by Karen Ranney
No, she really should leave. Now. Before she made even more of a fool of herself. Proper? She wasn’t feeling the least bit proper right now.
Chapter 7
She was frowning at him again. Good. He had the feeling that keeping Elsbeth Carew a little off-kilter would be a good thing. He was tired of being called Your Grace all the time. Maybe if he ignored her for a while she would come to realize that his name was Connor and he preferred that to all the bowing and scraping.
He couldn’t help who his father had been. Who he was—not what he had accomplished or achieved on his own—had led him to Scotland, nothing else. He didn’t want to be treated differently. Yet when he’d made that remark to Sam, the older man had laughed at him.
“You’re not just yourself,” Sam had said. “You’re Connor McCraight of XIV Ranch. You’re the owner. You might be judged by what you do, but you’ll first be judged by who you are.”
What had he said in response? He couldn’t remember, only that Sam hadn’t stopped smiling.
“I understand how you feel,” the older man had said. “I can be anyone I want because people don’t know who I am. If you really want to be anonymous, then move to another country.”
Well, he was in another country, but he was far from anonymous. He was the 14th Duke of Lothian and Laird of a clan he was about to meet in a few days.
And it looked like he was going to wear that label as long as he remained here.
She sat back in the chair, folded her hands, and stared at him as if he had grown two heads.
He’d seen a two-headed goat once and almost told her about it but then decided it probably wasn’t the subject for breakfast conversation. He didn’t want to scare her off or send her fleeing from the family dining room.
Thankfully, there was a roaring fire warming the space. The wallpaper was an emerald green and the upholstery on the chairs around the rectangular table was plaid, the same pattern his aunt and cousins had worn the night before. For some reason, he couldn’t quite see the family dining here. The room needed to be larger, almost a baronial setting, with lots and lots of gilt and paintings on the ceiling.
Too bad he hadn’t brought his dress uniform, the one he’d only worn twice. The first time he’d been marching off to war. The second time he’d been coming back from it. It was a little worse for wear but had shiny epaulets and silver buttons and he looked mighty fine in it. Of course, he couldn’t wear his hat or boots so that diminished it a bit. And there was some blood on the right leg. He didn’t even want to remember how that had happened.
“Will your wife be joining you, Your Grace?”
“I’m not married.”
She glanced at him. “I’m sorry.”
“Nor am I a widower.”
She looked as if she wanted to ask another question, that it trembled on her lips. He bit back his smile and asked his own.
“And you, Elsbeth?”
“Am I married?” She looked startled by the question. “No, Your Grace, I’m not.”
“No suitor in the wings? No beau waiting to take you away from Bealadair?”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
She only blinked at him in response.
A moment later, he asked another question, one less troubling to her. “How many rooms are there at Bealadair?” he asked.
“One hundred eighty-nine,” she said.
“That’s a great many rooms,” he said, startled. “I’ve never heard of a house having that many rooms. I certainly never considered that I would own one.”
“Well, if you didn’t, your father certainly did.”
He looked at her. She didn’t glance away.
“What do you mean?”
“The name of your ranch. XIV. Isn’t that fourteen in Roman numerals? You’re the fourteenth duke.”
“That’s just a coincidence,” he said, even though he’d wondered more than once if it was, ever since Glassey had shown up. “It does mean fourteen, but that’s not the reason it was named that. My father and Sam tried to find a brand that couldn’t be altered, something that would foil any cattle rustlers.”
“What’s a cattle rustler?”
“A thief,” he said. “Somebody who wants something of mine.”
“There’s an old Scottish expression,” she said. “‘They wha begin stealing pins and needles go on to steal cattle.’ Although I can’t imagine anyone trying to steal our cattle. Poachers, now, that’s a different story. Our deer population is smaller than it has ever been, so we try to protect them. How do you catch a rustler?”
“By not making it possible for them to steal from me,” he said. “If they’re foolish enough to try, we follow their trail.”
“What do you do when you find them?”
Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t go into that aspect of XIV Ranch justice. He might shock her further and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
He was grateful for all those cotillion lessons his mother had insisted upon, and all the times he’d been forced to escort one sister or another somewhere. He could be a gentleman when he needed to be.
He considered his sisters pretty and he supposed his cousins were, too. He had met his share of beautiful women and most of them, in his estimation, had a very good idea of how attractive they were.
Elsbeth Carew, however, was different from all of them.
He had the feeling that if he leaned over and said, “Elsbeth, you’re one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen,” she would be surprised, first. Then, no doubt, she would demur, claim that she was no such thing, that he was mistaken or that fatigue had caused him to make such a comment. Or perhaps his eyesight was failing. Then she would ask him what he wanted for his dinner.
Her gray eyes reminded him of a Texas sky in winter. Or the fog around San Antonio. There was a black circle around the iris as if to further enhance the distinctive color. Her feathery lashes were so long that they brushed her cheeks when she blinked. He found himself caught up by the sight.
Her hair was black, but not just any black. It reminded him of midnight, when the world was silent and he was awake and staring at the canopy of stars above him.
He studied her face for a moment, wondering what it was that made her so beautiful. It wasn’t just the color of her eyes. Her nose was neither too large nor too pointed. Her mouth was the perfect shape, even at rest. When she smiled, the expression lit up her face. Her chin wasn’t too squared. Her forehead wasn’t too broad nor too short. Everything about her was separately perfect and together they created a memorable face.
Yet there was something else about her, something that intrigued him. Perhaps it was the determination he’d bumped up against accidentally.
She was a head shorter than he, but he had the impression that the difference in size didn’t matter to her. If it came to a war of wills, Elsbeth Carew would give as good as she got.
He found himself smiling, and when she frowned at him, his smile only got bigger.
Her hands attracted him as well, and he couldn’t ever remember being fascinated by the shape of a woman’s hands or how she used them. Her fingers were long, the nails short, and he found himself watching her gestures.
Perhaps he was fatigued from the journey after all. Not thinking straight was what Sam would call it.
“I would appreciate it if you would call me Connor,” he said. “Glassey has already treated me to chapter and verse of why I must be addressed as Your Grace. I know I won’t be able to change everyone’s mind, Elsbeth, but it would be nice if there was one person in Scotland who could be a friend.”
“Perhaps you could convince your cousins,” she said. “After all, they’re your relatives.” Still, there was a look in her eyes, the same compassionate expression as when she’d been discussing Bealadair’s housekeeper. He had a feeling that she was on the cusp of committing etiquette treason.
“Please,” he said, realizing that he wasn’t fighting fair. His sisters had always
told him that a pleading man was nearly impossible to refuse.
“Perhaps not in public,” she said.
He was gracious in her capitulation.
“Not in public, then,” he said. “Only in private.”
For a moment she looked as if she wished to take back her agreement. Or maybe she was simply determined never to be alone with him like they were now.
“Do you always wake at dawn?” he asked.
She nodded. “There’s a great deal to be done,” she said. “I like to get a good start on the day. Plus, I find it nice to be awake when others are asleep.”
He felt the same.
“Do you like to dance?”
Her eyes widened and he wondered if he had broken another Scottish rule.
“I’m afraid I was the bane of our dancing instructor,” she said. “Your cousins are all quite accomplished dancers. I am not.”
He had the feeling that she’d be good at the Texas two-step and was determined to dance it with her, at least once. “Do you ride?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a great many talents,” she said. “Your cousins, on the other hand, are very accomplished in a great many ways.”
He didn’t give a flying flip what his cousins could do.
He forced himself to drink some of his coffee. This batch was as bad as the first. He liked his coffee strong and this was like weak tea. He wasn’t fond of tea.
“Why did you bring your saddle?” she suddenly asked.
She sat with her hands together at the edge of the table, reminding him of a student awaiting the answer to an important quiz.
“I can tell you’ve never been to Texas,” he said. “A man’s saddle is one of his most important possessions.”
“We have saddles here at Bealadair. Did you think we wouldn’t?”
“I don’t care if you have saddles here or not,” he said. “I prefer my own.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring your own horse.”
He grinned at that, amused by the look in her eyes—a combination of surprise and annoyance. She was very protective of Bealadair.
“I wanted to,” he confessed. “Glassey assured me that I would have some suitable mounts here. Plus, I didn’t think it would be fair to subject my horse to an ocean voyage. He’s used to riding among Longhorns, not waves.”
She looked away at that, concentrating on the scone on the plate before her. She didn’t seem to be hungry, but he polished off the other two scones he’d been given.
As long as it wasn’t oatmeal, he was fine. Oatmeal harkened him back to the days of his childhood sitting around the family table being bedeviled by his older sisters. He could never put enough cream or enough sugar in it to make it palatable. It still tasted like paste to him.
Elsbeth wasn’t talkative, a difference from most women he knew. Yet while he found it restful, he also discovered that the silence was niggling at him. He had a great many questions about her, but other than asking about his wife and his saddle she didn’t seem to want to know any more about him.
The lack of anyone’s curiosity about Texas or America—or even how he felt about becoming the 14th Duke of Lothian—was irritating. It was as though no one thought he had a life before coming to Scotland. Or maybe they thought that everything that had transpired until the moment he became duke was inconsequential.
Neither his aunt nor his cousins had asked about his family, the XIV Ranch, his past, or his hopes for the future. What would they think if he told them that a title didn’t mean anything to him? It was like the chilled air that had nearly frozen his face this morning. Something he noted, but that was gone the moment he came inside.
She took a sip of her tea, set the cup back in the saucer, and regarded him for a moment.
“What’s a Longhorn?” she asked.
Finally, another question.
“The type of cattle we raise on the XIV Ranch. They’re big and they’ve got horns that can easily stretch six feet or more.”
He pulled out his notebook, turned to a clean page, and sketched a picture of one for her.
She glanced at the notebook, then up at him before returning to the sketch again.
“You’re very talented,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. My mother’s the one with the real talent. I just amuse myself with it.”
She shook her head. “I would disagree,” she said, her finger reaching out to trace the horns he’d drawn. “Are you certain you haven’t exaggerated?”
He smiled. “I’m certain.” He glanced down at the sketch. “They’re not all that fearsome up close. Most of them aren’t. Those that have been around cowboys are pretty easily handled. The others? It takes a while.”
“We raise Highland cattle,” she said. “Have you ever seen one?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never even heard of one.”
“I’ll have to show you one of our herds. They winter outdoors. They’re very hardy that way.”
He never once considered sitting with a beautiful woman and talking cattle. Perhaps that was his fault. He didn’t often go into Austin, and when he did it was mainly because of his sisters, not any personal inclination.
A man had needs, of course, but he found if he kept himself busy—and that hadn’t been difficult in the past two years—he was often too tired to worry about any libidinous desires.
Until now, that is. The room was quiet. In the distance he could hear the sound of voices and occasionally laughter. He thought he could also pick up the sound of the winter wind soughing against the stone of Bealadair.
“You weren’t wearing any plaid last night.”
“Plaid?”
“On your dress.”
“Oh, the McCraight tartan,” she said. “No, I wasn’t. I’m not a McCraight.”
“You’re not allowed to wear it—is that what you mean?”
She seemed to consider the matter for a moment. “I guess I could wear it if I wished. I don’t think anyone would have any objections. It’s just that I’ve never asked.”
He was getting a picture of Elsbeth’s life at Bealadair and it wasn’t sitting well with him. He had a feeling she was little more than an unpaid servant for the family. They certainly hadn’t expressed any appreciation for her actions last night. Plus, she’d gone out in a blizzard to check on a statue and none of them had seemed surprised.
He suspected that she would disagree with his assessment and perhaps he’d been too quick to judge. Maybe he should watch and learn for a little bit longer. Sometimes his first inclination was to think that coyotes got into the henhouse when it was only the family dog.
Twice, she glanced toward the door, then wiggled a little in her chair as if she were uncomfortable.
“Are you concerned because we’re alone?” he asked. “Granted, we’re not related, but doesn’t being the 14th Duke of Lothian give me some kind of latitude?”
She startled him by shaking her head.
“No, it doesn’t. If anything, it forces you into even more rectitude. You mustn’t be caught in a compromising situation. People could say things about you.”
Amused, he sipped at his coffee. “I can almost guarantee you, Elsbeth, that people are going to say things about me regardless of what I do. However,” he added, “you can be proper for both of us.”
She glanced at him again, her gray eyes wide with surprise.
“Gavin used to say the same thing,” she said.
“You called my uncle Gavin?”
She didn’t meet his eyes.
“You didn’t call him Your Grace?” he asked.
She sighed. “I called him Gavin. But not in public. The duchess would have thought it improper.”
“Were you given to chiding him, too?”
Her smile was lovely, making him wonder what memories he’d summoned.
“No, but he thought I was very proper for my age. Too much so, perhaps.”
No doubt because of his aunt, a comment he didn’t make.
/> “Since you’re acting as the housekeeper for Bealadair, would it be possible for you to show me the rest of the house?”
“I believe the duchess has planned on the family doing that, Your Grace.” She sent him a look, then sighed again. “Very well, Connor.”
He would much prefer to have Elsbeth show him around the house, but he knew this was a battle he was probably not going to win. He would take his victories where they came. Being alone with Elsbeth Carew counted as a victory—a large one—but one that didn’t last long. Less than a minute later, she excused herself, citing her responsibilities, and left him sitting there staring after her.
Chapter 8
Elsbeth had a great deal to do and spending time with the duke at breakfast hadn’t helped her schedule.
She needed to check on the roof above the housekeeper’s room. The last time it had rained, Mrs. Ferguson’s ceiling had showed a sign of leakage. Had the recent snow caused any further damage? If it warmed up just a little this afternoon, she would visit the roof to check on the statues. She’d already noticed signs of predation around the chimney stacks. She also had to discipline a maid for tardiness and talk to one of the footmen about his penchant for swearing.
She kept a notebook just like His Grace—Connor. Otherwise, she’d forget all the details that were now swirling around in her mind. She pulled it from her pocket and read her notes. The parquet floor in the ballroom needed to be polished. The chandeliers were in the process of being cleaned. The heavy velvet curtains had already been removed, brushed and beaten thoroughly and were being replaced, window by window.
Everything had to be perfect for the Welcoming of the Laird celebration. Even if the Laird didn’t seem to want to be the laird. Or the duke.
She wished she could follow the members of the family through their tour of Bealadair. What would they say to Connor about the various rooms? Would they bring up the history of the Laird’s Hall and the room it had replaced after the great fire of 1605? Would they relate the history of the conservatory wing?
Would Connor realize that he would need weeks in order to study all the various plants that had been brought back from South America, China, and Japan? Even in the most bitterly cold weather, they ensured that the conservatory was warm enough so that the plants didn’t suffer.