Lachlan carried the woman upstairs and pushed open the door with a boot. The tenant farmer had no children, so the other rooms were unoccupied, but thankfully, the bed was made. His unexpected guest dashed around the bed and drew back the sheets, allowing him to deposit the maid directly onto the mattress. He took a step back and eyed her.
“She seems fevered,” he commented.
The woman nodded, biting down on her bottom lip. “She was making noises earlier. She seems to have quietened, though.”
Lachlan didn’t like the sound of that. It was better if she was making noises. Now, the woman was motionless, and her breaths appeared shallow. He could only hope the groomsman fetched the doctor with haste.
“I shall give your man directions to the doctors, then fetch some water and cloths.”
The woman nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“Lachlan Sinclair,” he corrected. “At your service.”
She gave a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. I am most indebted to you.”
He dashed downstairs and found the groomsmen helping disengage the horses from the carriage. “Mr. Young, is it?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Your mistress says you are capable of riding to fetch the doctor. ‘Tis an easy journey but lengthy.” He jerked a thumb toward the stables. “You can ride Shadow there. She’s swift of foot and has not been out today. You will need to head back in the direction you have come then head toward Cairnleck. I presume you came from the inn at Drumagar.”
Mr. Young nodded.
“If you ask there, they shall be able to direct you properly.”
“Please tell lady Minerva that I shall be as swift as I can.”
Lady Minerva. So not only did he have a wealthy, attractive woman at the farmhouse, she was a lady too. He had to presume she was not married as he saw no ring, and what sort of man in his right mind would let her gallivant across Scotland alone? He supposed she could be widowed, but she was too young for that, surely? He suspected she was at least ten years his junior.
He headed back into the farmhouse and grabbed a jug of water then rummaged through the cupboards for some cloths. He had only been here for two days and still did not know where much was, but he had to assume the farmer’s wife kept some in the kitchen—a kitchen that was every inch a farmer’s kitchen.
The furniture was worn but solid and practical. It reminded him a little of the farm on which he’d grown up. It was rarely without muddy footprints, and everything was designed to be used, unlike the house in which he now lived, where the furnishings were decorative and every side was adorned with objects that would never be put to use—expensive vases, priceless ornaments, things he could hardly bring himself to care about. But they came with the house, and who was he to change the way things were done?
Lady Minerva knelt beside the bed, her brow furrowed with concern. He set the jug of water on the side and handed her the cloth. “She is likely wearing too many layers.”
She must have caught the meaning and nodded. “I shall do my best to keep her cool.”
“I must finish seeing to the pigs,” Lachlan said, “but I shall check on you both as soon as I am done.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. Your help means more than you can know.”
Lachlan dipped his head and ducked out of the room, unable to fathom a suitable response. He might have been surprised to find her on his doorstep, but he had little intention of turning her away. He could not imagine what sort of a man would.
Even without a sick maid in tow, he did not think he would have been able to deny her anything.
Horribly aware of the woman pattering around upstairs, Lachlan escaped outside to finish tending to the animals and returned as the sun began to set over the mountains, burnishing their tips with gold. He drank in the sight before stopping by the stables and checking in with the driver.
“You can sleep in the house if you’d prefer,” he offered.
Mr. Johnson shook his head vigorously. “I’d prefer to sleep in the stablehand’s accommodation if you don’t mind, sir. I’m no’ so used to a bed these days.”
“As you will. I’ll be cooking supper shortly.”
Mr. Johnson patted his rotund stomach and grinned. “I look forward to it. It’s been a long day.”
“For all of you, I imagine.”
“For Lady Minerva, especially. I have to warn you, she’s not so good with strangers. I hope you’ll make allowances for her. She’s a sweet child, even if she is too into her books.”
Lachlan made a non-committal noise. He had noticed her slightly shaking hands but had put that down to her worry for the maid. If his presence scared her at all, he was sorry for that, but he was not sure what other choice he had. He could hardly leave her all alone in the house.
Perhaps once he fed her, she would warm to him. And he could make up for his rather abrupt greeting.
He could well understand not enjoying the company of strangers. It had taken him some getting used to. He’d had little idea wealth meant spending time in the company of people he did not know with frustrating regularity.
Something he imagined Lady Minerva understood.
He threw together a hearty stew in the hopes the maid might want something to eat. It was unlikely something Lady Minerva ate often, but to his mind, you could not compete with a good stew for any ailments. He grinned to himself as he stirred the food. As his Ma would say, “A stew could fix almost anything.”
Whether she still said that, he did not know. After a bout of illness that no good Scottish food could fix, he had sent her down to England for the fresh air, and according to her letters, she was having quite the time scandalizing the proper English ladies of her age there.
“That smells delicious.”
He spun, wooden spoon in hand, to find Lady Minerva in the doorway of the kitchen. She looked entirely at odds against the rough, battered wood of the entrance way. Though wisps of hair had escaped a simple updo and her eyes were ringed with fatigue, her pale gown and gentle figure didn’t fit in with the chunky wood of the building.
She was soft. Everything here was hard. Including him.
It had never bothered him before. That was what life had done to him, and he was proud of the obstacles he had overcome to become the person he was.
It bothered him now, though. He wanted to be soft with her. To tell her that everything would be well. To commend her for her bravery and diligent care of her maid.
Instead, he gestured with the spoon to the table. “Have a seat.” He cursed to himself. “My lady,” he added.
He caught her smile before he turned away. “Please, call me Minerva.”
“Minerva,” he muttered, enjoying the sound of her name on his tongue far too much.
Chapter Four
A fire crackled in the generous fireplace, casting the cozy kitchen in an amber glow. The occasional pop of the wood offered comforting punctuation to the cloak of silence that hung over her and Mr. Sinclair. Every inch of Minerva’s body ached with tiredness. Even if she were good at conversing with strangers, the exhaustion making her eyelids heavy and her thoughts slow, prevented her from offering any form of companionship to Mr. Sinclair.
She glanced around the rugged interior of the room. There were many farms on her brother’s estate, and the various other estates attached to the family, but she rarely stepped foot in them. She could not say whether English farms and Scottish farms were any different, but she rather liked the warmth of the room.
Though much of the furnishings looked old, with splinters and chunks missing, flecked paint and worn fabric, it lacked the coldness that many rooms of the stately home she frequented suffered from. Their high ceilings, pale walls, and delicate and uncomfortable furnishings did not offer the same sense of warmth and coziness. Warmth that was very much needed at present. Wind battered the windows and rain tapped at the glass like the tiny fingernails of monsters desperate to get into the room. They were certainly not in England anymore.
Her gaze landed on the farmer while he ate the stew with gusto. The food was simple but delicious and satisfied her empty stomach—reminding her that she had not eaten all day. Mary had occupied her since their arrival, and while the farmer had checked on them briefly as promised, there was no sign of the doctor, and Mr. Sinclair assured her that there would not be until at least tomorrow afternoon, unfortunately.
Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat. She peeked up through her lashes, horribly aware of how the lamplight flickered over his features, highlighting the stubble along his jawline and the tiny little scars that were etched upon his face. Marks from his life as a farmer, perhaps? They did not diminish his attractiveness, however.
Though she could not claim he was much like the men with whom she usually acquainted—a distinct lack of pomade, for one thing—there was something innately appealing about him. Though they had little to converse about as yet, she did not feel uncomfortable near him. It could have been because Mr. Johnson was nearby, but Minerva knew very well that simply having people nearby did not always calm her fears. There was a stillness about him, something that hung over his broad shoulders and wide chest. His dark eyes were intense and assessing, as though constantly taking in everything that was occurring. He had the look of a man who would be able to act at a moment’s notice—a protector of sorts.
“So… how is your maid?” he asked.
“Better. I think. I hope.” She lowered her spoon. “She has settled a little, and her temperature has lowered.”
“With any luck, it should pass quickly. Then you can be on your way.”
Minerva nodded politely. Though his initial gruffness passed quickly, it was clear the man wanted them gone. She could not blame him. She doubted he had many visitors, and it seemed he lived alone, there was no wife or children to keep him company. She tilted her head to eye him.
He caught her look. “What is it?”
Heat rolled into her cheeks. “I was just er… Wondering…er… Why is it you are not married? I thought most farmers liked to have a wife to help.”
He gave her a brief smile. “This is not my farm.” He shrugged. “Well, it is in a manner of speaking. But I do not normally farm it. The farmer is visiting his daughter in Edinburgh, and I promised to take care of things for a while.”
Minerva frowned. “What exactly do you mean by a manner of speaking?”
“This is my land. You are travelling through it. I own several of the farms here.”
“Oh.”
A half-smile curved his lips, creating little indentations in his cheek that made her fingers twitch with the desire to touch them.
“You seem disappointed that I am no mere farmer.”
“No, of course not.” Though, for some reason, it did disappoint her a little. Perhaps because she was well used to spending time with landowners, and this would be another new experience for her. But he did not seem like the rich men of England. And it was not just his rolling accent that did it. “I… I just fear that we are taking up too much of your, no doubt, important time.”
He shook his head. “I think I can take the time out of my day to aid a sick woman. I am no’ so heartless as that.”
Minerva’s eyes widened. “I did not mean offence. Forgive me. I just regret we are inconveniencing you. Of course, you do not resent giving your aid. I would never assume as much. That is… I mean…”
He laid a hand over hers, shocking her into silence. The warmth of hands that were slightly rough and not at all like that of a gentleman’s rushed through her veins, making her heart skip a little. He glanced at where their hands touched and withdrew his quickly.
She put both hands in her lap, aware that the heat in her cheeks had yet to diminish. She could still feel the callouses on his palms where they had touched her hand. Why would a landowner have such rough hands? Maybe there was more to this man than riches.
“It is well enough, Minerva. You do not need to explain yourself.”
She smiled. There was something appealing about the sound of her name rolling across his tongue in that brogue.
“So, where is it you are travelling to?” he questioned. “Will your delay impact your plans?”
Minerva looked into those dark eyes. She released a breath. Would it hurt to tell him all? Why did she even want to? Maybe it was the large, raw strength in those hands that were currently tracing the notches of the table or the way there seemed to be hidden depths in those impossibly dark eyes. Or perhaps it was simply that she needed to tell someone, anyone, outside of her family. She itched to tell someone that she had been brave enough to begin to conquer her fears. After all, they were in the middle of nowhere in the Scottish Highlands. Who was to know if she told him?
“I am to travel to Malmara. My grandpapa used to stay there as a boy. I’ve been asked to go there to fetch something,” she explained.
The creases on his forehead deepened. “Something? That is a little vague.”
“Well, apparently, I shall know when I get there.” She lifted a shoulder.
“And why have you been tasked with the collection of this item? Surely, there is someone else in your family who can do such a thing? ‘Tis a long way for a wee lass to travel with just a maid for company.”
“Unfortunately, my brothers are busy with their own… Tasks.”
“Tasks?”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. What a strange thing to have to explain. “My grandpapa passed away a few months ago. With no sons to inherit, he willed his inheritance to me and my siblings. There are four of us,” she explained. “But there are terms to the inheritance. And part of those terms for me was the journey to Scotland to collect this unknown object.”
Mr. Sinclair rubbed his fingers against his forehead. “To gain your inheritance, you had to travel to Scotland? What sort of a grandfather would do such a thing to his granddaughter?”
Minerva smiled softly. “Believe it or not, my grandpapa thought he was helping me. I do not travel usually. Not even out of London. I have not done so since I was a little girl. “
“Ah.” He gathered up the two empty bowls of stew and stacked them one on top of the other. “So, he was trying to give you courage.”
“Precisely. I am a… nervous traveler.” She gave a little anxious giggle that made him smile. “I cannot quite believe I have made it this far.”
“And are your siblings’ tasks as difficult?” He stood, carried the bowls over to the sink, and began scrubbing them.
Minerva pushed back her chair and followed him. To watch him scrub the plates and pots seemed almost magical. For one, which was not something she observed often, but she certainly never anticipated a man of his presumed wealth would do such tasks, and for two, his hands worked with quick efficiency, and she got to admire them once more. They were the sort of hands that one knew would feel firm and capable on the dance floor when curved around one’s bodice.
She blew a loose strand of hair from her face, mostly in the hopes of cooling it down. She needed to cease such thoughts about this helpful stranger. With any luck, Mary would be better on the morrow, and they could be on their way. It would not do her any good to be thinking of this handsome stranger whilst she was meant to be tending to her maid.
“May I help?” she offered. She hardly knew what she was doing, but it did not seem polite to sit and watch.
His dark brows lifted, but he motioned to a cloth. “Use that to dry them.” He pointed toward a shelf. “That is where they all belong.”
Minerva picked up the cloth and helped him dry the plates and pots and pans. “To answer your question, I believe my siblings would tell you that their tasks are just as difficult.”
“And you do not believe they are?”
“Well, I have sympathy for my brother Seth. He is to be engaged within the next two months. Whilst I understand my grandpapa’s reasoning behind this task, I do not think Seth should be forced into marriage.”
“Yes, I can understand why you would not suppo
rt such a thing. Lord knows there are enough miserable arranged marriages in the world.”
She eyed him. “That sounds as though you speak from experience.”
“A little.”
Mr. Sinclair’s shoulders stiffened, and he focused his attention on cleaning the last pot. For some reason, this discussion of marriage, particularly an arranged one, was one that made him uncomfortable. If only she had more time to find out why. This man was thoroughly intriguing.
“I have directed him to one of the great private libraries in London. It has legal documentation reaching back to the mediaeval era. My hope is that he will be able to find a way out of the marriage.”
He turned to look at her, a tiny smile curving one side of his mouth. “You like your books then?”
She glanced down at the bowl in her hand. “Yes, I like my books.” And she was well used to the derision she got from spending a lot of time amongst books. But they had always brought her comfort. Books never judged or questioned why she was shaking, why she would not travel somewhere, why she would not spend time with hundreds of people she did not know. Between those pages was always a new world or an old one, somewhere she could escape to and forget everything that ever happened to her.
A finger touched her chin. She looked up, her heart picking up its pace. His eyes were soft, creased at the corners. “Whoever has told you book reading is bad for women, was a liar and a scoundrel, lass. A learned woman is a valuable one indeed.”
Her throat grew tight. She inhaled a long breath and released it slowly, willing away the sudden bubble of emotion that his words had caused. She could not think of anyone, not even the people who loved her the most, who had spoken to her like this.
“Anyway, my younger sister’s task is simply to have a job. For her, I must admit, that is quite some task. Angel prides herself in finding fun in everything. And my oldest brother Theo —
The wet bowl slipped suddenly from her fingers. She gasped and scrambled to catch it, but Mr. Sinclair beat her to it, grasping it as her fingers touched the rim. They lifted it together, his hands curved around hers. She met his gaze and gave a shaky smile. “That was close.”
Once a Wallflower, Always a Wallflower (The Inheritance Clause Book 3) Page 3