The Scottish Companion

by Karen Ranney

  If anything happened to him. What a warming thought.

  His mother would be protected by the enormous Roberson wealth. But she would be forced to leave Rosemoor if an obscure relation inherited the title. The estate was entailed, so wrapped up in codicils and provisos that the most skillful of Edinburgh lawyers couldn’t disentangle it.

  His attention was caught by a movement outside. A carriage pulled slowly into the drive. He stood and walked to the window, watching as the vehicle stopped in front of the stone steps. One of the footmen opened the door. Dr. Fenton emerged, extending a hand inside the vehicle.

  A woman descended the steps. As he watched, the hood of her cloak fell, revealing her features. Her face was pale, a delicate rose tinting her cheeks. Her hair was brown and arranged in a tight coronet at the back of her head.

  She stared off into the distance, and he wondered what had captured her attention. He stepped to the side and looked to where her attention was directed. A tree. She was looking at a tree, a small smile playing around her lips.

  What kind of woman was amused by a tree?

  As he watched, she was joined by another female. This one carried a book, and seemed uninterested in her surroundings. But she was even more beautiful than the first woman. An angel, with golden hair to match and a face that had him staring. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She looked up from her book, and he wished for a set of binoculars so that he could determine the color of her eyes.

  Should he join them? Welcome them at the broad stone steps? Or should he remain in his study, the arrogant taskmaster with a reputation of disliking interruptions?

  One of these women was going to be his wife. Which one? They were both beautiful, a fact that annoyed him. He hadn’t expected Dr. Fenton’s daughter to be beautiful. Why hadn’t Fenton mentioned her appearance? Or perhaps the man had, and Grant had simply taken his posturing for the words of a proud father.

  A beautiful woman would be a detriment to the life he’d planned for himself. A woman of beauty expected a certain amount of attention, a certain obeisance. She wouldn’t be content with his routine, his involvement with his work.

  The blond woman glanced toward Rosemoor, her attention momentarily distracted from her book. Her face was solemn, her mouth unsmiling. He wondered what would amuse her, what would banish the look of caution from her features.

  Suddenly, the prospect of marrying a beautiful woman didn’t seem so abhorrent.

  A curving brick staircase in the shape of a horseshoe rose to the double doors, above which stood a crest no doubt belonging to the Earls of Straithern. Topping the entrance was a square tower, the clock in the center of it bearing Roman numerals against an ivory face.

  When Arabella made no move to leave the carriage, Gillian stepped out. The shrubberies surrounding the house were trimmed; the trees were arching tidily over the road. Even the gravel path was orderly, as if it had been swept clean of extraneous leaves. One lone tree sat in a circular island, its branches left to grow naturally, its leaves still curling in the cool spring air. As if it were a sentinel, a warning to all what might happen if nature were left to itself. It was, perhaps, the most welcoming part of Rosemoor.

  The air of Rosemoor smelled different, somehow, as if the Earl of Straithern had commanded only the best scents to be present for their arrival: grass, newly born flowers, the sweetest breeze from the south.

  Gillian turned and faced the edifice, thinking that she’d been wrong. This was no house, but a castle. All the towers and crenellated patterns along the roof spoke of defense, barely needed now in this peaceful age.

  Arabella finally left the carriage. Dr. Fenton extended his arm to her, and she placed her hand on his sleeve. The two of them preceded Gillian up the curving steps while two footmen followed. What must it be like to have servants around every hour of every day? Gillian wanted to stop and tell them that she was no more important than they. She, too, was a servant, for all the title of companion. Her role would not change despite Arabella’s elevation in rank.

  “You will like this, Gillian.” Dr. Fenton stopped and glanced back at her. “There are bits of needlework at Rosemoor that were worked by Mary, Queen of Scots.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded. “I am not certain which ones they are, but I shall find out for you. Also, one of the bedrooms is said to have been occupied by Bonnie Prince Charlie during his retreat from the English.” He looked up at the broad double doors. “A home steeped in history, Arabella. And you will be the chatelaine of it.”

  Arabella said nothing, and although Gillian couldn’t see her face, she would wager that it was expressionless. Arabella had a way of hiding her feelings so deep that no one really knew what she was thinking. How very odd that Gillian had adopted the trait over the last year. It was easier to pretend, wasn’t it?

  The doors suddenly opened, and they were greeted by a portly man with white hair, attired in a gray suit that fit his corpulent form perfectly. For a horrified moment, Gillian thought he might be the earl. If so, this marriage was even more understandable. He was old, and Arabella was young and beautiful.

  But he bowed to Dr. Fenton and stepped aside. Of course, he was the majordomo. How foolish of her. An earl would not greet them at the door.

  “Good day, Blevins,” Dr. Fenton said. “His Lordship is expecting us.”

  “Indeed, sir. The earl will welcome you in the Flower Room.”

  Dr. Fenton smiled brightly. “My favorite room.”

  The majordomo led the way, with Dr. Fenton keeping up a running commentary about all the treasures to be found at Rosemoor.

  He stopped beside one table, oblivious to the fact that Blevins eyed him with some disfavor.

  “This writing table was made by Gole, the cabinetmaker to Louis XIV of France. It was a gift from the king to the Earl of Straithern who was an ambassador to Paris at the time.”

  The majordomo pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it with great ceremony, a none too gentle reminder that one did not keep an earl waiting.

  Gillian glanced at the table as she passed. The inlaid pewter, brass, and mother-of-pearl made for a gaudy display. Everything old was not necessarily beautiful.

  Of her two companions, Dr. Fenton was more enamored of Rosemoor than his daughter. Arabella had been silent during most of the journey. Now her demeanor was stiff, her shoulders straight, her posture leaving no doubt that she was a reluctant guest, and an even more reluctant bride.

  Blevins hesitated before a set of double doors, and nodded to a footman who stood beside one. With military precision, the young man turned, opened the door, and then bowed to all four of them before stepping aside.

  The Flower Room was a drawing room featuring numerous sketches of flowers mounted in frames along the walls. The walls were adorned in a deep crimson patterned silk. Mahogany cabinets and tables sat next to the pale yellow silk upholstered chairs and sofas. But it was the carpet that no doubt gave the room its name. In the center was the Straithern coat of arms, but the border design was entirely made up of flowers, all so perfectly woven they looked ready to pick.

  Gillian stood admiring the carpet for a moment before becoming aware that Dr. Fenton was addressing her. She glanced up to see him gesturing toward the fireplace.

  A man stood there, attired in immaculate black, his stiff white collar fastened at the throat with a black onyx pin. The silver buttons on his coat were so polished that they glinted in the sunlight from an adjoining window. His hair was as black as his suit, and she half expected his eyes to be dark as well. But as her glance traveled upward, past a square chin and an aristocratic nose, she was startled to discover that his eyes were gray.

  Or silver. Silver like his buttons, and the buckles of his shoes. Silver, like clouds after a storm, like a river in the sunlight.

  Grant Roberson, the 10th Earl of Straithern.

  He looked like an earl, a man set apart from others. Of course his home was a showplace, a relic of
the past. His ancestors had been part of Scotland’s history.

  Why on earth would he want to marry Arabella Fenton?

  “Miss Cameron.” He glanced at her momentarily, and then at Arabella.

  Had they been introduced while her mind was wandering? Evidently so, because he paid her no further attention.

  “Your Lordship,” she said, wondering if she should curtsy. Why hadn’t she studied how to greet an earl?

  He nodded at Blevins, and the man disappeared. Dr. Fenton led Arabella to a sofa, and Gillian followed, uncertain of the protocol. Did she sit beside her? In another chair? Did she excuse herself from the room entirely?

  She chose to sit on an adjoining sofa, and realized that she’d made the wrong decision when the earl sat next to her.

  His hands were large and square, the fingers long, his nails cut straight across. She tended to notice hands on a man, as well as the back of his neck. Odd things, really, since physical characteristics gave no indication of a man’s character or temperament.

  She smiled at herself, and then realized the earl was looking at her.

  “Are you amused, Miss Cameron?”

  “In a way, Your Lordship. At my own peccadilloes, perhaps.”

  He looked startled by her answer.

  “I’m pleased that you find Rosemoor amusing, Miss Cameron. That isn’t the reaction it normally inspires.”

  “No doubt people are awestruck, Your Lordship,” she suggested. “Or perhaps simply rendered dumb.”

  He looked at her intently, as if to gauge whether she was joking. How odd that she had the strangest desire to laugh. He was not a particularly amusing sight. In fact, the Earl of Straithern was rather imposing, if not arresting.

  “How many gardeners do you employ?” she asked.

  Once again, he looked startled.

  “Twenty. Why do you ask?”

  “I was simply curious. Everything looks very tame, Your Lordship.”

  “Is that why you were staring at a tree?”

  It was her turn to be surprised. He had been watching her and she’d not known.

  There was something decidedly wintry about his gray eyes. Perhaps Arabella might inspire their warmth, but Gillian doubted it. Arabella was as cold in her way.

  The two of them would make a pair, wouldn’t they?

  She looked away, attempting to free him from any more politeness, real or feigned, on his part.

  It was all too clear that he was a match to Arabella in attractiveness. They would have exquisite children—if Arabella allowed him into her bed.

  “Was your journey pleasant?” he asked Arabella.

  “Very much so, very much so,” Dr. Fenton answered. “Thank you for sending your carriage for us.”

  “What do you think of Rosemoor, Miss Fenton?”

  There, a more frontal attack. The earl’s quick glance at Dr. Fenton was almost a warning for the man not to answer for his daughter.

  Gillian stifled a smile. The doctor had met his match in the earl. Or perhaps been bested.

  “Lovely,” Arabella said, the one-word answer faint, as if she breathed more than spoke the word.

  At that moment, Gillian decided to set aside a few examples of her embroidery in the next week or so, and arrange travel to Inverness. Surely there she might obtain an offer of employment.

  Anything but watch this disaster of a marriage transpire.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, the earl turned to her. “And you, Miss Cameron, was the journey acceptable for you as well?”

  She glanced at him, surprised. What did he care for her comfort? Perhaps he was more egalitarian than the doctor, to whom she was nothing more than a paid servant.

  “It was acceptable, Your Lordship,” she said.

  Gillian stood, moved to the window, wishing she could transport herself magically anywhere but here. The silence in the room was awkward, embarrassing, almost a personage in its own right.

  Blevins appeared with a maid in tow, carrying a silver tray heaped with refreshments. While the others were being served, Gillian remained where she was at the window, her back to all of them, deliberately isolating herself. Was she being rude? She didn’t know, and at the moment, truly didn’t care.

  She was the companion: the extra woman, the chaperone, the one who made arrangements, offered excuses, and protected, but was otherwise useless. She was as valuable as a fireplace andiron on a summer day.

  How very strange to be feeling out of sorts right now.

  She was wearing her darkest, most serviceable dress, a dark blue with a white detachable collar and lace cuffs. A perfect choice in which to travel. When she’d dressed this morning, she’d given no thought whatsoever about appearing at her best. She’d simply wanted to get Arabella to Rosemoor before she’d rebelled.

  Gillian glanced in the earl’s direction to find him studying her. His face was stern and unsmiling, his gray eyes intent.

  Why on earth was he looking at her? Had she done something unpardonable? What was the required etiquette when dealing with an earl? He couldn’t be all that different from other men. Look at his reaction to Arabella. Surely she wasn’t jealous. She was as far from an earl’s eye as a ladybug was from an eagle.

  They exchanged a long look before she finally turned away. She clasped her hands together, staring out the window, wondering why she was trembling.

  Fatigue, of course. That’s all it could be. Even though the journey here had been a scant hour’s duration, she hadn’t slept well the night before.

  She could still feel him staring. Surreptitiously she glanced down at herself. Was a button unbuttoned? Her fingers brushed against one cheek and then the other. Had she some dirt on her face? Was there something wrong with her?

  What did she say to an earl to get him to stop staring?

  Your Lordship, if you would, please, look at Arabella. Study her with the intensity you are now studying me. Or look at this magnificent table beside the window. Mosaic, is it not? From where did you acquire it? Was it another gift from a king? If nothing else, perhaps you might investigate the view outside your own window. It’s indeed worthy of awe, Your Lordship. Anything would be preferable, Your Lordship, than to stare at me.

  “Blevins?”

  Blevins halted in the act of serving Dr. Fenton, and glanced at his employer. “Your Lordship?”

  “See that Miss Cameron is served as well.”

  The earl’s voice sounded like chocolate, rich and dark and warm.

  Blevins bowed. “Assuredly, Your Lordship.”

  “I’m not hungry, Your Lordship,” Gillian said, wondering if her face was as flushed as it felt. “But thank you.”

  Dr. Fenton frowned at her. Evidently she’d irritated him somehow. Would this entire visit be as wearying as the last five minutes? Would she have to be concerned about pleasing everyone?

  The Earl of Straithern loaded two biscuits and a small piece of cake on a plate and stood, delivering it to her himself.

  “Are you very certain?” he asked. “Our cook is renowned for her pastries.”

  His gray eyes were alight with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Humor? Did she amuse him? Or was he daring her to be rude in the face of Dr. Fenton’s obvious displeasure?

  She took the plate from him, their fingers brushing. She glanced up to find him looking at her again.

  “Please do not,” she said in a low enough tone that Dr. Fenton would not hear.

  “Do not what?”

  “Stare at me so.” She looked away, still holding the plate in front of her.

  “I wasn’t aware that I was staring,” he said.

  “What rubbish, Your Lordship. You know perfectly well you were staring.”

  He looked startled again, but he didn’t counter her observation. Instead, he smiled.

  “Please let any of my staff know if Miss Fenton requires anything.”

  “Of course, Your Lordship.”

  “Her well-being is of great importance to me.”

>   “Of course, Your Lordship.” Since Arabella had avoided looking in his direction, she evidently didn’t feel the same degree of caring for the earl as he did for her. But Gillian carefully restrained herself from saying anything of the sort. She was, after all, only the companion, and a reluctant one at that.

  “You look as if you’d like to escape to the veranda, Miss Cameron.”

  Was he daring her?

  “Not at all, Your Lordship,” she said calmly.

  “You may, of course, if you wish.” With a gesture, he indicated the door that led to the outside.

  Dr. Fenton would not understand. Arabella might, if she ventured an opinion as to her companion’s actions, which she rarely did. Arabella was so completely within herself that it was difficult to tell if she even noticed anyone else.

  “Thank you, no,” Gillian said.

  “A very proper response.”

  She glanced at him. “Have I given you any reason to think I’m not entirely proper, Your Lordship?” She pushed down the fear that seemed to clench her throat like an unseen hand.

  “Not at all, Miss Cameron.”

  “Then please do not say such—”

  “Have I offended you?” He looked amused, which irritated her.

  “You have,” she said, loud enough that Dr. Fenton turned and looked at her, the expression on his face one of concern.

  “Then I apologize for that as well, Miss Cameron.”

  “As well as what, Your Lordship?” Would he just simply go away?

  “For implying you were not proper. Propriety is very important to me.”

  “Is it, Your Lordship?” She turned and faced him directly, annoyed that she had to look up at him. “Then I would think you’d be careful to direct your attentions to Arabella and not to me.”

  He smiled slightly, almost a self-deprecating expression, before leaving her without a word.

  After he left her side, Gillian took a deep breath, wishing that he wasn’t quite so handsome. Or so very much a presence. He filled the air around him, and made people notice him. Or perhaps she was the only one to feel this way.

  The sooner Arabella was married and settled, the better for everyone.