“Nay,” he answered. “You are.”
“Why me?”
He tugged at his collar. “I have a prior appointment.”
Rosalyn shook her head and sighed, realizing that when he tugged at his collar, his “prior appointment” could well be teatime.
Though Rosalyn had argued, the savage insisted he could make the trip. They found a pair of trousers and a shirt in Geddes’s wardrobe, and now he was wrapped in a huge fur greatcoat that had belonged to the old laird. His dark eyes were focused straight ahead and Rosalyn glanced at his hawkish profile. To her, he looked like a mythical Viking who’d just stepped from his ship onto Scottish soil. She could only imagine how the villagers would react. He said nothing as they continued their short journey, coughing occasionally and using a handkerchief to dab at his nose.
Before entering the village, Rosalyn spoke. “There will be a small crowd surrounding the men in question in the village square.”
“What in the hell am I supposed to do with them?”
“These people have simple needs,” she explained, ignoring his ill temper. “They are proud and oftentimes scurrilous with one another. Old wounds come back to the surface and some old wrong that was never righted becomes a scab both parties are eager to pick at. You are their laird; they’ll want you to listen to their problem and give them a solution they can both live with. Even if they could have come to the same conclusion themselves.”
His Grace squirmed beside her. “How am I supposed to know what to do?”
“Use your common sense,” she answered, stopping herself from adding, if you have any. “I’ll be right beside you.”
He took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Let’s get at it, then.”
They entered the village, met with a cacophony of noisy, raised voices. The moment one of them noticed Rosalyn and her carriage partner, he let out a loud whistle and everyone stopped talking at once. They all turned toward the carriage and stared. The quiet was deafening. Eyes popped. Mouths gaped open. Children hid behind their mams’ skirts.
Rosalyn gathered her wits, stood, and announced, “This is your new laird. His name is Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, MacNeil. He comes to us from America, where the youngest son of your late laird lived and, unfortunately, died, in a place called Texas. Your new laird is the late laird’s grandson.” She paused and waited.
Heads turned, buzzing commenced. One of the men stepped forward, removed his beat-up watch cap, and raised his gaze to his new laird. The man was small, wiry, and had very bright red hair that at the moment appeared to have been used as a bird’s nest.
“Donnie the Digger,” he announced, giving His Grace a slight bow.
Fletcher turned toward Rosalyn, a question in his eyes. She leaned into him and said softly, “Digging ditches and graves is what Donnie does for extra coin.”
Fletcher acknowledged the man with a nod and then asked, “What is your complaint, Mister…Digger?” He winced at the sound of it.
“Donnie will do, Yer Grace.” He motioned behind him with his thumb. “Fergie the Burn stole me prize collie, Sarge.”
Fergie the Burn burst in front of Donnie, doffed his cap at Fletcher, and explained. “The dog came ta me land with no proddin’, Yer Grace.” Unlike Donnie, Fergie was tall, rangy, and had the forearms of a wrestler. His bald head was so shiny the sun glinted off it.
“He’d ’a never gone if ye hadn’t coaxed him, ya flagpole.”
“I didna have to coax the brute, ya skinny rooster; I got me a bitch in heat and I wasna plannin’ to have yer mangy collie as stud.”
Donnie cursed. “Ye’d be damn lucky to have me dog screw yer bitch. He be a champion sheep herder, ya beanpole wi’ balls.”
“At least I got balls, ya—”
“Gentlemen,” Fletcher interrupted, standing with Rosalyn’s help. As if on cue, everyone’s gaze moved slowly upward, taking in their very tall, very dark, very menacing-looking laird.
“I can understand both of you are upset.” He coughed, a deep sound that rumbled in his chest. “But I have an idea that you might consider.”
Rosalyn held her breath. This first meeting of the duke and his people was so important. It would form the pattern for the future.
“Aye, and what might that be?” Donnie asked, trying to curb his belligerence.
“Mister…ah, Fergie. Did your bitch get impregnated by Donnie’s collie, Sarge?”
Fergie nodded, “I’m thinkin’ she did, Yer Grace.”
“Is your bitch a collie, sir?”
“Aye, and a fine one, I might add,” Fergie answered, his chest swelling with pride.
Fletcher turned to Donnie. “And you, sir, have you loaned your collie out to stud others?”
Donnie, too, raised himself taller. “Aye, and I’ve had no complaints. He’s a grand stud, he is.”
Fletcher ran his hand over his face, coughed, and took a rattled breath. “I suggest that when Fergie’s bitch whelps, he allow Donnie here to have the pick of the litter.”
Both men studied one another, bushy eyebrows pushed into a frown, mouths turned down, eyes wary.
Donnie shrugged. “’Twouldn’t be a bad exchange.”
Fergie’s frown deepened, and for a moment Rosalyn stopped breathing.
“I can live wi’ that,” Fergie finally answered.
Rosalyn blinked and exhaled, grateful this first encounter had gone well.
“In the meantime, perhaps Donnie’s stud could be returned to him. If the dog got the bitch pregnant, that means she’ll no longer be in heat, therefore no longer a threat to Donnie, his collie, or his sheep.”
Fletcher released a sigh of relief. He had no idea what he had gotten himself into. What had he expected, that he would laze around every day, hunt, fish when he felt like it and live a life of luxury? But this one was easy. He wondered what other duties he would find as time went on.
He watched the crowd disperse, odd little people, some with colorful clothing, others in what he would refer to as rags. It was a sea of white faces with big, frightened eyes that had stared up at him. Before this he hadn’t thought of how he might appear to them. He actually hadn’t thought of them at all, to be truthful.
The crowd dispersed and Rosalyn bit back a grin. “You did very well, Your Grace. And as you can tell, they probably could have come to terms without your intervention, but having you as go-between makes everything nice and tidy. And it’s what they expect from their laird.”
He turned to her, his feverish eyes burning into hers. “Fergie the Burn?”
Rosalyn glanced away. “Fergie lives by a small stream; in Scotland, we call it a burn.”
Fletcher gave her a deep, rusty sigh. “Of course you do. Now take me back so I can go to bed. I’m dying here.”
Later, after she’d explained the entire scene to Geddes, he studied her for a long while, then shifted his gaze to something behind her.
“I think you should get to know him better.”
Suspicious, she asked, “Why?”
He was silent for a long moment and then said, “Follow me into the library.”
They entered the library and Rosalyn stood for a moment, enraptured by its beauty, as she always was. On the floor was the largest and most beautiful Turkish carpet she had ever seen. The oak furniture was sturdy and regal, and the bust of Rabbie Burns gazed down at her from atop one of the bookcases. Even though it was always a dark room, for it faced the north and east to keep the sun from fading the carpet and the window coverings as well as the spines of the hundreds of books, to Rosalyn it was a welcoming room.
“I’ve never informed you of the particulars of the will, have I?”
“Nay. But I don’t see why I would need to know.”
He cleared his throat and pulled at his collar—something unpleasant was looming for her. She could read her brother’s body language like the poetry of Burns, which she could recite by heart.
He studied her over the rims of his spectacles, his expression grim. “T
he heir must produce an heir of his own within a year of assuming the title, or the money goes to MacBean.”
Rosalyn was stunned. “That nincompoop? But the castle and title are entailed; they go to the rightful heir.”
“Aye, that’s true. But the fortune doesn’t. And although we’ve found the rightful heir, it will mean nothing if we can’t fulfill the contents of the will.”
Once again, Rosalyn felt her sense of security slipping away. “So, the savage duke must reproduce.”
“Damn, Rosalyn, don’t call him that. What if he should hear you?”
She ignored him, her thoughts again on her predicament. She loved it here. Edinburgh was teeming with noise and people and filth; she had left it all behind along with her painful memories. Hedabarr was clean and quiet and isolated. She went to the window and pulled aside the heavy corded drapery. The rocks outside stood as a barrier between the castle and the sea. In the distance, she watched the cold green whitecaps slap against the shore. She caught the edge of her garden, where explosions of color bobbed gaily in the wind.
“I’ve grown to love this place, Geddes.”
“As have I.”
“I thought you said that if you found him, we could stay. Isn’t that why you went to America?”
Rosalyn turned her gaze to the window once more, drinking in the sight.
“There is only one way we can stay.”
She glanced back and saw him tug at his collar again. “And what is that?”
“You can marry him.”
She smiled, truly amused. “You are jesting, of course.”
“No. I am telling you the only undisputed way we can stay here. You could marry the duke and produce the required heir.”
She studied him and found no hint of humor in his eyes or on his face. “You’re not jesting.”
“I’m quite serious,” he said.
Her answer came swift and certain. “Nay.” She stepped closer to the desk. “Whatever gave you the slightest inkling that I would consider such a thing?”
“It would secure your future, Rosalyn.” His gaze was calm. “Wouldn’t you like another child to replace Fiona?”
She stepped back as if he had slapped her. “How can you suggest such a thing? One child cannot replace another.” Her stomach churned and she felt the seeds of a headache take root behind her eyes. “No child on earth can replace Fiona.” She turned away, afraid she would be ill. “I will never marry again, never. One monumental mistake was enough.”
Geddes was silent.
Rosalyn moved toward the door. “Don’t ask me again, Geddes, and don’t ever again imply that Fiona, my dear sweet child, is replaceable.” She walked out, before he could see her tears.
• • •
She all but ran to her roses, planted on the south side of the castle, next to the vegetable garden. She usually found the flowery fragrance and the earthy loam soothing. A garden was a lovesome thing. This time, however, as she bent over her flowers, she was afraid it would take more than that to calm her.
A shadow fell over her. She looked up and found old Barnaby hovering nearby, an uncharacteristically coherent look in his eyes.
“She is a bonnie garden, mum.”
In spite of her angst, Rosalyn was forced to smile. The Gaelic tongue labeled everything as either masculine or feminine, and the islanders brought this idiosyncrasy over into their colorful English. She was happy to learn that her garden was considered female. “Thank you, Barnaby, she certainly is.”
He continued to stand there, so she said, “Is there something wrong?”
“’Tis the duke, mum.”
A bite of alarm niggled at her. Of course it would be the duke. Hadn’t he been a source of her displeasure since he arrived? “Yes?”
“He’s demanding…” Barnaby’s face went suddenly blank.
A frisson of irritation washed over her. “What is he demanding, Barnaby?” She stood and brushed dirt off her skirt.
The old valet frowned, his wizened face compressing like a dried-up apple. He glanced at her skirt and then brightened. “I remember. Clothes, mum. He’s demanding clothes.”
Rosalyn felt a wave of relief. That demand was simple enough to satisfy. He obviously couldn’t continue to wear Geddes’s clothing, for although Geddes was no small man, the duke was taller and quite a bit more muscular. “Go to the attic, Barnaby. There are trunks of clothing against the east wall that belonged to the old duke and his sons. Surely there will be something in them he can wear until the tailor arrives to fit him”
Barnaby appeared to mentally process this, and then tottered away. He stopped and turned back. “We destroyed Himself’s undergarments.”
“Himself,” the old duke, had ordered his underclothing burned—God only knew why. But she remembered the rich silk stockinette drawers that Annie had washed after the old man’s death. The foolish girl had thrown them in with a red blanket, but otherwise they were good as new. “I’ll take care of the undergarments,” she told Barnaby, and followed him inside. She found the drawers and went to the duke’s bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind her.
She stopped short, surprised to see Sima lying beside the bed. With one eyebrow raised, she whispered, “Traitor.” Sima’s tail thumped against the floor.
No doubt exhausted from his little trek into the village, the duke was asleep, so she laid the drawers at the end of the bed, and then touched his forehead. It was still too warm, but she couldn’t pull her hand away. Her skin was so pale against his, his coloring so different, like one who spent each day in the sunshine and absorbed every bit of its warmth.
She studied him freely now, this man Geddes had suggested she marry, and had to close her eyes against what she was feeling—a dark, spiraling sensation settled deep inside her whenever she looked at him. His black and wavy hair fascinated her. She’d helped him wash it, surprised to find it wasn’t coarse, but silkier than her own.
Goosebumps rose on her arms when she thought about his size. He was too tall for the bed; his feet stuck out at the end. He sported a number of scars, as if he had spent much of his time fighting, as did many foolish Scots. What little she knew about half-breeds, well, she suspected there was a reason they were called savages. She felt suddenly hot, because in her mind’s eye she was seeing him naked, staring down at her, his body moving above hers.
His big, brown hand clamped onto her arm, jarring her back to reality, and she let out a guilty yelp as he pulled her down on top of him. “Your Grace…” She stared into his dark, menacing eyes. Could he read what she was thinking?
“For the last time,” he said gruffly, “if I don’t see some clothes in this room pretty damned fast, I swear to God I’ll strut around this goddamned castle naked.” He released her.
She scurried away from the bed, her heart in her throat. Sima appeared undisturbed. At any other time, had someone frightened her like that, the dog would have been up with teeth bared, ready to attack. “We have called for a tailor to fit you for some clothing, Your Grace. In the meantime, these are your grandfather’s drawers.” She tossed them to him.
He looked at the underwear and then up at her, his expression one of disbelief. “Are they pink?”
“They are fine silk stockinette; they’ll feel quite grand, I can assure you.”
“But, damn it, woman. Pink?”
“Annie, the maid, washed them with a red blanket,” Rosalyn explained.
“Goddamn underwear,” he muttered, tossing it onto the floor. “I’d rather walk around naked than wear that.”
“So you’ve said.”
He flung back the coverlet and stood, tall and proud.
She hadn’t thought it was a challenge. “It is one thing to flaunt your nakedness in front of me,” she said calmly. “Anything you have I have seen before. But should anyone else catch sight of you without a stitch on, they’ll be hard-pressed not to believe you’re as daft as your late grandfather was.” Although her heart was drumming her ribs, she noncha
lantly began to straighten the covers.
“So tell me about my dear, daft old granddad. Did he run around naked, or just in pink underwear?”
“I don’t believe nudity was one of his proclivities, although it wouldn’t have surprised me if it was.”
“Comanche warriors wear few clothes. I could walk around here like this very comfortably. I’d even ride horseback nude if my sizeable bag of tricks weren’t always getting in the way.” Cocky as a bull, he strutted around in front of her.
She glanced at him, noting the tightness of his buttocks as he turned, and felt the flush creep up her neck into her cheeks.
She looked him straight in the eye, and no lower. “Go prancing about the castle without a stitch on, Your Grace, if that’s your pleasure. Perhaps you’ll catch the grippe and die, and then we can carry your naked hide out of here on a slab and bury you next to your debauched grandfather.”
He threw back his head and roared with laughter, surprising her so that she simply stood and stared at him. All of him, from his long, inky hair that hung nearly to his waist, to the thick, dark thatch at his groin that cradled his sizeable trick bag, to the beautifully chiseled muscles of his thighs. Never in her life had she seen anything quite so perfect as this savage’s body.
He continued to chuckle as he crawled back into bed. “I never thought I’d enjoy a prickly tongue on a woman, ma’am, but I’m beginning to enjoy yours.”
“I’m so happy I amuse you,” she said, her voice tight.
“You do.”
Anxious to leave him, she said, “I’ve sent Barnaby to find you something to wear.”
“Nothing pink.”
Glaring at Sima, who didn’t appear interested in joining her, she closed the door quietly behind her and briefly leaned against it. She thought of his hard, smooth body with the thick, black hair in only the most important places. She thought of his successful attempts to embarrass her, of his laughing black eyes and his bawdy sense of humor. She thought of bedding such a man, and her knees shook. She was beginning to feel something she hadn’t felt in years: intense, all-consuming desire. And she was not one bit happy about it.
She shoved herself away from the door and met Barnaby on the stairs carrying a pile of garish, out-of-date clothing. “Barnaby, where did you find those things?”
The Pleasure of the Rose Page 5