Shona glanced at the other occupant. Not only did the carriage seem to belong to another world, but so did the Englishman. He had a manner that bespoke generations of breeding, completely at ease with his own power and wealth. His tall frame filled the cabin, and his long legs extended out almost to the opposite seat. He was immensely attractive … for a Sassenach. Shona edged past his lap and sat opposite him, while Willow took her place beside her sister, their gloved hands clasped nervously in their laps.
The Englishman smiled at Willow. “So you’re the one that Mr. Findlay wouldn’t part with. I can certainly see why.”
Willow smiled sheepishly, a blush whispering across her cheeks. Shona’s protective instincts immediately became alert. To Shona, Willow looked a mess—her hair was uncombed, she was at the pinnacle of her cold, and her clean pinafore was already smudged. But to a man, she probably looked as beautifully rumpled as if she had just risen from a lover’s bed.
“Your name is Willow?”
“Aye, my lord. Willow Slayter, at yer service.”
“What do you do for Mr. Findlay?”
Willow glanced up from her downcast head, and shrugged. “Whatever’s required, my lord. Milk the cows, see to the chickens, mend the clothes, do the washing—”
“Do you have children?”
Color flooded her face. “No, my lord. I’m a maiden.”
“I see,” he said, a smile touching his eyes.
“But I love children. When the women of t’other farms would give birth, Iona would ask me to look after the wee ones while the mums got their strength back. I love seeing to bairns.”
“Do you?” he replied, his interest even keener. “In that case, I have a special position I think you might be able to assume.”
The words “dirty sod” flashed through Shona’s mind. “And just what position would ye be talking aboot?”
The Englishman flashed a puzzled glance at Shona. “I have an infant son—a two-year-old—and his nursemaid fell ill midway on the journey from London. She simply couldn’t continue, so I had to put her on a coach back home. Consequently, I must engage a nursemaid to look after the boy. Perhaps you, Willow, might be able to fill that station.”
Willow’s face brightened. “I’d love to, my lord!”
The Englishman asked Willow a barrage of questions as to her health, cleanliness, morality, temperance, habits, and specific experience with children. She answered each question with self-effacing candor and meek respect.
The Englishman turned to his factor. “I think Miss Slayter here can serve as Eric’s nursemaid—on a trial basis, of course. Hartopp, ask the housekeeper to get adequate clothes for Miss Slayter. She’ll also need to be given accommodations in the nursery. You’ll ask Mrs. Docherty to see to that as well, won’t you?”
Mr. Hartopp scribbled into his ledger. “Of course, sir.”
Shona became immediately suspicious. “And where is this nursery?”
His brows drew together. “On the uppermost floor. Why do you ask?”
“Will yer bedchamber be adjoining hers?”
“Shona!” Willow admonished.
The Englishman’s lips pursed. “Are you implying that I’m arranging a sordid dalliance with your sister?”
She straightened. “I’ve a right to know what yer intentions are toward her.”
Mr. Hartopp came to his employer’s defense. “Young woman, ye’re speaking to a gentleman and the laird of the estate. If he—”
The Englishman raised his hand and Mr. Hartopp stopped speaking. He leaned forward and brought his face to within inches of hers. “In the first place, I do not care for being upbraided by a servant, however well intentioned it may be. In the second place, if you are accusing me of desiring to take liberties with innocent maids, you have much still to learn about me. And finally, if I were to take liberties with anyone in my household, there is nothing you could do to stop me. So I will thank you to remember your place, for if you cannot control your impudent tongue, I will send you—and only you—back to that farm.”
He retracted his imposing frame back to his chair, and Shona could finally breathe again. His threat had winded her, robbing her of speech. During their brief acquaintance, he had accurately discerned what her greatest fear was—to be separated from her twin sister—and he knew precisely how to use that weakness to his own advantage. She now understood that although the Englishman was well groomed and genteel, he was infinitely more dangerous than she had initially thought him. Ownership of the sisters had passed hands from Hume to the Englishman, but she was no longer certain that it was a good thing. A lamb never fared better at the second place it went to.
No one spoke during the remainder of the trip. Shona gazed out the window, hands in her lap, her left hand instinctively covering the right. The familiar woods near Hume’s property faded behind them, and the carriage rumbled into unfamiliar terrain as it neared Ballencrieff House. Shona had seen the house only once or twice—and only from afar—because Iona had warned them both to stay clear of the “wicked laird of Ballencrieff.” Even after that man’s death, unmourned by everyone she knew, she still kept her distance. As she was fond of saying, she had lost nothing on the estate, and even if she had, it was not worth going back for.
Now the carriage turned onto the very property she had avoided. The wheels crunched on the gravel in front of a large mansion that seemed about three hundred years old. The one-time fortress seemed to make an effort to be welcoming and warm, but failed utterly. The beige stone walls rose high into the sky, dwarfing the leafy woods that receded from it. The walls were studded with narrow windows, more brick than glass. The façade was crowned by a crenellated wall and several small, sharp turrets, looking for all the world like a row of fangs in the mouth of a large beast.
The Englishman jumped off, extending himself to his full height.
“Hartopp, see to Miss Slayter’s clothing. Then have her report to me in the study for inspection. Also, tell Mrs. Docherty I got her her very first dairymaid. She can tell Cook to expect fresh milk, cream, and butter soon. And tell her to prepare a room in the servants’ quarters for the other Miss Slayter.”
The other Miss Slayter. A flicker of jealousy had already been burning inside Shona, but it flared at his dismissive attitude. Despite his authority, she would make the Englishman respect her. As she always said, start as you mean to go.
“In the first place, I am not ‘the other Miss Slayter.’ You can call me Miss Slayter, or by my given name, which is Shona. And in the second place, my sister’s place is with me. We live together, we work together, we stay together.”
It was the last thing in the world she expected him to do. The Englishman tilted back his head and laughed.
“Clearly, you’ve been accustomed to a great deal more latitude than I am prepared to give you. So let me paint you a picture of what your life is about to become. I am the master, and you are the apprentice. You belong to me now. On this estate, I am the supreme and final authority. If from my lips you hear that I want you to work in the dairy, then that is precisely what you can expect to do. And if your sister is wanted in the nursery, then that is where she will serve. I demand swift and absolute obedience, and anything less is blatant disobedience. The sooner you learn that fact, the more inclined I will be to hearing your requested privileges.” He dipped his head curtly. “Shona.”
Despite his admonishment, she enjoyed hearing her name on his lips. Perhaps it was his English accent, which softened her name into something that sounded elegant and romantic. Or maybe it was that she had won some measure of his respect, as he had done precisely as she had asked him to do. But she greatly suspected it was the way his mouth curled into a slight smile as he looked her in the face.
“What shall I call you?” she asked softly.
An invisible smile touched his eyes. “You may call me Master.”
A dog bounded out from the open front door of the house, a white English pointer with blue-black spots and pend
ant ears that flapped in the air as he ran toward the Englishman.
The man’s face transformed into something she had not yet recognized. He smiled widely, revealing straight white teeth, and his eyes became playful crescents. The dog’s tail whipped side to side as he reared up and pushed his forepaws into the Englishman’s abdomen. The Englishman grunted, laughing at the dog’s squealing salutation.
“Good to see you, too, Dexter!” The Englishman ruffled the dog’s ears with both hands. The dog jumped higher, trying to lick the man’s face, but not quite reaching it.
Shona took in the joy that man and dog felt in each other’s presence. Aye, she liked seeing the Englishman contented. Aye, she relished seeing the happiness he brought to the dog. But if the Englishman thought she was going to call him Master and lick his hands like his dog, he was in for an unpleasant shock.
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“Hoo soo!”
Baby Eric pointed a chubby finger at a spot on the nursery wall. The late morning sun was streaming in through the window behind him, sparking golden streaks in his soft brown curls. He turned surprised eyes upon Willow, who grinned excitedly.
“That’s right, sweeting. That’s yer shadow!”
He revealed tiny teeth as he smiled at the flowered wallpaper. Wildly, he waved his arms over his head, squealing loudly at the shadow, which mirrored his every move.
Stewart cringed at the shrill sound, but returned a grin to Willow. “The country air is certainly doing wonders for his lungs. Only two years old and he can already make the furniture rattle.”
Willow chuckled, sitting on the nursery settee. “He’s a good lad. So happy, he is. He’s only cried once today, and ’twas only because of the medicine he had to take.”
Eric stomped his feet on the floor in an attempt to dislodge his shadow. It wasn’t working.
“What about you, Willow?” Lifting his myrtle-green coattails, Stewart sat down beside her. “Are you happy here?”
“Oh, aye, Mr. MacEwan! I love it here. ’Course, I miss Miles’ End Farm. And the Findlays. They’re good folk, always kind to me and Shona. But ye and yer brother have been very kind to us, too.” Her cheeks pinked.
“Tosh. It’s hardly an effort. But if there’s one thing you can credit us with, it is being able to discern who the good prospects are … er, I mean servants.” He took a deep breath, and sunlight flashed off his gold brocade waistcoat. “Tell me, is there a gentleman waiting for you somewhere? A sweetheart or a suitor?”
“Oh, no, sir!” A hand flew to the front of her blue nursemaid’s gown. “I would never keep a gentleman whilst I was made responsible for the bairn. I said as much to the laird. Ye must believe that.”
Stewart’s dimples deepened as he inched closer on the settee. “Of course I do. I just wanted to put my own mind at ease.”
“One day, God willing, I’ll marry. But never whilst I’m working here. Not without the master’s permission.”
Surreptitiously, Stewart took a whiff from her hair when her attention was diverted to the child. “Surely a woman such as yourself is deserving of some diversion. It would be a pity to waste all that … youth. Perhaps I might be able to convince you to grant me a tour of this lovely countryside.”
“I thought ye hailed from Ballencrieff?”
He threw an arm on the back of the settee behind Willow. “I’m afraid not. It’s Conall who was born here. In fact, this is my first visit to Scotland. And I’m already in love with the beauteous scenery of your country.” As Willow watched the child, his eyes traveled down the front of her dress. “The mounded hills … the firm slopes … the bountiful natural beauty … A man could indulge himself all day long on your gorgeous splendors.”
A figure appeared in the doorway. Conall MacEwan knocked on the open door. Willow rose respectfully—to Stewart’s great annoyance.
“Pa-paa!” shrieked Eric, and raised his arms to his father. A toothy smile spread across Conall’s face as he scooped Eric up and wedged him onto his arm.
“How’s my little soldier?” he asked the boy.
Eric pointed to the wall and said, “Hoo soo.”
He chuckled. “Hoo soo? Remarkable. Has he been a good boy, Willow?”
“The very best, sir,” she answered. “He ate all his porridge in the morning, and a big glass of fresh milk.”
“Excellent. Did you administer the tonic I gave you?”
“Aye, sir. I gave it to him in a spoon, but he spit it out. So I mixed it into some honeyed pears, and he gobbled it right up.”
“Well done.” He squeezed the boy tightly. “You’re going to grow up big and strong!”
“Hoo soo!” said the boy.
Willow laughed. “He’s just discovered his own shadow. Seems he’s already given it a name.”
Conall’s eyes crinkled. “I’d like to take him out to the garden for lunch. Will you see to it that he’s warmly dressed?”
“’Course, sir.”
Conall handed the child to Willow. “Stewart, what, may I ask, are you doing here?”
He threw innocent hands into the air. “Can’t a man visit his own nephew?”
Conall flashed him an irritated look. “May I have a word? In private?”
“Oh, dear,” replied Stewart. “You’re going to say something dreadfully sensible, aren’t you?”
Conall turned his back and walked out the door.
Once Stewart joined him in the hall, Conall squared up on his shorter brother. “What do you think you’re playing at?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play coy with me. I heard you chatting up Willow,” he yelled under his breath.
“That’s what healthy men do, Conall. They talk to beautiful women.”
“Are you sure you were using words? Because it seemed to me your penis was doing all the talking.”
Stewart stiffened. “All right, all right,” he muttered. “There’s no need to get cocky.”
“That’s it, Stewart. I’m fed up with your profligate ways. Father didn’t mind rescuing you from sticky messes with your lovers, but I do not intend to be so magnanimous. If you get yourself into trouble, you’ll have to get yourself out of it.”
Stewart’s lips thinned. “No one’s asked for your help, Conall.”
“And we shall keep it that way. I want you to choose a wife and settle down.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’m too young for the cosh.”
“Young? You’re a hairsbreadth from thirty!”
Stewart’s face blanched and he swiftly shut the nursery door. “What are you trying to do … ruin my chances with that one in there?”
Conall’s eyes widened. “For goodness’ sake, Stewart, she’s a servant!”
“Ha! If that isn’t the donkey making fun of the rabbit’s ears! I’ve seen the way you look at Shona. You’re practically drooling after her.”
He pursed his lips. “At least I’m not trying to seduce her. I mean, I enjoy the odd flirtation occasionally, but—”
Stewart’s eyebrows drew together. “Really, Conall? Judging from your quasi-monastic lifestyle, I didn’t know you enjoyed anything occasionally.”
“Don’t stray from the point of this conversation. Trying to defile and deprave that innocent girl … I’m not having it!”
“Unfortunately, I’m not having it, either. Not unless you stop bounding in upon me like a jealous husband.”
Conall held up a cautioning finger. “I want an end to your escapades. I can’t afford to support a bachelor whose only expertise centers around spending money and slaking his lust. Everything has changed, and the faster you embrace that, the better off you’ll be. I had no intention of being the laird of anything, but I gave up my practice and a profession I slaved over to heal this estate. I’ve accepted the bonds of duty, and so shall you. You’ve got two cho
ices. Get a wife, or get off my estate.”
Conall shouldered past him and down the stairs, leaving the air pulsing with his ultimatum.
* * *
Once again, Stewart fumed with his sheer powerlessness. Second to all, master of none—his entire life was just one kick to the groin after another. Stewart MacEwan, second son of a second son. He may as well be a Gypsy rat catcher.
Conall. His brother had always been the favored one. Firstborn, first at school, first to inherit. First, first, first. Conall was brighter, bigger, and better at everything. There was so little that Stewart was even permitted to do, let alone skilled to do. He wasn’t nearly as intelligent as Conall, so being a brilliant doctor was out. Join the clergy? Stewart could only be a man of the cloth so long as the cloth in question was a bed sheet.
He trudged to the library and poured himself a drink. So what if he was a profligate? So what if he was a drinker? At least he was good at something.
Somewhere behind him, someone cleared his throat. If it was Conall prepared to chastise him for drinking in the morning, he’d send him to damnation. Stewart spun around.
Bannerman waited patiently at attention, holding a silver salver. “Pardon me, sir, but this urgent letter just arrived for you by special messenger. The messenger will attend your reply.”
Stewart’s brows drew together as he tore apart the wax seal and unfolded the lettersheet. His eyes went from the emblem at the top of the page to the signature at the bottom. Then he read the elegant but determined script.
His hand flew to his mouth, as the blood drained from his face. “Oh, dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.”
“Alarming news, sir?”
“Yes. That is, no. Bannerman, do me a great service. Tell no one about this letter. Least of all my brother. I’ll speak my reply to the messenger directly.”
Unflappable as ever, Bannerman gave a curt nod. “If you say so, sir.”
Stewart stared at the letter, his eyes glassing over. His own words burned acid into his gut. Stewart had gotten himself into a world of trouble, and he had no idea how to get himself out of it. How could he ask Conall for help now?
Lessons in Loving a Laird Page 3
