“Gracious, darlings.” She hugged them to her waist and patted their heads as they clung to her. “Shh, now.”
Several people, including Kandie, Aunt Barbara cradling a teacup—her cheeks flushed and eyes slightly bleary—as well as a trio of huge hounds, and three adorable children had appeared in the great hall’s entrance.
McTavish made his way to a stunning blonde’s side, and the smile they exchanged left no doubt they adored each other.
Quavering, Julia hugged Gwendolyn’s leg and mumbled into her skirt. “I was afeared you’d die, too. Like Papa and Grandpapa. And we’d have no mama anymore.”
Jeremiah clamped his trembling lower lip, and dashed at the tears filling his eyes. “Don’t be a ninny, Julia. I told you Mr. Ferguson would save her. And I’ve told you before. She’s our aunt. Not our mama. Our mama died.”
He looked small and forlorn when he admonished his sister, an apology in his gaze when it skittered to Gwendolyn.
His words pricked, though she knew he hadn’t intended to be unkind.
Serious little fellow, so grown up and stoic, Jeremiah thrust his hand out toward Dugall. “Thank you, sirrah for protecting our aunt. I am indebted to you.”
Gwendolyn’s eyes misted that her precocious nephew had transformed into such a perfect gentleman in a moment such as this. No doubt in five minutes, he’d be up to his starched—chocolate-stained neckcloth in mischief. But had he been her own son, she couldn’t have been prouder.
Dugall clasped Jeremiah’s hand, his great paw swallowing the child’s, and solemnly shook it. “It be an honor, yer lordship. And I shall continue to protect ye and yer family as long as I’m able to. I give ye my word.”
Jeremiah angled his head. “Is that what’s called a vow?”
“Aye, lad.” Dugall exchanged a meaningful glance with his brother.
Almost a challenge there.
Unease flared, skittering up Gwendolyn’s arms to settle heavily on her shoulders. Foolish man, making such an impossible promise, even if he meant well and only wanted to reassure Jeremiah.
Didn’t Dugall realize the children would take him at his word? They’d borne so much disappointment already, and when he left, as he must, they would be crushed.
Julia’s eyes rounded until they consumed most of her face. She shoved the tendrils of unruly hair stuck to her damp cheek away and swung her head back and forth, her expression troubled. “A vow?”
Best to set matters straight at once before this situation became even more complex. “What Mr. Ferguson means, my dears, is—”
“Like marriage vows?” Julia asked, confusion puckering her features.
The striking dark-haired boy peering up at McTavish yanked on his father’s hand. “Uncle Dugall is gettin’ married? Am I goin’ to have more cousins soon, then?”
Aunt Barbara tottered forward a pair of steps, still clutching the teacup like she held a sultan’s most prized jewel. “Good heavenly days. A fifth proposal, Gwendolyn dear?”
Gwendolyn speared Dugall a mortified gaze, flames licking her cheek at his utterly stunned expression and slackened jaw.
The entry grew so silent, you could’ve heard a mouse pee on cotton.
Julia tugged at Dugall’s tattered coat. “Does that mean you’re going to marry my Aunt Gwenny?”
Chapter 15
As they had every morning at dawn for the past month, Dugall and two McTavish clansmen rode out early, searching Suttford’s nearest acreage for anything remotely suspicious.
Coronis hadn’t joined them today. A first.
Perched on a stable rafter above Bran’s stall, she’d cocked her head and gave him a perturbed glare with one beady eye before nuzzling her beak into her back feathers once more. She wasn’t foregoing her comfortable roost for a blustery flight. Maybe, at long last, her infatuation with Dugall had paled.
He pulled his collar higher and his tam lower to prevent the steady, icy drizzle from creeping down his nape. The wetness amplified the pungent odors of wool, horse, and earth wafting through the air.
Neither McLeon nor McKinnely, vigilant but at ease atop their mounts, seemed to mind the driving rain. Scots became accustomed to the Highland’s surly weather as wee ones, else they lived a wretched, uncomfortable life.
But the Highlands boasted extraordinary beauty this time of year, too.
Autumn, in full fanfare, trumpeted her magnificent hues. A layer of thick frost the past five mornings testified to the cooler temperatures, and trees ablaze with riots of scarlet, yellow, purple, and russet revealed winter would soon shroud the Highlands.
Given the thick hair on the cattle’s necks, the squirrels’ bushier than normal tails, and the brighter than usual foliage, it looked to be a punishing winter, too.
He crooked his mouth sideways. At least, wintering would be more comfortable at Suttford than draft-prone Craiglocky.
If he stayed that long.
A missive could arrive from the Diplomatic Corps any day, though Dugall honestly didn’t expect one just yet. Good thing, too, since Gwendolyn still needed him, and to leave now would seem like desertion. More so since the shooting culprit hadn’t been caught.
Still, if summoned, he’d have no choice but to go.
Since as a young boy he’d heard the whispers about Ewan’s intrigues and adventures, Dugall had been single-minded in his intent to follow in his brother’s footsteps. Unthinkable he’d refuse the offer if—when—it came. With Ewan and his powerful friends backing him, Dugall held little doubt he’d be accepted into the elite service.
The wind whipped up, and rain pellets lashed the trio of riders with the vehemence of a maid beating a dirty rug.
Other than a place where the fence needed mending, probably as a result of a stag getting stuck, all looked as it should.
“I think we’re good for today. Let’s head back.” Dugall jerked his head in the manor’s direction, and chilly water streamed into his collar, soaking his neckcloth.
Hell’s bells.
He’d have to change now.
Gwendolyn had asked him to be present for her meeting with Mr. Christie today. After cancelling two previous appointments, the solicitor was finally making a long-awaited appearance. He’d remain overnight as he claimed a round trip from Edinburgh was too arduous and distant for a man of his advanced eight-and-fifty years.
Rather impudent of the fellow to demand accommodations for the night. In fact, he’d had the nerve to dictate dinner, too. Seemed he couldn’t abide vegetables or fish of any sort, most especially brown trout.
But Gwendolyn had said he’d hinted the old laird had always insisted Christie stay when he called for business and happily accommodated his appetites. More likely the man was an accomplished prevaricator and too pinch-penny to put up in an inn.
She’d also confided that she didn’t entirely trust Christie and dreaded getting on his wrong side. The solicitor had failed to mention too many significant details for her peace of mind.
Dugall’s too, actually.
A wily solicitor didn’t bode well, either.
She’d chew nails before she admitted it to Dugall or anyone else, but the tightening around her mouth whenever she mentioned Christie revealed she still fretted he would find some excuse to wrest the children’s guardianship from her.
As Dugall and the clansmen turned their mounts toward the great house, he scanned the area once more. Other than contented Highland cattle chewing their cud and a grouse taking to wing from a harvested oat field beyond a hedgerow, all was still on the tranquil gray-blanketed horizon.
What a difference a few miles made. Suttford’s lands were less craggy and more accommodating for cereal crops than Craiglocky’s rugged terrain. Barley and oats grew readily here.
So much so, that Dugall had proposed
Gwendolyn consider a whisky distillery near Suttford Bourne, an excellent source for the water needed for such a venture.
He readily admitted the notion excited him. Not as much as being an agent, but perfecting a signature scotch? Aye, a grand idea indeed.
“I’d prefer to invest in a cotton or linen factory.” Gwendolyn had arched a starchy ginger brow, but hadn’t said nae to the distillery. She’d mull over the idea, consider the advantages and disadvantages before offering an opinion.
He liked that about her.
Liked a lot more than that about her.
But dwelling on those attributes would have him shifting in the saddle uncomfortably for an entirely different reason than the sulky weather. Undeniably feminine in all the ways that counted, Gwendolyn also kept a firm rein on her emotions and possessed sensibleness and calm reasoning.
Once she mulled over the proposition, asked dozens of questions about the feasibility, she’d give him her answer. Her suggestion about a cotton or linen factory held great merit, too. Such an investment might prove very lucrative and would provide much needed jobs. Definitely notions worth considering and exploring further.
Even Hollingsworth had been amenable to the idea. If the man continued to be so agreeable, Dugall might send for the physician. Mayhap Hollingsworth suffered from a mind-altering ailment or had gone completely aff his heid.
Dugall couldn’t help but speculate that Hollingsworth’s about-change was artificial. Hopefully, he wasn’t pulling the wool over Gwendolyn’s eyes with his newly-found manners and gentlemanly comportment.
Since the shooting incident four weeks ago, nothing else untoward had occurred, and she’d relaxed a trifle. The more time that passed without any further incidents, the more it seemed perhaps it had been an accident after all.
Nevertheless, now wasn’t the time to become slipshod.
Dugall couldn’t relax entirely or shake the wariness plaguing him since that day. Nor could he discount that round-the-clock armed guards and regular surveillance of Suttford lands made another attempt on Gwendolyn’s life much more difficult—if indeed that had been what had occurred.
He’d feel more confident if the gunman had been caught and questioned, but though the area had been thoroughly searched, no clue as to his identity had been found.
Dugall had personally interrogated each member of Suttford’s staff as well as Miss Dolina and the Whitworths who had returned unexpectedly from Edinburgh whilst he and the others had been at Craiglocky. To a person, everyone had been appalled but could offer no useful information.
A twinkle in her fading eyes that didn’t completely dispel an impish glint, Miss Dolina had asked if one or two of the more handsome McTavish clansmen might be her personal bodyguards.
Poor McLeon, a striking, strapping fellow who dwarfed the petite lady, had taken to peeking around corners and eating his meals in the kitchen to avoid the elderly dame’s teasing attention and appreciative ogling.
Hollingsworth, too, had been eliminated as the suspect. He’d been seen in the village, at The Tatties and Tankard pub when the shooting had occurred. That didn’t mean he hadn’t hired someone, however.
Cantering Bran back to the stables, Dugall spied the object of his musings speaking to the stable master. Bare-headed, his hair plastered to his head, Hollingsworth glanced up as the McTavishes filed by and offered Dugall a brief, but courteous nod.
In response Dugall inclined his head, still unable to reconcile this civil man with the selfish rakehell he’d known for so long. To be fair, he’d spent no time in Hollingsworth’s company for years, but he had been his usual churlish self when they’d arrived at Suttford.
Since Gwendolyn interviewed Hollingsworth and agreed to allow him to remain as steward, at least for a probationary period, Hollingsworth had demonstrated exemplary behavior. He’d become a most agreeable fellow these days, but, then again, he’d much to lose by being contrary.
In a shrewd move he couldn’t help but applaud, Gwendolyn had appointed Dugall Suttford’s agent. Prudent considering Jeremiah’s inheritance consisted of different properties across the region and overseeing the vast estate meant regular visits to the other holdings.
Either Hollingsworth had become an accomplished actor, or he was truly trying to make a grand impression, for he hadn’t balked at his demotion or having to answer to Dugall. By not banishing Hollingsworth’s sorry arse from Suttford House, she’d made an ally of him.
Though Dugall didn’t agree with her decision—trusting Hollingsworth went against everything in him—he’d kept silent. She had to establish her authority at Suttford, but Dugall had resolved to watch the man’s every move. And when he wasn’t here, McTavish men did so in his stead.
Once or twice a week, Dugall journeyed to the other, smaller properties. They, too, clipped along tidily thanks to Hollingsworth’s previous efficiency. Dugall wasn’t one to deny credit where it was due, and he could find very little to fault Hollingsworth in regard to his supervision of the estate’s holdings.
Mayhap he’d truly changed since law school.
If so, then why did doubts yet niggle?
Dugall dismounted and, after stroking Bran, turned his damp collar down. He resisted the urge to scratch the healing cuts on his face. Gwendolyn had removed his sutures just over a week ago, but the purplish marks still itched like a flea-ridden hound.
Releasing a long breath of air, he rubbed a brow.
He both anticipated and dreaded seeing her. Since the uncomfortable misunderstanding at Craiglocky when the children had jumped to the wrong conclusion, their encounters had become formal and stilted.
The undercurrent of sexual awareness hadn’t lessened an iota. If anything, it had increased, simmering hotly beneath carefully schooled expressions and cool politesse.
A thread of irritation wended through him again when he recalled Ewan’s reaction to the children’s innocent mistake. Dugall’s buffoon of a brother had guffawed like a lunatic until Yvette shushed him. Even she had sported an amused expression, as if she, too, found the notion absurd.
What was so damned funny about Dugall getting married?
He planned to. Someday.
However, the peal of wedding bells didn’t fit into his plans for many, many years to come.
With finesse and diplomacy, her cheeks a delightful shade of pink, Gwendolyn had swiftly set things to right that day.
“Good gracious me. Mr. Ferguson and I most certainly are not getting married. He’s simply promised to help us settle into Suttford House until I can hire an agent and steward.”
At Gwendolyn’s declaration, he’d writhed like a worm on a sun-warmed rock. His family’s astonished countenances hadn’t even summoned a pithy remark or cocky grin from him. So much for him telling them about his arrangement with her.
He couldn’t be disgruntled with Gwendolyn, however. The children’s disconcerting conjecture forced her to clarify, and there was only one ready explanation. The contrite smile she’d swept him soothed his discomfiture a hair.
He’d still had to explain his decision to aid her to his parents and Ewan a couple of days later when he’d ridden over for that express purpose.
They were hardly in a position to forbid him. But by thunder, he’d been thoroughly taken aback when they expressed more concern for Gwendolyn and her charges than they did for him being set upon during his journey home.
With a final sweep of his hand across Bran’s glossy wither, he turned to Sam. “See that he’s brushed down and dried well, please. He disna like bein’ left wet.”
“Aye, sir.” Sam grinned, his weathered face folding in genuine joy. “He be a grand one, he be. He looks mighty fierce, but he be as sweet as yonder kittens.”
Dugall glanced in the direction Sam tilted his head. Tucked beneath a bench, inside a crate padded
with burlap bags a tabby, her eyes closed, purred contentedly as several wriggling kittens nursed.
The man had obviously not experienced Bran in a foul mood. “He’s been ken to bite, so watch yerself.”
Dugall paused at Marigold’s stall, giving her wound a once-over. Thanks to a special salve Seonaid had sent when she heard about the mare’s injury, the gash was healing nicely.
Marigold stuck her head over the door and nickered softly, looking for a treat.
“Sorry, lass. I didna have anythin’ for ye today.”
At the stable entrance, he raised his hand in acknowledgement of the several McTavish clansmen, then leaned a shoulder against the weathered frame and observed Hollingsworth. The rain had stopped, but given the sullen pewter clouds hanging low in the sky, not for long.
Hollingsworth gestured to the paddock and then pointed to the entrance. His expression thoughtful, the stable master cupped his neck and nodded.
Dugall straightened to continue on to the house when Hollingsworth gestured for him to wait. “Hold up, Ferguson.”
Impatience nipped. Dugall needed to change before meeting with Gwendolyn and Christie. “Do ye mind walkin’ with me to the house? I have an appointment I’m goin’ to be late for.”
Hollingsworth held out his arm for Dugall to proceed him. “With Christie?”
No surprise that he knew. Little could be kept secret with so many servants, and no one had attempted to hide the fact that the solicitor was expected today.
“Aye.”
Hollingsworth cut Dugall a sideways glance. “I assume, I’m not invited? But ye are?”
The merest hint of resentment scraped the fringe of his words. Couldn’t really blame him. He was kin, whereas Dugall was merely the man Gwendolyn relied on for advice.
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 13