by Carmen Caine
Lord Kennedy returned his gaze to the man. “And the horses?”
“Och, they’ve not gone far, my lord, even the stallion,” the man replied. “We’ll have them back soon enough.”
“Very well,” Alistair dismissed the man with a nod. Bootfalls receded as Lord Kennedy strode to where Oliver perched over the stall opposite Eliza. He pointed at the stable floor. “Down. Now.”
The boy dropped down at once.
“You could very well have gotten Miss Plowman killed,” Alistair said in a quiet voice.
The boy’s face crumpled.
“This very morning, I treated you with kindness,” Alistair’s deep baritone continued. “Perhaps you would understand a whip better?”
Oliver paled.
A tense silence descended. Eliza hurried from the stall to join them.
Alistair glanced at her, then pointed to the door and said to the boy, “Off with you to the nursery. I’ll discuss your punishment after supper, but you may start by adding another chapter of Latin to this morning’s task. Go.”
Oliver ran.
Alistair faced her. “Eliza, what were you doing in the line? Did Lady Kennedy bid you stand with the servants?”
She started at the unexpected question as well as the casual use of her name. He stood unsettlingly close. So close, she felt the heat radiating from his body.
She dropped her gaze to the ground and replied, “I fear I have upset her, my lor—”
“Hush.” He pressed a finger to her lips.
She froze.
His dark lashes dipped as his gaze locked on her mouth, then his hand fell away. “I weary of curtsies and ‘my lords’.” His eyes met hers and she started at the stark honesty. “You asked me once if you could call me Alistair. Indeed, I would prefer it.”
Images collided in her head—the conversation in the library, the whisky, her moan on the stable floor—and wanting only to escape to collect her thoughts, she gathered her skirts and fled.
* * *
He didn’t follow her. For that, Eliza was grateful. Minutes later, she burst into the nursery, startling Meg where she sat at the table with the children.
“Losh, Miss, what’s happened?” The jolly, freckle-faced maid jumped to her feet.
In an effort to regain her composure, Eliza slowly closed the door then turned to face her. “Nothing’s happened, Meg.”
A speculative light leapt into Meg’s eyes, but Eliza ignored it and joined Oliver at the table, a broken quill in his hand and ink-blotted paper before him. She sat in the chair to his right.
“I’ve been trying to teach him his letters,” Meg said as she left the table. “But you’ll do better, Miss. Charlotte and I are on our way to the kitchens.”
Eliza smiled and watched the little girl skip alongside Meg as the two of them disappeared through the door before returning her attention to Oliver.
“Will he beat me?” Oliver asked in a soft voice.
Eliza noticed his white knuckled grip on the quill.
“I fear you might deserve it,” she replied. “Someone might have been killed.”
He blanched. “I…didn’t think…”
Her heart tugged and she smoothed his dark hair away from his forehead. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” She opened the Latin grammar to the first page. “Your father only wishes you to become a fine, upstanding gentleman. Now, concentrate on your task.” She patted the paper. “Come, let’s start.”
Oliver took a deep, quavering breath and nodded.
By the end of the hour, over a dozen broken quills littered the table’s surface, but Eliza was pleased with the boy’s perseverance. He licked his lips as he stubbornly scratched the unknown shapes. Very little was legible, but she didn’t think Alistair would mind.
A smile played over her lips for a good five minutes before she realized she was behaving like a fool. Really, Eliza! Alistair? Alistair? Since when had he become Alistair and not Lord Kennedy?
She rose and busied herself with reorganizing the supplies in the cupboard. After a time, Meg and Charlotte returned with an early dinner of stewed fowl, barley-broth, and a cranberry-tart with a rich cream sauce. By the time they’d finished the meal, darkness had fallen and Oliver’s mood—as well as Eliza’s—had lightened. The maid had just left with the dishes when a sudden keening wail in the castle below caused them all—with the exception of Meg—to jump.
“Whatever is that sound?” Eliza looked at Meg, who sat in her chair near the fire.
“Och, it’s just the piper, lass,” the red-haired maid laughed. When they all looked confused, she rose from her chair near the fire and went to the door. “It’s Foster. He used to play the pipes every night afore the evening meal, but he’s been a wee tired of late. But tonight, with the guests…” She opened the door. “Come, come.” She waved them out of the nursery. “I’ll show you.”
Fascinated, Eliza took each child by the hand and followed her into the hall. Night had fallen and the dim light of the dancing candles added mystery to the mournful lilt filtering up the stairs as they walked toward the grand staircase.
“Losh, you should see his kilt,” Meg whispered when they reached the staircase. “‘Tis a sight to see. He is just down the next level. We can be down and back in a flash, before anyone knows. They’re all in the dining room by now.”
“Can we?” Oliver tugged Eliza’s hand.
Charlotte chimed in and Meg waggled pleading brows. Eliza gave in. After all, it was their heritage. “Only for a minute,” she whispered back.
She led the way, tiptoeing down the red-carpeted steps. They reached the second floor, which, thankfully, was empty, and Eliza waved everyone forward. The pipe played on as they scrambled behind the columns, kneeling to peer down at Foster pacing before the bottommost step, playing the pipes and looking magnificent in his green pleated kilt, broad leather belt and wool doublet jacket.
As the children watched, mesmerized, Eliza closed her eyes and let the lament, wild and plaintive, wash over her in gentle reminder that she no longer lived in England. The last notes of the song faded, she rose to her feet, and reached for the children’s hands.
“What are you doing here?” Lady Kennedy’s voice broke the spell.
Eliza whirled. The woman stood two feet away, wearing a light green-striped evening dress with a wide, square neckline adorned with blue velvet ribbon. A beautiful young, honey-haired woman hovered by her side, her dress an elegant ivory color trimmed in pearls that perfectly complemented the silver and pearl tiara woven into her thick, lustrous hair. They both looked so elegant, so refined that Eliza suddenly felt like a dowdy hen standing before two majestic swans.
“I repeat, what are you doing here?” Lady Kennedy demanded, her eyes flicking over her disdainfully. “Servants are not to be seen near the grand staircase. You have your own stairs.”
“Pardon me, my lady,” Eliza dropped a curtsey. “The children merely wished to hear the piper.”
“Do we indulge a child’s every whim?” She snapped opened her fan. “Especially, the children of a beggar woman?”
“My ma was a fine lady,” Oliver said in a fierce voice. “Not a shrew, like you.” Everyone, including Eliza, gasped, and he quickly tacked on a “my lady” to lessen his sin.
Recovering first, Eliza rounded on him. “Oliver! Apologize at once.”
“Let me have a look at you.” Lady Kennedy stepped forward, then put a finger under his chin and tilted his head from side to side. “Kennedy eyes, but nothing else.”
Oliver jerked his head out of her grasp and clenched his hands into fists. “I’ll not apologize. No one insults my mum.”
Lady Kennedy reeled back in shock. “The uncouth urchin! Dare he speak to me so?” She whirled on Eliza. “Is not a governess to teach manners? Or is that something—”
“Manners?” a deep baritone voice cut in.
Eliza looked up. Alistair stood at the top of the stairs.
Lady Kennedy began to f
an her face. “It is the dinner hour, I see.” Looking at the young lady by her side, she added, “Shall we, my dear?”
As she lifted her chin and headed for the descending stairs, Eliza heaved a breath of relief and grasped Oliver by the arm, intending to make a run for the nursery.
“Miss Plowman,” Lord Kennedy called. “If you will join me in the library?”
Eliza glanced over to find his intense, burning gaze already locked on her.
Lady Kennedy paused and looked over her shoulder at him. “It is the dinner hour, Alistair. Polite society requires that one not keep guests waiting.”
He lifted a cool brow. “I daresay you look well-fed enough to wait another quarter of an hour, Lady Kennedy. If ye feel faint, please have tea and biscuits served in the drawing room.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He nodded to Oliver. “And I’ll see you as well, lad. Come, the both of you.”
He strode down the hall, leaving Eliza and Oliver to hurry after him. A moment later, Eliza stood with Oliver before the library fire. She laid a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze as his father crossed to the sideboard. When he reached for the flask of whisky, she winced.
Reminding herself to behave as a proper governess should, she dropped a curtsey. “My lord, I’m afraid I have offended Lady Kennedy—”
“Don’t give the woman one scrap of attention, Eliza,” he interjected quietly as he poured the whisky into a glass. “I would be far more concerned if she should like you.”
Eliza blinked.
He turned, glass of whiskey in hand, and extended it toward her. She frowned, then glimpsed the gleam of amusement lurking in his expressive eyes.
“Care for a drink?” A trace of a smile edged his chiseled mouth.
She narrowed her eyes. “Not tonight, my lord.”
With a wink, he leaned a hip against the sideboard and looked at Oliver. “I was of a mind to thrash you soundly, lad,” he began in a deep, solemn tone, “for your mischief in the stables.”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver squeaked.
“Aye,” his father replied. “But being sorry doesn’t prevent someone from being hurt.”
The boy ducked his head and nodded.
“You must show respect,” Alistair continued in a firm voice. “You’ve no cause to insult a lady, even one as venomous as Lady Kennedy, and you ignored Miss Plowman. Did she not ask you to apologize?”
Oliver’s head bowed lower.
“However, you stood up for your mother’s good name, and against an old harridan of a witch as well, lad. That takes courage.”
Eliza blinked. Oliver’s head snapped up.
“A man must protect those in his care.” Alistair’s stern features relaxed. “As a man of the Kennedy clan, I’ll see you look after your mother’s good name and your governess as well. But if you get into such mischief again, I’ll thrash you soundly—then lock you in with Lady Kennedy for a week.”
The boy turned white.
Eliza suppressed a smile. Perhaps the man wasn’t a bad father, after all. He sipped his whisky and her gaze snagged on the way his coat went taut across his shoulders. Her mouth went dry. How was it possible for a man to be so handsome?
“How is your Latin?” he asked.
Eliza jarred.
Oliver’s eyes widened and, when he didn’t reply, Eliza said, “He is laboring faithfully, my lord.”
His eyes slicked to the boy’s ink-stained cuffs. “I see. Then you may go, Oliver. Goodnight.”
The boy bowed.
The door to the library opened and Alistair’s raven-haired friend, Nicholas, entered. A broad grin lit his face. “Ah, Alistair, care to intro—”
“You may leave, Miss Plowman,” Alistair cut the man off. He strode to the door, held it wide and jerked his head at the hallway beyond.
The curt gesture made her wonder at his sudden change of mood. But grateful to escape without further recrimination, she caught Oliver’s hand and hurried with him out the door. Lord Kennedy clicked the door firmly shut behind her. She glanced back, then shook off her confusion and faced forward.
Oliver’s fingers tightened around hers and she was startled to realize he hadn’t pulled free. “You’re a fortunate boy, Oliver. Let’s see you stay out of mischief, shall we?”
To her surprise, he cracked a grin and nodded. Eliza smiled back. Maybe the boy was starting to settle in.
“Why don’t you run on ahead to the nursery?” she coaxed. She needed a few minutes alone.
“Should I start on my Latin?” he asked.
“Exactly,” she said.
Without another word, he scampered off toward the back stairs.
Eliza followed at a slower pace. She knew she shouldn’t dwell on Alistair, but how could she not? The more she grew to know him, the more she thought him an honorable man. The thought gave her pause. How strange that such a man would abandoned his children to begin with.
“Eliza?”
Lord Kennedy was kind and he cared how the children were raised. Why—
“Eliza?” a male voice said again.
She stopped.
“Eliza?” the voice repeated in wonder.
Her heart began to pound. She knew that voice. A wave of shock rolled over her—then anger rose from deep within her soul. Eliza whirled. He stood at the end of the hallway. He looked the same, the reddish-brown beard, the chilling blue eyes. She even recognized the blue waistcoat with silver buttons.
“Eliza?” Captain Edwards stepped toward her. “Whatever are you doing here?”
Chapter Eight
A Crimson Gown
Eliza stared at Captain Edwards in complete shock. What did he mean asking what was she doing here? What the devil? What was he doing here?
“It really is you.” The Captain strode forward, reached her, grabbed her arm, and yanked her aside. “How did you know to find me here? I’m not giving you a penny. We’re done.”
Eliza didn’t react. She couldn’t. She was simply too stunned. She stared at him with her mouth flopped open like a fish. His hand tightened on her arm. She jerked her gaze onto his fingers, then yanked free.
“Do not touch me. Devil knows I would never follow you. This is my place of employment.”
“Employment?” He frowned. “You hold a position here?”
“Do not pretend that hardened shell you call a heart cares what position I hold,” Eliza retorted, then lunged past him toward the servants’ stairs.
Oliver met her at the bottom step. “Who’s that man?” he asked, leaning to look behind her.
Grasping his arm, she pulled him after her. “A bad man,” she replied. “The kind of man you should never be.”
By the time they entered the nursery, she shook with anger. The arrogance of the man. What a small mind he had—that he should think she followed him. And for what? Ten more shillings?
Eliza ordered Oliver to remove his ink-stained shirt and went to fetch his bedclothes from his room. When she returned, she found him seated cross-legged before the fire, turning the pages of the Latin grammar book with decided interest.
The sight calmed her raging thoughts and she knelt beside him with a smile. “Tomorrow, we’ll work on your letters,” she promised. “Soon, you’ll be able to copy both chapters.” He nodded and smiled back, a genuine smile that lit his small face. Not wanting to spoil the moment, she jostled his nightshirt over his head, saying, “Now, it’s later than I realized. Off to bed. We will begin your lessons tomorrow.”
“Yes, Miss,” he muttered as his head emerged. He leapt to his feet, and scampered toward his room. He paused at the door to say in a gruff voice, “Goodnight, Miss.”
Eliza nodded in reply, touched at his response, and watched him disappear into his room, still hugging the book to his chest. After checking on Meg and Charlotte, and bidding them a good night, she escaped to her own room and plopped down on the bed.
Her thoughts returned at once to Captain Edwards. H
ad he been invited to Lord Kennedy’s party? It hadn’t occurred to her the two men might be friends. The Captain hadn’t changed. He was as heartless as ever. Thank God she hadn’t wed the man and locked herself into a miserable existence.
Torn between anger and relief, she slipped into her nightdress. She picked up the copy of The Fine Art of Deportment from the nightstand, but only laid it on her lap. Was the Captain staying for the entire house party? She winced at the thought.
Hopefully, he’d leave soon. Until he did, she planned on staying out of his way. She’d had more than enough of him for one lifetime.
* * *
Eliza spent the ensuing days behaving as a proper governess should—or attempting her best to do so. She found the guidance in The Fine Art of Deportment dull and boring, and could scarcely finish a page without yawning.
Mornings, she spent teaching Oliver his letters and Charlotte how to draw. Afternoons, she took the children out for walks about the estate, exploring the terraced gardens, orchards, the ice house and Swan Pond. Twice they explored the shore near the old sea caves, which were-carved into the face of the cliff upon which the castle perched.
Several times, she caught sight of Alistair in the distance, mounted on a splendid bay as he escorted his guests around the estate. He sat with ease in the saddle. Despite the distance, he cut a dashing figure, and was far more handsome than the other men in his party. Which was probably why the beautiful young woman she’d seen hovering behind Lady Kennedy chose to ride alongside him. Eliza tried to ignore the pangs of jealousy. Lady Kennedy was right. Eliza was born to clean the Blue Drawing Room, not sit in it.
Once or twice, she spied Captain Edwards galloping behind Alistair. So, he was Lord Kennedy’s guest for the duration of the party. That would explain why his lordship hadn’t spoken with her since the night his guests arrived. That was as it should be, but the knowledge didn’t halt the twist of her heart.
Two days after spotting Lord Kennedy riding with his guests, Eliza and the children descended the cliff to explore the Dolphin House, the crowstepped, gabled laundry nestled on the shore. The children, with forlorn expressions, watched the women work, the tubs and atmosphere clearly reminding them of their mother. Noticing their wistful expressions, the laundresses invited them to help.
