A Scandalous Scot

by Karen Ranney

  He didn’t say anything, the moments stretching between them.

  “I look for ghosts because it gives me something to be interested in other than my own life,” she said.

  There, in reparation for her rudeness, she’d given him the truth.

  “An admirable feat, if indeed it does that. Escaping from one’s life would be pleasant from time to time.”

  Was there no end to surprises from the earl this night?

  She turned her head, wishing he would step into the moonlight, but he remained in the shadows. Perhaps she’d found a ghost and he was the Earl of Denbleigh, conjured up from confusion, interest, and a little loneliness. Perhaps he wasn’t there at all, but only a shadow who talked to her as if they were equals.

  “How does one go about this ghost seeking of yours?” he asked.

  She fisted her hands in her skirts.

  “One remains very quiet,” she said softly. “And waits.”

  “Why here?”

  Did she dare give him the truth again?

  “Because hardly anyone comes here at night,” she said. “I reasoned if anyone inhabited the Long Gallery, it would be a ghost.”

  “Would you like me to leave?”

  She smiled. How very gentlemanly he was behaving, and how foolish as well. She was his maid.

  She turned and walked back to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  She tossed a remark over her shoulder. “You’re the Earl of Denbleigh, the MacCraig. It’s not for you to leave.”

  “Perhaps it was the ghost who left, because we weren’t quiet enough.”

  She turned and faced him, startled to see he’d emerged from the shadows and was standing in a pool of moonlight. His white shirt glowed, his black trousers merging with the night. His face was pale and unsmiling. He might well have truly been a ghost at that moment, one whose face was carefully expressionless.

  Why did the Earl of Denbleigh guard his emotions?

  She was foolish to stand there, without her petticoat and corset. But she hadn’t thought to talk to him like this. Or share confidences of a ghostly nature. She should be abed, but the temptation to learn more about the Earl of Denbleigh was so great she remained where she was.

  A moment later she moved to sit on a bench in the middle of the room.

  “What ghosts were you hoping to find here?” he asked.

  Should she tell him about the French Nun? Did he know his family’s history? Instead of responding, she asked a question. “When you were a little boy, did you ever go hunting for ghosts?”

  His chuckle was warm, surprisingly rendering him human and approachable.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did. But my activities were reserved for the West Tower.”

  Where all the weapons from the past were stored. All the knives, swords, and cudgels the Murderous MacCraigs had accumulated over the years.

  “And you never saw a ghost there? Not even the Herald?” The Herald was renowned for his ability to warn the MacCraigs of momentous events.

  “Not even the Herald,” he said.

  “Do you think they see us?” she asked. “Ghosts? Do you think the reason we don’t see them all that much is because they don’t wish it?”

  He turned his head to study her.

  “Let’s pretend ghosts are real,” he said, startling her.

  “You don’t think they are?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” he admitted. “But let’s pretend ghosts are real. Why wouldn’t they want to appear before us?”

  “Because it’s painful.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Painful?” he finally asked.

  “Perhaps they remember being alive, and being around the living reminds them of life.”

  “You’ve given some thought about this.”

  She nodded.

  “Perhaps they can only see certain people, such as relatives or friends or loved ones,” she said.

  “Or,” he said, adding to her list, “they only appear to those who wish to see them. Otherwise, they’d frighten people.”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t think so. Sarah, one of the maids, won’t go near the East Tower. She swears the Green Lady came to her when she was cleaning the chapel. Sarah most definitely did not wish to see a ghost.”

  “The Green Lady?”

  She glanced over at him.

  “She was confined to her chamber when her father discovered she’d planned to run away with her love. It’s said she lived there alone for three years until she couldn’t bear it anymore and threw herself out the window.”

  He didn’t say anything again.

  When he still didn’t speak after several long moments, she said, “But Sarah is a little flighty and may have only imagined seeing her.”

  He turned his head again. “Do people think you’re flighty, for wanting to see a ghost?”

  She smiled, more to herself than to him, because he couldn’t see her.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Every single member of the staff at Ballindair thought she was more than flighty. They thought her a little barmy. Catriona had spread the tale, thinking it a great jest.

  She loved her sister, but there were times when Catriona tried her patience.

  “How many ghosts do you know about?” he asked.

  “Twelve,” she said. “But the only ones I’m truly interested in are the Herald, the Green Lady, and the French Nun.”

  “I wanted to see the first earl,” he said. “He was reputed to be quite a swaggering figure.”

  He had a bit of swagger about him as well, but that was a comment she wisely didn’t make.

  For a few long moments they didn’t speak, simply listening to the silence. Ballindair was so large, so filled with people, it was unusual to find any peaceful spot. The moonlight streaming into the gallery anointed this a hallowed place. Here, ghosts might walk with mortal man, and even stop to tell a tale or two.

  “The French Nun,” she found herself saying, “fell madly in love with the 2nd Earl of Denbleigh.”

  He glanced at her again. She wished she’d taken more care with her hair, rather than just tossing her night braid over her shoulder.

  “She’d already taken her vows when she met him, of course. Nor did she want to fall in love. At least, that’s what the book on Ballindair’s ghosts says. But she left her convent in France and traveled to Scotland because none of her letters had been answered, and she was worried for him.”

  He didn’t speak, which was just as well. How did she tell him the rest of the story, or did he know it?

  She continued, pushing through a barrier of reluctance. If he chided her afterward for saying things about his ancestors, then she would just simply have to accept the rebuke.

  “When she arrived at Ballindair, it was to find her love had married. She was ill from the journey, and the laird took her in, of course, but she died not long afterward.”

  “Where did she die?”

  He already knew or he wouldn’t have asked.

  “The North Tower.”

  “The Laird’s Tower,” he said.

  She nodded, then reminded herself he couldn’t see her in the darkness. “The very same.”

  “So that’s what you were doing there,” he said.

  What had she done? She was certain to be dismissed now.

  He surprised her again by only saying, “Not an honorable man, the second earl, was he?”

  She knew better than to agree. She wasn’t about to insult her employer’s ancestor.

  “My father was an honorable man,” he said, and the words sounded wistful.

  “I’m sorry about his death,” she said. “It’s difficult to lose a parent.”

  “Have you lost your father?”

  She stood, knowing the time had come to leave him. She wanted to say something to indicate her gratitude. For a few moments he’d treated her with kindness. For a space of time they’d been strangers in the darkn
ess, sharing a little of themselves. He hadn’t been an earl, and she hadn’t been a maid.

  But now it was time for them to slip back into their respective roles.

  “Good night, Your Lordship,” she said, and escaped before he could say anything else, or question her further.

  As she left him, she realized she hadn’t asked about his wife. An omission that troubled her all the way back to her room.

  Chapter 7

  RULES FOR STAFF: Never laugh or giggle in the presence of others, or incite others to do so.

  His night had been dreamless, and when Morgan awoke, he felt more refreshed than he had in months.

  He lay looking at the dawn sky creep in through the curtains he’d opened before retiring. For once, he wasn’t thinking of all the things he needed to do or the people he had to meet, or to avoid, as the case might be.

  His valet wasn’t there to give him a disapproving glance. Nor did he have an angry wife marching into his bedchamber and demanding all sorts of things, from a new wardrobe to his concession that he was an idiot, a fool, and a cold, callous bastard.

  The birds sang, the morning mist was burned away by a rapturous sun, and he was blessedly alone.

  He lay in the bed his father had occupied, which he realized didn’t concern him at all. Perhaps he should have returned home earlier.

  The encounter the night before slid into his mind. He’d never expected to have a conversation with a maid about ghosts. He’d almost told her about his childhood, how magical and enchanted it seemed now, looking back. Had she had a similar upbringing?

  And why the hell did he want to know?

  Was he so damn lonely he would seek out the company of a maid? Next, he’d be taking tea with the housekeeper.

  He dismissed the little wren from his mind with some difficulty, but he did it nonetheless, intent on his first full day at home.

  She was the most beautiful woman Andrew had seen in a very long time, and London was filled with beautiful women, most of whom were well aware of their appearance.

  If he had any occupation at all, he was a professional connoisseur of women. He courted them. He flattered them. He was thoroughly appreciative of all their physical attributes.

  He loved the smell of women, the curve of their necks, the supple grace of their arms, the mystery of their bodice as it curved and hid, protected and promised. He loved the way they walked, a simple, enchanting sway of hips.

  He’d spent enough time talking to women to know the state of their minds. Most women simply wanted to be appreciated. He could certainly do that, just as he was now, watching the blonde as she cleaned a parlor on the first floor. The Ruby Room, he thought it was called.

  Andrew had the perfect ploy. He would confess he was lost, and she would put her duster down, smile at him and give him all her attention. From that moment it would be nothing at all to get her into his bed. Strange, he hadn’t had a maid before. He’d spent all this time with women of the peerage. He had the money to interest them and to give them baubles when the affair was done.

  He wondered if that bodice of hers was real, or simply padding.

  “I’m hopelessly lost,” he said, leaning up against the doorjamb.

  To his surprise, she ignored him. No, she did more than ignore him; she turned her back on him.

  “Did you not hear me?” he asked, strolling into the room.

  “You’re not lost,” she said.

  What a lovely voice she had, a complement to her appearance.

  Her eyes were a shade of blue he’d only seen in the sky. Or perhaps in the Mediterranean, near the Costa Brava in Spain, to be exact. And her hair, that glorious blond hair. He wanted to paint her, but doing so would test the limits of his talent.

  “What makes you think I’m not lost?” he asked.

  She wiped the table with a rag, missing several spots. But she didn’t look overly concerned about her chore. What a pity she was a maid. What an utter waste of her attributes.

  She turned, fisting the rag in one hand. Her chin tilted up arrogantly.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, dipping into a curtsy. “How may I assist you?”

  Her eyes were twinkling, and for a moment there was perfect communion between them. She knew he was interested. He knew she was a flirt and a tease.

  She smiled then, twin dimples appearing on her milky white cheeks. What a glorious female she was.

  With her smile, his intention to remain without female companionship on this trip to Scotland abruptly disappeared.

  He had to have her.

  “I was off to paint some of your scenery,” he said. “I’d rather paint you instead.”

  She bestowed on him a throaty chuckle, less a sound of amusement than one of seduction. Damned if he wasn’t intrigued, even as she turned and deliberately walked away.

  That morning, Jean had been assigned to the scullery. That afternoon, she was a messenger for Aunt Mary, traipsing back and forth between the stable, the outer buildings, and back to Ballindair. She hadn’t seen anyone, which was exactly what she’d wanted.

  Just when she was certain her aunt meant to walk her to death, she was sent to the laundry. She couldn’t decide which was worse, the scullery with its eternal smell of onions, or the boiling kettles of steam and lye-based soap.

  The women who worked in the laundry were a garrulous sort, forever talking about one subject or another, their conversations centering around family, babies, and womanly ailments. From their talk, she could expect dire things to happen if she ever bore a child, grew old, or drank a certain type of tea.

  But at least they weren’t discussing the Earl of Denbleigh. Catriona was still doing that. He was the first thing she mentioned in the morning and the last thing she spoke about before saying her prayers and finally, blessedly, going to sleep.

  “You use the stick, the long one,” Sarah said, pointing to the kettle. “Not the short one. You’ll be burning yourself for sure.”

  Jean took the long stick, stirring it into the boiling kettle and using the strength of her entire body to fish out a soapy sheet. Sarah lay another stick underneath the material. Together, the two women began to walk in opposite directions around the kettle until enough of the soapy water was squeezed out of the sheet so it could be dropped into a barrel of clean rinse water.

  Two shorter sticks were used to fish out the rinsed sheet and twist it until it was nearly dry. Only then could she hang it on the nearby line, and start on another sheet. So far today she’d washed twenty sheets, a multitude of pillowcases, towels, rags, and dishcloths.

  Her back ached and the muscles in her arms were screaming with pain.

  Thank heavens they only washed the flat items on Monday. Tomorrow they would start on clothing. Wednesday they’d iron. Thursday they would stack, fold, and return the sheets to the presses for inspection by the housekeeper. She didn’t know what Friday held in store.

  Would she survive until Friday?

  She was given a respite to go and eat the noon meal, following the other women into the kitchen. In some great houses, she’d been told, there was a room set aside just for the servants. But Ballindair’s kitchen was cavernous, and there was more than enough room for all of the women to sit and eat even while Cook and her helpers were bustling about preparing food for the earl and his guest. The male staff normally ate an hour earlier, but all of them took their dinner together.

  “He’s a bold adventurer,” Catriona was saying as Jean sat next to her sister.

  “The earl?” Jean asked.

  “No, His Lordship’s friend,” she said, turning to her. “He waylaid me while I was working. He was a terrible bother.”

  Jean sent a sidelong look to her sister. She’d wager Catriona used the encounter to explain why she hadn’t finished her tasks.

  “Tell us again what he told you,” a woman from the laundry said.

  Catriona smiled. “ ‘You’re a picture of beauty, you are,’ he said. ‘I’d like to preserve you
for all time. I must paint you.’ ”

  A girl laughed. “What did you say?”

  Catriona tossed her head. “I told him I wasn’t interested.” She propped her chin on her hand. “Now, if His Lordship wanted to paint me, I wouldn’t mind.”

  Jean kept her mouth shut, hoping one of the older women would chide Catriona for her behavior. Instead, the head laundress laughed and said, “I’d be a party to that myself.”

  “I think he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Catriona was saying.

  “Is he staying long?” asked one of the laundry girls.

  Catriona shrugged. “If he wasn’t planning it, perhaps he could be convinced.”

  Someone giggled. No doubt it was Barbara. She was the giggling sort, always laughing at something.

  The meal today was colcannon, one of her favorite dishes, but Jean wasn’t hungry. She put down the fork, picked it up again, staring at the plate. If she didn’t eat, she’d be back to having a grumbling stomach. With more determination than hunger, she ate a few bites, trying to concentrate on her food rather than the conversation swirling around her.

  A girl was asking about hair, how she could replicate Catriona’s shiny locks.

  “Vinegar,” her sister said. “Mix it with the rinse water, and your hair will shine, too.”

  Catriona was once again reigning as Queen of the Table. Maids and laundresses—some of whom had been at Ballindair for an age—were listening carefully to her sister’s conversation.

  Now she was going on and on about how the earl wanted to smile at her during the Laird’s Greeting. “Of course, doing so wouldn’t have been proper under the circumstances,” she said.

  Jean sent a quick glance toward her. The demurely coy look Catriona wore was one she had often practiced in front of the mirror.

  “He did seek me out again, to locate his friend,” she said.

  “Why didn’t he ask the housekeeper?” Jean asked.

  Nine women turned their heads to look at her. Jean kept her attention on her sister. Unlike Catriona, she didn’t like being the center of attention, but curiosity—and perhaps irritation—had made her speak.

  Catriona shrugged again. “Who knows the male mind?”