by Karen Ranney
“Are you eating my dinner?”
“I took the precaution of ordering two servings.”
“You’re not an invalid. So you’re calling yourself an oldster?”
That didn’t sound like Sam. He prided himself on the fact that he could keep up with the youngest ranch hand as far as stamina throughout the day. He was damn good at keeping up with them at night, too. Sam had a collection of women in Austin, Dallas, and Houston, and from the stories he heard, they were all happy to entertain him at a moment’s notice.
No, Sam wouldn’t call himself an oldster even if he was. He’d have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to his grave. Sam was having too damn much fun living.
“I’m a friend to an invalid and therefore will eat what he eats,” Sam said.
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Tonight you are,” he said, waving his fork in the direction of Connor’s nightshirt.
He shook his head, but decided not to argue with the man.
Sam was also one of the most stubborn cusses he’d ever met. His father had thought the same. As much as he liked Sam, Graham could be heard shouting at him often enough. Connor felt like doing a little of that himself, but not here at Bealadair, where there were maids around every corner and footmen just standing there with nothing to do but listen.
“So you didn’t find anything?” he asked. He took a bite of his dinner, nodded, and concentrated on his meal for a while.
“It was dark by the time we got there, but we had some torches. We didn’t see anything but footprints. Damn hard to track anything when it’s snowing.”
He didn’t know where Sam had gotten his skill at tracking, but he was good. If he hadn’t found anything, there was nothing to be found.
“No trace of a horse?”
“Nope, but they could have come through the trees. We wouldn’t have been able to see anything in the dark. I’ll go back in the daytime.”
Sam poured himself a glass of wine. Connor noticed that there wasn’t a second glass.
“Don’t I get any wine? Or whiskey?”
“It doesn’t mix,” Sam said. “Not with the medicine you had. Doctor’s orders, Connor.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.” He sat back in his chair.
“You getting shot? Hell, no. You in a nightgown? Hell, yes. I even enjoyed how you acted around Miss Carew. You were like one big puppy dog.”
He didn’t know what part of that he should counter first. He opted to eat his vegetables.
“If you’re determined to meet Felix, can you at least wait a few weeks?”
“It’s not a duel, Sam. It’s just a shooting contest.”
“I don’t cotton to the man,” Sam said.
“Me neither.”
Sam sipped from his wine and watched him, his gaze intent over the rim of the glass.
“A few days, then. Until you can walk upright without looking like you’re going to fall down any moment.”
He nodded, then occupied himself by uncovering the rest of the dishes to see what was for dessert. Better that than see Sam’s grin. Or consider his words about Elsbeth.
A big puppy dog, huh?
He didn’t have a damn thing to say to that.
Elsbeth really wanted to go see how Connor was feeling, but there was no way to call on him without raising eyebrows. Of course, if she did and word got out about it, the duchess would be pleased, thinking that Elsbeth was going ahead with her suggestion.
Was Rhona daft?
The woman had just proposed the most outlandish idea and she’d been serious. No, worse than serious, she’d been intent. Determined. Elsbeth had been on the receiving end of the duchess’s determination in the past and she knew that Rhona, once she had an idea, didn’t relinquish it easily.
What was she going to do?
The easiest thing, perhaps the best thing, would be to make arrangements to take one of the carriages to Inverness and begin making inquiries about properties for sale. She should do that as quickly as possible. She needed to find a home, somewhere where she was not subject to the will of other people.
Before retiring, she visited Mrs. Ferguson, thanking the woman again for her skill in extracting the bullet from Connor’s wound.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” she asked.
Mrs. Ferguson was massaging balm into her distended, enlarged knuckles, holding her hands close to the fire.
“Once you’ve supervised a staff as large as Bealadair, you become familiar with almost any type of injury. I even helped deliver a baby once. Poor girl, one of the upstairs maids, managed to hide it until the very last.”
“What happened to her?” Elsbeth asked. She hadn’t heard that story.
“Not a sad tale, I’m happy to say. The girl married and went on to have five more children. She’s a matron now at Ainell Village. I used to see her from time to time and we would reminisce. I’ve removed an iron spike from a footman’s leg, various metal objects from stableboys—besides treating them for injuries they got from being around horses.” She smiled into the fire. “No doubt you will develop your own expertise, Elsbeth.”
“Do you resent me for taking on your duties?”
Mrs. Ferguson looked surprised. “Resent you? Why on earth would I do that? If anything, you’ve saved my job for me. Someone had to ensure that all those tasks were done, Elsbeth. Who better than someone who knows the family as well as you? But was I wrong to think it was something you wanted to do?”
Elsbeth shook her head. “I very much wanted to help. Doing something makes me feel . . .” Her words trailed off. “Perhaps important. Or maybe needed.”
“That you are, Elsbeth.”
Part of her wanted to tell the housekeeper what the duchess had suggested, only because she’d often gone to Mrs. Ferguson for counsel or support. Many times since Gavin’s death she’d confided in the woman. Together, they’d come up with strategies to either avoid Rhona or handle her newest demand.
But how to mention that the duchess wanted her to seduce Connor? Even the thought of it brought a blush to her face. Or was that because she wished there was a reason for her to seriously contemplate such an idea?
Life happened around you. Gavin often said that. People did things you didn’t expect, like the valued servant stealing the silverware or a footman walking away from his duty. Lovers met and loved without benefit of clergy and in violation of every societal rule.
It simply happened.
It wasn’t planned.
It certainly wasn’t suggested in such a way it was almost a command.
The duchess had always insisted that Elsbeth’s comportment be perfect. The duchess had lectured her endlessly about how to act in certain situations, how to address various personages, how not to shame the McCraights. After all, they had been generous in taking her into their home.
Yet the woman had just said something so outlandish, so foreign that it made Elsbeth’s toes curl to even contemplate it.
“What is it, Elsbeth? You have the strangest look on your face.”
She blinked several times, brought back to the moment by Mrs. Ferguson’s comment. She couldn’t possibly tell the woman what the duchess had said. No, that burden was going to have to remain hers alone.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, my dear Elsbeth, of course you were. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
It took a second for Elsbeth to realize that Mrs. Ferguson wasn’t talking about the duchess’s command, but of her plans for the future.
“I’ve been thinking of getting a cottage,” she said. “Or perhaps a property in Inverness. I could hire a companion or at least a servant or two.”
Mrs. Ferguson sat back in her chair, the balm forgotten, her eyes wide as she regarded Elsbeth.
“You would set up your own establishment? What a daring thing to do.”
Hardly daring when it was the only option left to her. She only smiled in respon
se.
“I do wish he’d chosen a better season than winter,” Mrs. Ferguson said.
“I think he’s just in a hurry to return home,” Elsbeth said. “He must miss Texas very much, and after the events of today, I can’t blame him.”
The housekeeper began massaging her hands once more. “Could it not have been the ghillie? He or one of his men could have mistaken the duke for a deer. He does have a distinctive coat.”
She stared into the fire, considering the housekeeper’s words. It was possible that someone had thought Connor might be an animal, especially if they had only seen glimpses of him through the ruined arches and windows of Castle McCraight.
Hamish Robertson, the ghillie, and his sons were responsible for the game and fish on the vast acreage of the estate. They didn’t live in close proximity to Castle McCraight. The ghillie himself lived in a two-story cottage on the other side of the glen. He wouldn’t have known about the shooting unless someone had sent a servant to inform him. Had anyone done so? Would Mr. Kirby have thought of such a thing?
“I’ll send word to Hamish tomorrow,” she told Mrs. Ferguson.
The elder woman nodded. “It might be wise,” she said. “What is thought to be a malicious act often turns out to be a simple mistake.”
She couldn’t say why she thought the shooting was more than a mistake, but she put those thoughts away to consider later and spoke about less consequential things with the housekeeper. The price of flour had gone up again. Linette, one of the maids they’d recently hired, was homesick. Perhaps a conversation with Mrs. Ferguson would be in order. Most of the younger girls felt better after speaking with the older woman. She took on the role of being a second mother to many of the maids.
Elsbeth said good-night, and went down to her own rooms, the same ones she’d occupied since she was eight. More than once, the duke had offered to have them refurbished for her or suggested she might want a larger suite, one of those in the northern wing with the rest of the family. She’d always thanked him, but told him no, she was fine where she was. That hadn’t been a falsehood. Her sitting room, bedroom, and bathing chamber had become home over the years, a refuge, a place to go and close the door against the world.
She did so now, wishing she could wall off all the emotions she was feeling as easily.
Chapter 24
Sam knew, quite well, that Connor wasn’t the only one trailing after a woman like a puppy, but he couldn’t help himself. Rhona McCraight wasn’t the most beautiful creature he’d ever met, but there was something about the woman that called to him. Maybe it was the loneliness he sensed, an emotion she would probably deny if he brought it up.
He had thought this visit to Scotland would be boring and it probably would have been if not for Rhona. He found himself wanting to spend every hour with her, even if it meant her telling him all the rules of etiquette she was sure he didn’t know and, if truth be told, didn’t care about. But he liked listening to her speak and he liked the way her eyes lit up when she was amused.
If he’d had something else to do, he probably would have put it aside in order to visit with Rhona or follow her around Bealadair.
“I have to hand it to you Scots,” he said now as they entered the ballroom. “You sure know how to build houses. You trap a lot of the outside in, while we Texans leave the outside out.”
She glanced up at him.
“You have the oddest way of saying things, Sam.”
He smiled at her use of his name. That was a battle he’d already won. Nor was he offended by her comment. She said it with a twinkle in her eyes, which meant that she was teasing him.
Another milestone.
He saw Elsbeth on the other side of the room, talking with one of the carpenters. According to Rhona, they were enlarging the stage for the musicians arriving from Inverness.
This ball was important, since it was the main topic of Rhona’s conversation. The Welcoming of the Laird was a tradition, and evidently tradition was very important to the Scots.
There’d been nothing traditional about his life. No history he wanted to repeat. Born in New Orleans as the only child of a woman who made her living in ways that didn’t bear mentioning in polite society, he’d never known the identity of his father. He’d wanted more for himself, and his mother’s greatest gift to him had been her optimism that he could achieve it.
Orphaned at sixteen, he survived by gambling, small games on the street at first before graduating to higher and higher stakes card games. Along the way he began to observe the men with whom he played. They talked different. They dressed different. They were as foreign to him as someone from New York.
He was determined to remake himself in their image. It might have taken him a decade or so, but he’d managed it. He’d also acquired a bit of polish himself and something else—a fortune.
As a gambler, he’d learned two lessons about life: you never won anything if you didn’t play, and losing wasn’t permanent unless you never played again.
Graham had known about his past, one of the few men who had. Sam had thought he’d known everything about Graham, but he’d been as surprised as Connor when the McCraight solicitor had showed up at XIV Ranch, claiming that Connor was the 14th Duke of Lothian and Laird of Clan McCraight.
Now he could only bless the circumstances that led him to this place. Unlike Connor, he was enjoying almost everything about the experience.
Of course, he hadn’t been shot, either.
As if Rhona heard his thoughts, she asked, “How is His Grace today?”
He smiled at her, amused at her insistence in calling Connor His Grace despite the fact he was her nephew. Rhona was dead set on being proper.
“He’s determined to be up and about today. He’ll do it, too. I’ve never known anyone as stubborn as Connor.”
She nodded, but he could tell she wasn’t paying any attention to his words. Instead, she was looking toward Elsbeth, who, instead of walking in their direction, was leaving the ballroom by the other door.
“Is there a problem between the two of you?” he asked.
He half expected Rhona to announce, in that frosty tone she could adopt, that it was none of his concern.
To his surprise, she glanced at him and smiled faintly.
“Do you think there’s any possibility that His Grace will change his mind?” She placed her hand on his arm. “Is there anything that can make him reconsider?”
“You mean about selling Bealadair?”
She nodded.
“No, Rhona. He’s pretty set on getting rid of the place. But you must have known that something like this could happen.”
Had the McCraights just assumed the new duke would take residence and allow them to live cheek and jowl next to his family? What if Connor had been married with a family of his own?
“I wish I could tell you different,” he said, placing his hand over hers. Warmth filled him at the look in her eyes. He’d been around women enough to know that the Duchess of Lothian was not immune to his charm, such as it was. “But I can only tell you the truth. Connor only came to Scotland as a favor to his mother and to honor his father’s memory. He doesn’t want to live here.”
“Are you very sure? Can nothing change his mind?”
He patted her hand again, then gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. If they hadn’t been in full view of at least a half dozen people in the ballroom, he would have leaned over and given her a kiss. She might slap him, but it would be worth it.
As far as Connor, he would do as he wanted. Sam knew that well enough. Connor had been different ever since coming back from the war, but that was to be expected. He’d been working all hours of the day, filling Graham’s place, introducing new ways of doing things, and being the head of the family. He’d been too busy to have any fun. If nothing else, this visit to Scotland might provide some of that.
He’d seen the look on Connor’s face when he watched Elsbeth and Elsbeth’s furtive glances in return. There was something
brewing there. Was it enough to keep Connor in Scotland? He didn’t know.
Nor was he sure that it was altogether safe for Connor to remain here. He had been assured, by Rhona, Glassey, Mr. Barton, and a variety of footmen and stableboys, that the shooting had to have been a simple accident. Some fool with a rifle had thought Connor was dinner.
No one had come forward to own up to their stupidity. Nor had he been able to find any clues at the old castle. Still, he didn’t like this feeling he was getting. He didn’t think it was an accident any more than Connor did. The only question was whether it was Felix or someone else responsible for nearly killing the new duke.
“You aren’t supposed to be up,” Elsbeth said, stopping abruptly in the doorway of the kitchen.
There was Connor, sitting at the scarred oak table in the middle of the kitchen with Addy and Betty, all of them smiling and looking as if they had been friends for years.
Connor didn’t even have the sense to wear the sling they’d arranged for him. No, his right arm was braced on the top of the table and he was sipping his coffee with his left.
“Oh, Miss Elsbeth,” Addy said, “His Grace has made the best coffee. It’s better than my own, I have to say.”
Elsbeth headed toward the table. Connor would have stood, but she waved him back down.
“You made the coffee?”
“I like mine a bit strong,” he said.
“Texas style?”
He grinned at her and she couldn’t help but smile back.
“That it is.”
She sat opposite him. “How are you feeling?”
His eyes were clear and his cheeks weren’t flushed. He had no indication of fever. She wanted to reach over and place her palm against his forehead, but doubted the other two women would understand.
She wasn’t certain she did, either. She had no right to feel irritated when Addy and Betty looked at him with smiles on their faces and stars in their eyes.
The truth, and it came as a shock, was that she had considered him hers, and wasn’t that idiotic? From the first moment in front of Bealadair with the fallen statue, she’d felt as if she protected him, supported him even when the family had ridiculed him. She’d tried to explain him, defend him, and none of that was necessary.
