The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

by Stephanie Laurens

  “But your accent doesn’t change.”

  He waggled a hand. “Not that much—no big, obvious change in my diction—but it’s enough for anyone Scots to know I’m one, too.”

  The latch lifted and the door swung inward to admit a bustling woman carrying a tray. She bobbed a curtsy to Dominic, then to Angelica. “Lovely to see you again, m’lord. M’lady. I’ll just set the table, and my girls will be in with the platters momentarily.”

  While quickly setting plates and cutlery on the table, Mrs. Cartwright constantly glanced at Angelica, open curiosity in her gaze. Angelica caught it and smiled; the woman blushed and set down the salt cellar. Lifting her empty tray, she held it to her bosom. “Can we get you anything to drink, m’lord?” She dipped her head to Angelica. “M’lady?”

  Dominic looked at Angelica. “An ale for me. And . . . ?”

  She hesitated, then asked Mrs. Cartwright, “Perhaps you make some wine?”

  “I’ve got a nice perry, m’lady, if that would suit?”

  “That will do nicely.”

  When the door closed behind the innwife, Angelica looked at Dominic. He returned her gaze, then they both smiled.

  The door opened again and three girls carried in platters and covered dishes. Within minutes, an array of food was displayed upon the table.

  “Mmm.” Angelica breathed in. “So many delicious smells.”

  The girls, who had been surreptitiously staring at her, smiled shyly. They bobbed and withdrew.

  With a wave, Dominic invited Angelica to make her selection. She did. Mrs. Cartwright arrived with their drinks, set them down, preened when Angelica complimented her on the fare, then curtsied and left them.

  Angelica sampled everything she didn’t recognize. While they ate, she quizzed Dominic about the dishes, and whether there were local delicacies she was likely to be served at the castle. As she’d expected, he was well versed on the subject of food.

  The meal concluded, he was eager to get back on the road. “It’s four hours and more to Perth.” Rising, tucking his fob watch back into his waistcoat pocket, he circled the table to draw out her chair. “It’s only just one o’clock, but I’d prefer to be certain of reaching there in full daylight.”

  What he meant, she surmised, was that he would rather she wasn’t riding a horse she didn’t yet know, over roads she didn’t know, once the light started fading, but she had no real argument with that. Rising, she picked up her gloves. “I have to admit it’s been months since I rode any great distance, so leaving now and taking our time will undoubtedly be wise.”

  He stilled. His eyes locked on hers, then he searched her face. “Are you . . . all right?”

  For a moment, she stared up at him blankly, then understanding dawned.

  He grimaced. “I didn’t think to ask—”

  Gripping his lapel, stretching onto her toes, she silenced him by brushing her lips over his. As she sank back, she murmured, “I’m perfectly all right.” Looking into his eyes, she smiled. “It’s nice of you to think of it, but I’m very well indeed.” She emphasized the last three words. When he still seemed unconvinced—still worried over whether, courtesy of their night’s activities, she was too sore to ride—she patted his lapel and turned toward the door. “Truly, in that respect, I feel utterly wonderful.” She arched a brow at him. “In extremely fine fettle, in fact.”

  When he didn’t move, but continued looking down at her with a still considering but somewhat different light in his eyes, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling even more delightedly. She raised her brow higher. “Perth, my lord? Or . . . ?”

  He actually debated it, but then snorted and waved her to the door. “Perth, my lady.” He held the door for her. As she passed him, he murmured, “The rest can come later.”

  She had to fight to dim her smile as she walked out into the main room.

  They gathered the rest of their party. While Dominic settled with Cartwright, Jessup and Thomas left to fetch the horses. Angelica followed them out of the front door. Jessup and Thomas headed down the alley to the rear yard. Halting on the narrow front step, she turned to look back down the road to the firth.

  Just as three riders trotted up from the ferry.

  Three aspiring bloods was her immediate assessment, borne out when, seeing her, the three drew rein, setting their showy mounts prancing and dancing.

  All three raked her with too-familiar gazes.

  “Well, well,” the nearest drawled, “what have we here?”

  Viewing them with mild amusement, she debated her answer.

  The nearest rogue took her pause as encouragement. He wheeled his horse nearer. “Come along, sweetling—I can’t imagine what you’re doing in such a place, but you’d be very much better off coming with us . . .”

  She knew Dominic had arrived when the rogue’s gaze went past her, then rose, and rose, to fix above her head.

  Watching the younger man’s face, she wished she could turn to see what Dominic’s expression looked like, but even she could feel the palpable aura of sheer menace that reached for the hapless gentleman before her.

  “Are these . . . gentlemen disturbing you, my dear?” Winter ice was warmer than her husband-to-be’s tone.

  She considered—saw the younger men swallow—then shook her head. “No. I believe they were just passing.”

  A pause, then, “Is that so?”

  All three horsemen nodded. The nearest tried to speak, had to clear his throat and try again. “We’ll . . . er, be off then.”

  With that, the three took off like the hounds of hell were after them. One hound, at least.

  Amused, Angelica watched the trio disappear up the road.

  Hauling back and restraining the possessive highlander he truly was behind his more civilized shields, Dominic waited for her to comment on what she was sure to have seen as an overreaction to three patently silly whelps.

  Jessup and Thomas came around the corner leading the horses. The others stepped out of the inn.

  Angelica finally turned. Lips curved, she shot him an openly appreciative glance, then swept up her heavy trailing skirt preparatory to stepping down to the street.

  He grasped her hand, stepped down, and steadied her to the roadway. He released her, but, unable to help himself, set his hand to the back of her waist as he escorted her to her mount, then he lifted her to the saddle.

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He could see nothing but approval in her green-and-gold eyes. With a nod, he turned, caught Hercules’s reins, set his boot in the stirrup and swung up to the saddle, then wheeled the big chestnut up the road.

  She brought her flighty black alongside. As they trotted out of the hamlet, she said, “I’ve been thinking of what I should call this fine girl.” She patted the horse’s sleek neck. “I haven’t yet discovered anything suitable. Is there a female version of ‘hellion’?”

  Angelica. “I don’t know. How about ‘Buttercup’?”

  She laughed. “I’m serious. I need something appropriate.”

  He thought. “ ‘Black Lightning’?”

  They headed north, trading names.

  They rode steadily on, past Kelty and on toward Loch Leven. Dominic held the pace to a canter overall; they didn’t need to rush along this stretch, and he wanted to allow Angelica time to settle with her new mount. Initially frisky, the black filly, now glorying in the name of Ebony, grew increasingly accepting, increasingly responsive to Angelica’s hand on the reins. By the time they saw the gray waters of the loch ahead, his attention had lost its honed edge.

  At least with respect to the black filly.

  Her rider was a different matter; all in all, he had a better chance of predicting the black filly’s behavior than he had of predicting hers.

  Witness the incident outside the tavern; while his protectiveness hadn’t
come as any shock to him, he’d expected her to jib, not to smile gratefully. His previous experience of ladies of her ilk, not inconsiderable, had taught him that any overtly possessive behavior was likely to earn significantly more than a frown. Instead, she’d seen, smiled, and been the soul of reasonableness.

  How he should interpret that he had not a single clue.

  The skies remained clear. As they rode, he surveyed the countryside, instinctively scanning for any threat.

  “Tell me more about the castle.” She edged the filly nearer. “About the people and how the clan works.”

  An eminently sensible question; he put his mind to answering it.

  She was attentive and intuitive; her questions led him into a wide-ranging and detailed explanation of how the clan system worked, of the community dynamics within both castle and keep, and who was who at the castle.

  “So the vast majority of those serving in the keep are clan, or at the very least connected?”

  “Griswold is the only exception.”

  “Hmm. At some point, once we decide exactly how to trick your mother into believing what she wants to believe, we’ll have to define what help we’ll need from which staff, who we trust with what, and so on. But for now, what about those in the castle overall? How many live within the walls?”

  They rode on and he gave himself up to answering her every query as completely as he could; her clear focus on learning all she might need to know once they reached the castle was both encouraging and reassuring. He felt increasingly confident they—he and she together—would succeed in hoodwinking his mother and reclaiming the goblet.

  That growing confidence eased the burden weighing on his shoulders.

  “All right.” Deciding she’d absorbed all she could about the castle and its occupants for one day, Angelica turned her mind to another area she needed to know more about. “What are the primary sources of income to the clan?” She met his eyes when he glanced at her. “I saw the contracts and legal papers you’ve been dealing with. There’s obviously enterprises other than just farms involved.”

  He cocked a black brow at her, but his lips remained relaxed. “Do you know much about farms?”

  “A bit. My parents’ estate is all farm-based—farms, orchards, sheep, cows—all those sorts of things.”

  He nodded and looked ahead. “We have the farms, too, but the additional, not so usual to a Sassenach enterprises are . . . well, there’s at least three major ones, and various cottage-based businesses as well.”

  She listened, drawn into his world as he described a raft of agriculture-based industries she’d known must exist, but of which she’d had no real understanding. The horses cantered on, hooves drumming as their long strides ate the miles, while he talked, and she questioned and learned.

  Later in the afternoon, they reined in as they approached a bridge spanning a decent-sized river, then walked the horses across the bridge, their hooves clopping sharply on the stone.

  Angelica studied the range of hills that ran across the horizon ahead of them. “Is Perth this side, or the other?”

  “The other.” Dominic had swiveled to look back at their company. Facing forward and settling in his saddle, he said, “This is the river Earn. We’re about five miles from Perth. The road takes us through a pass up ahead, then on into the town.”

  She straightened. “Perth! I just remembered.”

  He looked at her warily. “What?”

  “The Fair Maid’s house is there, isn’t it? I mean, it’s real, so we can see it.” Enthused, she looked at him, saw his nonplussed expression. “Catherine Glover’s home in The Fair Maid of Perth.” He still looked blank. “Sir Walter Scott’s latest novel.”

  “Ah.” His expression cleared. “I haven’t read it.”

  “It’s only been out for a little while, so you’re excused, but do you know where the house is?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I heard some talk of it in London. We can check at the hotel, but if it’s the house I think it must be, then yes, we might be able to take a look at it.”

  “This evening? If Perth’s only five miles on, we’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “Possibly.” After a moment, he said, “We’ll need to leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow—I want to reach Kingussie tomorrow night. So as you’ve set your heart on seeing the place”—he glanced at her—“it would be as well if we went this evening, before the light fails.”

  “Excellent!” Facing forward, she saw the end of the bridge nearing. She lifted her reins. “Do we trot on?”

  “Not just yet. The horses need a spell.”

  She grimaced, but resisted pushing. His huge chestnut was the strongest horse she’d ever seen and looked like he could gallop for hours, but Dominic had been careful of all the horses, slowing to trot, or jog, and sometimes walking for stretches to rest them.

  She’d wondered if he might become more autocratic and dictatorial in the aftermath of last night. However, she’d seen no sign of it, although he was still watching her, studying her—learning her ways. She didn’t mind that at all.

  Indeed, in all practical aspects she felt they were making commendable strides in determining how their union would work. Accommodating each other’s foibles was crucial, and learning how to do so—when to stand firm and insist, and when to give way—would take time.

  She had, she thought, done well thus far in accommodating his protective tendencies. Even if there was a possessive vein creeping into his protectiveness, it would be wiser, she felt, to work with him rather than directly oppose him. She’d always understood that learning to cope with possessive protectiveness was the necessary price a lady had to pay to be the wife of a certain type of gentleman—if she wanted him to see her as his, she couldn’t complain when he acted as if he did.

  However, as she’d learned at her mother’s, aunts’, sisters-in-laws’, and cousins’ wives’ collective knee, there were ways to cope with, meaning manage, that unavoidable outcome. Namely by giving way when one could reasonably accommodate it with no real loss of freedom or will, but holding firm when matters threatened to cross that line.

  He picked up the pace to a jog-trot, then a canter. Fluidly adjusting, she shifted Ebony to the faster pace.

  With the rising breeze in her face, and him riding beside her, her heart rose, buoyed, light. She felt confident she knew in which direction they were heading. Perth was merely their immediate destination.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “That’s it.” Dominic halted on the pavement at the point where Blackfrairs Wynd met Curfew Row, and tipped his head at the house across the street.

  On his arm, Angelica all but jigged. “It’s exactly as I imagined it.”

  Her pleasure shone in her face, reward enough for his efforts in hunting down another guest at the hotel, an old lady’s companion who was a devotee of Scott and who had confirmed the site of Scott’s Fair Maid’s house.

  “I must write to Henrietta and Mary—they’re such champions of Scott’s work. They’ll be eager to visit us just so they can stop and view this house.” Having changed into a walking dress and put on her bonnet, she tipped her head back to look up at him. “Can we cross and go closer?”

  He obliged, escorting her across the narrow street. The house stood directly on the street, allowing her to walk along the front wall, covertly glancing in through the window.

  Halting before the door, she looked up at the stone lintel. “ ‘Grace and Peace’—just as Scott said. That’s the motto of the Glovers’ Guild, apparently.” She sighed.

  “Back to the hotel.” He steered her on. “It’s quite a walk.”

  “But it was worth it.” She hugged his arm, leaned closer. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  He squelched the urge to kiss her, there in the middle of the street, blocked his awareness of her breast brushing his arm. “It w
as probably wise to walk after half a day and more in the saddle.”

  And even that perfectly innocent statement set his libido slavering, evoking the sensation of him lying in the saddle of her silken thighs.

  He fixed his gaze ahead. “This way.” He hoped she didn’t hear the deeper tone in his voice.

  They strolled back into Castle Gable, past Horse Cross and the remnants of the old city wall, into the top of Skinnersgate, then turned into Barret’s Close.

  She looked up and around. “It’s like Edinburgh, isn’t it? All these narrow, twisting lanes.”

  “Mmm.” He was hoping Perth would be like Edinburgh in another way, as well. Throughout the day he’d fought to keep his mind from dwelling on their previous night’s activities; riding when aroused had never been high on his list of acceptable tortures. Courtesy of her questions and the physical separation of riding, he’d managed well enough. Until they’d arrived at the King’s Arms and he’d organized rooms for the night.

  He’d taken two large bedchambers—one for her and one for him. He was reasonably well known at the hotel and had no wish to generate unnecessary gossip; as Angelica had a maid with her, and they were traveling with a group of his staff, the image he’d arranged to project was that he was escorting his chosen bride to his home.

  Of course, having separate rooms didn’t mean they would be using both beds.

  It was at that point, when she’d retreated to her room to change, and he’d gone into his to change his coat and had seen the huge bed, that his libido had broken free of all restraint and proceed to run amok, playing havoc with his concentration.

  Slowly filling his lungs, he lectured himself that he was no stripling to be led by his cock. Emerging into George Street, he escorted Angelica across, then down George Inn Lane and into the long cobbled yard that led to the King’s Arms . . . as he set eyes on the hotel’s façade, his rampant libido threw up an image of the four-poster bed in his room, with Angelica, clad only in her silken skin, lolling upon it.

  They changed for dinner; it was that sort of hotel. He waited outside her room, and when she emerged in another new evening gown, this one of pale blue and white, with her silk shawl over her elbows, he offered her his arm and led her down to the private parlor he’d hired.