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Bryston only grinned and winked at the girls, which sent them into fits of giggles and caused their mother to turn a starchy, blue-eyed gaze upon him. The two—or was it thrice?—occasions Broden had seen her in the company of her offspring.

True, Bryston’s scarred face, long blond hair—the sides pulled back and secured in a messy knot—and tattoos on his arms and beringed fingers lent themselves to a rascally, swashbuckler’s appearance. As did the ever-present sword and dirk at his waist. Broad of shoulder and easy of temperament, he took the countess’s anxious scurrying about in stride.

What would she do if she knew Bryston McPherson had been a privateering buccaneer at one time, and Camden had smuggled his goods?

From his observations so far, Lady Montforth wasn’t the fainting sort. Nonetheless, Broden was convinced her ladyship would find a way to rid the household of what she considered unsuitable riffraff.

He was similarly certain that he was lumped into that category as well, though she dared not voice her opinion to his face.

She was, after all, wholly dependent on his benevolence, as were her daughters.

He pitied her that.

A woman’s lot wasn’t easy.

Pulling his earlobe, he glowered at the pile of correspondences and other documents demanding his attention atop the oversized mahogany desk. Everything about Sommerley Parke House was grand and large.

He’d received so many bloody invitations, he could paper his entire house in Scotland with them. And he had not attended a single event thus far.

Much to Lady Montforth’s consternation and frequent vocal objections. She was out of mourning and expected him to accompany her on her social jaunts. Her mistake for putting her confidence in him.

Broden was no fool. He well knew most of the invites were sent out of curiosity by those eager to meet the new, barbaric, Scottish Earl of Montforth.

Eyebrows pulled together into an unforgiving line, he turned his mouth down.

He probably ought to hire a secretary or a man of business or both. But how did one go about such a thing? How did one find someone trustworthy and efficient?

Roxdale might know. Even Liam would come to think of it.

He’d write and ask them both.

Lady Montforth had hinted, broadly and often, that she could recommend such a person. But given she also presumed Oswald to be a, “Solicitor of superior character, impeccable decorum, and advanced acumen,” Broden didn’t put faith in her preferences.

In all likelihood, the countess secretly desired to influence him via his man of business. She’d soon learn he wasn’t easily swayed or manipulated.

Sighing, he forced himself to sit in the comfortable leather desk chair and thumbed through the letters. He first searched for any from Eytone Hall. Mother had written last week and said, while she enjoyed the hospitality of the MacKays, that if Broden didn’t return soon, she meant to go home.

Not to Glenawayshire, which she diligently sought to refurbish as he’d asked, but to their own cozy house. She maintained she wouldn’t take up residence at Glenawayshire until he did, as well.

That worried him no small amount, even if Liam’s men continued to guard her.

Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he poured another dram of whisky.

Damn the delays. Damn the weather, which made travel nearly impossible right now. Damn his duties and responsibilities. Others had depended upon him before, but never in the quantities and degrees they did now.

Six females’ every need and comfort rested upon him. Not to mention the extensive staff here and skeletal staff at four—or was it five?—more residences.

Swearing beneath his breath, he picked up another letter, examining the unfamiliar penmanship.

No’ from Kendra, either

She’d sent three short correspondences, to which he’d promptly responded. God only knew how long it had taken for their delivery. Given the inclement weather, no post could be transported in a timely fashion at present.

Neither of them said much of import in their missives, other than reporting on their daily happenings. Broden wasn’t the sort to wax poetic or pen flowery phrases. He’d rather tell her how he felt in person.

And neither was she one to put her emotions on paper and risk someone else reading them. She was an immensely private person and held her feelings close to her chest. Yet, she’d managed to wholly and entirely enchant him.

Just when they’d been on the cusp of something magnificent and magical developing between them, he’d had to leave. He might’ve postponed his departure, but eventually, he would’ve needed to deal with those same matters.