“You don’t say? How irregular.” Seonaid had never so much as hinted she discerned a thing about Yancy. Perhaps he was unreadable.
Harcourt shuddered, puzzlement crinkling his eyes. “Wholly unnerving, that. I don’t like being read like a book, and that candle business . . . quite bizarre.”
“Indeed.” Hands clasped behind him, Yancy rocked back on his heels, deep in thought.
An extended silence reigned as he contemplated the information Harcourt had imparted about the gypsies. As for Harcourt’s musings, well, who knew exactly what went on in that fair head of his? The man was an enigma.
“I expected the Blackhalls and the MacGraths to be lurking about.” Yancy pulled on his earlobe. “After all, they’re causing the disruption with your cousin’s clan, and MacHardy’s barony encompasses their lands.”
Hell, the entire bumblebroth made his head ache. He rubbed his forehead while staring at a portrait of a fierce-looking Scot on the opposite wall. “This may be more complicated than I’d anticipated.”
He’d have to extend his visit. That, he didn’t object to at all; he’d have more opportunities to court Isobel.
MacHardy, on the other hand . . .
An uncouth Scot, nothing like Sethwick and his kin, MacHardy had earned a reputation as a troublemaker and a whoremongering cheat. A foul one too. From the stench lingering about his person, his substantial flesh and clothing hadn’t encountered a droplet of water in a goodly amount of time.
The baron laid odds far too often in White’s betting book, gambling on every ludicrous wager from the knot of a lord’s cravat to the feather or ribbon colors adorning a lady’s bonnet. Once, he had placed a bet as to the number of whiskers on Lady Clutterbuck’s many chins.
There were five.
The man was a corkbrained buffoon. His tendency to dispute his losses had gained him the reputation of a hotheaded Captain Sharp. Yancy hadn’t a single doubt the baron had fired early during the duels. The Scot was a blight upon the earth.
Voices echoed from the entrance.
Glimpsing Sethwick and Isobel crossing the threshold, Yancy narrowed his eyes. Turning on his heel, he strode purposefully in their direction, his boots beating a harsh staccato upon the stone floor.
Isobel’s rough attire, and what the garments suggested about her whereabouts, troubled him. As a War Office representative, he had a duty to speedily solve the clan crisis while ensuring everyone’s safety. Particularly, the well-being of strong-minded young misses capering about the countryside.
Head bowed, she made straight for the stairs.
“Hold there, Miss Ferguson.” Yancy quickened his pace.
One foot on the bottom riser, she paused and swung her startled gaze his way. The closer he came, the larger her beautiful eyes grew. She ascended a couple of steps, sending her brother an alarmed look.
“Thank you, Fairchild,” Sethwick said. “Please have luncheon delayed fifteen minutes. Isobel must change her gown.”
“Very good, sir.” Fairchild disappeared down the passageway.
Sethwick turned his attention to Yancy and raised a brow. “I know that expression. That’s your War-Secretary-about-to-issue-an-order glower.”
“How astute of you.” Yancy forced his annoyance aside. “Until further notice, I would prefer no one”—he cast a sidelong glance at Isobel hovering on the stairs—“especially the women, leave the walls of the keep unaccompanied by at least one armed man. On second thought, make that two men.”
“No.” Isobel gasped and whirled to face Yancy full on. “You cannot—”
“Aye. I’m in agreement.” His features thoughtful, Sethwick slowly nodded. “We need to discuss the situation after we dine. That’s the reason I sought you in the stables. I have information I believe you’ll find of particular interest.”
He turned his attention to Isobel. “Shouldn’t you be changing? We’re late as it is.”
“Yes, but . . .” She compressed her lips and clutched the folds of her cloak, obviously struggling for comportment.
“Ewan, you are the laird.” Her color high, Isobel pointed at Yancy. “Are you going to allow him to dictate like that? Forbid us to leave the keep?”
Although he stood several feet away, Yancy sensed the frustration radiating from her. He hadn’t seen this fiery streak in her before. Her faultless manners had kept this side well-hidden. He would bet his best French brandy he’d been right about her being outside the keep unaccompanied this morning. Why was she so upset she couldn’t leave without an escort?
A nasty notion crashed into him.
Did she have a lover?
His stomach clenched almost as tightly as his fists. The urge to shake the truth from her—no, hunt down the man and pummel him—raged across Yancy’s reason. In his mind, he’d all but claimed her as his, as irrational as he knew that was.
Who did she sneak out to meet?
He surveyed her coarse garb again. A villager? Or, devil take it, one of the Highland travellers? Taking a controlled breath, he attempted to curb his anger.
Sethwick needed to keep a closer eye on his sister. Perchance, Yancy would drop a hint into her brother’s ear.
Sethwick approached the stairs. “Ramsbury is here in an official capacity at my behest. There are details regarding Lydia and the clan unrest you’re not aware of.”
“And may I assume, because I am a woman, I’m not to be apprised of those unpleasant details?” Arms folded, Isobel glared at them, one toe tapping an angry cadence on the stair.
“To protect my delicate sensibilities, of course. Correct?”
Now she understands.
Yancy allowed a pleased grin. “Precisely.”
He enjoyed a lingering appraisal as she stood fuming. Her arms, pressed below her breasts, jammed the full mounds upward. He tore his gaze away from the tempting, and wholly distracting spectacle. “Women shouldn’t have to bother their lovely heads with politics, warfare, or clan skirmishes.”
“Hell. Now you’ve made a mull of it,” Sethwick muttered with a severe shake of his head. “I thought you had more sense than that, numbskull.”
Yancy shot him a curious glance.
“I shall leave you to muddle your way out of this sticky mess, my friend.” With a wave of his hand, Sethwick ambled along the hallway, calling, “Don’t dawdle too long. I’m ravenous. We shall eat without you.”
Isobel’s regal features had settled into an icy mask of disdain. No hint of the adoration Yancy had once seen in her magnificent aqua eyes remained.
Devil it. He had made a grievous error.
She pursed her lips then tilted her head, much like an inquisitive sparrow. “Are you a wagering man, Lord Ramsbury?”
Though politely worded, and her tone the epitome of a gently-bred woman, the question rang rapier sharp, and he winced imperceptibly.
He met her gaze, accepting the challenge in the depth of her eyes. This could prove interesting.
“It depends, I suppose, Miss Ferguson, on the wager.” He took her measure. “And who I bet against.”
Her lips formed a small arc belying her barbed words. “Why don’t you pick something, anything, you are confident your superior masculinity would result in an easy win against the fairer sex.”
A stab of disquiet pierced him. What was she about?
She fluttered a dainty hand in the air.
“Cards. Chess. Fencing. Riding. Archery. Hunting. Fishing. Reading. Mathematics. Physics. Interpreting Socrates or Aristotle’s work from the original Greek. Name it.”
Yancy couldn’t rip his gaze from her. Lord, but she was magnificent when enraged. Her eyes fairly spewed azure sparks. Could she really read Greek? Once more, he eyed her from her drooping hair to her scuffed boots.
Most intriguing.
He tried gauging her thoughts. Why was she so peeved?
Perhaps she did have a lover, and now she wouldn’t be able to keep their clandestine appointments.
Annoyance pricked along his spine.
That would explain her adamant denial in the stable. Most inconvenient and wholly disappointing, if true. He would have to search elsewhere for his countess. He’d had his share of fast women warm his sheets and his blood, but taking one to wife invited cuckolding.
Isobel raised a perfectly arched brow and continued tapping the toe of one small foot on the stairs. “Well, my lord?”
Chess?
Yes, that might do.
He hadn’t been beaten since his days at Eton. In fact, he rarely found anyone who’d partner him. Naturally, he would be a gentleman and let her win the first game or two. Trouncing her soundly at the onset wouldn’t further his suit.
Not that he stood much chance of winning her over after her blunt declaration in the stables. However, he wasn’t ready to give up the race quite yet.
What was that verse his mother used to quote? Something nonsensical from the Bible about the race not being to the swift or the battle to the strong, wasn’t it?
A more subtle approach might prove more successful with Isobel. That remark he’d made about not worrying her pretty head had really worked her into a froth.
Yes, chess. That ought to appease her.
She continued to gaze at him expectantly.
Yancy flashed her his most charming smile, the one that generally caused ladies to flush or bat their eyelashes in seductive invitation.
Isobel, however, simply leveled him a bland stare.
“My lord?” Her tone indicated anything but respect and deference.
“I would be honored if you joined me in a game of chess, Miss Ferguson.”
Her pretty lips curled into a wide smile. “I had rather hoped you’d pick fencing. I would have enjoyed having a go at you with my sabre.”
“You fence?” A vision of her derriere in snug, white breeches sprang to mind. He really had become a lecher.
“After my parents allowed Adaira to learn, Seonaid and I insisted we have the same opportunity.” She turned and climbed the risers. The sway of her hips, even underneath the thick cloak, tantalized.
Isobel peered over her shoulder, a siren’s smile on her lips. “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you I’ve never lost at chess.”
Confident little thing, wasn’t she?
Yancy released a hearty chuckle. He quite liked this unconventional morsel of womanliness. “Surely when you first learned the game?”
“At seven.” Isobel shook her head and more silky strands spilled from the loose knot. She gave him a falsely honeyed smile.
“No. Not ever, my lord.”
She proceeded up the stairs, her voice floating back to him. “By the way, your lordship, if I win, I’m permitted to leave the keep without two escorts.”
After Isobel disappeared from the landing, Yancy strode the length of the corridor, having forgotten he’d left Harcourt loitering in the hallway. Naturally, the lout stayed on and listened to every word Yancy exchanged with her.
Harcourt joined him as he made his way to the great hall.
“Miss Ferguson’s never lost a match, and I don’t recall the last one you didn’t win.” A fiendish grin tilted the duke’s lips. He stopped to examine a suit of medieval armor. “Can you imagine gadding about in this? And would you look at the length of this blade?”
Yancy scowled, itching to plant his friend a facer if he didn’t shut up. “Leave off, will you?”
“What size sword do you suppose Miss Ferguson fences with?” Harcourt blinked at him innocently.
“She fences with a sabre, but then you already know that because you rudely eavesdropped on our conversation.” Yancy shot him another black glower.
“‘Pon my soul, I’d like to have seen her have a go at you too.” Harcourt ran his forefinger along the claymore displayed across the armor’s chestplate then grasped the weapon’s hilt. He fairly oozed glee.
“I know you’d rather see her impale me, but you’ll have to be content with a simple chess game.” Damn, but the sword Harcourt toyed with was enormous.
“Care to wager on the game’s outcome, Ramsbury? I know you’ve had your eye on my pair of blacks.” A shadow flitted across Harcourt’s face. “Hound’s teeth, I wish I was in London and could place a wager at White’s. Nevertheless, this castle overflows with people. I should be able to get a nice bet running.”
“Stubble it, will you? There will be no betting on the result.” Yancy raked his hand through his already-mussed hair. “I’m in a deuced amount of disfavor with Miss Ferguson. She would be peeved beyond Sunday to know everyone bet against her.”
He glanced above him, his gaze colliding with a serious-faced knight whose portrait hung from a silken ruby cord high above the armor. It seemed Sethwick’s ancestors disapproved too.
“Who says I’ll wager against her?” Harcourt smacked Yancy on the back and snickered. “No, I do believe I shall lay odds she’ll be the one to finally bring you down on your marrow bones.”
Marrow bones?
As if Yancy would be on his knees begging her pardon after winning. She had challenged him, blister it. What was he going to require of her when she lost?
A kiss from those luscious lips would do nicely.
To start.
Chapter 6
Her victory assured, Isobel stepped onto the landing. Did Lord Ramsbury linger below? She couldn’t resist peeking over her shoulder.
Standing at the foot of the stairway, he stared at her, his brows slightly furrowed.
After her declaration, she swore he’d muttered, “Holy hell.”
A thrill shot through her. By George, she’d flummoxed him. She found verbal sparring with his lordship rather invigorating, truth to tell.
Indulging in a triumphant smile, she rushed to her chamber, removing her wrap along the way. She charged into the room and, after tossing her cloak on an armchair, sat and removed her half-boots.
Maura emerged from Isobel’s bathing chamber. “I’ve laid out yer dress.”
She indicated a pink and jonquil gown draped across the counterpane. A lacy chemise and white stockings lay there too.
Bless Maura’s efficiency.
“I’ve warm water waitin’ for ye in the basin.” The maid rummaged in a chiffonnier. She withdrew an ivory silk shawl fringed in pink tassels.
“Let’s get you out of that thing.” Maura’s face scrunched in disapproval. Her gaze roved Isobel from her bare toes to her mussed hair.
“Ye’ve straw stuck in yer hair and dirt on yer face.” Maura plucked several strands from Isobel’s tresses. “What have ye been doin’, rollin’ in the stalls?”
Close enough.
With the maid’s help, Isobel made swift work of shedding her soiled gown. After a hasty wash, she hurriedly donned the clean garments.
Sinking onto the satin wood dressing table bench, she smoothed her eyebrows. No need to pinch her cheeks, as her confrontation with Lord Ramsbury had her color high. “Just gather my hair into a simple knot, please. I am terribly late as it is.”
“Hmmph.” Maura quickly brushed Isobel’s hair, removing the last vestiges of straw, and then after a couple of artful twists, pinned the hair in place.
“We have visitors, ye ken. That handsome Lord Ramsbury and another fancy friend of the laird’s be here to settle the nasty business between the clans.”
“I know. I came upon the earl in the stables.” Yanked him to the floor atop her was more accurate. “The other gentleman is the Duke of Harcourt. I’ve met him once before.”
Grasping the shawl Maura extended, Isobel whirl
ed back to the dressing table. “Wait, I forgot perfume.”
Arching a wiry, gray eyebrow, Maura’s gaze traveled from Isobel to the cobalt vermeil covered perfume bottle. “Yer almost out.”
Isobel draped the shawl around her shoulders. “Yes, I know. I’ll order some tomorrow when I send the request to Edinburg for more gloves. Someday, I hope to visit Floris’s in London and have a customized fragrance concocted there.”
Almost to the door, she turned. “Maura, have you been to Edinburgh? I should like to venture there and see the Assembly Rooms and Arthur’s Seat. Actually, there’s a great many places I should like to visit.”
The maid paused in straightening the items atop the dressing table.
“Aye, once when I was verra young. Before ye were born.”
Her features softened and a dreamy expression settled upon her aged face. “I met me husband there.”
“Your husband?” Isobel retraced a couple of steps. “You were married once?”
“Aye.” Maura smiled sadly. “He drowned after a severe squall came upon his fishin’ boat. We ne’er found his body.”
Isobel traveled the remaining steps to the maid.
“I’m so sorry.” She hugged Maura. “How awful, to have known that kind of tragedy so young.”
“It happened over forty years ago, lass. As for Edinburgh, it be a lovely city. Ye would enjoy visitin’ there.”
Isobel offered a budding smile. Would she ever see anything of the world? Or would she spend all of her days in the Highlands?
Now very tardy, she made for the door once more. She seemed destined for poor behavior and doldrums today.
“I shall wear the sea green with the lace overskirt for dinner, Maura, and I would like a bath before we sup. As much as I enjoy hunting for relics, I do prefer being clean, and that hurried sponge wasn’t altogether satisfactory. Besides, my hair needs washing.”
“I’ll say it does and—”
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 5