Garrick followed her in, feeling nervous. His heart thudded in his chest and he had to admit, it wasn't all nerves – it was excitement too. And tension. And another feeling he couldn't quite name.
He stared at her as she walked lightly through the dark, tight-packed space, and wondered why it was that, despite the danger, and the confusion, he had never felt happier in his life.
A MATTER OF FACT
Ettie sat down at the kitchen table, heart almost missing a beat as she stared at Garrick. What was he doing here? No reply came to mind, because there was no reason for him to be. He should have been miles away, in Queensferry.
Why would he come back now?
She frowned and tried to look serene and unruffled, the way she imagined Lady Marguerite might look. Inside she was a seething bed of tension. And excitement – she had forgotten how alive he made her feel.
“Milady,” Garrick began. He looked up at her, brown gaze troubled. “I...Forgive me for interrupting you at this hour.”
Ettie looked up. “Don't trouble yourself with that,” she said, trying for serenity. “I have breakfasted already. What brings you here?”
Garrick cleared his throat. “Milady, I fear...I think I have news that...that affects you.”
“Me?” Ettie frowned. For a moment, she'd forgotten she was supposed to be Lady Marguerite, who might be affected by some news of Garrick's, and her shock was all her own. Then she remembered, and composed herself quickly. “How so?” she asked, heart thumping.
“Forgive me for my vagueness, but...” He paused, wetting dry lips. “But I overheard something and...And I think you might be in danger,” he blurted.
“In danger? Me?” This time, her fear was all for Marguerite. She was in danger? From whom? How? She had to know.
“Milady, I heard my master talking yesterday,” Garrick explained. “And it seemed to me as if he planned something. He spoke of...of entering a place. A manor. Your home, milady.”
“My home?” Ettie stared, shocked. “He sought to enter it? How? Why?”
He hung his head. “I do not know, milady.” He looked sad. “He didn't say. Only...only that it would be hard to enter. And that he might need more information before he does so.”
“Oh.” Ettie looked around wildly. All of a sudden, even the kitchen – so peaceful and serene when the rest of the staff was elsewhere – seemed alive with menace. “You know when...this entry...might take place?”
Garrick looked up at her. “I don't, milady, no. Save that he seeks more information on the place before it does so.”
“Oh,” Ettie said again, shivering. “And I suppose he wants you to provide him with it?”
Garrick shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I would never do it, milady,” he said. His eyes met hers. They looked rapturous.
Ettie swallowed hard. Her whole heart ached, seeing that expression in his eyes, directed toward her.
Even as she basked in it, a new pain assailed her heart. He looked at her like that, gaze so warm and loving, but it was not truly her he saw. It was Lady Marguerite. Calm, proud, serene. Unreachable. Dressed in finery and with her hair brushed straight, her accent smoothed and polished, manners restrained. It was not Ettie Lomond, born of an unknown father in a barn in Blackwood.
If he knew who I really was, he'd spit at me.
To her surprise, that sparked anger inside. Ettie bit her lip and let the sparks of that flare into a real rage. Only that would quash the sadness inside her, make her able to look him in the eye and act the part until the very end.
“I will see you are adequately thanked for your efforts to assist me,” she said. “For now, I will have a room made up for you to rest in the attic, and send up some victuals also.”
There. That would serve him right. Some time in the attic would be cold comfort for anyone. It surprised her that she wished to have him suffer, just a little, for the pain he caused.
His eyes widened. “Milady, I...it's not needed...”
She raised a brow. “I assure you that it is. Today it is cold and I will not have you riding back to the village without being adequately provided for.”
He nodded. Ettie noticed a strange look in his eye. Were he infatuated with the idea of Lady Marguerite, he would either be grateful for her thoughtfulness or disappointed with her apparent lack of enthusiasm. However, this look was neither excited nor disappointed. It was bewildered.
What's so confusing about that? She wanted to spit at him. You did your duty and you're getting a reward of sorts. Be pleased about it.
She sniffed and stood then, and turned away from him. She felt abruptly restless. “I'll call a servant to have the room made ready,” she said, and walked to the door.
He looked after her as she went to the door, confusion in those big dark eyes. She went through and shut it lightly behind her, then leaned against it, heart aching.
“Damn,” she whispered under her breath, using the worst language she knew. “Damn.”
Just saying it relieved the tension. It did nothing at all to relieve the pain in her heart. She leaned there with her eyes closed, wondering how she was going to manage to face him, or her mistress, again.
“Miss Lomond?”
Ettie stared at the new serving-maid, a girl of perhaps fourteen, who had appeared in the corridor before her.
“Yes, Mattie?”
“Um, I was going tae fill this,” she said, lifting a bucket. “Can I help?”
Ettie inwardly frowned. She hoped the girl hadn't heard her swear, though she was fairly sure she must have done, for she was regarding her with a sort of horror mixed with awe, as if she was expecting the floor to open and fire to engulf them both.
“You can go upstairs and check there's an attic room free,” Ettie said. “I have to find lodgings for a traveler.”
The girl's eyes still round, she nodded. “Yes, miss.”
“And call me Lomond, or Ettie,” Ettie corrected quickly, throat sore with tension. “No need for being fancy.”
Before the girl could reply, she turned away, back to the kitchen door.
“Mattie will take you upstairs,” she said to Garrick, keeping her face neutral. Then, before she could look into his eyes again and see that same wounded look as before, she looked at the flagstones. “I will say goodnight.”
Garrick said nothing and when she looked up again it was to see him walking behind Mattie, and then looking back, once, at her.
Ettie looked at him, and then looked away again. Her heart twisted, seeing the sadness on his handsome, rugged face. Then, she thought, chiding herself, he is upset because of Marguerite. Not me. If he knew me, he wouldn't care less what I thought. He'd be glad to get out of here.
She let the anger flare up, feeding it with similar thoughts, provoking it until it was a glowing blaze inside her, one that could warm her and sustain her against hurt.
“He doesn't care about Ettie Lomond,” she told herself harshly as she went back into the kitchen, pulling out her chair by the table.
All he cared about was Marguerite.
The thought brought her back to the memory of his purpose here: he had come to warn Marguerite of danger. Someone, he said, was planning to infiltrate the house. Someone. Who? A sudden thought occurred to her. He had said he was not here to gather information and take it back, but what if the informant – or the infiltrator – was, in fact, himself? She shivered.
No. That made no sense. If he was here to spy, he would simply have come here, spied and left. Why make up an elaborate tale to give himself away, only to try to enter by secret? He would surely know the defenses would be doubled, should anyone get wind of a threat.
Especially with the master away in the north.
“It's not him,” she decided aloud. “He wouldn't do something so daft.”
Even as she said it, she wondered why, even now, she defended him. He had done nothing to make her feel caring toward him – he'd done nothing, in fact, besides seem infatuated with the idea of
the cool, remote mistress of Duncliffe.
I suppose I still want to believe he's seeing me, even though he thinks I have another name.
She swallowed hard. Memories of that time in the barn, healing his wounds, flooded back then and she bit her lip abruptly, not wanting to cry. He had seemed so sincere then, so tender. How was she supposed to know who he'd really fallen for? He hadn't seen her as her absolute, unadulterated self, that much was certain.
He'll always see me glossed with the touch of power.
That, she reckoned sadly, would likely make anyone more interesting than they really were. Even nondescript serving-maids who were unnoticed at best and actively shunned at worst.
“Stop moping.”
Reprimanding herself aloud, Ettie shifted in her seat, ready to head upstairs and complete the last round of her tasks. She heard a footfall enter the kitchen.
“Still waiting, eh?” Merrick asked softly.
Ettie turned to face her, surprised by her near-silent entrance to the quiet kitchen. She nodded. “I suppose.”
Merrick smiled. “You're waiting unnecessarily,” she said.
Ettie felt a touch of impatience. “I know,” she said harshly. She reckoned she knew what Merrick meant – that she was waiting for Garrick to notice her, to say something kind. She stood, pushing in her chair. Did Merrick have to torment her too? As if the pain of this wasn't bad enough!
Merrick turned away to the stove. “You're not listening,” she said. “I see you're in no mood for it tonight.”
“I need to see the mistress,” Ettie said tightly. “I have news to relay to her.”
Merrick said nothing further to that and Ettie stalked out, closing the door behind her. In the hallway again, she paused, collecting her thoughts. She was in no fit state to go and address this matter with Marguerite. She wasn't about to march in there and tell her gentle mistress – who hadn't ever intended any harm to her – that her life was threatened.
“I should wait,” she told herself. There was no immediate danger, she was fairly certain. And it would be best to discuss this with her mistress after mustering her thoughts.
Nodding to herself, she headed up the darkened servant's hallway, through the door that led into the upper floor of the house, and padded silently toward her mistress' chamber. She had to check the fireplace, take away any clothes that needed mending and work on them, and tidy the room.
She was just leaving, a nightdress over one arm, when someone called her.
“Ettie?”
She froze in place. “Yes?”
Marguerite's gentle face smiled serenely. “There you are. I was hoping to speak with you. I'm sewing in the parlor, if you could keep me company a while?”
Ettie shook her head, unsure of what to say. If she talked to Marguerite now, she was sure the news would slip out in the worst way. She wasn't about to risk that – her mistress needed her to relay the facts, without being affrighted.
“Um, I'm very busy, mistress,” she said nervously. “Forgive me..?”
Marguerite nodded mildly. “Of course, Ettie,” she said. “You...you're feeling well?”
“Yes, milady,” Ettie nodded hastily. “Quite well.”
“Very well then,” Marguerite nodded. “Good day, Ettie.”
Ettie remembered her manners, and curtseyed hastily. “Good day, milady.”
With that, she hurried out. In the hallway, she headed down as fast as she could, only to bump into Mattie, the young maidservant, as she went down.
“Miss Ettie?”
“Yes?” Ettie frowned, bundling up the worn nightdress, ready to add it to her workbasket. “What is it?”
“Um, Merrick asked if you'd take a tray up for the feller? It's ready now.”
“Fellow?” Ettie frowned. “I...oh! Sorry, Mattie. I have sewing to do...It's urgent,” she said. She knew even as she said it that the story would hold little water – the mistress could wait until evening for her nightdress to be mended. She just absolutely couldn't face Garrick.
What would he say if Lady Marguerite appeared holding a tray of stew and hot loaf?
Mattie, still scared of everyone in the household, including her, just nodded. “Aye, Miss Ettie. I'll go.”
“Thanks,” Ettie said quickly, and before anyone could challenge her story about urgent nightdresses, she walked briskly toward the attic and her own chamber, and then heavily shut the door behind herself.
She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes. She exhaled in a long sigh.
I don't know what I'm going to do.
Between them, the danger, the mistress and Garrick were going to break into pieces what little was left of her sanity. She didn't know how much more of it she could take.
I can't risk being me, or I'll betray the mistress. I have no idea what this danger to her person is, but it's getting worse. And now I can't ever let Garrick know how I feel.
Even if she wanted to, it wasn't possible.
“Why would I even think that?” she asked herself sadly. “He wouldn't be interested in knowing it – not knowing who I am.”
The mistress of Duncliffe might be alluring and compelling. Ettie Lomond, outcast, was anything but. She sniffed, fiercely tucking a strand of loose dark hair behind one ear.
In one of the other rooms she heard someone walk across the floor, and the scrape of a piece of furniture – probably a chair – across it. She tensed.
What if it was him? She imagined him in one of the rooms here – maybe the one next to hers – and felt herself shudder, but not with fear.
Garrick was so handsome! With that square jaw, broad shoulders and that rugged, restless presence... He might have been quiet and serious, but the raw masculine hardness of him leaked out onto the air like the scent of lemons. He had an effect on her she couldn't explain.
She had never found a man anything besides repulsive or threatening before. This strange, warm feeling he inspired in her was entirely new. He sometimes looked at her in a way that made the feeling stronger. She shivered, recalling how those dark eyes stared, as if to touch her very soul.
“Whist, Ettie,” she whispered to herself, blinking back hot, angry tears. “You know he'd never look at you that way.”
No, that was for Marguerite. The glamorous, accomplished woman Ettie would never be.
And there was nothing at all she could do about it.
A CONFUSING TIME
It was cold, and Garrick huddled on the bed, blowing on his fingers and trying to distract himself from his thoughts. That wasn't particularly easy. His thoughts were demanding.
She is so beautiful.
He sighed and curled up on the loaned mattress and tried to focus on the pain in his cold fingers and not at all on the greater pain in his heart.
“What did I do?”
Lady Marguerite had changed. Gone was the gentle, sweet and wise woman who had nursed him, teased him, and cared for him. In her place was a cold, distant statue with a hollow voice and no care whatsoever in her eyes.
Garrick shifted on the bed, trying to remember the exact words exchanged, trying to figure out exactly what it was that he had said or done to cause that reaction. All he had done, to his mind at least, was convey a message about danger. In that moment, everything had changed.
Maybe it was improper. Maybe that's it.
It was the only thing he could come up with – that riding straight to her home and demanding to see her was no way to treat a gentlewoman like her. The more he thought about it, the more it was obvious. Of course that was wrong! What was he thinking?
“Lucky she didn't have me shot, eh?”
He shook his head, feeling a sour anger fill him. Why had he ever assumed she trusted him? That there was anything other than the expectation of servitude between them?
A knock at the door made him shoot upright.
“Aye?” he called.
The door opened a crack and the young girl appeared – the same one who had led him here in the first place. He
frowned. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Merrick sent me up with this,” she said, indicating a tray that he now saw she carried. “'Tis victuals fer yer journey.”
Garrick nodded, feeling surprisingly disappointed. Firstly, that it wasn't Lady Marguerite – though he knew there was no way that could have happened, not really – and secondly that it hadn't even been her who ordered he be fed.
“Thanks,” he said.
The girl looked at him, round-eyed, as if she'd never heard the words. She left the tray on the chest of drawers – the only furniture beside the bed – and hastened out.
Garrick sighed. A savory, rich smell floated across the room toward him, but he only had the barest trace of appetite. The whole place upset him.
I didnae even ken such places as this existed. Not really.
In his whole life, spent either on ships or working at the quay, he had never actually been in a manor house before now. Of course, he knew of masters and servants, but his own experience was narrowed to either serving at sea – where only the captain had any real power, and even that was tempered by the need for his men – and of serving the merchants as a messenger.
The thought of so many people subject to the will of others disturbed him. He would never get used to it.
I suppose it's one more reason to forget about her.
Lady Marguerite and her kind were harder taskmasters than anyone he knew from the docks, clearly: that girl had looked half-terrified. Put together with her mistress' recent iciness, he began to suspect that he had been deceiving himself.
I don't know what made her care about me when I was wounded. But this is clearly the truth of her.
She was just another ruthless, unthinking noble, like all the others. Moreover, the likes of him – and of that poor wee lass – would be better off simply forgetting they existed.
He shifted on the bed, trying to stir himself. The longer he remained here, the more likely it was that someone at the warehouse was going to notice his absence and cause trouble. He stood and went over to the chest of drawers.
The tray, when uncovered, housed a plate of stew and some crusty bread. He breathed in, mouth watering, and realized that he was, indeed, very hungry.
Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 10
