A dovecote as well as several stables, a carriage house, and four quaint stone, thatch-roofed cottages perched along the meadow’s periphery. Golden light glowed in the curtained windows of each. Tomorrow, she’d take Jeremiah and Julia for a walk to explore the area and introduce themselves to the occupants.
Nearer the Keep, a tidy three-sided hedgerow enclosed a charming garden, complete with an arbor, several trees, a fountain, and at least two benches. From one of the trees an unfamiliar bird’s call lifted to her.
Jeremiah had inherited a beautiful estate. No wonder Hollingsworth was so infuriated. Truthfully, she couldn’t blame him. It did seem unfair that an American should claim Suttford when a Scot had lived right here all along.
However, she didn’t make the laws and the entailment dictated who inherited. There wasn’t aught she could do in any event.
Gwendolyn leaned her elbows on the balustrade, and breathed in the fresh air. It helped to clear her head and made her thinking sharper. She had a notion, invigorating as much as wearing, that she’d need her wits about her in the upcoming days.
Years.
A mild fragrance wafted past, and she closed her eyes and breathed in the pleasant scent.
“That be heather ye smell.”
Chapter 8
Gwendolyn whirled to her left.
Mr. Ferguson stood in the shadows, one knee cocked, his booted foot propped against the stones his broad shoulders rested upon.
Had he been watching her?
Noting his wet hair, she frowned. “You’ve bathed already?”
How? Mrs. Norris said the water would be at least half an hour.
“Aye.” He shook his still damp head and swept his huge palm toward the river. “I made use of Suttford Bourne.”
She knitted her brow. “Bourne? I thought it was a small river, and you risk infection if the livestock tainted the water.”
Foolish man. With his open cuts and abrasions, his blood might become poisoned.
His rumbling chuckle drifted into the growing dusk, and a prickly sensation skittered across her flesh, making her shiver. “It is a river, lass. Scots have many names for waterways, and the water’s sweet and pure in the pool I used. Too deep for cattle or sheep to venture into.”
Rubbing her hands up and down her arms from elbow to shoulder, she shuddered. “That had to have been freezing.”
“It was, but it helped with the swelling.”
At the inflection in his voice, she gave him a piercing look. She wasn’t altogether certain he referred to his bruised face. Flames licked her cheeks at her naughty conjecture, and her palms grew damp. She placed them behind her and leaned into the railing.
Did he feel the attraction between them as profoundly as she? Compelling and seductive, and she fretted, perhaps irresistible.
The angle at which he lounged against the house accented his size and strength. That sensual stirring she’d thought to never feel again bubbled upward for the umpteenth time since meeting him.
He proved a dangerous distraction. One she couldn’t afford to indulge. Not only for propriety’s sake—she must remain above reproach else risk losing the children’s guardianship—but because she wouldn’t survive more grief.
And Dugall Ferguson was a living, breathing, heartbreaking Adonis. She needed his expertise to help school her in the running of Suttford, but nothing else. She must make that clear.
Theirs was purely a business arrangement. Besides, he was younger than her by over four years. Scandalous even entertaining such an outrageous mismatch.
Ballocks to that, her conscience chided.
A rueful smile arcing her mouth, she faced the picturesque scene once more.
“It’s very refreshing, Mr. Ferguson, and the view is spectacular.”
“Aye, it is.” The husky timbre of his voice forewarned her, yet as if compelled by some unseen, irresistible force, she still glanced over her shoulder.
Unwise and imprudent.
“And ye might as well call me Dugall, for I intend to say yer name at every opportunity, Gwendolyn. I like how it feels on my tongue.”
And, God help her, she liked how it sounded. All warm and musical. And wholly natural.
Undisguised desire shone in his brilliant marine-colored gaze.
She’d never seen eyes that exact shade before. They assaulted her senses, weakened her ramparts, and though she’d only known him but hours, she feared she’d miss him horribly when he left in a few months.
A chorus of fear and pain and warning shrieked their denials. She couldn’t—mustn’t—allow herself to feel anything ever again.
So Gwendolyn pretended not to notice the smoldering in his eyes—and the answering warmth tunneling through her veins. Instead, she focused on the charming landscape. It really was quite entrancing.
Grandpapa had claimed the same, always with a hint of wistfulness in his voice and a faraway look in his eyes. He’d never said why he’d chosen to leave Scotland, nor mentioned the family he’d left behind.
Gwendolyn had always assumed a desire to make his fortune in a land fraught with opportunity had motivated him. But perhaps a rift with his family had driven him to America.
He’d missed his homeland until the day he died, yet he’d never returned to Scotland. Not even for a visit.
Would it be the same for her?
Would she ever set foot in South Carolina again?
How long before they—she—stopped feeling like outsiders and this place became home?
Weeks? Months? Years? Ever?
Far too soon to even contemplate such a thing.
“Scotland possesses a rugged beauty I haven’t truly appreciated until this moment,” Gwendolyn said to distract herself from her doleful ruminations.
“Aye. She gets in yer blood. And once that happens, there’s nae riddin’ yerself of her power over ye.”
She considered Dugall again.
Was he still talking about Scotland? It almost sounded like he meant something else entirely.
Weariness had her imagining things. She shook off her nonsensical, cackling-like-a-disgruntled-hen thoughts.
He pushed himself upright. “Gwendolyn—”
A knock sounded at her door.
“Come in,” she called. “Mist—er, Dugall, that’s probably the supplies I need to tend your face properly. Shall I come over there, or do you prefer to come here?”
Wasn’t she God’s own fool for insisting on stitching his face herself? But according to Mrs. Norris, the doctor was attending a birthing, and only one groom had any experience in sewing wounds. And that, only with animals.
Gwendolyn’s neat stitches would scarcely leave a scar, and why that mattered, she refused to examine.
“Miss McClintock?” A dewy-faced maid, holding a basket, her forehead wrinkled in confusion, slowly turned around in the middle of the chamber. “I have the supplies ye asked for.”
“I’m out here. Fenella, isn’t it?” Gwendolyn stepped to the threshold. She’d remembered one name after all. “Just leave them on the table beside the fireplace. I’ll see they’re returned below when I’ve attended to Mr. Ferguson.”
“Aye.” After complying, the maid bobbed a curtsy and grinned. “The staff want ye to ken how happy we are ye and the new laird are here. He’s a braw lad and his sister a bonny lassie.”
“Yes, they are. And thank you for sharing those kind words with me. It means a great deal.” And it did. Winning over the servants was no small task.
Gwendolyn sliced a quick look to the other balcony before reentering her chamber.
Empty. Dugall had slipped away.
“Fenella, do others live at Suttford House?” Gwendolyn donned a crisp, white apron, then set about rolling her sleeves up before
pouring water into the wash basin and thoroughly washing her hands. “I’d been told they do, but I saw no one when we arrived.”
Rather rude, actually.
At once Fenella’s countenance changed, and a carefully blank expression descended on her bubbly features. She speared the open door a hasty glance before clasping her hands before her pristine apron.
Ah, as telling as a dairy cow’s full teats.
“Aye, Miss McClintock. Ye’ve met Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“Yes, I did meet him.” An experience as pleasant as hugging a mama gator protecting her eggs. “Anyone else?”
“There were others, but they left after the laird died, and Mr. Hollingsworth insisted they make themselves useful or find somewhere else to live. He said, dogs that dinna hunt dinna eat.”
Fenella’s tone and expression remained bland, but Gwendolyn detected a measure of approval in the servant’s mien, nonetheless.
Either Hollingsworth wasn’t as generous as his uncle, or those that left had been the parasites Dugall suggested they were. Then wasn’t it to Hollingsworth’s credit he’d booted them to the curb?
“So only Mr. Hollingsworth remains?”
Gwendolyn didn’t really like putting the questions to Fenella. Nevertheless, servants usually had the right of it in a household this large, and knowledge was power.
“Nae. Now it just be Mrs. Agatha Whitworth and her daughter, Elspeth. They’re cousins to the old laird. Mrs. Whitworth is blind. They’re visitin’ friends in Edinburgh and won’t return for at least a fortnight.” She glanced around guiltily, then lowered her voice. “Tattle has it Miss Elspeth be sweet on a young man there.”
A tiny morsel of admiration for Hollingsworth sprouted. He’d permitted a blind relation to stay? He was a more complex man than Gwendolyn had first thought.
“There also be Miss Dolina. She be the old laird’s sister. Sweet as clootie dumplin’ but as deaf as a loaf of black bun and aff her heid a wee bit, too. She goes off by herself for hours on end, wanderin’ the moors and bogs.”
Eyes at once wide and luminous with contrition, Fenella slapped her hand over her mouth.
“Forgive me. I ought no’ to have said that. I’m so sorry, Miss. Please excuse me impertinence.” She wrung her hands in her apron. “I could lose me position, and I needs it so. Me mum be unwell, and I have three younger brothers. Da died two years ago.”
Her lip trembled as she struggled to control her emotions.
“Never fear, Fenella. I admire honesty. As long as it’s tempered with kindness and sincerity.”
Carrying another candelabra, the towel she’d dried her hands with wrapped around the stem for sanitation purposes, Gwendolyn patted the maid’s shoulder as she passed. She’d need plenty of light to suture by. “No one shall ever know what you’ve told me.”
“I shall.” Dugall stood at the entrance in all of his manly glory. He gave Fenella a conspiratorial wink. “Yer secret’s safe with me as well, lass.”
Poor befuddled girl, she gaped as if Zeus himself had descended from heaven and paid her a visitation. Not too far astray.
Even with his face bashed and battered, Dugall Ferguson was the closest thing to a mythical god Gwendolyn had ever laid eyes upon. Truth to tell, even though an on-the-shelf spinster, she was half-afraid to see what he looked like once he’d healed.
“Let’s see to your face, shall we, Mr. Ferguson?” Lifting a whisky bottle from the basket, Gwendolyn indicated a nearby chair with a sweep of her hand.
She opened the top, and after pouring two fingers’ worth into a bowl, set it aside before rubbing her hands with the spirit.
“Miss. Sir.” Fenella bobbed another curtsy, but took her sweet time departing the chamber, casting Dugall bashful, calf-eyed glances the whole while.
He winked again, and scarlet blossomed across Fenella’s round cheeks. Giggling, she finally exited, leaving the door open for propriety’s sake.
Eyebrow cocked, and one hand wrapped in another cloth resting on her hip, Gwendolyn shook her head. “Do women always react like that around you?”
A good-natured grin quirked his mouth up on one side. He settled his oversized form into the chair, which squeaked in protest, and rested his forearms on the arms.
“And what would ye say if I said aye. All except ye?”
Except me? Why, I’d say you were an overly confident, cocky—
Gwendolyn wetted a soft cloth with whisky, and giving him a sugary smile, pressed the scrap to the worst of his cuts.
He bolted upright, almost smacking her chin with his head. His clean, masculine scent wafted upward, teasing and tempting.
She pleated her lips together to stifle the urge to lean nearer and sniff deeply. Did he have to smell so all-fired delicious?
Gwendolyn dampened the cloth a bit more. Lower lip captured between her teeth, she dabbed another ugly gash. She didn’t truly want to cause him any more pain, but whisky was an excellent antiseptic, and after his dip in the river, she must be assured the cuts were thoroughly cleansed.
“Hell’s bloody bells and ballocks,” he hissed through his strong, white clenched teeth, his jaw muscles flexing rhythmically.
“Tsk,” she clucked disapprovingly. “Such language.” She lifted the cloth and peered beneath it. “I know it burns something awful, but it’s the best way to sanitize the gashes.”
“Mayhap, but I’ll be bound ye did that on purpose, lass.” His turquoise eyes bored into hers. “If’n I didna ken better, I’d say ye be jealous.”
What utter drivel.
Old spinsterish maids didn’t indulge in schoolgirl emotions. Most particularly where it concerned half-barbarian, uncouth younger gentlemen they’d only just met.
“Does your brogue always thicken when you’re upset?” she asked, deliberately navigating her troublesome thoughts to safer territory.
“Nae. Only when sirens with flames in their hair and golden fairy dust in their green eyes pour whisky in my cuts.” He grabbed the bottle and took a hefty swig.
Flames? Fairy dust?
None of her former betrothed had ever described her in terms that unhinged her knees and jaw simultaneously. Or singularly either.
Summoning her gumption, she waved the cloth she held at his hand, still encircling the green bottle. “That’s meant for your wounds.”
He winked and raised it once more. “If ye’re goin’ to ply me with a needle like a piece of fancy embroidery, I need to dull my senses.”
She chuckled at the imagery.
“Hmm, I’m sure I can find a bit of puce or lavender thread if you really want your face to resemble needlework. I cannot guarantee the sutures will hold though. Do you have a stitch preference too? Back stitch? Chain stitch? Split stitch? I might even manage a French knot.”
“Saucy, bonny wench.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed another healthy draught before thrusting the brew at her, a challenge in his eyes. “Have ye sewn flesh afore?”
“Yes, a few times. I had the most stalwart stomach at Thistle Glen. As you can imagine with the raising and training of thoroughbreds, accidents occurred.” She gently probed his cuts, checking to see which would heal well without sutures. “And my brothers had more than their fair share of scrapes, too.”
“How many brothers did ye have?”
“Two. William, the eldest died in the War of 1812.” The reason she couldn’t abide the English. When he and another ten soldiers had been captured, the British had executed them for treason on the spot. “He wasn’t married. And Markus—the children’s father—died from an injury he received during a duel.”
Run through by the husband of the woman he’d been dallying with.
Dugall made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. “Nae sisters? I have three older ones. I can
tell ye they enjoyed bossin’ me around.”
“I had a twin, Marilyn. She died.”
While eloping with my third fiancé.
“What happened to the wee ones’ mither?”
His intense gaze caressed Gwendolyn’s face, and she concentrated on folding the liquor-dampened cloth rather than meeting his eyes. She’d lost so many who were precious to her, and at times, anguish welled in her chest, threatening to overcome her.
She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and found her voice. “She passed from a fever, shortly after giving birth to Julia.”
Compassion darkened his eyes to the deepest, most captivating, ocean blue, and he skimmed his fingers along her jawline.
“Ye’ve not had an easy time of it lass, have ye?”
Her breath stuttered at his unexpected understanding and empathy. Unanticipated wetness stung her eyes. No, she hadn’t, but wallowing in self-pity was a waste of time and prevented one from seizing other opportunities that might arise.
“Everyone endures hardships—some more than others—and the plain truth is, life’s not fair. There are many things we have no control over. How we respond to difficulties and trials is within our grasp.”
Now she sounded like a preacher delivering a sermon. Nevertheless, the monologue gave her time to clear the dampness from her eyes. “Shall we get started?”
Dugall closed his eyelids and sighed. “All right. Have yer way with me.”
Good gracious. If only she might.
When she remained silent and still, lower lip clamped between her teeth as she struggled to control the barrage of longing his innocent words caused, he cracked an eye open.
“Yer face be as pale as St. Andrew’s arse, Gwenny.”
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 7