Delilah stood her ground. “The money is more than we could count on for three months. And what’s the harm?”
Again, Isobel was nearly speechless. “Have you forgotten Ian?”
“Well, course not, but who’s to say the man would even recognize himself in the lad?”
Isobel fidgeted with her apron strings, tying and untying the ends. “It’s still a worry. In a few days, Hamish is coming by and we’re going to fetch Ian at the docks.”
“We’ll figure out something,” Delilah promised.
Isobel found it difficult to catch her breath; she was warm and felt a headache starting at the base of her skull. She rubbed the area with her fingers. “I don’t want Duncan MacNeil here, Delilah. I don’t want him anywhere near me or my family or my business.” She picked up a leaflet from the table beside her and fanned herself.
Delilah studied her, concerned. “Ye be all right, Izzy?”
Isobel nodded, continuing to try to cool off. “I’m letting my emotions get the better of me. This entire situation gives me a headache, that’s all.”
“Well, I can’t return the money; I’ve spent some of it to pay the butcher for the last two orders of mutton we received.”
Isobel closed her eyes briefly and rested her head against the back of the chair. “That came due already?”
“’Fraid so, and as long as the money was there, I thought it best to pay him. After all, we don’t need much meat, but we need some, and we don’t have our own sheep to slaughter.”
“I could probably take in some more dressmaking.” Although the thought of it made her feel exhausted before she’d gotten the words out.
Delilah slapped her palms on the arms of the chair. “Nae. Your hands haven’t healed since the last precious gown ye sewed for that fancy lady who was visiting her brother the alchemist.”
It was true; Isobel’s skin was delicate and her hands cracked and bled when she worked with them too long. That was one of the reasons she had worn gloves when she sewed that last gown, otherwise the skin on her fingers would have snagged the fabric and ruined it.
“Has His Lordship moved in already?” She tried to curb her sarcasm, but wasn’t successful. At Delilah’s nod, Isobel said, “You know what I’d like to do? Go up, take his precious belongings, and toss them into the river.”
Isobel pulled herself out of her chair and headed for the empty makeshift classroom where Lily, who was humming a tune Isobel had come to recognize, was preparing an art class for the children. Although her speech was often a mixture of Gaelic, English, and Creole, Lily strove to make her English stronger.
She worked hard to teach some English, so there were alphabet letters printed on heavy paper on the walls. Most of the children still spoke the ancient Gaelic tongue at home, as did their parents. The number of daily students varied. There were a few of the crofter’s children, but the sheep shearing season would be coming up soon, and the children were always eager to help.
The teacher looked up and smiled. “I’m hoping I can get this restless bunch interested in something other than catching frogs at the river.”
Isobel still found it almost amusing when Lily spoke, for although she certainly looked like a Scot, she didn’t sound like the rest of them. She examined the large sheets of paper. “Where did we get those?”
“They were brought over by one of the girls who works at the castle. Apparently the duchess found them somewhere on the mainland and thought of us.”
Once again, Isobel realized how fortunate it was that she had never become close to the duchess; it would only add to her guilty burden if the whole family suddenly descended on them now that His Lordship was staying here.
The moment she laid eyes on Duncan MacNeil, she saw evidence of her son in every feature. Ian was lighter, but he promised to become as handsome a young man as his father. But, she vowed, he would never, ever become the scoundrel his father had been—or perhaps still was.
Chapter Four
Duncan studied the street below. There was little fortification in his rented room to keep out the outside sounds and winds, and as a wagonload of peat clattered over the cobbles, he could also hear the clip clop of the big horse’s hooves. Ragged-looking children ran and shouted in the street, some trying to taunt the horse, who, much to their dismay, didn’t respond.
The sight of the animal poked at a sore in his mind, and he was back in battle.
Louisiana—July 1864
Duncan fought to catch his breath. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he peered over the breastwork and realized that whatever small skirmish they had started was now at an end. Bluecoats lay all around them, some face up, their eyes sightless against the burning heat of the sun. Brain matter where it shouldn’t be. He swallowed hard, attempting to get past the nausea that rose in his throat.
And the battery horses…torn by shot and shell, suffering for man’s sake, not their own. They were the sacrificial lambs of the army, on both sides. It sickened Duncan.
A shout from the street brought him back, and he saw that many of the buildings in Sheiling were handsome—tall, three story row house structures, colorful and neatly kept, fronted with timber, finished with stone or slate. The only building needing repair, it seemed, was the one he was standing in. Also, it was the only building that stood alone, without other structures attached. It backed up against the waterway, making the property perfect for a cannery. Duncan had glanced at the roof of the brothel and noted the snags and cracks in the corners where the eaves met the siding. And inside, on the third floor where the rental rooms were, the ceiling was spotted with circular stains where the rains had broken through.
He wondered how long it had been since any serious repairs had been done to the building. Even though he hadn’t been in the structure more than an hour, he already knew the place was a firetrap. It was with that truth that he would try to convince the owner to sell.
The owner. Isobel Dunbar. A widow with hair so bright it could glow in the dark. No doubt she had a temper to match. Although she had been stoic all through the meeting, he’d seen a glimmer of anger in her eyes, especially when she looked at him. Was it because she remembered who he was, or was it just because of the nature of the meeting? At any rate, how does one approach such a dilemma? Hello, there. Remember me? I took your virginity ten years ago. Or maybe: You look vaguely familiar. Have we me before? He combed his fingers through his hair and shook his head. Either way, it was going to be awkward. For him, anyway. It was possible she had forgotten him the minute he’d left her. Although he had to admit it wasn’t probable, since there had been no other half-breeds stalking the girls on the island all those years ago.
Hoping to put the incident out of his mind, at least for now, he sat at the small desk in the corner of the room and wrote a list of things he wanted to show her, to make her understand that selling the property would be in her best interest.
• • •
Duncan met Isobel on the stairs. She looked deliciously heated; her cheeks were rosy and her hair had come loose around her face, framing it with curly tendrils. Her bosom was full and round beneath her clothing. He cleared his throat. “I would appreciate speaking to you about something,” he began.
She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me.” Her voice was tight. “Why is it you want a room here when you have a castle mere miles away?”
Her straightforwardness didn’t surprise him. “First of all, it isn’t my castle. Secondly, I wanted to check out the building. There are things I’d like to show you that may surprise and dismay you.”
She gave him a cool, unwelcoming smile. “Really. You don’t think I know my building better than anyone? Don’t you think I’m aware that some things are falling down around me? That doesn’t mean I’m in any way willing to sell this property to you.”
“Please indulge me.” He motioned for her to go ahead of him.
With a twist of her mouth, she lifted her skirt, whipped past him, and went upstairs.
First h
e showed her all the water spots on the third floor ceilings. “You’re lucky it isn’t worse,” he noted. “After another storm, you may find the ceiling on top of my bed.”
Her eyes glittered as she replied, “With you in it, if I’m lucky.”
He enjoyed her plucky attitude. It was refreshing. “Yes, well, don’t kill the messenger.”
“So I should plan the demise of the duke, then, is that it? Surely this isn’t the only property close to the river that would meet your needs.”
“There may be others, but to be frank, this building is on land that is perfect for what we plan to use it for.”
She studied him for a long while. “And you think you can bribe me into selling you my property just because you’ve offered a nice little bonus?”
Duncan shrugged, keeping his demeanor professional. “I didn’t think it would hurt.”
“Well, what if I took your bonus and hired someone to make the repairs?”
His gaze lingered on her. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re an honest woman. If you weren’t, you’d have found some shady way to get the building in better shape by now.”
Surprise flashed in her eyes; she planted her fists on her hips, her color high. “I am not interested in selling at any price.”
“I’m hoping you change your mind once I’ve shown you the other problems.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but obviously thought better of it, and followed him downstairs. He stopped in the great room, picked up a toy ball that was in a chair by the fireplace, and put it on the floor. It rolled right across the room and into the kitchen, stopping at the back entrance. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain that if a floor slants like this, it’s likely that the boards beneath it are rotting away. Water damage and mildew, no doubt. Could even be an infestation of some sort.”
He continued over to the windows above the kitchen dry sink, poking at the frame. It broke off and fell into his hand. “These keep out very little from the outside. In the winter, I imagine things get quite chilly in here.”
“We make do.” She appeared resolute. Stubborn, even.
Apparently she needed further convincing. “What if I told you the building is a firetrap, and you’re risking the lives of every person who lives in it?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “What do you mean, firetrap?”
“Exactly that. The chimneys are full of peat soot; I’m surprised the place hasn’t caught fire already.”
“The lums can be cleaned out,” she countered. “And I’ve been meaning to do just that.”
He watched as she ran nervous fingers over the scar on her neck. “The brickwork on the outside around the chimney is broken. What if a piece were suddenly to fall into the street and hit someone? One of the children, perhaps?”
“I hardly think that’s likely,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I would like to have someone else come in and give me another opinion. I’m suspicious of yours.”
“Certainly. I think that’s a fine idea,” he answered. “Just remember, I’ve only scraped the surface of what’s wrong with this structure.”
• • •
Isobel paced back and forth in the kitchen, wearing a path in front of the fireplace. “He is out for blood, that’s for certain.”
Lily, who had finished in the schoolroom, sat at the long, plank table with her cup of tea. It had startled Isobel at first when Lily refused to use any cup, dish or cutlery that wasn’t her own. She had brought all of her own dishware with her, explaining that that was the way she’d been raised. “Are ye sure he’s like that?”
“I hadn’t planned on mentioning this to you, because until now it wasn’t necessary. But for you to understand my position, you also must know some of my more sordid history.”
Lily bit her lip to stifle a smile. “Ye? Sordid? That’s hard for me to believe, Isobel.”
Isobel took a seat across from the teacher and folded her hands on the table. “Well, it certainly isn’t a fairy tale, but I’ll start with ‘Once upon a time, ten long years ago…’”
She finished by showing Lily the booklet Ian had drawn that depicted his natural father in a coffin. Lily simply sat there and stared at her. “Ye mean His Lordship, Duncan MacNeil of the clan MacNeil, brother to the famous duke, is Ian’s father?” She brought her hand to her chest. “The other story was all just made up?”
Not feeling too proud of herself, Isobel simply nodded. “Yes, and now it could all come crashing down around my head.”
“And they wouldn’t listen to your aunt at the castle?”
“There was some old valet or butler there at the time, and I suppose we could have returned when the duke and his family were there, but truthfully, we both decided it wasn’t worth the abuse. And by that time, Paula was determined that we would raise the bairn together. She was just as afraid as I was that they might try to take him from me.”
“Do you really think they would have done that?”
“Why not?” Isobel replied. “I’ve read that it’s done all the time. And no doubt Ian would have had much more than he has now. He’s always wanted a horse, you know, and certainly if he’d been raised by the duke and duchess, he would have had one by now.” She felt tears well up and blinked them back. “If I would have had to give him up, I don’t think I could have stayed here, close enough to watch him grow and not know of my existence, yet how could I have left?”
She sniffed and wiped at her nose with her handkerchief. “I guess I’m lucky I was able to send Ian off island to school. The mystery of his birth would have been solved by anyone who looked at him closely had he been here.”
Fifi, Lily’s little dog, came running into the kitchen and leapt onto Lily’s lap. Lily scratched the pup’s ears. “What have you been up to, scalawag?” She glanced at Isobel and grimaced. “She’s wet. I guess the river is just too much of a lure for her.”
“Delilah is going to have her for dinner when she sees the muddy paw prints all over the kitchen floor.”
“Ocht, she’s all bluster.”
“It didn’t take you long to figure her out.”
Just then, Delilah stepped into the room with a basket of vegetables. “Aha! That mutt has been fishing in the river again. Wouldn’t be so bad if she’d catch something big enough for us to eat,” she grumbled. She dropped the basket onto the table, put her fists on her hips, and focused her attention on Isobel.
“Well? What did His Lordship have to say for himself?”
Isobel pulled in a deep breath. “He says the place is a firetrap and I’m endangering everyone who lives here.”
“Course he’d say that. Didn’t he have anything specific to say?”
Isobel rubbed her hands over her face. “The roof is bad and the outside is falling apart, the floors are damp and moldy and they slant towards the back door, the windows aren’t sealed, the lums are full of peat soot and need cleaning or we’ll all burn to death…need I go on?”
Delilah harrumphed. “We know all that, except that he thinks it’s a firetrap. Do ye suppose he said that just to scare ye into selling?”
Isobel reached over and picked up an apple off the side board, rubbed it on her apron, then took a knife from the cutlery drawer and began slicing it into chunks for baking.
“I don’t think he’s trying to scare me, but I’ve already contacted Ferris the Peat and he’s going to come over tomorrow and give me an honest consultation. I have to hear from someone I know and trust.”
Lily turned from the sink, a potato in her hand. “That is something I’ve found so colorful about living here.”
“What’s that?” Isobel asked.
“I’m sure Ferris has another name; why do you call him Ferris the Peat?”
“Because,” Delilah stepped in, “he cuts and stacks our peat when ’tis dried so we can use it in the lums.”
“Ah,” Lily answered, digging furiously at an eye on the potato. “That’s
why Hamish is the Boat. I understand now. But, what if Ferris finds the same things wrong with the place?”
Isobel stopped cutting up the apple; the knife slid from her fingers. “Then I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Delilah joined Lily at the sink and began scrubbing a squash. “Let’s think about something pleasant. Like Ian’s return the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s both pleasant and frightening,” Isobel answered around a small bite of apple, hoping the meticulous Lily didn’t notice.
• • •
The next day, Duncan made another cursory tour of the building, and his conclusions hadn’t changed. If anything, he was even more concerned about the safety of the occupants. He discovered some of the boards on the back porch were rotting, others loose with nails popping out of them. He stood at the ledge where the washbasin sat next to a pump, presumably for children to wash up after playing by the river, and glanced through the window into the kitchen.
Isobel sat with her back to him, discussing something with an older fellow Duncan assumed to be her “other opinion.” She was upset; he could see that, and he could also hear bits and pieces of their conversation, although he could only understand Isobel.
“What am I going to do, Ferris?” Isobel’s voice was high.
Ah. Ferris the Peat. Now older, he had a thick head of white hair. He put a large, work-worn hand on Isobel’s arm. He said something to her in a soft voice.
“Sell? Really? You too?” Her voice rose higher and she stood, nearly toppling the long bench at the table.
Duncan didn’t hear the older man’s answer, but clearly it wasn’t what Isobel wanted to hear, for she hurried from the room, her hand over her mouth.
Duncan actually felt some guilt over what he’d brought about. But there wasn’t any other solution. He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. The older man looked at him and a broad smile wreathed his face. “Is that ye, young Duncan?”
The Scoundrel's Pleasure Page 5
