Damnation. “Aye, that’s her,” Graeme conceded, thinking fast. “Her aunt’s staying at the Cracked Hearth while we open a room fer her. We didnae know she’d be coming fer a holiday. The old woman’s a Bedlamite, nearly. I had to ride doon this morning to remind her that nae a soul’s missing, that her niece is where she left her, and that this is Scotland and nae Prussia.”
The two men continued to look skeptical, but when neither one said anything aloud he decided not to elaborate. The simpler the tale, the easier it would be to keep it straight later. At the same time, he knew he couldn’t leave Mrs. Giswell at the inn where she could announce to all and sundry that her supposed niece was still missing. And that damned Lattimer coach needed to vanish, as well.
“Well, lad, as Brendan’s nae burned doon the stable and Connell doesnae have a red deer living in the attic, invite us to luncheon and then we’ll be on our way.”
Graeme forced a smile as he climbed to his feet. “I dunnae believe he has a deer in the attic. I’d nae swear to it. But how long are ye staying at Mòriasg, Paulk? I’d like to know when I can next go visit my uncle withoot seeing ye there.”
“That depends on the trout, I reckon,” Sir Hamish returned flatly. “Of course when Dunncraigh finally decides ye’re nae worth the trouble ye cause, this is all likely to be my territory, too, since I’m the nearest chieftain. Mayhap I’ll stay a bit longer, to get the lay of the land.”
They couldn’t strip him of his house, or of his property, but with him no longer considered part of clan Maxwell, remaining would be a very unpleasant prospect. He would lose cotters, and income, and then debts might well take what Dunncraigh couldn’t. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but it didn’t mean he would bow to a man who endangered and mistreated his own. Not while he had the choice to do otherwise.
Marjorie had altered the plan he’d concocted to deal with Dunncraigh, but he’d only known her and her circumstances a few days—a short enough time that the idea of rising to victory in this fray seemed a fleeting dream, at best. A dream that had slipped through his fingers before he’d even had a chance to clench his fist.
The two men seemed determined to remain on his heels, so he informed Cowen they’d have more for luncheon, sent up a quick prayer to whoever might be listening, and headed for the sitting room. In the doorway, though, he stopped.
Marjorie sat at the small worktable beside Connell. Something in his chest unclenched as he took in the curve of her neck, the loose, tangled bun of dark hair at the top of her head, the close-fitting, too-fancy emerald gown that clung to her bosom, and the slight smile on her face as she glanced up to meet his gaze. She hadn’t tried to flee. She was still there. He hadn’t lost her.
He tried telling himself it was relief he felt, relief that she hadn’t complicated things even further, but the exhilaration coursing through him seemed closer to anticipation. She’d stayed. He didn’t know why, but for the moment, at least, he could imagine they’d chosen the same side.
“I’d nae have learned a damned thing if she’d been my governess,” Sir Hamish muttered, jabbing Graeme in the ribs with an elbow.
Connell looked up. “We dunnae curse in this hoose,” he stated. “The lasses dunnae like it.” He wrote something on the paper in front of him. “And Ree isnae my governess. She’s my tutor. And Dùghlas and Brendan’s.”
Dùghlas rose from his usual chair by the window. “Duckling, ye’ve been wanting to show Uncle Raibeart the… new thing in yer bedchamber, have ye nae?”
The boy practically bounced to his feet. “Aye! Come and see! But Graeme cannae come.”
Graeme gestured the lot of them toward the hallway, clapping Dùghlas on the shoulder as his brother passed. “Thank ye, Dùghlas,” he whispered. Eventually he would “accidently” discover the three rabbit kits, but for now they could remain Connell’s poorly kept secret—especially when they provided an excuse to get everyone else out of the sitting room. “We’ll sit fer luncheon in twenty minutes. I need a word with Miss Giswell, in the meantime.”
Sir Hamish looked as though he’d rather stay behind, but keen-witted Dùghlas pulled the chieftain into a conversation about grouse hunting, and in a loud moment the four of them were gone up the stairs. Pulling in a slow breath, Graeme faced Marjorie again.
“I want the nails gone from those windows,” she said, standing, “and I’m not stepping into that room again untilIhave the key to the door.”
If he’d thought for a second that she would simply play her part—her new part—without comment, that had only been in his dreams. “If ye think I’m letting ye leave here to cause havoc, ye’d best reconsider. I could still wed a tutor. Or a governess.”
“And I could have left this morning, and I didn’t,” she pointed out.
“Aye, and why didnae ye do that, exactly?” he returned, folding his arms over his chest.
She took a quick breath, grimacing and likely trying to decide the pretty lie she meant to tell him. Perhaps she would say she’d fallen head over heels for him and couldn’t bear to leave his company. That would be nice to hear—even if he wouldn’t believe a word of it. Not when he half wanted to hear it.
“I considered leaving,” she said finally, “but I’m not dressed for the cold weather. Neither do I have any idea in which direction I’m most likely to find assistance. Nor do I want you riding me down and dragging me back to force me into marriage. So I thought to prove to you that I’m not a threat to you or your brothers. When the lot of you come to your senses, I’m hoping you’ll see fit to return me to my companions and my family. If you require monetary compensation for your… hospitality,Ican arrange that. Without my brother knowing a thing.”
Honesty.He damned well hadn’t expected that. “Today I reckon we’ll all fare better with ye here,” he returned. “If ye like, we can begin negotiations again tomorrow.”
She gave a curt nod. “Fair negotiations.”
He almost smiled. “Aye. Fair ones.”
“Then in light of our temporary alliance I would like to point out that you gave me the name Marjorie Giswell, the female for whom my so-called aunt is searching.”
“I recall. I told my uncle she’s batty.”
Her lips twitched. “She won’t approve of that.”
God, he wanted to kiss her again. This time, though, he didn’t have an excuse or an ulterior motive. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her or distract her while he stripped her of a letter she was trying to hide, or attempting to get her to agree to a union she didn’t want. This would simply be because he found her attractive and he wanted her.
Generally desiring a lass was enough to get her into his bed; even with his dour finances he was a viscount and a clan chieftain with a fine, grand house, and the lasses claimed that he had a handsome face and knew his way about a bedchamber. And he’d never heard any complaints, if he said so himself.
