Once a Wallflower, Always a Wallflower (The Inheritance Clause Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  She inhaled slowly and allowed herself a tiny smile. Perhaps Grandpapa had known what he was doing when he sent her on this journey to collect whatever it was that he wanted her to collect. In the midst of Scotland of all places! After almost a week of travelling, they were past Edinburgh, and it would not be long until she arrived at the cottage in which apparently her grandpapa had spent time in as a boy. What the significance of the place was, she did not know.

  Rolling over, she reached for the letter in which she had been assigned her task. Drawing it open for what had to be the hundredth time on this journey, she cast her gaze over the familiar handwriting. He wanted her to find her courage, and she understood why. Since the incident as a child, she rarely left London and avoided carriages at all costs. To imagine that she would even be sleeping in a traveler’s inn with only a lady’s maid for company was near astonishing.

  If only her siblings could see her now. They would hardly be able to believe it. She knew her brothers regretted that neither of them could accompany her on her journey, but she and Mary had done well on their own with the company of the groomsman and driver.

  She rather wished her grandpapa could have sent her on a slightly shorter journey, though. Travelling to Scotland had been no easy feat. The journey had been long and tiresome, and filled with strangers. She suppressed a shudder. She supposed meeting all these new people had been good for her too. None of them had fulfilled her worst imaginings—none of them were like the men who had kidnapped her. In fact, almost all of them had been courteous and friendly.

  “You would be proud of me, Grandpapa,” she murmured to the letter.

  He had been right, no matter how much she wished to avoid it, she needed to face her past and finally summon the courage to live a proper life. She kept her circle of friends small—limited to those whom she trusted the most. And, yes, her fears really did restrict her life. More and more frequently recently, she had been considering how to face up to said fears. As unwelcome as it had seemed, her grandfather’s task was pushing her toward facing them.

  And just look at her now. Sleeping in a traveler’s inn, journeying miles in a carriage, and barely being terrified at all. Well, not all the time anyway. She could not claim to be fully cured, but she felt braver and stronger with each passing day. Perhaps when they returned to London, after the task was done, she would be able to do other new things.

  Taking a last glance at the letter, she folded it and slipped it back into her reticule. The creak of floorboards sent her heart racing, and she stilled. Muscles stiff, Minerva forced in a shaky breath then released it slowly. Inns like this one were old and creaky. Not to mention full of people. Of course floorboards would be creaking. Unfortunately, the reminder did not slow her heart or ease her aching muscles.

  A rapid knock on the door made her jump. She drew up the sheets around her and held her breath. What if it was someone coming to take her? What if someone knew of her lineage and thought her valuable? Just like when she had been a child. She searched the room with her gaze. There was a poker by the fire she could use as a weapon. But her limbs were too stiff, her body frozen. It was as though ice had run through her veins and stiffened every part of her. Lord, why could she not move?

  “My lady?”

  Minerva sagged in her bed. Of course it was Mary. Who else would it be? She eased out of bed on shaky legs and tiptoed over to the door to unlock it. Looking fresh faced and well rested, her lady’s maid smiled broadly.

  “Did you sleep well, my lady?”

  Minerva stepped back from the door and let the maid in. She nodded. “Yes, quite well. The bed was a little more comfortable than the previous night’s one.”

  “Good.” Mary laid out a gown on the bed for Minerva. “With any luck, we shall be at this cottage before long, and then you can be back in your own bed, safe and sound.”

  Mary had served Minerva since she was a young debutante and understood well enough her fears. Perhaps even more so than some of her family. Though all of them remembered her kidnapping, most of them were too young to understand how it had impacted her. Her oldest brother, Theo, was perhaps the one who understood most, but he had little time to worry about her with his duties as a marquis.

  Though Mary did not quite understand why they were coming to Scotland, the maid had unquestioningly packed Minerva’s bag and accompanied her on this long journey with few questions. It was known that their grandfather’s will had been read and that all the siblings had suddenly found themselves very busy indeed. Minerva supposed the servants had their own conclusions as to what was happening. Unfortunately, because she was meant to say nothing of the tasks assigned to them, she had been forced to keep Mary in the dark.

  “Um… Mary…” Minerva eyed the pale gown set out on the bed for her. “I did not realise you had packed any gowns of colour.”

  Mary’s cheeks reddened a little, and she pressed her hands together. “Well, I was just thinking how lovely you look in color. And it is hardly colorful at all. Just a little touch of pink. Your siblings have already stopped wearing mourning colors. You would not be expected to continue wearing them for so long for a grandparent.”

  Biting down on her bottom lip, Minerva eyed the gown. Cream with tiny lines of pink, it was hardly extravagant or over the top. Mary was right, of course. Whilst it would be perfectly acceptable to continue wearing mourning clothes for some time were it her father or husband who had died, for her grandfather, she had been wearing grey for quite long enough. But Minerva had discovered she rather liked wearing grey. People did not pay attention to her, and she could worry less about drawing the focus of anyone untoward.

  She considered the letter folded carefully in her purse. “Grandpapa would likely be annoyed with me for still wearing mourning colors.”

  “That was my thought, my lady.” Mary beamed at her. “Let us get you dressed. I have already asked for breakfast to be prepared in the private dining room.” Mary paused, a hand to her stomach. A little sweat beaded on her brow, and she grimaced briefly.

  “Are you well, Mary?” asked Minerva, touching her arm.

  The lady’s maid smiled brightly. “Of course, my lady. I am just ready for food.”

  Minerva nodded and washed and dressed with efficiency, trying not to think about how the pink in the dress probably brought out color in her cheeks and flattered her golden hair. Her mother and sister frequently told her how attractive she was. It was something she did not wish to be. Being beautiful meant people looked at you. However, she had made it this far into Scotland without drawing any attention. She was certain nothing unfortunate would happen because of wearing a mere touch of pink. She smiled to herself and glanced toward the ceiling. See, Grandpapa? I am braver already.

  They had to walk through the taproom to get to the private dining room. Already full with people, she squeezed through the gaps between each chair and table. Most patrons were preoccupied with their meals, and the heady scent of cooked pork and buttered toast filled the overcrowded room. A few glanced her way as she pressed through the private room, so she kept her gaze lowered, aware of her heartbeat picking up its pace. She curled a hand until her fingernails bit into her palms, only releasing it when she reached the safety of the tiny room.

  Glancing back at the crowded taproom, she grimaced. Any stares would just be that of curiosity, she knew that. Her kidnapping as a child had been unfortunate and horrific but hardly a common occurrence. No one would have any interest in her aside from a passing curiosity. Yet, as brave as she thought she was, she could still not bring herself to eat amongst every man and woman here.

  By the time they finished their morning meal, the carriage was ready with their belongings loaded on the back. The driver smiled at her. “The weather looks fine today, my lady. We should have an easy journey. I’m told there is fine accommodation within six hours’ journey from here.”

  “That is excellent news.” Minerva climbed into the carriage, followed by Mary, who settled opposite her. At l
east they knew there was a bed and some food at the end of the day. They would be coming off the main roads to make their way to this cottage to which her grandfather had sent her. The Cairngorms were mountainous, and none of them quite knew what the state of the roads would be like. Despite it being summer, there could well be plenty of snow and goodness knows what else. How easy the rest of the journey would be, Minerva did not know.

  Mr. Johnson’s confidence proved correct, and they journeyed easily into the barren wilds of Scotland. Though Minerva had visited Scotland when she was a young girl, after the incident, she had refused to travel with her family so had always remained behind in London with the governess. Her memories of Scotland were fuzzy and vague.

  Looking out of the window at the wilderness, she regretted she had been unable to make herself come here with her family. It was quite unlike England. The dirt road on which they travelled cut through an open valley where the vast expanse of the hills on either side made her feel insignificant. The hills were touched with shades of brown, green, and purple, all mingling to create a scenery unlike anything she had ever seen before—or at least that she could remember. Farther ahead, mountains jetted out of the horizon, their tips touched with white. If these mere hills made her seem small, she could not imagine how they would make her feel.

  “Goodness, Mary, how beautiful it all is.”

  Mary did not look out of the window and kept her gaze fixed upon some spot on the floor. That ashen cast tinged her skin again, and her eyes looked a little hollow.

  “Mary?”

  “Forgive me, my lady, I just…” She flopped forward, and Minerva had to leap to grab her and prevent her from injuring herself.

  Minerva maneuvered herself onto the seat next to Mary and propped the woman against her chest. A touch to her brow told her that that slight sheen on her skin from earlier had turned into a full sweat. “Mary, whatever is wrong?”

  “My stomach… I feel so sick… And tired. Forgive me, my lady.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You cannot help being sick.” Minerva eased Mary down, using her pelisse as a pillow for her head. The rocking motion of the carriage likely did not help with the nausea, but Mary closed her eyes gratefully.

  Minerva tapped on the carriage roof and waited until the vehicle slowed before sticking her head out of the window. “Mary is unwell,” she told Mr. Johnson. “I suspect she needs rest.”

  Mr. Johnson’s expression turned grim. “I think it unlikely we will find anywhere to stop, my lady. I cannot see anything for miles. We should travel on as best as we can. Perhaps we shall find accommodation sooner than we hoped.”

  Minerva nodded. The only way they could help Mary at this point was to get somewhere where she could rest and have a little something to drink with haste. But as they journeyed on, Mary’s skin grew sodden with sweat. Minerva knelt on the floor of the carriage, dabbing her brow and holding her hand. Mary moaned and twisted on the seat. It was no good, she was becoming fevered.

  Minerva bade the driver to stop once more and tried to offer Mary a little water, but in her fevered state, she would hardly take any. Minerva disembarked from the carriage and eyed the vast expanse of rolling hills and jagged mountains.

  “There is a farmhouse there, is there not?” She pointed toward a building on the crest of a hill. The fields around it were scattered with white sheep.

  Mr. Johnson squinted in the direction in which she pointed. “Yes, my lady, it looks to be a farm.”

  “We should see if someone is home. I fear Mary will not survive much longer in the carriage. She needs a bed and proper rest.”

  “As you will, my lady.”

  Mr. Johnson made quick work of the journey to the farmhouse. Generous in proportion, the shutters surrounding each window were painted white, but the paint was swollen and flecked, presumably a victim of the wild weather that likely plagued this area.

  A lone cart sat to the one side of the building, but there was no sign of any occupants, no dog barking, no farmer, or stable hands marching between the buildings. Lord, as much as she tried to avoid strangers, she really hoped there was someone around now. Aware of her driver and the groom watching her carefully, she rapped on the door, having decided it would be better if a young lady requested assistance rather than the rather large Mr. Johnson or the tall Mr. Young.

  The door eased open after so long that she thought her legs might be frozen in place. Having given up her pelisse and not managing to retrieve a new coat, the wind bit at her bare arms and cheeks. She heard the occupant before spotting him in the doorway, his low Scottish burr bringing relief despite the words he uttered.

  “What the bloody hell…” The man paused as his gaze connected with hers. A dark eyebrow lifted, one that matched the thick, wild black hair that spilled slightly over his forehead and touched the collar of his shirt.

  Minerva never really paid attention to men, and now was certainly not the time to begin caring for them, but a small voice in the back of her mind told her this Scottish stranger was deliciously, deliciously attractive. And, apparently, very annoyed at her intrusion.

  Chapter Three

  Lachlan uttered another curse word under his breath, one that was a little rougher than bloody hell. One that this woman had likely never heard. Shivering and frail, in a flimsy gown hardly made for the ever-changing Scottish weather, her pale cheeks were tinged with a little red, implying that she had been standing outside of the farmhouse for too long. He glanced at the carriage behind her, gleaming with its bold livery, declaring that it belonged to someone important. Who, he did not know, but he recognized the wealth behind it.

  Which begged the question, why was this wealthy woman standing on his doorstep in nothing more than a slip of fabric that skimmed delicate curves and highlighted her attractiveness.

  He could ask her that, of course, but all he could think about was the fact he was in short sleeves and filthy boots, having just been up to his knees in mud and probably pig shit—something this woman would know nothing about.

  Oh, and there his mind went back to how beautiful she was. Wide blue eyes, a petite mouth set into a delicate chin, and porcelain skin that was so popular amongst the gentry. It was unlikely she ever spent time out of doors in a bid to maintain her unblemished skin. Though he was no stranger to attractive women, there was something wildly appealing about the innocence behind those blue eyes. He could not recall the last time he had looked at a woman and instantly been gut punched by desire.

  “Um… Sir…” She twined her hands together in front of her, interlinking fingers that should have been covered in gloves. Why in the devil was this woman half-dressed and at his door?

  “Aye?” he said a little too gruffly. If he’d have known there was going to be a beautiful woman at his door, he’d at least have taken the time to wash his hands. And change his boots. And wear clothes other than the scruffy garments. And run a damn comb through his hair.

  Hell, he’d far rather have greeted her at his house in his full finery.

  She took a marginal step back, her eyes widening further. If that was possible. Lachlan regretted his harsh tone and could only blame the strange tension knotting his stomach and having been caught off guard. He might not have been born a nobleman, but he had spent many years perfecting his manners. Apparently, he had forgotten all at the sight of her.

  “Forgive me, for this intrusion, sir, but I have need of your help.”

  He glanced at the carriage again, noting the sizeable driver and the tall groom. She was not without male help, so he could not fathom what she needed with him. Of course, if he could find his manners, he’d find out sooner rather than later.

  He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, you caught me at a bad moment.” He gestured to his muddied state. “What aid can I give you, miss?”

  “My maid is sick. Fevered. I fear we cannot travel any further. Do you know of a doctor close by or would you be able to provide her with a bed?” He peered at her fingers that twine
d even more tightly together, her knuckles blanching.

  He noted that her hands shook slightly. He was a large man—taller even than the groom patiently waiting on the back of the carriage. Wide too. When he was not dressed elegantly, he was aware he could be quite an intimidating sight, particularly given the random scars on his face—evidence of his past.

  Lachlan relaxed his shoulders in a bid to make himself appear smaller. “The nearest doctor is at least a day away. Where is your maid? I’m no doctor, but I deal with sick animals regularly. Perhaps I can be of help.”

  Her posture sagged, and a relieved smile spread across her face.

  A smile that seemed to shoot directly to his heart, making it jolt. An inane reaction, to be sure. It was not the first time a woman had smiled at him, and it would not be the last. Given that he was still unmarried and owned a sizeable amount of Scottish land, even if he was new money, there was many a woman after his hand.

  But women took time, and time he did not have.

  “She is just in the carriage.” The woman hastened over and revealed the maid sprawled across the plush interior of the carriage.

  Eyes closed, sweat dripping from her brow, it was clear the maid was sick indeed. Lachlan put his fingers to her fevered brow, drawing a breath through his teeth at the feel of the heat of her. “Has she vomited?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, but she was complaining of feeling nauseated.”

  Lachlan stepped into the carriage and slipped his arms under the woman. She barely uttered a noise as he lifted her limp body. He stepped out of the carriage and carried her toward the farmhouse. He nodded toward the groomsman. “Can you send your man for a doctor? I have a horse, if yours are in need of rest. You can take the carriage around the rear and feed and water the horses there.”

  “Yes, I’m sure Mr. Young can fetch the doctor. He is an excellent rider.” She hastened back to the carriage, and he heard her giving orders as though she were a queen before she came to join him.