How to Train Your Baron

by Diana Lloyd

  “Quin?”

  …

  Startled, Quin fell into his bath with a splash, sloshing a wave of hot water onto the tile floor.

  “I tried not to wake you.” His voice, scratchy and raw from smoke and shouting, turned his words into a harsh whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I smelled too badly of smoke to come to bed. I thought I’d wash first. Sorry I woke you.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping well anyway.” Elsinore made her way to the sideboard and plucked a folded square of flannel off the top of the pile, then poured a splash of clean rinse water from a ewer into the basin. She picked up and sniffed at several wedges of soap until finding one she liked. “Sandalwood,” she explained.

  It was his favorite, too. She dampened the cloth and rubbed the soap into it. Was that a smile playing at the corner of her mouth? Surely that was a good sign. Quin leaned back in the tub, closed his eyes, and relaxed for the first time that day.

  “Are you hurt?” he heard her ask.

  Every muscle in his body had been tested that afternoon. While tired and sore, he considered himself lucky to be able to return home unharmed. “No,” he said at last.

  “Good.” And then she poured the ewer of icy cold water over his head.

  “What the hell?” Quin gasped and sputtered.

  “I wanted to make sure I had your complete attention.”

  “Well, you have it.” He reached over and worked the lever that released more heated water from the copper bladder into the tub. “What is it that you need my undivided attention to at this time of the morning?”

  “I heard you went to see the magistrate. Is that normal here, or do you suspect the fire was foul play?”

  Quin ducked his head under the water and ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging most of the ash and soot. He was tired. So very tired. And he did not want to be having this conversation. When he sat up again, she had the flannel and soap waiting.

  “Wash.” She scrubbed the flannel against his face and neck while he soaped his hair. “Unless”—she started washing his shoulders—“you are a champion at holding your breath, you’ll not avoid all my questions by submerging yourself.”

  “Fair enough. The fire appeared suspicious. Therefore, the magistrate was consulted as a precaution. And, before you ask, suspicious means that no one had been in the stables since our return, there were no candles left unattended as it was still daylight, no nearby fires that might have spread, and no possibility of a lightning strike.”

  “You think that someone set the fire intentionally?”

  “It was just a precaution.”

  “Is having Angus spy on me just another precaution?”

  “Spy? That’s a fanciful way of saying he is watching over you for your own protection.”

  “Protection from what?”

  “Elsinore, you are a stranger here, you don’t know your way around—how to get from here to there, who the neighbors are, who the local ruffians are—I only want to keep you safe.” Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t going to let him off easy tonight. It was time to tell her something. “The truth is, I’ve recently received some notes that I’ve found…concerning.”

  “Threats?”

  “It’s probably nothing more than a little old-fashioned Highland freebooting.”

  “Freebooting?”

  “Undocumented black rents, some call it the blackmail. You give me a few cows, and I won’t accidentally burn your grazing field—that sort of thing.”

  “That’s barbaric. What have they asked for?” She went back to rubbing the flannel against his skin, scrubbing his back.

  “They haven’t asked for anything yet. The notes are vaguely threatening yet demand nothing specific. I’m staying on top of the matter. If there’s any chance this fire was set on purpose, I want to know.”

  “I see…” He could almost hear the wheels of her mind churning over his response as the washing flannel stilled. He wasn’t lucky enough for his answers to settle her curiosity now that it had been piqued.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed, Elsinore?” He reached for the flannel.

  “How did your wife die?” She held fast to the cloth, and her knuckles turned white where she gripped the side of the tub. So there it was.

  “She was…overcome with grief when little Jamie died. His death was so unexpected, I think we both went a little mad at first. On the day of his funeral, she…collapsed out in the garden. I summoned someone, but she could not be revived. She died that very day.” He watched her face carefully as he spoke, hoping to sense the exact moment she accepted or denied the completeness of his explanation.

  “You must have been beside yourself.”

  “As I said, I feel I went a little mad with grief. Throwing myself back into the running of the estate saved my sanity. But when the notes started to arrive, I thought it best to retreat to London and hire a man to investigate. Someone objective without any clan ties.”

  “That’s what you were doing in London? That’s why you were at the Winchcombes’ ball?”

  “Yes. I didn’t tell you because it was a business matter that I hoped would be cleared up soon.”

  “I see. What I do not yet understand is why you are still so determined to set me aside.”

  “My marriage was arranged in an attempt to heal old clan tensions; it was not a happy union. My wife…well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.” How far back in history should he take his explanation? How much would satisfy her curiosity? She wasn’t ready for the whole truth; a partial disclosure would have to serve.

  “That’s not much of an answer to a very important question.”

  “It wasn’t much of a marriage.” It was the first time he’d admitted it out loud. “She was unfaithful. I was making arrangements to have her live elsewhere when she announced she was going to have our child.” How thrilled he’d been with the thought of fatherhood. At first. One look into the innocent babe’s face melted his heart all over again and shattered his resolve. He’d allowed Sorcha to stay, a decision that damned them all.

  “But if she was…” Elsinore left the question unspoken, but he knew what she was asking.

  “I decided to believe the child was mine. I also decided to never trust a woman again. Neither decision was made lightly. Perhaps they were both poor ones. Two weeks before Jamie’s birth, my parents perished in a carriage accident. Six months later, my son was dead as well as my inconstant wife. It has been a very trying year, mo chridhe. I don’t want to involve you in its ugliness.” Ugly and dark to a frightening degree. He thought he’d never climb up out of that pit of utter despair.

  “Emmo criddie—what’s that mean?”

  “My heart.” He managed a smile and brushed his fingers against her face. “Because you made me feel that I had a heart once again.”

  “And yet you will send me away to pay for another woman’s sins.”

  “Don’t go.” He was surprised by his own words, and from her expression so was she. “I don’t want you to go,” he repeated, as he pulled her into a kiss. “Don’t go,” he whispered against her lips. “Don’t go.”

  “Then I won’t go.” She reached down into the water and intertwined her fingers with his. “I am the daughter of a duke of England,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m made of sterner stuff than you think.”

  “I don’t think you weak, Elsinore.” He smiled and shook his head. “You’re as strong and stalwart as the fortress you are named for. I think you good and trusting. You should never know of the evil and darkness of this world, and especially not that which has tainted my life. You are my wife, and it is my duty to protect you.”

  “I once wished for nothing more than an adventure in my life. I don’t remember ever once wishing for a safe life.”

  “You should be careful what you wish for.” He pulled her closer and crushed his mouth against hers. But she wasn’t content with one kiss and wrapped her arms around him, heedless of the water splashing out of the t
ub and soaking through her thin gown.

  “Can we…here? Is it possible?”

  “Let’s find out.” He loosened the drawstring and peeled wet fabric away from her body.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “There comes a point, in all training endeavors, where a decision must be made to run the hound, retire the hound, or have him put down.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine

  She turned to the other side of the bed before her eyes were fully open. Sliding her hand over his empty pillow, the linen was cool beneath her fingers. He must have risen ages ago. No matter, it was still a good morning. Quin no longer intended to banish her. Last night, he’d asked her to stay; he nearly begged it. And while he stopped short of uttering the words, he’d shown her with his body that love was possible. True love, marital love, was right there, so close she could taste it in his kisses and feel it in his touch. She could imagine it now, see it clearly as a tangible thing that would last for years and years and live on through their children.

  She brushed and pinned back her hair in a simple style, donned a blue morning dress, and made her way down to breakfast. Quin stood at the bottom of the stairs, deep in discussion with his steward Mr. MacLean.

  “Good morning, milady.” The steward greeted her first.

  “Good morning to you.” At the sound of her voice, Quin turned and smiled. It seemed that last night was still on his mind as well. “And good morrow to you, too, husband.” He reached for her hand as she reached the bottom stair and brought it to his lips for a kiss.

  “Will you be joining me for breakfast?”

  “Regretfully, no. I dined earlier. Mr. MacLean and I were just about to leave. We’ll be checking the border fences today.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. A tedious routine bit of maintenance, that’s all. But,” he continued in a more serious tone, “there is something I need to speak to you about privately.” MacLean bowed crisply and let himself out the door, leaving them alone in the front entranceway.

  “What is it?” Elsinore waited until the door closed behind him to speak.

  “Just this.” He pulled her into his arms for a lingering kiss.

  “I’m not quite sure I heard that properly. I may need you to repeat it.”

  “Gladly.” This kiss was slower, deeper, and expressed his feelings even more clearly. “Did you hear that?”

  “I think so, but you might just have to repeat yourself every now and then.” She ran her hand across his chest, remembering lathering his broad chest with scented soap the previous evening. “Will you be gone long?”

  “Not if I can help it. One of the men reported that some of the stones had been removed from the north border wall. MacLean and I will ride the border, check for other openings, and repair what we can. I should be home in time for supper.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.” She caressed his face as she spoke.

  “Me, too.” One last kiss, this one chaste and sweet on her cheek, and he walked out of the house, leaving her at the bottom of the stairs.

  Sitting alone in the breakfast room, she stirred the porridge around the bowl until it cooled and set like plaster. That’s what her father called it, “poor man’s plaster.” The thought made her smile for a moment, but she pushed the bowl away.

  Something wasn’t adding up. Quin’s grief might well explain the ravaged bedchamber. Hadn’t he admitted he’d gone a bit mad with it? And yet, with drawers upended, cupboards toppled, and even the ticking on the mattress sliced through—hadn’t it appeared more like someone had been looking for something?

  Yesterday’s fire even cast the incident on the Serpentine in a new light. Would Highland blackmail travel all the way to London? Elsinore shook her head. No one would travel all that way to execute a harmless prank. Unless…they were traveling with Quin.

  Who on the house staff had traveled with him to town? John the coachman and Angus had been with them along the journey back to Scotland. The rest of his staff had left London the night before with her trunks, and she’d not met them. As far as she could recall, Quin received no notes or letters during their journey, but one had been waiting for him as soon as they returned. Was someone on Quin’s staff helping his tormentor?

  With renewed purpose, Elsinore pushed away from the breakfast table and stood, colliding with a footman. “You there, Ewan, were you with his lordship in London?”

  “No, milady. ’Twas two of the maids and the undercook.”

  “Was one of the maids Peggy?”

  “Mary and Jenny.” He shook his head. “Shall I fetch them for you?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, relieved. “Wait,” she called after him as he walked away with the dishes. “Please let Angus know that I will need a carriage made ready for a trip to the village this afternoon, and inform Cook that I’d like to speak to her in his lordship’s office right away.”

  Elsinore settled herself behind the wide oak desk in Quin’s office and familiarized herself with the placement of his ink, quills, paper, and sealing wax. She could only hope that after all her years in service, the cook still found the thought of being summoned to the lordship’s office intimidating. It was yet another trick she’d learned from her mother. If you need to have a difficult conversation, best to do it outside of the other person’s territory. Really, her mother would have made a great general.

  “Come in.” Elsinore tried hard to sound more confident than she felt when she heard footsteps outside the office door. The cook poked her head in and instantly frowned. The thought of catching the old gal unawares made Elsinore smile. “Come in,” she repeated.

  “’Tis mutton pie tonight, m’lady.”

  “I didn’t ask you here to discuss menus. Come in and have a seat.” Elsinore pointed to straight-backed wooden chair she’d positioned across from the desk. Yet another trick she’d learned from her mother was that to make a difficult meeting short one should offer the most uncomfortable chair in the house. The older woman reluctantly shuffled over and lowered herself into the chair.

  “I hear that in the absence of a proper housekeeper you’ve been taking on the task of running the household.” When the old cook nodded, Elsinore continued. “Then I’m sure you can tell me the timeline for getting the baroness’s bedchambers put back to rights. I’ll need the names of the workmen you’ve hired and a detailed list of the repairs made and yet to be made.”

  “Local men. We thought there’d be plenty of time, m’lady. We didn’t expect his lordship to return so soon and especially with a new bride.”

  “Well, he did. All the more reason to move forward with the renovations. Can you supply me with their names, please?” Elsinore raised her quill and positioned it at the inkwell.

  “Local men.”

  “I can hardly just write ‘local men,’ now can I? You must have hired some skilled labor, plasterers perhaps?”

  “Me cousin, Rupert, and his boys came. Might have had some others with them.” With slow, deliberate movement, Elsinore placed the quill back on the desk, neatly atop the stack of clean paper and then smiled tightly.

  “Clearly, my arrival here caught the household unawares. I’ll ask Mr. MacLean to oversee the restoration from now on and remove the burden from your shoulders. Furthermore, I’ll be hiring a proper housekeeper as soon as I can find someone suitable.”

  “Ain’t no cause for that. I’m able to do it, and his lordship—”

  “His lordship,” Elsinore interrupted, “has given me leave to run the household as I see fit. And I believe it would be fitting to have a proper housekeeping staff.”

  “If I might recommend, m’lady, my niece…”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. Mr. MacLean will assist in that search as well. Oh, and I asked Peg to be my lady’s maid. I’ll have the new housekeeper replace her with someone of their own choosing.” It was fleeting, but Elsinore thought she saw the shadow of a smile pass the older woman’s lips. “That will be all.”

&nb
sp; After Cook left, Elsinore carefully composed notes to both Quin and Mr. MacLean detailing her plans. Chances were that MacLean wouldn’t perform the tasks without Quin’s approval, anyway. She had a long way to go before the staff at Lochwode accepted her as their mistress.

  With Peg’s help, her hair was combed and styled, her walking dress donned, and her bonnet secure with ribbons tied in a neat bow under her chin just as she heard the carriage being brought around. It was time to find the village busybody and find out what had really been going on at Lochwode.

  Just outside the front door, a sour-faced Angus stood next to a sturdy, utilitarian cabriolet. Young Charlie, perched on the back platform, greeted her with a smile.

  “Good day, milady,” he called out with a wave.

  “Good morning, Charlie. Are you our tiger today?” Perhaps Quin had found another set of eyes and ears to watch over her. She should be cross, she supposed, but his kisses were still sweet on her lips, and last night’s victory still a warm glow in her heart.

  “Aye, milady. I’m to keep a sharp eye out for the carriage and the horses. This gig belongs to Mr. MacLean; all the others reeked of smoke.”

  He might have said more, but a stern look from Angus clamped the boy’s lips together. As Angus handed her up to the borrowed carriage, a tiny spark of fear flickered in her chest. Should a suspicious fire keep her close to the house? She looked back at Lochwode’s soaring stone facade. Gray and imposing with the black drapery of mourning anchored once again over the doorway, it did not yet feel like a safe haven to her. Besides, she had a large guardian angel named Angus at her side for this journey. A guardian angel she hoped to wheedle a little information out of during the hour it would take to drive to Port Menteith.

  “I suppose you drove the former lady of the house into the village all the time.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye for any reaction. But Angus only shrugged as he flicked the ribbons to coax the horse into motion.