Mr. Geddes shook his head. “There is only this room, ma’am. Torhaven doesna get many visitors, ye ken, an’ The Black Barnacle is only a small inn. We dinna have any private rooms because we havna the custom.”
“Oh, I see…” Elizabeth sighed and cast her eyes about the taproom. Despite the strong smell of peat smoke, hops and some sort of fishy stew, it was a clean, pleasant enough room. It would have to do for the moment. “Then perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble, might I take a seat by the fire for a while? I have travelled all the way from London, you see, and find I am a trifle weary.”
Mr. Geddes’s eyes narrowed on her. “A Londoner you say. Wha’ on earth have ye come all the way here fer, if ye dinna mind my askin’?”
Elizabeth swallowed. Her throat felt dry and scratchy, and she really wanted nothing more than to sit down and have a cup of tea. Nevertheless she had nothing to lose by answering the innkeeper’s question. Perhaps she could even glean some additional intelligence about the mysterious marquess. She was already taking a huge risk approaching Lord Rothsburgh when the man would still be in deep mourning for the marchioness. She certainly hoped that neither he nor his daughter had taken ill as well. It would be reprehensible if she turned up on the marquess’s doorstep unannounced in such an unfortunate circumstance.
“I’ve come to apply for the governess’s position at Eilean Tor Castle,” she said then flushed when Mr. Geddes threw back his head and laughed. However, he quickly succumbed to a coughing fit again that left him gasping.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Geddes,” she said, her brow furrowing with confusion.
“Och…it’s just tha’…there have been so many young English lasses tha’ have tried oot fer the job. I canna believe there’s another one. But by all means, Miss…”
“Mrs. Eliott. As in the Lowlander spelling,” she supplied with an inclination of her head. She had chosen the alias simply because it had been her mother’s maiden name. But if it helped her to gain some ground with the taciturn and quite possibly Anglophobic Mr. Geddes, then all the better.
“Och, ye wed a Lowlander, did ye? So yer no’ just a Sassenach. Well, take a seat by all means. An’ I s’pose ye’ll be wantin’ a cup of tea as well?”
“If it’s not too much trouble…”
“Och. It’s no trouble.” His craggy face twisted into what might have passed for a smile. “But I think ye will have need of somethin’ a wee bit stronger afore ye face Lord Rothsburgh. Are ye sure I canna bring you a wee dram of whisky or sherry?”
In the face of Mr. Geddes wry amusement, Elizabeth suddenly feared that the marquess was really going to live up to his churlish reputation. Not that it would make her change her course of action; she would just have to work harder to win the unsociable nobleman over. At least it didn’t sound as if he had contracted the ague.
“No thank you, Mr. Geddes. Just the tea will be sufficient,” Elizabeth replied then smiled again at the innkeeper. She would need to exercise her charm a little more on him—not that it had really helped her thus far. But she needed a way to get to the castle.
“I’m afraid I need to ask you for another favor, sir. As I cannot stay here, perhaps I could ask you or your son to take me and my luggage to Eilean Tor, when I am done taking tea? Of course, I will pay you well for your trouble on such an inclement afternoon.”
Again Mr. Geddes seemed amused at her expense. “I’m verra sorry, Mrs. Eliott, but I canna take you. Our cart has a broken axle, an’ neither myself nor Seamus have been up to fixin’ it of late. Besides, the tide is still high, an’ the causeway across to the castle will be too dangerous fer anyone to cross fer another hour. Ye will have to wait a wee while yet.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push down another sudden surge of exasperation. Since she had arrived at Torhaven, nothing was going smoothly. She prayed this wasn’t a bad omen. But because she had come so far, these few last obstacles would not stop her from succeeding. She just needed to summon her patience.
Drawing a deep breath, she looked squarely at Mr. Geddes. “I had not realized that Eilean Tor was on an island. Would it be possible to hire a horse to cross the causeway when the tide goes out? I do not fancy walking there in this weather.”
Mr. Geddes nodded. “Och, aye, ma’am. We can do tha’ fer you. It is only aboot a quarter of a mile across the causeway once you get over the Tor. An’ verra safe once the tide is far enough oot. Dinna worry. Auld Fern, our pony will get ye there safely enough.”
Once Mr. Geddes quit the room to prepare her tea, Elizabeth thankfully sank onto one of the chairs before the fire. She suddenly felt very cold and was grateful for the warmth emanating from the embers of glowing peat. She supposed the chill sea air and her damp clothes weren’t helping matters.
She removed her black chip bonnet and tugged off her black kid gloves. The tips of her pale fingers looked almost blue from the cold. She chafed her hands together then held them toward the smoky fire. Her silver wedding band, which she now wore on her right ring finger, caught the fire’s glow. It didn’t feel right to remove it; even though it wasn’t safe to live with Hugh as his true wife anymore, she was still married.
How bleak to think that she would probably never marry again.
At least I’m already used to feeling alone.
Much to her chagrin, her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears, but she hastily brushed them away when Mr. Geddes returned with her tea. Self-indulgent weeping wasn’t going to help. She needed to stay strong.
The brew that Mr. Geddes had poured for her was weak but Elizabeth didn’t mind. She wrapped her chilled fingers around the cup and found comfort as the warm liquid slid down her dry throat. However, it wasn’t long before the tea and the fire warmed her right through. In fact, she had started to feel quite hot and perspiration prickled down her spine.
Putting aside her tea, Elizabeth rose and crossed to one of the grimy, salt-encrusted windows. The rain had grown heavier and the rocky promontory—the Tor as Mr. Geddes had called it—was now obscured by low clouds that had rolled in off the sea. She shivered; she really didn’t want to go out in this weather. She would be soaked to the skin before she even left the inn yard. Not only that, it suddenly struck her how wild and close the crashing breakers were. Every now and again, a sudden shot of spray hit a windowpane, making it rattle. She wasn’t entirely certain that she wouldn’t be swept into the North Sea as she crossed to Eilean Tor.
But there seemed to be no alternative option open to her other than to grin and bear it. Perhaps looking wet and bedraggled might even work in her favor when she arrived at the castle, for surely the marquess would take pity on her and let her inside. She hoped to God he wasn’t entirely heartless.
She’d just finished her tea, and was in the process of donning her bonnet, gloves and black wool travelling pelisse again, when Mr. Geddes came back to announce that Auld Fern was saddled and ready to go.
“Do you think if I waited a while longer that the rain might ease, Mr. Geddes?” she asked without any real hope of a positive response.
“I dinna think so, Mrs. Eliott. It could rain fer days, ye ken. An’ now would be the best time to leave afore the tide turns again an’ it grows dark.”
Resigning herself to the fact she was going to get wet, Elizabeth paid the innkeeper for his tea and the hire of the pony. It was arranged that Auld Fern would be returned to The Black Barnacle the following day—all going well with her interview. She trusted one of the castle staff would be able to help her out in that regard. She would also send word to Mr. Geddes on how and when to forward her trunk.
Once all was settled, she collected up her reticule. Then, squaring her shoulders, she marched out into the rain. There was no turning back.
Chapter Two
Elizabeth clung to Auld Fern’s sturdy back as the old grey pony trudged steadfastly down to the causeway. Even though she was an experienced rider, it took all of her strength to maintain her seat as a strong gale ripped at her
bonnet and pelisse with icy fingers, and flung stinging rain and spray into her face. Indeed, the roar of the wind and sea, and the biting cold were so relentless, it wasn’t long before she was drenched and shivering uncontrollably.
So much for her plan to arrive on the marquess’s doorstep, refreshed and composed.
Although the distance from Torhaven to this point was only half a mile, it had taken her the best part of a half hour to get this far because of the rugged terrain and foul conditions. She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering, and narrowed her eyes against the elements to examine the causeway below. Thank God she was almost there.
The path ahead slid down to a wide cobbled road that arced out to sea before winding up the steep headland to where Eilean Tor sat. Stark and formidable, the fortress’s great rounded keep and towering crenelated battlements dominated the horizon. It would be completely cut off from the mainland at high tide, the wild North Sea creating a natural, deadly moat.
Strangely, Elizabeth felt relieved, rather than daunted. It was as if she had journeyed to the ends of the earth. Hugh would never find her here.
Fortunately, the tide was indeed out; Mr. Geddes had been correct in that regard. The surface of the causeway was slick with rain but it seemed to be well-raised above sea-level. Jagged boulders had been piled up along the edges of the road, creating an additional barrier against the churning grey water. Spray shot up into the air when the occasional large wave broke against the side of the causeway, but none appeared to break over the edge.
Reassuring herself that she would be perfectly safe, Elizabeth kicked the pony into a trot, keen to negotiate the last quarter of a mile that lay between her and her destination.
The sea sucked and hissed at the sides of the causeway as she urged Auld Fern along. She was amazed that the marquess thought to keep his young daughter here in such a forbidding place. It must be a lonely and austere existence for a child who had so recently lost her mother. Her heart went out to the little girl she was yet to meet.
She suddenly recalled Lady Airlie’s comment that Lady Rothsburgh had met her end through accidental death at the family home. Had the marchioness died here at Eilean Tor? The place certainly appeared dangerous enough given its situation. An air of tragedy seemed to hang about its very walls like the wreaths of torn mist that scudded by.
Thankfully, Elizabeth gained the other side of the causeway without event, and it wasn’t long before Auld Fern was carrying her beneath the raised portcullis into the deeply shadowed courtyard beyond. Elizabeth scanned the castle’s many windows and apertures—but all of them, whether they were archer’s slits, murder holes or arched mullioned windows, were dark; there was not a single glimmer of light from within. Eilean Tor appeared completely deserted.
Quelling a wave of unease—Elizabeth prayed the castle wasn’t as uninhabited as it appeared—she reined in Auld Fern and slipped from the pony’s back. She was momentarily surprised by how weak she felt—her legs shook, and her knees nearly buckled beneath her. She held onto the saddle for a few moments until she felt steadier and then turned around, looking for any kind of entrance to the castle’s interior.
As it was, the main door was easy to locate. A massive wooden structure, hinged and studded with iron, it was shaded by an elaborately carved stone portico in the center of the keep. Elizabeth looped Auld Fern’s reins to a ring in one of the walls of the barbican passage, and then after retrieving her precious reticule from the saddlebag, she crossed the stone flagged courtyard toward the door. Although she was soaked, at least her letter of reference would be dry.
Nearly there, Elizabeth. There was a set of wide stairs before the entrance—only three in total—but the stone was treacherously slippery with rain and moss. She lifted her sodden skirts of black wool as she negotiated them, a ragged sigh of relief escaping her frozen lips when she at last gained the shelter of the portico. Although there was barely any light, she managed to make out a large, heavy iron knocker in the center of the door. She raised a shaking hand and hammered.
And waited. Minutes passed, but there was not a sound or stirring of life anywhere. Her already dry throat suddenly felt raw and constricted. She would not cry. There would be someone within. Surely Mr. Geddes would have told her if the marquess was not in residence.
She raised the knocker again and struck it hard, three more times. Again she waited, but to no avail. Hot tears pricked the back of her eyelids.
Don’t be such a baby. There had to be another entrance, for deliveries and the servants. And there must be stables as well. She would just have to look about until she found someone. She turned around and her elbow brushed against something—a thick rope hung to the right of the door—a bell-pull.
Cursing herself for her lack of observation, Elizabeth grasped the rope with both hands and pulled hard. An enormous clanging immediately started up, and she was forced to cover her ears—it was loud enough to wake the very dead. She decided that if that cacophony didn’t raise anyone’s attention, nothing would.
At last, she heard the unmistakable sound of bolts being pulled back, and then the door was thrown wide. A bright lantern was thrust toward her face, blinding her. She raised a hand to her eyes in a futile attempt to shield them and squinted upwards. An extremely tall man was holding the lantern aloft; she could discern little else about him as the intense light in her eyes obscured her vision.
“What do you want, woman?” The man’s voice was a low growl.
Elizabeth drew a deep breath and summoned her most imperious voice. She had come so far and she would not be cowed by an obnoxious servant. “I seek an audience with Lord Rothsburgh. Is your master at home?”
“What the deuce for?”
She immediately bristled at the insolence in the man’s tone. “I’d have a care to mind your tongue, sir. And lower that lantern. You’re hurting my eyes.”
The light was immediately lowered, and Elizabeth was able to see a little more of the man who seemed to be filling up the whole doorway. He must have been at least six foot four, with black hair that fell across one eye. She also noted that he was informally dressed in a loose, white cambric shirt that was open at the neck, black breeches and boots. The marquess obviously had low standards when it came to fitting out his staff in proper livery.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” she demanded.
The man—she assumed he was some sort of sloppy butler or footman—let out a snort of laughter. “What on earth for?”
She scowled and drew herself up, raising her chin. She would not be laughed at by the hired help. “I understand there is a vacancy for a governess. I’ve come to offer my services to Lord Rothsburgh.”
“Have you indeed?” There was still an annoying undercurrent of laughter in the man’s voice. Nevertheless, he stepped aside and made a grand sweeping gesture with his free hand. “Then by all means, come in.”
Elizabeth picked up her skirts and started to step forward when the toe of her boot caught on an unevenly laid flagstone on the threshold. With an unlady-like squeal she pitched forward toward the floor—until she was deftly caught about the waist by the vulgar butler. With a gasp of half-shock, half-embarrassment she found her midriff was bent across his muscular forearm, whilst her side was crushed roughly against his wide chest. One of her hands had involuntarily fisted into the linen sleeve of his shirt where underneath she could detect the bulk of a sizeable, iron-hard bicep.
The scent of the man flooded her senses; warm male, whisky and the tantalizing scent of exotically rich soap; it reminded her of sandalwood, leather and a spicy note she couldn’t quite place—perhaps it was cloves. She took all of this in within the instant that she was suspended above the floor before the man righted her. She took a step away, her cheeks flaming. “I’m so sorry, sir. How clumsy of me. And I’ve made you all wet…Mr.…”
The man’s arm lingered across her waist. Perhaps he thought she would fall again. She noticed he had dark eyes; his gaze travelled ov
er her face, studying her. She must look a sight.
“James,” he said, his eyes holding hers. In the dim light she couldn’t work out if they were dark brown or black.
She was taken aback by the intensity of his stare and let go of his sleeve. She was relieved when he also dropped his arm. “Well, Mr. James,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. “Thank you for preventing me from making more a fool of myself, than I have done so already. Perhaps if you could ring for your master—”
Mr. James interrupted her. “How did you get here?” he fired at her, eyes narrowed.
“Why, Mr. Geddes from the inn lent me a pony. She’s tethered in the barbican passage.”
“What, Auld Fern?”
“Why, yes—”
“Devil take it, woman—”
“Really, Mr. James, I must protest that you keep calling me that. My name is Mrs. Beth Eliott.”
He stared down at her, a look of disdainful incredulity on his face. She was suddenly struck by the fact that he was handsome underneath his shabby façade. “Well, Mrs. Eliott, are you insane? You must be if you rode that hack of a pony across the causeway in this weather. Bloody Geddes should be flogged.”
Elizabeth bristled again at the man’s use of foul language. “Well, perhaps I am mad,” she snapped. “But I’d rather be that, than just plain rude.”
Mr. James ran a hand through his unruly black hair in a gesture of resigned exasperation. “Hmph. My apologies. I’m afraid we don’t receive many visitors here, Mrs. Eliott, so perhaps my manners are a bit rusty. But seeing as you’ve made it this far, you’d best come in all the way.” A glint of mischief sparked in his dark eyes. “Mind your step now.”
She shot him what she hoped was a venomous look, then proceeded past him into the hall.
Lady Beauchamp's Proposal Page 3
