To Tempt a Scotsman

by Victoria Dahl

  "Welcome to Westmore!" he cried, pulling the door open with a flourish and nearly detaching Collin's fingers in the process. "My guid Lady Westmore."

  Fergus wrapped his fingers around Alexandra's out­stretched hand and swept her down from the carriage, set­ting her blue skirts swinging. Her eyes shone, sparkling with excitement.

  "This is Fergus MacLean, my manager. Fergus, Alexan­dra Blackburn. My wife."

  "I am at yer service," Fergus smiled, leaning over her hand. Collin stepped from the coach and into the man's shoulder before his lips could touch her.

  He had forgotten to worry about this—his handsome, well-bred, dapper, witty friend. He'd forgotten to think of Fergus's charm and the unmistakable truth that, no matter how poor, he was the true son of a baron. The fourth son, yes, but certainly closer to Alex's respectability than Collin. The man had been raised as a noble.

  Alex exchanged a few words with him, laughed up at his easy smile, reached out to touch her fingers to his sleeve. Collin glared at her hand.

  "Come," he snapped, pleased when her fingers jumped away from his friend.

  She nodded and moved them to Collin's sleeve where they belonged. He stared steadily ahead, not watching her as they crossed the yard and approached the simple wood door. He had wanted to see her face, her reaction, the first time she stepped into her new home. He'd wanted to watch for horror or disgust or resignation, or maybe for some­thing good which he couldn't let himself hope for.

  Now, he found, he could not bear to look.

  Stone and fresh water—that was the smell that struck her when she stepped inside Collin's home. The keep smelled like the outdoors—clean and cool. . . cold, actu­ally. A shiver took her, though she tried to stop it.

  Dark as it was, she could barely see, but as she peered around she began to make out the sheer size of the room before her. The far wall was at least forty feet away, per­haps more, and the ceiling rose up to more than thrice her height.

  Finally, her eyes adjusted, and she stared in astonish­ment. It was just like the paintings she'd seen of ancient castles. Several long wooden tables stretched out in front of the largest fireplace she'd ever seen. Did they roast whole animals in there? The table and benches took up the largest part of the room, and other sections were delineated by plush rugs set over the gray stones of the floor. No rushes were strewn about, at any rate.

  A settee and chair hunched in one corner, looking strange and modern against the tapestry on the wall. In an­other corner, wooden stools and benches were scattered about a low table piled with leather and tools. An arched doorway led to another room that clattered and clanged with noise. The kitchen, no doubt.

  Alex swung her head about, measuring the space and comparing it to her study of the outside walls. This was the whole of it. This and the kitchen, and the small door to her right that gave way to stairs.

  Well, it was not much, but since Collin had not an­swered questions about Westmore and she had been too uncertain to press, she had arrived with absolutely no pre­conceived notions about her new home. She'd been rather afraid it was going to be above the stables. Oh, the stables he'd spoken of, just not the house. The keep. She did not giggle, though it was close. Perhaps she could order him a suit of armor and they could play at knight and maiden.

  Lips twitching, she looked up to find Collin's face a cold mask. Her temptation to giggle faded. Of course, he wanted to know what she thought of it. Laughing in his face would not send the right message.

  "Well, it's a bit cold in here, but I think if we built in some smaller rooms we could decrease the draft. Other­wise, it's perfectly lovely, isn't it? Will you show me the bedchambers?"

  Damn, the man could be intimidating when he wished to. He stared down at her, studying her as if she were a snake that might strike.

  "This is my new home, Collin. I should like to see the whole of it."

  "Get it over with as quickly as possible?"

  "Are you determined to be dark then? Let me guess . . . You were expecting me to gasp in horror at the primitiveness and run back to my life of luxury? If I'd wanted luxury I would have married the earl who proposed at my coming out."

  "Primitive?"

  "Well, it is primitive, isn't it? It needs a woman's touch. Luckily, you've brought one home with you." Collin grunted.

  "There is no reason that rooms cannot be added to this space. And windows too. And I think a suit of armor would be a nice touch." She winced when her joke fell on humor­less ears.

  "And where will I get the money for all these improve­ments?"

  Oh. A sticky subject. Alex cleared her throat. She could afford to gut the whole place herself, but the man was as proud as a peacock and certainly more difficult.

  A throat cleared behind her, rescuing her from an answer that would surely get her in trouble. "Mr. MacLean!" she cried too loudly as she turned toward him.

  "Oh, 'Fergus,' if it pleases ye, milady."

  She laughed at the teasing spark in his eye. "Fergus then, and you must call me Alex. It is not at all proper, of course, but neither am I."

  Something rumbled in her ear, making her jump. Not an animal growling, though she'd thought to turn and find a giant wolfhound at her side. Just her husband.

  Fergus gave her one last smile before shooting a frown at Collin. She saw the jerking shake of Collin's head before he took her arm and wondered what the men were glaring at each other about. There was some undercurrent there, but she forgot it immediately when she turned to find a short line of women stretching out from the kitchen door. The servants.

  The first thing she noticed was the young woman at the left of the rest. She stood tall and straight and her smile could have cut glass. The housekeeper. She was far too young for the job, but there was no question who she was. The heavy ring of keys at her waist advertised her status.

  "Rebecca Burnside," Collin stated as soon as they drew near. "My housekeeper."

  "Mrs. Burnside," Alex offered, hoping the woman simply had a stiff smile.

  "My lady," she crooned, curtsying deeply and still con­veying a message of disrespect. She would be trouble, Alex could see that much immediately. And a new bride did not need that kind of trouble from the first day of her marriage.

  "Mrs. Cook," Collin continued, needlessly adding, "the cook," as a sturdy, round woman curtsied.

  They worked their way down the line—Bridey, the chambermaid; Jess, the kitchen maid; Nan, the little scullery maid who wasn't more than twelve. There were others too, Collin explained. Bridey had a son and daugh­ter who often came to help. And several young men were about to help with the heavier chores.

  Alex smiled and nodded to each of them, studying their faces for hostility or resentment. But they all seemed simply curious and a little hesitant. All except Rebecca Burnside.

  The housekeeper kept smiling, smiled her damndest, as she ushered the others back into the kitchen. She turned back to face them when she stood alone in the archway, and the smile warmed when she met Collin's eyes.

  "It's good to see you home, milord."

  "It's good to be home, Rebecca."

  Rebecca, was it? Alex's spine stiffened.

  Fergus strolled around to stand at Collin's side. "Perhaps you should show her ladyship upstairs, Rebecca. I'm sure she's weary from her long journey."

  The look she shot at Fergus was murderous. His smile widened. "Of course," she finally chirped, and slid past them all to lead the way. She did not acknowledge Alex except to call out "this way" as she hurried across the hall.

  Hiding a sigh, Alex followed, then stopped to wait for Collin, but when she glanced back to him he was already turned to Fergus and deep in conversation. She frowned, hesitated, unsure if she should proceed or not.

  Fergus met her eyes and frowned just as fiercely before nudging Collin with an elbow. Her husband spared her naught more than a quick look before he waved her on, and even his manager seemed displeased with the dis­missal, his mouth twisting to a sneer. Collin
shook his head and continued talking, not noticing that his wife was doing her best to turn him to ashes with her eyes. By the time she finally spun to follow the housekeeper, the woman's smile had blossomed to full-fledged happiness.

  Alex bit back a nasty word and trudged up the stairs behind her, practicing her fiery stare on the woman's back. What kind of housekeeper could she be at her age? She couldn't be more than twenty-five. And she didn't look like a maid of any sort. Her skin was fine and pale as ivory silk, and her blond hair was swept into an intricate topknot that emphasized her long neck. If Alex didn't know better, she'd suspect Rebecca Burnside of being Collin's mistress, but she dismissed the notion out of hand. Collin was not a man to set up his doxy in his home, and he most definitely would never keep her after marriage.

  A door at the top of the stairs stood open, and Rebecca hurried through, waving again for Alex to follow. She seemed averse to speaking to her new mistress. Did she dislike all English or just the one married to her employer? Alex narrowed her eyes and stepped into the room, deter­mined to find out, but her curiosity about the room got the better of her and she spun in a slow circle as soon as she passed the doorjamb.

  A large bed took up most of the space, high and wide and covered from head to foot in sable fur. Alex blinked. Sable. She took a tentative step to slide a hand over the throw. Oh yes, that was sable. My word.

  Resisting the urge to rub her cheek against it, she pulled her eyes away and surveyed the rest of the space. Her dresser and wardrobe filled it. The shutters were thrown back on the one small window, but it was so narrow and deep that only the tiniest sliver of fading light shone through.

  A door set against the right wall reminded Alex of Collin's description of the chamber, and she opened it with an anticipatory smile. Here was the turret room, round and cozy and furnished with a delicate table and chairs. There would be room here to dress and to breakfast. Hardly any light, but there were a few windows and it would have to catch sun at some point of the day. It was charming and suited her perfectly.

  A small noise reminded her of the woman at her back, and Alex's smile faded. "You're a bit young for a house­keeper," she said, not bothering to look at her.

  "Collin. . . Lord Westmore and I have known each other for years. He was happy to offer me the position."

  Alexandra's jaw popped. She turned to sweep the woman with a cold look. "I'm sure we will be close com­panions then."

  Her blond head inclined in the barest nod.

  "I would imagine that Collin's letter was surprising."

  "Yes."

  "And I hope you were given adequate time to prepare for the arrival of a wife."

  "Of course."

  Well, the woman was not being helpful. She would have to solve the mystery later, though she'd bet her eyeteeth that Rebecca's dislike of her had nothing to do with England.

  "Thank you, Rebecca. My maid's carriage should be ar­riving any moment now. She will lend any assistance I need. Please be sure that her room is ready."

  "Milady." She did not curtsy or even nod her head this time, simply swept stiff-backed from the room.

  Alex stuck out her tongue at the closing door, but forgot her annoyance when she turned back to the bed. The sight of that fur sent a shiver up her spine, and she wondered if she had time to strip off her clothes and roll naked over the bed before Danielle arrived.

  Chapter 17

  She rolled and slid and buried her fingers in the unbe­lievable softness. Then she fell asleep.

  Her rumbling belly wakened her and the first thing she noticed was the presence of sunlight in the room—a clear shaft of sunlight that shot straight through the window and onto the closed door. Odd, hadn't it been almost sunset when she'd climbed up?

  Air strained into her lungs on a wheeze as realization struck. Oh my God, she'd slept straight through her first evening in Collin's home. She sat up with a cry and whipped her head around, trying to make sense of what she took in. Her perfumes and powders, brushes and clips were laid out on top of the dresser. Her carriage dress had disappeared from the floor and a wrap and slippers were laid at the foot of the bed. Danielle had definitely made it to Westmore.

  And what of her husband?

  "Oh, no," she moaned in utter horror. Had he slept alone? No, the whole bed was rumpled, not just her side.

  What must he think of her? What must everyone think of her? Surely Mrs. Cook had prepared something special for their arrival. Surely Collin had meant to consummate this homecoming in their new bed. Oh, why had they let her sleep?

  Her mortification dissolved with a pop. Why had Collin let her sleep? Why hadn't he wakened her for her first meal in her new home? Why hadn't he at least roused her to make love to her in their very own bed? A growl was just working its way up her throat when the door swung open.

  "You're awake, Madame?

  "Danielle, what time is it?"

  "Only eight. Shall I bring your breakfast?"

  "I. . . I don't know. Why didn't you wake me last night? I should have gone to dinner, I should have . . ." She threw her hands high in exasperation.

  "Your husband wanted you to sleep. He said you had not been sleeping well." Danielle's mouth quirked into a naughty smile. "Is this true, Madame? Have you been kept awake nights?"

  "Yes, I. . ." She let her hands fall to her lap, let her anger fall away with them. It had been considerate, she sup­posed, to let her sleep through. She certainly had been kept awake nights—five nights in all. First, the two dreamy, endless nights in her cottage. Then they'd made good use of three inns along the way. Perhaps he could be forgiven his thoughtlessness. He had meant to be helpful.

  All right. She would not ruin her first full day at Westmore with a petty argument.

  "Is breakfast still being served below?"

  "Non. The commoners have taken themselves off to their work."

  "Danielle!"

  "Well, it is terrible, is it not? Everyone gathers together to eat the same meal! Lucky for you that many of them breakfast in their homes in the village. I would stay out of there for luncheon if I were you."

  "I believe they call it dinner here. And I have eaten many a dinner with laborers, if you'll remember."

  "Pah. For you, working was an adventure. These people will be here night and day."

  Alex slipped from the bed, turning over Danielle's words. Was that true, that working had been no more than an adventure for her? She had felt she'd contributed some­thing but, of course, she was too small to be effective at the manual labor. So even if she had improved her brother's holdings, her physical work had been no more than a lark, really. Perhaps she'd been deluding herself to think she'd been useful at Somerhart.

  But here at Westmore . . . Here she could make a real difference. There was so much to be done, and she would start on it today.

  "I will take my breakfast in the great hall, even if it is empty. It will provide me with inspiration."

  "Inspiration to do what, Madame? Turn into a bat?"

  "Danielle!" Her reprimand was ruined by the muffling effect of her chemise as the maid pulled it over her head. "This is our home now. I will not have you insulting it."

  She raised her eyebrows in a French expression of dis­gust, but she held her tongue as she efficiently fastened up Alexandra's corset.

  "Yes, there is much that needs improvement, but that will come in time. There are surely little things that can be added to make things more cozy for the winter. Then in the spring, we can build at least three good rooms into that space, that should not prove too expensive, though I do hope Collin will let me invest in some windows."

  "But why?"

  Alex cocked her head. "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Why would you want to bother with all these improve­ments?"

  "What?" The bodice of her gown blinded her for a moment. She came up sputtering. "Collin's home is a fine place, Danielle, but I can admit that it needs some work. I would not like to live year after year hidden away from the
sun. What?"

  Danielle continued to stare, nose a crinkle of confusion.

  "Did the roads jar your brain, Danielle?"

  "I don't understand, Madame. Bridey says the new house will be ready next year. Why would you go to all the bother of fixing this one up? It doesn't seem worth it."

  "What new house?" Before the words had even left her mouth, Alex felt a terrible foreboding, a sense of some de­ception. She remembered Fergus's questioning look and the shake of Collin's head.

  Danielle's face had blanked in shock. She licked her lips. "The new house being built. Over the hill. It's lovely, they say." Her voice faded away.

  "Oh, yes," Alex mumbled over the ragged beat of her heart. "That new house. Of course."

  "Madame . . ." Her face was no longer blank; it had twisted to pained pity.

  "Fasten the bodice, please."

  Her eyes avoided Alex's as her fingers worked on the bodice, hands trembling against the soft wool gown. Or perhaps that was Alex's vision, jumping and twitching with rage.

  The new house. The one her husband had neglected to mention. The fine new house they would move into next year. The house that everyone knew about but her.

  Oh, she did not try to tell herself that it was a surprise. Her husband was not a man to plan surprises. She knew immediately what this was. A trial. A test of her charac­ter. He had not wanted her to see Westmore with the knowledge that it was but a temporary home. He'd wanted to see if she would be willing to live in a dark, cold cave of a home as befits the wife of a bastard. He had wanted to see if she would stomp her foot and complain and reveal herself for the spoiled bitch he'd once called her.

  She should call his bluff, she thought, shoving her feet into the black leather slippers that Danielle held for her. She should march down to his stable and demand to be housed as befits the daughter of a duke. But she was in no mood to play games with him. She would sooner slap him than counter his move.