If You Give A Girl A Viscount ib-4

by Kieran Kramer

  “It’s a go,” she finally said, her profile stern, her brow furrowed. “And only because you can’t challenge a Highland girl’s spunk. When the sun rises over that branch”—she pointed to a beech tree—“the contest is over. But the kiss will be brief, and no one shall ever know.”

  “Done,” he said.

  Not a word passed between them as they cast their lines. She was concentrating. He could tell. She was anxious to best him.

  He pulled in another fish.

  She got two.

  Within a half hour, they were neck and neck.

  She sighed. “I suppose you can’t fish and contemplate ideas for raising four hundred pounds, all at the same time?”

  She looked at him with a spark of challenge in her eyes.

  “You supposed wrong,” he answered. “It’s been on my mind since the first moment you mentioned it. It’s why I’m here, after all.”

  The sun was baking the grass dry. Soon, it would rise above the beech tree’s branch, which extended like a long arm over the water.

  “What ideas have you?” She sounded anxious to know.

  “The most important thing is to identify a source of the four hundred pounds,” he said. “We’re here in a remote corner of Scotland. Who here has that sort of money? The next question to ask is: why would they hand it over to us?”

  Miss Montgomery attached another worm to her hook. “The villagers and farmers aren’t well off in the least. Even if they pooled their resources, I’m sure they wouldn’t have that amount. And then there’s Mr. Beebs, the overseer at the Keep. He’s been there for several years. He might as well be the owner himself. But he’s not. So I don’t think he has the funds.”

  “Who does own the Keep?”

  “Mr. Beebs is very quiet and doesn’t talk about them. Probably because absentee property owners aren’t looked fondly upon by the locals. They became quite prolific after the Clearances, of course.”

  Charlie looked up at the fortress on the side of Ben Fennon. The Keep was a spectacular example of castle architecture. Its windows sparkled, the grounds were immaculate, and the building itself, with its scarlet pennants waving stiffly in the Highland breezes, had a general air of prosperity about it.

  “Mr. Beebs’s employers must spare no expense to keep it looking so fine,” Charlie guessed.

  “True, and it’s why the village endures his presence. Occasionally, he employs local help to maintain the castle and its grounds, although many times he resorts to using craftsman and laborers from Edinburgh, Glasgow, or even England, depending on the project.”

  “Have you been inside?”

  “No. But according to the villagers who’ve had that privilege, the interior’s as lavish now as it was back then. Hester says it used to be a showpiece—the heart and soul of Glen Dewey. But since Mr. Beebs took up residence, no one visits anymore. The Highland games and the subsequent ceilidh—all held on the Keep’s grounds—ceased, as well.”

  “That’s a shame.” And Charlie truly felt it was. “Can you not hold the festivities at Castle Vandemere?”

  “I suppose we could, although it wouldn’t be the same. We cling to the side of a cliff here, and our grounds aren’t nearly as extensive as those at the Keep. Vandemere itself is small and snug, more charming than the Keep, in my opinion, but it’s hardly adequate for a ceilidh grand enough for all of Glen Dewey to attend. But you’re right. The Keep’s inaccessibility is all the more reason to keep Vandemere from crumbling. The locals need some reminder of our history and a recollection of the traditions that bind us. It’s no accident that since Mr. Beebs has been in residence, village morale is the lowest it’s ever been.”

  While she was speaking, she caught another trout.

  She was now in the lead.

  Charlie attended to his own line, baiting it with the largest worm he could find in the flannel bag. “All right, then. No one here has four hundred pounds. We’ll have to go outside Glen Dewey to find it, perhaps to wealthy folk who don’t know about its treasures. People like those travelers at Brawton who dropped me nearby.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Montgomery.

  “Do they stalk deer in Brawton?” He pulled in two more trout. He was winning now.

  Miss Montgomery shook her head. “It has only fishing to recommend it.”

  “They certainly don’t have Joe’s whisky, either.” Just remembering how good it was made Charlie happy.

  “Nor has Brawton ever had a Highland games,” Miss Montgomery said.

  “Do they have any castles there?” Suddenly, Charlie was praying they didn’t.

  “No.”

  He saw Miss Montgomery’s eyes gleam with something … he hoped something along the lines of what he was thinking. “You said yourself at dinner last night—Glen Dewey has all that’s best about the Highlands.”

  She nodded vigorously. “But we’ve no inn. We’re not set up to host visitors, especially lots of them at once.”

  “But that’s what you need—many visitors at once. Rich ones. People who’ll pay to stay somewhere in style. People who want … the Highland experience.”

  “I like that,” she said. “The Highland experience. Perhaps they could stay with us at Castle Vandemere.”

  “It’s too small.”

  She winced. “And it’s not very grand. Not at the moment.”

  Something zinged between them. A flash of understanding.

  “We need a place like the Keep,” Charlie said.

  Miss Montgomery said it, too, at the very same time.

  And then he noticed that the sun was over the branch of the beech tree.

  “I won,” the viscount said, a slow grin spreading over his face.

  Daisy was so excited about the idea forming in her head, she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “I won the bet,” he explained further, and held up the sack of trout.

  “Oh, that.” She whirled away from him to stare at the Keep. Was it the solution to her money woes? “We’ll worry about the bet later. Let’s think about the Keep. Can we borrow it?”

  It was an outrageous idea.

  “You can always ask.” Lord Lumley grabbed her wrist. “And we won’t think about the bet later. Now’s more like it.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “But the bet’s not important—not in the least.”

  “Which is why we need to get it out of the way. I won’t be able to fully concentrate on the task at hand while it’s hanging in the air between us.”

  “I don’t feel it hanging in the air at all.” She huffed.

  “That’s because you’re all business. It’s time you had some fun.”

  “This is an inopportune moment.” She flapped her hands at her sides. “We have an idea. A marvelous idea.”

  “It’s never the wrong time.”

  Never?

  “Not even during church?” she demanded to know.

  “That’s the best time.” His voice was like silk.

  “Are you saying you’ve kissed someone during church?”

  “Behind the church. Does that count?”

  “Yes. And it’s very bad of you.”

  “Don’t criticize until you try it.” He stood at the ready.

  She leaned up and then—

  She pulled back. “I can’t. What if someone sees?”

  “No one will observe us,” he said, “especially if we retreat here.” He pulled her behind the beech tree.

  She bit her lip. “I have to do this fast. Cassandra would be furious if she knew. And I can’t risk that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She and my stepmother have threatened to get rid of Hester and Joe if I spend too much time with you. And that can’t happen. They mean more to me than anyone in this world. So please—don’t push me.”

  Concern lit his eyes. “They’d do that?”

  Daisy nodded. “Even though I’m supposed to be your fiancée, Cassandra still plans to be your viscountess.”

&n
bsp; “Have they made any other threats to you?”

  Daisy hesitated. She could never tell him about the other. “No,” she lied. “But that one is enough.”

  “I should say so.”

  “I’m warning you now,” she said, “to be prepared in case I appear standoffish in their presence.”

  “I see. But you’re standoffish now, too.”

  “No I’m not. You’re used to flirts in London. I’ve no interest in flirting.”

  “Why not?”

  The viscount’s was a face that had probably caused many a virgin to consider leaping into bed with him.

  “Because I have responsibilities,” she enunciated clearly, more for her own benefit than his. She wished she were one of those badly behaved virgins—it wasn’t as if she’d ever get married, here in a remote village with a dearth of young men. She wished she didn’t have to rebuff him. But it was true. She did have responsibilities.

  Besides, you don’t deserve what your parents had. Never. Ever.

  She closed her eyes against an image of Cousin Roman with his glib smile and open shirt and wished she didn’t have to say such cruel things to herself.

  But she did.

  She must.

  “Are you all right?” Lord Lumley’s words, rich and rough, penetrated her thoughts.

  She opened her eyes again.

  His gaze was intense, worried, his face mere inches from her own. “Surely even a young lady with responsibilities can find some time for amusement.”

  She shook her head. “Not until Castle Vandemere is safely back in my possession.”

  And not even then, she thought, although she’d never tell him.

  “Then I am more committed than ever to securing those funds,” he said, oblivious to her inner turmoil, so unaware how deep it went, how unchangeable her position was.

  After Mama died, Papa used to call her his North Star. It was a loving observation—his whole world revolved around her, he’d said. But now she felt she must be pinned to the sky like a fixed point, reaching and shining … but never blurring her borders.

  Never touching.

  Never connecting.

  “I’d like to see you lighthearted, Miss Montgomery,” the viscount said. “I’d like to see you bat your lashes at me and beg me with your eyes to kiss you behind a rhododendron bush, after a picnic. Do you go to picnics?”

  “No.” She couldn’t help it. Despite her dark thoughts, she laughed. “You’re impossible, Lord Lumley.”

  “So some people say.” His mouth tipped up, but he said it as if he were very lonely. And as if she were the only person in the world who could make him happy again.

  He was a roué.

  She knew it, but even so, something propelled her out of her darkness. It urged her to lift up on her tippy toes and kiss him. Full on the mouth.

  He kissed her back.

  Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kept kissing him, all the while feeling like a tree with loving branches enveloping a needy boy-turned-man who’d come to sit among her leaves and admire her.

  Which made no sense, but for some reason, she felt as if she’d known him for a lifetime—and that this branchy-tree feeling she had when she was kissing him was natural.

  Perfectly natural.

  Like the eddies on the burn. And the snap of grass drying in the sun. And the sigh of the wind brushing the mountainside.

  I must be dreaming, Daisy thought.

  I’m a hussy, she realized.

  And rather liked the idea.

  A few weak-kneed moments later, the viscount released her.

  “I can think again now,” he said. “And the first thing I’m thinking is that we will never do that again.”

  “Right.” She felt vastly disappointed and concerned that perhaps she was a very bad kisser. But he was good to remind her they shouldn’t. They couldn’t risk it.

  “At least not anywhere your stepmother and stepsisters can see,” Lord Lumley continued. “I wouldn’t dare put your Hester and Joe in peril.”

  “No. Never.” She felt vaguely hopeful again. And guilty. Nothing could ever imperil Joe and Hester.

  “So have no fear,” the viscount said. “Next time, we’ll be completely secluded, so you can enjoy yourself.”

  Her head was still spinning, and her lips were tingling. “But I did enjoy myself.”

  “Not as much as you could,” he said.

  “There will be no next time,” she reminded him, because she did have fear—those fears about Hester and Joe. And the other fear, the one the Furies had taunted her with last night. But she was also angry that things had gotten to this point—that her stepfamily had made her so afraid that she couldn’t live without worrying about people she loved.

  “What strategy will you employ with Mr. Beebs to get him to agree to our using the Keep?” asked the viscount.

  Not only had he completely changed the subject, he appeared to be thinking clearly, while she was still blinking, trying to forget the feel of his hand caressing her back and his lips teasing her own.

  “Mr. Beebs doesn’t mix with the neighborhood,” she said, “but it appears he has a fondness for Cassandra. Perhaps he’ll say yes for that reason alone.”

  But inside, she was thinking that the viscount’s lips had done magic, had cast her under a spell in which she couldn’t concentrate on anything but getting another kiss.

  “Then Cassandra should ask him,” he said.

  “Ask him what?”

  “If we can borrow the Keep.” Lord Lumley squinted at her. “Are you listening?”

  “Of course.” Daisy blushed and gave a nervous shrug. “I wouldn’t recommend that. Cassandra’s so rude, Mr. Beebs might catch on she doesn’t like him. No, I think I’d better. Let’s go. Right away.” She began the walk to the Keep, hugging herself as she stumbled along, wondering if their idea was so preposterous that Mr. Beebs would laugh it off or call the constable.

  But she was also thinking about how she’d kissed the viscount.

  Three times now.

  Lord Lumley joined her with all their fishing gear and the bag of trout. “If Mr. Beebs says yes, we’ll have to make a plan.”

  Her hand swung close to his side, the side with the trout. But she was thinking about how she’d seen that hole in the back of his breeches the day before and how sad it was that he wasn’t wearing the same pair any longer.

  “Mr. Beebs has a skeleton staff at the Keep,” she managed to say. “But we’ll need extra maids, cooks, and footmen.”

  “Will the men from the village be willing to lead a hunt and pull together a small Highland games?”

  “I hope so.” Daisy was actually a bit worried about that. “They don’t get along the way they used to. All the village’s problems used to be resolved during the games and the hunt. Now differences simmer.”

  “Is it the same with the women?”

  “Yes. They’ve become quite catty, mainly because their husbands are testy with each other. But we’ll need them, as well, to do the cooking for the hunt and the games.”

  “What about the ceilidh?”

  “We’ll need everyone to dance. And we must have fiddlers and pipers.”

  They were halfway to the Keep now.

  The viscount’s nearness was still affecting her.

  “Even if only half of the anglers come back to Glen Dewey,” he said, “we could make your four hundred pounds. They were rich. They spent vast sums freely. They were also fascinated by the idea of kilts and clans and all the things that Sir Walter Raleigh writes about. I must admit, I am, too. If I had access to my usual wealth, I’d be the first to jump at the chance to stay at the Keep and play Highland warrior.”

  “That’s wonderful to know.” Daisy allowed herself the luxury of imagining him in a kilt for a fleeting second before returning to matters at hand. “But what’s even better is that this will be a boost to Glen Dewey. We need some excitement. And an infusion of money. If Mr. Beebs says yes and the vent
ure goes well, perhaps we can repeat it. The village will take on new life.”

  They were at the door of the Keep. She was just about to knock when the massive castle door opened.

  It was Mr. Beebs himself, dressed in walking clothes and carrying a pair of opera glasses. He was of medium height and medium build, somewhere in his late thirties, and was distinguished by a high-spirited air and his prematurely snow-white hair, which he wore cut straight across his forehead.

  “Oh!” he cried. “I was about to go on a hike.”

  Daisy made the introductions.

  He apologized right away for employing no butler as no one came to visit. “It’s awfully quiet at the Keep. But it’s a fine family you’re staying with, Lord Lumley, full of lovely ladies.”

  Daisy was sorry he didn’t often visit Castle Vandemere because he was really a very nice gentleman.

  She smiled back. “Yes, Miss Cassandra is busy today.”

  “Is she?” Mr. Beebs squinted at a bird that flew overhead.

  “She’s so clever,” said Daisy, hoping he was listening. “She’s … making candles right now.”

  Which was a lie.

  “She’s awfully clever,” echoed the viscount.

  Mr. Beebs cocked his head. “Clever girl.”

  A silence came over them, and then Daisy let out a sigh and folded her hands. “We were wondering, Mr. Beebs—”

  “Yes?” His curious gray eyes bored into hers.

  “We were wondering if—” Daisy bit her lip. How would she put it?

  And then she simply laid out everything. Not in any particular order. She noticed Mr. Beebs slowly nodding his head occasionally as if he didn’t quite understand what she was getting at, but eventually, he nodded his head at a faster tempo—much faster—and said, “Right, I see,” over and over.

  “Well?” She tried not to hold her breath.

  The overseer winced. “I don’t know about that. It’s quite a hefty proposition.”

  “But—”

  “No, I’m sorry, Miss Montgomery. It won’t work.”

  “If we give you a portion of the profits?” Charlie suggested.

  Mr. Beebs shook his head. “I don’t need any money.”

  Daisy bit her lip. “I’m so sorry to hear this, Mr. Beebs. I—I was looking forward to the men’s dance competition, especially the sword dance. Rumor has it you were once a champion sword dancer yourself, where you grew up, near Aberdeen. Of course, that’s probably a silly story—”