The Lady and the Laird

by Maura Seger

  Chatting, they walked together into the house. Katlin was immediately struck by the comfort evident wherever she looked. In less skilled hands, Palmerston, as it was known, could have been coldly elegant, but Lady Penelope had transformed it into a warm, welcoming home. She led Katlin to a cluster of settees near a fireplace whose carved mantel rose to the ornate plaster ceiling.

  "Do sit down, my dear. The others are here but they're recovering from the rigors of the road. Such a surprise to see Charles. Isn't he usually at Bath this time of year?"

  Katlin nodded and accepted a cup of tea served just as she liked it with a single thin slice of lemon and no cream. She could not remember the last time she had taken tea with Lady Penelope, but her hostess had a reputation for never forgetting anything.

  "I suppose he wanted a change," she said, for she did not feel quite right about admitting that she had asked Charles to visit.

  Lady Penelope was not fooled. She smiled gently and sipped her tea. There was a twinkle in her light gray eyes that Katlin presumed had to do with herself and Charles and the rumors that had been making the rounds about their forthcoming betrothal.

  As it happened, she was partly right.

  Before the tea in their cups could cool, they were joined by Lord Palmerston St. John—Puck as his friends called him—a jovial, ruddy-complexioned man who beamed a smile at his wife, said hello to Katlin as though he had seen her only yesterday and waved away an offer of watercress sandwiches.

  "Can't stand the things," he said cheerfully to Katlin. "Pen knows it but she thinks if she keeps trying long enough, I'll change my mind."

  "Eighteen years," her ladyship said with a sigh as she set the plate down, "and he still hasn't. But I refuse to give up. Cress is very good for you."

  "Really?" a languid voice inquired. "I always thought it was to be pushed to the side of one's plate with the greatest possible discretion and ignored."

  The St. Johns—and Katlin—turned as one to regard the tall, slender young man who had just come into the hall. Charles Devereux was dressed in what he considered to be casual garb suited for a holiday in the wilds of Scotland. His light gray frock coat boasted a high rolled collar separate from the narrow, single-breasted lapel secured by buttons of electrum, the mixture of silver and gold the ancients had favored and which was enjoying a resurgence of interest due to the present pillaging of various extinct cultures.

  His pantaloons were white and so snugly fitted that it was necessary, for modesty's sake, to wear a codpiece. Since it, too, was fashionably revealed by the short front of the frock coat, the effect was somewhat less than the wearer sought. Beneath the coat he wore a starched white shirt with a smattering of lace on the chest and a greater profusion visible beneath his cuffs. His boots were Hessian, shined so as to reflect the light of the vast chandelier hanging in the hall, and shaped to his fashionably muscular calves.

  The baron's sandy hair was brushed back from his high forehead and permitted to land just a shade below his collar. His large gray eyes were heavy-lidded. He had the air of someone teetering on the near edge of boredom but struggling politely to conceal it.

  "Dear Katlin," he said with a smile as he took her hands. After the slightest hesitation, he added, "How well you look... all things considered."

  She blinked, once, twice and returned his smile tentatively. In the few weeks they had been apart, Charles seemed to have changed in some way she couldn't define. Or perhaps he hadn't. It could be that she was simply seeing him with a different eye.

  His clothes, which she had always accepted as the height of fashion, suddenly appeared foppish when contrasted to a plain linen shirt, black breeches and unpampered boots. His skin was pale, for he guarded it carefully against imperfection, his hands were soft, and he... he smelled—there was simply no other way of putting it.

  He wore, as he always did, a cologne of sandalwood, patchouli and various other scents meant to evoke a masculine aura. There was nothing unusual about the cologne. Although the particular scent had been created especially for him by a perfumer in Lyons, it was similar to the scents worn by almost all the young men of his class.

  Katlin had always taken it for granted, to the point of hardly being aware of it. But she was aware now. The cologne smelled nothing at all like leather and tobacco, sea air and heather.

  What was happening to her, she wondered frantically. How could she possibly be so foolish as to compare Charles to Angus? The two men had nothing at all in common, for which she should be supremely thankful. Angus was folly to the point of madness. Charles was her future.

  "Thank you," she murmured as she released her hand from his. She was conscious of Lord and Lady St. John watching them attentively and managed a smile. "It seems much longer than it really has been since I saw Charles last."

  Lady Penelope's gaze flickered from one to the other but her eyes revealed nothing of her thoughts. "Of course it does, dear," she said mildly. "Great changes in our lives have that effect."

  Having delivered herself of that bit of wisdom, Lady Penelope went on, "Shall we go in to luncheon? The others can join us as they wish."

  Katlin was glad of the diversion. She was having a difficult time sorting out her reaction to Charles. It simply wasn't what she had expected. Rather than appearing as her savior, he managed, all unknowingly, to evoke thoughts of Angus she did not want to have.

  Luncheon was a buffet set up on the long sideboard against the far wall of the family dining room. Capable of seating twenty comfortably, the room was intimate in the extreme compared to the formal dining room, which could—and frequently had—seat upward of two hundred.

  Silver chafing dishes held a variety of warm offerings from stewed kidneys to the kippers Charles so enjoyed. Adjacent platters contained cold sliced meats—ham, grouse, venison, beef—and cheeses. There were silver mesh baskets of breads, fresh scones with clotted cream and tiny strawberries shipped from the St. Johns's greenhouse outside London.

  Katlin helped herself to a slice of ham, a morsel of Stilton and a single biscuit; her appetite was usually better but under the circumstances that was all she could manage. If either of the St. Johnses noticed her abstinence, they did not choose to comment on it. Charles, fortunately, was oblivious.

  He was going on about a hunt he'd attended with the Prince Regent—going on at rather greater length than he needed to, Katlin thought—when the dining room door was opened by a footman who stood aside to admit a young lady. She came in a swirl of pastel pink muslin, her pretty blond curls—several shades paler than Katlin's tresses—done up in a cascade of waves that fell from the crown of her head down her long, slender neck. Her face was a perfect oval crowned by slanting violet eyes and a bow-shaped mouth. Her figure, as revealed by the slim tunic dress she wore, was delicacy personified. Had she been cast of porcelain, she could not have been lovelier.

  "Dear Katlin!" she exclaimed, and cast a radiant smile not at the supposed subject of her attention but at the Baron Devereux, who looked not at all surprised but smiled in turn.

  "Melissa," the baron said, "how good of you. Surely, no one expected you to make an appearance today after that tedious journey."

  "Oh, poo," she replied, waving a fragile hand.

  Katlin straightened in her seat, her fork poised above a pink morsel of ham. Poo? Melissa Haversham had actually said poo? The stupid cow had no more pride than that?

  Not nice, her better self injected. Melissa Haver-sham was a perfectly proper young lady. If she chose to go around saying things like "Oh, poo," then such expressions must be perfectly proper, too.

  Mustn't they?

  "Melissa," she murmured, "how nice. I haven't seen you in a dog's age."

  "Oh, Katlin," the porcelain creature replied, batting her eyelashes. Darkened, Katlin couldn't help but notice, rather more than nature could ever have intended. "The things you say. A dog's age, indeed."

  She chirruped merrily, her wry glance inviting the others to join in the amusement. Lord an
d Lady St. John exchanged a look and said nothing. They didn't need to. Charles carried the burden for all. His guffaw was sincere.

  "Clever minx," he said. "Let me fetch you something. Kippers, perhaps?"

  Melissa allowed as to how she absolutely adored kippers, indeed could never get enough of them. Katlin, who thought them dreadful things, looked at her disbelievingly. She had the horrible feeling that she was trapped in a bad drawing room comedy. It would have to be bad if the characters were going around saying things like oh, poo and clever minx. What had happened to normal conversation in the brief time she had been absent from London?

  Charles placed a kipper on a plate and set it in front of Melissa. She smiled at him adoringly as if he had presented her with the crown jewels. He took that as merely appropriate and resumed his seat, carefully spreading out the tails of his frock coat before planting his posterior.

  Katlin watched all this as though seeing the byplay for the first time, though the opposite was actually the case. Melissa Haversham had always had her cap set for Charles, everyone knew that, most particularly Charles himself.

  When he had made his preference for Katlin known, Melissa had thrown what was rumored to be one of the truly great tantrums of all time, barricading herself in her bedroom for no less than a week before her distraught merchant father finally ordered the door removed.

  A season spent gallivanting around Europe, buying anything her little heart desired, did nothing to improve Melissa's mood. She wanted Charles, she wanted his fortune and most especially she wanted his title. She was determined to be known as the wife of one of the wealthiest and most fashionable men in England. That such recognition should go instead to Katlin Sinclair drove her to distraction.

  "What a surprise to see you, Melissa," Katlin said. "I thought you never left London at this time of year for fear of missing something."

  "Don't be silly," Melissa replied, "I go wherever I wish and when dear Charles mentioned that dear Lord and Lady St. John—" a regal incline of the head to her host and hostess "—were having a house party, I couldn't possibly decline."

  More likely her sudden yen to visit Scotland had developed when dear Charles announced that he was going and that he intended to see Katlin at the same time, but never mind about that. Melissa Haversham was in residence, and Katlin would have to deal with her the same way she had always dealt with Melissa, by pretending she wasn't there.

  "It really is good to see you, Charles," Katlin said, wishing all the while that was more nearly true. "I can hardly wait to show you Innishffarin."

  He tapped his mouth lightly with a linen napkin and said, "Ah, well, as to that, I am, of course, at Lord and Lady St. John's disposal. Good guest, and all."

  "Nonsense," Puck said quickly, less than pleased at the thought of having his visitors underfoot constantly. "Wouldn't dream of hindering you. Free agent and all. Go where you will, my boy."

  "As a matter of fact," Lady Penelope chimed in, "I for one would love to see Innishffarin. One has heard so much about it over the years, living part time in Scotland, but one has never actually seen it."

  Katlin forgave her hostess the lapse into royalese and smiled. "I would be delighted to show you the castle at any time."

  Lady Penelope expressed her pleasure at that and the discussion turned to when the outing might be arranged. Charles showed himself to be less than eager. Melissa assumed a sulky silence. Several more of the house party wandered in, some known to Katlin, some not. Most were married couples, required for proper chaperonage, but there was a scattering of unmarrieds who seemed to be rapidly pairing themselves off. Such things were not uncommon at house parties, even those given by the staid Lord and Lady St. John. Katlin preferred to turn a blind eye to them.

  Besides, she was far too busy enjoying the spectacle Melissa offered. She was toying with her kipper-not actually eating it, Katlin noticed—when her attention was suddenly caught. The fork dropped from her fingers as her eyes fastened on the dining room entrance.

  Katlin was seated with her back to the door and therefore could not see what so riveted Melissa. But she didn't need to. The sudden tremor that raced through her told her everything she needed to know.

  His lordship was standing, a relieved smile on his face as though here, at last, was someone with whom he could be at ease.

  "Ah, Angus," he said, "come in. Good of you to join us. Do let me introduce the others. Others, this is Lord Wyndham, our neighbor, my sometimes hunting partner and, don't you know it, a damn fine hand at cards."

  Angus stepped into the room, affording Katlin her first clear view of him, something she could have done without, for he was devastating dressed all in black, austere to the point of menacing, the only relief offered by the flash of white at his neck and wrists. His frock coat was of velvet, holding the lightlike shards of silver, but so impeccably tailored to his powerful frame as to be the epitome of masculinity. Instead of the fashionable pantaloons, he wore breeches and— she noted with some wonder—a pair of boots considerably cleaner than what she had seen before. His ebony hair was crisply clean, framing his burnished features. But for the absence of a sword strapped around his lithe waist, he looked every inch the warrior prepared for battle. It would not have surprised her at all to glimpse a dirk concealed beneath his coat or even, as was occasionally done, protruding from the top of his boot. That none such was in evidence did not reassure her at all. He looked lethal.

  Names were offered, pleasantries exchanged. Angus lingered a tad long on his scrutiny of Charles but no one seemed to notice. No one, that is, other than Katlin, who was noticing everything. How could she not when every nerve in her body was painfully alert.

  When it came her turn, she offered the merest brush of her fingers and looked hastily away.

  Angus was having none of it. He pulled up a chair, set it next to hers and bestowed upon her a smile that would have melted the Arctic ice flows. Loudly enough to assure that everyone else at the table would hear him, he said, "Lovely dress, Katlin. It becomes you."

  The comment was not so extraordinary as the tone in which it was uttered. Implicit in the deep, smooth cadence of his voice was the suggestion that they were very much at ease with each other. This was further accentuated when he placed his arm casually along the back of her chair so that his fingers almost—but not quite—brushed the exposed skin visible at the nape of her neck.

  He watched with amusement as a deep flush spread over her cheeks. Silence drew out around the table. Charles, not normally the most observant of men, felt drawn to break it.

  "I say, Wyndham, presuming a bit, aren't you?"

  Angus surveilled him with lazy thoroughness, rather like a hawk deciding whether or not he has room in his stomach for another rabbit.

  "Not at all," he said lightly at the same moment that his fingers did finally settle on Katlin's neck. He pressed delicately but just enough for her to feel the restrained power in his touch.

  "We're neighbors," he said, as though that explained everything.

  "Rather good ones, I would say," Melissa interjected. She had pushed her plate away and was making no pretense of being interested in anything other than the dark Scots warrior who had suddenly appeared among the gaggle of proper English gentry.

  Angus smiled at her benignly. "Ratlin's very proud of what she's been doing at Innishffarin. You really ought to see it. The place is more livable than it's been in years."

  "Not much of a recommendation," Charles said tartly. "One rather expects something more than merely livable."

  "There's a long way yet to go," Angus agreed, "no doubt of that." Cheerfully, as though his only intent was to help, he added, "Which is really why you ought to see it, old boy. Your money and all."

  "Angus!" Katlin exclaimed. "It really is not your place to say such a thing."

  He stared at her in innocent surprise. "Did I misunderstand?" His gaze shifted to Charles as though seeking enlightenment. "Is there nothing official then?"

  Ch
arles cleared his throat. He looked singularly uncomfortable. "Not the time or place, old boy. Not your affair, either, if you don't mind my saying. But still and all, it probably would be a good idea for me to take a look at what Kat's gotten herself into. Tomorrow too soon for you, dear girl?"

  She bit back the impulse to tell him once and for all how much she disliked being called Kat—a practice he had instituted and Melissa had taken up out of awareness of Ratlin's dismay. So, too, she resisted the urge to set Angus back on his heels, this principally out of sensible fear of what repercussions she might provoke.

  Instead, she smiled as brightly as she could and said, "Tomorrow will be fine."

  Chapter Twelve

  The following day dawned cool and clear. Katlin was up at first light. She had a dozen final details to see to before she could receive her guests. Innishffarin had been cleaned from top to bottom—with Katlin wearing gloves to protect her hands as she did her part and more. So far as was humanly possible, the castle shone. But there was no getting around the fact that the furniture was battered, the wall hangings tattered, and the air—even on a sunny day—was susceptible to damp.

  Early in the morning, fires were lit to banish as far as possible the slightly moldy dankness that permeated the ancient stone walls. John and Seamus saw to that while Katlin joined Maggie Fergus in the kitchen.

  The housekeeper's return to health had provided a pleasant surprise. Although she remained quite convinced that Innishffarin was destined for Wyndham hands, Mrs. Fergus was willing to extend herself for her young, if temporary, mistress. Katlin had shown an unexpectedly kind heart, not to mention a strong backbone. She deserved the best efforts they could all muster.

  The maids, Margaret and Mary, were hard at work plucking a brace of partridges. Mrs. Fergus stood at the stove, overseeing the braising of a large joint of beef. Bread was rising in the still room. Beyond the kitchen, linens were airing on a line strung between two stout trees.