Beguiled

by Arnette Lamb

  “I was speaking about the cleaning girls. They’re from the orphanage and need the work. The tower’s a fright. Has Trimble arrived?”

  “There’s an Englishman who calls himself that quaffing beer in the pantry. He insists you summoned him but refuses to say more until he sees you.”

  She moved to leave. “Then I’ll see him now.”

  “Wait.” Was she trying to anger him?

  “Is there something else?”

  “Yes. You’ve received invitations to dine from two dozen of Glasgow’s best families.”

  Obviously unaware of his discomfort, she strolled to the large table and began inspecting the contents of the baskets. “I did not encourage this attention, if that is what’s troubling you. Please do not think that you must escort me, my lord. They would have sent the invitations had I taken rooms at Farley House. You’re my host, not my guardian.”

  Thank heaven for that. Windsor Castle couldn’t accommodate her callers. “Pity that fellow,” he murmured under his breath, thinking that Lachlan MacKenzie was a man deserving of sympathy. Edward couldn’t imagine governing three more like her.

  As if baffled, she shook her head. “How did they find out so quickly that I was here?”

  “The banker you visited spread the word . . . after you gave him a draft of above one thousand pounds for work being done in my home, even as we speak.”

  She hefted an orange, then put it to her nose and breathed deeply. “I’m sure you were planning to make similar changes and haven’t gotten ’round to them. You’ll reimburse me. I had intended to discuss the matter with you, but you were abed when I left.”

  He felt as if he were speaking English and she Scottish, so disjointed was their conversation. “I’m delighted to know, at this juncture, that you considered consulting me.”

  “As I said, you had not arisen.”

  She made boldness sound so reasonable. “A Commodore Lord Hume has sent his regards. His ship is docked fourteen miles away in the harbor. Have you been to the docks?”

  “I visited the harbormaster.” She turned to his housekeeper.

  At her dismissal, Edward fumed. “Keeping in mind as you ventured there, that as your physician, I would disapprove of so much activity?”

  Facing him again, she blinked in confusion, and he knew without a doubt that Agnes MacKenzie seldom followed the orders of another. But then, Edward had had fair warning; he’d seen her with her father. “Riding in a carriage?” she asked. “I’ve spent the last two days in a carriage.”

  “Which is why I ordered you to stay abed today.”

  “Yes, of course.” Again she turned to Hazel. “These are for you, Mrs. Johnson.” She handed her a large canvas bag. The sides bulged and an umbrella handle stuck out from the top.

  Flustered, Mrs. Johnson wrung her hands. “You shouldn’t have, my lady.”

  Lady Agnes patted the cook’s shoulder. “The duchess of Ross would have my hide did I not thank you properly for putting up with Auntie Loo and me. Will you please tell Mister Trimble that I’ll be with him shortly.”

  “Of course. You’re very kind. Very kind, indeed, my lady.”

  At that point, she poured on the Highland charm. “I promise not to be too much trouble to you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  Completely disarmed, Mrs. Johnson did two surprising things: she curtsied twice and left the room without a word to her lord.

  A knock sounded at the door. Bossy answered it and returned with another basket. Lady Agnes sent Edward an apologetic look and, with her unbound arm, lifted the cloth. Frowning, she read the accompanying card. “Hoots!” She dropped the paper as if it were aflame, same as her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. ’Tis for you, my lord.”

  The scent of a familiar perfume drifted to him, and he could guess what was in the basket. Judging from the depth of Lady Agnes’s embarrassment, his mistress had intended the contents for him alone.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” Head down, she fussed with her hat. “I’ll fetch the quarrel and give Trimble his instructions.”

  They both needed time to regroup, but Edward wasn’t done with the meddlesome Agnes MacKenzie. “Speak with your Mr. Trimble, but I want to see you in my study in fifteen minutes.”

  5

  CARRYING THE BASKET CONTAINING FRESH bread, a silk neckcloth he’d forgotten, and a message from his mistress, Edward went to his study to await Lady Agnes. On scented paper, the note read, “Welcome back, darling. I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

  It was no surprise that his houseguest had blushed; he felt embarrassment for her himself. She had every reason to assume the basket was for her, but he couldn’t find the words to ease her humiliation.

  He had no experience with maidens who shunned tradition. The university was closed to women, as were scholarly circles. Men ruled the church. Women didn’t even rule at home, but if he objectively examined his own behavior toward his houseguest, questions arose.

  He’d scolded her. He’d interrogated her. He’d criticized her every move. In the circumstances, any man of his acquaintance would have done the same. Why, then, did he feel uncomfortable? Because Agnes MacKenzie was an exceptional female. Again he saw her moving into the path of that arrow, and his belly tightened with fear.

  Trust her with the safety of your children and follow her advice, her father had said to Edward. What of the safety of his heart? In less than a week she’d turned his life around, literally and figuratively. She challenged his every rational belief and took him to task for his every normal move.

  Then there was the kiss. When his lips had touched hers, his world spun on its axis and fundamental needs ruled. More bothersome was the knowledge that she was as affected and equally uncomfortable with her reaction to him.

  What could he do about it?

  He couldn’t send her away; he owed her his life. Worse, budding feelings for her sparked to life a part of him he thought he’d buried long ago. When he delved within himself, he discovered that his reasons had little to do with obligation and less to do with gratitude. Desire stood at the forefront of his emotions, but close by was attraction of another, more basic kind. He remembered the most tormented of her father’s opinions of her. The duke of Ross had proclaimed his firstborn, “a deep thought to ponder.” Edward agreed, and with contemplation came excitement. After five minutes in her company, he felt enlivened, tempted to let loose the reins of propriety and see how far the attraction would take them. But their passion would cool, and what then? What would a well-traveled, headstrong Highland lass find of interest in a widowed scholar whose great quest was the perfection of a low-pressure steam engine?

  Dizzy from the dilemma, he tore a hunk from the loaf of bread and turned his attention to the puzzle she’d presented last night. She believed the intruder had been searching for something, and if Edward viewed the damage in the room through her eyes, he must concur.

  But what did the man want? Edward’s journals and the documentation of his university projects had been a target, but those works were published and easily acquired.

  The placement of the two quarrels held a deadly message and maybe a clue. Agnes had said the fletchings were English, and that might be true, but Edward knew in his heart that the assassin was a Scot. An Englishman wouldn’t violate the Napier shield, for as a race the English had no common allegiance. Wiltshiremen did not stand shoulder to shoulder against their neighbors from Dorset. So why, unless he was Scottish, had the assassin assaulted the symbol of the Napiers?

  An assault on his clan. The notion sounded absurd to Edward. In both his lifetime and his father’s, the Napiers had enjoyed a peaceful association with other clans and with the English. Not since his grandfather and the other Scots had faced the Jacobite rebellion of ’45, had the allegiance of the Napiers been brought into question.

  Brought into question. Put that way, it sounded rather benign. Certainly not a “rattling to life of the auld hatred,” as his grandfather had described the great clan war.

  Rattlin
g to life of the auld hatred. Edward now understood what his grandsire had meant, for every time he looked at that quarrel desecrating the family crest, anger rumbled inside him.

  “Am I interrupting, my lord?”

  Lady Agnes stood on the threshold, a sheaf of papers in her left hand. Her right was bound in a sling cut from the same cloth as the lavender dress she’d donned. From the odd bulges in the sling, he knew she concealed a number of things, but he was too in-volved in the woman herself to ponder it. Her embarrassment had passed; his need to admonish her had waned.

  The parting words of the countess of Tain came immediately to mind. Lady Lottie had said, “God never made a better woman than Agnes. He just forgot to make her a mate.” Even with Lottie’s heartfelt words to warn him, Edward couldn’t stop himself from wanting to be the man to woo and win Agnes MacKenzie.

  “Nay.” He got to his feet and welcomed her into the room. “I was thinking about something your sister, the countess of Tain, said to me.”

  Her brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “Then I stand before you, a pleasant respite from Lottie’s wicked tongue.”

  She looked fresh and fit, an odd description for a female who had spent the night rummaging through the tower and the day traipsing around Glasgow. To outward appearances, no stitches bound a wound in her shoulder. “You’re not curious?”

  “Originality has never been among Lottie’s accomplishments, but let me guess. Since you are young and an earl, and you are smiling, I suspect she told you something far too personal. Did she say that contrary to common belief, male children spring from the wombs of Lachlan’s daughters?”

  During their lengthy meeting in Edinburgh, the countess had spoken those very words to Edward, citing her own two sons as proof. Uncomfortable with his own feelings, he borrowed another of Lottie’s opinions. “She said you were a duke’s daughter and spoiled for it.”

  She tipped her head and gave a little huff. “Lottie’s either with child or without her husband’s graces then. She knows the peerage from the most recent ducal by-blow to the last Hanoverian hopeful. In her quest to find me a husband, she reserves that particular remark for eligible dukes, and never would she mistake your rank. Pay Lottie no mind.”

  “She’s a matchmaker?”

  “A poor one, but she hasn’t the wherewithal to do anything else except save Tain from mediocrity.” Striding to his desk, she placed a sheet of paper before him.

  Glancing at the neatly penned page, Edward was reminded of her father’s statement that she wrote as well with her left hand as her right The duke had been correct, but Edward noticed a very interesting aspect of her penmanship. She fashioned words plainly, without looping scrolls or flowery symbols. She even forgot to dot the i in dancing master.

  That suited to perfection her unconventional ways.

  He read the entire page, which contained an odd mix of occupations, and his confusion grew. “What is this?”

  “ ’Tis a partial listing of people you and the children see on a regular basis. I should like to speak with each of them privately. Except your banker.” She toyed with the edge of the sling. “I know that Robert Carrick is trustworthy.”

  That explained the dancing master’s name on the list, and it also reminded Edward of why he’d asked her to come to the study. Strange that he should forget her intrusive actions. “How do you know my banker?”

  “From Cameron Cunningham. He patronizes the establishment on occasion.”

  Edward had known Cameron Cunningham for over five years. Employing patience, logical arguments, and well-placed bribes, Cunningham had convinced the king to rescind the ban on bagpipes and tartans. He was a true Scottish hero, and every Scot, above the Highland line and below, owed him a debt of gratitude. Today he owned a fleet of merchantmen, most of which had been built here in Glasgow. With Michael Elliot as the third partner, Edward and Cameron had established the first dependable China silk run out of Glasgow. Edward had adapted the machines in his mill to spin and weave the silk, and the profits were substantial.

  But Cunningham had never mentioned Agnes MacKenzie. They were close in age and better than a decade younger than Edward. Agnes had mentioned Cameron, but Edward had forgotten the gist of the conversation. “How well do you know Cameron?” Edward asked.

  She reached under the sling and scratched the wound. “I have sailed the world with him.” Paper rattled.

  “You have?”

  “With whom else would I travel, save a family friend?”

  “He hasn’t mentioned it to me.”

  “Cameron is the very soul of discretion. His father and mine are longtime friends. He is also very close to one of my sisters.”

  The subject had not come up between Cameron and Edward. And what, other than paper, did she conceal in that sling? “Which of your sisters?”

  Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eye. “Virginia.”

  The lost sister. The daughter believed dead by the duke of Ross. The source of the rift between Agnes and her father. Feeling an outsider in the volatile issue, Edward thought it best to let the uncomfortable subject pass.

  As he glanced at the list, he again remembered her father’s assurance that Hannah and Christopher would be safe under her guard. The word others at the bottom of the page confused him more. “Who are these unnamed others?”

  “The nanny, Mrs. Borrowfield.”

  Her disappearance from the church had worried Edward, for he feared she had fallen prey to the assassin. “Did Christopher tell you about her?”

  “Only her name and that she barged into his room overmuch.”

  “My son values his privacy. A lad will at his age.”

  “My brother used to set traps for any who ventured into his private domain.” The joy of happy memories shone in her eyes. “A pot of coal dust perched over the door frame was his favorite.”

  “How old is your father’s heir?”

  “Kenneth is Christopher’s age.” She grew distracted. “Where is Mrs. Borrowfield, and why did she leave the ceremony in Edinburgh?”

  “I do not know. After caring for you in the church, I returned with the children to the inn, but she’d left without a trace.”

  “She took her belongings and nothing else?”

  “Only what was hers, and no one at the inn saw her leave.”

  “What of her belongings?”

  “She hadn’t many. She’d only been with us since March.”

  “May I examine her reference?”

  Edward found it in an undisturbed drawer in his desk. Lady Agnes read the letter, then held it up to the light. But she did not comment.

  Her gaze slid to the basket. “I’d also like to talk to your mistress.”

  He drew the line of propriety. “Nay.”

  “You needn’t worry that I’ll tell tales, my lord. I’m only thinking about your safety and the children’s well-being. I’d simply like to speak to your mistress and learn if her motives are pure.”

  Edward laughed.

  Agnes frowned.

  Seeing her so discomfited pleased him. “Purity,” he replied, “is hardly a quality one seeks in a mistress.”

  This time her maidenly blush had a different and decidedly physical effect on him. But before he could savor the yearning she inspired, she recovered her composure. “Enlighten me, my lord, as to your standards for choosing a mistress.”

  Realizing she wanted to play, Edward stifled his desire and obliged the tantalizing minx. “A proper mistress must be agreeable.”

  “Like a well-trained horse, my lord?”

  Edward couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so stimulating a conversation, especially with a woman who stirred his interest to dangerous levels. “A mistress should cater to the tastes of her provider.”

  “Like a talented cook?”

  Taste in food was a far cry from the delights he had in mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to broach the vulgar. Instead, he decided to test the limits of her generosity. “Aye, wo
uld you care for bread?”

  “Certainly. How kind of you to share the bounty.” With a surprisingly agile left hand, she tore off a piece of the bread and tasted it. “Delicious.”

  Why had he expected jealousy or prejudice? Why was he disappointed for the lack of it?

  Giving him a hum of satisfaction, she said, “Now that we’ve exhausted the expectations of that position . . .”

  Choking with laughter, he pretended to cough.

  “Do you or do you not wish to find this villain?”

  She looked so flustered, he was forced to relent “Yes, and the magistrate has set about to do that.”

  “You don’t want my help?”

  “I’d sooner let a bull loose in my laboratory than argue with you.” He turned up his palms in surrender. “With one exception, my life is yours to explore.”

  “Good. Will you indulge me in a wee bit of Highland tradition?”

  He’d probably indulge her in his own demise, so captivated was he by her. “Of course.”

  From within the bulging sling she withdrew a napkin-size square of the MacKenzie tartan plaid. Pinned to the cloth was a smaller golden version of the MacKenzie clan badge. She moved to the firescreen and draped the colors and the symbol of her family over the damaged image of his family crest.

  Edward felt off balance watching her perform the simple show of clanship. He’d heard of such pledges, but never had he witnessed one. Peace reigned among his kinsmen, and he spent his time as chieftain attending weddings, christenings, and funerals.

  “This assures you of the resources and the sanctuary of Clan MacKenzie, should the need arise.”

  She spoke as if he were the pupil and she the teacher instructing him on Scottish custom. The insult stung his pride. “I know its meaning.”

  “I did not think—” She turned her back on him and stared out the window.

  “What didn’t you think? That as a Lowlander I am ignorant of the way pledges are put forth? Were the Highlands a day’s ride from England, I doubt your people would be so smug.”

  Her features sharpened. “I thought—” She stopped on a sigh. “ ’Twas not my intention to insult you.”