by Candace Camp
“I am sorry she imposed on you. I can explain to her that you would prefer not to dine with—”
His eyes widened. “Nae! I did not mean that. It’s not that I dinna wish to eat with you. I thought you might not want—that you would think it inappropriate. I’m just—” He stopped and sighed. “Och . . . the truth is, all this”—he swept his hand out—“I am not used to eating in grand style.”
Violet smiled at his pained expression. “I am forced to endure it every meal, so I see no reason why you should escape it.”
He relaxed, giving her a sheepish grin as he took his place in the chair across from her.
“At least she did not force you to sit at the head of the table.” Violet’s eyes twinkled.
“Thank goodness for that. No doubt she feels only the earl is worthy of that spot.” He leaned back in his chair, watching uneasily as the footman dished food onto his plate.
Violet turned to the servant. “We would prefer to serve ourselves, Jamie.”
The footman regarded her with trepidation. “But Mrs. Ferguson said I was to wait on you.”
“I am sure Mrs. Ferguson will not blame you if I tell you that you may leave.”
“Uh . . . yes, miss.” He shifted uncertainly, cast a glance toward Coll, then hastily set the food down and left the room.
“You’ve put young Jamie in a quake. He canna decide whether it’s worse to disobey you or Mrs. Ferguson.”
“I feel sure Mrs. Ferguson will add it to the list of my sins and punish me accordingly. I suspect her serving my meals in this mausoleum is retribution for disturbing her order of things.” Violet cast a look of disfavor down the long table with its intimidating array of silver epergnes and candelabras.
“I would have thought you were accustomed to dining in a room like this.”
“Our house had nothing this grand. We ate in the informal dining room usually, and even the formal dining table was half this size. In any case, I have not eaten there these many years. I am much more used to my uncle and aunt’s cozy little table.”
“You do not live at home?”
“I do not live at my parents’ house. But Uncle Lionel’s is my home—was my home.” Her eyes glimmered with moisture, and she looked away. “My father and I do not . . . see eye to eye on a number of things, I’m afraid. ’Tis easier to live apart.”
“I can understand that.” Looking more relaxed now, Coll began to eat.
Violet glanced at him in surprise, thinking of the fiddler at the dance, with his quick grin and easy charm. “You do not get on with your father?”
Coll scowled. “Dinna tell me—you found him most agreeable. Women do.” Grudgingly he added, “ ’Tis hard to argue with the man.”
“Yet you found a way to do so, I take it.”
“Nae. We dinna argue.” Coll shrugged one shoulder. “The man is as slippery as wet soap. A will-o’-the-wisp. Here today and gone tomorrow. You canna depend on Alan McGee.”
“I see.” It was easy to glimpse the roots of Coll’s rocklike reliability.
“I know,” he went on as if she had argued. “I should not blame him for what is only his nature. Meg takes him as he is. So did our mother. But I find it hard to forgive him for leaving Ma to handle everything on her own. He would come back, and it would be all singing and laughing and telling tall tales. He’d go on about how much he missed us, how beautiful Ma was, and how sweet it was living in the glen. Then after a time, he’d grow restless. You’d see it in his eyes, hear it in his music. And he would leave again.”
“It must have been hard.”
“It was hard for Ma.”
“For you as well,” Violet said mildly. “I imagine a boy needs his father.”
“I managed well enough. The Roses were good to her. To us. And by the time Andrew no longer needed a nurse, I was old enough to help her.”
“No doubt you did.” Violet could imagine the sturdy lad he must have been, big for his age and doggedly taking on jobs that should have been handled by a man. “I am sure your mother appreciated it.”
“She used to say I was her rock.” Coll gave Violet a self-deprecating smile. “I think she mostly meant my head.”
Violet chuckled. “Maybe only a little.”
“Why did you and your father not see eye to eye?”
“You can guess. I was not the daughter he wanted. Not like my sisters. I harassed my brother’s tutors for answers to my questions and often did my brother’s schoolwork for him. Father thought I was too interested in reading and too little inclined to be pleasant and compliant.”
“You? Not compliant? I would never have guessed.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “I wanted to learn interesting things, not how to walk and dress and play the piano.”
“You argued?”
“Endlessly. When I was fourteen, he sent me to live awhile with my mother’s sister and her husband.” Violet smiled, remembering. “Aunt Caroline and Uncle Lionel. I think his intent was to show me what happened to a woman who did not land a suitable husband—living in a small house and worrying about money, having only one servant to clean and cook, wearing old dresses and not going to fashionable parties. But I was in heaven. My uncle let me read his books, and he answered my questions. I helped him and went to digs and listened to conversations with his colleagues. I lived with them for eight months before I had to go back home.”
“I take it your father found you not improved.”
“No. We had terrible rows. He would cut off my correspondence with Uncle Lionel or confine me to my room or take away my books. It made my mother miserable, and finally Father sent me away to school.”
“Ah.”
“Not a real school.” Violet scowled. “It was a ‘young ladies academy,’ which meant we were taught piano and sketching and deportment. How to pour tea and carry on a meaningless conversation and speak enough French to buy gowns in Paris.”
“They sent you home?” Coll guessed.
Violet laughed. “No. They were too fond of my father’s money to give up on me. It was better than being immured at home. There was a small library. A tutor came in to teach us literature, and he would lend me books. We went to museums every now and again, and best of all, I was able to correspond with Uncle Lionel. I was able to slip out and go to some interesting lectures. Of course, I had to pretend to be a boy to get into them, but . . .”
“You pretended to be a boy?” Coll’s brows shot up.
Violet nodded. “Sometimes I was turned away because they thought I was too young.” She sighed. “It is difficult to pretend to be a man when one is no taller than I.”
“There must have been . . . other difficulties.” His eyes dropped to her breasts, then hastily away.
“I managed.”
“Your father must have relented. Obviously you pursued your studies further.”
“Clearly you don’t know my father. After school I had to make my come-out. I did not ‘take,’ as you might imagine. Eventually I reached the age of twenty-one, and I was free to pursue the life I wanted rather than the one Father chose for me. I went to live with my aunt and uncle again and studied with Uncle Lionel. I have not seen my father since.”
“Your father disowned you?” Coll gaped at her.
“No. That would have been a scandal in itself. But I am not exactly welcome at my father’s table. He does not speak of me, so of course neither do my mother or sisters. I have gone home once or twice when he was away, but it made my mother uncomfortable.”
“What about your brother? Your sisters?” Coll leaned forward, his forehead creased in concern.
“I am something of an embarrassment to them as well.” She smiled at him. “What do you say here—dinna fash yourself? We are all happier this way.”
“Your father sounds a hard man.”
She shrugged. “From what I have seen, most men are like my father.”
“Not all men. There are fathers who are not dictatorial.”
“No doubt
. My uncle was different.” A smile quirked her mouth. “And there are fathers who are agreeable will-o’-the-wisps.”
“Och, lass, surely there must be some who are in between the two.”
“Mm. Perhaps.” She toyed with her fork, not looking at him. “There was a man I thought was different. A scholar studying with my uncle. We talked of books and sites and methods. I thought he was a man like Uncle Lionel, and I daydreamed about a life with him. Loving each other. Working together. He asked me to marry him. I said yes. I thought it was all very romantic.”
“What happened?”
She looked up to see Coll watching her with his calm, steady gaze. “One day he favored me with his vision of our married life. It would be wonderful to have a wife who understood his scholarly world. I would not mind when he spent his time at ancient sites or in libraries while I took care of children, hearth, and home. I would respect him for his mind and his accomplishments rather than the pedestrian things most women wanted, such as money and fine clothes. He would enjoy sharing his knowledge with a woman of intelligence. I could even help him by taking notes or copying out his papers or listening to him rehearse his lectures.” Violet smiled wryly. “He was surprised that I broke off our engagement.”
“I’m sorry.”
Violet shrugged. “It was a long time ago and best forgotten. It was a fortunate thing, really. I can see now that I would have been miserable if I had married John. I couldn’t have gone to excavations with Uncle Lionel as I did or spent my time studying what I wanted. I cannot marry and still have the life I want.”
“You could not marry him. But another man—”
Violet snorted. “What husband would be happy to let his wife go off on her own for weeks or months? What man would not mind that she stayed up till all hours reading because she found something interesting? Or not be bothered that she spent many evenings in discussions with male scholars?”
He shrugged. “I dinna know. I never thought about it.”
“Of course you didn’t. A man does not have to face such decisions. But a woman really has only two choices: she can have marriage or freedom. If you choose marriage, every other option in your life belongs to your husband. Where you live, what you may or may not do, what happens to your children. A wife gives her very self into a man’s hands and can only hope that he will treat her well.”
“Nae, it’s not like that.” Coll stared at her, aghast. “What a bitter view you have of men! Not all husbands are tyrants.”
“I suppose not.”
“There are men who love their wives.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Who treat them with tenderness and care, not trample them beneath their feet.”
“Kind men.” Violet thought of the gentle way Coll had cleaned her wounds last night, and warmth stirred in her chest, but she pushed that thought aside. “But kindness is not liberty. Whatever a wife may have or be or do, it is only on her husband’s sufferance. There are a great many degrees of control that are milder than tyranny, but they are still control. And that is why I shall never marry.”
Coll frowned, and she could see him gathering his arguments. Violet made a dismissive gesture. “But I suspect that neither of us is likely to change the other’s mind on the issue. And that is not what I wished to speak with you about.”
He looked at her warily. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Yes. I think we should discuss what we should do about the intruder.”
“We?” His brows drew together. “There is no ‘we’ to the matter. I will—”
“You are very much mistaken if you think you will handle this alone. I intend to deal with the problem—the question is whether I do it with you or alone.”
11
Coll let out a short, sharp word in a language she did not recognize. Violet suspected it was not complimentary. “It’s not your concern,” he said at last. “It is my responsibility, and I will deal with it.”
“Since I am the one who was struck on the head last night, I would say that it is very much my concern.”
“That’s exactly why I told you to leave. So you would not be in danger.”
“We can squabble about this as long as you wish.” She fixed him with a grim stare. “In the end, do you think I will slink off and leave it to you?”
“You are the most infuriating female I—”
“Yes, I know, I am well aware of how you feel about me.”
“I doubt that.”
“Unless you intend to lock me in my room as my father did, you cannot keep me from looking into the matter. Since you are familiar with the area, the house, the people, it would be of great benefit if you participated, but if you do not care to . . .”
“It is no surprise that someone hit you over the head.”
“No doubt. But if you will remember, that did not stop me.”
Coll planted his elbows on the table, dropping his head into his hands. “You will be the death of me.”
“That seems unlikely. Have you thought of how you are going to catch him?”
“Of course I’ve thought of it. If he breaks in again, I will grab him.”
“That seems a trifle . . . uncertain. What if he does not break in again?”
“Then there is no problem.”
“What if he breaks in and you don’t hear it? Do you plan to sit up every night, waiting for him?”
“I am a light sleeper. I woke up when you came to my door the other night, didn’t I?”
“I was screaming.”
“Then you tell me how I should capture him,” he challenged. “Should I set up traps about the house?”
“That doesn’t seem workable.”
“I agree. I walked through the house last night and all around it this morning, but I could find nothing to give me a hint of who your attacker was.” He added with a grin, “I did discover your weapon.”
“My weapon?”
“The candlestick. It had rolled under one of the shrubs in front. You must have dropped it when he struck you down.”
“It was not very useful.” Violet frowned. “But you saw no trace of the man?”
“No handy scrap of material torn off on a thornbush. No muddy footprints through the hall. There were tracks around the house, but nothing I could distinguish as belonging to him rather than some gardener or servant. I’ve questioned everyone who works here. The maids say that small objects have been vanishing over the past few weeks, but they dinna know who is taking them. They were afraid Mrs. Ferguson would blame them if they brought it to her attention.”
“As she no doubt would have.”
“True, but it doesna help me to find the thief. I went to the village this afternoon, but I had no luck there either.” He sighed. “Some no longer regard me as a man in whom it’s safe to confide. Those who do are less likely to have the information I want.”
“I suspect your highwayman might be a good place to start.”
“Will’s was the first place I went, but he claims to have been home all night, and his ma swears he was. She would lie for him to the bitter end, but I have no proof. Indeed, I dinna know he’s guilty. There are other larcenous souls about.”
“What about that other man? The manager.”
“He left Kinclannoch almost a fortnight ago. Mrs. Stewart thinks he was headed back to the Lowlands, and Ron Fraser passed him on the road out of town.” Coll sighed. “I asked all over the village and no one said they’d seen him since or heard of him staying with anyone. He’s no friends here to hide him or cover his tracks, so I suppose I must rule him out.”
“Then your only hope is to catch the thief in the deed?”
“I fear so. I told no one today that I planned to spend the nights here, but after tonight, word will spread. The next night or two are the only ones I can hope to catch them in the act, and I dinna know if he will come again so soon.” Coll shrugged. “I canna understand why he’s come more than once yet taken so little. A silver saltcellar. A wee lion with a mane of gold and
topaz eyes.”
“Perhaps he takes pieces that he can sell for enough to live on, hoping that because they are small, no one will notice or that the servants will keep quiet, as they did.”
“I suppose. But where does he sell them? There’s no one hereabouts who could afford to buy them, and anyone would suspect where they came from. He’d have to go to Inverness, which is a long walk. Even there, I would not think there’s much market for them.”
“Maybe he holds them until he has several things, then takes them together.”
Coll’s eyes lit. “It would be a fine thing if we could find them all in his possession.”
“Perhaps we will get lucky. Do you intend to sit up tonight waiting for him?”
“I thought to go to bed early and sleep a couple of hours, then get up around midnight and keep watch.”
“We should divide the hours. I will take the first watch and wake you halfway through the night.”
“I will counter your offer and take the first watch, then hand it over to you.”
“Hah! I am not that gullible, sir. If you are on duty first, you will ‘forget’ to wake me.”
“Lord, but you are a suspicious woman.” He shook his head sorrowfully.
“I am a woman of experience.” Suddenly the air was thick with undertones of meaning. Violet’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Coll shifted. “Do you propose to go after the man with a candlestick again?”
“Not unless I have to. If I hear anyone entering the house, I will wake you. I shall not take him on by myself. Though, of course, I must have something to hit him with if necessary.” Violet looked thoughtful. “A walking stick like Old Angus carries would be handy.”
“Heaven help me.”
“Since the intruder arrived so late last time, it’s clear I have given you the more dangerous assignment. That should soothe your masculine pride.”
“ ’Tis not a matter of pride.”
“Of course not.” Violet made her tone extravagantly soothing.
“You are the most ag—”
“—gravating female,” Violet finished with him, and they both laughed. “Now . . . do we have a bargain?”