The Maid of Inverness (The Marriage Maker Book 21)

by Rose Fairbanks

  Before Malcolm could react to his new understanding, Sir Stirling stood. “Russell, I think I will visit Laird Kincaid.”

  Malcolm’s heart fell. Was his hunt for the fourth young lady over? “Why?”

  Stirling grinned. “A Scot always rises to a challenge, of course—not to mention, where is our honor if we simply abandoned these flowers of Scotland?”

  Chapter Two

  The chirp of robins woke Marigold Kincaid for her morning chores. She arose, shook off soot from the kitchen hearthstones, where she’d fallen asleep the night before, and stretched. In most households, the cook slept in the kitchen, but Marigold could not bear to think of the good-natured, elderly lady sleeping on the hard and cold floor while she had a bed in the servants’ wing.

  She gathered kindling and knelt to light the cook fire.

  Years ago, her existence as an unpaid servant occasionally stung. As a child, she had only known the way her cousin’s household ran. As she aged, she realized most people did not house their cousins with the servants. Still, her life was better than many. She had food, shelter, and clothes. Miss Dottie, the cook, told her stories of her father, his beautiful American bride, and how much they loved her. The housemaids, Becky and Ruth, were her friends; the footmen, as protective as brothers.

  More than the fine gowns and luxurious meals her cousins enjoyed, Marigold craved independence. The servants could leave and find new situations. They could court and marry. Marigold could look forward to none of that. She had no dreams of promotion to lady’s maid or housekeeper. No hope of ever finding love. Cousin Nicholas and his wife, Priscilla, would never allow that.

  With the flames now licking larger sticks of wood, Marigold left to collect fresh water from the garden well. As she labored, she considered the book she had smuggled from the library last night. If she could not leave and have adventures herself, she could read about them.

  By the time she returned to the kitchen, Miss Dottie, Becky and Ruth had arrived. Dottie was making quick porridge for the servants before beginning on the family’s meal. After exchanging greetings, Marigold set to work on building the downstairs fires.

  In the summer, she could sleep an hour later than in the winter, and she didn’t have to awaken in the middle of the night to refresh the fires in bed chambers. For those reasons alone, she loved the summer. For now, though, she continued her morning chores.

  The family had just completed breakfast when an unknown gentleman arrived. As Marigold polished the furniture of the entry, she listened to the conversation in the drawing room. The man introduced himself as Sir Stirling James, and asked questions about her parents. Although Marigold knew it unwise, she crept closer to the door so as not to miss a word.

  “Pardon me for being so blunt, Laird Nicholas,” Sir Stirling said. “I am assisting a friend on a genealogical project. Your grandfather was David Kincaid?”

  “Yes, although I never knew him. He left for America shortly after my birth in ‘45.”

  “Indeed. And your parents stayed here with you?”

  “They died before I entered the school room.”

  “My condolences. Such a mean existence for a young child.”

  Cousin Nicholas remained silent for a moment, and then answered in a cold voice, “Relations took me in.”

  Marigold held her breath to keep from gasping. She had never known that about her cousin.

  “I see. They raised you well.” Sir Stirling spoke with what sounded like a perpetual smile. “Did you ever meet Angus and Mary Kincaid?”

  Marigold crept closer at the mention of her parents. Her cousins said nothing, and she trembled in the silence.

  “Forgive me,” Priscilla said abruptly. “I do not know why the refreshments have not arrived. Excuse me as I go speak with the maid.”

  Marigold frowned. She had not heard Priscilla order tea. Her cousins did not freely offer refreshments to visitors. Expecting Priscilla to head to the kitchen in the most direct route, she did not move from her position until she heard steps behind her. Turning, she came eye-to-eye with Priscilla’s steely glare.

  “You stupid girl,” she hissed. “Get out of here at once. Get down to the kitchen and tell Cook to hurry with tea.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marigold said with rehearsed obedience. “That man, did he know my parents?”

  Priscilla raised a hand in warning and instinct made Marigold cower. There was no time for questions. There was never time for questions about her parents. Marigold hurried to the kitchen.

  Once there, she gave Miss Dottie the message. As the cook set about making a refreshment plate and heating water, Marigold assisted and repeated what she overheard.

  “Do you think Sir Stirling knew my parents?”

  Dottie remained quiet for a moment. “I do not recall the name. He is from Inverness?”

  “I think so. A Scotsman, certainly.”

  “Then it is doubtful they were ever acquainted. Your parents did not meet many people in the limited time they were here. Most people turned up their noses at them.”

  Marigold lowered her eyes. “Because grandfather fled to America?”

  “You come from the same blood that your cousin does. It was the master’s grandfather too that left. Do you hear of his daughters being treated ill?”

  “No,” Marigold answered. “So, everyone in Inverness hated my parents because they were American?”

  Dottie sighed. “I expect they were an unpleasant reminder of the independence that most Scots had hoped for in ’45. Instead of fighting for it, they gave up. Your father returning from exile reminded people of those who stood for their principles and those who valued comfort. People didn’t like having to remember their failures.”

  The service bell to the drawing room rang incessantly, interrupting their conversation. “I’ll take this up. You go on to the market. Here’s the list.”

  “But I want to ask more—”

  “I said, go! The missus is going to be in a thundering mood, and you don’t need to be around for her ire. Shoo!”

  Dottie picked up the tray and left the kitchen as the drawing room bell rang again. She was right, of course. Priscilla was always upset after talking about Angus and Mary Kincaid. The cook was kind to attempt to spare Marigold the wrath of Priscilla. However, Marigold could not shake the feeling that Dottie sheltered her from the truth.

  Sighing, she gathered the basket she used for market days. She passed by the kitchen garden. In spring and summer, she spent hours tending the herbs and flowers. Gardening could be back-breaking work, but it was also her favorite task. She loved seeing something she nourished come to fruition.

  “Did my mother and father name me after the flower?” Marigold wondered aloud as she opened the garden gate and walked to the road leading to town. “They must have enjoyed gardening, as well.”

  A sliver of winter sun struck her, and Marigold felt its warmth in her soul, chasing her worries away. Her cousins may have never been affectionate, but they took her in when her parents died. She had not a penny to her name, but, truthfully, she was happy to do the servant’s work. She could not imagine being presented in Society like their daughters. Additionally, it was undoubtedly true that, as a child, they spent money on her care.

  The January wind blew, and she shivered, considering what might have happened to her as a child without parents had no one taken her in. Marigold was more than happy to repay the cost of her keep when she was too young to work.

  Marigold reached the market square, scanned Dottie’s list and then selected the purchases, taking time to greet each vendor. An hour later, she returned as the wind swirled around her. The earlier sunshine had retreated behind clouds. Marigold had spent the one hour of what passed for daylight in winter this far north at the market. Dusk fell quickly and would linger a few hours until darkness swallowed all the light.

  She had nearly reached home when she saw a man loitering near the kitchen door. His clothes appeared dirty and well-worn. Was he a thie
f? He wore no livery and was therefore unlikely to be a servant. Setting down her basket, she scooped up a handful of rocks near her feet.

  “You there,” Marigold threw a rock and hit his shoulder.

  “What the devil?” the stranger exclaimed.

  Anger overrode fear. She strode through the garden. “How dare you!”

  The man turned and glared at her. With a stormy expression, he came toward her. Marigold gulped and felt her throat constrict as her heart pounded. The man was far larger than she had thought. Indeed, larger than any she had ever met. Tall as a tree and as robust as one. She imagined him striking terror in the hearts of men wherever he went.

  She could not afford to stand frozen whilst a raging, lunatic man charged her. Air came to her lungs in erratic gasps and she ignored her wobbly legs as she sent another rock sailing through the air. It hit his forehead and he fell forward. Blood trickled from a gash and he moaned, but was neither dead nor unconscious. He rolled onto his back.

  “I will strike again if you dare move one more muscle,” she said, her voice high and shrill, her final rock gripped in her fist. “Bates,” she screamed, calling for the butler, but believed them too far from the house for anyone to hear. Should she run and alert them or subdue the would-be attacker?

  “Would you be quiet,” the man said in a more educated tone than she would have suspected from his dress. “I mean you no harm.”

  Slowly he raised to his elbows and fished a handkerchief from a pocket to apply to his wound. Marigold poised to strike again.

  “What were you doing?” she demanded.

  “Waiting for a maid.” He looked her over and glared.

  “Just any maid? Well, I am a maid for Mr. Kincaid. State your business.”

  “No, not you,” he shook his head. “The one I spoke with before. She had brown hair.”

  “Becky?” Marigold asked. “Oh, you were the man sweet on her!”

  “Me, sweet on her?” He laughed. “Hardly. She was the one sweet on me.”

  Marigold folded her arms over her chest. “You approached her first. You rose her hopes without a care! She cried for a week when you didn’t return, and now you are here without so much as an apology.”

  “Pardon me, Miss, but if I am to apologize, should it not be to her?”

  Tension released from Marigold’s frame as she recognized the truth of his words. “I am sorry for hurting you. Do you truly wish to speak with Becky?”

  The man removed the handkerchief, and Marigold’s breath caught. Despite the blood and slightly haggard appearance proving he had not seen a good meal or a good bed for some time. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. A small scar on his cheek, near his smile lines, lent character. Brilliant blue eyes glared up at her, and she felt like she was seeing a cloudless sky for the first time.

  “You have quite the aim,” he said and winced as he brought the handkerchief back to his head.

  “May I see?”

  Cautiously, Marigold approached, then gently removed his hand and inspected his head. The gash was not deep, but already it had begun to bruise.

  “You will not need a surgeon but let me get you to the kitchen for a poultice.” Instead of straightening, Marigold remained fixed in her crouch, staring into his eyes.

  “Miss?”

  His reply startled her, “Yes? Oh, of course.” She finally pulled away, allowing him to sit up. “Becky will be at chores, but if you can stay…”

  “I do not need to speak with Becky.” He shook his head and groaned. “Do not trouble yourself. It was foolish of me to come at all.”

  “She was quite taken with you…”

  “All the more reason for me to stay away,” he said, and grunted as he rose.

  “You did not return to woo her?”

  The man laughed and held out his hand to help Marigold to her feet. “The only one I want to woo is Mr. Kincaid. He owes me a sum but will not admit me. He avoids all his usual haunts. I only want what is mine.”

  Marigold felt his hand tense. Realizing he still held hers, she pulled it away. “You only used Becky as a means to enter the house?”

  “Admittedly, it was not my best plan.”

  She frowned. “That was hardly gentlemanly.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “I never made pretensions about such a thing.”

  Shrugging, she picked up her basket and turned to walk back to the kitchen. “You really should have your wound looked at.”

  “I’ve faced worse,” he said, but followed her. “What makes you so loyal to the Kincaids? I know he’s a fool with cruel tendencies. Miss Becky said he treats his cousin abominably and makes her serve them.”

  Flushing, Marigold searched for an answer. “I do not have to believe my employer is kind or deserving to believe in doing the right thing. I had thought you were a thief.”

  The man roared with laughter. “That would be the day! Although, it might very well take a thief to get back what he has stolen from me.”

  “Is it so much?” Marigold asked, biting her lower lip. Were Nicholas and the family in financial trouble?

  “Nothing to worry your head over,” he said. “I won’t try sabotage in his house again.”

  Marigold said nothing, anxious thoughts swirling.

  “You have grown quiet, Miss… May I have your name?”

  She glanced at him. “So you can treat me as you did Becky?”

  A smidgen of jealousy rose in her breast. Becky had said the man begged for a kiss. Thus far, she did not seem in danger of such a request, and yet a part of her wished for it.

  “If I vow to not come on his property again, may I know it?”

  “What use is your vow? I know nothing of your honor.” Marigold started to shift the heavy basket to her other arm. “I do not even know your name.”

  He put out a hand to stay her action and took the basket from her. “Douglas Randolph.” He bowed over her hand. “Well, may I know your name now?”

  Marigold felt the urge to giggle, but maintained her composure and started back toward the house. “If you could not recall Becky, you will never remember me. There’s a dozen Marys a mile.”

  She lied. Her cousins insisted she be Miss Mary when outside the house. As a maid, no one asked her surname. Marigold Kincaid, people remembered. Miss Mary, the maid, was invisible. Truly, she did not mind. Mary had been her mother’s name, and she would rather not be remembered as the miss who either allowed or deserved her family’s ill treatment.

  They reached the kitchen door. Mr. Randolph caught and squeezed her hand. “I will not forget the brave lass who felled me and then offered to nurse me.”

  Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed the back. A spark flew up her hand to her chest. He returned her basket.

  “Adieu, Miss Mary.” Randolph turned and left her at the kitchen door.

  She leaned against the door and watched him go until distance swallowed him. Suddenly, the door opened, and she almost fell in. Jack, the footman, caught her.

  “Marigold! We were beside ourselves with worry! Cook expected you home an hour ago.”

  “Do not make such a fuss,” she said as he shuffled her into the warm room. “I am sorry, I did not mean to worry anyone.”

  “Child, you must be frozen to the bone!” Dottie pulled her to the fire and threw a blanket around her shoulders, then pressed a cup of weak, hot tea into her hands.

  Despite spending such time in the frigid air, she felt warm all over. In the past, her one regret in being raised as a servant was the lack of warm gloves. Now, that lack seemed a blessing. Although the others spoke, her ears may have well been stuffed with cotton.

  For one glorious hour, Marigold had experienced something like adventure. She had made a new acquaintance and held his attention. Indeed, he even seemed to find her interesting. Despite her fondness for her new friend, she could not help her concern about what he said regarding her cousin. She would have to be careful, but she intended to find the truth.

&nbs
p; Chapter Three

  Douglas entered The Melrose, eager to shake off the cold and his wayward thoughts.

  “You been brawling?” A maid pointed at his forehead. “Mr. Russell won’t let you stay.”

  “No, this was an accident before I came in,” Douglas assured her, placed an order, then found a seat near the fire.

  By birth, he was heir to a dukedom. The younger son of a mean old cur, Douglas’s father married an actress. He had already married a woman of noble blood and sired an heir. Since his father’s early demise, Douglas and his mother were shunned by their aristocratic family. His uncle and brother were confirmed rakes, with no intentions of marrying and siring heirs. Three years ago, his grandfather passed. A year later, his uncle. A few weeks ago, he received notice that his half-brother had died, and Douglas was now the seventh Duke of Inverness.

  He had spent most of his adult life wandering, avoiding the duty which now fell to his shoulders. After his grandfather’s death, to avoid the ever-tightening noose, Douglas had traveled through the Scottish Highlands. When the hated news came, he desired to be as remote as possible. Anything to avoid the fate he dreaded. As such, he was no stranger to cold and, at times, hunger. He preferred to appear as a ne’er do well than a gentleman.

  Now, he was in Inverness, and his blue-blooded family circled him like hungry sharks. Why did he not dress better? Why did he look like a vagrant? How interesting he was to all of them now when for years they abandoned him and his mother to the kindness of the streets. Of course, his relatives had refused to acknowledge others as well. His great-uncle Robert had planned to marry an unsuitable woman. When he unexpectedly died, Eleanor St. Andrews was sent to America, and never heard from again.