Ann Lethbridge

by Her Highland Protector

  ‘Who sent the letter?’

  Her spine stiffened at the suspicion in his tone. ‘The vicar.’

  ‘He is a fine young man, no doubt.’

  She frowned at the offhand way he passed his comment. It contained a note of jealousy. She opened her mouth to tell him that the Reverend Hughes was seventy if he was a day and married, but some devil inside her put other words on her tongue. ‘He is indeed a fine man.’

  Silence greeted her words. He leaned forwards, his elbows on thighs encased in skin-tight pantaloons, and clasped his hands together. She had a strong urge to rest her head against the strong right arm, to draw on his strength, even unburden her worries. The letter spoke of neglect and implored her to return and take up the reins as her father had intended. And so she would. As the wife of a husband who could set things to right.

  Mr Gilvry was not that man, and to lean on him would be weakness.

  If only she did not find Mr Gilvry so wickedly alluring or so serious and honourable, it would be easier to keep him at a distance.

  He looked at her sideways. ‘I gave my word to Carrick that I would stand in his stead with you until his return. So far, I have made a muckle of it. But that will change from today. There will be no more sneaking off. Or wandering the castle at night, putting yourself in harm’s way. No more nonsense between us. Do I make myself clear?’

  Nonsense meant kissing. And she certainly had no plan to repeat the experience, having demonstrated that she had no power to resist him. ‘You are very clear, Mr Gilvry.’

  He didn’t look particularly comforted by her answer, but he nodded and pushed to his feet. ‘Then I will leave you to the fire and your reading.’ He gathered up the tomes he had been looking at and strode from the room.

  Leaving her in command of the field of battle.

  An ache filled her chest. Because she had the strong suspicion that while he had felt a twinge of jealousy over Mr Hughes, he had definitely enjoyed their kiss.

  The thought made her feel warm all over.

  * * *

  Three days later, while Jenna sat reading and Mrs Preston worked at her embroidery, there was a decided rap on the door. Jenna looked up, knowing even before the door opened that it was Niall. Knew it from the way her heart rose in her throat, from the hum in her veins. The tingling awareness in her scalp. And there he was in the doorway.

  For three days they had carefully avoided each other, making sure what had happened in the library could not possibly happen again. Heat crept up her face at the recollection. She met his steady gaze with calm indifference, despite the unsteady beat of her heart and that betraying blush.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Gilvry,’ Mrs Preston said. Her face held enquiry.

  He bowed. ‘Good morning, Mrs Preston. Lady Jenna. Letters have arrived from Lord Carrick.’ He handed her a sealed note.

  There was something about the way he spoke that gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, something dark in his eyes, as if whatever was in that note was not to his taste.

  And he wasn’t leaving. But then if it had been nothing but simple greetings, the butler would have delivered the note.

  She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  At first she did not quite believe what she was reading. Each word sent a different emotion careening though her. Surprise. Gladness. Worry. And, strangest of all, disappointment. She read again more slowly. Absorbing the full import of the words. Bridegrooms. Three of them, coming here. To woo her.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she said looking at Mr Gilvry, who stood hands behind his back, shoulders square, his face set in grim lines. ‘You know what he says?’

  He nodded. ‘I also received a letter.’

  ‘What is it, my dear?’ Mrs Preston asked. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’

  ‘It seems we are to have visitors.’ Jenna got up, handed her the letter and went to the window, looking out across the countryside to a gleam of sea in the distance. Seeing, but not seeing.

  This was what she had asked for. Not quite this. In her heart, she had hoped for a Season in Edinburgh. Balls. Dancing. Society. A rather childish dream, in light of Carrick’s impatient admonishment to do her duty and select one of these men as a husband before his return in a week.

  She had pressed him hard and this was his response.

  A brisk determination of her future. At least he was letting her have her choice. Somewhat. A choice he controlled. Because he did not think her capable of making a sensible decision.

  The thought rankled.

  She turned back to the room and caught Niall looking at her with an expression on his face she could not read. He masked it quickly, so she wasn’t sure, but she thought it might be regret.

  He looked so handsome in the morning light, so clearly intent on his duty. If only he was...eligible. Her heart stumbled. How could this be? This funny little stab of pain in her chest. This foolish feeling of longing.

  Because of their kiss.

  Surely she had more sense.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. And while his gaze left hers to watch Mrs Preston as she read Lord Carrick’s letter, about his mouth there was a hint of distaste.

  Her spine stiffened at his disapproval. She glanced at Mrs Preston, who was still reading. ‘An unusual way of proceeding, don’t you think, ma’am?’

  The older woman looked up, her eyes wide. ‘I have never heard the like. But it is what you wanted.’

  Her voice quavered with doubt. As if she expected Jenna to balk.

  And on one level she wanted to. She wasn’t sure she was ready. Not really. Yet this plan would have her back to Braemuir in weeks instead of the months it might take if she went to Edinburgh.

  These men were all approved by her cousin. Handpicked. And, according to his letter, they were willing.

  ‘I think it will serve my purpose.’ It had to, despite a sudden feeling of panic.

  ‘Then we must prepare,’ Mrs Preston said, looking brighter. More animated than Jenna had ever seen her. ‘Three bachelors arriving here at any moment to vie for your hand? Like a fairy-tale. I vow it is positively romantic.’

  Terrifying, more like. ‘Romance has nothing to do with it,’ Jenna said a little more sharply than she intended, and Niall’s gaze shot to her face as if seeking out her true emotions.

  Emotions had no place in her choice of a husband. They could not, if she was to do her duty.

  Even so, the constraints of her situation chafed. Made her less than charitable. ‘Well, Mr Gilvry, how do you propose we entertain our guests?’ She waved a hand. ‘Have them read books, perhaps?’

  He gave her a puzzled frown.

  ‘It will be hard to amuse them, if I am not to leave the castle walls. Young men don’t take kindly to being shut up all day as well as all evening.’

  He stiffened, instantly picking up her oblique reference to his position as her gaoler. No lack of quickness of mind in Mr Gilvry. Something she admired about him. No. Not admired. Admiration had no place in their relationship. But she could respect him.

  ‘There is safety in numbers,’ he said coolly. ‘I am sure something can be arranged.’

  But she heard an underlying tension in his voice. He was not as calm as he appeared, despite his refusal to rise to her challenge.

  But then nor was she the slightest bit calm. Her pulse was beating far too fast. And she did not have time to think about her inner turmoil.

  ‘We must prepare for our visitors at once, my dear Mrs Preston. Chambers. Musicians from Wick for dancing in the evening, perhaps.’ These men must have the chance to show off all of their accomplishments so she could choose. ‘My cousin gives me only a week to make my decision since he does not wish to bear the expense of entertaining these gentlemen for any extended period.’ After a week, her cousin threatened to make the choice himself. That, she would not allow.

  She turned to Niall. ‘What can we offer them out of doors, Mr Gilvry?’

  There was a harshness in his voice when he replied
. A disapproval. ‘Hunting, perhaps. Boating on the loch if the weather is fair. A visit to local points of interest.’

  And he would accompany them. Of that she was sure. And glad. He would be her rock in what felt like an upcoming storm, much as he did not seem to like the idea. ‘I am glad to see you rising to the occasion.’

  ‘It is my job, my lady.’

  That was all she was to him. A responsibility. What more had she expected? Had she thought he would try to talk her out of following her cousin’s wishes? If she had, then clearly she was due for disappointment. ‘You will let me know if you have other ideas.’

  He bowed. ‘I will give it my undivided attention.’

  Sarcasm? Or just him being punctilious? Likely the latter. ‘I am sure you will.’ She gave him a brief smile—an apology of sorts—but received nothing but a steady glance in return.

  Whatever his thoughts on this way of proceeding, he was not going to share. And it would do no good if he did. She was committed.

  ‘Come, Mrs Preston, let us seek further information about these men from Debrett’s.’

  * * *

  Niall left them to it and went to seek out McDougall, to see if he had any commands for him. ‘I will have some time before these gentlemen arrive.’

  McDougall sat slumped in his chair like a deflated pig’s bladder after Niall had told him what was about to transpire. ‘Aye. See if you can find a receipt for a pistol from Manton’s in his lordship’s office. They are dunning us, but Carrick says he paid them last time he was in London.’

  ‘Where shall I look?’

  ‘In his desk. He sometimes throws them in his right-hand drawer and then forgets to pass them on. Bring everything you find, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  Glad of something to do that would allow him to forget the prospect of entertaining young noblemen, Niall wended his way back up the stairs in the castle.

  He hesitated outside Carrick’s office, feeling a little uncomfortable about entering the man’s private space. But if he trusted McDougall to read his mail, then he must have the authority for this, too.

  He opened the door and went in. The desk dominated the small room, its walnut surface polished to a shine and completely bare.

  A matching glass-fronted bookcase stood behind it, and tapestries of ancient hunting scenes covered the walls. A harmonious mix of old and new.

  Niall crossed to the desk, pulled on the drawer on the right-hand side and it opened. As McDougall had said, it was full of scraps of papers itemising various purchases and reckonings from inns. They all looked like they’d been crumpled and stuffed in a pocket before ending up here.

  He took them out one by one, smoothing them flat so he could carry them back to McDougall.

  Near the bottom of the pile was a small brass-bound ledger with a clasp to lock it. It wasn’t like any of the ones down in the office where he worked. He pulled it out to get to the rest of the drawer’s contents.

  It fell open as he put it down. He continued rescuing the papers and soon had a neat pile.

  He went to put the ledger back in the drawer. A name caught his attention. Indeed, it leaped off the page. Tearny.

  None of his business. He went to close it, glanced up at the open door, then could not help but read the entry. Tearny had been employed at Dunross on Carrick’s recommendation. He had set fire to the distillery and then tried to kill Ian’s wife. They had never got to the bottom of his motive, because Ian had killed him in self-defence. Ian had asked Niall to see what he could discover about the man’s background while in Wick. One thing he hadn’t expected was to find such large payments to the man from his chieftain.

  The size of the number beside Tearny’s name made him whistle under his breath. Why would Carrick have paid the man thirty pounds? The date was odd, too, falling a week after Tearny’s death, and the first initial was wrong. Perhaps this was a different man altogether.

  He flipped back through the pages. Other payments in varying amounts over several months had been made to J. Tearny, the land steward, in the months before his death. But Niall had seen Tearny’s regular pay listed in the books held in McDougall’s office. These were in addition to his salary. Beside each entry in the explanation column were annotations in capital letters as if it was some sort of code. He could not help but notice some had the initials IG and AG. Did the G stand for Gilvry and if so what service had Tearny performed that related to Ian and Andrew? He tried to recall the significance of the dates to see if there was a pattern.

  He went back to the entry he’d first seen and looked at it again. This was E. Tearny. Who would that be? The man’s widow, perhaps? Some sort of pension after the man’s death? Why such a large sum? And no indication of where this Tearny might be found. He might find the name in the rent rolls in McDougall’s office. He made a mental note to check.

  There were many other entries in the ledger, some bearing the identifier “Braemuir” in the explanation column. Where had he heard of that?

  Footsteps echoed on the stone stairs outside. He closed the book. Shoved it back in the desk and felt the heat of guilt scald his skin. He picked up the pile of papers.

  ‘Mr Gilvry,’ a soft voice said.

  ‘Lady Jenna,’ he replied with a bow. ‘Just collecting some documents for Mr McDougall.’

  ‘So I see. It is unusual to see the door open. My cousin usually keeps it locked when he is not here.’

  ‘Mr McDougall gave me the key.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  She stood staring at him, hesitating on the threshold, looking as if she wanted to say something but was having trouble choosing her words.

  She looked pretty in her blue gown. He wanted to touch her, to feel her soft skin against his palm. Kiss her sweet lips and see if they tasted as good as he remembered. Damn it, they were alone. Something he had sworn he would ensure did not happen again.

  He forced himself to look away. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get these back to Mr. McDougall.’ Brusque. Practically rude. His tongue, never silver at the best of times, turned into a blunt instrument around her. But then he wasn’t a man with soft address tripping off his tongue, and the longer he stood here, the more likely he was to forget his vow. He bowed and she stepped back to let him pass and lock the door.

  He ran down the stairs like the hounds of hell were on his heels. He would gladly have faced the hounds of hell, but the temptation of Lady Jenna was more than he wanted to risk.

  And as his boots clattered on the stairs, he remembered where he had heard of Braemuir. It was the Lady Jenna’s holding.

  Chapter Five

  Niall had been assigned a chamber in one of the towers beside the gatehouse. Each time he went anywhere near the window, he felt dizzy. He should have insisted on lodgings elsewhere, but that would have required an explanation, so he’d said nothing. It was bad enough being laughed at by his brothers without exposing himself to ridicule here.

  Even standing far back from his window, he’d seen the cavalcade winding up the road from the town. Men on horses. Carriages piled to the roof with luggage. Outriders. Like a royal procession. He had hurried to inform Lady Jenna of their imminent arrival.

  Now he stood with Lady Jenna on the steps to the entrance, waiting for the guests to come through the gates.

  The men were three younger sons of Scottish nobility, all wealthy, and all apparently seeking the advancement of their ambitions by the purchase of a title. Could no one but him see how medieval this was? What sort of men were willing to endure being picked over like apples in a barrel when it was clear Lady Jenna was the real prize?

  He froze, surprised by how angry he felt. All right, so he was attracted to the lass. He was a man. Likely half the men in the castle found her alluring. It didn’t mean he cared who she decided to marry. His job was simply to keep her safe until she picked a husband. And if one of these bachelors tried anything untoward, Niall would ensure he’d wear his guts for garters, as Drew had liked to
say.

  The thought eased his tension until he turned his head to look at the lady in question. She wore a white gown of the finest muslin, like a virgin sacrifice, except the fluttering cherry-coloured ribbons on her straw bonnet and tied in little bows down the front of her gown added teasing touches of temptation. As did her rosy parted lips. Not a sacrifice at all. An eager participant.

  This was exactly what she wanted.

  Something ugly and dark twisted inside him. He wanted to hit something. To howl a protest. He recognised it for what it was: jealousy. He beat it back with a wry smile. He had no right to be jealous. So what if he had kissed her? Twice now. It was an error of judgement on both their parts. A mistake that would not be repeated.

  As if sensing his regard, she glanced his way. It was then that he saw the shadows in the depths of her eyes. The anxiety. The knowledge that if she chose wrongly, the future would be bleak. In the second that their eyes met and locked, he vowed she would not be the only one taking a close look at these men and their worth.

  And then they were coming through the gates. Three fine men whose horses pranced into the courtyard, gallant and dashing, proclaiming their status and wealth. The carriages would wait out on the road until the guests were safely inside. The servants in the courtyard sprang into action and Peter’s grooms and stable hands were soon leading the mounts away.

  With Mrs Preston at her side, Lady Jenna tripped lightly down the steps to greet the arrivals. Niall stationed himself behind her. The butler, waiting at the bottom of the steps, took each man’s calling card and introduced them to Mrs Preston and Lady Jenna in turn. The men bowed politely.

  ‘Welcome,’ Lady Jenna said, her voice clear and steady. ‘Welcome to Carrick Castle, gentlemen. Permit me to introduce Mr Niall Gilvry, who stands in Lord Carrick’s place in his absence.’

  The oldest man of the three, a Mr McBane, gave him a sharp look and shook Niall’s hand firmly. He was of average height and build, his brown hair already receding, but his brown eyes were mild and intelligent. The other two followed suit. Mr Murray was a fair-haired man in his early twenties with bright blue eyes who no doubt considered himself a Corinthian, judging from his dress and his attempt to crush Niall’s hand. Lastly, Mr Oswald, sandy-haired with sharp, almost foxy features and shirt-points starched to insurmountable points, offered a languid two-fingered touch.