The Texan Duke

by Karen Ranney

  Anise hadn’t said anything directly to him. Lara was involved in conversation with her husband. Connor might not have been in the room for all the attention she paid him. Muira was the only one he talked to, their conversation about food.

  He was fine with being ignored.

  All the women were dressed in dark colors with large swaths of plaid material draped from shoulder to waist. His mother still wore black, but by the time he’d gotten home, his sisters had come out of mourning.

  The door opened again and there she was with Glassey in tow.

  Her hair was black, her eyes gray, which should have rendered them cold and disinterested. Instead, when she looked at him, he had the distinct impression of heat. He wondered if she wanted to say something, offer some words of welcome, something soft and sweet. Something to warm him down to the bones that still felt cold and brittle from the journey.

  A foolish reaction to a woman and one he’d never before experienced. No doubt he was simply tired.

  His aunt glanced at her. “Elsbeth, would you please arrange to have the shutters closed? I’m afraid it looks like an intemperate night.”

  Elsbeth nodded, turned and left the room again. This time, her absence wasn’t as extended. She returned with a half dozen footmen as the duchess was expounding on the wonders of a Highland winter.

  Sam was his usual diplomatic self, not mentioning that they’d both shivered for hours during the last leg of their journey and had spent considerable time lambasting the snow and the cold. You would think, from listening to him, that he was overjoyed to have been nearly frozen.

  Elsbeth gave orders with the ease of someone long accustomed to doing so. When the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn against the night, she dismissed the footmen. Instead of leaving, she came and sat next to Muira, reaching for a cup and pouring herself some tea.

  He hadn’t the slightest idea who she was. Not his cousin, evidently. Someone that felt at ease with the family, however, or she wouldn’t have come and sat among them. Or smiled at Glassey, who had taken one of the chairs close to the fire.

  “Elsbeth?” Connor said. “An interesting name.”

  “It means ‘God is my oath,’” she said. She didn’t smile, but there was a twinkle in her eyes as if she were teasing him.

  “Muira means ‘from the moor,’” Muira said. “A great deal less profound, but I like that it’s poetic, in its way. Of course, Father picked it, so it would have been. I think he was mostly a poet. More than he ever wanted to be a laird. Was your father the same?”

  “We have plenty of time to learn about your uncle,” the duchess said. “Don’t badger His Grace with questions, Muira.”

  A sound reminding him of a cannon shot kept him from responding. The noise started at the top of the house and rumbled across the roof. They all looked upward, but only Elsbeth ran to the window, opened the curtains and the newly closed shutters to stare out at the snow.

  “What is it?” he said, standing and moving to her side.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I need to find out.”

  She was gone again, leaving the Laird’s Hall without a word to anyone.

  He turned and glanced at Sam. The other man knew him well enough to interpret the look. Make my excuses. Be polite for me. Offer an explanation, if you can.

  How many occasions had he depended on Sam? Dozens, especially after his mother had gotten it into her head to begin introducing him to eligible women throughout Texas. Whenever he had to escort his mother somewhere, he found himself waylaid.

  He had five older sisters and a mother determined to get him married off. Consequently, he’d spent the past two years feeling as if he was avoiding bear traps.

  He left the Laird’s Hall, retraced his steps, and found himself in the foyer. A footman was stationed at the door.

  “Have you seen Elsbeth?” he asked.

  The footman nodded. “Miss Carew has gone outside, Your Grace.”

  He pushed aside the irritation at being called Your Grace for another, more important point.

  “Miss Carew? She isn’t a McCraight?”

  The footman looked uncomfortable at being addressed. Nor had his aunt and cousins spoken directly to any of the maids. Was it a Scottish rule not to talk to the servants? They were just going to have to get used to him because he was damned if he was going to ignore people around him.

  “No, Your Grace, she’s the ward of the 13th duke.”

  Interesting. Then why hadn’t the duchess introduced her? He tucked that question away with the rest of them.

  “Do you know where they put my coat and hat?”

  The footman bowed slightly and said, “I do, Your Grace. Shall I fetch them for you?”

  He nodded, determined to address the Your Grace matter in the morning. The footman reappeared a few moments later with his garments.

  He put his hat on, then his coat, and would have opened one of the double doors if the footman hadn’t gotten there before him. He thanked the man, left the house, and was immediately nearly pushed off the steps by the force of the wind.

  Since they’d arrived at Bealadair, the blizzard had gotten worse. They’d been lucky to get here before the roads were impassable.

  Half of the torches had been blown out by the wind, but a few of them were still lit, giving him enough light to see his way. He grabbed the banister with one hand and his hat with the other, making his way down the slippery steps. He squinted into wind that had a razor’s edge. The air was thick with snow, making it difficult to breathe.

  He’d faced a blizzard in the panhandle, but this one seemed like it had a personality. Perhaps it was a raw and angry Scot, enraged that a stranger had invaded its land.

  To his relief, he saw Elsbeth right away. She was dressed in a dark red cloak, the hood covering her hair. She and a man dressed in a Bealadair uniform were bent over, digging in a snowdrift. As he approached, she glanced up.

  “It’s a soldier,” she said, her words just this side of a shout. “One of the guardians on the roof. The snow must have built up and pushed him off.”

  “I don’t think it’s entirely safe for you to be standing there if that’s the case,” he said.

  He glanced up but couldn’t see the roof for the snow.

  “You’re probably right,” she said, grabbing the statue by the arm and pulling it free.

  The stone soldier was attired in a kilt with a length of tartan across his bare shoulders. He clutched a dirk in one hand and a small shield in the other. To his surprise, the statue hadn’t shattered into pieces, only cracked across the middle.

  She looked up at him and smiled, the first true smile he’d received since arriving at Bealadair. He wanted to thank her for that.

  “Elsbeth! Your Grace!”

  They both turned to see the duchess peering out the front door.

  “Please, come inside this instant!”

  Elsbeth turned to the footman. “Jim, if you’ll take the statue inside, we’ll see if we can repair the damage tomorrow.”

  Without another word, she brushed past Connor and headed toward the front door, leaving him to follow.

  Evidently, one obeyed the duchess. Or at least Elsbeth did.

  Instead of returning to the Laird’s Hall, Elsbeth headed for the kitchen.

  She’d forgotten to ask the duke about his saddle. A saddle, of all things. She wanted to know why he’d transported a saddle all the way to Scotland. Did he think they didn’t ride in Scotland? Or that they rode bareback?

  There was also the matter of what he wanted to eat. Despite going to a few people in the village, she was still ignorant about what Americans liked.

  “I’ve heard that they don’t like blood sausage at all,” Mrs. Condrey had offered. “Or puddings.”

  “I think they like fried eggs,” Mrs. McGuffin said. “And rashers.”

  She really should have asked him what he wanted for breakfast. But she’d taken one look at him and every cogent thought had flow
n from her mind.

  She would check in with the staff and see if they needed anything, give orders about the statue, and then wait in the kitchen until the duke retired in case he needed anything.

  In the morning, she’d ensure he was served a good Scottish breakfast. Perhaps they would have an opportunity to speak.

  There was absolutely no reason to feel warm at the possibility of having a conversation with a man she didn’t know. None whatsoever.

  Chapter 5

  Connor hadn’t slept well, waking in the suite that had housed several generations of McCraights and feeling uncomfortable and out of place.

  In the war he’d learned to sleep anywhere. More than once he’d simply leaned against a wall or a tree and dozed sitting up. But in the luxurious set of rooms with its velvet-and-gilt-covered furniture, he found himself waking every hour.

  At dawn, he dressed and made his way down the stairs, declining the assistance of a sleepy-eyed footman who was stationed outside the double doors of his suite.

  Finding his coat this time required the assistance of two footmen, one of whom finally returned to the base of the stairs holding the garment. Connor thanked the man, which evidently surprised him if the wide-eyed look was any indication, and made his way to the front door.

  “It looks to be a good morning, Your Grace,” the footman said as he opened the door.

  Connor peered outside at the mounds of snow. “Does it always snow so much here?”

  “No, Your Grace. It’s been a difficult winter.”

  Glassey could have told him that, too, along with information about Bealadair. Details he’d never divulged, like how damn big the house was.

  Connor nodded, put his hat on, and walked outside.

  At least the wind had subsided a little and it wasn’t currently snowing. The sky, with its cover of clouds, wasn’t all that promising, however.

  His boots crunched on the snow as he made his way to the circular approach. He hadn’t been able to see much last night and maybe that was a good thing. Turning, he looked at Bealadair for the first time.

  The white stone of the house looked almost yellow against the pristine snow. He counted four floors, but he wasn’t sure if the line of windows along the roofline meant there was another floor up there. A row of dark gray statues, each of them different—at least from what he could see from here—stretched along the parapet. One of them was missing and its absence stuck out like a missing tooth.

  The main part of the house stretched for a considerable distance and was buttressed on either side by two more wings.

  How expensive was it to maintain this place? How many servants did it require to run it? Questions he needed to have answered before he made a decision.

  He stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets, turned and began to walk.

  Snowdrifts covered the scenery. He couldn’t tell a hedge from a hill. Tree branches were dripping with icicles. The land undulated, giving him the impression that something beneath the earth was pressing up, trying to push out, to be free. Some distance away, the ground sloped, descending to a fairly wide river that curved through what was probably his property.

  His. This didn’t feel like his. Not like the ranch did when he rode out to inspect fences or meet with one of his division managers.

  This world was alien to him. This land was strange and old and unlike the raw newness of Texas. In Texas, the land seemed to go on forever; everything as far as he could see belonged to the XIV Ranch. He missed the sound of cattle moving over the earth, the dust rising from their hooves. He missed his cattle dog, Serephus.

  Why hadn’t his father ever mentioned this place? Had he ever felt a longing for it, like Connor felt a need to be home?

  He wanted to find something about Scotland that was familiar, but the longer he stood there, the stranger it felt. His father’s family—his ancestors—had made their mark here, had claimed this land, had been born and had died here.

  Yet that knowledge didn’t make him feel more connected.

  He continued to walk down the road, keeping Bealadair to his left. Ahead of him in the distance was the purplish hue of mountains. Not anything like those in West Texas, but respectable peaks. He wondered what those were called. No doubt something else he couldn’t pronounce.

  When he came to the end of one wing, he left the road and followed a path thick with snow. In a short time he found himself at the back of Bealadair where various lanes led to outbuildings and, farther away, to the stable.

  He took a smaller path to the left and walked around a copse of trees. The small hill he was on gave him a view of the landscape to the back of the house. Here the river appeared again, this time the water covered by ice and snow.

  His stomach rumbled and he suddenly wanted breakfast. And coffee. He needed to find his way to the kitchen and officially start his day. He needed to meet with the steward and the housekeeper, the majordomo—a position he’d never heard of before, but which, according to Glassey, held some responsibility.

  She came to mind.

  He’d get to see her again. She’d disappeared last night. After he’d come inside she’d simply vanished. Nor had his cousins been forthcoming with any explanation. It was as if she’d been invisible, but he’d seen her well enough.

  He turned back to the house, feeling the first threads of optimism since he’d arrived.

  Elsbeth had always awakened at dawn, preferring the early morning hours the best, before all the servants were at their duties and hours before the rest of the family rose. Often, the sun hadn’t made an appearance by the time she was dressed and downstairs.

  She and Gavin would often take tea together in the library, before he began his work for the day. Sometimes, he’d have questions for her, a concern that had occurred to him the night before. He wanted to know about the roof tiles or the frames for the portraiture on the third floor.

  When he’d asked why she wanted to take on Mrs. Ferguson’s duties, she tried to explain how she felt.

  “To give me something of consequence to do,” she’d said. “And I think Bealadair needs an ombudsman. Someone to speak for it. It’s like this giant creature that shelters us all, but someone should polish its teeth and make sure its fur is combed.”

  The duke had laughed at that, but it hadn’t been in ridicule as much as fondness. He had been like a second father to her, offering her his wisdom and his affection in equal measure.

  Somehow, he’d known that his time was limited. At first, when he’d wanted to discuss it she’d demurred, attempting to change the subject. Once, she even left the room. He got his way, though, as he did most of the time. She listened as he talked about his own mortality and didn’t try to hide her tears.

  “What shall you do when I’m gone, Elsbeth?” he’d asked in their last conversation.

  She hadn’t hidden her grief from him, but reached over and laid her hand on his.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it’s all up to the next duke.”

  “I think you’ll find my brother to be a generous man.”

  She wanted to know how he could be so certain of that, not having seen Graham for forty years, but she didn’t ask.

  “I shall miss you,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll be an angel,” he added. “I’ll be perched on a cloud and be able to watch everything that goes on here.”

  “Do you think you’ll still be able to give me advice?” she asked, grateful for feeling amusement when she wanted to cry.

  “I can’t see why not. Of course, I may be overruled, being an inhabitant of Heaven.”

  For a moment she could almost see him fixed with wings, a halo above his head, and an ethereal light dancing on his face, illuminating his mischievous smile.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” she said softly.

  She’d probably shocked him then, by throwing her arms around his shoulders and hugging him in his bed. But Gavin didn’t say anything, only held her tight.

  When she pulled back, his eyes were m
oist.

  “You’ve been the very best gift I’ve ever been given,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure watching you grow up, my dear Elsbeth. I know your parents would have been as proud of you as I am.”

  Those were the last words he’d ever said to her.

  Now as she left her room, heading for the kitchen, she glanced down the corridor to the duke’s suite. Had the newest duke, the most surprising duke, spent a restful night? Was he settling into his role easily?

  She took the servants’ stairs to the back of the house. When she entered the kitchen, it was to find that Addy, their cook, and Betty, her helper, were staring out the window above the sink. At first she thought they were marveling at the amount of snow that had fallen the night before. Their conversation, however, indicated that they weren’t concentrating on the weather or the landscaping, but they were certainly admiring the scenery.

  “Ach, he’s a finely built man,” Addy said. “He puts me in mind of my own Jock gone these ten years or more.”

  Betty only sighed.

  Elsbeth didn’t say anything as she came and stood behind the two women, peering over their shoulders.

  The duke evidently liked to rise at dawn as well. It was barely light outside and the lowering clouds promised more snow. But there he stood on a snowbank, his booted feet planted wide apart, his arms crossed in front of him, his strange hat solidly on his head and the thick coat bundling him against the cold.

  She wanted to know what he thought as he stood there surveying the snow-covered hills. Everything he could see belonged to him. Did he feel the press of responsibility? Or was he only experiencing acquisitive glee?

  “Is he married?” Betty asked.

  “I don’t think he is,” Addy said. “Wouldn’t he have brought his wife with him? Do you think he’s a widower? He’s old enough to have married and begun a family. Do you think he’s been disappointed in love?”

  She really should quash their questions right now. Gossip was not encouraged among the staff. The fact was, however, that she had been as curious as the other two women.