by Karen Ranney
Was her sister never going to learn? Attracting male admirers was one thing, if they’d still been who they were two years ago. After all, choosing a husband among eager suitors was what the marriage mart was all about. But it wasn’t two years ago, and Catriona was now a maid. Flirting was against the rules, especially flirting with the Earl of Denbleigh. None of the nine women seemed to remember that.
“What did he say?” one of the younger maids asked. “When he sought you out?”
Catriona sat up taller, her shoulders back, thereby accentuating her bosom. “He must have remembered my name,” she said, sending a smile toward the questioner. “And just wanted to foster the acquaintance.”
Most of the women looked rapturous at that comment. Two of the older women, however, were frowning. A sign that not everyone thought Catriona was acting correctly.
All one of them had to do was seek out their aunt. Or, worse, tell the steward about Catriona’s behavior.
“His eyes are blue, the most beautiful blue, like the deep waters of a loch.”
She’d never known her sister to be so eloquent.
“And his shoulders. He must drive his tailor to distraction. Or dance divinely.”
How Catriona had made the mental leap from the man’s shoulders to his footwork, she didn’t know. Nor did she ask. She wasn’t going to encourage her sister.
“Do you think it will get cooler soon?” Jean asked.
Not one person paid any attention to her.
“I think it feels more like autumn each day,” she said.
“Do you think he’ll have parties here?” one of the girls asked. Longing laced her voice. “I should so like to see a party.”
“Perhaps I should hint about it to him,” Catriona said.
If Jean wasn’t mistaken, her sister was batting her eyelashes, no doubt in practice for addressing the earl again.
More than one person at the table laughed in delight. Had everyone lost their minds?
The Earl of Denbleigh wasn’t going to pay any attention to a maid, even one as lovely as Catriona. He was going to stay at Ballindair as long as it was convenient for him, and while he was here he would act in his normal manner. He wasn’t going to be swayed by blond hair and pretty blue eyes. He wasn’t going to act differently than he’d always acted. He was going to be the same person, and that person was never going to forget that he was an earl and Catriona was a maid.
Even if Catriona pretended to forget it.
Suddenly, everyone was intent on their lunch, and without even looking, Jean knew Aunt Mary had entered the room.
“Catriona,” her aunt said, “your hair is not acceptable. Leave the table now and take care of the matter.”
As housekeeper, Aunt Mary wanted all the women to braid their hair and wear their caps to provide a similar appearance. Catriona had sulked about the rule for days, and attempted to shirk it at every opportunity.
Now, her sister looked as if she wanted to argue, but at the last moment only nodded and stood. Jean hoped she would obey Aunt Mary’s dictates. People watched to make sure the two of them weren’t being treated with any preference.
“Once you’ve tidied yourself, take His Lordship some fresh toweling and tins of soap.”
Catriona’s expression turned from sullen to gleeful so quickly that Jean’s heart sank.
She stood up. “I’ll go, Mrs. MacDonald,” she said, sending a look to her aunt, and hoping the older woman understood.
The very last thing she wanted was for Catriona to be alone with the earl. After days of comments about his looks and bearing, her sister had as much as announced her attraction to the man. She wasn’t exactly sure what Catriona would do to advance the earl’s interest, but knowing her, it would be something.
Catriona was sometimes vastly improper. She flirted outrageously, and with her gaze, she promised what morals and propriety forbade her to deliver.
Aunt Mary frowned at her, a look only half as irritated as Catriona’s quick glance.
“Please, Mrs. MacDonald,” Jean said. “I feel as if I need to make reparations for my actions.”
“The earl is with Mr. Seath, I believe.”
And if he wasn’t? If Catriona was somehow left alone with him? She feared for her sister’s reputation.
“Please.” Must she beg? Very well, she would, in front of all these women, if necessary.
Her aunt must have read some of her desperation, because she finally nodded.
Ignoring Catriona’s fulminating look, Jean gathered up the linen Aunt Mary gave her, along with the tins of soap inscribed with the earl’s crest—an eagle painted with one eye staring at her—and left the room.
Once at the Laird’s Tower, she placed the two tins atop the stack of toweling just below her chin and fumbled with the latch on the door. The earl’s trunks were arranged in front of the armoire, which made her wonder if someone had unpacked for him.
Entering the sitting room slowly, she balanced the towels as far as the table beside a chair before they tumbled to the floor. She bent to retrieve a washcloth and stood once again, only to be faced with the Earl of Denbleigh himself.
He wasn’t with Mr. Seath. He was standing there naked.
Naked.
Her heart skipped a beat, then started thumping loudly. Was she breathing? She took a halting breath just to prove she could.
He just stood there, unmoving, as she stared.
She steadied herself by reaching out one hand and gripping the back of the chair.
He didn’t turn, walk away, or cover himself with his hands.
She didn’t scream, run from the room, or close her eyes.
He didn’t say a word.
She couldn’t speak.
A maidenly woman would have looked away, but she couldn’t do that, either. Instead, she stood there, eyes fixed on him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, he looked fashioned after the statue in the corridor. Except he was larger, a Highlander of old, the width of his shoulders and the layered muscles of his chest tapering to a flat stomach and lean hips. His well-developed legs attested to his strength and made her wonder if he was, somehow, transplanted from the past, when the Murderous MacCraigs often went into battle. His black hair was damp, the ends curling.
The sight of him was more than a woman, even a virgin, could take.
Move, Jean.
Close your eyes, Jean.
Should she say something? No, she should turn around and simply walk out. That’s what she should do. But her feet wouldn’t move. There, she was breathing a little more. But her eyes refused to look away. Never in all her life had she ever seen a sight as arresting as the Earl of Denbleigh naked.
Her father’s medical texts had been forbidden her, but that hadn’t stopped her from taking a peek at the books when he wasn’t around. She’d occasionally been startled. A few times she’d been horrified. But if she’d seen anything like the earl illustrated, she might have been tempted to tear out the page and hide it beneath her pillow.
Was this lust? Or was she just feeling appreciative for the wonder of God’s creation?
That’s it. She was simply being devout.
Turn around, Jean. Turn around. Or at least curtsy. Do something! Stop staring at the man.
Once, she’d happened onto a stable boy who was sluicing himself with water from the trough. Then, she’d been aghast at the sight of his scrawny naked chest, burnt by the sun.
This man wasn’t scrawny. Nor was he an object of pity.
Later she’d think about how frightened and distant she felt at the same time. And how the roof of her mouth had been so dry her tongue stuck to it. That’s the only reason she didn’t say anything to him, of course.
“Have you seen enough?” he finally said, making no effort to cover any of his parts.
Instead, he placed his fists on his hips and turned slowly, giving her a long and unrestrained look at his magnificent backside.
Her heart pounded even harder.
&n
bsp; He was as beautiful from the back as he was from the front.
When he turned to face her again, that masculine organ of his, once flaccid, was firmer, somehow. As she watched, it grew, rising out of its nest of hair, abandoning its stance of pointing at the floor, quivering as if sensing her.
Was it sentient?
She took a step back, startled by its curiosity.
“Well? Have I satisfied your curiosity? Or is there anything else you’d like to see? Not that there is anything else for you to see.”
“I—” What on earth should she say? Had she suddenly lost the ability to speak?
She took another step backward, wondering if she should curtsy at this particular moment. Could she manage a curtsy? Her hands were trembling. Her entire body was trembling.
Perhaps she’d become ill suddenly.
Could that explain the weak feeling in her knees?
In all the education from her parents, in all her in-depth study of the duties of a maid, no one had ever explained the proper etiquette when faced with a naked earl.
Catriona would know. Catriona would flirt and act coy and maidenly.
Thank God she was here instead of Catriona.
Jean’s lips were numb.
She could not force them into a smile. They wouldn’t go that way. She felt her mouth move into this odd little grimace to one side.
He would think she was repulsed.
Wouldn’t a virgin be repulsed? Horrified, certainly. She did need to leave, and quickly. Before she lost her position. She’d already lost her virtue. Not in the actual sense, of course, but she was nowhere near as innocent as she’d been a scant five minutes earlier.
His organ stretched even farther, growing harder, and pointing at her like a one-eyed serpent.
She had the strangest compulsion to reach out and touch it. Her hand opened and closed, wanting to grab it, fist it, hold it in admiration of its beauty.
What could she possibly say?
Your Lordship, it’s quite astounding.
Did women ever talk about such things?
She could feel the warmth of her cheeks, knowing she should have left the very instant she realized he was naked, instead of studying him as if he were a dusty statue.
Taking a step back, she hit the door, reached back and opened it with one hand. She garbled something, starting with, “Your Lordship, I’m sorry,” and ended up with a squeak and a couple of pants before sputtering to a halt.
She pointed toward the tins of soap with a shaking hand, still unable to speak.
At least she’d stopped looking at his snake.
Her nose was hot.
Her lips were trembling, and she felt as if she was going to cry at any moment. Instead, she wanted to put her apron over her head and just disappear.
She’d give anything to be a ghost at the moment.
Turning, she rushed out of the sitting room, flying down the stairs. Instead of taking the corridor back to the main part of the castle, she ducked beneath the stairs, heading for a wooden door consisting of thick, weathered planks banded with iron. She removed the bar, placing it against the curved wall, then escaped into the private garden drenched in the afternoon sun.
Her aunt had instructed her never to use the Laird’s Garden, since it was strictly for the use of the Earl of Denbleigh and his family. But she didn’t want to meet anyone right now. Besides, what was one more infraction? The last two days had been filled with them.
The garden had been tended to recently, in preparation for the earl’s return. The stone bench sat along a curved walk glittering with oyster shells.
She sat on the bench, wrapping her arms around her body. Her face was flaming and her hands were still shaking.
Dear God, what was she to do? What could she do?
She was going to be dismissed for certain now. If, by chance, some miracle prevented that, she’d ask her aunt to assign her to a different part of the castle, so she wouldn’t come in contact with the earl ever again. She’d gladly work in the laundry, rather than see the Earl of Denbleigh. She’d dissolve in a pool of humiliation and embarrassment.
But, oh, he was a fine specimen of man.
She drew herself up, horrified at her thought. Who was she to be lusting after the earl? If that’s what it was. She’d never had much experience with lust. Attraction, certainly, but she’d never witnessed a man standing naked before her with no sense of embarrassment.
In fact, the earl had looked decidedly proud of himself. Arrogant even in his nakedness.
The very first thing she should do is forget the entire episode. Dismiss it from her mind. Eradicate it, even if it was very difficult.
Especially since she could see him even when she closed her eyes.
She should concentrate on other thoughts—such as how she was to survive these two horrible days without losing her position.
The very last thing she should be thinking about was the Earl of Denbleigh, naked or clothed.
Chapter 8
RULES FOR STAFF: Never initiate conversation with your betters.
Whenever he’d disobeyed an order or was guilty of some infraction, Morgan had been called to the library and made to stand in front of his father’s acres-wide carved desk. Rumor had it the desk had been crafted in France, a gift of one branch of the MacCraigs. Remembering Jean’s story of the French Nun, he wondered now if the desk had some connection.
He’d never been punished for his misdeeds. Instead, he’d had to explain himself in detail. If there was discipline meted out, his nurse was the one to switch him.
What explanations had he given in this exact spot? He’d wanted to explore, rather than study his letters. He didn’t want to come to supper as much as he wanted to collect frogs. And he wanted scones and biscuits more than he’d wanted anything.
Back then Cook had taken credit for his growing height, and the fact by the time he’d turned thirteen he could look his father in the eye.
Standing there, all those years, had been a lesson in itself. How to keep his pride and at the same time be humble enough to admit his mistakes.
He moved around the desk and sat in his father’s chair, half expecting to be chastised for doing so. He stood again, walked to the windows and threw open the drapes, letting the Highland night into the room. Despite the hour, the sky showed no sign of darkening, and wouldn’t until near midnight.
The air was rife with the scent of leather, sandalwood, and tobacco, the same scents that had been there all those years ago.
He returned to the desk, sat, and surveyed his father’s library. This time, not with the viewpoint of a penitent, but as the Earl Denbleigh.
If the circumstances were altered, and he was fortunate enough to have progeny in the future, would he send for his son to stand before this desk? Would he make the boy stand there until he finished with his work, then slowly put down his pen, look up, and survey him with grave disapproval?
Morgan would have been more comfortable with a beating than his father’s disappointment.
He’d wanted to be like his father, more than anyone else. The man was beloved by everyone, a hero in Scotland, a statesman, a man renowned for his honor and wisdom. After Morgan’s mother had died at his birth, his father never remarried. Nor had he kept a mistress. If he had female companionship, the world—and Morgan—didn’t know of it.
Morgan had watched his father with an eye to being just like him.
As a boy he’d even tried to emulate his father’s walk, gestures, and way of speaking. He followed behind his father, listening as he’d given instructions, making mental notes of the way the man stood, arms folded, feet apart. On those mornings when they walked through Ballindair, he learned a great deal. To always talk to others with dignity. To speak only the truth or withhold it when provident, but never lie. To value those possessions you held in trust, and think not only of your forebearers, but those who will come after you.
When he cried at the death of his beloved dog, his fath
er had bent down and whispered in his ear, “Toughen up, lad.”
Morgan had taken the comment to heart. No one ever saw him cry after that, regardless of the provocation. He learned how to be stoic. He could experience a number of emotions without anyone knowing.
Except for lust. He’d been blindsided by lust.
The disaster that had become his life began innocently enough at a house party hosted by the Duke of Blankenship. He’d found himself supremely bored. The hunting was good, and the horseflesh was magnificent. But he’d much rather have been at home, in his library, working on a new proposal before the House of Lords, than standing and watching the dancing.
He’d hired a dancing master two years earlier, someone who was reputed to be an excellent teacher. Perhaps he was a lost cause, because the Frenchman—Monsieur Doran—declared him incapable of learning. He was told that he had neither the grace nor the patience for dancing.
Therefore, he had carefully avoided all occasions such as the house party, and would have left had the Duke of Blankenship not indicated a desire to talk to him about the new Poor Law.
“Are you alone?”
He had turned, then, to find himself facing Lillian Carstairs, a beauty of the past two seasons. Lillian was not, rumor had it, eager to be married. Four suitors had gone to her father, and all of them had been rebuffed.
Little had he known her father was holding out for a richer man.
That night, her dress had been pale green and she wore emeralds at her throat and ears. Her blond hair was upswept, with ribbons the same color of her dress woven through the curls.
“I’m not alone now,” he said.
Her smile was doing something to his stomach.
Her heart-shaped face was dominated by warm brown eyes and a mouth perhaps too large for conventional beauty.
Lillian was gloriously created, with high, full breasts, wide hips, and a narrow waist. Her creamy shoulders were revealed as often as possible, as were the plump tops of those fulsome breasts.
She was lust personified, and her smile hinted she knew it only too well.
The fact that she’d singled him out should have been a warning. Perhaps he’d been arrogant in those days, or simply lonely.