by Karen Ranney
For the next few hours he’d be fed one of Addy’s restorative hot tonics. A mixture of ground-up herbs and vegetables, it was supposed to work wonders when you were ill. All she knew was that it smelled horrid and tasted the same.
“You were quite friendly with him,” Muira said. “Surprisingly so, Elsbeth.”
Lara only turned her head slowly and looked at her. She didn’t say anything, but there was condemnation in her gaze.
Why? Because she liked the man?
“I merely showed him around Bealadair,” she said. “I got to know him a little.”
They didn’t need to know about the kisses.
Elsbeth moved to the grouping near the fireplace, sat on the end of the settee and arranged her skirts.
The Ladies Parlor was a place they normally congregated in the evening. Elsbeth rarely joined the McCraight women, visiting Mrs. Ferguson instead. If the housekeeper was not up for a visit, Elsbeth would take tea with Addy in the kitchen.
However, the duchess had sent word that she wished to speak with her. Better to face her now and get all the unpleasantness out of the way.
She’d behaved in an improper manner and she was certain the duchess would enumerate all the instances. She’d been alone with Connor as she’d performed her errands this morning. She’d spoken of topics other than the weather. She’d sat next to his bed and held his hand.
She’d kissed him. More than once.
Surely the duchess didn’t know that. Dear heavens, hopefully the duchess hadn’t heard that part of their exchange. If she had, Elsbeth could anticipate a long lecture as to her morals, what was expected of her, and her great good fortune in being practically adopted by such a renowned and famous family. How dare she act like a doxy?
If the duchess was feeling exceptionally cruel, she’d say something like, I’m so glad Gavin hasn’t lived to see your perfidy. A remark similar to what she’d said this morning.
No doubt there were a few more rules she’d broken, a few more dictates, all selfishly done, of course. She’d had no consideration for the family—that accusation had been made numerous times in the past few years. She was ungrateful, never mind that she worked on their behalf each day and sometimes well into the night.
She knew better, however, than to make that comment or anything similar to it. No, the best option was to simply sit there and allow the words to wash over her like water.
Tonight, Rhona would fuss and she would apologize and in the end it wouldn’t matter. Elsbeth knew all the rules she’d broken, but she hadn’t cared and that was the truth of it. Being with Connor had been worth any type of penance she’d have to pay, even another of Rhona’s innumerable lectures.
On another night, she might have marshaled her arguments, deciding how best to convince Rhona that she wasn’t an ungrateful foundling. Now it didn’t matter. There were other considerations much more important.
Who had shot Connor?
The only person who had seemed remotely interested in that question was Mr. Kirby. Would he find anything at Castle McCraight? Would he tell her?
Why hadn’t anyone in the family expressed their outrage? Why hadn’t one person acted the least disturbed? That fact was telling, wasn’t it?
She had the horrible thought that someone in the family was responsible. If Connor died, they’d have to find a new duke, wouldn’t they? But Bealadair wasn’t entailed, according to Mr. Glassey. It wouldn’t pass to the next duke, but to Connor’s heirs.
Did the family know that Connor’s death wouldn’t solve anything?
At last the duchess sailed into the room, her color high. Elsbeth bit back a sigh, arranged her face in an expression of what she hoped would be perceived as humility, and stared down at her folded hands.
“Elsbeth, thank you for coming.”
That was new and somewhat surprising. She glanced up at the duchess.
They would adjourn to another room if this lecture followed the pattern of previous ones. Perhaps the cold conservatory. Or the Ladies Study that was a library but not one as fulsomely furnished as Gavin’s.
However, the duchess surprised her again. She waved at her daughters and said, “We’ll use this room, I think. It’s warm and I have no intention of being uncomfortable.”
Another surprise—the three girls didn’t offer a word of protest to their mother, but left the room quickly. Had this been preordained? Had the duchess already spoken to her daughters and told them that she planned to excoriate Elsbeth? If so, that might account for the look of sympathy on Muira’s face.
A third surprise—the duchess came and sat on the same settee, folded her hands, and stared into the fire for a moment.
Elsbeth had the most horrible feeling that this was going to be a lecture like none other.
Better to get her apologies out of the way.
“I know, Your Grace,” she said. “I haven’t behaved as well as I should have.”
“You kissed him.”
Before she could offer up any kind of explanation, the duchess continued.
“Mr. Kirby says the duke is quite taken with you.”
Rhona turned her head and stared at Elsbeth, but instead of condemnation, there was only curiosity in her gaze.
“Why would Mr. Kirby think that?” Elsbeth asked.
“I’ve seen it myself. Last night at dinner, for example. The man couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”
“Really?” She hadn’t noticed. She had been trying hard not to look at him.
“We have a problem, Elsbeth.”
Now came the lecture.
“We must do something to try to change his mind,” the duchess said. “He wants to sell Bealadair because he has no wish to remain in Scotland.”
Anyone around Connor for more than a few minutes knew that.
“The right person, I believe, could get him to see the error of his ways. The right person might even convince him to remain in Scotland.”
She held herself still.
Rhona’s hand reached out, cupped her chin, and turned her head to the left and then to the right.
“You are a remarkably beautiful young woman,” she said.
Elsbeth blinked at her.
“I’ve always thought so,” she added, dropping her hand.
If so, the duchess had never before said anything. Her appearance had been the one thing Rhona had never mentioned.
“Beautiful women can accomplish a great deal, Elsbeth. Beautiful women have changed the course of history. Why shouldn’t you change the course of the McCraights’ history?”
She didn’t know what to say first. Or perhaps it would just be wiser to remain mute and let the duchess infer anything she wished.
Her cheeks were warming even though her hands were cold. Even her toes felt cold. It wasn’t being in the Highlands in winter. It wasn’t even the occasional draftiness of Bealadair that was making her feel frozen. No, Rhona’s words were accomplishing that.
“You want me to try to convince the duke not to sell Bealadair?”
The duchess smiled. “Yes, I do. I believe that it’s within your power to do so.”
“How?” she asked.
“A little seduction would go a long way to accomplishing that task.”
Elsbeth’s eyes widened.
“Come now, Elsbeth, if you’ve already kissed the man you evidently feel something for him. Would it be all that difficult to seduce him?”
How many times had she been lectured on propriety? On how many occasions had her behavior been held up as a lesson of how not to act or what not to do?
And now the Duchess of Lothian was urging her to seduce Connor?
“You would have me ruin myself to protect the family. Is that it?”
How very odd that her voice was so level and even. She wasn’t shrieking. She didn’t even sound angry.
Perhaps she was coming down with something. Or perhaps, somewhere deep inside, she wasn’t surprised at Rhona’s words.
If Gavin had suggest
ed such a thing, she would have been distraught. She would’ve felt betrayed. But the duchess?
“Don’t be dramatic, Elsbeth. What is going to happen to you otherwise? You’ll probably go off and live by yourself somewhere in the country. Something good might come from an alliance with my nephew.”
What about a child, if that should happen? What about people finding out she’d been a light skirt and shunning her for her loose morals?
“Just what kind of good do you think might come from my seducing Connor?”
“There, you see, right there,” Rhona said, pointing her finger at Elsbeth. “You called him Connor. None of us do. I suspect there is a closer relationship there than you want to admit, Elsbeth. Why, that scene at his bedside was positively romantic.”
“Your Grace,” she began, a little annoyed that she suddenly felt so close to tears. “There is no relationship there. Perhaps friendship, but nothing more.” The woman did not need to know that she found Connor fascinating or that she knew she’d never forget kissing him.
“I think you’re being too modest, Elsbeth, and while there is always a place for modesty in a young woman’s deportment, it’s wasted in this situation. Let us be honest with one another, shall we? We have always been able to do that, haven’t we?”
When she remained silent, the duchess smiled again.
“A man is often dictated to by his needs, Elsbeth. A beautiful woman can make him think of those needs.”
Really, she had had enough of this.
“Your Grace, even if I followed your advice and seduced the Duke of Lothian, it wouldn’t stop him from selling Bealadair.”
“Of course it would. Especially if you asked him not to. Especially if you shed a few tears, perhaps. But most definitely if you surrendered your innocence to him.”
This was a man who’d gone to war. This was a man who was still a warrior in a great many ways. Didn’t Rhona see that? He wouldn’t be swayed by a woman’s tears. Or even a woman’s virginity.
Was the duchess daft?
“I don’t know anything about seduction, Your Grace.”
“You don’t have to know, Elsbeth. Nature will guide you. It’s all instinct.”
Elsbeth had had enough. She stood, forcing a smile to her face. “I’ll think about what you said.”
When had she become so adept at lying?
“I hope you do, my dear child. The future of the family is at stake. You are probably the only one who could alter that for the better.”
Elsbeth didn’t know what to say to that. She opted for a nod and made her way from the parlor.
Chapter 23
“It’s about time you woke up.”
Connor struggled to push up from the sea of sleep, but it was tempting to float back down into the abyss.
Sam, however, was having none of it.
He clamped his hand on Connor’s good shoulder and shook him a little.
“That hurts, dammit.”
“Now you sound like one of your sisters,” Sam said.
Connor slit open one eye and looked at the older man.
Sam looked a little the worse for wear, which was surprising, because he always prided himself on being the Beau Brummell of the Texas set. He purchased his clothes from a tailor in Dallas, ordered bay rum aftershave from a store in Houston. He might wear boots, but they were the finest money could buy.
Right now, however, his jacket looked as if Sam had rolled around in a bunch of leaves. He even had pieces of leaves in his white eyebrows. His cheeks were bright red and Connor wondered if it was from embarrassment or cold.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Looking for who shot you, you fool.”
After they’d excavated in his shoulder, the physician had given him something to drink. He suspected it had laudanum in it. He felt exactly like he had when he’d gone to the barber and had a molar extracted. More than a little woozy.
Of course in the war, there hadn’t been any pain medication. They’d been damn grateful for a few sips of bourbon to take the edge off.
“Did you find anything?”
“Not a damn thing,” Sam said. “But I did get to be around that cousin-in-law of yours. Is that what he is? A cousin-in-law?”
“Hell if I know.”
Connor used his left arm to prop himself up, wishing his shoulder wasn’t throbbing. Wishing, too, that it wasn’t such a familiar feeling. He would just have to get used to the idea that he was going to heal again, just like he had once. With any luck he wouldn’t be shot again. Or not in that one spot.
“Whatever he is, the man is as irritating as a horsefly. When he wasn’t lecturing me on what was normal in Scottish society, he was telling me that you couldn’t possibly sell Bealadair.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else from Felix,” Connor said.
“He’s a little too interested in your shooting ability. Wanted to know if you have a favorite weapon, what kind of shot you use, that sort of thing.”
Connor raised one eyebrow. “Maybe he just wants to know about his competition.”
Sam shook his head. “That’s another thing. He still wants to shoot targets with you. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got a hole in you, Connor, or haven’t you noticed?”
Sam’s bushy white eyebrows were drawn together. The patches of color on his cheeks deepened in hue. His answer, then: it wasn’t embarrassment or cold, but anger. And it was directed at him, for being so stupid as to get himself shot.
“At least I’m not being sent back into battle after this wound,” Connor said. “I don’t mind meeting Felix in a contest,” he added. “You can tell him that for me.”
“Why would you want to do a fool thing like that?”
“Maybe he’s a good shot. A very good shot. It would have taken someone with skill to have made that shot through the window.”
He didn’t reduce Sam to speechlessness often, but it always pleased him when he did.
“You think he shot you?”
“He’s the only one around here who’s been bragging about what a great marksman he is.”
“Why would he shoot you?”
Connor swung his legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress with both hands. The room tilted a little, and he was suddenly violently nauseated. That’s why he didn’t like to take pain medication. The stuff was vile. He didn’t like going around with his shoulder on fire, either. Wasn’t there some kind of happy medium?
He glanced down at himself. “What the hell am I wearing?”
Sam’s laughter was irritating.
“A nightshirt.”
“A nightshirt?” The garment was white with long sleeves that ended in buttoned cuffs. From what he could tell it was long enough to fall to his ankles and had a row of buttons from his neck to his waist.
“It looks like a woman’s nightgown,” he said.
“It’s what all the proper dukes are wearing.”
“Who the hell undressed me?” He turned and looked at Sam, who was grinning at him.
“Relax, Connor, your virtue is safe. The doctor and I did the honors.”
It was going to play hell on his arm to get the damn thing off. Maybe he could just rip it at the shoulders.
“But you didn’t answer me. Why do you think Felix shot you?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea why, Sam, other than it was some fool idea that killing me would make everything better. I wouldn’t sell the house. They could live here just like they always have.”
“Maybe it’s time to tell them you’ve already made a will, Connor. That your mother and sisters are your beneficiaries.”
He nodded. “I don’t expect Mom or my sisters would evict them, though. They’d probably let them stay on.” He glanced over at Sam. “If anything happens to me, I want you to insist that they sell Bealadair. Don’t dicker about the price. They need the money more than they need a place in S
cotland. Besides, I can’t see any of them—except for Dorothy—wanting to leave Texas. Dorothy might like living here.”
He could even see Dorothy being Elsbeth’s friend. The two of them would probably get on well. He could almost hear their laughter now. A thought that shouldn’t have put him in a bad mood.
“Where are my clothes?” he asked, only to hear Sam laugh again.
“You have your days and nights mixed up, Connor. It’s not time to get up. It’s midnight. Now tuck yourself back into bed.”
“I’m hungry.” Despite his earlier nausea he was suddenly feeling starved.
Sam laughed at him again. “If you’re a good little boy and get back in bed I’ll call for dinner. Maybe gruel and one of those jellies they’re always talking about.”
“Make it salmon or beef.”
At home, he wouldn’t be eating this late, but at home he wouldn’t have been shot, either. Or if he had, there would’ve been at least thirty ranch hands out to find the man who’d done it.
“Did you find anything at the castle?”
He glanced over at Sam, who was standing at the end of his bed with his arms folded and a grin still on his face.
Sam reached out and made a twirling motion with his finger. Connor knew what that meant. Get back in bed like a good little boy and he would answer. He debated for a moment—just a moment—making a break for it, finding his clothes, and then doing something constructive for an hour or two. When he stood, however, the room tilted again and it took him a moment until he got his equilibrium back.
That was the effect of the laudanum. Or the gunshot wound.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not bedridden,” he said, and made his way—staggering a little—to the bathing chamber. When he returned, having splashed some water on his face, Sam was opening the sitting room door.
“That was fast,” he said.
“I ordered you shepherd’s pie. Good for invalids and oldsters.”
He shot Sam a look but the older man wasn’t paying him any attention.
To his surprise, Sam sat at the table and began to eat.
