Highland Rogue

by Deborah Hale

  “This is our newest parlor maid,” said Claire. “Rosie’s daughter, Glenna.”

  “Not wee Glenna!” In spite of his denial, he scooped her off her feet and twirled her around. “Why, ye’ve changed enough to make up for all the rest, lass. Ye make me feel old just to look at ye.”

  “Welcome home, Ewan.” Glenna stepped back in line, her pretty face flushed a bright red. “Don’t let Ma torment ye about being too thin. Ye look just fine. Like a proper laird.”

  Her compliment stirred a strange brew of contrary feelings in Ewan. For years he’d dreamed of this day—returning in a triumph of wealth and success to the estate from which he’d been banished in disgrace. Now, as he glanced from Glenna McMurdo to Claire Talbot, he felt as if he had lost his old place and no longer fit in anywhere.

  Watching Ewan swing the young parlor maid around in his arms, Claire tried to ignore a ridiculous stab of jealousy. She had no claim on the man, after all. And it was obvious the only feelings he entertained toward Glenna McMurdo were a kind of brotherly fondness. Besides, if Claire were foolish enough to envy his attentions to another woman, that woman should be her sister.

  For as long as she could recall, Claire had fought against feelings of jealousy toward Tessa. And she had always managed to conquer them. She was not about to poison the one truly loving relationship she’d ever known by giving in to them now.

  Once Ewan set Glenna McMurdo back on her feet, Claire turned to introduce him to the rest of the staff, but Mrs. Arbuthnot suddenly appeared at her elbow.

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but you might wish to postpone further introductions.” She pointed toward the thick, black-bottomed clouds the wind had blown in from the Atlantic.

  “Indeed.” Claire recalled the capricious Highland weather. “Mr. Geddes is hardly a stranger to Strathandrew. Let us all get indoors before the skies open on us.”

  The staff needed no further orders to turn and flee up the winding path to the house, the young footmen and gardeners dashing off in the lead, trailed closely by the maids, who hiked their skirts up to make better haste. The cook and the housekeeper followed, Mrs. McMurdo puffing along, while Mrs. Arbuthnot glided beside her. The Gowrie brothers brought up the rear, seeming in no hurry, perhaps because they were accustomed to being outdoors in all weather.

  Ewan had not appeared anxious to be on his way, either. But once all the servants had gone, he offered Claire his arm. “That rain’s going to take a while to fall yet, I reckon. And we can change clothes at our leisure if we have to. May I escort ye up to the house, Miss Talbot?”

  Claire told herself she was quite capable of walking without his assistance. And she should not indulge in any unnecessary contact with him.

  In spite of that, she heard herself reply, “You certainly may. Thank you.”

  She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. For a moment she allowed her good intentions to slip. She savored his nearness and the sweet illusion that he belonged to her.

  “Was I right?” she asked. “Has the place changed much from the way you remember it?”

  To her, it felt as if time had slipped backward and she was living out an old dream—walking up from the wharf with Ewan Geddes, arm in arm. Not that her father ever would have permitted it. Nor would the handsome young gillie have offered. He’d have been too busy making sheep’s eyes at Tessa, who barely noticed him.

  “Changed?” Ewan shook his head and chuckled. “Not any amount. It might look a bit smaller than I recollect. That’s about all.

  “Now, then …” He reached over with his free hand to pat hers. “How do ye propose we entertain ourselves until the rest of our party arrives?”

  Her stomach roiled with shame at his reminder that Tessa and Lady Lydiard would soon be joining them. She had no business indulging in a ten-year-old fancy for the man her sister intended to marry. During their youth, Claire had allowed herself to yearn for Ewan Geddes—only because Tessa had not returned his feelings.

  Now that she did, and now that it was clear he had no designs on Tessa’s fortune, Claire must lock away those old feelings and never let them back out on any account.

  It would not be easy, though.

  The jumble of conflicting feelings within her made her answer more sharply than she intended. “You’re no longer a servant here, Ewan. You are not obliged to keep me amused. I expect we are both well used to entertaining ourselves, and there will be plenty for you to do at Strathandrew.”

  Even through the fabric of his coat, she could feel the flesh of his arm grow tense. When she risked a fleeting glance at his face, his dark brows signaled stormy emotions as surely as the sky’s dark clouds forecast rain.

  “Do ye need to remind me that I’m a guest, not a servant?” he growled. “Or yerself, Claire?”

  The man was clearly infuriated. Though why, she could not work out.

  He shook off her hand and spun about to confront her. “Were ye only willing to suffer my company on the Marlet to keep me from jumping ship again? Now that we’re at yer fine estate, ye’re warning me to keep my distance?”

  Claire barely stifled a shriek. The man was as exasperating as he was … compelling!

  “How did you ever come to such a ridiculous conclusion?” She stood far too close to him, trading glare for glare. “I was trying to spare you the burden of having to dance attendance on me. Only you could find an insult in that!”

  “I’ve never danced attendance on anyone,” he informed her in a tone of scorn. “And I’m not about to start. Besides, keeping ye company isn’t the same as dancing attendance. Only ye would reckon that a burden on a man. I’m here to tell ye it’s not, when ye make an effort to be sociable.”

  It was not much of a compliment, compared to the lavish flattery she’d received over the years. Why, then, did it make her breath catch high in the back of her throat and her knees feel suddenly weak?

  Claire knew the answer, but she could not bring herself to accept it, as a gust of rain-laden wind sent them scurrying for the shelter of the house.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time Ewan and Claire stumbled into the entry hall of Strathandrew, gasping for breath, they were almost as wet as when they’d been hauled back aboard the Marlet from the lifeboat. It seemed nature was prepared to throw cold water on the pair of them whenever they fell to bickering.

  The formal elegance of the entry hall and the critical stare of the housekeeper discouraged Ewan from shaking himself like a wet hound.

  “Ye’ll want to change into dry clothes before dinner.” Mrs. Arbuthnot’s hushed murmur somehow carried the weight of an order. Her frigid gaze fixed on him, as if accusing him of getting soaked on purpose.

  She beckoned a young footman forward. “Alec, show the gentlem—Show Miss Talbot’s guest to his room.”

  As Ewan followed the young fellow up the broad staircase, he glanced back at Claire, who was removing her bedraggled hat. “I’ll see ye at dinner, then? Unless ye’d rather I make myself scarce?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped. “You’re a guest at Strathandrew. Of course I shall see you at dinner.”

  “Just making sure.” He took the stairs two at a time to catch up with the footman.

  The beautiful, bewigged lady whose portrait graced the first landing seemed to cast him a reproachful look. More fancy folk in silks, satins and lace looked down on him from the walls of the broad upstairs gallery. Ewan wondered if they might be generations of noble Talbot ancestors, contemplating with horror the trespass of a former servant within their domain.

  “Been in service here long?” he asked the young footman. His voice erupted with ill-bred loudness in the refined hush of the gallery.

  “Two years, sir.” The lad barely raised his voice above a whisper, as if he were in kirk.

  “How are ye liking it?”

  After a pause in which he seemed to weigh the wisdom of answering truthfully, the lad shrugged. “It was this or one of the Highland Regiments, sir. Here
I can get home to see my folks now and then. The food’s first-rate and the work’s not that hard.”

  Stopping before a fine mahogany door with gleaming brass knob and hinges, he opened it, then stood back to let Ewan enter.

  On his way into the room, Ewan flashed the lad a jaunty wink. “And nobody’s shooting at ye.”

  Young Alec grinned. “That’s in its favor, too, sir.”

  “I used to think Mrs. A could hold her own with any bully of a sergeant in the Black Watch,” quipped Ewan.

  The lad cast a nervous glance over his shoulder before he gave a muted chuckle.

  Ewan’s own mirth caught in his throat. It wasn’t right that smart lads like Alec had so few opportunities in life beyond civilian or military servitude.

  Having never known any different, the young footman didn’t seem to feel sorry for himself. “If ye want to get out of those wet clothes, sir, I’ll go fetch yer trunk.”

  “A fine idea.” Ewan looked around for the dressing screen, but saw none in the richly appointed room.

  It lacked nothing else for his comfort, from the dark green hangings on the massive four-poster bed, to the fireplace where a small blaze crackled in a cheery welcome. Still, something about the place made Ewan uneasy. All the more so because he could not put his finger on it.

  The footman seemed to interpret his puzzled glance about. “The dressing room is right through there, Mr. Geddes, sir.” He pointed to the right-hand wall, where a door stood slightly ajar.

  “Aye, of course,” said Ewan. “I should have noticed.”

  “Glad to help, sir.” The lad turned to leave.

  “Alec?”

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Ye can leave off with that ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. Geddes’ business. It makes me feel like a stranger. This is home to me. Here I’m plain Ewan.”

  The lad’s ruddy face grew even redder. “No disrespect to yer wishes, sir. But if Mrs. A caught me talking that familiar with a guest, I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “I reckon ye wouldn’t.” Ewan’s shoulders sagged a bit as he headed for the dressing room.

  A while later, he emerged in dry clothes, all washed, brushed and eager for a little company. He wanted to find out what had happened around Strathandrew since he’d left. Claire might think time stood still in these parts, but she saw it only for a few weeks every year or so. Mrs. Arbuthnot was such a stickler for “maintaining standards,” Ewan doubted anything had changed in the household routine during her tenure.

  But even the Talbot’s grim housekeeper could not hold back time. Bairns sprouted up into lads and lasses, took a fancy to one another, wed in the village kirk and had families of their own. Meanwhile, their folks grew older and their grandfolks died. There were good harvests and bad, special celebrations, local jokes and minor scandals—all the events that made up the life of a community.

  Ewan was anxious to catch up on all of it.

  He ducked out of his room, easing the door closed behind him with furtive quietness. Out in the hushed gallery, delicious smells of Rosie’s cooking wafted through the breathless air. Ewan followed them to the back stairs. He tread softly, almost on tiptoe, and kept glancing behind him, as if he expected to be caught intruding, and ordered away.

  Once he reached the back stairs, principally used by the servants for their discreet comings and goings, he began to relax and feel more at home.

  On his way down, he met one of the upstairs maids with a pile of linen in her arms. When she saw him, she gave a strangled squeak of fright and fumbled her load. Ewan swooped to catch the pristine sheets and towels before they tumbled all over the stairs.

  “Thank ye, sir.” In the faint light from the landing window, the lass’s face looked as bleached as the linens. “Is there anything ye’re wanting, sir? Ye only have to ring and somebody will come straightaway.”

  It wasn’t possible to summon or demand what he was looking for. “I have everything I need, thank ye, lass. I just wanted to poke my nose below stairs for a wee visit.”

  She looked at him as if he were clean daft, but all she said was, “As ye like, sir.”

  Then she bobbed a quick curtsy and headed up the stairs as Ewan continued down.

  At the bottom of the steps, he pushed open the swinging door that led to the servants’ hall. The long table at one end of the big room was laid for supper, but there was no sign of anyone sitting in the assortment of armchairs and rockers clustered around the hearth at the near end.

  Beyond the servants’ hall, Ewan could see folks scurrying about in the kitchen, and heard the clatter of pots and pans. The succulent aromas of onions and beef and the mellow fragrance of toasted oats made his mouth water.

  He headed toward a side table where Rosie McMurdo was beating some pale yellow froth in a bowl with vigorous strokes. She was concentrating so hard on her task that she didn’t even notice him swoop in to plant a quick peck on her plump cheek.

  “What’s for dinner, Rosie? It smells like heaven!”

  Rosie shrieked and her spoon flew up, splashing tiny gobbets of batter all over Ewan’s coat, face and hair.

  “What are ye trying to do, ye young rogue?” she cried, her fists planted on her ample hips. “Scare a body to death?”

  “Sorry, Rosie!” He scraped a bit of batter off his chin, then licked it off his finger. “Mmm! I’ve waited ten years to taste yer cooking again. I’ve never had better, in all the time I’ve been gone.”

  The cook’s vexed look softened. “Oh, get away with ye! I reckon ye’ve had fine meals in those fancy eating places in America.”

  “Aye, a few.” And at the estates of some of his business associates. He’d never developed a taste for rich fare, however. “It all lacked something in the flavor, though.”

  Just then, Ewan realized how quiet the kitchen had fallen. He glanced around to find several of the junior servants frozen in place at their tasks, as if they were playing some sort of parlor game. He followed their stares back to the kitchen door, where Mrs. Arbuthnot stood.

  “Back to work, all of ye,” she snapped. “We have a meal to prepare, or have ye forgotten?”

  Her gaze, as cold as a loch in February, turned upon Ewan. “Is there something ye require, sir? There is a bell in yer room, or did Alec forget to inform ye?”

  “He told me.” Ewan wondered how he could still feel cowed by a woman he could buy and sell a thousand times over. “And I remember how the bells work. I just thought I’d pop down for a bit of company.”

  “Ye look as if ye could use another change of clothes before dinner.” Mrs. Arbuthnot couldn’t have appeared more disgusted if he’d been covered head to toe in fish guts or sheep muck.

  “That’s my fault,” said Rosie. She pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket, then reached up to wipe Ewan’s cheek. “It was kind of ye to drop in for a visit, lad. Another time, maybe, when it’s not so busy down here?”

  “Aye, Rosie. Sorry to get in yer way.”

  As he strode back out past the housekeeper, Ewan heard the sounds of the kitchen pick up where they’d left off. He spotted one of the Gowrie brothers sitting near the hearth with a Bible open on his knees. Ewan considered sitting down for a chat with him, just to vex Mrs. Arbuthnot. Then Fergus, the gamekeeper, glanced up with a scowl that informed Ewan his company was not wanted.

  He wondered why. Mrs. Arbuthnot had never much cared for him when he’d been a servant here, so her cold welcome came as no surprise. He’d expected better from Fergus, the man who had taught him to shoot and fish.

  Pushing open the back stairs door and returning to his room, Ewan knew for certain he had lost his old place at Strathandrew. If he was to have any company at all until Tessa arrived, it would have to be her sister’s.

  “Oh my.” Claire set down her fork after a course of braised beef only to have the dish replaced by one bearing tender white scallops in cream sauce. “Mrs. McMurdo has outdone herself in your honor, Ewan. I hope you’re enjoying it as much as you anticipat
ed.”

  “Oh, aye.” He glanced up at her from across the table and smiled. But his voice sounded less enthusiastic than she’d expected. “I never could find a cook in America who knew how to make partan bree.”

  “The crab soup? Yes, it was marvelous.”

  “I reckon no one could have made it quite like Rosie, anyway.” Ewan lifted a plump scallop on his fork, then closed his eyes, the better to relish its subtle flavor. “Nor queenies so tender.”

  He sounded appreciative, yet subdued, somehow.

  Could it be on account of their earlier quarrel? Could he truly believe she didn’t want his company? If only he knew how she craved it!

  The rain pattered against the large windows that afforded a breathtaking view of the loch in better weather. A small but warm fire crackled in the hearth, making the large formal dining room feel almost cosy. Their seating arrangement contributed to the intimacy of the meal. Until her sister and stepmother arrived, Claire had ordered places to be set for her and Ewan across from one another in the middle of the long table.

  “I hope you found the accommodations to your liking?” She worried that her question might sound too stilted or insincere. It was one of those things a hostess was obliged to ask her guests. “I believe Mrs. Arbuthnot put you in Father’s old room.”

  Ewan laughed, and a spark of impudent charm flared in his eyes. “I wondered why such a comfortable room made my hackles rise. Yer father’s likely spinning in his grave at the notion of me sleeping in his bed.”

  A most disrespectful thought popped into Claire’s head. “His ghost may be speeding north as we speak to haunt you tonight!”

  A tightness within her eased as they laughed together over that absurd notion. A tightness so old and deeply ingrained, she had come to take it for granted as part of her nature. It frightened her a little to begin to let go of it.

  “What do ye say?” Ewan’s mischievous grin dared her. “Will ye come for a walk with me tomorrow, if the weather’s fine? Torment that old ghost a bit by keeping company with a humble gillie boy? Please, as a favor to me?”