“Mercy me,” she murmured before presenting her profile.
He regarded her silhouette’s elegantly curving contours, her lips now formed into a prim line.
Definitely apprehensive.
“Heard about yer sister marryin’ that Frenchman. Me brother works in his silver mine. Good man, the Monsieur.” The Scot released a cackling chuckle and punched the other driver’s shoulder. “Dodd, ye plowed over McTavish’s brother. And the laird be notorious for his black temper and for protectin’ his family. Wanna ken what he did to the scunners who abducted his sister a few years back?”
Dodd shook his shaggy head and whined, “You told me to urge the team forward, Murray.”
Blanching, Dugall’s enticing warden swallowed, her expression growing more distressed with every hoof beat. “Mr. Todt, please cut Mr. Ferguson’s ropes.”
“Are you certain, Miss McClintock?” Misgiving scored the driver’s skeptical face and lifted one corner of his mouth, exposing missing teeth.
“Yes. I believe we’ve more than enough proof Mr. Ferguson is who he says he is.”
Her shoulders drooped the merest bit, and Dugall angled his head, considering her.
She was done in, though she did a valiant job of hiding her exhaustion. He admired her strength and hard-won composure.
“Raise your hands,” Todt ordered.
With a few quick sawing motions, Dugall’s restraints fell into his lap.
Todt passed Dugall the dirk. “You can cut your feet loose. I don’t want the coach to get too far ahead.”
Unaware the wagon had momentarily stopped, the laden coach lumbered onward.
“Thank you.” Dugall accepted the knife, and once he’d removed the fetters constraining his ankles, proceeded to rub his sore wrists. “I’m thirsty. Is there water to be had?”
Without taking his attention from the road, Todt silently passed Dugall a flask.
Whisky. Better yet.
He took a long draught.
Miss McClintock fidgeted with the reins, casting Dugall little distraught glances every few moments.
A cheerful chap by nature, he didn’t harbor grudges. Time to put her at ease.
“And may I inquire who you are and why you journey to Suttford House?” Dugall took care to not alarm her further by sounding accusatory. Or by letting his own burgeoning concern about her destination seep into his voice.
“Forgive me my deplorable manners, sir.” Discomfiture tinged her cheeks pink and edged her wisp of a voice. “I’m Gwendolyn McClintock, and the coach carries my aunt, nanny, niece, and nephew. We left our plantation in South Carolina because Jeremiah is the new Lord McClintock.” She cut him an uncertain look. “Or should I say laird?”
Dugall bolted upright, gripping the wagon’s rough side, and promptly drove a sliver into his third finger.
“Holy shite!”
“I beg your pardon?”
Miss McClintock elevated her pert nose, indignant jade sparks spewing from her eyes. The sun’s last rays glinted off her incandescent curls, the fiery tendrils gleaming in the failing light.
Hell’s bloody pealing bells.
Her nephew had inherited the entailment?
Dugall yanked the offending miniature wooden stake from his already abused flesh as he mentally scrambled for an excuse for his explosive outburst.
“Please excuse my vulgarity, Miss McClintock. Your news took me by surprise, and I reacted without my usual decorum.”
Decorum his arse.
His plain speaking had landed him in suds more than once. He hadn’t ever given a tinker’s damn before, so why should it matter that this woman, a stranger, not think him an uncouth Highlander?
Ye aren’t even speakin’ with yer brogue, yer tryin’ so hard to impress her, ye bloody, pretentious sod.
No hiding the truth from his exasperatingly intrusive and altogether too accurate conscience.
He offered what he hoped was his most polished, apologetic smile. However given his swollen mouth currently only obeyed his directives on one side, he probably more resembled one of the grotesque gargoyles adoring Paisley Abbey.
Not only did a Viking cadence beat inside his head in unison with the horses’ clopping hooves, but at her casual announcement, genuine alarm riddled him.
She needed to know just how hostile an environment her little troupe was entering in a few short minutes.
And damnation, without a man to stand up to the worthless lot of parasites embedded like ticks on a sheep at Suttford, she’d need a general’s finesse, daring, and cunning, as well as a strategic battle plan to survive a fortnight.
Nae, she needed a man—a Scot—at her side to guide her. At least at the onset until she could establish her position and take the reins herself.
“Miss McClintock, may I presume you haven’t met any of yer nephew’s extended relations which reside at Suttford?”
She shook her head, the feather cavorting with the motion.
“No. It was somewhat of an unexpected surprise.” After a swift glance to the coach, she lowered her voice. “But the children’s father and grandpapa died recently, and it seemed an opportune time to start over somewhere that offered us all a brighter future.”
Bright as the Earl of Hell’s black-as-soot waistcoat.
Dugall deliberated her genteel, composed features for a long moment. He hadn’t missed the melancholia tinging her drawled ‘all.’
What secrets did the alluring Miss Gwendolyn McClintock harbor?
Why wasn’t she married?
A woman with her form and features surely had multiple offers. She was obviously cultured, of refined breeding, and she’d taken on the difficult role as proxy mother to her niece and nephew.
Mayhap this journey to Scotland was as much about escaping, or perhaps running away, as ushering in her nephew’s birthright.
God’s teeth, though.
She had no idea what was in store for them at Suttford.
Hollingsworth’s suave manners and dastardly good looks had snared many an unsuspecting lass before they realized his true character.
Dugall captured Miss McClintock’s anxious gaze, trying to convey the urgency without sending her into a complete panic. She didn’t seem the sort to dissolve in histrionics or topple over in a swoon.
In fact, he detected a strength in her, a commendable resolve and resilience. More to admire. Insipid, frail, helpless females abraded his normally easygoing nature.
He indulged in another tot of the surprisingly decent whisky. Two summers ago, he’d fleetingly considered starting a distillery, then dismissed the idea as too problematic and expensive. Tossing back another quaff, he sighed.
Whisky was the main ingredient in many a tonic. It had already taken the edge off his pain. Nonetheless, every part of his body thrummed with discomfort, including the wily appendage between his legs. Although, it ached for an entirely different reason than getting soundly thrashed.
“Miss McClintock, may I speak candidly?”
“Yes, please. It would help enormously to have an idea of what to expect from them. I’d just as soon not be the hen venturing into the foxes’ den.” A hopeful glint blossomed across her face.
Dugall’s next words would wipe that radiance from her countenance.
He set the flask aside before flexing each finger, testing the digits to determine the extent of damage to his hands. “You can expect an unfriendly, likely a hostile and resentful reception. Not from the staff, but from the other residents.”
“Other residents? Mr. Christie didn’t mention anyone else lived there.” Her slight smiled dimmed, and dismay replaced her earlier enthusiasm.
Remorse battered Dugall’s ribs, but she must be prepared. “After his wife and only daughter died mor
e than a decade ago, McClintock was quite lonely.”
Because the man was as foul as a cesspool to be near.
Her expression softened, her incredibly expressive eyes speaking as clearly as her words. “Go on, please.”
“In recent years, he allowed”—more likely he manipulated or guiled them into doing so—“distant relations to take up residence at Suttford.”
Old McClintock had reasons for everything he did, and none of them were charitable. Those living at Suttford likely had suffered at his hands. Now that the cur was dead, they no doubt felt entitled to the comforts the opulent house offered.
Relatives constantly underfoot. That was one of the things Dugall treasured the most about Craiglocky though. Occasionally annoying and meddling, but always loyal, affectionate, and good-intentioned. The weathered stones often rang with laughter and jovial conversation.
“Suttford’s an enormous, convoluted place,” he said. “Built over the course of a century, it’s part rustic fortified towers and part elegant manor. I know I wouldn’t want to bang around in that mausoleum with only servants to keep me company.”
Truth to that. But he doubted loneliness truly motivated McClintock to harbor those living there.
Miss McClintock gave one measured nod, her acute focus on the carriage rumbling ahead of them. Did she worry about her wards’ futures?
If she’d made the right decision relocating them here?
How could she not?
What was their tale anyway?
Her incongruous gaze flitted over him. “And you don’t believe the people living at Suttford House will be pleased that an American has inherited?”
“It’s more complicated and worrisome than that, I’m afraid.”
Confident of her position, she arched a puritanical brow.
“How so? Jeremiah is the indisputable heir. If they prove contrary or incompatible, I shall simply advise them to remove themselves.”
Had she ever tried to rid a sheep of a tick? The little well-fed buggers were as reluctant as hell to leave their comfy hosts. She’d find the same resistance at Suttford if she tried to rid the house of its imbedded pests. McClintock might’ve been a crotchety, controlling sot, but those under his roof were well fed and comfortable.
Dugall admired her pluck though. She didn’t shy away from the unpleasantness.
While he cautiously probed his ribs for fractures, he debated how to alert her to Hollingsworth, finally settling on straightforwardness.
“There’s a man living at Suttford House, Lloyd Hollingsworth. It’s been assumed for five years or more, he’d inherit. Your nephew inheriting the entailment scotches Hollingsworth’s schemes.”
“Well, he’ll just have to adjust.” She pressed her mouth into a prim line. “What else can he do?”
Guid only kent.
Just what sort of treachery was Hollingsworth capable of? “I’ll guarantee you, he’ll do everything he can to try to force you to leave.”
That worried Dugall as much as this very attractive woman sleeping beneath the same roof as the scunner. Aye, the sooner Hollingsworth was forced from the house, the better.
“We cannot leave. We’ve nothing, no one, to return to. Everything in America was sold.” She drew her already straight backbone higher, ticked up her perfect little chin, and stubbornly shook her head.
By Odin, Miss Gwendolyn McClintock was a magnificent creature when riled.
“I didn’t drag what remains of my family across an ocean and endure days of bone-cracking, teeth-chipping, skull-rattling overland travel to be turned away at the door.” She delivered her speech with an Amazon’s confidence. “We are in Scotland to stay.”
Chapter 6
Dugall checked the admiring grin trying to kick up the corners of his mouth.
Miss McClintock gestured toward the cart angrily jostling his buttocks. “This wagon contains everything we own. I do have the monies from the plantation’s sale, but those funds belong to the children.”
Mouth grim, she squared her shoulders and jutted her chin higher yet, defiance radiating from her lithe form. “I shan’t be dissuaded or bullied into leaving because of some roué. Our destiny lies at Suttford House.”
Why didn’t her tenacity surprise him?
“Then may I make a suggestion?”
Something deep inside Dugall clanged a raucous warning.
Be verra, verra certain, mon.
This wasn’t a path easily, lightly, or rashly set upon, and the unforeseen consequences . . . Well, he didn’t know what they might be, but there would be unexpected outcomes.
And expected ones, too.
Ewan and Father would be furious—would accuse him of conspiring with their worst nemesis.
Yet, the trusting woman gazing at him, a hint of optimism in her captivating eyes, held him in thrall. His intense and immediate attraction to her was as disarming as it was tempting. Never before had he, upon first meeting a woman, been prepared to cast aside his immediate plans and risk familial censure in order to personally assure her safety.
Nonetheless, he hadn’t totally eschewed practicality for gallantry. Or lust, his confounded, much too on-point conscience mocked. “Ye need someone familiar with runnin’ a large estate to act on yer behalf.”
Her delicate brows scuttled to her coppery hairline. “A man, you mean? I oversaw our plantation for nearly a year. And before that, my father allowed me many duties normally relegated to males. I assure you, sirrah, I’m quite capable.”
Och, he’d taken the wrong tact and offended her.
“Yer experience will definitely be helpful, but a Scottish estate with tenants is considerably different than a . . . What type of plantation did ye say yer family owned?”
“We bred and raised Arabian Thoroughbred race horses. Of course, they all had to be sold. Including my mare.” Distinct wistfulness shadowed her words and her thin, fragile smile.
“My sister, Adaira, breeds enormous draft horses called Clydesdales,” Dugall said, as he cautiously felt the tender flesh around his eye.
Interesting that both families had horse breeding in their backgrounds. Another commonality he could use to his advantage.
“Oh, I should love to see them.” Renewed excitement danced in Miss McClintock’s eyes, the color of Highland meadows in the spring at the moment.
“There are a few at Craiglocky still, but most have been moved to her husband’s estate in England. Might I ask, did yer family own slaves?” Despicable practice and infinitely different than overseeing tenant farmers.
The line of her mouth flattened, and she gave a restrained nod. “A few. Mostly house servants and stable hands. I secretly freed them when my brother died. Every single one stayed on, by choice. Naturally I paid them wages. And before we sailed, I allowed them to take what they willed so that they had something to start over with. Most decided to do so up North.”
Exactly what he’d have done had he been in her situation. “I’ve been the steward for Craiglocky for three years, and because I was raised there, I ken the workin’s of a vast entailment inside and out.” Hand pressed to his chest, he angled forward in a partial bow. “I offer ye my experience and assistance.”
Until he heard from the Diplomatic Corps, that was.
Dugall’s suggestion was bold and impulsive.
Out of character. Unsettling. Risky.
Already, after a few minutes he’d made more of a commitment to her than any other woman. What was it about this odd-speaking lass that pulled at his senses? Made him hurl common prudence aside?
“How old are you?” She veered him a look from the corner of her expressive eyes.
Her question took him aback. Did she think him too young for such an undertaking?
“Four-and-twenty on my last
birthday in June.” The wagon lurched, ramming him against the side, and he winced.
Coronis cawed and flew off.
“And ye?” God strike him for an uncouth bore.
Something indecipherable momentarily flashed across her face. “Eight-and-twenty.”
Only four years his senior.
Her avid feminine gaze examined him. “What of your commitments to your brother?”
Did this mean she considered his offer?
Something akin to relief blanketed Dugall, as a whorl of another unnamed emotion fluttered in his chest.
That he had a reason to remain near her, or that he might offer her his expertise as well as his protection?
Why did it have to be either, or?
Why couldn’t it be both as well as an opportunity to explore this unique, fascinating woman?
“I’ve nae doubt Ewan will give me leave to assist until yer able to permanently hire a trustworthy steward.”
He might not have if the old laird lived, but hopefully Ewan would see reason when it came to Miss McClintock and her nephew. They weren’t part of the feud.
“Craiglocky lies three miles to the west. I’ll send word and tell him of our intentions. Or better yet, ye can accompany me. We’ll present our case together for me to act as Suttford’s overseer for, let’s say three months. He willna refuse for so short a period.”
Guid willin’.
Best make it clear Dugall didn’t intend to stay longer, no matter how alluring she might be. His trip to Edinburgh had been to post a letter to the Diplomatic Corps. He intended to follow in Ewan’s footsteps and sought a position as a covert operative.
Hopefully, his offer to assist her wouldn’t jeopardize his chances of being accepted, especially since Ewan’s friend, the Earl of Ramsbury, wasn’t War Secretary any longer.
Two fingers pressed to her mouth, her fine brows drawn together, Miss McClintock stared straight ahead. She cut him a sideways, speculative glance.
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 4
