“No,” Digby said with a sigh. “He rarely drinks to excess, though sometimes I wish he would. As you can see, he’s a happy soul in his cups.”
“But not when he’s sober?” she guessed, taking Digby’s proffered hand to help her up a steep part of the path that returned them to the castle.
Digby waited until she was steady and then drew in a breath. “Miss Wycliffe, if you were anyone else, I should never have uttered a word about my employer under any circumstances. I hope you understand that?”
“Of course,” Freddie said, believing him. She had experience enough of such men to know they guarded the secrets and privacy of the families they served jealously.
She waited as Digby nodded and carried on. “Your uncle, Mr Wycliffe, was a good man and one of the few I’ve ever known to get past the captain’s defences. The stubborn old goat wore him down,” he added, smiling as he remembered. “He was only here a short while, but a more resolute and persistent soul I never did meet.”
“That sounds like Uncle Phin,” Freddie said with a chuckle.
“The captain will never admit it, but he misses the old fellow. His death made him realise how alone he is here, not that he didn’t know it before, but it brought it home to him, if that makes sense?”
Freddie nodded her understanding.
“Mr Wycliffe came often and would tell lengthy and improbable stories about his adventures. The captain tried to throw him out a time or two in the early days, but he always came back and, little by little, I think they became friends.”
They had been walking as Digby talked and he stopped now to catch his breath, giving her a direct look.
“Why are you here, Miss Wycliffe?”
Freddie opened her mouth to answer and then shrugged. “I don’t entirely know,” she admitted. “My uncle made me swear on the bible to… bring spiritual light into Captain Moncreiffe’s world,” she said, hearing the apology in her voice. “Though from the letter he wrote me, he does not mean preaching and reading the bible, which is just as well as I have neither the talent nor the will to do so.”
“What on earth did he mean, then?” Digby asked, frowning down at her.
“Honestly?” she replied, returning his frown with one of her own. “I don’t know, but I think… I think he wanted us to be friends.”
Digby scrutinised her for a moment longer before moving on, his long, thin legs striding up the path far more easily than Freddie could manage. She scurried in his wake.
“We might be remote here, Miss Wycliffe, but there’s still gossip enough.”
“I know that,” she said, understanding the warning in his voice. “But I have little option. The home my uncle left me is here and I made a promise. I intend to keep it.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, his sharp blue eyes weighing her up. “Don’t be too hard on yourself if you fail, Miss Wycliffe. Your uncle was asking a great deal of you. He may well be asking the impossible. Don’t expect miracles.”
Freddie didn’t answer for a moment, remembering the figure of the captain sleeping off his inebriation upon the heather beside the River Lochy. Even though he’d been crude and outrageous, she had liked the mischievous look in his eyes when he’d invited her to swim with him. She’d like to see such a look again, when he was sober.
“I shan’t fail, Digby,” she said, with sudden determination. “So, you’d best warn your master I’m ten times as stubborn as my uncle and he may as well give up now. I intend to be his friend.”
Chapter 4
“Wherein the captain and his castle prepare for war.”
Ross awoke with the strong conviction he’d been hit in the head with an axe. It was the only sensible explanation.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered, shifting and becoming aware of the scratchy surface he was lying on. The scent of damp earth and heather filled his nostrils and he huffed out a breath. God in heaven, how much had he drunk?
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Ross groaned. Just what he needed.
He cracked his eyes open, squinting against the searing light of the sky to see the lanky silhouette of his butler, or valet, or whatever the fellow was supposed to be. A man like him employing either was just too ludicrous to contemplate.
“Get away from me, ye smug English prick, I’m nae in the mood for a lecture on propriety just at the moment.”
“Excellent news, you lumbering great oaf,” Digby replied, sounding almost jolly, “as I’m not going to give you one. I have some far more entertaining information to share.”
Suspicion crept down the back of his neck as Ross noted that the man was not only far too cheerful, he was bloody smug.
“Oh, aye?”
“Yes, sir.”
With what he considered to be a Herculean effort, Ross hauled himself into a sitting position and discovered he was naked. “Where are my clothes?” he demanded, before discovering his kilt tangled about his legs.
“An excellent question, sir,” Digby replied obviously enjoying himself.
“All right, ye bastard, out wi’ it.” Ross said, pressing the heels of his hands into his temples.
“What do you remember of yesterday?” Digby asked him, a gleeful look in his eyes that made Ross exceedingly nervous.
He frowned, trying to recall. He remembered whisky, a great deal of it. He also remembered a feeling of wellbeing he could never achieve when sober, which was why he rarely drank, in case the lure of happiness turned him into a sot. He’d seen other men drink their way into oblivion. It wasn’t a pretty sight and he was damned if he’d follow that path. Now and then, however, the temptation got the better of him.
“Do you remember a sudden urge to go swimming in the river?” Digby suggested, prodding at Ross’ fuzzy memory.
“Aye, maybe,” he admitted with caution, watching Digby and wondering what the fellow looked so damn pleased about. He’d obviously made a spectacle of himself but unless he’d tried to seduce his old housekeeper, Mrs Murray, Ross couldn’t understand why he looked so bloody amused.
Mind, he was so randy of late it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed female company.
A memory jarred in his mind: a woman standing in the heather. She had been dressed all in fawn, her eyes dark and wide. She’d looked like a startled doe with a hunter before her, wary but not entirely certain of the danger she was in.
The sudden recollection of a jolt of fierce happiness, of the heat of desire, burned away some of the whisky fogging his brain.
“There was… a lass,” he said, uncertain of whether he’d dreamed that bit. She looked like the kind of woman he’d only ever meet in a dream.
“Aye,” Digby mocked, folding his arms and rocking back on his heels. “And the gallant Captain Moncreiffe came striding out of the undergrowth singing a lewd song at the top of his lungs, and stark bollock naked.”
“Holy God,” Ross said with feeling, staring at Digby in horror as the truth of his words crept down his spine.
“You then expressed your desire to see her naked bottom and invited her to swim with you.”
Ross cursed some more, the filthiest, most expressive language his whisky-soaked brain could turn up as the heat of a blush scalded him.
“Did she run away screaming?” he asked, wondering if he was liable to have some furious father beating down his door at any moment.
“No,” Digby said, quite unable to contain himself now. “She watched you trip over your own kilt and fall face first into the heather where you remained, at which point she covered your naked arse with your kilt and informed me she would return tomorrow.”
“What?” Ross exclaimed, struggling to his feet as his guts roiled and protested. He clutched at his head with one hand and his kilt with the other, trying to hang onto what little dignity remained to him as his brain knocked against his skull in a sea of liquor. “Why?”
“She’s Mr Wycliffe’s niece,” Digby replied, grinning br
oadly now. “And it seems he has given her the task of carrying on his good work.
***
“Well?” Maggie demanded, the moment Freddie set foot back inside the cottage. “What was he like?”
Freddie hesitated as she closed the door behind her, the scent of that night’s dinner coiling about her and making her stomach rumble.
“I only saw his butler,” she said, lying through her teeth, but if Maggie knew just how much of Captain Moncreiffe she had seen, the woman would have Freddie packed and on the next coach back to London before she could say knife.
“His butler?” Maggie looked sceptical and Freddie laughed, untying the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Yes, I was never more surprised. He looked like he’d be more at home in a palace than that mouldering old pile of stone, but there you are.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Freddie replied, turning away from Maggie as she undid the buttons on her pelisse. “Only that the captain was not at home and that I ought to return tomorrow afternoon. He spoke very highly of my uncle, though. He said that he was a close friend of the captain.”
Freddie forced down a surge of guilt. She never usually lied and wondered if she was liable to get struck by lightning for telling such a quantity of them in one go, but in for a penny….
“Didn’t he think it rather odd?”
“Oh, yes, a little,” Freddie admitted with a shrug. “Until I told him I was Mr Wycliffe’s niece, then it seemed to make sense to him.”
That much was true, at least.
Maggie snorted and Freddie hurried away before she could ask her anything else. “I’m going to freshen up,” she said with a quick smile, closing the door behind her.
Once in the privacy of her own room, Freddie flopped back on the bed. The image of Captain Moncreiffe in all his glory seemed to be seared onto her brain. She wondered what might have happened if she’d come across him without Digby present. The tantalising idea of exactly what it might be like to swim with him in the icy water of the Lochy made heat rush over her, a strange liquid warmth tugging at her insides.
The water might be icy, but he would be warm.
“Fredericka!” she scolded herself, a little alarmed by her train of thought. A ridiculous smile affixed itself to her face all the same and she let out a sigh of pleasure.
Forcing herself to her feet, she washed her hands and face, hoping to rid herself of her flushed cheeks before facing Maggie again. As she did so she froze as a sudden realisation hit her.
She would have to see Captain Moncreiffe again tomorrow, and he would know that she’d seen….
Everything.
Good heavens.
***
Freddie gave herself a stern talking to as she huffed and puffed up the hill towards the castle.
She would be cool and calm and level-headed. There was no question of worrying about what she had or hadn’t seen yesterday. She was a grown woman and not the kind to swoon at the sight of… of… what she’d seen.
It was unlikely the captain even remembered, she reassured herself. The little she knew of men who drank to excess told her their memories of what passed when inebriated were often fuzzy. So, if she said nothing and acted as if it were their first meeting, so would he. It would save them both a deal of awkwardness.
As she walked, she reminded herself of her uncle’s words. Captain Moncreiffe was a gentleman to his bones—when sober, she presumed. She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered him yesterday, though. He’d seemed utterly carefree, as shameless as a child in his nakedness. His good humour had been infectious, the glint in his eyes intriguing. She wondered whether she would see any trace of that man in the one she would meet today, and if not… why?
This time, when she rapped on the door, she didn’t have to wait long.
Digby appeared and greeted her, none of the familiarity of yesterday apparent in his demeanour. “Good afternoon, Miss Wycliffe.”
“Digby,” she said, smiling at him. “And how is Captain Moncreiffe today?”
He hesitated for a moment before replying. “The captain is his usual self today, Miss.”
Freddie read the look in the man’s eyes and understood that she was unlikely to be met with much warmth. “I see.”
“I’m not sure you do, Miss Wycliffe,” Digby said, stepping back to allow her to enter. “But I’m afraid you will.”
Digby led her through the castle courtyard and into the main building. She followed him through a building that needed serious attention, along a wide but gloomy corridor to a heavy oak door, rapped once and entered.
“Miss Wycliffe, sir,” he said, before holding the door open for her.
By now Freddie’s heart was thudding, an uncomfortable and heavy sensation pounding in her chest as she stepped inside what appeared to be a very masculine domain that served as both study and library. It was dark, the furniture heavy, and little light entered from the narrow windows on either side of the room. A fire crackled in the hearth, the sudden pop of sap bursting from a log making her almost jump out of her skin.
Digby sent her a look of sympathy which helped not a bit as he closed the door on her.
“I’ll be right outside,” he murmured, sotto voce as his lanky frame disappeared.
She watched him go and then took a breath, turning to face the room, and finding Captain Moncreiffe staring at her.
All the air she’d hauled into her lungs left her in a rush, for the man was no less impressive dressed than he was naked. Unfortunately, that observation reminded her of everything she’d seen, and she felt the blush sear her cheeks.
“Didn’t ye get a good enough look yesterday, Miss Wycliffe?” he asked, the mockery in his voice unmistakable.
Well, so much for pretending it had never happened.
Taking her courage in hand, Freddie realised he was the kind of man she’d have to stand up to if she wanted to get anywhere at all.
“Oh, I had an excellent view, thank you, Captain Moncreiffe,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “But then the scenery around here is quite… breathtaking.” From the startled look in his eyes she was pleased to discover she’d surprised him. “I’ve seen nothing as impressive in all my life,” she added, deciding she may as well enjoy herself. “Though I don’t have a great deal to compare it to, so perhaps I’m overstating.”
To her delight, a hint of colour appeared high on the captain’s cheeks.
“You see,” she added, regarding him with a guileless expression. “Ben Nevis is my first mountain.”
For a moment his eyes narrowed, and then he turned away from her and she allowed herself to believe that she’d won a small victory. Now his searing gaze had left her face, she took the opportunity, to inspect him.
He was wearing the kilt she’d covered him up with yesterday, or at least one identical. It was a deep blue, crossed with green and with a finer red stripe running in both directions across the two colours. He wore a shirt and waistcoat but no coat, which in itself was shocking. No gentleman was ever seen without his coat, but in the circumstances it hardly seemed relevant. He wore boots that reached just below his bare knees and, as he moved past her, the scent of fresh air and leather and horses reached her, along with the faintest hint of sweetness.
She felt the weight of his gaze the moment he turned back to her, leaning against his desk and folding his arms.
“What are ye doing here?”
Freddie smiled at him. “Why, I am making your acquaintance as we are to be neighbours. It was my uncle’s dying wish that I do so. Indeed, it was a stipulation of his will. He wanted us to be friends, Captain Moncreiffe. He seemed to be of the strong opinion that you needed a friend above all things.”
“Hell and damnation,” he cursed, pushing to his feet and striding across the room to lean against the wall, staring out of the window. She could only see a little of his profile from where she stood, but she felt his jaw was as rigid as his shoulders. “Your uncl
e was an interfering old busybody.”
“Yes, I gathered as much,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her words. Uncle Phin had often written that it was his life’s work to interfere and get away with it. “He was good at it though, wasn’t he?”
The captain gave a grunt, which she took as a grudging acceptance of her words.
“Is it such a burden, to have a friend?” she enquired, keeping her tone light.
He turned on her then. “Aye,” he said, his eyes glinting with anger. “I’ve no need of friends. I dinnae want them, and ye can rid yourself of any fool notion I’d ever want a Miss Wycliffe as a friend.” The words were unvarnished, spoken with a tone designed to hurt and send her scurrying from the room. “Ye think some priggish English Miss is fit company for a man of my ilk? Ye must hae had yer poor head turned by the sight o’ my cock if that seems likely.”
Freddie was aware her cheeks were aflame once more and that he spoke so for that express purpose. Resigning herself to the idea that she must get used to such language, she decided she’d best disabuse him of the idea she was a prig. She wasn’t. Indeed, she’d always felt a little out of place as her sensibilities just didn’t seem as fragile as other young ladies of her acquaintance.
“I think you must be aware by now, Captain Moncreiffe, I’m not the least bit priggish, neither do I swoon or indulge in fits of the vapours. The sight of your….” She hesitated, even her indignation at his insults not enough to make her say that word out loud. “Nether regions have left no lasting impression, I assure you.”
“Bollocks!” he said, and Freddie caught her breath as he turned and stalked towards her. She backed up against the wall as he strode closer and braced himself on one arm, crowding her. “I bet the sight has burned itself upon ye imagination. Did ye dream of me, hen?” he asked, his tone mocking.
Freddie stiffened, wondering if her uncle had overestimated his knowledge of this man’s character.
“My uncle told me you were a gentleman to your core, Captain. Is this what passes for gentlemanly behaviour in Scotland?”
The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 4