An older man in black livery emerged from a side door to fall in behind her. Someone to make certain she didn’t run out the large double doors ahead, she supposed. Still, at least now she knew precisely where the exit lay. She would have to find some paper and begin sketching out a map of the house and countryside around her. When an opportunity to escape presented itself, she meant to make use of it.
In the small foyer, Maxton turned to face her, lifted an eyebrow, then headed up the stairs to her left. All along the wall portraits hung, men in the same plaid as those she’d spied outside, some bearded and glowering, others looking more contemplative, and most of them with the gray eyes and red-brown hair of her so-called host. Evidently his ancestors made a habit of marrying redheaded women.
If this house belonged to him, and despite his worn, dirty clothes, he didn’t seem to be some common farmer after all. This was no farmer’s cottage, at the least. Simple and rather austere, yes, but the size alone said it belonged to a family of some rank and importance. Shepherds didn’t have portraits of their ancestors lining the walls.
The doors on either side of the upstairs hallway stood closed, probably so she couldn’t see into the rooms that lay beyond. It would never do for her to discover where the muskets or swords were kept, after all.
Maxton stopped two doors short of the windows that marked the end of the hallway. Making a show of producing a key from his coat pocket, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “In here,” he said, gesturing for her to precede him.
The door itself looked very solid and somewhat intimidating, but Marjorie kept her shoulders squared and stepped inside. A large bed stood close by one wall, while a small fireplace on the opposite wall sent warmth and light into the room. A comfortable-looking pair of chairs squatted before the fire, while a huge, heavy-looking wardrobe shared the wall with the fireplace. If this hadn’t been a prison, she would have called it welcoming.
“The windows are nailed shut,” Maxton said, strolling in behind her. “If ye think to set fire to the hoose and escape that way, keep in mind that ye’ll be the last soul to be rescued—and that’s after the foxes and the cats. In fact, I may nae get up here to ye at all.”
The words sounded easy and amusing, but she didn’t mistake for one second the steel behind them. “No matter the circumstances,” she retorted, “I would never endanger young Connell in that way. I’m not the barbarian here, sir.”
“That’s good to know,” he returned, eyeing her again. Whatever he looked for, she hoped she left him wondering. “Ye’ll find a bellpull by the bed,” he went on after a moment, “should ye need to summon me.”
“Summon you?” she repeated, seizing on the words. “Are you the butler, then?”
“I’m the man ye’ll be dealing with. The only one.”
“Well, how pleasant for both of us.” She took another turn about the room, not about to sit in his presence. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered that I have no change of clothes or even a hairbrush? Not to mention the fact that I just spent hours racketing about in the back of a filthy wagon in the rain.”
Gray eyes assessed her from toe to head, the slow lift of his gaze making her heart skitter. With boarding school, and finishing school, and then serving Lady Sarah and her cats, followed by months of being ignored by everyone in Mayfair, she’d never had many dealings with men. By the time she’d received Gabriel’s letter, she’d actually begun to anticipate the inevitable crowd of fortune hunters. At least a man who needed her income would have reason to be polite to her. Even a fortune hunter, though, wouldn’t look at her the way Graeme Maxton did—with the gaze of a predator assessing his next meal.
“The room across from ye has a bathtub,” he said after a moment. “We’ll fill it fer ye once I’m finished here. And there are a few things in the wardrobe that might suit ye. Nae as fancy or grand as what ye’re accustomed to, I imagine, but they’re clean. And dry.”
She nodded, expecting him to leave and lock her in again. Instead he remained in the middle of the bedchamber and continued looking at her. “Don’t expect me to thank you, Mr. Maxton,” she finally said, as the silence began to stretch on. “I’m not here because I chose to come visiting and got caught by the foul weather.”
“Nae, ye arenae here because ye decided to come calling,” he agreed. “Until I decide what’s to be done with ye, though, ye might consider trying to be more pleasant.” He inclined his head, the gesture graceful but not looking terribly practiced—as if he didn’t bow often, or willingly. “I’ll fetch ye when the tub is full. And if ye’re going to keep snapping back at me, it’s Laird Maxton. I’m a damned viscount, m’lady.”
A moment later she was alone again, locked into yet another room with nothing but the clothes on her back, a small tray of food, and deep dark night out the pair of windows behind her. With a shudder she pulled the heavy green curtains closed. For all she knew those men still stood outside, watching her from below.
A viscount.Him. She never would have guessed that in a hundred years. Callused hands, worn clothes, his plainspoken, rude manner—the only aristocratic thing about him was his arrogance. If he was what passed for nobility in the Highlands, she’d be doubly happy to return to London.
A tear ran down her cheek, and she brushed it away. Tears wouldn’t get her out of this mess. And screaming out her frustration would only convince her captor that she should never be allowed out of this room.
Hm. Perhaps Lord Maxton’s comment had some potential. Perhaps being polite and pleasant and demure would gain her some trust. If so, Graeme Maxton had given her the key to his own downfall. Because the moment they turned their backs, she meant to escape. And no aggravating, arrogant man—handsome or not—would be able to stop her.
Chapter Four
As usual during the short days of a Highlands autumn, Graeme rose well before sunrise. This morning as he finished shaving and cleaning his teeth he wondered why he’d bothered to go to bed at all. He damned well hadn’t slept enough to make it worthwhile.
The source of his unrest was likely dreaming away the morning in the bedchamber beside his. And while the idea annoyed him, they’d all be better off if she remained sleeping. He needed to figure out what to do about her when he couldn’t send her on to Dunncraigh, and wouldn’t simply return her to the Cracked Hearth. And while he could keep her prisoner here for the moment, that came with its own set of additional problems—and expenses.
For one damned thing, he was going to have to hire a female to look after her. A lady required someone to brush her hair, help her dress, and myriad other things he couldn’t even imagine. Mrs. Woring the cook would never do; he trusted her to keep her mouth shut about their unwanted visitor, but the woman regularly beat venison into submission. A gentle hand, she did not have.
Keeping grand Lady Marjorie here only prolonged the danger to the lot of them, anyway. Whether she remained for one day or one week, her tale to the local constabulary wouldn’t change. Nor could he bribe her to keep her silence. Her impractical shoes—which he remembered with annoying clarity—likely cost more than he’d had to spare all year. And hell, aside from bribery, the only two other ways to keep a lass from speaking out against him were to kill her, or to marry her.
To marry her.
A knock sounded at his door. “Enter,” he called, jumping.
“M’laird,” Cowen said, stepping into the room, “she’s pounding at the door again. Nearly rang the bell off its hook, too.”
Graeme took a deep breath. Whatever he’d abruptly begun to contemplate, he needed more than two seconds to figure it out. “Likely she needs someone to open the damned curtains fer her,” he muttered absently. “Have a plate of breakfast made up, will ye? And some tea. Ladies like tea, I hear.”
“Aye.” The butler cleared his throat. “I thought to send Taog doon to the Cracked Hearth for a bite this morning.”
