A Scot to the Heart

by Caroline Linden

  Ilsa only wished she could be as resolute.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drew had screwed his courage to the sticking point and was poring over the estate ledgers when his mother tapped at the library door.

  “There you are, Andrew. May I come in?”

  He looked up from a list of sheep shearing expenses. “Did you not want to go into Perth?”

  After two days of rain, everyone else had been eager to get out of the house. They’d left for town some time ago—so that Ilsa could obtain her new bonnet as prize for winning the maze, Bella had declared. Drew suspected his sisters were also determined to come home with new bonnets of their own. He would have liked to go with them, but he could put off inspecting the ledgers no longer.

  His mother smiled. “No. A bit of quiet is welcome. My ears are still ringing from yesterday.”

  Drew laughed. Winnie had organized a scavenger hunt about the house, with much running and screams of laughter and slamming of doors.

  “Do you mind if I take my tea in here? I’ve brought biscuits and sandwiches.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” he said with a wink, “since you brought a bribe.”

  “Bringing food has never served me ill, with you or with your father.”

  His mother settled herself in the chair by the window next to a tea tray carried in by Mrs. Watkins, and picked up her embroidery. The room was silent, save only the occasional clink of china.

  Drew had never been especially fond of mathematics, and even less fond of bookkeeping. He made himself check the sums on a few pages, but everything looked in good order. Stormont Palace was as Mr. Edwards had hoped: a handsome property, well-kept and prosperous. If the duke wanted to sell it, he would have no trouble.

  If it were still a ducal property when Drew inherited, on the other hand . . . It was becoming harder and harder not to plan as if it would be his. He’d grown attached to the place already.

  When he finished with the ledger, he stretched his arms and rolled his head from side to side to ease the muscles in his back. He was not accustomed to sitting at a desk all day; that never happened in the army, where he was more likely to be sent out to repair roads or restore order to a restive village. At Carlyle Castle he’d been kept busy touring the estate, absorbing the duchess’s lectures on the dukedom, and learning the scope of the duke’s investments and obligations from Edwards. In Edinburgh, he’d been on holiday, with no ledgers in sight.

  He would have to get used to more intellectual exercise. Edwards had hammered it into him that the dukedom was enormous, and even with estate agents and bailiffs and secretaries, the ultimate responsibility would fall on his shoulders. He remembered Ilsa’s words—good fortune that most men only dream of—and ruefully thought that most men wouldn’t dream of such fortune if they knew how much arithmetic was required.

  “You look relieved,” said his mother in amusement.

  Drew opened his eyes and grinned at her. “Aye. I outlasted the ledgers.”

  She laughed. “Well done.”

  He jumped up and came around the desk, rubbing his hands in anticipation. Without a word she passed him a plate of biscuits.

  “How does the estate look?” Louisa asked.

  He polished off his first macaroon with a happy sigh. “Excellent, as far as I can tell.”

  “It’s remarkably lovely. I cannot imagine why the duke never visits.”

  Drew had told his family the duke was not well, but not much more. “I doubt he can travel. I understand he was kicked by a horse some thirty years ago.” He tapped his temple, right where the Carlyle groom had reported the hooves had struck the duke. “Here, in the head. They said he did not wake for almost a week, and was despaired of ever waking again, but when he did, his mind was not whole.”

  No one at Carlyle would speak freely about it. Miss Kirkpatrick, the duchess’s companion, said His Grace was kind and gentle, but tired very easily. The duchess said he was unwell and not to be disturbed. Edwards had been the most forthcoming, admitting that all estate decisions had to be made by the duchess because the duke was unable.

  If any ill were to befall the duchess, the estate would be rudderless. Edwards had used that as a cudgel to persuade Drew to accelerate his separation from the army and his move to England, even though it might be years before he inherited.

  “I don’t think the duke has done much of anything since then,” he went on, picking over the biscuits. The Stormont cook made the most delicious macaroons. “In all the weeks I spent at the castle I never even saw him.”

  “Goodness.” Louisa paused in her sewing. “No wonder the duchess . . .”

  “The duchess?” Drew repeated when his mother fell silent. “That woman could confront a full regiment charging at her and send them all fleeing for the hills.”

  “No doubt.” She smiled wryly. “What I thought was, no wonder the duchess wishes to have you close at hand. She’s lost all of her children, in truth if not in deed, and now has no one to whom to pass the estate.”

  That was true. Sobered, Drew nodded. The duchess was more fearsome than any general, but she had suffered terrible loss.

  “The poor woman,” added his mother softly. “I know you are more than worthy of the title, but I hope you will always remember the debt you owe Her Grace.”

  Drew looked up from the macaroons in surprise. “Debt?”

  Louisa resumed stitching. “She could have done nothing, and simply waited until the duke dies. No one but God knows when that might be, and you are no near relation of hers. Instead she troubled herself to send for you, offering you an income and assistance preparing you for the inheritance. I gather she is not the sweetest of ladies, but in her position . . .” She clucked in sympathy. “I regret my earlier feelings against her.”

  Drew cleared his throat. “I have no hard feelings against the duchess. I’m deeply grateful to her. But I cannot overlook how very intimidating she is.”

  His mother gave him a stern look but ruined it by smiling a moment later. “Nor should you! It keeps a man on his toes, that!”

  He laughed and took a sandwich, having finished the macaroons.

  “I heard something very intriguing,” remarked his mother, drawing her needle and silk through the cloth. “About you.”

  “Good or bad?” he asked lightly.

  She smiled. “I don’t know yet. I heard that you kissed Mrs. Ramsay in the maze.”

  He froze.

  “And that she kissed you back, with evident pleasure.” She snipped her thread and looked at him. “Was I told truly?”

  He tried not to squirm in his chair, feeling like a boy again. “Yes.”

  “Do you like this woman, Andrew?”

  Beyond reason. “She’s charming,” he muttered, not facing her.

  His mother nodded. “I have no doubt the subject of a bride was discussed at Carlyle Castle.”

  Here Drew went quiet and still. Of course it had been—more than once. It was an important matter.

  When he tried to imagine the wife Her Grace would prefer for him, his brain conjured a pale, dignified lady with a cool smile, who would send baskets to the poor and help set the fashions in London and sleep in her own bedchamber, the door between them respectably closed.

  Perhaps that’s who he needed as his wife—a woman who would set a good example and restrain his wilder impulses. It would be his duty to be respectable and responsible, sober and serious. Every glimpse he’d got of the ducal life showed little of fun or freedom to do as he pleased, and much like bookkeeping, he’d supposed he would get used to it.

  Then Ilsa Ramsay had blazed into his life, like a comet through a midnight sky, fascinating and attracting him like no other woman ever had—perhaps ever would. But every time he hinted at anything beyond flirtation, she skittered backward. Her kiss was full of passion and joy, but her eyes held shadows he couldn’t penetrate.

  He’d told himself to let it happen, or not, naturally. He’d promised not to press her. An
d yet, every time he saw her, something inside him reacted helplessly—like an iron nail to a magnet. He didn’t know what to do, half-afraid of spoiling whatever might be growing between them and half-afraid that it would wither away if he did nothing.

  “Your sisters like Mrs. Ramsay very much,” remarked his mother when he took another sandwich instead of replying.

  “But you don’t,” he murmured.

  Her hands stilled. “It’s not that,” she said carefully. “She is lovely and polite, and has been kind and generous to the girls. But . . .” She shook her head. “She’s had an odd life.”

  He shouldn’t pry; it wasn’t his business; if there was anything he ought to know, Ilsa should be the one to tell him. “What do you mean?” he still heard himself ask.

  “Her father is gregarious and charming, known to all Edinburgh, but she never made her debut. I suspect her aunt, Miss Fletcher, kept the young lady under tight supervision, which is unremarkable. But then she married, quite privately, and still was reclusive. I hardly ever heard her name until Agnes met her in a bookshop and they became friendly. But in the last few months . . .” A little frown wrinkled Louisa’s brow. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to think.”

  Mad, eccentric, wild . . . everyone in Edinburgh says so, whispered Ilsa’s voice in his memory. She’d tried to make light of it but he’d heard the thread of pique. “What do you think changed her?”

  “That disgraceful business with Malcolm Ramsay.” His mother’s face set in disapproving lines. “A duel! The Englishman who shot him was loud and uncouth, and the trial—” She stabbed the needle forcefully into her cloth. “I do sympathize with Mrs. Ramsay for enduring that nightmare. I only wonder if it didn’t . . . unsettle her.”

  Drew had been gleaning scraps of information about Ilsa, and the picture they formed made his heart ache. A lonely childhood, raised by a strict aunt while her father worked. More tutors and instructors than friends. A husband who wouldn’t allow her to ride, even though she relished it.

  He studied the sandwich he’d been holding for several minutes now. Nothing about Ilsa suggested she was deranged or unstable—that’s what his mother meant by unsettled. “What was her husband like?” he asked abruptly.

  “An arrogant fool,” declared his mother. “A gambler and a scoundrel. Nothing reclusive or retiring about him! He flirted once with Agnes and I sent him off with a flea in his ear. I’d not have let him near any of your sisters.” Drew glanced at her, startled. “Others saw him more favorably, I suppose,” added Louisa self-consciously. “He was handsome and he was rich.”

  But not a kind husband. Ramsay didn’t allow Ilsa to go see the balloonist.

  “How do you think she’s . . . unsettled?”

  This time his mother took her time replying. “It’s the marked swing from quiet and retiring to bold and independent that startles me. Who is her true self? I wonder if she knows. Some people never can decide and settle down to be happy. They are always seeking something, never satisfied, even if they don’t know what would satisfy them.”

  Drew thought of a woman who kissed a stranger in an oyster cellar, kept a pet pony in her house, and painted her drawing room to look like Calton Hill. He remembered her open joy when they went riding, and her longing to glide on the wind like a hawk. She didn’t seem unsettled to him, but rather . . . adventurous. Open in her enthusiasms and decidedly not reclusive. It was hard to believe a solitary, secluded life had been entirely her choice.

  “She’s not unstable,” he said, very softly. “And I do like her.”

  His mother sewed in silence for several minutes. “Does she know how much?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I only advise you to be clear about your intentions with a lady—any lady,” she added.

  That would be easier if he knew what his intentions were. Drew ate the last of the sandwiches.

  “And be cautious,” Louisa added gently. “It is easy to get your heart broken. Yes, even those of grown men who have been soldiers can be broken.” Her eyes twinkled at his instinctive frown. “Not only should you be certain of your own feelings, you should know how she might receive them. You have a different future before you now, and you must choose a suitable wife carefully and deliberately.”

  “I only meant to evaluate Stormont Palace, not choose a bride.” He jumped to his feet, ready to escape the conversation. “Are there more macaroons in the kitchen? I seem to have eaten all of these and left none for you.”

  She gave him a look of reproof. “Yes. But think on what I said.”

  He smiled at her on his way out the door. “Always, Mother.” And fled the room, wishing he could so easily escape the nagging question, inside his own head, about his intentions and his heart.

  Perth was a picturesque town set in a stunningly beautiful landscape on the River Tay. They had driven through it on their way to Stormont and the younger ladies were eager to return.

  Ilsa knew that was because they’d spied a neat little millinery shop, with stylish bonnets in the window, but she was easily persuaded to go along. Winnie had read in Pennant’s Tour that there were some handsome walks and a beautiful park. Ilsa had missed her long walks on Calton Hill with Robert, and fancied a ramble after the St. James ladies shopped.

  She did have to choose a hat, though. Bella refused to allow her to decline, and the shop owner didn’t help by producing a hat that was unquestionably beautiful, a broad-brimmed straw hat with a crimson ribbon and a darling spray of miniature white roses. Then Mr. Duncan led the party to a cozy inn, where they had tea and cakes.

  Mr. Kincaid and Mr. Monteith declared an interest in seeing Gowrie House, site of the infamous conspiracy, while everyone else walked in the park. Agnes took the lead, with—after a long moment of hesitation—Mr. Duncan. Ilsa was left to stroll with Bella and Winnie, who were in raptures over Ilsa’s new hat, Perth, and the shawl and gloves Bella had purchased as well as Winnie’s new bonnet. The sunshine and exercise did wonders for Ilsa’s humor, and by the time they returned to Stormont Palace she was in a buoyant mood.

  She had barely stowed the hatbox in her room when Bella tapped at her door. “Come with me,” she whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Winnie and I have been dying to talk to you.”

  “We just spent all day together,” she pointed out.

  Bella rolled her eyes. “We wanted to talk privately.”

  Oh dear. She’d been waiting for the axe to fall on that kiss Winnie had seen. “Oh? Why?”

  “Nothing naughty! Just . . . private.”

  Ilsa hesitated. “I’m not going down to the cellars in search of a ghost.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” She motioned with her hand. “Please. We would like your advice.”

  Being invited into a secret sister conference was too much to resist. She followed Bella down the hall to the room she and Winnie shared.

  At their entrance, Winnie looked up from her position, seated on the floor. “Come see, Ilsa!” she whispered eagerly.

  She realized why when she came into the room, and Winnie tugged aside a fold of her skirt to reveal a black kitten with bright green eyes, small enough to hold in one hand. Bella shut the door and hurried to drop down beside her sister.

  “Who is this?” Ilsa asked in delight as the little animal pounced on a loose thread from her hem. She sank onto a cushion Bella provided.

  “We call him Cyrus,” said Winnie, dangling a bit of yarn in front of the kitten, causing him to leap about in a frenzy. “He’s from the barn but his mama died, and Mrs. Watkins is feeding him in the kitchen.”

  “We plan to smuggle him home,” said Bella, scratching the kitten’s head. “Isn’t he darling?”

  “He is.” Ilsa smiled as Cyrus tried to lope off with Winnie’s string in his teeth, only to tumble over Bella’s foot and be scooped back into the center. “Is this the advice you need? I recommend a hatbox and a bribe to your maid, and a very solemn expression as you assure your mother you�
��re not up to mischief.”

  Winnie shook her head, grinning. “Why do you think we had to go into Perth? Now we have the hatbox. If that doesn’t work, Alex has offered to smuggle him home for us in his baggage.”

  “Has he?”

  “He’s a great one,” replied Winnie. “I’m so glad Drew invited him.” She made a face at Ilsa’s surprised look. “We’ve known Alex Kincaid for years. The Kincaids used to live near us, and he and Drew were at school together. They still play golf.”

  “And won’t let us play with them!” Bella sounded outraged.

  Ilsa laughed. A moth had flown in the window and the kitten spotted it; he began leaping about, trying to catch it. Bella wiggled the bit of yarn again, and he instantly abandoned the moth to pounce.

  “We wanted to ask your advice on a”—Winnie glanced at her sister—“a delicate subject.”

  Bella plunked the kitten into her lap, where he rolled into a ball and let her stroke under his chin. “Very delicate. It concerns . . . a family member of ours.”

  Ilsa tensed very slightly. “Does it? I’m not sure—”

  “But it’s about marriage, and you’ve been married, and we’ve not,” said Winnie in a rush. “And we can’t ask Mama, obviously, because she would tell us not to interfere—”

  “That’s good advice,” murmured Ilsa.

  Bella made a face. “Listen before you advise! Please, Ilsa?” She offered the kitten, smiling brightly.

  Ilsa took the ball of black fur in both hands. Cyrus was purring loudly, and when she settled him in her lap he began flexing his tiny paws against her stomach. His eyes closed and a little pink tongue poked out of his mouth. She couldn’t help smiling. “All right. What is the problem?”

  “Our—our family member has formed an attachment. The trouble is, it’s not going well,” said Bella, shooting little glances at her sister every few words. “We are not sure why, as our family member has not seen fit to confide in either of us, even though we both devoutly want nothing but their happiness.”

  I wonder why not, thought Ilsa. These two were interfering busybodies.