simply roam around Bealadair and find his own way?”
“Mother wants to ensure that the American gets to know all of us,” Anise said. “Make sure he knows we’re family.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Lara asked. “Keep reminding him that we’re cousins?” She shook her head. “I’ll ensure I’m charming at dinner. I don’t have to wander all over the house.” She smiled at Elsbeth. “You can do my part. I’ll tell Mother I was feeling ill.”
Lara had been looking a little pale lately. It had been a difficult winter and for the most part, the family had remained inside the house. Of course, Bealadair was so large that it wasn’t a hardship to do so.
Elsbeth didn’t say anything. She merely nodded her agreement and sipped at her tea.
“I have the towers to show him,” Muira said. “Mother is all for me going up and down the steps. She says I need the exercise. That I’m getting as plump as a partridge. If you want to do my part, I wouldn’t object, Elsbeth.”
“And as long as you are doing everyone else’s duty, you might as well show him the old wing,” Anise said. “All those weapons and tattered flags.” She shuddered dramatically.
In for a penny, in for a pound. The duchess was going to be annoyed at her anyway—why not show Connor the whole of Bealadair? When she said as much, the three women nodded. They were well aware that Elsbeth was held to a different standard. Sometimes, even when she was doing the right thing, the duchess found a reason to be irritated.
“Who will show him the outbuildings? And the public rooms?”
“I’m sure mother has the public rooms picked out to do herself,” Anise said.
What about the old castle ruins? Someone would need to explain the history of the clan to Connor. Unless, of course, his father had already imparted that knowledge.
The duchess would say that she was expressing an errant curiosity, that she was being improper. Elsbeth suspected that if Gavin had known her thoughts he would have smiled fondly at her, patted her on the back of the hand, and said something wise and trenchant. “Of course, my dear, you’re curious about him because he’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met. Why shouldn’t we be curious about other people and other places?”
She should search the shelves in the library, scan the thousands of books there to see if there were any volumes about America. Or Texas, perhaps. Or even about Longhorn cattle.
She frankly doubted the latter and wasn’t excessively hopeful about the former, but perhaps she could find something.
Would Connor be as amenable to learning about Scotland? She would just have to wait and see, wouldn’t she?
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll show him around Bealadair.”
She took a last sip of her tea and stood.
The thought of the duchess, however, kept her from smiling brightly at all of them as she left the room.
Chapter 10
Connor was all for telling his aunt that he didn’t need or want a tour of the house. He could wander around on his own just fine. If he got lost, he could ask directions from one of the servants.
Except, of course, all of his objections flew out the window when it turned out that Elsbeth was going to accompany him.
There she stood at the doorway to his suite, hands folded in front of her, her plain black dress making her complexion seem even more delicately pale. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was or if she was one of those women who couldn’t quite believe it, no matter what anybody said.
From the interaction he’d witnessed the night before she wasn’t highly valued in the family. Instead, she acted like a hybrid, kind of a like a calf born of a Longhorn cow and a Hereford bull.
“Have I amused you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
He decided not to tell her why he was grinning. Instead, he grabbed his hat and coat and was ready to follow her.
“We aren’t going outside, Your Grace.”
He looked at her.
She sighed and said, “Connor. We aren’t going outside, Connor. You won’t need your coat.”
He reluctantly hung it back up, along with his hat.
“I have to admit, Elsbeth, that I’ve been cold ever since I arrived in Scotland. I hope every fireplace in this house is blazing away.”
Her eyes widened as if she were surprised. Was she unused to honesty? Or did the Scots not mind the weather? Did they have ice in their veins?
“It is certainly within your purview to order that, Connor.” Her voice only hesitated a little at his name. There, progress. These Scots sure liked their titles.
He wasn’t interested in seeing Bealadair. He was, however, interested in seeing more of Elsbeth. She intrigued him although he couldn’t say exactly why. Maybe it was because he’d been around beautiful women before, but none so self-deprecating. He wanted to know what made her that way. Was she simply modest, was it a pretense, or did she need a little more confidence?
“We’ll begin in the older wing, if you don’t mind.”
“As long as it’s warm,” he said.
She looked a bit worried at that. He had a feeling he was going to be cold and stay that way.
For some reason she looked uncomfortable with him walking beside her. He wondered if he was supposed to precede her—which would be ridiculous because he didn’t know where they were going. Or would it be more proper for him to follow her? That didn’t seem right, either.
She was just going to have to get used to him matching his gait to hers.
She was taller than his cousins, but she was still a head shorter than he was. She parted her hair perfectly in the middle and had arranged it in an artful bun at the nape of her neck. Because it was braided, he guessed that it was longer than it looked. For a second, and just long enough to warm him from the inside out, he imagined himself unbraiding her hair, slipping his fingers through the length of it.
Would his fingers meet if he put his hands around her waist? That was another thought he shouldn’t have, but he really couldn’t help himself.
His sisters would say that she was a little top-heavy—a comment he’d heard them make numerous times—but that was okay by him. He liked the way she filled out the bodice of her crow’s dress.
She smelled of lemons, of all things, and something else that reminded him of Bessie from home. Bessie liked to polish the parlor furniture with a combination of beeswax and lemon. He should ask Elsbeth what the scent was, rather than have all those thoughts about her shape.
She didn’t wear any jewelry, which made him wonder why. Was it out of respect for his uncle? For that matter, why was she still wearing mourning like the duchess when his cousins weren’t? Was it because she didn’t have any other clothing? That thought warmed him, too, but with irritation, not incipient lust.
“I’d prefer your amusement,” she said, startling him. “You have quite a fierce frown.”
He glanced d
own at her.
“Begging your pardon, Elsbeth. My thoughts ran away with me.”
“Have I done something?”
“Do you always take someone’s moods on yourself?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“If I’m happy or I’m sad, it’s not necessarily because of anything you did, Elsbeth. It might be me, just me. I own my emotions. You own yours.”
“You don’t think people can influence other people’s moods?” she asked.
“You can’t make me happy or sad,” he said.
She stopped in the middle of the corridor and regarded him solemnly.
“Very well, perhaps I can’t influence your moods. But surely someone can. Don’t you feel grief for your father? Does no one in Texas make your heart beat faster?”
He didn’t want to discuss his father. Not now.
She might look delicate, but he had a feeling she had a temper on her. That was okay with him. He was used to fiery women. There were six McCraight women back at home who weren’t wallflowers. They came out and said what they felt, and if you didn’t understand, they kept talking until you did. Being the only male in a house full of women these past two years had taught him a great deal. Granted, four of his sisters were married, but they still came home a lot.
None of them, however, had given him any insight into a Scottish lass with distinctive gray eyes and a mulish set to her lips. She didn’t look like she was going anywhere until he said something placating.
“My father was the finest man I’ve ever known,” he said, giving her the truth and a little more emotion than he felt comfortable revealing. “I didn’t know he was dead until I came home. When I found out, it was like the world stopped for a little while. I couldn’t imagine anything being the same without him. And it wasn’t.”
There, would that be enough to get her started again?
“Where were you?”
“What?”
“You said you came home. Where were you?”
“I was at war, Elsbeth.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, she spoke. “Would you like to see a portrait of your father?” she asked softly.
The question startled him.
Until now, it had been difficult to imagine that Graham had grown up in this house, that he hadn’t left until he was twenty. Graham had barely been mentioned.
Granted, Connor had only arrived last night, but surely someone—Glassey, his aunt, an older servant—should have said something that called Graham to mind. Something like: Your father liked this view best of all, when standing before a window. Or: There is the tree your father used to climb.
Yet here was Elsbeth asking a simple question that flummoxed him. Would you like to see a portrait of your father?
He could only nod in response.
He walked with her down the corridor to the main stairs, that same sweeping staircase that reminded him of the South. She took hold of the banister with her right hand, the left holding her voluminous skirt and ascended the steps with him following.
“The portraits of the family are on the third floor,” she said. “The ducal portraits are next to them.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You’ll have to sit for your portrait, of course.”
He had no intention of doing any such thing, but decided not to tell her that right now. He only nodded again. Silence was the best recourse when you didn’t want to explain yourself or argue. It had taken him years—and a few brawls—to learn that lesson.
Connor hesitated just before the landing, taking in the view from the stairs. Looking down he could see the four corridors that branched off the foyer, all leading to different wings of the house. Above him the snow was still obscuring the glass of the ceiling, but the windows on the back wall revealed a frozen, white world.
Elsbeth had hesitated on the landing, waiting for him. She, too, had learned the value of silence because she didn’t say anything as she watched him.
Oddly enough, he felt as if Bealadair was waiting for something, that the great house was this massive Scottish monster he’d climbed inside, and that it was ready to devour him unless he said the secret word. Perhaps he should have promised allegiance, or cut himself to bleed on the carpet. Maybe the house needed proof that he was a descendent, that he was the rightful duke.
He smiled at himself, wondering where those thoughts had come from. He was probably tired from weeks of travel. Or perhaps he was feeling something despite his earlier words. Did Bealadair have the ability to pull emotion from him?
He nodded to Elsbeth and she turned, ascending the steps once more. As he followed her, he tried to marshal his thoughts. He was not given to whimsy. Nor did he believe in ghosts. The moment seemed to portend one, however. If nothing else, the shade of his father as a boy racing down the steps in violation of his tutor’s rules. Or the young man standing at the door, looking upward in a final view of Bealadair before he left forever.
Did his father know in that moment that he would never return? Had he set it as a goal? Had he ever wanted to come back?
What had sent him away from Scotland?
Once, the two of them were riding a fence line and his father had stopped, his gaze on the expanse before him. Some would say that area of the XIV Ranch was nothing but desert and prairie dogs, but they didn’t know where to look. Connor knew the undulations of the land itself, the unexpected green spots where a creek bubbled to the surface, the signs of deer, the hints of earlier habitation.
They’d talked about a man’s destiny that day. Whether what he became was laid out by the Almighty or was strictly a man’s choice.
“A man will make of himself what he wants,” Graham had said. “What he believes he can be.”
He looked up, realizing they’d reached the third-floor landing. Elsbeth didn’t question his hesitation, simply turned and walked down the corridor, stopping in front of a set of double doors like those that led to his suite.
She opened one door and stepped aside, a set expression on her face that warned him they were about to have another battle of the doorway. He bit back his smile and stepped inside, only to be confronted with a portrait gallery of his ancestors.
The dark mahogany floorboards were so polished that he could see the reflections of the gilt frames. His boots sounded loud as he walked to the middle of the room, almost as if this was a hallowed spot, a temple of memory.
No hint of laughter reached this room. No conversation. Nothing but the ponderous passing of time, one second ticking off after another.
Solitude wasn’t unknown to him. Many times he’d taken off, alone, to ride the ranch or to visit the other divisions on the ranch. He was comfortable in his own skin and didn’t need diversions or company. Now, however, in this gallery, oddly lit by the gray skies visible through the high-placed windows, he was glad of Elsbeth’s presence. Glad, too, that she didn’t seem to feel the sudden ominous press of Bealadair or its history.
Chapter 11
Connor began at the end, at the very first Duke of Lothian and slowly walked the portraits, seeing the change in artist style, dress, and expressions of his ancestors. By the time he made it to the tenth duke they’d begun to smile, as if certain of their place in life, certain that the dukedom wasn’t a plum to be snatched from their grasp if they showed any signs of levity.
The space occupied by each duke was greater, too, as wives and children were featured. His steps lagged as he walked, reluctance making it feel as if he was tromping through Guadalupe River mud.
He hesitated at the 12th Duke of Lothian.
This man was his grandfather. The woman to his left must be his grandmother. Had his father ever mentioned either of them? He couldn’t remember. His mother’s parents lived in Austin and visited a few times a year. Surely, as a boy, he’d questioned his father about his parents? Yet the answer, if it had been given to him, eluded him now.
This grandfather bore a vague resemblance to his father with his squared
chin, thin line of lips and broad nose. The eyes were the same, brown and piercing, as if wanting to see the depths of a man’s soul. His hair was silver at the temples and he’d been portrayed standing in the library Connor had seen earlier. In this painting he saw the view that had been obscured by snow: an undulating valley down to a wide and sparkling river. He paused for a moment to appreciate the scene, then glanced to his right and froze.
Here the children of his grandfather were portrayed, both sons sitting together, side by side.
“They were twins?”
“Yes,” Elsbeth said, coming to stand beside him. “You didn’t know?”
He shook his head, his gaze never leaving the portraits of the twin boys. They’d been pictured sitting on matching chairs, smiling at a long-haired puppy sitting on the floor between them. The dog’s back was to the artist, his pose one that made Connor think the dog had been real and had alternated between looking at one boy then the other.
“I understand Gavin was born only a few minutes before your father,” Elsbeth said.
He didn’t want to look to his right, but his mind had already furnished what he knew he was going to see. The image of his father stared back at him from Gavin’s portrait.
“When was this painted?” he asked, grateful that his voice sounded steady and without a hint of the emotion surging through him.
“About five years ago,” she said.
If his voice gave nothing away, hers was the opposite. He heard the compassion in it. Or was it pity? Perhaps another time he would have refuted that emotion, but not right now. He felt unsteady and unprepared for the sight of his father’s twin brother.
The man in the portrait looked exactly like his father down to the small smile playing around his lips. Graham often wore that look, especially when witnessing his five daughters. Sometimes, he and Connor would glance at each other across the room as if to say, What are you going to do with them? They’re loud. They’re boisterous, and we probably don’t understand everything they’re saying, but we love them anyway.
