Once Upon a Highland Autumn (22 page)

“I can help,” she said quickly, and saw panic in his eyes.

“You? No, I don’t think so. It would be better—safer—if you were to remain here, perhaps. I mean it isn’t strictly necessary that you stay here at the cottage. You might walk into the village, or visit friends, or your mother, perhaps.”

She raised her chin. “I doubt either of us would be very welcome in the village at present, and my mother has sworn never to speak my name again.”

“Which name, Margaret or Megan?” he asked, then put a hand to his brow. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He got up and began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes on the heather beneath his boots. “I believe we must set some rules if we are to—endure? tolerate?—each other’s company.”

“Endure?” she asked, feeling her temperature rising again for an entirely different reason. He glanced up at her as if surprised by her sharp tone.

“Perhaps that wasn’t the right word. Get along, maybe?”

Megan folded her arms over her chest. “No, I believe
endure
was an excellent choice. What rules did you have in mind?”

He paused. “Well for one thing, you may not venture into the castle.”

“Why?”

His skin flushed. “Why? Do you not recall what happened the last time you were there?”

She did indeed. She had fallen out a window, lain on top of him, touched him. He must have remembered that as well, for his skin flushed, and his mouth dropped open. “No, not
that
—that isn’t what I was thinking of. I meant—” He ran his hand through his hair, and began pacing again. “I meant that it isn’t safe. I would not wish you to suffer an injury.”

“Such as a splinter?”

He looked at her balefully. “Yes,” he said through tight lips. “Look, I only got the splinter in the first place because you distracted me.”

“I saved you.” She couldn’t resist teasing him. “I took the fearsome thing out, plucked it from your flesh, bound up the terrible wound.”

He looked indignant. “I could have managed well enough alone. It wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you hadn’t been there.”

“So you said. Are there other rules I will be expected to follow?”

He stopped pacing again. “Yes—well, no. Just that one. Otherwise, you are free to come and go as you wish.”

“Just not to the castle.”

“Precisely.” He looked pleased as punch that she understood. Irritation sizzled through her veins.

“Or to the village, or Dundrummie.” She got up and began to gather the remains of their breakfast. “I’ll have you know I did not cook any of this food, my lord—and you saw the way I made your bed. It looked even more slept in after than before. I do not enjoy sewing, and I abhor watercolors, at least my own efforts. Shall I pick flowers and weave daisy chains all day?”

He looked affronted. “You should have thought of that before you came here yesterday. What would you be doing if you were at Dundrummie?”

“Planning a wedding,” she said tartly. “And I don’t doubt you’d be doing the same, if I hadn’t interrupted Miss Parkhill’s courtship.

He flushed and glanced over his shoulder at the castle, as if it were calling to him.

“Do you read? Have you a book to occupy you?” he asked.

“Just go,” she said, dismissing him. “I shall find something to do. Laundry, perhaps, or baking bread, or I might busy myself with shearing a sheep or two.”

“Oh, there’s no need to do laundry,” the daft man said. “Leslie will be coming soon. He’ll see to that.”

“But the baking and shearing are fine with you, my lord? No rules about those?” she quipped. He was growing flustered.

“I suppose you must do as you please. Look, given the circumstances in which we find ourselves, stop calling me ‘my lord.’ I think it would be best if we called one another by our Christian names—Megan.”

Still simmering, she dipped a curtsy. “If that’s your command—my lord.”

He colored again. “It is.” He waited, but she kept her lips stubbornly shut. “I’ll bid you good day, then,” he said, and turned on his heel. She watched as he made his way down the hill, across the causeway, and disappeared into the castle.

She hoped it fell on him.

K
it lifted another broken piece of wood and tossed it aside with a grunt. She was the most infuriating, annoying woman he’d ever met, and that included his mother and his sister.

Arabella would have taken his commands as a challenge to do exactly the opposite. His mother would have murmured, “Yes, of course, Christopher—whatever you wish. You are the earl, after all.” And then she would have ignored his wishes entirely.

Would Megan do the same? If she did, he would get a sturdy lock for the castle door, or see if the old portcullis still worked. He rubbed a hand over his sweaty brow, and grinned at the idea. He may have yielded the sovereignty of all his other castles, but he intended to keep this one wholly for himself.

He looked up at the sun, now peering down at him through the hole in the roof. He’d been here several hours, and had managed to clear only a few feet. The staircase rose mockingly close on the other side of the fallen rubble.

He crossed to the window and sat down on the wide sill, and looked at the room. Where would he hide a treasure if he didn’t want anyone to find it? He rose and began tapping on the walls, but they were either solid or they crumbled under his hand, revealing noting. If the castle knew Mairi’s secret, it was not going to give it up easily. There were plenty of niches and nooks and cracks, but the ones he’d examined were empty of anything but spiders.

Was there a strong room? If there was, he couldn’t reach it. There was one wing of the castle that had all but caved in entirely, rooms still blocked. If that was where the treasure lay, he would have to tear down the whole bloody castle, stone by stone to get to it.

The wind moaned, as if it feared he might just do that.

He put his palm against the wall, and the stone radiated cold, despite the heat of the day. “I won’t tear it down. I only want to know the secret,” he murmured. “Where is the treasure?”

The wind whistled, then died away, and Kit went back to moving rubble.

“D
id you have a good day?” Megan asked when he returned to the cottage as the sun was setting over the lip of the glen. He’d stayed at the castle until his stomach grumbled and his muscles ached, in hopes that she would be gone.

Instead she stood on the hillside, her hand shading her face against the glare of the sun and watched him come up the hill toward her. Oddly, he was glad to see her. His heart lifted at the sight of her.

He stopped a dozen feet from her, aware he wasn’t fit company for a lady in his current state. He needed a bath, or another swim. “There’s much work to be done,” he said. “And you? Did you shear sheep and bake bread after all?”

“I met your Mister Leslie. He had plenty of gossip about the village. The brawl lasted for three hours after we made our escape. He stayed firmly locked inside the inn, and watched it all from the window.”

“All of it?” Kit felt his dignity shrivel. What must his valet think of him now?

“He said he wished he’d been part of it. Those who were not fighting are bragging that they were, and those who were there will dine out on the tale for some time to come.”

“Is there much damage?” Kit asked.

“Well, Miss Parkhill is claiming a broken heart, but so are at least a half-dozen other ladies. Jane has declared you heartless, and is promising to write to your sister at once.”

Kit felt his stomach curdle.

“And Lord Merridew? Has he recovered from the loss of you?”

“He retreated to his rented lodge in a fury. He was heard to say that he will not set foot anywhere near a female for the rest of his stay, unless it is one he may shoot on sight. I do hope he’s referring to grouse and deer.”

Kit quirked a smile. “I believe you are fortunate you do not have a rack of antlers or a fine pelt.”

“Then you think I made a lucky escape?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I asked Mister Leslie to walk over to the lodge and advise Jeannie that you would be coming back with me for dinner. It was that or stale bread and cheese from this morning’s meal. You may return here to Glen Dorian after you’ve eaten—and bathed.” Her nose wrinkled slightly.

“Kind of you,” he said, moving away a little more.

“Not at all. Neither Mister Leslie nor myself cook. I can catch a fish, of course, and cook it over a campfire—at least I think I could, since I’ve seen it done. Or bannock—I could make that, but not proper food, though I have recently learned to plan a menu for a dinner party of twenty guests or more.”

“A useful skill,” he murmured, trying to imagine Megan crouched over a campfire roasting a plump trout on a stick—or twenty fish, if guests were expected.

“Shall we go?” she asked.

Kit offered his arm, and heard Megan’s breath hitch as she hesitated for a moment before tucking her hand under his. Her blush rivaled the sunset. Did he smell so odious, or was it something else? He quite liked the way her arm felt, linked with his, and the gentle swish of her skirts against his boots, the way their steps fell into a rhythm, like horses, perfectly matched.

T
o Kit’s surprise, there was a room all ready for him at the lodge, complete with a bath and the services of Mr. Leslie. His clothing had been hung in the wardrobe, and his shaving kit and toiletries were laid out on the dressing table.

He’d been expecting a washbowl in the corner of the kitchen.

The valet offered him a welcoming smile as Kit stood in the doorway, considering what all this meant. “Good evening, my lord. Lady Eleanor suggested you should keep a room here in the lodge. It’s closer than the village, and far more private.”

“Private?” Kit demanded, warning bells clattering in his head. He looked for a connecting door that might lead to Megan’s chamber, but there wasn’t one.

“Mister Fraser was rather insistent that I—we—well, you—vacate his inn at once.”

Kit winced. “Was there much damage?”

Leslie nodded. “There was, I’m afraid. The brawlers helped themselves to the inn’s supplies of brandy and French wine. Fortunately, Lady Eleanor Fraser was kind enough to offer space here, since you were now—”

“Did she indeed?” Kit murmured.

“Her ladyship is a very kind lady. I took the liberty of moving your things and my own here this afternoon. I hope that was acceptable. Are you married, my lord? One hears of these things, of course, being ‘married over the anvil in Scotland,’ and such, but I never dreamed—”

“No, I’m not married, Leslie,” Kit snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Leslie’s brow crumpled. “But Lady Eleanor seemed to think—” He swallowed. “Shall I pack everything again, my lord?”

Kit looked at the kettle of hot water waiting on the hearth. The room was rustic, but comfortable, and far more spacious than the little cottage. He could scarcely imagine the starchy Mr. Leslie making the hayloft into servants’ quarters. Kit looked at the tub, and enticing tendrils of steam beckoned to him. There were fresh clothes laid out as well, and he could hardly go down to dinner the way he was. He began to unbutton his shirt. “I shall have a bath and dress for dinner—but after that, I intend to return to the glen to sleep, is that clear?”

“Perfectly, sir,” Leslie said, smoothing his expression into the perfect flatness that told Kit his valet didn’t understand the arrangements in the least. That made two of them, Kit thought, stepping into the bath.

He slid down into the hot water, and considered. Eleanor was concerned about appearances—if Kit’s possessions, and his manservant, were still at the inn, then it would surely cause sharp-eyed folk to ask questions. Was he handfasted to Megan McNabb or wasn’t he? He was—for the next three hundred and sixty-four days.

He picked up the soap and lathered his sore muscles, and the fragrance of heather filled the room. It was the way Megan smelled. He’d thought it was the wind in her hair, or the sun. He brought the cake to his nose, inhaled deeply, and pictured her standing in the glen, her hand shading her eyes, smiling at him. “Where did you get this soap?” he asked Leslie.

“Lady Eleanor was kind enough to supply it, my lord. She also had bed linens and a few other odds and ends sent over for your comfort.”

“What odds and ends?” Kit demanded, looking up at the valet through the soap on his face.

“A full sized plaid, my lord. I believe it is the MacIntosh sett. It’s quite popular hereabouts, and the wee maid downstairs assured me it is a very comfortable garment, and practical for walking the hills.”

“A plaid?” Kit spluttered as Leslie poured a pitcher of water over his head to rinse away the soap.
The wee maid?
What the devil was happening to the stiff, English Josiah Leslie?

“Will you try the kilt, my lord?” Leslie asked, as Kit rubbed himself dry.

“Certainly not. I’ll dress for dinner as I usually do,” Kit growled, grabbing for his linen shirt, made by the finest London clothier, monogrammed at the cuff with his initials and crest, as proper and English as it was possible to get. He thought he detected the slightest hint of disappointment in the ripple of Leslie’s lips, and he ignored it. When he was dressed as an English gentleman, Kit went downstairs to dinner.

T
he dining room was an extraordinary thing indeed, and Kit paused in the doorway. The plastered walls were hung from one end of the barrel-vaulted room to the other with antlers and hunting trophies. It made the room like more like a cave with roots growing inward, or the den of some ravenous animal—a wild, mythical creature. The table was quite ordinary, covered with a white cloth, set with fine china and silverware for two. The candlelight played over the points of sharp horns, the rough black beams of the ceiling, and the shining glass eyes of a stuffed wildcat that stood stiffly on the top of an elegant sideboard. The bare planks of the floor creaked as he entered the room. It looked very Scottish indeed, the preserve of a rough and ready Highland laird, a man at one with the hills and glens and lochs that surrounded him.
He’d
have worn a kilt to supper. Kit straightened his monogrammed cuffs, feeling overdressed.