Once Upon a Highland Autumn (13 page)

“I have come for the grouse, of course. Nothing is more delicious than Scottish grouse, though there’s nothing akin to English pheasant in juniper sauce. The bird shooting season doesn’t open for a few days more, but I bagged a buck just yesterday, so I thought I’d come and pay my respects, since I was given to understand there are several lovely young ladies residing here,” he chirped, and let his eyes take in the entirety of Megan’s slim figure before coming back to ogle her breasts. She resisted the urge to fold her arms over them. “I see I have not been misinformed,” he said.

“A different kind of hunting today, eh?” Eleanor said with light sarcasm. “The marquess’s father is the Duke of Beresford, Devorguilla. Merridew is his son and heir, which makes him a much better catch than a mere earl.”

Megan watched her mother’s cheeks flush with excitement at that.

“Where exactly is your shooting box, my lord?” she asked her guest.

“At Loch Dun, Countess,” He grinned. His keen stalker’s eye scanned the room, as he assessed the value of the items in sight.

“You probably have antlers just like those,” Eleanor said, watching his eyes fall on some fifty years of hunting trophies that graced the wall. “I made my late husband move most of his to the old hunting lodge on the edge of Dundrummie. He chose to hang them in the dining room, of all places. Where do you keep yours, my lord?”

“I believe he was looking at the clock on the mantle, Aunt,” Megan said. “The one beside the silver candlesticks, right under the portrait of you painted by Mister Gainsborough.”

“Thomas
Gainsborough?” the marquess asked, his eyes popping.

“Indeed,” Eleanor said, primping as she gazed up at the handsome woman in the portrait. “He and Joshua Reynolds nearly came to blows over which of them would have the honor of painting me,” she said. “In the end, I decided based on price.”

“Was Gainsborough cheaper?” the marquess asked, and Eleanor sent him a flirtatious smile.

“Why no, my lord—he was more expensive.”

Megan hid a smile.

“Ah, it is so interesting to discuss family treasures. Where are your English estates located, my lord?” Devorguilla asked. “Do you collect art, or jewels, or gold, perhaps?”

They were like dogs circling one another, each trying to find out the other’s value without actually asking.

“In Suffolk, my lady,” he said. “My father’s ducal seat is in Kent, however.”

“How wonderful!” Devorguilla chirped. “Megan was just saying the other day that she hopes to have the opportunity to visit Kent while she’s in London for the Season.”

“I daresay the duke—and his heir—will be in London as well,” Eleanor said.

“The two places are not close to each other, I’m afraid,” the marquess said, before he turned to Megan. “I knew your brother in London, Lady Margaret—at least I heard the tales of his unexpected inheritance, and his wedding to Lady Caroline Forrester, the Earl of Somerson’s sister.

“There is nothing like the scent of money to set the hunter on the trail, is there?” Eleanor said. “Devorguilla, did I not tell you suitors would come flocking just to get a look at Megan and Alanna?” Devorguilla sent her a quelling glare. Alanna blushed to the roots of her hair, and Sorcha giggled. Megan sent her little sister a narrow-eyed glare of your-turn-will-come.

“Have you many suitors?” Merridew asked, looking from Megan to Alanna, as if wondering if one would do as well as the other, should the competition become heated.

“Dozens,” Alanna murmured. The marquess blanched slightly. “Do you by chance know the Earl of Rossington?”

“Why, yes. Or I should say I knew his brother.”

Devorguilla interrupted quickly, steering the conversation back. “Do you know Countess Caroline’s English kin, my lord, her half-brother, the Earl of Somerson, for instance?”

“I consider Charlotte—the Countess of Somerson—a very dear friend,” Merridew said. Sorcha made a face behind her hand, recalling that lady’s recent visit to Glenlorne. The countess had arrived in a huff, succumbed to fury, and left in high dudgeon.

“I understand her second daughter is to make her debut next spring,” Megan said conversationally.

The marquess perked like a hunting dog on point. “Oh?”

There was no time to go into detail. Graves arrived to announce another visitor, a Mr. Edward Parkhill, and his sister, Miss Jane Parkhill. Devorguilla quickly discovered they were the cousins of an earl and a baronet, though they had no titles of their own.

The Parkhills had also come to Scotland to hunt grouse, and apparently to find a wife for Edward. The conversation skirted awkwardly around the issue of dowries, income, titles, and property, and Megan marveled at her mother’s ability to juggle the conversation so expertly. Devorguilla clearly believed that Lord Merridew was the right suitor for Megan—unless someone better turned up, such as a duke, a royal prince, or the king himself. Mr. Parkhill and his gossipy sister knew everyone, it seemed, and Devorguilla mined them for information. If not a candidate for her daughters’ hands, Edward Parkhill would at least serve to point the way to bigger, better fish. While the keen look in the marquess’s eyes told Megan he was most certainly interested in her—when his eyes weren’t on Eleanor’s silver candlesticks, that is—Mr. Parkhill clearly admired Alanna. Both gentlemen were delighted to have found two pretty, unmarried ladies with good dowries and excellent English connections. If either girl was fortunate enough to inherit Dundrummie Castle when Lady Eleanor died, they would bring a prime bit of Scottish land to their marriage as well.

Megan glanced at Eleanor, saw the amusement in her face as she watched the melee. She winked, and leaned forward. “Shall I set the cat among the pigeons for a bit of fun?” she whispered. Then turned to her visitors.

“I do believe there’s an heiress at Kinglossie looking for a husband,” Eleanor said aloud.

The gentlemen’s heads whipped around, their eyes alight.

“Do you mean Annie Fraser?” Devorguilla said without missing a beat. “The one with the crossed eyes and bad skin?”

“But has she any money?” Merridew murmured.

“A veritable fortune in sheep and cattle, I am given to understand,” Eleanor said. “Perhaps poor Rossington has gone there. No doubt he would have enjoyed an excellent supper indeed.”

Miss Parkhill lit up like a candle. “D’you mean the Earl of Rossington?” She set her teacup down and laid a hand on her heart. “Is he here, in Scotland, nearby?”

“Within walking distance, in fact,” Alanna said, and Megan felt her jaw clench, willed her sister to silence, but she continued, oblivious to Megan. “I understand he’s at Glen Dorian. Do you know the earl?”

“Isn’t the weather lovely at the moment? We shall have a lovely autumn at this rate.” Megan tried to change the subject. “We should be able to get outside every day, to walk in the hills or to hunt. I should be pleased to show you some of the—”

“Oh, I’m not here to hunt,” Jane Parkhill said with a conspirator’s smile. “Well not grouse, at any rate. If Kit Rossington is here, then I shall have far more important game to stalk,” she said with a simper. “And I mean to bag him.”

“There are fine gentlemen here at any time of year, Miss Parkhill,” Megan said.

“Oh, but I mean
English
gentlemen. Lord Rossington’s sister is a particular friend of mine. Dear Arabella has been trying to arrange a meeting between myself and Kit for an age, but he always seems to be out when I call.”

Megan choked on her tea, and Alanna patted her on the back.

Miss Parkhill’s eyes lit. “Now I will finally get my chance with him here in Scotland. I hoped to bring him to the point during last year’s London Season, but he is devilishly difficult to find—always mobbed by eligible ladies when he does bother to appear at a social event, which is rare indeed. I daresay if one is to gain the advantage over Rossington, one must track him, like a fox, or lay a trap as for a coney, or corner him and shoot true, as if he were a stag.” Her bright face grew sharp. “I daresay other young ladies of quality will soon be on Kit’s scent, once it’s known that he’s here. He is the most eligible bachelor in the entire
ton
, and tops every debutante’s list of desirable husbands.” She glanced sideways at Alanna and Megan. “Are either of you . . .” she said, letting the question trail.

“Not at all,” Megan said, looking away, out the window.

“Excellent!” Miss Parkhill chirped. “Do you know his direction?”

Megan felt queasy. Had Rossington not mentioned he had come to Scotland to get away from chattering females? Jane Parkhill’s tongue had not stilled for more than ten seconds since she’d arrived.

But Rossington had been nothing but rude to Megan. She studied her tea, saw his gray eyes, inches from her own, felt his arms around her, his body beneath hers. She felt her skin heat, and opened her mouth to deny she knew anything about the earl’s whereabouts.

Alanna spoke first. “I understand he’s staying at an inn in Dundrummie village—the Glen Lyon.” Megan set her cup down before she squeezed the delicate china to bits, and forced a smile, as if she didn’t care one whit if Jane Parkhill wanted Kit Rossington, and she didn’t, really she didn’t.

Until Miss Parkhill grinned, her face triumphant, as if she’d already bagged her prey, and Megan felt her heart tighten in her breast, and felt a moment of regret. Perhaps it was sympathy for Rossington. Or jealousy.
Certainly not!

Graves arrived, and yet another suitor entered the room, and descended upon her, and to her horror, Megan spent the next hour juggling questions, compliments, and the assessing gazes of hopeful gentlemen.

K
it sat on the bench in front of the cottage, and looked out across the loch. The sun was high, the breeze light, and a pair of otters frolicked in the shallow water. After casting a curious look at him, the creatures went about their game, glancing at him only occasionally, pretending to be oblivious to his presence entirely, like coquettes at a ball, flaunting their charms as if they had no idea that the gentleman they’d set their cap for was watching them. He smiled as they chased each other over the slippery rocks on the bank, dove into the water, then surfaced side by side in perfect unison.

He’d spent the morning in the cottage, doing what repairs he could to make the place habitable. He had decided to stay here in the glen, in part because he loved the surroundings, the quiet, and the fresh air—and also because he was hiding. He had arrived back at the inn after meeting Megan McNabb in the castle to find the whole place in an uproar.

A thick stack of notes and invitations had arrived for him, many of them scented with perfume. The innkeeper and his patrons scowled at him from a barroom that smelled like the parlor of a brothel. Leslie had turned away no less than six females—two English and four Scots—who had flouted propriety and come to call upon him. Thankfully, he’d been away in the glen, with Megan McNabb. Next time, he might not be as fortunate.

If he spent a polite fifteen minutes with each of the people who wanted the courtesy of a return call, he would spend his days doing nothing but drinking tea and fending off hopeful virgins and their scheming mamas. There would be no time for treasure hunting at all.

No, he would leave Leslie at the Glen Lyon Inn to manage things, with strict instructions to tell no one that he was staying at Glen Dorian. The cottage would do nicely, a quiet, private place to rest. He had enjoyed the work he’d done. He’d repaired the roof, made sure the windows were snug, and had stacked a good supply of peat for the fire. He would be entirely content simply to spend the remaining days of the summer and early autumn reading, working in the old castle, and watching the otters. He felt the warmth of the sun on his arms where he’d rolled up his sleeves, and his cravat and coat lay beside him on the bench he’d just finished hammering together. He put his hands behind his head and grinned with a deep sense of accomplishment. Perhaps he’d buy a kilt and a homespun shirt.

Suddenly, the otters gave a sharp whistle of warning, and slipped away into the depths of the loch, leaving only the barest of ripples. Kit felt his own hackles rise as he searched for the danger that had spooked the otters. He almost dove for the loch himself when he saw it.

There was a coach and four lurching up the narrow track that came over the lip of the glen—a London coach.

He wished again that he could follow the otters, but whoever his visitor was, they had no doubt spotted him by now, since the coach was making a beeline straight for the cottage, and him.

With a sigh, he rose and pulled his coat on, doing his best to make himself respectable.

Surely it wasn’t his mother, or his sister. He felt his jaw tense at the very thought of that, but his crest wasn’t on the door, and the vehicle’s shining paint was green, not Rossington blue. The matched horses staggered over the bumpy goat track, used to far better roads.

A handkerchief fluttered at him from the window, and his gut tightened with dread.

His caller was female. Men did not wave lace handkerchiefs at other men.

Kit put his hand in his pocket, felt another handkerchief there, the square of sensible linen embroidered with Lady Megan McNabb’s initials, the one she’d bandaged his hand with. He’d had Leslie launder it, and he had intended to go to Dundrummie and return it, but instead he’d been carrying it with him, half hoping she’d come to him and demand it back. But it had been four days since they’d met in the castle, and she had not returned to the glen.

When he’d returned to the castle with a stout axe and a sharp chisel the day after their misadventure, he’d found the inner door wide open. Not only that, it swung easily, and refused to remain shut at all. He’d spent a great deal of time staring at it, examining the hinges, and the latch. It was baffling, but when he was in the castle, he took the precaution of propping it open, and kept an eye on it. In truth, he wasn’t only waiting to see if it would slam shut again—he was half hoping that Megan McNabb might come through it, demanding her handkerchief back, her remarkable hazel eyes aglow. The castle was a lonely place without her.