Deception and Desire (A MacNaughton Castle Romance Book 1)

by Aubrey Wynne

  Pulling away from the door, she straightened her pelisse, smoothed it out over her dress, and adjusted the ribbon above her waist. She was as presentable as possible, considering the circumstances. Moving down the aisle, Fenella looked for a supervisor or someone other than a laborer. An extremely tall man with dark hair, streaks of silver at the temples, and familiar blue eyes stood wagging a finger at the small boy, his face angry. She approached the pair and heard him shout at the child, catching only a few words.

  “Stay away… machine running… get yerself hurt…” His face was stern, and the boy hung his head, studying the planked floor.

  When the man looked up, curiosity replaced the harsh look, presenting quite a handsome face. The stream of shouting ceased.

  Fenella moved forward and held out her hand, which he took as he bent down to give her his ear. “I’m. Miss. Franklin,” she yelled. “Bookkeeper.”

  His bushy black eyebrows drew together, and he leaned closer. “Franklin?”

  She nodded.

  His face creased into a smile, then laughter, and soon he was doubled over. The irritating Scot finally straightened. He wiped at his eyes and motioned her to follow him. They walked past the looms and up a flight of stairs. A door led into another large but quieter room. There were two rows of handlooms, perhaps a dozen in each, she estimated, with women working and chatting. They gave her a curious look and several offered a friendly smile. Across the room, her escort opened another door and ushered her into an office.

  A young man with the same blue eyes and black hair as the giant sat behind a dilapidated desk. One hand clutched at his hair, the other drummed stained fingers against the pages of a ledger. He glanced up, looked down, then jerked his head up again.

  “Good day, miss,” he said, a slow smile turning his mouth. “May I be of assistance?”

  “Yes, I…” Fenella faltered. She wasn’t used to telling Banbury tales and hoped they didn’t ask too many personal questions. “I’m here for the interview. My name is Fenella Franklin.” She held out her hand and refused to pull it back when he only stared at her.

  “That’s the look I was waiting to see,” announced the giant. “A bit of a surprise, eh?” He settled back against the wall, crossing his arms over his expansive chest.

  The man behind the desk stood and finally extended his hand. “My apology, Mrs. Franklin, I’m Ian MacNaughton. Ye caught me by surprise. We thought a Mr. Franklin was applying for the position.”

  “Surprises keep life interesting, do they not?” Fenella wondered if she should correct the address and tell him she was not married. Keep it simple and stick to the truth, her grandmother had said.

  “Aye, it certainly does,” Mr. MacNaughton agreed with a grin. “Would ye like to sit down, Mrs. Franklin?”

  “I’m afraid it’s still Miss Franklin, sir.” Fenella sat down in one of the three uncomfortable-looking chairs.

  “Where would yer mother be, if ye dinna mind me asking? No offense meant, but ye look a wee young.”

  “She’s in England with my sister, and I’m in my twentieth year. I live in Grahamston with my grandmother, Aileen Douglas. She recently sold her bookstore near Glasgow Cross.” Guilt pinched her heart at the information she left out. She’d promised her father no more misrepresentation, but this was only a tiny bit false. “As she’s getting older and widowed, I was sent as her companion.”

  “Yer mother is English?”

  She’d prefer to be, thought Fenella. “She’s half-Scot and married to an English merchant. My grandmother is from Inverness, but my grandfather was from Manchester.”

  Mr. MacNaughton nodded and rummaged through a stack of papers, pulling out her letter. “So ye have experience with textiles and accounts?”

  “Yes, sir. I managed the ledgers for my father. He used to import raw materials, such as cotton and flax, and sell them to gentlemen such as yourself. Then—”

  “Is yer father in Glasgow? He approves of ye applying for a position here?”

  “He’s gone,” she said, looking at her hands folded in her lap, trying to think of what she should say. “These past few—”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Miss Franklin,” he said. “I willna pry into any more of yer business.”

  Fenella met his sympathetic gaze and realized he thought her father was dead. “Oh, no. I meant—”

  He held up a hand. “Yer personal life isna my business.”

  This was far from a harmless clanker. Fenella needed to set him right on this point. “Oh, no. You see, before my father—”

  Mr. MacNaughton stopped her again with a shake of his head. “I apologize, but such a lovely lass entering my office had me a mite curious. I’ll admit, I never considered a woman working for us in this capacity.”

  The last statement distracted her, her temper flaring at the words. She knew it. This man never would have given a female an interview. Fenella clenched her jaw, then arranged her face into a sweet smile.

  “Why?” She wondered if the question would irritate him. The English gentlemen she knew didn’t appreciate having to explain themselves or justify their opinions to the gentler sex. Yet, it galled her that she might be qualified and not considered because she wasn’t a man.

  “Well, er, women work in other parts of the mill but…” His face turned red. “No’ that I have anything against…”

  “You don’t think a woman can keep the books as well as a man?”

  “To be fair, Miss Franklin, most women are not as educated. And if they are, it is because their family has money. And a young woman with money would not be interested in this position.” He leaned forward, the rolled cuffs falling to his elbows as he propped them on the desk. “Which leads to my next question. Tell me, why should I hire ye?”

  “I am somewhat of a wizard with numbers,” she answered brightly. “Give me some figures, random numbers, and I’ll give you their sum.”

  The giant chuckled softly behind her. “Let her have a look at yer books, Ian. See if she can find what ye’ve been missing all morning.”

  That suggestion seemed to please Mr. MacNaughton. He turned the ledger around and pushed it toward her. “I’m off by two pounds and some shillings and canna find where. Here are the orders. These statements should match this column here.” He pointed to a row of numbers and handed her a pencil and paper. “For scratching out the sums.”

  “No, thank you.” Thumbing through the papers, her eyes flicked back and forth between the pile and the column. She set one aside, resumed her attention to the stack, and put another sheet aside. Her anxiety was forgotten; her mind was focused on the task. She studied the writing on the orders, rechecked the columns, and nodded.

  “Here is the problem, Mr. MacNaughton.” She pointed to the two statements. “Poor quality ink will run and spread. This numeral should be a nine, and I believe you added it as a two. The curl at the top is weak and could be interpreted as a two, especially with the slight mark at the bottom, as if the writer was too lazy to pick up his nub.”

  He leaned over the desk and squinted at the sheet. “Perhaps.”

  “And here”—she pointed to another column—“is a misplaced decimal. When you take these errors into consideration, and tally the column again, you’ll find it adds up correctly.”

  Mr. MacNaughton smiled indulgently. “That’s verra interesting, Miss Franklin, but ye’ve no’ done the calculations yet.”

  “Yes, I did. I added them in my head.”

  “In yer head?”

  “Aye, that’s what the lass said,” agreed the giant. She swore there was laughter in his voice. “Quite a talent, eh?”

  “So, if I give ye a sequence of numbers, ye can tell me the total without using anything but yer brain?” asked Mr. MacNaughton, sending a warning scowl to the giant.

  Fenella nodded. “Are you a betting man, Mr. MacNaughton?”

  “Depends,” he said warily.

  “I’ll make you a wager. Recite the numbers from any column in your ledg
er, and I will tell you the sum. Just don’t spout them off too quickly. If I’m not correct every time, I’ll bake you the best mince pie you ever ate.” Well, she was sure her grandmother would.

  “And if ye are successful?”

  “You hire me and I start tomorrow.”

  A snort sounded from the giant. “This is getting interesting.”

  “I’ll take that wager,” agreed Mr. MacNaughton.

  The next fifteen minutes, her prospective employer recited several columns of figures, and she mentally calculated their sum. Then she asked them to give her numbers for subtraction and did the same. The giant stepped forward, picked up the book, and flipped to another page. He called out another string of fifteen numbers, a bit faster this time. Before his eyes had left the page, she had them calculated.

  Mr. MacNaughton sat back in his chair, a bewildered expression on his face. “Aye, right,” was all he said.

  “Weel, Ian, I think we’ve hired a new accountant. One problem solved before ye leave.” The giant stepped back and resumed his place against the wall. “Lachlan will be happy to hear it.”

  “Leave?” asked Fenella. “You’re going somewhere, Mr. MacNaughton?”

  He nodded. “Call me Ian, if ye plan on working for us. There’s more than one Mr. MacNaughton here, so it will be less confusing if ye use our Christian names. Meet Colin MacNaughton, my cousin and manager.”

  She nodded her head at the huge man. “Colin.”

  “Just to be sure, ye say ye want to settle in Glasgow. Does yer mother agree to this?”

  Fenella hesitated. “She will.”

  Ian gave her a long look before giving a short nod. “I believe ye. We’ll see ye tomorrow morning at eight.”

  *

  Lachlan was whistling again as he headed to the tavern. He was late but smelled better, though he doubted his companions would take notice. The streets were gloomy, and he peered up at the seeping walls of the tenements. Dull yellow light shone through windows covered with paper or canvas to keep out the evening chill. Lines were tied across the narrow passage from window to window for drying laundry or passing supplies back and forth between occupants. Muffled voices, an occasional wail of an infant, or the bellow of an adult escaped the cracks of the dilapidated buildings.

  He sidestepped a rat and emerged onto the wet cobblestones of a main street, glistening under the weak light of the moon. The area bordered the less genteel side of town, as his mother put it. There were several shops, moneylender establishments, and taverns along this street. It wasn’t the most dangerous part of town, though any dark alley late at night, without a companion or proper protection, could be hazardous.

  His stomach rumbled as he left behind the odor of sewer and refuse and crowded living conditions. Another block and he reached The Pigeon, a place of conversation and camaraderie for merchants and tradesmen to discuss business or escape a nagging wife. It boasted pretty barmaids and good food. The raucous crowd had just finished a song, tin mugs clanking and ale sloshing onto the planked floor as the fiddler took a bow. A haze of peat smoke hung in the air, obscuring the heavy beams of the low ceiling. Lachlan breathed in the aromas of pipe tobacco and roasting meat. Another grumble from under his plaid.

  Colin waved to him from across the room. Lachlan shouldered through several groups of men and made his way to the less crowded back corner. Ian handed him a bumper of ale that slopped over the rim as the men settled in their chairs.

  “This place never changes.” Lachlan took a long pull from his cup, then waved at a barmaid. When he caught her attention, he pointed at the hearth where several fowl turned on the spit and motioned to the three of them at the table. She nodded in understanding.

  “Why would ye want it to?” asked Colin. “This is our little haven, our Thistle Inn of Glasgow.”

  “Except we have our own beds to sleep in, with fewer bed bugs,” agreed Ian. “And the venison stew isna quite as good.”

  “Nor the barmaid,” added Lachlan. With that, they raised a dram of whisky to The Pigeon, bonnie barmaids, and the Thistle Inn. “May we never be hungry, lonely, or without humor.”

  With a plate of tatties and neeps before them, hot bread and a roasted bird in the center to share, the men discussed business. It was decided that Colin would continue overseeing the workers. Lachlan and Ian would share the responsibility of supervising the daily business transactions of the mill. Any major decisions were made jointly by the MacNaughtons and their English cousin and partner, Gideon, the present Earl of Stanfeld.

  “Speaking of decisions, what happened with the accountant today?” asked Lachlan.

  Ian and Colin shared a conspiratorial grin.

  “Come out with it, ye dunderheads. I assume it went well, then?”

  “Weel, it was quite an interesting interview,” hinted Colin.

  “Franklin is female,” Ian explained. “A very young and pretty female with a head for numbers.”

  “She’s like a wizard with sums. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Colin shook his head. “She’s got a gift, Lachlan. A true gift.”

  “Aye, Colin was in her pocket before she walked out the door,” agreed Ian.

  The woman he’d encountered earlier that day came to mind. Sweet Mary, had he… “What did she look like?” Dread turned his half-digested meal to stone in his stomach. His brother would not be happy with him.

  “Blonde, like flax bleached by the sun,” murmured Colin, “and clear gray eyes—”

  Lachlan let out a moan and leaned against the chair, his head falling back with his palms over his eyes.

  “What is it? A bad piece of meat?” asked Colin.

  “Nay, I think it’s something else.” Ian’s eyes narrowed as he studied his brother. “What did ye do, Lachy? Do ye ken this lass?”

  Lachlan winced at the sound of his nickname. It had always been a bit of a pun, starting when he’d coaxed his first kiss from a pretty villager.

  Lachy was lucky with the womenfolk.

  “I may have met her as I left the mill this afternoon.” Heat flooded his face as the memory of those soft, pliant lips rushed back, those eyes turning ashen with desire as she blinked from their kiss. “She ran into me, literally. Almost knocked herself out, head down against the rain. So, I scooped her up before she hit the pavement.”

  Colin snorted. “Since ye’re such a gentleman and all.”

  “Aye, my mother taught me well,” he agreed, a grin replacing the grimace.

  “Ye mean our grandfather. Ye’ve inherited his silver tongue.” Ian clamped a palm to his forehead. “Go on, tell us the worst of it.”

  “Weel, I was holding her close, ye see, and a drop of rain on her upper lip caught my eye…”

  “Ye kissed her?” Ian scrubbed his face with his hands and shook his head. Colin choked on his ale then let out a wet guffaw, sending a spray over the table.

  “I didna ken who she was. What would ye have done in my place? A lovely lass with pouty lips, a warm pliant body next to yers in the chilly rain—”

  “I would have set her on her feet, ye oaf, no’ seduce her on a busy thoroughfare in front of our business.” Ian slammed a fist on the table, the platters clattering against the wood. “Ye’ll have to fix this, Lachlan.”

  He nodded, ignoring Colin’s chuckle. “I will, I give ye my word.”

  “And by fixing, I dinna mean seducing her.” Ian pointed a finger at him. “I mean it, Lachy. No fumbling under her skirts and losing a good accountant.”

  “I’ll apologize the first chance I have and set it all right,” Lachlan grumbled, tamping down his irritation. “I dinna fumble… ye make me sound like a lecher.”

  Ian blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, Brother. I’m a bit cranky from being away from home so long. I dinna want anything to keep us from our new arrangement.”

  Lachlan’s mind was whirling. That lovely lass would be working in close quarters with him. By the saints, he was either cursed or truly lucky. “What’s her name? Is she marrie
d?”

  “Fenella Franklin. No. Her father was English, rest his soul, and her mother half-Scot.” Ian leaned forward on his elbows. “And she can add a column of numbers in her head faster than ye can toss back a dram of whisky.”

  “I tell ye, it almost made my blood hot just watching her.” Colin sat back and folded his arms across his broad chest, his blue eyes intent on Lachlan. “On that subject, I do believe ye blushed like a lass when ye mentioned the kiss, Lachy.”

  “She lives here in Glasgow, then?” he asked, ignoring the comment.

  “Aye, with her elderly grandmother. Her mother and sister are in England.” Colin grinned. “If something did come of it, ye could marry her and have an accountant in the family. Save us a bit of money, eh?”

  “He needs to avoid the lass, no’ pursue her.” Ian shot Colin a warning look. “Dinna give him any ideas.”

  Too late, thought Lachlan.

  Fenella. A fitting name for the angelic blonde that had invaded his dreams all afternoon. In Gaelic, the name meant white or fair shoulders. The thought of her bare porcelain skin, warm and supple beneath his touch, sent a rumble through his core.

  He returned Colin’s grin. This next month would prove to be his saving grace or his undoing. Either way, it would be much more entertaining than dealing with the likes of a spiteful Craigg and stinking sheep.

  Chapter Five

  Bright Beginnings

  Fenella burst into the parlor, her light pelisse flowing behind her and scattering papers across the side table. “I did it, Grandmama. Meet the accountant for MacNaughton Textile Mill.” She beamed and gave a deep curtsy.

  Her grandmother set down her needlework and removed her spectacles, her brown eyes sparkling with questions. “I kent ye’d do well, lass. Now sit down and tell me every detail.”

  Fenella plopped down on the settee and recounted the afternoon, ending with the amazement on the men’s faces when she was able to mentally add a column of numbers. Repeatedly. “First they looked at me as if I had wings and a horn growing from my head. Then it was as if I had been sent to them from Heaven.”