Daring (28 page)

Chapter

30

C
onnor shoved the hillock of papers to the side of his desk and glanced in surprise at the window, wondering when morning had broken. Even here in the Highlands the weight of his responsibility gave him no rest. His preparations for the Balfour case, his petition to Parliament for jury improvements, the letters that had begun to arrive from legal associates who’d heard about Sheena. Finding Sheena. The queries to France for Maggie.

Seducing her. Making her fall in love with him. Plotting excuses to keep her in his life when the situation with his sister got straightened out.

He studied the note from Sheena that sat on his desk, mocking his worry for her. Somehow its rudeness reassured him. The tone was so much like his impertinent sister, rubbing his nose in their strained relationship. Could Rebecca be right? Had Sheena staged her own abduction to punish him for breaking up her romance with that convict? It was an agonizing thought.

Well, whether he found her or not, he would have to return to Edinburgh within a fortnight. He intended to
take Maggie with him, not as a
witness but as a wife. She was
the only silver lining in this cloud, and he didn’t intend to lose her.

He glanced up at the forceful knock at the door. “Come in;”

He wanted it to be her. Maggie, in her ballet costume, come to brighten his mood, to tease and tantalize, and take his mind off his worries. A smile of anticipation formed on his face only to fade as he recognized Claude, looking as stiff as a gravestone.

“Can I help you?” he asked, sensing trouble.

The butler exhaled through pinched nostrils. “I know it is not my place to say this, sir, but—”

“No, it isn’t. But we both know you’re going to say it anyway so get it over with.”

“It is about the matter of your seducing my mistress.”

“Good grief. I think I must be hearing things.”

“I have taken the aforementioned matter into consideration, sir. A decision regarding my permission will be issued in due time.”

“Your permission?” Connor grinned and gave the globe on his desk a dizzying spin. “You’re having me on.”

“No, sir. It would be inappropriate for a man in my position to display a sense of humor.”

“Come on, Claude. You can tell the truth, man to man.” He winked broadly. “Maggie put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“If by ‘Maggie’ you are referring to Lady Marguerite, then I believe the situation is understood between us.” Claude hesitated. “Is there something wrong with your eye, sir?”

Connor clapped his hand down somewhere in Asia, bringing the world to an abrupt halt. “Great God. You’re serious.”

“Your reputation does not work in your favor, my lord, if I do say so. However, the biggest obstacle, in my opinion, is your background.”

“This is absurd,” Connor said. “You are a butler. I am the Lord Advocate of Scotland. I could have you—do you know the extent of my power?”

“Threats will not work on me, sir. I cannot be bullied or bought. My loyalty runs deeper than that.” Claude began to back toward the door, his dignity intact. “But all is not lost. I have taken note of several character points on your side.”

“What a relief. I was beginning to worry.”

Claude frowned. “A light breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes. I have volunteered my help until this dispute with your staff is settled. Lady Marguerite is expecting you in the winter parlor. May I suggest, sir, that you change into fresh attire?”

“What’s wrong with my attire?” Connor said darkly.

“Hunting boots at the table, sir.” Claude gave an imperceptible shake of his head. “It just isn’t done.”

Connor scowled. “Yes, it is.”

“Not if you want my approval,” Claude said in a sly undertone.

With a formal bow, he left the room, abandoning Connor to his amused belief. “Hell,” he said aloud, “I think I’m being blackmailed by the butler.”

C
onnor threw down his napkin and pulled out his pocket watch. “We’ve been waiting for breakfast for over an hour. It’s almost time for supper. How long does it take to make a simple meal?”

“Quite a while if Claude is overseeing the preparations,” Maggie answered patiently. “He insists on perfection.”

Connor studied her across the table, thinking the word perfection applied to her. She looked as fresh and radiant as a rosebud after a rainstorm. Clearly she hadn’t lost any sleep over thwarted lust last night. He released a sigh. “Why is your butler overseeing not only my breakfast table but my life? How have I allowed this to happen?”

She smoothed a wrinkle from the yellowed wrinkled tablecloth. Her hair was arranged in a loose chignon, secured with several pearl-headed bodkins. Connor’s gaze followed the graceful arch of her neck down into the deep indentation of her breasts.

She smiled at him. “It was my idea that Claude should serve as a neutral party in the house until the domestic crisis is resolved.”

He leaned into her, draping his arm possessively over the back of her chair. “Did you know that there is another crisis brewing in this house, Maggie? In approximately twenty seconds I am going to attack you.”

“Not during breakfast.”

“I don’t see any breakfast.” He sneaked his hand under the table to touch hers. Electricity tingled between their fingertips. Connor drew a sharp breath as heat suffused his body. He was enamored of her and didn’t give a damn who knew it. “Let’s go for another walk in the woods.”

“Do you think that’s wise? The wounded man might still be lurking about.”

He ran his hand along the inside of her forearm, drawing her toward him. Her lips parted in expectation. Unfortunately, before he could kiss her, Claude appeared in the doorway, announcing, “Breakfast is served.”

Maggie straightened up like a schoolgirl. Connor settled back in his chair with a disgruntled sigh. He could have sworn Claude had interrupted them on purpose, probably waiting just outside the door for the perfect moment to prove he took his role as surrogate guardian to heart.

Connor still hadn’t figured out how to deal with him. The man was too old to physically subdue and too stubborn to reason with, and there were Maggie’s feelings to consider. It was a prickly situation.

Claude shuffled up to the table bearing a large silver teapot with all the solemnity of a courtier presenting the Crown jewels. He was so slow and stiff, the teapot trembling in his hand, that Connor just couldn’t envision him engaged in serious swordplay.

“I see you have changed out of those nasty boots, sir,” he intoned in such a voice of parental authority that it made Connor wonder whether he’d be checked next to see if he’d washed behind his ears for breakfast “You are having tea?” He nodded meekly, amazed to realize that he was being intimidated by a man employed to polish the silver. Well hell, old habits died hard. He s
till struggled against the High
lander in him that felt faintly bewildered in a formal setting. Ardath was always kicking him under the table for using the wrong spoon.

“No.” He raised his voice, taking a stand. “I’ve changed my mind. I do not want tea.”

Claude eyed him disapprovingly, not saying a word.

“I think you should take the tea,” Maggie whispered behind the napkin.

“I do not want tea,” Connor said, practically shouting.

Cl
aude’s upper lip curled at the co
rn
er. “His lordship does not want tea. Can you imagine?” he said to no one in particular. He held the trembling teapot over the table. “Are you sure, sir, that you do not want tea?”

“It seems important to him,” Maggie said thoughtfully.

“It isn’t his business.” Connor stared at the dripping teapot. “Oh, hell. I’ll have tea if it makes everyone happy.”

“Very good, sir.” Cl
aude’s hand hovered over Connor’s cup. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather have coffee?”

“I want tea,” Connor shouted.

Claude, took on a martyred expression. “I know it is not my place to say so, sir, but you would have made it easier all around if you had stated your preference to begin with.”

Connor didn’t look at his watch, but he swore it took a good five minutes for Claude to pour that cup, half of it splashing into the saucer. Of course, by the time Connor tasted it, the beverage tasted like lukewarm well water. “Where is the rest of the breakfast, Claude?”

“It is coming, sir.”

“It is coming. I see. Do you have any idea when it is coming? A week? A month? By Christmas?”

“As soon as I return to fetch it, sir.”

“Then Christmas is a distinct possibility,” Connor said. “May I ask what the other servants are doing?”

“They are on strike, sir,” Claude replied.

Maggie took a tiny sip of tea. “The domestic conflict in the household will never be resolved until Mrs. Urquhart and Dougie make up, my lord. I thought you understood this. I have done my share to advise the female contingent. It’s time you took a hand to represent the manly point of view.”

Connor didn’t particularly care about the domestic conflict, but it was clear that he and Maggie would probably starve to death within a week with Claude serving their meals.

“This cannot be tolerated,” he said. “Claude, you are to bring Dougie to me as soon as I have eaten, assuming that my food arrives sometime in this century. I will not have my authority undermined in my own house.”

Which, of course, was a joke.

Connor could no more control his staff than he could his desire for the delicate young woman who sat beside him, the woman he ached to dominate and had sworn to protect, the woman whose inadvertent touch made him tremble like a boy on the verge of his first sexual experience.

C
onnor stared in trepidation at the toast and sausages on his plate. By the time Claude brought them to the table, they could have been put on display as prehistoric fossils.

“How am I supposed to eat this?” he wondered aloud. “Do I look like I live in a cave and hunt wild boars with a club?”

Maggie meticulously spread a spoonful of marmalade over her toast. “Well, since you asked, I have to admit that at times there is a little of the primitive about you. As to eating your breakfast”—her voice took on a conspiratorial tone— “I don’t think it would be a good idea to criticize Claude’s culinary skills. Not if you want him to decide in your favor about courting me.”

Connor grimaced. “Are you telling me I have to eat your butler’s cooking—his petrified breakfast—in order to even qualify as your suitor?”

She laid down her knife. “It would be a good start.”

“Maggie, he is only a servant.”

“Oh, no. He’s much more than that. Yes, I know he’s ancient, but like a Ming vase he is priceless, irreplaceable.” She glanced fondly at Claude, who was weaving back toward them with another teapot, leaving great stains on Connor’s costly Persian carpet. “His family has served my family for generations. Anyway, he swore to Aunt Flora on her deathbed that he would defend me with his life.”

Connor snorted at this sentimental confession and tried to spear his sausage with a fork. It was like stabbing a stone. Then he tried to chew it, and as he did he realized that if anyone had told him a month ago he would be eating rocks to win a woman, he would have laughed his head off.

Suddenly Claude was at his side with the teapot again. “Shall I refresh your cup again, sir?”

Connor nodded in resignation. Another mouthful of cold tea brewed as black and foul as Satan’s breath was just what he needed to wash down the rock caught in his throat. Lord, what a man wouldn’t do for lust. Or was it more than that?

He glanced at Maggie in an ivory lace-trimmed day dress that mocked his carnal intentions. He remembered how soft her skin was in those secret places. A shiver of raw desire danced down his spine. Never in his life had he exercised this much restraint. Frustration was taking its toll. Still, he wanted more than a string of sexual encounters. He wanted full possession of this woman. He even wanted her butler to like him.

He swallowed the rock. It was definitely more than a simple case of lust. He was heart-deep in love with her.

Claude bent over him, placing the teapot precariously at the edge of the table. Then, unexpectedly, like a magician performing a sleight of hand, he snapped out a napkin and settled it over Connor’s lap. “We must remember our etiquette, sir, mustn’t we? W
ill
there be anything else?”

Connor could only shake his head, afraid to wonder what would happen next. Would Claude insist on spoon-feeding him? If Connor didn’t finish his food, would he be sent up to his room? He looked across the table then and raised his brow at the sight of Dougie hovering in the doorway; the silly fool was dressed lik
e an overgrown gnome in a moth-
eaten suit of livery he must have found in the attic complete with puffy velvet pantaloons and braided jacket.

“What are you doing in that ridiculous costume, Dougie?” he asked with a frown.

“I’m doing my job, sir.” Dougie’s beard bobbed over his high starched collar. “I’m dressed like a butler.”

“A butler?” Connor didn’t like the sound of this. He caught Maggie smiling knowingly as she stirred sugar into her tea. “You are my steward, Dougie. Kenneth is the butler.”