by Carmen Caine
“Now, here’s a man who didn’t understand the value of a shilling.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Your grandfather. The very devil himself, and a more arrogant, harsher man never lived. He left this estate in financial ruin.”
Oliver glanced up at him, small brows furrowed in surprise. Alistair guided him to the next painting. “This is his father, a man who let the fine heritage of his clan crumble away while he wasted his life in cardrooms and other unsavory places.”
Oliver’s brows knotted tighter.
“There are others.” Alistair waved his hand to encompass other portraits. “Some more honorable than their foolish descendants who bled the land dry. This is your heritage. They are the ones who made your clan what it is and established a fortress here.” He paused to look at the first two paintings once again, then released the lad and extended his hands toward him. “These are the hands of a working man, Oliver. A man who started life just like you, the son of a maid servant and one of the men above the fireplace. There is nothing wrong with being a working man. A working man saved this crumbling estate, never forget that.”
The lad looked up to him and, for once, he didn’t appear angry.
“Follow me.” Alistair turned on his heel and headed toward the library.
He didn’t glance back to see if the lad followed. The swish of Eliza’s dress assured him that she accompanied him. When he arrived at the library, he was pleased to find Oliver behind him.
Alistair strode to the shelf near the window and ran his fingers over the spines of the fine leather volumes until he found the one he sought, a beginner’s Latin grammar. Selecting the book, he turned and looked down at the boy.
“You’ve your whole life before you, Oliver. I’ll see you make something of yourself. You’re a Kennedy and I’ll see you uphold the dignity of the clan.”
The boy frowned.
Alistair pushed the book against the boy’s chest. “As recompense for the china basin, I’ll see you copy the first chapter. Neatly. I’ll expect it before supper. Now, you may go.”
Oliver stared, his mouth working, but he turned and stiffly walked toward the door.
Alistair smiled.
As Eliza started to follow the lad, he called, “A word, Miss Plowman.”
She froze a moment, then faced him and dropped a curtsey.
“No.” He raised a hand, palm out. “Please, I grow weary of the formality.”
She straightened in surprise. “Yes, my lord.”
“My lord? Did you not say you wished to call me Alistair?” he teased.
Her brow furrowed in confusion, then horror widened her hazel eyes. So, she did remember.
With her color heightening, she lifted her chin a notch. “Last night…was much like a dream—”
“A dream? So, I appear in your dreams?” He injected a touch of suggestion into his tone.
She blinked and her lips parted again, but before she could reply, a sharp knock sounded on the door.
Alistair turned as Lady Kennedy entered. Eliza bolted toward the door. He couldn’t blame her. She paused before Lady Kennedy and curtseyed, allowing him to catch an unexpected and delightful glimpse of her trim ankle, then she fled.
“Really, Alistair, your manners lack breeding.” Lady Kennedy marched into the room.
Breeding. Her favorite word. The woman obsessed over the proper placement of people in society. He released a sigh. “Should you not be out searching for this proof you seek? There’s no piper here in the library.”
She blinked, appearing somewhat taken aback, but switched subjects. “Dare you foist off your own bastards as my son’s children? What nerve you have. Those children have nothing to do with me. I’ll not allow you to stain my son’s good name.”
He pinned her with a stare. She would never cease to shock him. “They are your grandchildren, Lady Kennedy, Charles’ children. Until you can behave in a civil manner, keep away from them. Might I suggest London or even Paris?”
She clucked her tongue. “So ill-behaved, so uneducated. Small wonder that Lady Prescott’s alarmed. And that hussy you call a governess? She dresses like a beggar. Why, such a shameful—”
“Silence!” he thundered.
Her chin trembled. “Dare you insult me in my own house?” she seethed, curling her fingers into fists.
“Castle Culzean is no longer your house,” he replied sharply. “It is mine.”
“For now, Alistair.” Her face flushed a dark red. “For now.”
He watched her leave, wondering if he had just goaded a deadly snake.
Chapter Seven
The Captain Returns
Eliza groaned, wanting to melt right through the floor. She’d hoped it was just a dream. But after seeing the amusement in those gorgeous emerald eyes, she knew it hadn’t been a dream at all. She had, indeed, asked Lord Kennedy if she could call him by name and she’d told him he was handsome. She quickened her pace toward the nursery, her cheeks burning. She would never drink highland whisky again. She would have to hide from him, at least a month or more—maybe forever. Devil take it, and more besides. What had come over her?
What of the way he’d looked at her in the library? Her breath caught at the recollection of that ravenously sensual expression. If he ever unleashed the full force of that charm, she would fall in the blink of an eye. Her heart thudded. Heavens, why did such a possibility excite her? Where was her shame?
Shaking off her thoughts, she opened the nursery door. Meg’s rocking chair stood empty before the fire, but she could hear the muffled sounds of her voice, along with Charlotte’s giggles, coming from behind the little girl’s bedroom door. Oliver was nowhere to be seen. She hurried to his bedroom door, paused, then peered through the crack. The boy stood by the window, hugging the Latin grammar to his thin chest. He looked so lost, so sad, that the reprimand died on her lips.
Eliza eased the door open. “Oliver?”
He jerked and his eyes shuttered at once. Jutting out his chin, he met her gaze and the all-too-familiar stubbornness ran rampant over his face.
So, he still wanted to hide his pain behind anger. She pointed over her shoulder at the table in the nursery. “You’ve a chapter to copy, do you not, young master? You’d best hurry.”
“I don’t know any letters,” he half snarled, even as he clutched the book tighter.
“I didn’t think you did,” she replied in a matter-of-fact way. She clapped her hands and pointed to the table again. “But that doesn’t stop you from making your best effort. I’ll find you a quill and paper, and you’ll spend the day copying what you can. You must show something to your father before supper, don’t you agree?”
He hesitated, then nodded. Once.
Eliza turned away, unable to stop the grin from forming on her lips. So, the little devil wanted to impress his father. It was a great start. If she managed to make him sit for an hour and scratch out three letters, she would consider the day a success.
He emerged from the bedroom and went to the table as she rummaged in the nearby cupboard for writing supplies. The first shelf revealed several books, including one titled The Fine Art of Deportment. She flipped through the pages, then set it aside to read later. In short order, she located a small glass bottle of ink, a quill, and several sheets of paper. After Eliza set the boy to work, she stepped back to dust her hands. A sudden sharp knock on the door startled them both.
“Eyes down, Oliver,” she ordered, then answered the door.
A young maid with reddish-brown curls peeking out from under her mob-cap fidgeted on the threshold. “Lady Kennedy wishes to see you, Miss.” She winced with a commiserating smile. “I’m to take you there, at once.”
A shiver of dread danced down Eliza’s spine. Clearing her throat a bit nervously, she replied, “Let me tell Meg.”
The maid nodded, then whispered, “Best hurry, Miss. Lady Kennedy’s not one to cross.”
From the little she’d seen of the woman, Eliza agreed. She quickly informed Meg, then f
ollowed the maid through the castle, up and down stairs and across floors until she’d lost her sense of direction. All too soon, they entered Lady Kennedy’s room.
The room was large and finely furnished with a magnificent pink floral carpet, plush armchairs, and an elegantly inlaid Baroque-styled secretary desk. Sweeping, gold-velvet curtains covered the windows.
Lady Kennedy’s sour expression appeared at odds with the cheerful, crackling fire before which she sat.
“My lady.” Eliza curtsied.
The woman subjected her to a drawn-out inspection. Finally, she snapped her fan open and spoke. “It seems you must be taught your proper place in this house. You are a domestic, a servant, and nothing more. As such, you cannot indulge in unsuitable familiarity with your employer. Lord Kennedy is a man of rank. On my word, I’ve never seen such scandalous behavior in a governess. Never, in all my days.”
Eliza’s heart began to pound. “Please, my lady, how have I offended?” She struggled to speak through suddenly numb lips.
“The impudence,” Lady Kennedy pressed on. “Do you think Lord Kennedy to be your personal footman? To carry you to your bed whenever you’re drunk out of your wits?”
Eliza froze. He’d carried her to her bed? She had no recollection of that. She barely recalled snippets of their conversation in the library before awakening in her bed with a raging headache.
“Do you understand the importance of a room such as the Blue Drawing Room?” Lady Kennedy rapped her fan on the arm of her chair to capture Eliza’s attention.
Eliza jerked. The Blue Drawing Room? Alistair had taken Oliver there to show him his roots and the value of hard work, but she knew Lady Kennedy meant nothing of the sort. Quickly, she shook her head.
“It is a measure of society,” the woman said. “It is the line. It separates those who are born to sit in it and those who are born to clean it. Are you confused as to which side of that line you stand?”
Her remarks stung like a slap on the face. Eliza swallowed. “No, my lady.”
“Then I will see you act according to your rank.” Rising to her feet, she huffed. “We have guests arriving this very moment. I expect you to stand with the other domestics to greet them. Make yourself presentable and go at once.”
Eliza fled.
The sympathetic mob-capped maid caught her arm at the door. “Quickly, Miss.” She dragged Eliza to a nearby mirror. “They’ve already started the line downstairs. Here, I’ll help.”
Flustered, Eliza squinted at her reflection. Her cheeks stood out as two bright pink spots under her wide hazel eyes. She looked terrified. Perhaps, because she was. As the maid tucked her unruly stray curls into her bun in the back, she worked on the front, glancing over her dress as she did so. Her gown, though serviceable, had begun to look a little frayed and worn. She’d do well to find another dress or two, before Lady Kennedy complained over the state of her clothing. Biting her lip, she focused on her hair, but when a curl she’d already tucked into place for the third time sprang out again, she dropped her hands and blew the remaining hair out of her eyes with an exasperated huff.
“It’s impossible,” she said with a rueful smile to the young woman still vainly trying to tame her curls. “My hair goes whither it will. If it displeases her ladyship, then I will go whither the wind blows. I can change, but I fear, my hair cannot.”
The maid laughed shyly. “Aye, it is good enough, and with the wildness of the winds outside, we’ll all suffer the same fate. Who’s to notice only yours?”
Lady Kennedy, Eliza thought pointedly, but she knew better than to say such things aloud. The woman had the eyes of a hawk, and no doubt, the ears of an owl.
They hurried down the servants’ stairs to the foyer. When they neared the door, Eliza slowed while Meg continued outside to the tail-end of the servants’ line that stretched from the castle entrance to the drive. Eliza couldn’t take her eyes off Alistair, who waited with his friend Nicholas at the driveway to greet the approaching carriage. Her heart began to thud. Wind whipped a light mist. His hair tossed against his forehead. He looked so tall and handsome in his tight gray trousers, Hessian boots, and dark blue cutaway coat with its brass buttons, long tails, and standup collar.
Eliza halted at the door. She didn’t want to face him. She glanced around, tempted to duck away and hide, but Lady Kennedy chose that moment to sweep down the grand staircase. Eliza hurried out the door. Gusts of wind tugged her hair, taking only seconds to undo the primping of moments before. She winced, wondering how long they would have to wait.
From the corner of her eye, Eliza glimpsed Lady Kennedy emerge from the castle. Despite the wind and rain, she paused to inspect the servants as she pulled on her long, white gloves. Their eyes met. Eliza quickly glanced away and swallowed. There was no running now. The jingle of harnesses and the crunch of wheels on gravel announced the final arrival of the carriage as the coachman pulled rein and Alistair and Nicholas stepped forward to open the door. Eliza spied a small, delicate shoe and the hem of a fine pink gown before something flashed in the corner of her eye. Startled, she glanced up. Her heart leapt into her throat.
Oliver.
Wearing a bright green hat with a red feather, the boy dashed to the side of the drive and along the low, stone wall, heading toward the clock tower.
Her heart sank. Whispering a hasty “Excuse me” to the servants flanking either side, Eliza hurried down the steps, then took off at a dead run after him. She followed the stone wall, calling his name. But the fierce winds ripped the words from her mouth, and he was far too quick on his feet. She clapped a hand to her cap. Before she’d closed the distance half way, he darted under the clock tower and disappeared from sight.
Eliza burst into the clock tower courtyard right after him, only to find it empty. Turning in a circle, she gasped between breaths, “Oliver! Come here, at once!”
There was no response.
At the sudden whinny of a horse, she darted through the back archway and down a short drive leading to a long, low stone building perched near the edge of the cliff and protected from the crashing sea below by a stone wall. The smell of horse and a mound of hay near the open door, told her she’d reached the stables. Lifting her skirts, she ran to the door and darted inside.
At once, she spied Oliver’s green hat poking above a nearby stall.
“Oliver,” she called, pausing to catch her breath. “Come out. Immediately.”
He didn’t move.
“I’ve had enough of your games, Oliver,” she said firmly.
Her gaze caught on the stall opposite her. She jumped back as a wild looking stallion peered back at her, pawing the ground with his massive hoof. Eliza retreated another step, eyes on the mighty hooves visible beneath the half-stall door. The beast flattened its ears and tossed its head, letting out a vicious snort to announce its unhappiness with her presence.
Biting her lip, Eliza inched along the wall toward Oliver’s stall, hissing, “It’s dangerous here, Oliver. We must go now.”
Still, the boy refused to answer.
The stallion whinnied again.
Eliza drew a shaky breath. “You’re such a lovely horse,” she crooned, inching past and added wryly, “Whatever are you afraid of, Eliza? The animal is locked safely in its stall.”
The horse continued to snort and paw the ground, turning its massive head sideways as it watched her every move. Gathering courage, she scurried to Oliver’s stall only to discover the green hat dangling on the handle of a pitchfork.
“What the devil?” Eliza snatched up the hat.
Giggling overhead made her look up. She froze. There he was, scampering among the low rafters. Low, but not low enough for her to reach up and drag him down by a leg.
“Come down, at once.” She gasped when he leapt from beam to beam. “It’s far too dangerous, Oliver! Whatever are you thinking?”
He jumped to the beam over the stallion’s stall and balanced on the rafter, looking down at her with a devious gli
nt of mischief—then his eyes widened and his arms flailed.
He fell.
Eliza lunged toward the stall and yanked the latch. The stallion screamed and reared, its massive front hooves slicing the air. Then it charged her. Strong hands seized her arm and yanked her out of the stallion’s path, and into the opposite stall, as more horses galloped past. She stumbled and fell, landing hard under a muscled chest as the stallion thundered past. Men’s voices rang out.
Overhead, Oliver scrambled into the safety of the rafters. Eliza closed her eyes in relief. When she opened them again, she came face-to-face with Lord Kennedy who lay on top of her, his green eyes inches from hers. Her heart thundered.
His mouth thinned in a grim line. “That stallion is wild, Miss Plowman.” A strand of dark hair fell over his face. “It’s dangerous.”
Suddenly, Eliza became aware of the rugged planes of his chest and the weight of his body. Her breath caught. His lashes lowered. Time slowed and the hectic voices around them faded. Slowly, he lifted a hand and traced the outline of her jaw with the pad of his thumb. Each gentle sweep sent fire coursing through her. She shifted her gaze to his mouth and the sensual dent of his chiseled chin. With his heavily fringed lashes riding low over his eyes, he bent his head, bringing his lips to hover above hers.
A man’s urgent voice shattered the spell.
“My lord! My lord!”
Eliza froze. As Lord Kennedy began lifting himself off her, a soft moan of loss escaped her lips before she could bite it back. He hesitated and pinned her with a hungry look that stole her breath. He abruptly pushed to his feet, pulling her up with him. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for her to remain out of view in the stall before stepping into the walkway, half within her view.
“Ah, my lord,” said a voice she recognized as the same man who had called for Lord Kennedy. “It appears as if someone unlatched every one of the stall doors.”
“Indeed.” Alistair looked at the rafter where Oliver sat, hugging his knees, white-faced.