by Karen Ranney
“Which is why I think you will do well for each other, Miss Sinclair. You’re both orphans, and you will find there are other things you share as well.”
“Tell me this, then, Gaston. Has no one seen to him since his parents died? Is there no one to give him direction and to correct his manners?”
“He is the Duke of Brechin,” he said, and shrugged. “He outranks anyone who would correct him.”
“I don’t care about his rank, Gaston. But I do care about his manners. If I am to be his governess, that must be understood.”
Gaston sat back against the cushions and surveyed her. In the moonlight she could see the edge of the smile, as if he were genuinely amused.
“Before you can discipline a child, you must have affection for him.”
“That might be a French sentiment, but it’s not exactly what we Scots would say.”
“What would the Scots say, Miss Sinclair?”
“That if a child is to be lovable, he must be disciplined first.”
“Then these next weeks will prove interesting.” His smile abruptly disappeared. “But you must promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, please seek me out. I will never be far from Robert.”
“Are you his protector?”
“I have never known anyone—child or adult alike—who needed me more, but no. I tend to his uncle’s needs.”
She didn’t respond, only subsided back against the cushions.
The carriage returned to the circular drive in front of the castle. Gaston left the vehicle first, then extended a hand to help her descend. She did, holding the greatcoat up so it didn’t drag on the ground. She’d gotten mud on the hem earlier today, and regretted having to give it back in such bad condition.
Two lanterns on either side of the front door were blazing brightly, and even the steps were adorned with candles, as if for a party.
“Are they entertaining?” Beatrice asked, surprised they would be doing so less than a year after the deaths of Robert’s parents.
Gaston smiled again. “No, Mr. Devlen is profligate with candles. Whenever he is in residence, he orders them lit. Sometimes I think he would like to push back the night itself.”
Perhaps she should have asked about Devlen as well as Robert.
It was too late, because he was suddenly there, dressed in a black formal suit of clothes and a white cravat. She’d thought him arresting in his day clothes but had to admit that now he was sartorially elegant. Perfectly handsome. As perfect as a prince.
“Gaston,” he said. “My father is asking for you.”
Gaston bowed once to her, then looked toward the castle.
“I should see to Robert,” Beatrice said.
“Nonsense,” Devlen said. “You can begin your duties tomorrow.” He and Gaston shared a look. “I will see Miss Sinclair to her chamber.”
Gaston bowed again and was gone, melting into the dark as if he were a creature of night itself.
Chapter 8
“You needn’t escort me,” Beatrice said. “I believe I can find my way back to my chamber.”
“Are you entirely certain? Castle Crannoch is a large and confusing structure.”
“You saw me off, and here you are to welcome me on my return. Why?”
“Perhaps I have set myself up as the majordomo of Crannoch. Perhaps I simply missed you.”
Did she take him seriously? Was he flirting with her? For some reason, she felt uncomfortable in his presence, as if he were larger than life and therefore made her feel so much smaller in comparison.
What a silly way to feel.
Devlen Gordon was simply a man. No more, no less than that. In that he was like a baker or a butcher or a silversmith or any of the men she’d met in the course of her lifetime. Some were braver than others, some more daring in their speech or dress. Some were courteous, and others used the courtesies they’d been taught in an offhanded way that made her think they truly didn’t mean to be polite but only did so because it was less effort than rudeness.
None had been so handsome, though. Nor had any of them been graced with such a low voice, its tone having a strange effect on her. She wanted to hear him say mundane things, simply to hear his voice.
She was no doubt tired, and still suffering from near starvation.
“I can assure you, Mr. Gordon, I’m quite aware of how large a castle this is. At the same time, it is no great feat to find the room I slept in last night.”
“How will you find the dining room from there, Miss Sinclair?”
He stopped in front of her and held out his arm, leaving her with the choice of being insufferably rude or putting her hand upon it.
She had not been reared to be impolite, and it would have caused her as much embarrassment as it would have caused him if she slighted him right at this moment. She reached out tentatively and rested her fingers as lightly as possible upon the fine material of his jacket. But her hand had a will of its own and her fingers moved over the cloth, her thumb stroking over and over as if to test the resiliency of the muscles she felt.
He glanced at her as she lifted her head. The look they exchanged made her breath tight. She felt as if someone had relaced her corset so she couldn’t breathe. The bone and the leather pressed into her flesh, making her acutely conscious of her entire body. She could almost feel the outline of her hips, her waist, and the breasts that didn’t feel like hers at all, but creations too full and pillowy to belong to her.
She almost said something to him then, some word to make him look toward the sea or the sky or even toward her feet. Anywhere but keep staring at her. She couldn’t look away, and the lanternlight flickered over his face, alternately painting it as the face of an angel or a devil. He was too handsome and too arresting a personage to be standing here in the dark with her. The horses moved; one stamped and the others blew through their noses. No doubt a reminder to the humans that the night was growing colder, and they wanted their stalls and feed.
“I must go inside,” she said, drawing his coat closer to her shoulders. She really should return it to him, but she didn’t unbutton it, didn’t surrender the garment.
He is dangerous. She didn’t know why she thought those words, but she understood their meaning well enough. He was the type of man mothers warned their daughters about, the type of man who was mentioned in whispers and shocked expressions. Gossip would follow him all of the days of his life. Women, even virtuous women, would forever notice him. And the other kind of woman would wonder, deep in her heart, if the look in his eyes was really a promise.
“You’re a guest. It would be the height of crudeness to allow you to find your chamber on your own.”
“I am not a guest, or have you forgotten? I’m the governess.”
“Still, the same courtesies apply.”
“Then fetch the chambermaid,” she dared him. “Or one of the footmen. Or even one of the stable lads with some knowledge of the castle. Any of them can assist me.”
“We have a very small staff at Castle Crannoch. My father believes in being penurious to a fault. We employ only a fraction of the individuals needed to maintain my cousin’s birthright. It would be a hardship to take one of them from their duties.”
“Do you resent him?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The moment the question was out of her mouth, she wished it back. How could she have dared? She wanted to blame him for bringing out the worst in her, but Devlen Gordon was not at fault here. The flaw was unfortunately in her own nature.
“Do you always say exactly what you think?”
“I apologize. It was not well-done of me, and I do know better.”
“I find you remarkably refreshing, Miss Sinclair. Perhaps you’re what my cousin needs after all.”
“Why do you object to my taking the position?”
“I have a whole host of objections, I’m afraid, Miss Sinclair. You’re too young. Too attractive. You are, no doubt, naïve. You’re no match for my father, and
I doubt you can control my cousin.”
She stared at him, nonplussed. What did she say to such a litany? She decided to address the insults alone. The compliment she would mull over later in the privacy of her chamber.
“I’m not naïve. I’m very well read.”
“Reading, while virtuous in and of itself, cannot grant any true experience in life.”
“Nor am I a child, sir.”
“If I had seen you on an Edinburgh street, Miss Sinclair, my first thought would not have been your resemblance to a child.”
She could feel her fingers and toes tingle, not to mention the tip of her nose. She was certain she was in full blush right up to her hairline. Beatrice desperately wanted to ask him what he would have thought, but restraint, absent until now, finally made itself known. She didn’t dare walk into his net of words.
“Very well,” she said in her most matronly tone, “I will just have to prove you wrong. I will show you I can do a very good job as Robert’s governess.”
For the longest moment he didn’t say a word, simply looked at her as if she had issued him a challenge of some sort, and he was debating whether or not to accept.
“Did I insult you, Miss Sinclair? I can assure you I didn’t mean to do so.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Gordon, I am not in the least insulted.”
He looked beyond her to where the driver stood patiently at the head of the restless horses. He nodded, only that, and the driver began leading them away, toward the road branching off from the entrance. Beatrice assumed the stables were in that direction, as well as the other outbuildings necessary to support the castle.
“Gaston tells me you’re responsible for all the candles,” she said, staring at Castle Crannoch lit up to greet the night. The building was an impressive sight indeed, tinged golden by the hundreds of flickering beeswax candles.
“I find it foolish not to use my wealth where it might bring me the most comfort. I dislike night.”
She glanced at him, surprised by his admission. “Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Not at all. But darkness limits my movements, robs me of time, and I dislike wasting time intensely.”
“So you change night into day.”
“If I can.”
“Are you very rich? Does it make you happy?”
Why on earth had she said that? To mitigate her words, she asked him another question, “Do you travel with trunks of candles?”
“As a matter of fact, I do, Miss Sinclair. I also travel with pistols in my carriage, and other objects that provide me with some protection. My dislike of the darkness is not simply limited to Castle Crannoch.”
“What happens when you travel by ship? I understand fire is a very real concern. Do they allow you your candles?”
“I travel aboard my own ships, and therefore do not have the difficulty of trying to convince a captain to overlook my peculiarities. However, I restrain myself to lanterns and only in fair weather. I had a very interesting, if pitch-dark journey, around Cape Horn during a storm. It was not an experience I wish to duplicate. It was like going to hell by way of the ocean.”
She had never met anyone like him, so aware of his own idiosyncrasies and yet so uncaring of them. He simply accepted that his dislike of darkness was part of his character, but he didn’t offer excuses for himself.
“I am not fond of the darkness as well,” she said, as he opened the door for her. She entered the castle and immediately looked up at the chandelier above their heads, now filled with hundreds of lit candles, which cast a honeyed glow over the entranceway. “Unlike you, I’ve never been wealthy enough to change night into day.”
“So how do you manage, Miss Sinclair?”
“I simply endure, Mr. Gordon.”
“Ah, there is the difference between us. I don’t have the patience for endurance. I think it a specious virtue.”
As they mounted the steps, he glanced down at her. “What do you do when you wake in the middle of the night? Or do you always sleep the sleep of the just?”
She smiled at his curiosity and her own pleasure in it. “I shut my eyes very tightly and pray for sleep. As a child I used to spend most of my nighttime hours below the covers. I would create a little cave for myself with my doll, my imagination, and my dreams.”
“What did you dream about?” he asked, holding his arm out for her again.
She gripped the banister instead. The journey upward was done slowly and leisurely, almost as if they were taking a walk in the garden. She thought about his question.
“I dreamed of singing, even though I have no voice. Or of being a storyteller. In my imagination, people were always sitting and listening to me as if my words were important.”
“So you were a teacher in your imagination.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way, but perhaps. Or perhaps I simply wanted someone to pay me attention. I was an only child and, as such, I was lonely a great deal of the time.”
“We have that in common, it seems. My mother died shortly after my birth.”
“What did you dream about as a little boy? Were you a knight or Robert the Bruce?”
“If anything, I probably fought on the English side,” he said, smiling. “My family has not been nationalistic for a good hundred years. I think the events at Culloden had a tendency to expunge those sentiments from most Scots’ hearts.”
“Another thing we have in common. My grandmother was French, and she believed France was the greatest country on earth. She ridiculed anything Scottish or English, for that matter. I was left thinking, even as a child, it was best not to be any one thing, but to be an amalgam of all countries. So, I have a great deal of English practicality, and the fervor of the Scots.”
“And the passion of the French?”
There was that warmth again, sliding up her body and down, and pooling in places where she’d never felt warm before.
“The French aren’t the only people who have passion, Mr. Gordon. The Scots have their share of it as well.”
At the head of the stairs he turned left. She didn’t tell him that perhaps it was a good thing he’d accompanied her. She would have turned right.
Here the candles were not as abundant, but they were in evidence in the embrasures and wall sconces.
Despite the fact that the staff of Castle Crannoch was not abundant, the wooden floors were highly waxed and polished. There was not a speck of dust to be seen on the occasional tables and chests lining the hallway. Even the mirrors at both ends of the corridor were brightly polished.
They turned left again and up a short flight of stairs to another wide corridor. At the third door, he stopped.
They stood facing the door for a moment, neither speaking.
He turned and faced her, retrieving her hand and holding it between his. Her skin felt cool against his warmth. She tried to pull away, but he increased his grip so she gave up the effort, telling herself it would be a rudeness to continue.
“Why are you pulling away?”
“Because you won’t let go. You shouldn’t hold my hand like this.”
“I like holding your hand.”
“I like it, too. That’s what makes it disturbing.”
He smiled at her, and she had a silly notion to reach out and push that errant lock of his hair back into place so he’d look less approachable.
“You make me feel protected, Mr. Gordon, as if someone actually cares about me. But that’s a foolish and naïve thought.”
“Dinner will be in an hour,” he said, staring down at her palm. “You have a fascinating palm, Miss Sinclair. You reveal all sorts of traits.”
“Do I?”
Once more, she gently tried to extricate herself from his grasp but he wouldn’t allow it. His hold on her wrist tightened lightly but firmly enough that she knew he would release her only when he was ready.
“It seems you have a passionate nature. Do you?”
The warmth had never truly receded and it was retur
ning in full measure.
“I also believe you have a very long life ahead of you. An enjoyable one, if one believes in such things.”
“In a long, enjoyable life? Or in reading palms?”
This time she did succeed in pulling her hand away.
“Thank you very much for your kindness in seeing me to my chamber, Mr. Gordon. I appreciate your courtesies.”
His smile deepened as she entered her room, and as she was trying to close the door, he sniffed her hair.
For a moment all she could do was stare at him in disbelief. She pressed her hand against her temple, and patted her hair into place, discomfited by his gesture.
“You smell of roses,” he said, drawing back. “Or violets. I can’t tell which. Do you perfume your hair, or do you simply use scent when you wash it?”
No man had ever asked her such an intimate question. Not even her father, who sometimes looked taken aback at living with two women.
“Did you ask me such a thing to see if it would fluster me? To see if I would fall apart in girlish giggles or tears? I can assure you I will do nothing of the sort. You’re a very annoying man, Mr. Gordon.”
“Ah, but just a moment ago, I was your protector.”
“How would you know such things about women, being a bachelor yourself? Unless, of course, you have a score of mistresses?” A second later, she pressed her hand over her mouth as if to call back the words.
He laughed then, as if he were pleased with her response, as if her irritation had been his aim all along.
She closed the door so quickly she caught her skirt and petticoat. He was the one who opened it again, bent down, and pushed the offending garments to safety.
“I’ll send a maid to show you to the dining room, Miss Sinclair. You must believe me when I say I am looking forward to dinner.”
Chapter 9
Beatrice told herself she was a fool, but that didn’t stop her from brushing her hair at least a hundred times as she did every night, in the vain hope it would grow faster. She studied herself in the mirror and made a face.
A maid had left a fresh pitcher of water and a few clean cloths at the washstand. She unbuttoned the dress to her waist and washed herself, taking care especially at her throat and chest where the heat still gathered.