by Karen Ranney
He didn’t have all that much experience with women, but that didn’t seem to stop his imagination. He was all for taking things he’d learned and practicing on Elsbeth, and if that wasn’t the height of idiocy as far as thoughts went, what was?
“You’re spending entirely too much time with the American, Mother,” Lara said.
Rhona looked over at the settee in front of the fire. Her stepdaughter half reclined there, as if she’d invited Lara into her sitting room. Lara and Felix had both gotten too lax in their courtesies and too bold in their demands.
When Connor sold Bealadair—and Rhona was almost certain that terrible event would indeed happen—she had no intention of taking Lara and her husband under her wing. Gavin had been extraordinarily generous to all his daughters. It was not her concern if Felix was doing his utmost to spend his wife’s legacy instead of investing it for his future.
He was going to have to provide for Lara sometime. Rhona was not going to do it.
“I’m assuming you are speaking of Mr. Kirby,” she said. “Although I don’t know why you would think it any of your concern how much time I’m spending with the man.”
“He’s from Texas, Mother. He isn’t your type at all.”
Rhona drew herself up, frowning down at Lara, who was sprawled in the corner of the sofa. The girl looked as if she wasn’t going to move, short of being shouted out of the room.
She finished fixing her bracelet and came and sat on the matching chair, facing the younger woman.
Lara was, unfortunately, not finished giving her opinions.
“He’s coarse. He has no manners. He speaks in an odd way. He’s entirely too familiar. He knows all of the staff by name and he addresses them that way.”
She knew all about Sam and how he behaved. She knew, too, that the man was oddly charming in a way that had completely captivated her. Her daughter was not the only one who was surprised at her reaction to Sam Kirby. Rhona had already decided that she was being foolish, but no man had ever complimented her as fulsomely as Sam. And, if she looked in his eyes to gauge the sincerity of his remark, she could only assume that he was entirely serious.
He wasn’t just from Texas. He’d spent a great deal of time in New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, New York, Paris, and a few cities that she had aspired to visit, like Florence, but had not yet seen.
He was, if Lara but knew it, more well traveled than anyone she knew.
Certainly more than Felix.
Sam was amusing. He made her laugh in ways that she didn’t think she’d ever laughed. Or if she had, it was years and years ago when she was more carefree and had fewer disappointments about her life.
Gavin McCraight had been a good man. He just hadn’t been the right man. She’d known that he was still in love with his first wife when he married her. She’d suspected that the reason for their whirlwind courtship had been so he could find a mother for his child, the same one who now criticized her with such acidity in her voice.
“It isn’t any of your concern at all, Lara,” she said, not unkindly. “Not what I do or with whom I do it.”
“You’re a laughingstock. Even the servants are whispering about you.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she said, standing and brushing her hands against her skirt.
Today the dress she was wearing was a slight departure from her usual mourning. The fabric was an emerald green silk, so dark as to appear black in a certain light, but when she turned, the color changed. It was like looking through a deep and dark pool of water. She’d fallen in love with the material the moment the seamstress had shown a sample to her.
Instead of criticizing her, Lara could’ve said something about the way she looked. She could have dredged up some kind words. Rhona knew, quite well, that she was appearing younger and younger lately, a fact that could be attributed to having a man pay attention to her after all these years.
“The servants will gossip about you regardless of what you do, Lara. We’re characters in a play to them. We stride across the stage of Bealadair and the servants are our audience. Never forget that. Never forget, too, that you can look ridiculous doing absolutely nothing. Better that you should live your life the best way you can and let people say what they will.”
Lara looked surprised at her words. As well she might; it was a newly adopted attitude, one that had its roots in a conversation with Sam. He had a great deal of common sense. She liked the man. Even more, she was charmed by him. If he’d tried to kiss her a time or two and she had allowed it, then it was no one’s concern but hers. Certainly not Lara’s.
She left the sitting room to meet the very man she’d just been warned about.
Chapter 26
To her great surprise, when Elsbeth went to ask Mrs. Ferguson about the rust on the chandelier chain, the older woman was bundling up in a sweater, a jacket, and a cloak over that.
“Is it very cold outside?” the other woman asked, reaching for her knitted gloves.
“No,” Elsbeth said, watching as she donned a pair of leather gloves over the knitted ones. “The day is very fair. It’s cold but it isn’t a miserable cold. Where are you going?”
“To watch the match, of course,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “Aren’t you?”
“But it’s outside.”
Mrs. Ferguson never went outside, not in the winter. The cold made her arthritis so much worse. She rarely left her rooms, for that matter. One of the few times she had was to treat Connor.
“Of course it’s outside.” The housekeeper frowned at Elsbeth. “You are going, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t planned on it, but she couldn’t think of an excuse, especially when she was being pinned by Mrs. Ferguson’s gaze. She ended up nodding.
“I’ll get my cloak and see you downstairs,” she said.
She was nearly to the servants’ stairs when she heard her name being called. Instead of turning, what she really wanted to do was run as far and as fast as she could.
She’d had a busy morning and her dress had suffered for it. She could feel tendrils around her face from where her hair had escaped its careful bun. Why did she have to see him looking like this?
Well, if nothing else it would prove that the duchess’s plan was beyond foolish.
“Did the key fit?” she asked, keeping a smile on her face with some difficulty.
“I haven’t tried it yet.”
If anything, Connor had grown more attractive since she’d seen him last. He looked fit. No, that word hardly matched him, did it? She’d met other men who were tall, had broad shoulders, but they didn’t have Connor’s presence. You knew he was in a room. How could you possibly miss him?
Would she ever be able to forget his distinctive voice, low and deep, flavored with his strange accent? Even her name sounded different when he said it, as if he spoke the syllables slowly so as not to mispronounce them.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.
She didn’t like to lie. Sometimes it was unavoidable, but not now. Yet it did take a certain amount of courage to stand there, look up into his face, and nod.
“Why?”
Because she’d made a fool of herself. Because she should never have told anyone what the duchess had suggested, let alone Connor.
Instead of answering, she turned and began to walk toward the stairs again, intent on retrieving her cloak.
“Elsbeth?”
How could she possibly answer him? To do so would be to bring up that hideous morning again, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.
A thought occurred to her and she stopped. “I should have asked Mrs. Ferguson if she needed assistance getting down the stairs.”
“It’s why I’m here,” he said, surprising her.
“You know she’s all for watching the match between you and Felix, then?”
He nodded. “She’s promised to be my biggest fan.”
She glanced at his shoulder. “How is your wound?”
“Mabel says it’s healing fi
ne.”
Mabel? He called Mrs. Ferguson by her first name? Did she reciprocate? Of course he would insist. Had Mrs. Ferguson examined his wound? She must have. How odd that the housekeeper hadn’t mentioned it.
“Is your shoulder stiff?”
“About as much as I expected,” he said.
Was he in pain? Had he taken the medicine the doctor had left for him? She shouldn’t be curious, because none of those answers were any of her concern.
Mrs. Ferguson stepped out of her room. She smiled at Connor, then embraced him in a quick hug.
“Connor, you remembered. Thank you so much.”
Of course Mrs. Ferguson and Connor could be friends. Why did she feel hurt? How foolish. There was no reason to feel as if both of them had gone behind her back. That was even more ridiculous.
“Thank you for that newest effusion,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “I think it’s worked better than the one before. I could feel my hands warming as I spread it on. Whatever is in it?”
“Peppers,” he said, offering his arm for her. “I’ve brought some from Texas. I have a hankering for chili from time to time.”
“So you came prepared,” she said, smiling broadly.
Was Mrs. Ferguson flirting with Connor?
“Better to have something you don’t use, Mabel, then to want something you don’t have.”
“A wise theory,” she said, patting him on the arm.
Elsbeth followed them down the hall, feeling as useful as a single shoe. He used peppers in some sort of preparation for Mrs. Ferguson’s arthritis? It must have been extremely helpful because the housekeeper was walking without evidence of pain.
At the front door, the footman offered Connor his hat and coat. Someone had evidently repaired his coat and it was a credible effort. The hole in the shoulder had been mended with an almost-invisible stitch, but it was still obvious that something had penetrated the soft leather. The bloodstains, however, had been mostly eradicated.
Elsbeth grabbed her cloak, annoyed and irritated because she couldn’t figure out exactly why she was annoyed and irritated. Was it because she didn’t know who’d gone to the effort of mending Connor’s coat? Or was it because, until this moment, she’d not considered it? Or because Connor and Mrs. Ferguson had formed a friendship and she hadn’t known about it? She’d done everything in her power to avoid Connor in the past week, and now she was out of sorts because he’d evidently not missed her.
She was behaving childishly, an awareness that didn’t make her feel more adult.
She followed the two of them to the east lawn. It looked as if most of the staff was present, an observation Elsbeth made with some chagrin. Not one person had come to her and asked for permission to be here. Of course, she wasn’t actually the housekeeper at Bealadair. It was just a role she played. She wouldn’t have refused anyone, but perhaps it wasn’t her decision to make. Connor may have gone around and told everyone about the match and invited them to attend. Who was she to counter the word of the Duke of Lothian?
None of the family members were in the crowd. It was entirely possible that they were viewing the match from one of the upstairs parlors. They would be warm and comfortable and spared having to mingle with the servants. She was not going to turn and look at the windows to verify her guess.
She hadn’t considered that Connor would make friends so easily, and that was her foolishness. As he passed in front of the staff, quite a few of them waved to him and smiled. He waved back and nodded. Gavin had known everyone who worked at Bealadair, and it seemed as if Connor did, too.
What a surprising man he was. He wasn’t like anyone she knew. She couldn’t put him in a proper category. Was there a box labeled Independent Texan? Or Stubborn American?
What would she call it other than obstinacy that would make him, a week from being shot, engage in a match of skill? Anyone else would’ve begged off, would’ve offered his injury up as an excuse. Not Connor McCraight.
She had the odd thought that Connor was probably like his ancestors, a Highlander of old, the kind of man who had become the first Duke of Lothian: fiercely himself, dedicated to his own purpose, intensely focused.
This was the man Rhona wanted her to seduce? The idea was laughable. He would feel nothing more than pity for her, she was sure. No doubt he would try to spare her feelings as he bit back his laughter.
She wasn’t unduly surprised to find that he had arranged a chair for Mrs. Ferguson along the periphery of onlookers.
Although the day was a normal cold winter day in the Highlands, there wasn’t any wind. The sky was blue and the sun had melted the snowdrifts on either side of the lawn. Spikes of deep green could be seen through the snow, a faint and false hint of spring.
Several yards ahead, two tables had been erected. Felix was at one of them, readying his guns. A footman stood behind each table, no doubt to be pressed into service in some way. On either side of the lawn was a station where a stableboy waited with a pile of glass orbs to be used as targets. Felix bought them from a company in Inverness by the crate.
Would he be able to pursue his hobby once they were forced from Bealadair? She doubted it, unless his new property had sufficient space for shooting and he had enough income to purchase ammunition and targets.
All of them were going to have to change in one way or another, and change was not something that came easily to the McCraights. No doubt it was because they lived in a home that was many centuries old and followed traditions that were equally as venerable. Change might not be anathema, but it was also not something they actively sought.
Had someone in the family shot him? It was not the first time in the past week she’d had that thought, but she always pushed away her suspicions because it was too difficult to consider. Today, looking at Felix, she couldn’t help but wonder if it had been him.
Was Connor thinking the same?
She watched as he walked to the table on the left side of the lawn. He removed his coat, laying it across the table, then put his hat atop it. One by one he picked up the three rifles arranged there. She didn’t know anything about guns, but it seemed to her that he examined them with some expertise, holding each one up to eye level and peering into various places, moving the lever that did something, and then placing each gun back on the table.
He nodded at Felix, who was hatless but still wore a coat, a long black garment that made him look like a starving crow. Connor picked up one of the guns and nodded again, which was evidently a signal to begin.
The stableboy to the left of Connor grabbed a target and threw it underhanded into the air between the two tables. Connor raised the rifle and shot it, shattering the glass ball into countless shards. It was only when he replaced the gun and picked up another that she realized he’d shot left-handed.
Felix had evidently made that discovery as well, because he was frowning at Connor.
She could hear murmuring behind her, equal parts amazement and admiration for their new duke.
When it was Felix’s time to shoot, he hit the target, too.
It looked to her, over the next several rounds, as if Felix had met his match. That is, if you discounted the fact that Connor had been wounded and was using his left arm.
He was obviously more skilled, a fact that had evidently occurred to Felix as well, because he gave the command that his targets were to come in bursts of two at a time.
Connor did the same, and when he missed one, an audible moan traveled through the crowd behind her.
Felix was not beloved among the staff. The comments she’d overheard—people normally didn’t speak freely around her—were that he considered himself better than those who served him. He looked down on Bealadair’s servants, while they knew he was nothing more than the purchased husband of one of the McCraight daughters.
The new duke, on the other hand, had endeavored to learn their names. He made his own coffee, insisted on breakfasting with Addy and Betty, and—knowledge she’d just acquired—had made Mrs. Ferguson so
me type of balm to use for her arthritis.
When Connor missed another shot, Felix’s smile grew broader.
There was no doubt of the disappointment in the crowd behind her. She was annoyed on Connor’s behalf. Didn’t they realize he was shooting with his left arm? He’d been wounded. When it was over and the tally taken, Felix was the winner.
Only then did she glance behind her to see Lara standing at the windows clapping excitedly for her husband. If Elsbeth had been married to one of the men in the contest, she would’ve been on the front line of spectators. At the conclusion, she would’ve raced across the snowy lawn and hugged him. If nothing else, she would have helped him on with his coat.
Regardless of what anyone thought, she began to walk toward Connor.
He was thanking the stableboy who had thrown the targets as well as the footman who had rotated the guns.
She waited until he was finished, picked up his coat, and held it out for him.
“You don’t want to compound your injury by getting pneumonia, too, Your Grace.”
“What did you tell her?”
She knew, immediately, what he meant. Heat traveled through her, but it wasn’t a sensation of embarrassment as much as acute awareness. She wondered if she should tell him the truth or simply attempt to change the subject and deflect his curiosity.
“I told her she was being ridiculous,” she said, giving him the truth.
“Was she?”
The heat intensified.
He moved to put on his coat and made a face, a small almost-infinitesimal grimace. His shoulder was paining him. Silly man.
She helped him ease his arm into the sleeve of his coat, then found herself patting the lapel, and, as if he were hers to protect, began buttoning the coat, getting to the second button before she realized what she was doing. She dropped her hands and stepped back, looking up at him.
“Was it worth it?” she asked, glancing at the tables and the dwindling crowd.
“Oh, yes, it was worth it,” he said. “Now I know that Felix was capable of shooting me.”
