Never Kiss a Scot: The League of Rogues - Book 10

by Lauren Smith

  Brock wanted Joanna to help secure new farm equipment so they could raise better crops to give his tenants a chance to not only survive, but thrive.

  “We are here,” he told Joanna as they rode into a small village. There were two rows of old black houses. Their dark interiors were less pleasant than the more recent structures called white houses that many tenants were building on other estates. He halted his horse by the first dwelling and slid to the ground. Then he helped Joanna down and escorted her to the door. It opened before he could knock.

  “My lord!” one of his best farmers greeted him. Dougal Ramsey was a tall, thin, but strong man in his forties with piercing blue eyes. His young wife, Annis, stood behind him, one hand resting on her lower back as she bent over a pot hanging above a fire in the hearth, her pregnant belly preventing her from reaching easily into the recesses of the fireplace.

  “Evening, Mr. Ramsey. I returned from Bath and brought my new wife to meet you and the other tenants.”

  “Married? My hearty congratulations to ye!” Ramsey grinned and waved them both inside. “Annis, put the kettle on for his lordship.”

  Annis blushed shyly at Brock and Joanna as they stepped inside. Two small barefooted children scampered around, the girl holding a doll made of straw and the older boy holding a wooden sword, swinging it at invisible opponents.

  “Elsbeth, Camden, his lordship is here. Go an’ wash up,” Annis commanded, then set about putting the kettle on. Brock shot a glance at Joanna, wondering what she thought of all this. It had to be so different from what she was used to. These cottages were bare inside, and the floors were simply the earth that the walls were built upon. The dark stone walls were grim and dark in color, and the thatched roofs offered dreary comfort in the winter and the rainy season.

  Brock had spent a few nights in these cottages in the winter when the icy winds of the Atlantic dragged its claws across the hills and valleys of most of Scotland. The dilapidated state of many of these black houses was further darkened by the fact that the only source of light came from the doorway and the small hole in the chimney. It wasn’t an easy way to live.

  Joanna’s stare moved about the gloomy home of Dougal and Annis, and he saw sorrow flash in her eyes.

  “’Tis wonderful to meet yer bonnie bride, my lord.” Dougal bowed to Joanna, and Annis did her best to curtsy.

  “Please, call me Joanna. Are these your lovely children?” She nodded at Camden and Elsbeth, who had stopped playing and were now standing solemnly by their parents’ sides, the doll and the wooden sword hanging limply from their hands.

  “This is Camden. He’s eight. And Elsbeth here is five.”

  Joanna bent down, a warm smile lighting up her face as she looked at the children.

  “That’s a lovely doll you have.”

  Elsbeth blushed shyly and held out the doll as though she was expected to give it up to please Joanna. It was something Brock suspected his father would have taught the tenants at a young age. He’d never let Brock spend much time around the tenants; he’d kept his sons busy with other things, like riding to Edinburgh to try to find markets to export the lamb they produced. Joanna took the doll from the little girl, gave it a hug, and passed it back to the child.

  “Thank you for sharing her with me. She’s lovely.” Joanna beamed at the girl, and the child smiled back hesitantly.

  “Tea’s ready.” Annis retrieved four plain white pottery cups and poured everyone tea. Brock and Joanna took their cups and sipped.

  “So, Dougal, how is everything for the tenants? I hope to make some changes here soon.”

  Dougal looked uncertainly at his wife. “Changes, my lord?”

  Brock set his cup down on the table. “Yes, I want to raise the wages you are paid for labor, and I’d like to explore building better housing for everyone.”

  Dougal blinked, and Annis’s eyes were suddenly overbright.

  “I believe we’d like that, my lord.” Dougal’s smile grew broader again.

  Brock felt suddenly bashful. After his father died, Brock enjoyed having the freedom to spend time among his tenants when he could, but he was aware that he would always be a laird to them. Bringing an English wife into their midst, he feared that they might be upset. But seeing Joanna’s easy and gentle nature with the tenants had filled him with hope. She wasn’t as distant with him now as she had been after they’d visited the stones. Coming here had been a good distraction from that upsetting conversation.

  “Well, I promised I’d see my wife home for dinner. I’ll be back in a few days to discuss the particulars of my plans.”

  Brock stood, and Joanna thanked Annis for the tea and waved to the children before she followed him outside. Her gaze swept over the other black houses, seeing the gille-wee-foots, the barefoot children running about while their parents toiled in the fields.

  Joanna drew close to him after she mounted her horse. “Brock, those houses must be so cold in the winter. How do they stay warm?”

  “Well, the houses are built on slopes, you see? And they keep cows at the bottom of the lower end of the homes on the back side where there is a partition. It makes it easy to remove waste, and the cows do provide some heat, because it warms the peat and the stones that make up the cottage walls.”

  “But the kitchen was bare. What do they eat?” Joanna’s eyes were wide with concern. Lord, she does have a big heart.

  “When times are thin, they can bleed the cattle. Not kill them, mind, but they can cut a flank or side and catch blood in bowls. It mixes well with oatmeal and milk to make cakes. Tastes terrible, but it does provide some nourishment.”

  “Blood? Oh, Brock, there has to be a better way.”

  “Scotland is a beautiful land, but she can also be harsh. We’ve learned how to survive any hardship. It has made us who we are. But as I told Mr. Ramsey, I’d like to explore better options. We must move with the times or risk those times leaving us behind.” That seemed to put Joanna’s mind at ease somewhat. Brock supposed this was as good a time as any to broach the subject of money. He cleared his throat. “In fact, that is something you and I must speak about.”

  “What do you mean?” She studied him in the growing darkness.

  “’Tis your money, lass. I wouldna command it to any purpose, not without your consent, no matter what your brother may have told you. I willna use you in that way. But if you did have a mind to help the estate, I would suggest you put your efforts toward helping the tenants first. The castle can wait.” He’d only hoped, desperately, that she would wish to use it herself to help his people.

  “Oh…” She was quiet a long moment. “And if I do want to help them, we could?”

  “Aye. Very much so. We can start with food, buying crops that they can grow, and then we can build new homes—proper sturdy cabins, not these black houses.”

  “And the children? Can we buy them things too? Toys and proper shoes…” Joanna trailed off in embarrassment.

  “We can,” he assured her. “So long as you wish to.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, and when they reached the castle, they parted with their horses as the groom took them to the stables.

  “We’ll also need more staff,” Joanna said quietly. “Could we arrange for that in the village? I also must post a letter to send for Julia, my maid.”

  “Aye, we can go tomorrow. I suspect our larder needs filling as well. The kitchens looked bare.” He noticed that the cook hadn’t stocked it very well since he had left with his brothers for Bath. He gestured to the bottom of the stairs. “Why don’t you meet me here, and I’ll escort you to dinner in half an hour?”

  “All right.”

  He watched her ascend the stairs, and it made his chest ache. He wanted to give her everything she had ever dreamed of, and right now it must seem like he wanted her only for her money, despite all that he’d said. And all she wanted was his heart.

  But he couldn’t give it to her. He didn’t trust himself to love. Perhaps he w
as like his father after all. It was possible that he was the villain for denying her the love she so desperately needed all because he was afraid. The thought filled him with dread and horror. His desire to protect himself had left him trapped and his own wife suffering—just like his mother.

  I am like him. A monster.

  Part of him reasoned that if Joanna didn’t have his love, she could always leave, return to her family and be safe. But if they fell in love and he turned cruel someday, she would not leave him. Her heart was too open, too trusting. The thing he admired most about her would seal her fate. The same fate as his mother—the fate he’d feared he would suffer.

  His shoulders drooped as he ascended the stairs and entered the western wing of the castle. He stopped in front of his mother’s room. It had been locked ever since her death. It was only after his father had died that he, Brodie, and Aiden had found the key and seen their mother’s chamber for the first time in years.

  It had become a lovely tomb, missing only their mother’s body lying nobly on the bed in a state of eternal repose. The wide windows allowed moonlight to fill the room, washing the soft colors of the robin’s-egg blue walls almost white. The birch carved four-poster bed was still there, and motes of dust swirled in eddies in the moonlight. He trod lightly and respectfully into the room. It felt almost as though his mother were still there, a hint of her perfume, the echo of a lighthearted laugh, as though she had merely stepped out of the chamber for but a moment and would soon return.

  Brock swallowed thickly as he approached her tall wardrobe in the corner, but he didn’t open it. Instead, he reached up on tiptoe and ran his hand over the edges of its top. His fingers trailed through a thick layer of dust before bumping against a small wooden box.

  He grasped it carefully and brought it down to inspect. The box was carved with vines that had been painted green. The craftsmanship of the box was so well done that he half expected the vines to curl up and twist around his fingers. He had seen it often as a boy when his mother had been preparing for a fine night out at a ball or a dinner with guests here at the castle.

  He set the box down on his mother’s vanity and opened the lid. The inside of the box held a dozen pieces of jewelry. He sifted through the various bits inside. A strand of pearls, each one gleaming like a drop of condensed moonlight, the intense glittering diamond ring she’d so often worn, the pair of sapphire earrings, and finally, the piece he’d been searching for. A simple gold band with a turquoise gem.

  It was his mother’s engagement ring. The turquoise was supposed to bring good luck; the pharaohs of Egypt had believed that and had filled their tombs with it. His father had actually been to Egypt when he was younger, which was where he’d acquired the ring. Brock wouldn’t ordinarily want to touch anything his father had acquired, but this ring carried his mother’s spirit. When she had fallen ill, she’d instructed Brock to collect her jewelry and place the pieces in this box and hide it on the top of the wardrobe. Thankfully, his father had never found it.

  Brock wanted Joanna to have something of his mother’s. The turquoise almost matched her eyes. It would look beautiful upon her finger. He closed the box and set it safely back on top of the wardrobe. Then he looked over the room once more and left, keeping the door open. The room, like any other part of the castle, needed to breathe. It would take a long time for him to learn to trust that the castle was safe from his father, but this was a start. No more locked doors, no more treasures hidden.

  Joanna returned to Brock’s study before dinner and found Mr. Tate thankfully absent. She’d sensed he was not at all pleased that she was here. Perhaps he didn’t like that she was English, or maybe he feared that she was going to reduce some of his responsibilities in the castle. Many men would have jumped at the option to be paid the same for less work, but perhaps it was a matter of pride. Or maybe he saw his duties going to a woman as an insult. She would endeavor to do her best to put him at ease and let him know he was not going to be replaced.

  I want to help, that is all, and a good lady knows how to run a large household.

  Her mother had trained her to run a household, and her brother had taught her how to run a business, how to analyze investments, and other important financial matters. Brock’s sister, Rosalind, had become a banker, which was rare, though not unheard of. Joanna rather hoped she might do the same once she and Brock had settled into married life.

  She examined the study, the large oak desk littered with papers and the fireplace with a cozy-looking overstuffed chair nearby. Joanna smiled and stroked fingertips over the faded fabric of the chair, as she imagined nights where she would come in here and bring Brock hot tea and she would curl up with a book and read while he reviewed her work on the household accounts. Then he could sit here in the chair, and she might…

  Joanna blushed at the wicked thought. She imagined herself sitting upon his lap, and after a lively discussion, Brock would silence her with a kiss, or she would silence him—whoever needed it most. Lord knew she wanted him as much as he did her, and she felt brazen enough to show him her desire.

  Yes, spending the evenings here with her husband would be a delight. Joanna approached the desk and sat down in the chair. The papers rustled as she began to sort the documents. She couldn’t find the account books, but these papers were at least a start.

  Most of them were statements from banks, letters from creditors, along with the occasional document regarding payments to the tenants for their work and their animal husbandry efforts. It seemed quite normal, only it wasn’t. The amounts paid to tenants were smaller than expected, and the creditor debt was substantial but by no means enough to put Brock’s estate in such dire straits. Had he lied to her?

  No. She refused to believe that. She puzzled over the statements for almost half an hour before her eyes were tired and she had to go change for dinner. Perhaps Mr. Tate was not talented with accounting. If that was the case, then she would be happy to take over that duty.

  She was adept at mathematics—Ashton had seen to that. He had told Joanna long ago that a woman could dress prettily all she liked, but if she truly wished to be noticed and respected, then she would do well to educate herself in matters of business, politics, and literature. When she was thirteen, she hadn’t wanted to sit in a dusty old schoolroom while her governess droned on, but she had done it, and now it would pay off.

  Brock had chosen well in a wife—he simply had no idea yet. She smiled to herself, thinking of how pleased he would be once she made his estate profitable, not only through her funds, but through her management.

  Joanna arranged the papers on the desk, making the chaos more organized. Tomorrow she would find Mr. Tate, and they would sort out her duties. She would ask him where he had placed the account books, since she hadn’t seen them among the stacks of papers.

  When she felt the study was in decent shape, she blew out the candles by the desk and headed for her bedchamber. But as she left the room she froze. The unsettling feeling of being watched raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She studied the corridor and saw no one, yet the feeling of being watched followed her all the way back to her rooms.

  Brock headed for his chambers and washed his face. He tried on one of his more colorful waistcoats, a burgundy one embroidered with a pattern of gold diamonds. Then he carefully folded his cravat. He had learned to do it himself years ago when their father had sent away most of the staff. He had to admit, though, he liked having a valet to help him, even though it went against his nature to rely upon others for anything. The castle needed more servants, and he needed help. Mr. Tate was juggling responsibilities both as steward and butler since their previous butler had left along with most of the staff long ago.

  He finished dressing and picked up the ring, feeling a little foolish for hoping that Joanna would like it, as though he were trying to impress a maid for the very first time. He waited at the base of the stairs and turned when he heard steps. Joanna stood at the top, her evening gown a stri
king bishop’s blue. It was the only evening gown her maid had put into her leather traveling bag. The light from the wall sconces gave it a slight purple tint when she moved. It was almost iridescent, and it highlighted the cornflower blue of her eyes.

  She stared at him with longing as she came down the stairs, and he felt that same pull toward her. She paused on the bottom step, which brought her almost level with his face. Her breath raised her breasts up and down in her tight bodice, and he couldn’t resist peeking at the low neckline, praying for a glimpse of a rosy nipple. But the gown was just modest enough to leave him wanting.

  “I have a gift for you,” he said. “I wish I could have given it to you on our wedding day.” He removed the ring from his pocket and held it up to her.

  She blinked, startled, and extended her hand to him as he slipped the ring onto her finger. It rested against the simple silver band that he had given her at the blacksmith’s shop, a perfect fit.

  “It belonged to my mother. Her engagement ring.” He held on to her hand for a little longer, not wanting to let go. Something intense and powerful flared between them.

  Joanna looked to him, her eyes soft as a caress. “It’s beautiful, Brock. I shall treasure it always.”

  He brushed his fingers along her wrist, needing to touch her, to connect with her. “They say turquoise brings good luck.”

  “Then I hope it brings me the kind of luck I’m thinking of.” The smile she gave him left little doubt as to what that was.

  He wasn’t blind to his desires. He had wanted and craved Joanna from the moment he’d stolen that first kiss more than a month ago, but he wrestled now with the problem of how to make love to his wife without falling in love.

  “I wish I had something to give you in return.” She bit her bottom lip, and his body burned with arousal.

  He cupped her cheek. “You have, lass. You’ve given me you.”