by Karen Ranney
Chapter 5
Gaston arrived at her door less than five minutes later. He bowed slightly to her, a gesture she wished he wouldn’t make. Beatrice followed him through the castle, but this journey was not in the darkness. Nor was she required to walk through a series of narrowing serpentine corridors. Castle Crannoch was not as wholly medieval as it had appeared the night before. Instead, this part of the structure was built less with protection in mind than beauty.
“Have you been with the duke long, Gaston?” she asked him in French.
“I have been with Mr. Cameron since before he was born, miss.”
“I thought you were in the duke’s employ.”
He didn’t comment.
“I understand his mother was French.”
He nodded. “May I say your French is excellent?” he said.
That comment certainly put her in her place. Evidently, there were some questions she was not to ask.
“Thank you, my grandmother was French. I’ve spoken it since I was a child.”
She halted at the top of the stairs, amazed. A pair of staircases began at the bottom, met at the second floor, then branched out again to sweep up to Castle Crannoch’s third story. Both the banister and pilasters were heavily carved of a dark, well-polished wood, a stark contrast to the pale yellow silk of the adjoining walls.
In the center, suspended by a long chain from the third floor, was a massive chandelier. One of the footmen was balancing on a ladder, in the process of replacing the candles. He looked at her curiously, then evidently decided she was of no more interest than his chore.
Beatrice descended the steps slowly, glancing at the paintings on the walls. Each of the men featured in the life-size portraits resembled Cameron Gordon. Or his son.
“Are they the Dukes of Brechin?”
Gaston did not glance back at her. “No, mademoiselle, they are not all dukes. Some are men of importance to the family.”
There was no time to ask any further questions, because Gaston had outdistanced her. She hurried to catch up.
The massive front doors looked to be old, banded with iron and studded with bolts. Gaston opened the left one and stepped aside, bowing lightly to her. “If you will, mademoiselle.”
She stepped out onto the broad stone steps, transfixed by the view of the ocean to her left and the rolling hills before her. The sun was over the horizon, pink bands of clouds stretching like ruched ribbons across the sky.
In the night, winter had come. The grass was coated in a dull frost, and her breath clouded in front of her face. Soon, ice would hang from the trees, and snow would blanket the ground. The world would still, barely breathing, until spring.
She gripped her shawl tightly, feeling the cold seep past her skin into her bones.
A large shiny black carriage stood in the circular drive, four ebony horses being restrained by a liveried driver. The driver tipped the handle of his whip to the brim of his hat and bowed slightly. Beatrice nodded in return.
“Is that Devlen’s carriage?”
“No,” Devlen said from behind her. “It belongs to the Duke of Brechin, Miss Sinclair.”
She turned and surveyed him. He was attired in a greatcoat that looked substantially more suited to the temperature than her shawl. She envied him the warmth of it.
“Aren’t you cold?”
He studied her too intently, his gaze resting on her face, then her hands clutching the shawl around her shoulders. Finally, he looked at her shoes. Did he measure her appearance by her possessions? If so, he would judge her poorly indeed. She’d sold everything that might bring her a few coins. What was left was shabby and threadbare, hardly befitting the Duke of Brechin’s servant.
“Have you nothing else to wear, Miss Sinclair?”
He unbuttoned his greatcoat and removed it, swinging it over her shoulders. Immediately, she felt warmer, and also dwarfed by the size of it. The coat puddled on the ground as he proceeded to button it.
“I can’t take your coat.”
He ignored her. Despite being attired only in a white shirt and black trousers, he didn’t look affected by the cold.
“My father tells me you’ve accepted the position he offered you. Are you certain you’ve made the wisest decision?”
“Yes, quite sure.”
“You might wish to consider the question for a moment before answering, Miss Sinclair.”
“Why should I, Mr. Gordon? My decision has already been made.”
She did wish he wouldn’t smile at her in that annoying way.
When she stepped aside to descend the steps, he reached out and gripped her hand. She glanced down where his hand rested, then back up at his face. His smile had disappeared, replaced by a look so intent that she was startled by it.
“You need gloves as well.”
“Please, let me go.” She didn’t tell him that her only gloves were shredded until they were nearly useless.
He released her but didn’t step back.
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to remain at Castle Crannoch, Miss Sinclair.”
“I thank you for your concern, sir, but I have made my decision and conveyed it to your father. He seems to think I would be acceptable in the role.”
“You serve my father’s purposes by being here, Miss Sinclair. Haven’t you asked yourself why he would be willing to hire you for such a prestigious position? Candidates for the post are not normally interviewed in a bedroom.”
Her face flamed. “If you will let me pass.” She concentrated on his knee-high, shiny black boots. His clothing was plain but of an evident fine quality. He smelled of something pleasant, something she couldn’t quite identify.
“You are a sheep in a den of wolves, Miss Sinclair.”
Startled, she glanced up at him.
“Do you consider yourself one of the wolves, Mr. Gordon? The head of the pack, perhaps?”
She clapped her hand over her mouth, horrified at what she’d said.
“You’re not prepared for the position you’ve assumed. Go home.”
“And starve? This is the one position for which I have some training, and you would take it from me?”
She wanted to bite back the words the minute they were said. Who was he to know her circumstances? She wanted neither pity nor charity, simply a way to support herself.
“Is there no one to help you?”
Beatrice drew herself up, angered at having found comfort from the loan of his coat. She began to unbutton it, but he stopped her by placing his hands on top of hers.
“Keep it, Miss Sinclair. I refuse to watch you shiver for the sake of pride.”
They looked at each other, the moments ticking by too swiftly.
“The cholera epidemic took everyone I loved,” she said finally. “There is no one left. I’m alone.”
“Not even a sweetheart?”
“No.”
“Did the epidemic take him as well? Or was there more than one?”
The best course was simply to remain silent. He didn’t need her participation in this conversation. He was doing quite well on his own.
“If you will forgive my impertinence, Miss Sinclair, you’re an oddly striking woman. Once you’ve lost your thinness, you’ll be beautiful, I think. Still, even now there’s something about you that interests a man.”
“No.”
“No?” One of his eyebrows danced upward.
“No, I will not forgive your impertinence. Let me pass.”
All this time, Gaston and the driver had been observing them with interest. Neither man made any pretense of ignoring their conversation. In fact, they looked as if they were taking mental notes, the better to describe it in detail for the rest of the staff.
The very last thing she needed was gossip to accompany her, especially when beginning a position that would keep her from poverty and ensure she was fed.
“Please,” she said, deciding to soften her demand, “let me pass.”
“Are you going home,
Miss Sinclair?”
He really shouldn’t say her name in that fashion. It had the effect of teasing her, as if the words traveled up from the back of her ankles to her spine. His voice was low, the syllables softly uttered, almost whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Gordon, I am going home. Now, will you let me pass?”
“Will you stay there?”
“No.”
He nodded as if he weren’t the least surprised by her answer.
“I hadn’t intended to remain at Castle Crannoch long, Miss Sinclair, but I see I may have to delay my departure.”
“Do not do so on my account, sir.”
He placed his hand on hers again, but this touch was not to restrain. Instead, he trailed his fingers from her wrist to her forearm, inciting a shiver of sensation. She jerked away, a gesture that only deepened his smile.
“A few days, Miss Sinclair. Just to make certain you’re settled in.”
This time, he stepped back, allowing her to escape. She almost ran down the steps.
Gaston moved to open the carriage door. She gave him directions to her cottage before entering and sitting in the middle of the seat, away from the windows at either side, deliberately keeping her gaze on her feet. She didn’t want to see Devlen Gordon. Not now, and certainly not when she returned.
She pulled the wool of his greatcoat up around her ears, smelling that strange and wonderful scent.
Gaston climbed up beside the driver. As they began to move, she glanced out the window. Why did she feel a surge of disappointment when she didn’t see that most irritating man?
The last person they needed at Castle Crannoch was Beatrice Sinclair, with her soft blue eyes, restrained manner, and the hands that shook so very visibly.
Her hair was too black, and her complexion too white. Someone should tell her red lips were not in fashion. Did she color them?
She had a sharp tongue when she allowed herself to use it.
I was thinking you were Black Donald.
Someone really should do something about her wardrobe. Her clothes were too loose, but her bodice was entirely too snug. Her legs were too long as well, but he didn’t suppose there was anything she could do about that.
She wasn’t going to go away easily. For that matter, he couldn’t blame her. His father had, no doubt, made being Robert’s governess/nursemaid an enviable position while the truth was something else.
Still, it must have been better than what she’d experienced in the past year. Parts of Scotland had been decimated by the influx of cholera. In fact, he’d taken Robert to Edinburgh for the period, feeling a little more secure being away from Kilbridden Village. The stories he’d heard from Gaston had not been pleasant ones.
The last thing he wanted was to feel a surge of compassion for her. She wasn’t safe at the castle. But even that revelation, subtly couched as it was, had been rejected. What would she have said if he’d told her the entire truth?
“Thank you, but I don’t believe you.” Or, “I’ll take the position, regardless.” Or, “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Gordon. You’ve exaggerated.” He could easily hear her make any of those responses.
He should be back in Edinburgh, where there were a hundred details to see to. If nothing else, he could travel to Inverness and be about some of his business there.
Perhaps he should have accompanied Miss Sinclair to her home. There, he could have taken the measure of the woman more completely. But no one can measure where a man wants to go, or a woman for that matter, from their past. Futures were buried deep in the mind and soul, and rarely voiced.
He folded his arms, ignoring the cold as he watched the carriage begin the descent to the village.
She was going to be a problem.
Chapter 6
From a distance, Castle Crannoch appeared a somber gray, but the bricks were actually nearly black, and the mortar a much lighter shade. Only part of the older section of the castle was visible from the bowl of the valley, but the villagers could not see the four turrets with their crenellated tops so perfectly constructed they appeared like teeth, or the curving drive leading to the massive arched front doors.
But the stout lone tower, behind which sat the crumbling original castle, was easily visible. A facade, perhaps like the inhabitants of Castle Crannoch?
The descent to Kilbridden Village was done with great haste, as if the driver was a seasoned traveler of the curving road. Twice, Beatrice was nearly thrown to the door, and both times had to grab hold of the strap mounted above the window.
The lower half of the road, filled with serpentine twists and turns, was even more hastily navigated, which made her wonder if this particular driver had also been responsible for the carriage accident that had killed Robert’s parents and put Cameron Gordon in a wheeled chair.
At the bottom, they hit ruts in the road that jarred the carriage and once made it sway so much Beatrice thought they would surely overturn. Instead of reducing his speed, the driver only cursed the horses so loudly Beatrice could hear his shouts inside the carriage.
With frenetic speed they drove on through the countryside, as if wolves were on their heels, the driver making no effort to slow or to even take the pitted roads into consideration.
Beatrice closed her eyes, both hands clutching the strap, and prayed all through Kilbridden Village.
A scant ten minutes later, she heard a high-pitched whine and a wheel went flying by the window, followed by the carriage lurching to one side and coming to an abrupt halt.
They’d snapped an axle.
Beatrice held on to the strap until the carriage stopped moving.
“Miss Sinclair?”
Gaston’s voice was close to her left ear. She raised her head to find he had poked his head into the now open door. He extended his hand to her.
“Are you all right, Miss Sinclair?”
She nodded, even though her stomach still felt a bit unsteady.
“I’ll help you out, Miss Sinclair. It would be more comfortable for you to wait outside the carriage while the wheel is being mended.”
Since the carriage was perched at an angle, getting out of the vehicle meant climbing up to the door on the left side, then allowing Gaston to lift her down. The feat was done as delicately as possible, given she didn’t want her petticoats to show. On the descent, her skirt ballooned, and she revealed entirely too much of her legs. She hoped Gaston didn’t notice, or if he did, he’d simply forget.
She bunched up her skirts demurely and maneuvered her way around the mud puddles to reach the side of the road. Only then did she realize exactly where she was. The mill. Jeremy MacLeod’s property.
Beatrice must have made a sound because Gaston glanced in her direction. She waved her hand at him to signify everything was fine.
“It might be some time, Miss Sinclair. Thomas will have to return to Castle Crannoch for the parts. Or another carriage.”
She was tempted to mention that if Thomas had had some degree of caution about the state of the roads, they wouldn’t have been in this situation at all. But she only nodded.
The day kept getting worse and worse. The one person she had not wanted to see was striding toward her, his sandy hair uncovered, his face a little more bronzed by the sun.
Jeremy MacLeod.
“Beatrice, do you need assistance?”
“Good day, Jeremy. No, thank you.”
“As you can see,” Gaston said, gesturing toward the carriage, “we have had something of an accident.”
Beatrice wondered if he deliberately pointed out the ducal crest, or if Jeremy had noticed it on his own.
“What is this you’re about then, Beatrice?”
Beatrice clasped her hands together. “I’ve accepted a position at Castle Crannoch, and I’ve come to get my things.”
“Castle Crannoch? I’ve done business with the castle before.” That, it seemed, was all he was going to say.
She wanted to ask him questions about the inhabitants, but to do so would indicate she
had lingering doubts about her decision. Therefore, she remained silent, and so did he.
Gaston interrupted, easing the awkwardness. “If you would give me instructions to your cottage, Miss Sinclair, I could go ahead on one of the horses and fetch what you need.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Jeremy said. “I have a wagon you can borrow. The cottage is not far from here. Easy walking distance.”
He should know. He had walked it often enough as a young man.
“Very well,” she said, with as much grace as she could muster. “I would be grateful of the loan of your wagon.”
Beatrice sincerely hoped the day would get better.
At that thought, it began to rain.
“Tell me about the nightmares,” Devlen said.
Robert sat on the floor, busy arranging his troops. The oriental carpet in the Duke’s Chamber served as a military battlefield, the various patterns being hills and valleys, rivers and streams. The toy soldiers had been Devlen’s gift to his cousin last Christmas, a battalion of Hessians and English soldiers adding to Robert’s already considerable army.
“Have they gotten worse?” Devlen sat beside his cousin, took a handful of toy soldiers, and began to arrange them in a line.
“Not like that,” Robert said, brushing away his hand. “I’ll do it. They have to win, you know.”
His cousin had an unholy love of war games, an interest that had been regrettably fueled by his father. Where other boys would have been content with tales of heroism, Robert wanted to know details of the battle. How many men had been killed, how many skirmishes until the war was done, topics Devlen was certain did not interest most seven-year-olds. But then again, he could be entirely wrong. Perhaps Miss Sinclair would know better. Or perhaps she was as inexperienced with children as he.
“So, you haven’t been having any nightmares?”
Robert glanced at him but didn’t say a word, evidently content in arranging his soldiers. Which battle were they fighting today? Robert knew an amazing wealth of detail about the placement of regiments and such. Since he’d never been militarily inclined, even as a child, Devlen fell back to watching Robert line up the troops. From Robert’s scowl, his lack of activity wasn’t approved of either, so Devlen scooped up the remaining men and put them on his side of the carpet like chess pieces he’d acquired.