Hollingsworth released a rather pensive sigh as he checked his timepiece. “I fear we’re all in for more unpleasant surprises.”
Dugall had concluded the same thing, but Hollingsworth almost sounded as if he knew something the others didn’t.
Dugall stopped and faced him. “What makes ye say that?”
A wry smile twisted Hollingsworth’s mouth.
“Ferguson, yer family kens what a rotter McClintock could be. Young Jeremiah might’ve been the next in line to inherit the title and entailment, but would that selfish batard really leave everythin’ else to an American? Someone he’d never met?” Hollingsworth gave a derisive snort. “Does that sound like the whoreson we both ken? He hated colonials, most expressly his kin for movin’ there.”
Interesting. He holds nae affection for his dead uncle.
But then again, many greedy sots only cared about what they could gain from their family. And that bit about McClintock hating his American relations—
Well, that added another shady and worrisome layer to this whole damnable thing.
Dugall dragged his sodden tam from his head with one hand and shoved his wet hair off his forehead with the other. “That’s rather severe, comin’ from someone who lived off his charity for a number of years.”
A harsh, caustic laugh split the sodden air.
“Charity?” Hollingsworth scoffed. “Haven’t ye seen with yer own eyes the state of Suttford and the other holdin’s? Trust me. I’ve earned my keep these five years.”
“Aye, ye have, at that.” Dugall angled his head. What wasn’t Hollingsworth saying? Why such bitterness if he was proud of his accomplishments? Something was too smoky by far.
Scorn curling one side of his mouth, Hollingsworth shook his head. “I freely admit I was an unmitigated arse as a young man, but there’s much ye dinna ken about me. Even more neither ye nor Gwendolyn ken about Gerard McClintock. He was a connivin’, manipulatin’ scunner, and I’m glad he’s dead. I only wish he’d stuck his spoon in the wall sooner.”
He glanced at his pocket watch again.
Did he have someplace he needed to be? Then why waylay Dugall?
“For reasons I’ll never understand, given he was as reluctant to part with a pence as he was to offer his foot to a hound to gnaw on, he paid a visit to my aunt when I was scarcely out of short pants.” Hollingsworth scratched his forehead while gazing at the horizon. “McClintock insisted I be sent off to boardin’ school, and later paid for me to attend university too, with the condition I work for him afterward.”
“Why did you agree to the latter?” As a boy, Hollingsworth would’ve had no choice about boarding school. Strange for McClintock to take such a keen interest in a distant relative.
“Aunt Sibby had four bairns of her own to feed. She didna hesitate over McClintock’s offer. She was my mither’s sister and took me in when my da died in a dockyard accident. My mither had died birthin’ me.”
Dugall had learned more about Hollingsworth in the past couple of minutes than in all the years of their casual acquaintance. A tinge of compassion for the unwanted lad Hollingsworth had been pricked Dugall. To be separated from the only family you knew and sent to live with strangers at such a young age stirred his pity, too. And then to have McClintock dictating your every move.
Bloody awful.
“You needed to speak to me?” Dugall set aside his musings. He’d ponder the information when he had more time.
Hollingsworth gazed at him blankly for a moment. “Aye. I wanted to tell ye that I’ve spoken to some of the tenant farmers about growin’ more barley.” A thin, short-lived smile curved his mouth. “They’re keen on the idea. Especially the notion of a distillery.”
“Aye,” Dugall chuckled while wiping his brow again. “Nothin’ like fine whisky to put a spark in a Scot’s eye, light a fire his belly, and flame his inspiration.”
The path divided, the left fork leading to the big house and the other to the neat cottages stacked side by side like biscuit tins.
Hollingsworth swerved right. “I need to speak to the head gardener. I fear we’re in for a wicked winter, and I want to make sure the greenhouses are in order.”
A slight scowl wrinkling his forehead, he strode away.
The conversation left Dugall even more disturbed, for Hollingsworth’s opinion of the old laird held more than a jot of truth. McClintock wasn’t known for his generosity or benevolence.
Had he truly loathed his American kin?
Immersed in his thoughts, Dugall nearly plowed into the young woman dashing down the stairs, her head ducked against the angry wind. He instinctively seized her elbows to steady her and keep her from stumbling into the puddle dividing the trodden path.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Whitworth.”
She blushed scarlet and wrenched her plaid shawl tighter over her shoulders and dark hair. “I’m just goin’ for a short stroll. Mither and Dolina are nappin’, and soon the weather will be so disagreeable, I wilna have much opportunity.” She darted a glance behind him, her guileless gray eyes crimping in pleasure at the corners before shyly dipping her head again. “The trees are glorious with color right now.”
Plus, he’d be bound, she craved a break from her demanding mother and only found respite when the difficult woman slept. From what Dugall had observed, the timid thing could scarcely move without Mrs. Whitworth demanding she assist her, fetch some trivial item, or guide her about the house and grounds.
All of which Miss Whitworth did with a ready, long-suffering smile and a soft-spokenness her mother didn’t deserve; even if the woman was blind. She treated Miss Whitworth like a hired companion rather than a beloved daughter.
“I fear yer walk may be cut short.” He pointed his gaze to the sky. “Those clouds look ready to dump their contents.”
“Aye. I may have to take refuge in the stables, but I dinna mind gettin’ wet.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’m Scottish after all.”
“I’ve just come from there. There’s a newborn litter of kittens.”
Her eyes lit up. “Truly? I’ve wanted a kitten for so long, but Mither isnae fond of cats.”
He released her, and with another bashful smile, she hurried on her way.
“Dugall, there you are.” Gwendolyn, a vision in green silk, a knitted shawl about her shoulders and pearls at her throat and dangling from her ears, hovered just inside the entrance.
The bright smile she gifted the two front entrance guards didn’t light her eyes.
As always, Dugall’s breath faltered upon seeing her. He rejoiced, that despite her retreat into formality a month ago, she still addressed him by his given name.
A rush of lust sluiced through him. He’d never desired a woman for so long without bedding her. Hell, he’d never hungered after a woman with the intensity he did Gwendolyn. But she was off-limits, her bedchamber but a few short, torturous steps from his.
This might prove to be a deuced prickly winter after all.
Her gaze gravitated to Miss Whitworth’s retreating form for an instant before swinging back to him, her eyes turbulent.
“Mr. Christie arrived while you were out. I’ve pacified him with refreshments, but he grows impatient. A bit petulant, too.” Brows drawn tight, she wet her lower lip, then shuddered when a blast of wind pelted her. “It’s peculiar, but he’s bade Mr. Hollingsworth be present for the will’s reading.”
Chapter 16
Another shiver juddered Gwendolyn as she stepped back inside the house, Dugall directly behind her.
Only October, and even wrapped in a woolen shawl, and fires burning hotly in the house’s fireplaces, she’d been chilled all day.
Ordering warmer gowns was out of the question just yet, however. She’d have to make do with an extra chemise, long-sleeved gowns, and perhaps ev
en a pair of crocheted, fingerless mitts.
“Thank you, Lowry.” She spared the butler a swift, somewhat fatigued smile as he closed the door behind them. Sleeplessness had plagued her again last night.
Never at her best when tired, she didn’t relish the forthcoming meeting with Mr. Christie. His bewildering request troubled her. Like as not, they were in for more surprises, probably not all pleasant.
She’d never much enjoyed surprises or being caught unawares. For instance: finding relatives entrenched at her new home or having her mare shot.
No, she preferred knowing what was to come in advance.
For some reason, she couldn’t quite put her finger on why specifically—perhaps intuition or fear he’d fault her somehow—she’d chosen not to mention the shooting incident to the solicitor.
She could warn Dugall to keep silent on the matter, but how to make sure Cousin Lloyd did, too? Well, she’d simply distract Mr. Christie, and Dugall could discreetly advise her cousin to keep silent on the matter. But would he?
“I just spoke to Hollingsworth.” Dugall passed his hat and drenched overcoat to Lowry who gingerly held the items at arm’s length lest a droplet mar his immaculate uniform or his shiny-as-a-new-penny-shoes.
Windblown and soaked, how could Dugall still be as enticing as a pecan tart, her favorite dessert?
“He was headed to the gardener’s,” Dugall said. “In any event, Christie will have to wait a few minutes more. I need to change into dry clothes, and then I’ll meet you in the—?”
Realizing she still gaped, Gwendolyn hauled her focus from Dugall’s sculpted good looks. “Lowery has shown Mr. Christie to the study, and I’ve offered him the use of the desk.”
The man likely snooped through every unlocked drawer and cabinet, which was why she requested the door be left open and a footman to stand just outside on the pretense of being available in an instant should Mr. Christie have need of anything.
Of its own traitorous accord, as unstoppable as the ocean’s tides, her gaze hurtled back to Dugall.
She might’ve made it perfectly clear to their families what their positions were, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still alluring as sin. With every sizzling gaze from his too-gorgeous-for-his-own-good eyes, and provocative tilt of his too-blessedly-perfect mouth, her resistance slipped further.
Honestly, even though he was younger—four years wasn’t so terribly much younger—and a confirmed rapscallion of the sort to bed not wed, if any man might tempt her to toss prim and proper into the nearest rubbish bin and surrender to seduction, it was Dugall Ferguson.
And if she didn’t have the responsibility of her niece and nephew, she might very well allow herself that indulgence. No strings attached. No expectations other than a few hours of mutually enjoyed passion.
Because, she’d finally admitted what she’d denied for so long; even though well on her way to being an old maid, she wanted to experience physical intimacy with a man.
Not with any man. With Dugall Ferguson.
None of her betrothed had ever had her floundering about in her bed, night after night, while her imagination tantalized her with risqué images of Dugall slumbering a few feet away. Why, she was as bad as Miss Dolina, lusting after a younger, sexy Scotsman.
“Lowery, please inform Mr. Christie of the unavoidable delay. Offer him a brandy, too. I think we can safely say, everyone will join him in under . . .?” She spared Dugall a questioning glance. “Thirty minutes?”
“Aye. That should suffice.”
“I shall send a footman to find Mr. Hollingsworth at once.” With a deferential slant of his head, Lowry trod down the passageway leading to below-stairs.
Lids heavy and eyes gritty, Gwendolyn yawned widely behind her hand. The nights of little sleep were catching up with her.
At the corridor’s far end, the study door gaped open, and she eyed it warily. She wasn’t a coward, but neither was she a martyr. She wasn’t spending another second alone with Mr. Christie. Every time he looked at her, it felt like a horde of hairy spiders crawled across her skin on their cold, sharp little clawed feet.
A shiver scampered down her backbone.
Always before, she’d scoffed at such histrionics, but one glance from Mr. Christie’s pale green reptilian eyes, and every inch of her exposed flesh had contracted and tried to scamper beneath her clothing or shawl.
It didn’t take a whole lot of experience to recognize a degenerate when she met one. She’d already asked Lowry to have the female staff work in pairs, and if Mr. Christie required something, footmen were to do his bidding.
For Elspeth’s safety, Gwendolyn needed to broach the unpleasantness with her. Surely as a resident of Suttford for some time, she must be aware of Mr. Christie’s questionable character.
“I’ll walk upstairs with you.” She fell in step beside Dugall. “I have something I need to discuss, and it cannot wait.”
He cocked a brow. “Is everythin’ all right?”
“Yes.” Gwendolyn nodded as they ascended the first riser. She glanced behind them, and then dropping her voice, sidled nearer. “I wonder if you could please ask the McTavish men to keep an eye on Mr. Christie while he’s here. Especially tonight, after everyone’s abed?”
Dugall’s features hardened, and he paused mid-step, spearing a heated gaze in the study’s direction. “He’s done somethin’.”
A statement, not a question.
The expression on his face suggested he’d like to throttle the solicitor. Or worse.
She was rather thrilled that Dugall was ready to champion her in an instant, before he even knew what had transpired. She quite looked forward to the average-sized solicitor meeting the strapping Highlander.
“No. No. Not exactly.” Placing her hand on his forearm to calm him, she gave a little self-conscious laugh. “It’s just he makes me uncomfortable. The way he leers at me. And the maids.”
As if he could see beneath her garments with those cold, glittery snake eyes and caressed her bare flesh with his bony fingers, the fingernails unfashionably long.
Plainly put, the man was eerie.
“I cannot imagine that the previous laird actually permitted him to stay over.” She’d let her fear of offending Mr. Christie override good sense and her instinctive hesitancy. “I fear I’ve been misled and made a grievous error in permitting him to stay tonight.”
Dugall’s raven brows climbed his forehead.
Now she felt ridiculous, as if she’d overreacted. She’d fretted about Hollingsworth too, and after their initial awkward meeting, he’d done nothing untoward.
She wasn’t becoming fanciful and fearful like Aunt Barbara, was she? The distasteful thought almost tripped Gwendolyn on the stair, but Dugall swiftly steadied her.
They’d made the upper floor, and rather than retrace her steps when Dugall and Mr. Hollingsworth would be several minutes longer, she decided to peek into Julia and Jeremiah’s room. She’d probably find Miss Dolina in there again if she wasn’t on one of her rambling walks or napping. The dear obviously adored children. She adored the Scot assigned to guard them too, poor McLeon.
Too bad she hadn’t had any children of her own.
Gwendolyn really needed to hire a governess and tutor, but had hesitated to do so until she knew exactly where Suttford stood financially.
That was silly, too. The children must be educated, even if it meant using the funds from the plantation’s sale. Gwendolyn wasn’t about to tackle the task of educating them herself. She was their aunt, by Jingo, not a saint.
Another yawn threatened, and she placed two fingers to her mouth to stifle it.
Dugall hadn’t responded to her speculations about Christie. He must agree she’d overreacted.
Botheration.
Chagrin and disappointment pinche
d her.
“Never mind, Dugall. I’m probably imagining things.”
“Nae lass, ye aren’t. I ken Christie’s kind. Ye are wise nae to trust him. I suspect he’s nae above cheatin’ the lad and linin’ his own pockets.”
Dugall had unbuttoned his jacket as they marched down the corridor, and now strove to untie his neckcloth. Surely, that wasn’t de rigueur even in Scotland. Why, he acted as if they were a married couple, and he was accustomed to dressing and undressing in front of her.
Probably is used to doing so with other women.
The notion miffed, sending a sickening jab to her ribs, even though she had no right to be peeved.
“I’ll speak to the men. Ye can rest easy, Gwenny.”
Rest easy? Hardly.
If she did, it would be the first night since arriving. This past week, she’d taken to slipping into the library when she couldn’t sleep rather than stay in her bedchamber where her mind kept churning.
Thrice before, in the wee hours, she’d fallen asleep on the sofa and awoke when the housemaid came in to clean the fireplace.
Still she should acknowledge his promise. “Thank you. That’s reassuring.”
“Ye haven’t been sleepin’ well, have ye?” Dugall brushed her cheek with his fingertips, and she fisted her hands in the lamb’s wool shawl to keep from sighing, closing her eyes, and pressing her face into his palm.
Had the purplish circles shadowing her eyes given her away? Yes, plus her repeated yawns and heavy-lidded blinking.
“I’ve been restless.” Lest the longing that surely shone in her eyes give her away, Gwendolyn shifted her gaze.
“I have a foolproof cure for insomnia.”
His tone made her glance back. He waggled his eyebrows and gave her one of his irresistible rakish, sideway grins as he shucked his coat.
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