In an effort to keep her curves manageable, she discontinued that practice. More’s the pity. She rarely indulged in Sorcha’s pasties either.
Mother and Seonaid were fuller-figured than Adaira, but beside Isobel, they appeared svelte. She wished she had Adaira’s slight build.
Isobel’s arms and legs were trim enough, and a man’s hands could span her waist—granted they had to be large hands—but she possessed a generous bosom and wide hips. To her immense consternation, males seemed captivated by both.
The number of times she’d caught one ogling her upper and lower regions was past counting. She’d rather have Mr. Ross’s knobby frame than be endowed as the Good Lord had designed her. Only her family, Lord Ramsbury, and the Duke of Harcourt didn’t make her self-conscious about her lavish curves.
Accepting her plate from Fairchild, she turned to the table. She hesitated for a fraction then opted to sit beside Alasdair rather than the earl.
When near his lordship, her pulse did all manner of peculiar things, and she could never quite think straight. Catching whiffs of his subtle cologne, listening to the low timbre of his voice, observing his long fingers with their light smattering of blackish hair across the knuckles all muddled her.
No, she deemed sitting across the table much wiser.
The birds, startled by her passing beside the window, released frightened chirrups and took to wing.
Isobel twisted her mouth into a wry smile. Rather how she behaved with the earl nearby.
Fairchild placed a tall, royal-blue chintz patterned cocoa cup before her. “Use caution, Miss Isobel. The chocolate is quite hot. I would let it cool slightly before taking a drink. Did you want clotted cream?”
“Thank you, Fairchild, but I’ll pass on the cream.” She unfolded her napkin.
Lord Ramsbury’s lips curled into a mysterious smile when she’d sank into the chair opposite him, almost as if he had read her mind.
To hide the blush heating her cheeks, Isobel promptly raised the rich cocoa to her mouth, and burned her tongue.
Confounded earl.
She pressed the singed organ against the back of her teeth to stifle the oath that threatened and to numb the sharp pain pulsing on the tip.
Clamping her lips, she drew in a calming breath. Virtuous women didn’t curse in public. Only the earl tempted her to cast off propriety and ring him an unladylike peal.
Expecting the chamber to be empty, she intended to grab a bite to eat and pilfer enough food that she might enjoy her midday meal amongst the fossils and caves. Eager to explore the formations she’d found yesterday, she hadn’t waited for Maura to bring up the customary tray.
Besides, Isobel’s giddiness from drubbing his lordship at chess had kept her restless all night.
What other reason could there be for his face to keep appearing in her mind? Or the odd unsettled sensations that had her heaving sighs and flopping from her front to her back most of the night?
Dawn had scarcely whisked her colorful palette across the horizon before Isobel swept aside the counterpane atop her bed. Standing before her favorite window, she enjoyed a few moments admiring the pastel hues dusting the sky.
Tendrils of silvery smoke spiraled skyward beyond the meadow.
The travellers.
A visit to their encampment was in order. A variety of baskets, intricately detailed shawls, and other fascinating whatnots could always be found there—not to mention the most delectable tarts.
She would have to wait until Mother organized an outing, however. Isobel wasn’t so bold as to venture to the tinker’s encampment alone.
The women of Craiglocky would delay that outing until Vangie arrived. Part Roma, actually a gypsy princess, Lady Warrick spoke Romany but not the Gaelic cant of Scottish Highland travellers.
Nevertheless, many of the words were similar, and most travellers spoke English too. Some of these local gypsies claimed a familial relation to the countess, albeit quite distant.
Isobel had hastily gone about her morning ablutions, eager to get an early start. Now, hope of gathering food for later was dashed. She blew on the hot chocolate. Perhaps after she changed into her old gown, she would stop by the kitchen and ask Sorcha to put a something together for her and Tira to eat.
Cheese, rolls, an apple or two, and stovies would suffice.
Lord Ramsbury took a bite of an oatcake. “Might I persuade you to go riding this morning? Miss Farnsworth and Ross, as well as McTavish here, have agreed to an outing at half past eight.”
Wary, Isobel raised her eyes to the earl. “Unfortunately, my lord, I have other plans. I thank you for the invitation, but I found some fossils yesterday I want to examine.”
She bit into the light sweetness of the cinnamon roll.
A ride with Mr. Ross and Lord Ramsbury was not her idea of a pleasurable start to the day. The former she could not abide, and the latter she tried hard to remain impervious to.
Easier to do if spared his company.
Otherwise, he ambushed her emotions, and she was wont to gawk like a green schoolgirl. How could her heart be so warped? She knew Lord Ramsbury for a charlatan, and yet she remained irresistibly drawn to him.
Rather like a moth to a flame, certain to get singed or worse, but unable to fight the powerful allure.
A shadow flitted across his lordship’s face, immediately replaced by a cool mask of politeness.
An alarm chirped in the back of her mind. Taking a tentative sip of chocolate, Isobel considered him. She’d beaten him fairly yesterday. He couldn’t order her to take attendants with her.
Let’s just test the waters, shall we?
“I’m sure being an honorable man, my lord, you fully intend to keep your word about the escorts.”
Alasdair made a choking noise that sounded suspiciously like a cross between a laugh and a snort.
Her attention hurtled to him.
Turning from her scrutiny, he coughed into his hand.
If he really choked, she’d eat her slippers.
Her unease escalated. Did he know something she did not? She stared at him hard, silently challenging him to say what he knew.
He gave her a sheepish look and promptly stuffed his mouth full of ham. Most likely so she couldn’t question him.
Coward.
She angled her head and raised an eyebrow. “Lord Ramsbury, am I to assume you intend to renege on your word?”
“Yes, well as to that . . .” Lord Ramsbury scratched his brow, and then had the audacity to give her a saucy grin. “I wouldn’t call it reneging, precisely.”
Isobel stiffened, clenching her fingers about the cup’s fragile handle. She feared she’d snap the bit of porcelain right off or hurl the cup at his handsome head if he dared voice what she suspected he was about to.
Only years of rehearsed behavior enabled her to respond calmly. “And what precisely would you call it? I specifically said if I won, I wouldn’t be taking escorts when I left the keep.”
Lord Ramsbury relaxed against the chair, his fingers entwined across his flat abdomen. The signet ring on the little finger of his left hand glinted against the black and taupe of his waistcoat.
“Actually, you said if you won the game, you wouldn’t be taking two escorts with you. Our party will number six, unless your sister and Gregor decide to accompany us. Naturally, the men will be armed.”
Lord Ramsbury delivered the news with such self-assured confidence that had her parasol been handy she would have thumped him on his noggin. Soundly. She’d half a mind to retrieve her sabre and pin him to the chair like a beetle on exhibit.
The earl had neatly outmaneuvered her. Or so he believed. He thought to play another type of game, did he? The deceptive, green-eyed toad.
Isobel curled her toes in her slip
pers until she feared the appendages would snap. She fought to control the outrage thrumming through her and demanding to spew from her burned tongue. Eyes cast downward, she took a controlled sip of the cocoa.
Too hot, still.
An image of the chessboard and pieces flashed across her mind, immediately followed by Lord Ramsbury’s face right before she declared checkmate.
Had he let her win?
No, he hadn’t, she was certain. But he’d seen his imminent loss, and the cretin had determined another nefarious way to waylay her.
She sniffed the cocoa, cautiously dipping her tongue into the tasty brew to test its heat.
The earl thought himself a brilliant strategist, did he?
We shall see.
She gave him her most beguiling smile.
Surprise flitted across his features, and he blinked twice as if momentarily dazed. A maelstrom of emotion entered his eyes, swiftly replacing his stunned mien.
Isobel knew full well how her smile affected men. “Well then, I suppose I have no choice. I so wanted to examine the fossils I came across yesterday.”
His lordship flashed a rakish grin, his teeth white against his tanned face. “I would quite like to see them myself. My maternal grandfather was a collector of unusual artifacts.”
Alasdair groaned and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Ye might regret that, yer lordship. Isobel can natter on for hours about those dusty bits of . . .”
His voice tapered off at the impatient look she fired at him.
Was it any wonder she wished to go off by herself?
Who was he to speak of nattering? She’d listened to more boasting and drivel about weapons, hunting, fishing, wrestling, and sparring than anyone, especially a female, should ever have to in a lifetime.
She fingered her cup’s handle. “Fairchild, might I have more chocolate?”
Raising her cup, she swiveled toward him. Her grip on the handle slipped, and before she could utter a squeak, the cup tilted. Hot, sticky chocolate splattered across the tablecloth and streamed onto her lap as brown droplets littered the red and champagne-colored carpet underneath the table.
“Ouch!” Shaking her gown, she jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, Fairchild. How utterly clumsy of me.”
The butler rushed to the table bearing extra napkins.
She dabbed at the splotches on her gown.
“I must remove my gown at once and give it to Maura to launder or else it’s sure to be ruined.” Isobel held the damp cloth away from her legs. “I fear it may be too late already. Please excuse me.”
She pivoted toward the door, but turned back partway. “You said half past eight, my lord?”
“Yes.” The earl nodded, his attention fixated on the dark stain marring her gown. Worry creased his brow. “Did you get burned?”
Genuine concern laced his voice.
Her thighs stung where the hot chocolate seeped through her gown and chemise. “Nothing serious. The cocoa had partially cooled.”
She rushed from the dining room without a backward glance, lest his lordship see the victory that surely must be evident in her eyes.
Chapter 10
Isobel suspected she might have a welt or two but no severe burns from the mishap. The spill hadn’t been an accident. A few hours of discomfort was well worth the time she’d gained with her theatrics.
Her performance had been believable, if she didn’t say so herself. Lord Ramsbury suspected nothing amiss.
Ten minutes later, the stained morning dress stuffed beneath her bed, Isobel crept from her bedchamber. She wore an older gown, but not the Kersey she favored for digging. Either Maura hadn’t laundered the garment or she’d sent it to the rubbish bin. The later seemed more probable as she’d tried to throw the gown out for years.
Simple and serviceable, yet of unquestionably high quality, this charcoal and black wool gown was more appropriate for a woman of gentle breeding. No one would mistake her for a village lass or servant.
That should make Lord Ramsbury happy.
Confound his lordship, the sneaky twiddlepoop. Who did he think he was, manipulating her?
Isobel peeked around the corner of the seldom-used servants’ stairwell.
Empty.
Clutching her bag, she hurried on tiptoe along the passage to the kitchen. See what he’d driven her to? Skulking about in her own home, afraid of encountering someone and having to explain why she sneaked below stairs.
Irritation and her silent footsteps thrummed in unison. If he thought she would wait patiently, like a tethered horse, until the duke, Lydia, and Mr. Ross made their way below stairs to break their fast, the earl didn’t know her at all.
Isobel had sent word to the stables before eating to have Emira saddled and waiting. Now, she had only to escape the keep undetected.
Sorcha and the other cooking staff would know she’d left. But Isobel frequently used the scullery courtyard exit. They’d think nothing of it.
Painting a smile on her face, she strode into the spotlessly clean, comfortable kitchen. Drying herbs hung from the overhead rafters, lending a pleasant aroma to the already-fragrant room. The staff scurried about, some loading trays to take above stairs, and others beginning preparations for the midday and evening meals.
“Good morning, Sorcha.” Isobel scooped two apples from a bowl atop a wooden counter worn smooth from decades of constant use. She dropped them into her bag. “Might I have a couple of cinnamon buns to take with me?”
Wiping her floury hands on her apron, Sorcha nodded. “Aye, Miss Isobel. Ye be wantin’ a boiled egg or two, pickles, and a bite of cheese as well? And I suppose ye need shortbread biscuits for the hound.”
Dash it all.
Most likely, Tira was in the great hall snoring away with her brother and sister. Best not to let Sorcha know.
“Yes, please, and stovies. A flask of water, too.”
Isobel would have to explore the cliffs alone today. Moses himself could not get her to venture from the kitchen, not even to get her faithful dog. She hoped the boarhound wandered the bailey and would hear her when she whistled.
She slid a covert glance to the kitchen’s main entrance, half-expecting Lord Ramsbury to appear, a smug grin on his perfect mouth. She wandered to the door exiting onto the courtyard. From there, she could hide in the keep’s shadows and make her way to the stable.
Chewing her lower lip, she scanned the kitchen entrance again.
Hurry, Sorcha.
Though slightly longer, the forest path to the caves afforded more cover. She would take that route today. She scanned the small clock atop a shelf filled with spices. Not yet eight o’clock. She’d have a good head start on the others.
Even if they visited the fossils and caves on their excursion, and she suspected the earl would insist they do so, she would still have a little time to herself.
He would have to find her first. She wouldn’t make locating her easy. Mayhap she’d further explore the caves today. She had two tapers stowed in her bag, enough to provide several hours’ worth of light.
Obstinate man.
Why couldn’t he mind his own affairs? And why did he insist on seeking her out when his attentions could lead to nothing honorable? She would be no man’s mistress, the only feasible reason she could conceive of why Lord Ramsbury persisted.
Ewan would call him out if his lordship so much as hinted at such a liaison.
Sorcha handed her a cloth-wrapped bundle and a leather flask. “Here ye be. Will ye be back fer luncheon?”
“Thank you.” Accepting the food and water, Isobel shook her head. “I don’t think so. I fear the weather will turn for the worse again, and I really want to investigate the caves on the far side of the crags.”
“Humph. I dinna like
ye wanderin’ the tors right now.” Sorcha shuffled to the stove, where she took up a large paddle-like wooden spoon and set to stirring whatever bubbled in the pot atop the cast iron monstrosity.
“You sound like Maura.” Isobel tucked the bundle and flask into her bag.
“Don’t worry. I shan’t be alone the whole while. Lord Ramsbury and several others are riding this morning too. Besides, only a dullard or a reckless fool would dare venture onto Craiglocky’s lands without Ewan or Duncan’s consent. You know my brother has men monitoring the borders.”
She opened the door. “Even the black tinkers ask permission, and they’ve camped along River Falkirk every spring and fall for as long as I can remember.”
“Aye, that be true.” The cook’s full face folded into deep wrinkles as she smiled. “I feel better knowin’ ye’ll have company.”
A twinge of guilt speared Isobel. She wasn’t one to twist facts to deceive others. “The earl expressed an interest in seeing the fossils.”
No lie there. What kind of relics had his lordship’s grandfather collected?
With a wave and smile, she slipped out the arched opening. She’d nearly pulled the door shut when Alasdair’s jovial voice echoed in the kitchen.
Isobel peeked through the crack.
“Sorcha, can ye pack a picnic lunch for five or six? Miss Farnsworth and her cantankerous uncle be ridin’ with me and a few others.” Without waiting for her reply, he snatched a cinnamon bun and sprinted from the kitchen, calling, “Be back in thirty minutes to pick up the food.”
Sorcha waved her spoon at his retreating form. “Yer a thief, Alasdair McTavish.”
“Aye.” His boisterous laughter echoed in the hallway.
Isobel lifted her skirts and tore to the stables.
Chapter 11
“Fairchild said you wished to see me, Sethwick?”
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 8