Her Scottish Groom

by Ann Stephens

In the stable yard, he led her up to a burly middle-aged man engaged in chewing out a young groom. She suspected it was just as well the man’s thick burr and Scots dialect precluded her from understanding most of his words.

  Kieran let the man rant until he paused for breath. “Archie! I have your new pupil here. Diantha, allow me to present Archie Green, one of our mainstays at Duncarie.”

  She observed the leathery Scot as he was introduced. Grizzled waves of red hair stood in disarray above a pair of blue eyes that looked innocent until he scrutinized her for several moments in complete silence.

  “Gie me your hands, then.”

  Taken aback, Diantha glanced at her husband, then back at the servant. “I beg your pardon?”

  He blew an exasperated breath. “Your hands, woman. Let me see them!”

  Another glance at Kieran revealed him biting his lip and looking straight ahead. Hesitantly she extended her gloved hands. His callused palms enveloped them in a disconcerting tactile inspection.

  Snatching them away, she glared at both men before addressing Green. “What are you doing?”

  “How else am I supposed to know how light or heavy your hand is?” He indicated a saddled dapplegray horse tethered to the stable wall. “You dinna think I’m going to risk that poor animal’s mouth with a daftie who canna ride?”

  She turned to her husband. “What did he say?”

  He struggled to keep his face straight. “He doesn’t want you to hurt the horse.” A grin broke out despite his efforts. “So, Archie. What’s the verdict?”

  The middle-aged man shrugged. “No’ bad. She’ll do well enough for Dancer.”

  Her husband choked back a laugh as she whirled to face him. Her heart lurched. He had never looked so handsome as he did this instant, giving her a lopsided grin in the middle of a stable yard.

  “Well enough, then. I’ll leave you to your lessons, wife.”

  In her dismay, she actually clutched his arm before she realized how childish the action was. She released him. “I shall be sorry not to have your company.”

  Kieran caught her fingers and gently squeezed them. “I am sorry, but I have some business to tend to on the other side of the estate.”

  His face softened and he lifted her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles. Diantha’s toes curled in her boots. “No need to worry. Archie will keep you safe till I collect you.”

  With that, he strolled over to where his chestnut stallion attempted to escape from a harassed groom. Gathering the reins, he easily mounted the horse and cantered out of the yard.

  Diantha watched him with a sinking heart. He had no trouble leaving her behind.

  “Well? Are ye comin’ or no’?” The impatient question interrupted her musing. She nodded to Archie and followed him toward the dapple-gray.

  Given the man’s horse-centered view of the world, she approached her lesson with trepidation, but her fears soon evaporated. Once he finished tsking over the shame of a mistress of Duncarie who couldn’t ride, he set about showing her the basics with great patience.

  He did immediately correct her when she asked how long he had worked as a groom. “I am a ghillie, your ladyship. Grooms only work in the stable, but I am responsible for goings-on all over Rossburn lands.” She cocked her head and he grinned up at her as he led the horse toward a paddock. “Tha’means I let his lordship know if we need to do a burn on the moor so grouse can feed, or if there’s poachers about. Or when Mr. Barclay is tryin’ to do somethin’ daft.”

  “So you answer directly to Lord Rossburn? How is it you’re teaching me to ride, then?”

  “A ghillie is the laird’s to command. If he says to carry him across a wee bog so his soles dinna get damp, the ghillie does it.”

  “How revolting! Surely Lord Rossburn would never demean someone so.”

  Archie chuckled. “Weel, if it came to tha’, I might tell Master Kieran to walk on his own legs.”

  He lifted his chin. “I taught him to ride when he was a laddie, for the old laird said no one on the estate had my touch wi’ the beasties.” He stroked Dancer’s wither with an affectionate smile. “So o’ course the young laird willna trust anyone but me to teach you. Now sit up straight. You’re a lady, no’ a sack o’ tatties.”

  As soon as they reached the open road, Kieran gave the horse its head. Mefisto broke into a gallop. Only a few clouds scudded across the sky and the passing air carried the scent of sun-warmed juniper. Kieran tried to savor the pleasure of riding his lands after months away.

  Unfortunately the hurt expression on Diantha’s face kept rising in his mind’s eye. He admitted to himself that part of the reason for abandoning her to Archie’s brusque, if thorough, tutelage stemmed from her earlier words in the library.

  They still stung. Diantha accepted him in her bed out of mere duty?

  He had always attracted women easily. Even the most censorious dowagers simpered and preened under his coaxing. Matrons and maidens alike batted their eyelashes or attempted their wittiest sallies when he danced with them.

  In return for the pleasure his lovers gave him, he was generous—in bed, at any rate. His deepest emotions he kept off limits to outsiders, of course.

  Diantha presented a conundrum. Unlike a mistress, he could not dispense with her presence when his interest in her waned. And he refused to countenance his wife giving herself to another man. The image of her supple curves stretched out on another man’s bed arose.

  Mefisto broke stride unexpectedly. He realized he had gripped the reins so tightly that the horse tossed his head in annoyance.

  It dawned on him that he had no wish for another woman yet, either. In view of his father’s habits, the knowledge relieved him, but that did not solve his dilemma.

  The one woman he could not charm was his own wife.

  Scowling, he turned the horse onto a trail leading to an upland moor. His steward, Johnston, and Archie had both suggested it for the estate’s sheep. The herd’s normal pasture remained a quagmire after heavy spring rains. In an effort to preserve the animals and their valuable wool, Barclay had ordered them into the nearest tenant’s field. Understandably, the cottar resented the loss of his only arable land, and the sheep had to be moved again.

  Kieran slowed Mefisto to a walk and examined the moor as he neared it. The sheep could not stray far, for the only access was across a wooden bridge that spanned a narrow ravine. Heavy growth covered the pasture and an outcrop of rock at the far end might provide a sheltered spot for a shepherd’s hut.

  He urged his mount forward. No sooner did Mefisto’s front hooves strike the planks than the animal shied back. Kieran pressed his knees into the rigid sides, but save for breathing, the animal might have been stone.

  “What’s gotten into you?” He dismounted and gathered the reins. After a firm tug, the horse followed on stiff legs, apparently satisfied to let the human go first.

  The weathered timbers creaked under Kieran’s feet, but that did not surprise him. It took some cajoling before Mefisto placed one hoof gingerly on the span, then another.

  A sharp crack vibrated up through Kieran’s boots, and then the entire framework tipped down toward the bottom many feet below. Had he not grasped the horse’s reins, he would have followed. Fortunately, Mefisto danced back again and Kieran suffered nothing more than a few scrapes as the beast inadvertently dragged him to safety.

  He struggled to a sitting position and remained there for several moments to catch his breath. He had released the horse, who now regarded him from several paces away. “Yes, I know, you told me so.” The horse snorted and pulled up a mouthful of coarse grass from the side of the road.

  As soon as his heartbeat slowed to something resembling normal, Kieran stood and peered down atthe wreckage. He guessed the fall would have been no more than twenty-five feet. It might not have killed him.

  But it probably would have. His knees did wobble slightly as he turned back to the horse.

  Mefisto lifted his head. Foam still dripp
ed from his mouth, streaked with pink. Kieran’s weight must have cut the tender flesh. Worse, the beast held a hind hoof delicately off the ground as though afraid to step on it.

  Running a hand over the back of the leg, Kieran found a hot, swollen area that he feared might be a severe tear. The animal flinched away with a whinny.

  “Poor boy, you didn’t deserve that, did you.” He sighed as he led the limping horse back the way they had come. “Come on, then. It’s a long walk home.”

  Archie assisted Diantha down from the saddle. “I’ve seen worse. Be back here in the morn, ten sharp.” He tugged his forelock and winked. “Wi’ some work, ye’ll make a grand horsewoman.”

  As he led Dancer away, Diantha chuckled. She lingered in the stable yard, hoping Kieran would return as he had said. He might enjoy the ghillie’s assessment of her skills. She inhaled air redolent of horse, and found she rather liked it. Her mother would be horrified if she ever found out, of course.

  Imagining her maternal parent’s disapproval, Diantha smiled broadly and inhaled again. She decided to ride as often as she could.

  However, she could not loiter about the stables all morning. Conscious of a disconcerting pang that her husband had not returned, she slipped back into the house to change.

  After a virtuous, if dull, hour in her boudoir reviewing the linen count, Diantha discovered that Kieran had not shown up for luncheon. Knowing he planned to meet with the steward, she finally remarked on his absence over the fruit course.

  “A husband need not account for his whereabouts to his wife.” Iona helped herself to a few sections of orange with a pair of tiny tongs.

  Barclay’s eyebrows drew together as he peeled a peach. “That’s odd, he seldom misses an appointment. I expect he’s quite safe, Cousin, but I might send out a few men on his route if he doesn’t return in the next hour or two.”

  Diantha told herself to be satisfied with that. She distracted herself after the meal by hunting for the plans to Duncarie House in the library. However, even the discovery of a portfolio of original drawings and notes failed to hold her attention for long. Tucking it under her arm, she returned to her room.

  As she placed the sheets on her writing desk, the soft sound of footsteps on carpet came from Kieran’s bedchamber. With a sense of relief, she approached the door leading to it.

  She took a breath before turning the handle, for she had never before set foot in what she considered his domain. Nonsense, she told herself. She was Kieran’s wife, for heaven’s sake! To her disappointment, she found only his valet.

  Davison bowed, then placed a pile of perfectly folded shirts into a wardrobe. “Good day, my lady. I fear his lordship has not returned yet.”

  “I thought I heard him, forgive my mistake.”

  “I’m sure he will be back shortly.” With another bow, he departed, shutting the door behind him.

  Diantha circled the room. The predominant color was deep green, relieved from becoming oppressive by warm wood paneling and plenty of light. Simple damask panels, not ornate fringed swags, hung in front of the floor to ceiling windows.

  She paused before Kieran’s dressing table. A shaving mug and brush stand occupied a tray on one corner, with a razor half-open beside it. She guessed a wooden box held the few pieces of jewelry he habitually wore.

  A silver-framed daguerreotype caught her attention. It showed Kieran’s mother sitting next to a handsome man whose arm stretched behind her shoulders. She recognized Kieran’s father from a portrait in the gallery. Diantha raised her eyebrows. Her parents had never taken so casual a pose, even for private family portraits.

  A small child with dark curls and his father’s eyes sat between them, gazing solemnly at the camera. She couldn’t help but smile. Even at that age, Kieran possessed a piercing stare. The heads tilted toward one another and the hands joined as the parents held their son told of a loving family.

  The Rossburns must have always demonstrated a great deal of physical affection. Diantha traced the protective circle their arms made around Kieran. Only Granny had hugged her with any regularity.

  Her taffeta skirts rustled softly as she picked up the frame and moved toward the windows to examine it more closely.

  She paused before the foot of the bed, an enormous four-poster covered with a small ocean of deep green damask, and tilted the picture into the light. She guessed Kieran must have been around five or six. Even then, the dimple in his chin showed clearly. He had not developed his father’s patrician profile yet, and black curls surrounded his young face.

  The image of cuddling a baby with those same dark curls arose and her heart squeezed. One of the few aspects of marriage she had looked forward to was a child of her own to cherish. Distressingly, her courses continued to appear each month without fail.

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  She started and gripped a bedpost for support. Her full-grown, very bedraggled husband stood on the threshold, one hand on the door handle. And he did not look pleased to see her.

  Kieran’s arms ached from being hauled up the old bridge by his horse. Various body parts twinged and throbbed. He still grappled with the fact that he had damn near died earlier. And he had missed luncheon. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to the privacy of his chamber with food, a hot bath, and a change of clothing.

  At the sight of his wife framed by the bedposts, looking rather delectable in a gown of rich blue, it did occur to him that the food might wait. Then his gaze fell on the object in her hand.

  “Kieran, what happened to you?”

  He swung the door closed behind him and advanced. She cringed away, ending up nearly draped across his coverlet.

  He ignored the tempting sight to snatch the frame out of her hand. “How dare you sneak among my belongings? I’m not your brothers to steal volumes of Shakespeare from!”

  She sat up, her eyes narrowed. “I was doing nothing of the sort. You’re acting as if I went through your private papers.” She emitted a small gasp. “And how do you know about the books?”

  Kieran realized she must not remember their conversation the night before their wedding, but he was in no mood for amusement. “You were still in my bedchamber, handling my things.” He held up the daguerreotype.

  By now Diantha had found her feet. His normally timid wife approached him until her nose nearly touched his chest. “I’ll thank you to remember that I’ve already touched some exceedingly private things of yours.” She tipped her head back, two bright pink flags of anger on her cheeks. “And you liked it. A great deal!”

  Her finger jabbed his solar plexus. “You certainly don’t have the least qualm about coming into my room whenever you please.”

  Her wrath startled him enough that he backed up a step in his turn. “That is entirely different!” He floundered for a reason to uphold a statement even he found ridiculous. “I don’t go rummaging through your possessions,” he said with a sense of triumph.

  She sniffed. “No, you just avail yourself of my body whenever you feel like it.” Her pretty face settled into a scowl. “And I was not rummaging. I thought I heard you, and came in because I foolishly thought you might be interested in hearing about my riding lesson.”

  She indicated the daguerreotype he still held.

  “I committed the cardinal sin of admiring your family.”

  The scrolled silver edges bit into his palm. “Your approbation is noted.” He did not quite eliminate the anger from his voice. “Appearance does not always match reality, however.” Why in God’s name had he said that? The morning’s events must have rattled him more than he thought.

  Diantha still regarded him, hurt in her eyes, for the second time that day. He wished he could confide in her, but his wife was the last person in the world he should explain his feelings to.

  “If you will excuse me, I have some things to attend to.” Even to his ears, the words sounded priggish.

  She stiffened. “Indeed, I haven’t the remotest desire to disturb yo
u further.” She marched to the door separating their rooms. “Rest assured, I will never disturb the sacred precincts of your bedchamber again without an invitation.”

  Opening it wide, she looked at him over her shoulder.”I suppose it’s too much to expect you to offer me the same courtesy.” She strode through the doorway, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the pictures on either side of it.

  Kieran stared after her for several heartbeats. Finally, he returned the portrait to its resting place. He touched the glass cover. Had his father started his chronic womanizing when it had been taken? His mother looked cheerful, as she usually had before pain became a part of her every breath. Perhaps in those days, she had not known about his father’s secret life, either.

  Kieran discovered at tea that he had worse problems than painful memories. Diantha did prepare a cup for him, but responded to his request for additional lemon by spearing several slices with her fork and depositing them with a loud clink into the porcelain shell. He responded with his best outraged glare, but was forced to direct it at the back of her head as she conversed with Barclay and Iona.

  The situation did not improve by dinner. She addressed him when spoken to, although in tones of arctic civility. Thoroughly irritated by the time he retired, he slid into his robe and marched into her room, determined to settle the quarrel. As he hoped, she was still awake, sitting up in bed to read.

  At his entrance, she straightened up and squared her shoulders. Laying the book aside, her gaze swept over him. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  Used to lovers who resorted to tears and shouting when angry, Diantha’s glacial demeanor gave him several ideas on how to proceed. He took several steps into the room, prepared to charm her. “I believe we should try to kiss and make up, my dear.”

  Her gaze turned to blue steel. “You’re certainly strong enough to force me, but I shall not accept your attentions willingly.”

  Fury almost choked him. “I have never forced a woman in my life. And I am not about to start now.” He turned on his heel and left. As he shut the door behind him he realized his wife had the power to wound him.