“Do you presume the old witch did it on purpose?” Alistair asked the dog.
Beast's ears perked up and he cocked his head to the side, as if in ponderous contemplation before his mouth hung open in a grin and the tongue unfurled out once more.
“That's what I thought,” Alistair muttered and resumed his trek through the neatly trimmed grass to where the stables awaited. The dog loved everyone. Even Madge.
Alistair was more cynical. He wouldn't put it past his mother to intentionally do it in order to see him home once more. Before he got too “English,” no doubt.
But to make a deal with one of the most notoriously foul vendors in London, and for twenty barrels – it was unheard of. Certainly Alistair had never bothered to attempt such a feat before, let alone it being something his mother could ever successfully complete.
Alistair stepped inside the stables. It was quiet within. “Are you here, lad?”
No one answered.
Beast scampered around Alistair with an excitable curiosity to explore and disappeared into an open stall.
“I say, are you here, lad?” Alistair asked again with a rough and frustrated edge.
Again no one answered.
Where were the damn servants? None were readily nearby inside the manor, and the stable lad also appeared to be absent. Since the English had the lot of them doing every last action for them save wiping their arses, shouldn't there always be someone about?
A horse stamped its hoof and whinnied.
Damn, but it was frustrating having to stop his life in England and rush home to see to his mother's affairs. If she couldn't manage the whisky business on her own, he'd demand she stop. He could not keep on with it, constantly getting her out of these situations she seemed to find herself implicated in.
At least the others had been easily managed from London.
He shuddered to think what might happen to her if he were unable to ease her troubles, especially when her predicaments were the direct result of profligate practices. His mother needed no money. He saw to it she was well cared for and funds delivered to perpetuate the restorations at Lochslin.
“Did ye require me, m'lord?” MacKenzie, Alistair's valet and longtime friend, appeared in the stables.
“I cannot find the stable lad,” Alistair said irritably. “We must get back to Scotland posthaste.”
“Is this an urgent matter, or will we be leaving by the end of the week after the party has ended?” MacKenzie leveled his dark eyes at Alistair, efficient at understanding the situation by this point. After all, he'd been Alistair's valet for the better part of a year – the entirety of Alistair's inherited earldom.
Alistair dragged a hand through his shoulder-length hair. The length of it was a concession the ton was willing to overlook in light of his influential wealth. It was incredible the things one might get away with when they were enormously rich. Certainly several of the ladies had mentioned the appeal of his longer hair and the wildness it lent him, especially when paired with his kilt. And only his kilt.
“Madge is making trouble again.” Alistair did a surreptitious scan around the stables, confirming the stable lad was not within earshot. Nevertheless, he spoke in the code they’d used when they’d smuggled whisky together, on the off chance someone might be nearby. “She made a deal for twenty portions.”
“Twenty?” MacKenzie balked.
“My sentiments exactly.”
MacKenzie lowered his head and pursed his lips under his well-trimmed black beard. “Ye canna get caught.”
“Nor can I leave her to fend for herself.”
The wide window at the front wall revealed several riders approaching in the distance.
“Ready the trunks for departure.” Alistair did not take his eyes off the riders. “We leave within the hour.”
MacKenzie nodded and left the stables to do as he was bid, as always without complaint or protest. A good loyal Scot.
A high-pitched whine came from the open stall.
“Beast,” Alistair called. “Come.”
As this call typically resulted in the bounding form of the overly joyous creature, Beast's lack of compliance gave Alistair pause.
“Beast.” He peered into the stall and found the dog sitting beside a mound of hay, which he watched with serious intensity.
Beast barked at the pile and pawed at the loosening bits along the outer edges. A white stocking encasing a neat ankle became visible. As soon as it was seen, it snapped out of sight once more.
“What the devil?” Alistair carefully swept aside the straw to reveal a woman blinking up at him.
Stalks of hay jutted from the tousled brown hair which fell wild about her face. She stared at him with narrowed blue eyes and a stubborn set to her brows. Her mouth wore none of her defiance, however. No, it was lush and red and vulnerable.
There were women at the house to be sure, but not ladies with creamy white skin wearing gowns of fine muslin. And certainly none with a note of fear in their eyes.
Alistair startled at her appearance. “Have you been hurt?”
The riders stopped outside the front of the stables and leapt from the horses. The woman slinked deeper into the pile of hay, rounding her shoulders as if she might be able to make herself disappear.
Beast issued forth a low growl. Alistair cocked a brow at the dog who had never once made a sound of displeasure in his newly happy life.
Before he could ask either the girl for her grievances, or bother understanding the dog, the heavy footfall of boots came from the entrance to the stables. It was not the stable lad who entered, of course, but an elderly gentleman and a tall man with fair hair and an arrogant lift to his chin.
“Forgive the intrusion,” the older man said with an amiable smile. “I understand you are renting this manor, and I do not mean to intrude upon your house party. I do, however, require your assistance.”
“Do you?” Alistair asked with the bored disinterest of the cultured elite.
The man surveyed the area with an open rudeness that set Alistair on edge. “Evans is the name. You see, I'm searching for my niece. It appears she has run away and was last seen near here. I hoped you might help me in finding her.”
About the Author
About Amanda Mariel
USA Today Bestselling author Amanda Mariel dreams of days gone by when life moved at a slower pace. She enjoys taking pen to paper and exploring historical time periods through her imagination and the written word. When she is not writing she can be found reading, crocheting, traveling, practicing her photography skills, or spending time with her family.
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Afterword
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