by Karen Ranney
He was standing much too close and he still had his hands on her waist. They might have been dancing, except that she’d never seen this kind of pairing.
“Call them,” he said.
“What?”
“Call the dogs. Peter and Paul. Call them.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“They’re waiting for your call.”
She glanced at the two dogs. They hadn’t looked away from her this whole time.
“I’m not going to call them. I want them to go away. I want you to go away. Please release me.”
“You’re shaking,” he said, stepping back and dropping his hands.
She turned.
“You’re the most obnoxious man,” she said.
“I’ve been called far worse, Miss Craig.”
She ignored that remark. “Your dogs are vicious.”
His laughter was insulting. “Only if you’re after one of their sheep. Then I wouldn’t want to tangle with Peter or Paul.”
“They would be better named Terror and Intimidation.”
“You haven’t been around dogs very much, have you, Miss Craig?”
“Enough to know those that are well mannered and those that are not.”
“Peter and Paul are extraordinarily well mannered, but they’re working dogs. You can’t have them sit on your lap and take treats from your lips.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with them,” she said.
His smile startled her again. Did he know how attractive he was when he smiled? She suspected he did, just as he was aware of his . . . Her thoughts ground to a halt. What was there about him? Something almost brutish, but that wasn’t the word. She had the feeling that he was a fighter. A warrior. He reminded her of a Scot of old. She could almost see him in a kilt, his chest bare but for a swath of tartan. Instead of a crook, he might be holding a club or a sword, bloodied from recent battle.
This man, this warrior, might have wolves as companions, not appreciably different from the dogs that accompanied him now. Instead of sheep, clanspeople would be surrounding him, looking to him as their leader.
How ridiculous, to envision a shepherd as a leader of men. Or perhaps not so ridiculous after all, given what she’d learned in her two seasons. Men were sometimes like sheep, adhering to all sorts of societal rules that on the surface looked idiotic. Some men, however, chose to go their own way. Like this man might.
Which was Michael?
That thought had the effect of dousing her in cold water. How could she be wondering about another man when her fiancé should be uppermost in her mind?
Chapter Four
The shepherd startled her by reaching out and rubbing Maud’s nose. The mare seemed to like his attention, behavior that struck Eleanor as peculiar since Maud was aloof with most people.
“She’s a beautiful animal.”
“She’s from my father’s stable,” she said.
“Your father is a great judge of horseflesh.”
“He was,” she said. “Hearthmere horses are known all over the world.”
He glanced at her, caught her gaze, and held it for a moment before she looked away. His eyes were brown, a warm brown that seemed to hold humor in their depths. Did he think the situation was amusing? No doubt he did. And her fear? Something else to ridicule.
“I’ve never been a horseman,” he said, still stroking Maud. “I’ve never made the time.”
She didn’t mention that he hadn’t the money to purchase a horse, being a shepherd. Besides, what would he need one for? His legs carried him well enough.
“I doubt your sheep would welcome the presence of a horse,” she said. “And Peter and Paul no doubt would object.”
She really shouldn’t pay any attention to his smile. It had the effect of warming her from the inside out.
“What’s her name?” he asked, his hand flattened on Maud’s neck.
“Maud.” Then, even though he hadn’t asked, she filled in the rest of the story for him. “It’s from the Tennyson poem,” she said.
“Maud acts as if she’s never seen sheep.”
She really didn’t want to have an amiable conversation with this man. Instead, she should leave, right this minute.
“She’s exercised at home, in a small paddock.”
He looked at her again. It was the confrontation, of course, that made her feel so very strange at that moment. Or the fact that she’d been warmed from her ride. That was the explanation for the rush of heat she suddenly felt.
“I didn’t expect to meet a beautiful woman on an extraordinary-looking horse today.”
How dare he say such things? It was the height of rudeness, yet at the same time she couldn’t help but feel a tiny frisson of pleasure at his words. She certainly wasn’t beautiful, and saying that was intentional flattery on his part, no doubt to accomplish something nefarious.
He whistled and the dogs moved. She held herself tight as they circled around her, one on each side. With deft nips here and there and a growl toward one enormous ewe, they separated the flock, leaving the road clear.
“Can I help you mount?”
She didn’t turn toward his voice. It would be best if she didn’t notice him at all.
“I suppose you could find a large enough rock if you walk far enough. Or a fence. However, I’d be more than happy to give you a leg up.”
Even the man’s conversation was scandalous. No one mentioned limbs in mixed company.
She glanced at him. As she watched, he linked his hands and bent toward her.
“Wouldn’t this be easier?”
Yes, but she was torn between pride and an increasing sense of embarrassment. Still, accepting his help would be better than having him watch her walk Maud all the way home. Maud was too tall and the stirrup too high for her to mount without assistance.
She nodded to him and placed her foot in the cup of his hands. Standing close to him made him seem even taller and larger than before.
In seconds she was back in the saddle.
He moved to her side, and put his hand at the top of her boot, nearly on her leg. Her bare leg.
“I approve of your alteration,” he said. “I’ve often thought that a lady’s saddle was ludicrous in the extreme. Not to mention damn dangerous.”
He moved closer to her, then raised his hand to encircle her wrist, almost as if he wanted to imprison her.
Looking down at him, she shook her wrist free.
“Will your rudeness know no limits, shepherd?”
“I’m not entirely certain, Miss Eleanor Craig of Hearthmere.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. This insufferable man had the ability to strip the words from her.
“You have no manners.”
“Perhaps you could stay and lecture me on proper behavior,” he said. “Or are you still too afraid of the dogs?”
“I was not afraid,” she said, lying.
“Very well, you weren’t afraid.”
They looked at each other and it seemed like a hundred words or more passed between them, each one unspoken. A conversation of thoughts, perhaps, one filled with curiosity on his part and confusion on hers.
She would return home and banish any thought of the shepherd and this entire interlude. It would be like a dream, something she imagined. Or recalled later to wonder if it was real.
“Goodbye, Miss Eleanor Craig.”
Never had she met a more irritating person in her life or a more confounding one. A shepherd who didn’t speak as one. A man who complimented her too fulsomely and looked at her with admiring eyes. He’d touched her intimately and didn’t look the least bit apologetic for doing so.
Instead of saying another word, she left him then, sending Maud galloping home, determined never to come this way again.
She was angry at him and he couldn’t blame her. Something in his nature had been awakened by the mysterious Miss Craig. He wanted to see what she was like
beneath that facade of utter politeness. He’d never felt like goading a woman into rage before and the fact that he’d done so with her was a surprise.
He hadn’t lied. She was beautiful, but he’d never been attracted to women of her sort. First of all, she wasn’t a blonde and he was normally only attracted to blonde-haired women. Secondly, she’d evidently been reared with all those rules about decorum and civility. Granted, that had been his upbringing as well, but he’d found that it was sometimes better to roll in the mud than pretend the mud wasn’t there. He liked scrappy people who said what they meant and meant what they said, who weren’t afraid to let a few impolite words fly if it meant getting their point across. He liked sincerity and people who told the truth. Those like Miss Craig, however, hid behind all those rules and lessons.
She hadn’t liked him touching her. He hadn’t meant to, but her reaction—an instantaneous flare in her lovely blue eyes—had fascinated him. He’d rarely gotten that reaction in the past, but then, he wasn’t known for teasing women.
He remembered the Craigs of Hearthmere. Archie Craig had died some years earlier. He must have been Eleanor’s father. He’d heard something about the breeding farm, but he couldn’t remember what now.
Eleanor. The name suited her. She looked like an Eleanor with her patrician features. He’d been surprised that she was riding astride at first. However, the more he observed her the more he realized how skilled she was. Eleanor was at home in the saddle, a great deal more than he was.
When she was standing beside her horse, however, he was much taller. She was the perfect height for him to bend and kiss her.
That thought made him smile. He couldn’t help but wonder what the very proper Miss Eleanor Craig would have done if he’d swept her into his arms. No doubt she would have screamed or struck him. If nothing else, she would have probably lectured him about smelling of sheep.
Logan turned and made his way back up the hill, the dogs following. With a series of whistles, he gave them their commands.
She’d turned white at the idea of meeting Peter or Paul. The border collies were well trained and he hadn’t lied to her. As long as she wasn’t a threat to their sheep, they would welcome her as one of their friends.
In two days his secretary would come and he’d go back to London. He doubted that he’d see Miss Craig again. Strangely, that realization disappointed him. Yet he didn’t have time for a woman in his life right now. He didn’t even have time to speculate on a relationship.
A pity that. At another time, he might have pursued Miss Eleanor Craig, just to see those blue eyes snapping at him again.
Chapter Five
“Did you have an enjoyable morning, Miss Eleanor?”
Eleanor sighed, wishing she’d been able to slip up to her room before being seen by Mrs. Willett.
Clara Willett had been installed in her position as housekeeper by Eleanor’s aunt, having been recommended by two friends. The fact that the woman, English by birth and inclination, had remained in an isolated house in Scotland was due to two things: she was paid extraordinarily well and she was in love with Mr. Contino. Eleanor couldn’t help but know the first fact, since she oversaw the expenditures every quarter, but she wasn’t supposed to know about the love affair.
One of the maids had passed that information along to her last year, and ever since, she’d noticed telltale signs of their relationship. Sometimes you don’t see what’s right in front of you until it’s pointed out by someone else.
Mrs. Willett was one of those women whose age it would be difficult to pinpoint. Her hair was not quite blonde but was most definitely lighter than brown. Her face was full but not plump. Her eyes were her most commanding feature, being a pale blue. Her lips were almost always pursed just a little, as if afraid of giving the appearance of being accidentally pleased.
Her bosom was prominent and always covered in her dark blue housekeeper’s uniform. Eleanor wasn’t certain if it was something her aunt had started or a personal preference of Mrs. Willett, but the woman was never seen without her uniform with white cuffs and collar. Occasionally she wore a brooch and sometimes the collar was lace, but most of the time it was a serviceable cotton.
If the housekeeper and Mr. Contino were engaged in a torrid love affair—the nature of the relationship being shockingly passionate, according to the maid—it was done with the greatest discretion. The two didn’t chase each other through the corridors of Hearthmere at midnight. When Mrs. Willett referred to Mr. Contino, which wasn’t often, it was by his last name in the frostiest of tones. When he had occasion to comment on her, it was “the housekeeper.” Everything was quite proper and aboveboard.
As long as Hearthmere was running smoothly and her father’s horses were in excellent condition, Eleanor saw no reason to mention her knowledge to either of them.
“Yes, I did, thank you,” she said now, wishing she didn’t look so mussed. She’d curried Maud herself, half in apology for leading her through a sea of sheep. Her forbidden skirt had traces of dirt on its hem. She had the feeling, thus unproven, that Mrs. Willett sent her aunt letters during her month in Scotland, no doubt filled with information about what Eleanor had been doing and saying, changes she’d made, and clues she’d given about her future actions.
“Where does the Duke of Montrose’s land begin?” Eleanor asked.
Her knowledge of Hearthmere’s boundaries must be askew for her to have ventured onto the duke’s land. Perhaps the question should be better asked of her steward, but he didn’t live at Hearthmere, only came to the house once a month from Edinburgh.
“I’m not certain, Miss Eleanor. Is it important?”
Eleanor shook her head. “No,” she said. “The duke employs an interesting shepherd. An exceedingly rude man.”
“Old Ned?” The housekeeper’s eyes widened.
“Old? I wouldn’t call the man old, no.”
“Old Ned has been around since I’ve been here, Miss Eleanor. He’s getting on in years but you’ll always see him on the glen with his dogs.”
Maybe Old Ned had a son who had been acting in his stead today. Someone who needed to be educated in manners. Although she didn’t suppose a shepherd interacted with people all that much. From what she’d seen of the man she’d encountered, it would be best for him to stay with sheep.
Still, the duke probably needed to know about the man’s rudeness.
The Duke of Montrose’s country house—or, as she’d heard it called, the ancestral seat—was not that far from Hearthmere. The duke was rarely in residence, however, preferring to live in Edinburgh. She’d never met the duke. Nor had he ever visited Hearthmere. Or, if he had, it was when she was a child. Perhaps she should ask Mr. Contino if her father had ever sold any of their horses to the duke.
Hamilton, who had several banker friends, once stated that the duke’s family had a great deal of interest in the British East India Company with a resulting fortune that grew in size each year.
According to one of the maids who had a cousin who worked there, the duke’s home was twice the size of Hearthmere. Yet there wasn’t a large staff in residence. Only a handful of people maintained the whole of the property in the duke’s absence.
She might have been able to cut down on the staff at Hearthmere if her father hadn’t made promises to people who’d worked here for decades. In several situations, more than one generation had served the Craig family. How did you dismiss those people? You couldn’t.
She left Mrs. Willett then, wondering if the woman would hurry to her office to write a missive to Eleanor’s aunt.
Your niece went riding alone, without the company of a stable boy. If that were not shocking enough, she insisted on removing the saddle from her mare and grooming the animal herself. Not content with that behavior, she entered the house with windblown hair and cheeks reddened from the sun. It is all too obvious, Mrs. Richards, that your niece gives little thought to her appearance.
The housekeeper didn’t need to send a
letter to Deborah. Her aunt already knew each and every one of Eleanor’s flaws. Occasionally she enumerated them, just in case Eleanor had forgotten. Eleanor wasn’t nearly as graceful as Daphne, who was always immaculate despite the fact that she’d borne two children. Even her two toddlers were always neat and tidy, unlike the grubby urchin Eleanor had probably been. No doubt her children, when they came, would smell bad, have regrettable diaper accidents, and spit up their food when it was least expected.
Instead of returning to her room since she’d already been seen by the housekeeper and several maids, she began her walk through Hearthmere, a ritual she performed every time she came home. Four years now. Four years of coming back to Scotland, of wishing she never had to leave again, of planning ways she could return. Four years hadn’t dampened the wish to live in her native country. Nor had all these years truly eased the loss of her father.
She began at the Clan Hall, the heart of the house. It was as it had always been, cavernous and echoing any footsteps on the stone floor. The arches overhead seemed almost cathedral-like, and in a sense the room was a place of worship. Not to God, but to the legacy of the Craigs. Here they were remembered. Not only her grandfather but his grandfather and scores of men before that. None of them were insignificant even though some names had been lost in the fog of history. They were all Craigs and as such would always be valued and honored.
She stood and walked to the window overlooking the river and pressed her fingers to a pane of wavy glass. Someone had taken the time to gouge their initials into the wood of the sill. When she asked her father why it had not been repaired after all these years, he only smiled.
“I was told that Mary, Queen of Scots, visited here when she was little more than a child.”
“And those are her initials?” The writing was so ornate that she couldn’t decipher it.
He nodded, his smile never dimming. “That’s the tale. Whether or not you believe it is your choice. But no one has ever repaired the damage, just in case it might be true.”