He sighed and glanced to the door. It was still cracked, the cold gusting through the small opening. He moved to shut it. They really needed to be on their way. They didn’t have time for this delay.
Fenella continued, “I ken just the thing tae help ye.”
He looked back at her warily. “What do you mean?”
She wagged a finger. “Wait ’ere.”
“Wake Angus,” he called after her. “And fetch your things. We need tae be on our way posthaste.”
“Aye, I’ll rouse him,” she muttered. “That man would sleep through doomsday.”
He watched her shuffle away, a tight anxiety gripping his chest. It had been there since the moment he’d heard about the brigands and realized Fenella and Angus were all alone here and at their mercy. Now, after finding the girl also here, the tightness in his chest squeezed harder.
He’d known Fenella and Angus since he was a boy and his cousin lived here . . . before his cousin lost his inheritance in some stupid card game to Ballister. He’d practically lived under this very roof after his parents had died, cleaving to his older cousin. That was until Dougall decided to go frolicking about, spending money he did not possess. Last he’d heard, Dougall was traipsing his way through Europe. Damn irresponsible fool.
He waited tensely, pacing a short line and glancing to the high window where snow fell against a backdrop of night. Calder doubted the uncomfortable sensation in his chest would relent until he was safely back at Glencrainn with his charges. He winced. Even if that meant he was now stuck with a title-hungry heiress. Taking the Ballister lass home with him would undoubtedly compromise her, but there was nothing he could do to prevent that. He couldn’t abandon her here.
He cast another quick glance to the door. The brigands typically raided at night and he doubted they would leave this keep out of their sights, especially given its state of low occupancy. It would just be a matter of time before they struck such a plum mark. These thieves were ghosts. They clearly had friends willing to shelter them. Otherwise Calder and his men would have found them. God knew they had tried.
Even his home, which was more formidable and held far more occupants, was at risk. These brigands were bold and well-numbered. He could only hope that tonight was not the night they planned to strike either place.
He glanced in annoyance at the stairs. Hopefully Miss Ballister wasn’t packing anything more than a simple valise. He wasn’t hauling a trunk atop his horse.
Finally, he heard the tread of steps. He turned to see Fenella lugging a bag and a book. Her gnarled hands patted at the worn leather skin of the tome she hugged close to her chest. “It’s right in ’ere,” she remarked, as though he’d asked.
He eyed the book dubiously. “What’s that?”
She leaned forward and whispered, “Magic.”
He blinked, an uneasy feeling rippling over his skin. “Magic?”
She nodded in satisfaction. “Aye, ’tis a recipe book that was given tae me many years ago by my cousin, Fergus.” Her eyes sparked.
“It’s necessary tae bring your recipe book?”
“Dinna ye ’ear me? There’s magic in these pages. One recipe in particular.” She tapped the well-worn leather. “This thing is worth more than gold. I canna leave it here for those scoundrels tae steal.” She stared at him in affront, as though he had suggested he leave her child behind. “As soon as we reach Glencrainn, I’ll whip up some of my special biscuits and we’ll fix ye right up and end this nonsense. One bite and ye’ll see that ye and the lass are perfect for each other.” She nodded in the direction of where Miss Ballister had once stood before the girl left.
“Fenella.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Are you telling me this is a book of . . . spells?”
“Bite yer tongue. I’m no witch.” She looked over her shoulder as though someone might be lurking about to hear such a dire allegation. “I’m merely a housekeeper who puts a little something extra special in ’er food.”
“Special? As in . . . magic?” he clarified.
“Indeed.”
And she wouldn’t call that witchery? These brigands, the unexpected presence of the Ballister lass and now this? His head was starting to throb. “Don’t tell me you think that book contains a recipe for . . . ”
She cackled and nodded in satisfaction. “’Tis no ordinary shortbread, to be certain. Love biscuits. Aye. That be a more correct description.”
She. Was. Daft. He really should keep her away from the sharp cutlery.
“I’m ready.”
He looked up as Miss Ballister descended the stairs, her lofty English tones chafing his quickly fraying nerves.
She was dressed in a deep blue wool riding habit with jeweled buttons down the bodice jacket. She wore matching gloves trimmed with fur at the wrists. Fine leather boots peeked out from beneath her hem. He was certain she was the height of fashion. He’d seen nothing of the like in these parts—nothing of such quality in any of the local villages or even when he visited Inverness. If the thieves spotted her in her finery they would unquestionably abduct her for a ransom. Better than death, he supposed.
He looked away from her. She was dangerous. A title-hungry, marriage-minded English girl left without a chaperone in his company. She was a contagion he needed to avoid.
He knew the Ballisters were obscenely rich, each daughter an heiress in her own right. He had made certain to learn all he could about the people who were to be his closest neighbors. Not that he had to probe too deeply. His barrister in Glasgow had answered all his inquiries. Evered Ballister made his wealth in railways and Mrs. Ballister was renowned through British society for her determination to see her daughters wed into the aristocracy.
As Calder’s grandfather had been awarded the title of Duke of Sinclair for his service at Waterloo, Calder knew it would only be a matter of time before the Ballister females showed up on his doorstep. A duke was a duke, after all. Even if his pockets didn’t run as deep as the Ballisters. Even if he was Scottish and master of a mere run-down Highlands castle.
Staring at the most palatable of the Ballister daughters, suspicion niggled in the back of his mind. He could almost imagine they left her here on purpose. Deliberately.
If the scheming Mrs. Ballister knew anything of winter in these parts, it would not be too difficult to conceive such a plan. However, how could she have anticipated the brigands terrorizing homes throughout the countryside? That was too farfetched.
Angus emerged with a small knapsack in tow. “No’ keen on being murdered in m’bed. Let’s be off then.”
Calder nodded and relieved Miss Ballister of her bag, pausing as he noticed Fenella’s rheumy gaze narrowing on the two of them. She doubtless read far too much into the simple courtesy. He recognized the cunning there. She was probably wondering how soon she could get her damnable love biscuits down his throat.
“I’ll need use of yer kitchen,” Fenella declared, seeming to confirm his suspicion. “Hope yer cook won’t stand in my way.” She gave a militant nod.
Fenella and his cook would definitely be coming to blows. His cook would not be a fan of another person invading her kitchen.
He turned for the door, more eager than ever to be on his way. He needed a respite from Fenella’s ridiculous notions.
Miss Ballister arched an eyebrow as he pulled open the door. “Something amiss?”
“Nay,” Fenella quipped, patting her book and stepping out ahead of them into the bitter cold. “Once ye each have some of my biscuits, all will be well.”
Miss Ballister’s smooth forehead knitted in bewilderment as she lifted her fur-lined cloak off her arm and slid it over her shoulders. “Biscuits?”
“Och, no more talk of yer love biscuits, woman,” Angus snapped.
“Those biscuits are responsible for many a merry match,” Fenella countered in indignant tones. “The vicar and the Widow Grant and the smithy’s son? The lad can thank me for the Orson lass even looking at him.”
“Love b
iscuits?” Miss Ballister echoed as she stepped outside, her voice twisting into a sharp gasp of shock at the sudden cold.
Calder lifted the flaps of his greatcoat to better ward off the bite of frigid air. “She speaks of shortbread. Nothing more. Ignore Fenella,” he advised as Angus locked the keep’s great front door behind them. A feeble precaution. With this place empty, the brigands would make short work of the windows.
“Much luck with that,” Angus grunted, tucking the keys back inside his coat before turning and moving into the sharp angle of wind and snow. “Fenella is no’ one tae be ignored on any matter.”
“Words tae heed,” Fenella chimed in with a hard nod, her pointed gaze flipping back and forth between Calder and the lass. “Words tae heed.”
Shaking his head, Calder turned for the stable, but stalled as he glimpsed the twitch of Miss Ballister’s smile on her full lips. Pink, plump lips parting enough to reveal her teeth—straight white teeth save for one incisor that was slightly crooked. That tiny imperfection fascinated and drew his gaze, tightening his stomach muscles. Her smile was a bit of sunshine amid this winter’s night.
He looked away. No sense looking for sunshine in this storm. “Let’s make haste.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Of course Sinclair had only brought three horses. He wasn’t counting on her presence.
As there were no other horses in the stables—her family took them all when they departed – four people would have to mount three horses. Mathematics had never been her strongest subject. She was much more suited to history and science and languages, and yet even she knew the numbers didn’t compute. Two of them would ride one horse.
Annis knew that fate was to be hers even before she felt the duke’s gaze land on her. She could do nothing more than squeak as his hands circled her waist and lifted her, plopping her on the saddle. He swung up behind her and gathered the reins.
She rode wedged snugly against him. There was no other choice, but that did not stop the awkward embarrassment. No man had ever held her this closely. Especially no man like him. A man that affected her senses.
Cold wrapped around them. If they took to a path it was not in evidence, eaten up in swirls of wind and writhing snow flurries.
The snow fell in a deluge, pelting hard at the exposed skin of her face and neck, heedless of her hood. She would be quite wet by the time she reached his home. That made her squirm uneasily. She’d read plenty of accounts of people who died when exposed too long to conditions like this.
Despite the elements, they forged ahead, traversing at a steady clip. Even with warm pinpricks of embarrassment rushing over her from the proximity of the duke’s body to her own, she could not stop shivering. Her fur-trimmed cloak had been perfectly suitable in Town, but it wasn’t enough to ward off this Highland wind.
Sinclair muttered something and pulled her against his chest. She’d been trying so valiantly to keep herself from leaning back into him. Now he brought her in closer, opening his greatcoat to snuggle her inside, sharing his warmth.
She parted her chattering teeth. “You don’t have to—”
“Quiet,” he growled.
She sniffed. “You don’t have to be rude—”
“You’re shaking so hard I can hear your teeth clacking.”
She brought her gloved hands to her mouth and blew air into them, trying to do what she could to warm herself. They continued on through the winter night. It was almost eerily quiet, only the murmur of snow and the whisper of wind and hooves lifting and falling.
She thought about her family. They were undoubtedly tucked in for the night at some inn, warm under the covers. Her sisters were likely squabbling, the sheer number of them forcing them to share beds. She knew they were loathing every moment of that and not giving her a passing thought. Shaking off the grim reminder of the family who left her behind, she redirected her attention.
“How far is it?” When she’d made the trip with her family it had been by carriage and they had stuck to a road.
Sinclair didn’t reply. She sought to fill the silence. “Fenella,” she began. “She’s … interesting. A bit eccentric.”
“Aye. You could say that. Interesting. Eccentric. Possibly senile. Possibly a witch. She’s fortunate she’s well-favored enough in these parts and hasn’t been dragged tae trial.” Annis felt his shrug around her and it only made her more aware, more sensitive to the endless breadth of his chest. “Does one ever really know?”
“A witch? Surely you jest.” She twisted around for a glimpse of his face to see if he was serious. She could read nothing of his expression. However, she was treated to the reminder of how very handsome he was. Blue eyes and midnight hair. His eyelashes would be the envy of any woman. She quickly faced forward again, her breath falling a little faster.
“What would you call a woman who believes in magical shortbread?” he asked with a snort.
She released a slow gust of air, rolling that question over in her mind. She rotated her shoulders and snuck a glance at the old woman in question. Fenella wore a stoic expression, staring straight ahead, but her lips moved in private conversation, talking to herself. She wasn’t close enough for Annis to hear the words. Were they some manner of incantation?
“You might have had the right of it with senility.” Because certainly there was no such thing as magic biscuits. Absurd.
“Och. You mean you don’t believe in spells or the power of love biscuits?”
Annis twisted one shoulder in a semblance of a shrug, suddenly feeling a little bad for Fenella. “To be fair, there are some things, many things in this life, that are beyond logical explanation.”
“You do believe in such fanciful notions then?”
“I didn’t say that.” She bristled at the mere suggestion. She was not like other girls. She was not like her sisters. She did not believe there was a knight in shining armor out there for her. She didn’t believe romance and love were fated. Nor was the dramatic fluff within novels the stuff of reality. “What brought about this talk of love biscuits anyway? What does a love biscuit even do…purportedly?”
“Oh, did you no’ realize?”
Annis shook her head, for some reason nervous. The horse whinnied, jangling its bridle, as though sensing her sudden unease.
“She intends tae make these biscuits for me,” he explained.
“For you?”
“Aye, tae make certain that I’m amenable tae your charms, Miss Ballister. Fenella believes her infernal biscuits capable of weaving some influence in matters of the heart.”
Her mouth opened and shut several times, her mortification only deepening. She might have escaped Mama’s matchmaking efforts but now she had to contend with Fenella? Suddenly his bigger body beside her felt like a boulder, its shadow deep and impossible to escape. She leaned forward to sever contact between them. “What absurdity!”
Annis turned around as much as she could, glaring at Fenella who trotted a few yards behind them, her lips still moving in conversation. The momentary pity she felt for the old woman vanished.
Her gaze shifted to the duke. “Why would she do that? Why would she want us …” She couldn’t even say it aloud. It was too farfetched. This was worse than with her own mother. Mama had not attempted to match her specifically to him. She’d tossed all her unattached daughters at his head in the hopes one might ensnare him. Annis felt uncomfortably targeted.
“Apparently she likes you, Miss Ballister. She likes you a great deal.”
She digested that. She had spent a good bit of time chatting with the housekeeper over the last fortnight. Fenella’s company was an improvement over her sisters, after all. She hadn’t realized it would plant such notions in the old woman’s head.
“And for that she thinks we should … attach ourselves?”
“Indeed, she does.”
“We don’t even know each other.” Yet. She would be under his roof for months.
“That’s of no matter to her. She knows us and she li
kes us both, therefore she has decided we would pair well.”
“As soon as we reach your home, I shall persuade her to forget all about the idea of you and me.” And all about her silly love biscuits.
He grunted in response to that and she felt him shift in the saddle against her. Heavens. He was hard. Solid. Definitely not like her soft and pudgy father. Even Imogen’s husband-to-be was nothing like him. The baron might be young, but he was an inch shorter than Annis and as plump and squishy as a babe.
The difference between this man and the men of her acquaintance was glaring. However much she rejected the idea of him as attractive, her body wholeheartedly accepted his appeal.
She shivered, and this time she wasn’t entirely certain it was a result of the cold.
“This cloak of yours is ill suited for this weather.”
“I’m not as accustomed as you are to this clime.”
“Did you no’ explain that tae your parents?”
“My parents?” What did her parents have to do with the weather here?
“Aye, when they sent you knocking on my door in the hopes that you might win me, did you explain tae them that Highland winters did no’ suit you?”
“Win you?” Indignation flared in her chest. It was bad enough Fenella was playing matchmaker, but he thought she was complicit in her parents’ machinations?
Sinclair continued, “I confess I dinna see myself as such a prize, but this pesky title of mine is quite another thing. It’s a yoke about my neck, but coveted by many.”
“Well, not by me!”
“Indeed.” The single word was rife with disbelief.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Your title is no lure to me, nor are you.” Contrary to how attractive she found him. “It would take more than a title to induce me to marriage.”
She tossed her head inside her overly large hood. Her ice-caked hair struck her cheeks in stinging pricks. She wished she had taken the time to pull the heavy mass up, but she had been in such a hurry.
“I should warn you,” he said near her ear. “Dinna feel encouraged because you’ve charmed Fenella. If you’ve designs on me, it’s pointless. No matter how long we are stuck together. I’ll no’ be bound tae one such as you.”
How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 21