by Karen Ranney
As it was, the cistern supplied more than enough water for their use, eliminating the need to use the two wells in the courtyard.
He continued his inspection of the cistern, walking slowly around the structure. There were no signs of leaks, no damage to the roof itself. He pulled on one or two of the planks to make sure the seal was strong and there was no movement. Everything looked as sturdy as it had when he’d last inspected the cistern, a dozen years ago.
There, one chore done. Endless hours stretched out in front of him. How did he fill those?
In France, he’d had a goal. He’d driven himself to prove he could survive, not because he wanted it—there were days when he’d prayed for death. Then, he’d begun to walk again, learning to mask the pain with a smile on his face. Not one person in Amelia’s close-knit family had realized how difficult becoming ambulatory had been for him and how much he was willing to do to be able to cross a room without crutches or a cane.
His third goal, never expressed or verbalized, had been to simply endure.
In France, he’d always been surrounded by people, well-meaning relatives by marriage who always wanted to know how he fared. He’d been grateful for their caring, but for their sake he’d always pretended an equanimity he didn’t truly feel. He didn’t want to cause more pain to Amelia’s mother, who was enduring her own grief.
But they’d acted as a buffer, hadn’t they? Alone on Glengarrow’s roof, he had a premonition about his future. There would be nothing to stop him from feeling the full measure of his grief, no occupation to engage his mind.
What the hell was he to do with his life?
The wind was fierce, and he gathered his coat closer around his body. From here, he could see all his land, save the section on the other side of Ben Mosub. To the east, he could view the beginning of North Linden Village. To the west, the small cottage that had belonged to Glengarrow for generations. Why had his mother sold it?
He stood where he was, unconcerned about being buffeted by sleet and wind.
The gunshot so startled him that he grabbed the edge of the cistern to keep from falling.
He strode to the other side of the roof and stared in the direction of Blackthorne Cottage. The Dalrousie woman stood on the icy ground in her crimson cape. As he watched, she raised her arm and the sound came again, followed by a puff of smoke. The trees blocked the view of her target.
Practicing with him in mind? Perhaps he should warn Delmont’s men to be watchful for a black-haired termagant with murder on her mind.
A solitary figure, she stood immobile, an ice sculpture dressed in red. She was the brightest spot in the scenery, and perhaps the most confusing.
He’d cornered her, and her response, besides her obvious fear? Rage. Anger nearly matching his. Any woman would have been frightened by being surrounded by so many men on horseback. But would they have been angry?
What was her name? Margaret. Her accent had a foreign note to it, and he realized he was curious about her in a way he hadn’t been curious about anyone or anything in a long while.
There, some occupation for his endless hours—the investigation of his neighbor. Who was she, and how did she come to be here?
Chapter 3
“I do not like leaving you here alone,” Delmont said, mounting.
His troop of men clustered around him, protecting the Compte de Guallians even here. After all, they were still in a barbaric country. Robert hoped nothing occurred on Delmont’s journey home that would validate his opinion of Scotland.
“I’ll be fine,” Robert said, stepping back. They’d had this discussion before, and Robert had no intention of repeating it yet again. “You worry too much, Delmont.”
He’d be fine at Glengarrow by himself, armed with his small staff. If he needed extra help, he’d hire them from the local village, or import them from Inverness. But he didn’t need a nursemaid. Or a keeper, for that matter, a role Delmont had assigned himself for the last three years.
Delmont turned in the saddle and stared at Robert for several long minutes. The look was filled with concern, but there was nothing Robert could do to dispel it. Delmont had been witness to one of the worst moments of Robert’s life, and the memory would forever affect how the other man viewed him.
Delmont had been the one to find the overturned carriage on the road leading to his estate. All Robert could remember was that the horses had become frightened by something—a noise, a rabbit, the scent of some other animal. The driver hadn’t been able to control them, and the carriage had tumbled off the road and down a steep embankment. Delmont and his men had righted the carriage, and found Amelia and Penelope. The only clear memory Robert had was Amelia calling to him, and the awful silence that followed.
There would always be the Robert before the accident, and the Robert afterward. The Robert of afterward would never be as carefree or as quick to laughter or as interested in the world around him. This Robert had become more insular, less caring, more introverted. To Delmont, the world, and certainly to himself, his life would be forever demarcated into those two sections.
Delmont had been responsible for his excellent care, and the fact Robert had survived his initial injuries. Delmont had sat with him that horrible day of Amelia and Penelope’s funeral, when he’d been too injured to attend. Delmont had relayed details of the entire service for his sister and niece in a soft voice.
Penelope, ever-curious child that she was, would have been fascinated by the French service. French was the language of princesses, she’d announced the day before she died. With her five-year-old wisdom, she’d decreed that being half-French was better than being wholly Scot. He and Amelia had exchanged a smiling look over her head.
Delmont finally turned, facing forward.
Robert watched until Delmont and his men were out of sight, then walked slowly up the steps and let himself in the front door of Glengarrow. He was limping, but there was no one to see him.
Slowly, he took the staircase up to the second floor. At the top, he hesitated, staring at the double doors at the end of the corridor.
He wished, fervently, that ghosts did exist. He would do whatever necessary to welcome them to Glengarrow, as long as one of them was a fair-haired woman with an enchanting smile and a child with a twinkle in her eye.
He heard the sound of muted laughter and his heart stilled for a moment, until he realized it was one of the maids. Should he issue a moratorium on amusement or banish speech and conversation, the better to encourage spirits to linger at Glengarrow? Perhaps they roamed at night with more freedom than day. Was sunlight too brilliant a backdrop? Was night kinder and softer to the departed?
He did not fear ghosts, but he could not yet visit the suite he’d shared with Amelia.
Margaret stormed down the gravel path to Glengarrow, circled the baroque fountain, and took the broad stone steps up to the double doors. Holding on to the stone balustrade, she was ever mindful of her trailing skirts and the fact the steps were coated with ice.
Anger would not rob her of sense.
She knocked on the door, but it was not readily answered. Nor was her patience rewarded after five minutes. Was the Earl of Linnet hiding? Did he suspect she was here for a confrontation?
She turned and began making her way gingerly down the steps. As her foot hit the last step, she heard the door open.
Sighing heavily, she turned and looked up, expecting to see a servant at the door. Instead, the Earl of Linnet himself greeted her.
“Did you do that on purpose?” she asked. “Wait until I was at the bottom of the steps to open the door? Did you hope I might slip and fall?”
He didn’t respond, only stared at her as if he’d never before seen her.
“Margaret Dalrousie,” she reminded him.
“I know who you are, Miss Dalrousie.”
Once more she began to ascend the steps. At the top, she fixed her sternest look at him, clasped her hands together, and proceeded to upbraid the Earl of Linnet.
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“You can’t do it. I will not let you. You can’t take Tom and Janet from me. I depend on their services, if not their companionship. I will not allow it.”
“Tom and Janet have always been on retainer to Glengarrow. If you can convince them to remain in your cottage, by all means they’re free to do so.”
She frowned at him. “Retainer? You didn’t pay them. There is a word for that, you know. Serf.”
He stepped back and regarded her as he might a rodent that had somehow burrowed itself into his chamber. She fully expected him to flick his wrist and somehow summon a waiting retainer to “deal with her, posthaste.”
Instead, he simply moved his head, a negligible shake, really. A thoroughly dismissive gesture, for all it wasn’t a gesture at all.
She frowned at him. “You know quite well they have a certain loyalty to you.” She took a deep breath, biting back all those unflattering comments she’d dearly love to make. “But is that a reason to steal them out from under my employ?”
“Was I stealing them?” he asked calmly. Too calmly for this impassioned discussion.
According to the Russians, who were emotional in their own right, artists were supposed to be volatile. She’d never believed in the stereotype, but she wished she were possessed of a more histrionic nature at the moment. She might even screech.
“You surely do not need their assistance,” she said, forcing herself to modulate her voice. For good measure, she curved her lips into the semblance of a smile, wondering how sincere it appeared. “I expect you have filled Glengarrow to the brim with servants. What are two more?”
“I haven’t filled Glengarrow to the brim with servants, and if I had, I’d still single out Tom and Janet. Tom looks after Glengarrow, and Janet is my cook.”
“I’ve hired them myself for those very reasons,” she said, annoyed at the reasonableness of his tone and striving to match it. “They’ve lived at my cottage for the past six months,” she added. “Many times they’ve mentioned how much cozier it was than living in…” Her words trailed away. In actuality, Janet and Tom had both commented on how haunted Glengarrow had felt, but those weren’t words she’d repeat to its owner.
“Regardless,” she said, “I hired them. I have diligently paid them as agreed. But at your insistence, they’ll move back to Glengarrow, and I will be left without a staff at all.”
“I haven’t insisted they move back,” he said, leaning his weight against the doorframe.
She wondered, suddenly, if he were ill, then remembered Tom’s words. “He was in a carriage accident, miss. Nearly died he did. Busted up something awful. A metal bit from the roof went right through his stomach, and another nearly sliced off his leg.”
“You should sit down,” she said, annoyed that his coloring was a little gray.
“I should finish this conversation,” he said, his stare pointed and unfriendly. If she knew him better—if she knew him at all, she’d ask why he disliked other people so earnestly. Or was it only her?
“Then they can stay with me?”
He looked up at the doorframe in a decidedly insulting gesture.
What a very irritating creature he was.
“No,” he said, after a long moment of silence. “They cannot stay with you. I’ve asked them to come back to Glengarrow, and they were both enthusiastic about the prospect.”
When she would have spoken, he held up a hand, another insulting gesture and one capable of truly, truly annoying her.
“You can have Tom,” she interjected before he could speak. “And I’ll have Janet.”
He looked startled. “No,” he said. “Janet’s my cook. Do you intend I starve?”
“Are you helpless? Do you even know where the kitchen is?”
He frowned. “Of course I know where the kitchen is. But I’m not as good a cook as Janet,” he said. “Nor am I willing to spare Tom.”
“Then let me have them at night,” she said, her mood suddenly lightened.
He studied her for several moments. “I’ve brought two maids with me from Inverness. You’re welcome to hire either if you wish. I would be more than happy to arrange for some time for you to meet with either or both.”
There was nothing wrong with his suggestion. In fact, it was very charitable, all in all. She had it in her mind to retain Tom and Janet, however, a bit of obstinacy that wasn’t at all charitable or reasonable, perhaps.
“Is there any reason why Tom and Janet must be at Glengarrow both day and night? Do you command your servants to remain within earshot at all hours, in case you require something? I am more than willing to fend for myself during the day. I’m not that messy a creature, after all.” In truth, even though she counseled herself not to leave a trinket or a book or a cup merely lying about, she was constantly surrounded by clutter.
His face stiffened.
She was not handling this at all well. In fact, her behavior was oddly reminiscent of some of the young Russian nobles who’d so annoyed her.
“The fact is, I do not want to remain alone at night.”
That was a bit more information than she wanted to share and probably more than the situation warranted.
“I’m not a fearful creature,” she added, feeling a need to explain herself to this frozen-faced man. “I would just feel more comfortable if someone was with me.”
“Have you considered hiring a companion?”
“Never mind,” she said, biting back a rude comment. “I should have known you’d be incapable of reason.”
He was still standing beside the door, attired informally in white shirt and black trousers. He was tall, his hair too long, and his expression too unfriendly.
Still, she might have painted him once. Women would have certainly called him handsome, but she wasn’t interested in the symmetry of his features. She’d have been careful to capture the look of suffering around his eyes, the lines radiating outward, signs normal on a much older man. His bottom lip was full, the upper lip thinner, and neither looked as if they’d had much experience smiling of late. The line of his jaw was too sharp, set into prominence either by the thinness of his face or the severity of his expression. His forehead was wide with dark brows. Long black eyelashes shadowed eyes the color of sapphires.
But it wasn’t the surprising color of his eyes that made her mourn for the ability to paint the Earl of Linnet. She wanted to test herself, to see if she could replicate his expression, the utter dreadfulness of his pain.
The question intriguing her was very simple—why did the Earl of Linnet, a handsome man, and one reputed to be wealthy, have such a look of anguish in his eyes?
She turned and began to descend the steps.
“They are not my serfs,” he said.
She flattened her right hand on the stone balustrade, and glanced over her shoulder at him.
“Where they spend their nights is not up to me. If they have no objection to drawing two salaries, why should I?”
She would have thanked him then, but he stepped back and abruptly closed the door in her face.
Idiotic man.
Idiotic woman.
Robert stood with his back to the door and closed his eyes. He could still see her there, tendrils of black hair escaping the hood of her outlandish crimson cape.
She was an irritating creature, Miss Margaret Dalrousie.
He really should hire a majordomo, but whom would he supervise? Tom? Not likely. Janet? He could just imagine what Janet’s reaction might be to his importing a majordomo from Inverness. A housekeeper, then, if he couldn’t convince Janet to take on the task. That way, he’d be prevented from having to have anything further to do with Miss Margaret Dalrousie.
She’d taken him by surprise. If he’d been prepared for her appearance, he would have given her a more schooled answer. He was good at the polite response, wasn’t he? He was adept at diplomacy.
Amelia had always been proud of him. She’d always wanted to know what occurred in the halls of Parliament. She’d b
een disappointed to learn it was mostly mundane conversation interspersed with one or two moments of high drama. Still, he’d liked talking to her about his day. And occasionally, if the topic was one that interested her, he’d solicited her opinion.
He looked up at the ceiling and bit back a sigh. He had absolutely no idea if this pain would ever subside. Coming home had been like pulling a bandage off a newly healed wound.
The house was in as good a shape as Tom could keep it, without funds or manpower. He’d asked for an accounting from the shopkeepers in the village and been pleased to find he didn’t owe all that much to them. His mother was a different matter, and he would have to address the issue as quickly as possible.
He’d given the care of Glengarrow to his mother. She’d never before acted a flighty woman with the focus of a gnat. Why now? Why had she allowed the estate to go without money? Thank God his fortune was still intact, but not for her lack of trying to decimate it. He still had to go through the mountains of bills his solicitor had handed him in Inverness. In addition, he’d sent a request to the man for copies of the Bill of Sale for Blackthorne Cottage. That transaction needed a little more investigation—not to mention explanation.
He would have to ensure that the houses in Inverness, Edinburgh, and London had not been as financially neglected as Glengarrow. He doubted, though, that he owed money to any of the servants. Londoners were notoriously stiff-necked and would simply have found employment elsewhere. Nor would most Scots have tolerated being unpaid.
Bless Tom and Janet for their loyalty.
His steward had ensured him the home farms were prosperous. There were sheep grazing on the other side of the mountain, and he was told, the numbers would double come spring if the birthrate was the same as it had been the past two years.
Life was touched with a little bit of magic at Glengarrow, as if this glen with a mountain at its back was an enchanted place. He could almost close his eyes and believe nothing had truly changed. At any moment Amelia would descend the stairs with her radiant smile, and somewhere from above he’d hear Penelope’s excited laughter.
