“Oh?” Freddie asked, trying not to sound too eager for more information.
Happily, Mrs Stewart was ready to oblige.
“Oh, aye. The story goes that he’d fight any man who so much as looked at him funny before he left for the army. Yet since I’ve been here, I’ve only heard of his kindness. Like about the Selkirk family. They were fair close to starving. Poor Mr Selkirk died during the war and left the missus with two bairns and a third on the way. Well, the rumour is that the captain hears about it and goes the next day, fixes her roof himself and set to getting the farm to rights. Only a week later, this fellow arrives, one of the captain’s men, he was. He introduces the fellow to Mrs Selkirk and the two of them are married barely five minutes later. Happy as pigs in… a puddle,” she amended, jiggling young Angus, who was trying to chew on her hair. “I saw them nae three days ago, billing and cooing like a couple o’ doves.”
“What a lovely story,” Freddie said with a happy sigh.
“Aye, I reckon all young men like to fight, he was just fuller of pepper than most, and perhaps he had reason, being orphaned and all. Now he’s learned sense though, grown into a man. If you ask me, he’s got a romantic heart,” Mrs Stewart added with a grin. “Perhaps ye should put your best bonnet on and go a-calling?”
Blushing a little and avoiding Maggie’s amused expression, Freddie got to her feet.
“Well, we’d best not keep you any longer, Mrs Stewart.”
“Oh, call me Jenny,” she said, following them to the front door.
“Then I am Freddie, and this is Maggie,” Freddie said before adding, “and do come and visit us, say next Tuesday? I shall be disappointed if you don’t, especially if I don’t see this young man,” she added, pressing a kiss to the baby’s cheek.
The child giggled and squirmed, and Freddie laughed, stroking his skin and a fine tuft of blond hair, like the most delicate silk. She wondered if she’d ever have such a warm bundle in her arms to call her own and decided that was best not dwelt on for the moment.
“Well,” Freddie said, putting her arm through Maggie’s, “there is one voice to extol our virtues to the rest.”
Maggie snorted. “Yes, a newcomer herself, she’s probably eager for a friend for the same reasons. It takes decades to become a local in a place like this, you know. Longer, even.”
“Oh, Maggie.” Freddie rolled her eyes, impatient with such pessimism. “Do look on the bright side, just for once.”
“Oh, Freddie,” Maggie said, mimicking her tone. “If you’d wanted someone with a sweet nature and a sweeter tongue, you’ve chosen entirely the wrong companion.”
Freddie laughed and shook her head. “You know as well as I do, I’d murder such a paragon before the week was out. We’re both far too used to speaking our minds.”
“True,” Maggie allowed, a rather mischievous glint in her eyes. “And so long as you don’t confess to Captain Moncreiffe that you want to marry him and have his babies, I suppose we’ll manage.”
“Maggie!” Freddie exclaimed, scarlet with mortification, mostly because she’d been daydreaming about exactly that from the moment she’d set eyes on Angus.
Maggie chuckled, unrepentant, and they made their way back to the cottage.
Chapter 10
“Wherein our hero falls to temptation.”
Ross looked about the glasshouse with satisfaction. It had cost him a small fortune to build and no doubt added to the rumours about his eccentricity and delusions of grandeur.
The design had been his own, too. On his travels with the army he’d seen Roman ruins, where the villas had been heated by a hypocaust beneath the floor of the building. Heat from a fire elsewhere then travelled along pipes to the floor, where it heated the room above.
Getting his delicate ladies through the rigours of a Scottish winter was something he’d been determined to achieve. He’d lost several lovely—and horrifyingly expensive—specimens the first winter here. Either the furnace was too hot, or the fire died at the moment the temperature outside plummeted.
However, he thought he might have cracked it.
The building itself was his pride and joy, built of red brick with huge windows that looked out over a view that would make poets weep. It was the only place in the world where he felt some measure of peace.
He’d had little of that in the days since he’d last seen Miss Wycliffe. She haunted his dreams and his thoughts.
“Well, my wee beauties,” he said, smiling as he closed the door on the outside world and all its vicissitudes and attempted to purge Miss Wycliffe from his mind. “How are ye all doing this fine, sunny morning?”
He breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet perfume that never failed to ease the tension in his neck. Spicy vanilla and cinnamon drifted about him, making him sigh with pleasure almost as much as the delicate blooms. Jaunty, sunny yellows and paler buttery hues vied with white and russet through to velvety brown.
This building and this area of the castle grounds was strictly out of bounds. Mrs Murray and Digby knew about it, naturally, but he’d threatened both with dire consequences should they feel the need to chatter about him and his peculiarities. Not that growing orchids was that eccentric.
Unless you knew the man Ross had been before the war.
He’d been angry and ripe for a fight at any perceived insult from the time he was old enough to raise his fists. He’d been belted a deal too often as a child and had learned to fight back at an early age or, better yet, knock down anyone who might so much as think about it before they got the chance.
It was still there, that rage, still in him, but tempered now. He’d seen too much violence in his life to want to add to it. Yet he feared it would not take much to catch his temper alight and so he kept himself apart and preferred the company of his exotic ladies to that of the raucous laughter and masculine banter to be had in the village at night.
He was a professional soldier now, not just some hot-headed young man with a fast pair of fists. If he got too angry and lost his rag, he might do some serious damage. The idea sickened him. Such instinctive reactions had saved his skin in years past, but they were no longer at war and the local men not the enemy. Would he be able to tell the difference once his blood was up?
“What kind of life is it for ye, shut away from the world with nothing for company but your stupid plants? They’ll not keep ye warm at night. You’ll have nae kin, no one to mourn ye or raise a glass in yer name.”
Mrs Murray’s voice echoed in his ears as he sat and stared out at the great mountain that glowered on the horizon like a sleeping giant. She’d often compared him to that mountain, as stubborn and unyielding, refusing to budge.
Miss Wycliffe would keep him warm at night, if he had a mind to let her.
He cursed at the thought, having already forbidden himself to think of her, for all the good that had done. The more he told himself she was off limits the more his brain conjured images of her. So far, he’d had her multiple times and multiple ways: in his bed, across his desk, spread naked on the heather with a warm sun beating down upon his back.
Ross groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Stop it ye stupid bastard.”
He ought to find himself a willing woman, one who had no innocence left to take. God knew he’d offers enough. Yet then the gossip would begin, and he despised it. The stories they told of him now were bad enough. One minute he was a war hero, the next a good Samaritan, until they got around to condemning him for pretending to be a gentleman and playing the laird when they all knew he’d been born in the gutter and lived only because they’d taken pity.
Ross tried to distract himself by tending to the orchids, watering them and gently tying in the stems to keep them straight, turning them away from the sun so they didn’t grow in one direction for too long.
It didn’t help.
Irritation simmered beneath his skin, and he felt a rush of resentment towards Miss Wycliffe for coming and upsetting the order of his life. It had been b
ad enough when her blasted uncle had turned up, but at least he’d seen the world and had a wealth of interesting stories to share, and Ross had never been tempted to take him to bed.
What the devil could he talk about with Miss Wycliffe? Polite conversation was not something he had any understanding of, and conversation seemed to be the last thing on his mind when she was about in any case. It was all he could do to keep his hands to himself, let alone discuss anything she might find of interest.
Feeling guilty for muttering obscenities in the sanctity of his glasshouse, he headed back to the castle, unreasonably out of charity with Miss Wycliffe. Her intentions were kind, he knew that, but the results were not as his aching body could testify. He’d best get shot of her soon, or things would get out of hand.
***
“They’re coming,” Digby said, hurrying into the kitchen. “I went up the tower and just caught a glimpse of them, be here in about five minutes.”
“An’ have ye found himself?” Mrs Murray demanded, piling a batch of fresh scones one atop the other into a pleasing mound. She looked up to see the butler had made an extra effort today and looked fine enough to serve Prinny himself.
“No, he went off up to the glasshouse and I’ve not seen him since. He might not come,” Digby added, a warning note to his voice.
“He’ll come,” Mrs Murray said with a snort. “Though we may wish he hadnae if the temper he was in this morning is anything to go on.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel and straightened her apron. “Now, ye know what ye have to do?”
Digby huffed, looking mutinous. “I know what you said I have to do. How you expect me to achieve it is another matter. Any ideas?”
“None,” Mrs Murray said, walking off to put the water on to boil. “That’s your problem.”
“Charming,” Digby muttered. “If the chaperone is any kind of a decent women, she’ll not be parted from Miss Wycliffe for any reason.”
“Miss Wycliffe has visited the castle alone, more than once, Mr Digby.”
“Miss Wycliffe strikes me as a stubborn woman, Mrs Murray, and if her chaperone was injured, she could hardly stop her.”
“Well, ye mun think of something, for there’s the bell.”
Mrs Murray sighed, shaking her head and muttering about the deficiencies of the male sex as Digby hurried for the door.
***
Freddie was unaccountably nervous.
“Stop fidgeting,” Maggie scolded.
“I can’t help it,” she confessed, taking Maggie’s arm and giving her an imploring look. “Swear you’ll not let me do anything stupid?”
“What, like setting the man’s clothes alight?” Maggie said dryly.
“Any scenario where he ends up naked,” Freddie begged, earning herself a snort of amusement from her companion although she was deadly serious.
“I’m not sure it’s in my interests to agree to that,” Maggie said with a wistful sigh. “Not if he’s as fine close up as he was from the window.”
“Well, you’re no help at all,” Freddie said in disgust, and then pasted a smile to her face as the door opened and Digby appeared.
“Digby, how good to see you. Are you well?”
“All the better for seeing you, Miss Wycliffe,” Digby said, in his solemn, butlery way which was quite endearing.
“Oh, Digby, please may I introduce my companion, Mrs Runcible?”
Freddie realised at that moment that Maggie had frozen beside her and glanced back at Digby to see that he likewise looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Maggie.”
The word was breathed out on a reverent rush of emotion and echoed a moment later by Maggie herself.
“Albert!”
“Darling!”
A moment later and Freddie was feeling a little surplus to requirements as the two of them embraced in a passionate kiss.
“Um….” Freddie was not entirely sure what to do next. How extraordinary! It was one thing to discover Maggie had a long lost lover, but to discover him here … of all places. Realising she was gaping, Freddie decided to make herself scared. “I’ll just… I’ll leave you to it,” she said, and hurried away.
Goodness! She could not wait to hear the story behind that reunion.
“Miss Wycliffe.”
Freddie squeaked with alarm, almost jumping out of her skin as the deep voice sounded too close to her.
“Captain Moncreiffe,” she said, breathless and holding a hand over her trembling heart. “Please, don’t creep up on me like that. You gave me such a turn.”
“I didnae creep,” he retorted, and from his sharp tone she could tell he was in the mood to have a row with her.
“Well, you do actually,” she said, despite knowing it was not a good idea to rile him. “How a man your size can move about and make so little noise is beyond me.”
“I’ve a grand talent for staying alive, Miss Wycliffe. It’s served me well to date.”
“I’m sure,” Freddie said, attempting to make her voice soothing. “But I am not a murderous Frenchman and I have no desire to slit your throat. Yet, at least,” she amended.
He rounded the spiral stone staircase and stepped out into the central courtyard, scowling. “Where is your companion?” he demanded, folding his arms in a manner that might have been designed with the express intention of drawing Freddie’s gaze to his powerful muscles. “I thought I forbade ye to come here alone?”
“Forbade me?” Freddie scoffed, tearing her eyes from his impressive physic and replying before she could think better of it. “I’d like to see you try.” Before he could do just that she hurried on, knowing her next words would take the wind from his sales. “And anyway, I did bring my companion. She’s outside… kissing Mr Digby.”
“Outside… what?”
Freddie watched, entranced as he leapt up the stone steps to the entrance three at a time, making his kilt swirl and giving her a fine view of those shapely legs.
“Behave, Freddie,” she scolded herself, before hurrying after him.
He stood at the open door, gaping at the scene before him, where Maggie was still clinging to Mr Digby, her head on his shoulder and weeping softly as Digby stared down at her in wonder.
“Do they know each other, then?” the captain said, the sight having apparently knocked the sense from his head.
Freddie quirked one eyebrow. “I do hope so.”
The captain snorted, glowering at her. “Ye ken well what I mean.”
“I honestly don’t,” Freddie said, trying not to laugh at his irritation. “If you’re asking if I know their history, indeed, I do not. I was as surprised as they clearly were. They both looked stunned. I’ve witnessed nothing more romantic in all my life,” she added with a sigh, quite unable to help herself.
The captain looked at her in disgust, then back to the starry-eyed couple outside with a shudder and looked like he might be about to interrupt things.
“Don’t you dare,” Freddie said, daring to grab at his hand and tug. “You leave them be. We’ll hear the story soon enough. Let them have their reunion in private.”
She tugged again, which was a little like tugging on the hulking mountain that dominated the landscape.
“Come along,” she said in her best imperious governess voice. After all, it worked on small children. Surprisingly it seemed to work on bad-tempered Scottish captains too.
They were all the way across the courtyard before she realised she was still holding his hand, now she didn’t know what to do about that fact. She almost panicked and dropped it in horror, except that he hadn’t let go and… and if he didn’t, she wasn’t going to.
His hand was large and rough and warm in hers and she was glad she’d taken her gloves off halfway up the hill and stuffed them into her reticule.
Having received no instruction, Freddie kept walking and carried on, through the first door that presented itself, to the inside of the castle before she stopped.
“Where are we going?” she asked, d
aring to look around to find him watching her with a curious expression.
He lifted her hand, his thumb stroking her palm in a slow, sinuous caress that made every nerve in her body leap to attention.
“Want to go swimming?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, and a wicked glint in his eyes.
Freddie blushed, remembering his invitation the first day she’d seen him… best not consider that. Nonetheless she blushed harder and he gave a low chuckle. Damn him, he knew just what she was thinking about.
Irritated, Freddie snatched her hand free and glared back at him, defiant.
“I would. Yes. Take me swimming, Captain Moncreiffe.” She knew he wouldn’t, naturally. He’d just been trying to unsettle her, and succeeding.
So now it was his turn.
He stared back at her, dumbstruck.
“Well, come along, then,” she said, clapping her hands like she would to chivvy along her small charges. “Where do we go? Should we strip naked here or wait until we get to—”
He’d moved before she could even get to the end of her ridiculous question and Freddie found herself pressed up against the stone wall. The cold registered even through her spencer and gown but did nothing to diminish the burn that was invading every other part of her body.
“I told ye to stay clear o’ me, but ye didnae listen,” he said, the words a growl that made a shiver run over her skin. He had hold of her by her wrists, pressed against the wall above her head. He touched her nowhere but her wrists and though it was an aggressive posture his hands on her were gentle and she could have pulled free if she wished to. Freddie was not about to consider why it was she didn’t move an inch.
“I think ye want the talk that’s starting in the village to be real. Ye want it so bad ye will keep coming back until it is. Is that it?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
She stared up at him, trembling not from fear, or at least not fear of him. The only terror here was the truth in his words. He was looking down at her, those green eyes unreadable. From this distance she saw they were not just green but flecked with gold and violet, reminding her of a landscape painting she’d seen of acres of heather in bloom.
The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 10