Sold to a Laird Page 18

  The drain in the bottom of the tub led to a series of pipes, and she could immediately see that the system was the same as at Chavensworth. She couldn’t help but wonder if they had the same problem of the drains occasionally becoming clogged, but when she mentioned it to Douglas, he only laughed.

  “You are not the chatelaine here,” he said, “and you needn’t worry.”

  “I know,” she said, “but habits die hard.”

  He smiled at her, and she looked away. That was another thing she should caution herself about—she was becoming habituated to his smiles. She had even grown to anticipate them, if not to encourage them. She’d never been overly adept at womanly wiles, at least those practiced in her two London seasons. She couldn’t flirt coyly, and she was abysmal with a fan—she kept knocking it against objects and people, or dropping the silly thing. She didn’t bat her eyelashes prettily, and she really wasn’t interested in playing to a man’s vanity.

  But Douglas brought out something in her that she’d never before identified, a certain wantonness of spirit. She’d begun to think errant thoughts, improper thoughts, but that wasn’t the only sign that she was skirting impropriety. Her body seemed to know when he was near, as if attuned to him in some odd way. Her pulse raced, her breath tightened, and her heart beat louder.

  Even in the midst of her grief, there was another component to it, something new and different and almost overwhelming.

  Perhaps her life would have been so much easier if she’d remained unmarried, but then, what would have happened in the last weeks? Once, she would have been confident enough to say that she could handle almost any situation, but now she knew there were some circumstances beyond her. Sometimes, she needed other people’s assistance, and this time had proven that fact only too well. What would she have done without Douglas? Had she even thanked him adequately? Had she told him of her certainty that Chavensworth was a better place for his presence there? Or had she simply assumed that he would know?

  She walked into the sitting room, where he stood in front of a now-roaring fire, still clad only in a towel.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?” He turned to face her.

  She kept her gaze on his face. “For being here,” she said. “For being at Chavensworth. For being kind.”

  “I’d be a poor husband if I wasn’t at least kind to my wife.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that.

  He walked back into the bedroom, and she followed.

  Although her trunks had not yet been delivered, his solitary trunk had been, and he opened it now, gathering up his clothing.

  “You really need a valet,” she said.

  “You say that because you don’t like to see me naked.”

  On the contrary, she was becoming quite used to it. Perhaps even anticipating it, actually.

  He went behind the screen to dress, and when he returned, he wore a formal white shirt adorned with pins and tucks down the front, black trousers, and black leather shoes with silver buckles. He withdrew a jacket from the trunk and laid it on the rounded top before taking out a leather case.

  “Are you going to work again?” she asked, as he walked into the sitting room and placed the case on the table between the sofas.

  “Chavensworth has taken a great deal of my time during this last week,” he said. “I need to be about my own business.”

  “Not diamonds,” she said.

  “Not diamonds. I’m involved in a great many businesses.”

  He sat on the sofa, withdrew a sheaf of papers from the case, and began to arrange them into stacks. In no time at all, he had created three stacks, one larger than the other two. From the leather case, he extracted a set of quills, a small vial of sand, and a curious cubic object.

  She walked to the table, curious despite herself. She picked up the small ivory square and examined it from all angles. Although it was a lovely thing, heavily incised with flowers and birds, she couldn’t see its purpose.

  “What is it?”

  He reached out and took the ivory cube from her, set it down on the table, and pressed two spots at once. The top slid back to reveal a cork-topped bottle, cunningly concealed.

  “It’s a traveling inkwell,” she said, delighted.

  “I’ve tried more than one apparatus for carrying ink, and this is the best I’ve found.”

  “Do you always work when you travel?”

  He glanced up at her again. “I don’t like wasting time.”

  “And this journey is a waste of time?”

  “I think you’re deliberately misinterpreting what I said, Sarah.” He pulled one stack of paper toward him. “I can’t help but wonder why.”

  She didn’t answer, annoyed at him. True, she wanted to know what he examined so assiduously, but to do so would be to advance a curiosity that probably wasn’t wise. Yet, they had few common bonds between them: a shared afternoon in her father’s study, her mother’s death, a knowledge of Chavensworth, perhaps.

  She abruptly sat down on the sofa.

  “Tell me about your businesses,” she said.

  He glanced over at her.

  “Are you commanding me, Lady Sarah? I don’t deal well with commands, especially uttered in that tone of voice.”

  “You can be very irritating, Douglas. There, is that tone better?”

  “Not appreciably,” he said. “Perhaps if you work on it, I’m sure you can manage to sound somewhat amiable.”

  He turned back to his work, evidently finished with the discussion.

  She stared at him for several long minutes.

  “Do you always dismiss people when they question you?”

  “When they treat me as if I’m their footman, yes.” He glanced over at her. “You’re not angry at me, Sarah. You’re angry at your grandfather.”

  What an absurd time to want to cry, she thought.

  “I truly am interested,” she said. “Forgive me if I sounded imperious.”

  “No doubt it comes from being a duke’s daughter,” he said, not turning his attention from his papers.

  “I think it comes from being the Duke of Herridge’s daughter,” she confessed. “You dare not show an ounce of weakness with my father. I think he would have been a great military genius had he been so inclined. I do believe that he sees conversations with people as battles to be fought and confrontations as wars to be won. I think he has a tally in his mind of winners and losers, and he is determined not to lose.”

  Her attention was directed to the hills and valleys of the fabric of her skirt, and when she looked up it was to find that he was looking at her.

  “How old were you when you realized this?” he asked.

  “I think I was nine,” she said.

  “Was it a confrontation with your father, or did you witness a battle between him and your mother?”

  “My mother was always submissive to him,” she said, again feeling that awful urge to weep. “Once, she said it was keeping peace, that a wife had to acknowledge her husband as the head of the household.”

  She looked over at him again. “I have no problem with allowing someone to be the head of the household other than myself,” she said. “But I don’t see why my spirit has to be dulled in doing it.”

  “It doesn’t,” he said.

  “Other than being a creator of diamonds, what business do you have?”

  A knock on the door interrupted Douglas’s answer. When Douglas opened it, two young men entered, carrying her trunks. Florie trailed behind, with a small valise in hand, directing them where to put them, and adding for good measure, “See that you don’t scratch them. That’s fine Florentine leather.”

  Where had the frightened girl gone? In the last hour, Florie had gained her composure. Evidently, the continuing storm held no terror for her as long as she was out of the carriage.

  Florie looked around the room, took in the bedchamber, and stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

  “I’ll be doing your hair n
ow, Lady Sarah,” she said, in a no-nonsense tone Sarah had never heard from her.

  She’d come to Scotland, and the world had gone mad.

  Alano knocked on the door of the housekeeper’s room. He waited patiently, which was a surprise given that he was not a patient man.

  When she finally opened the door, he smiled at her, undeterred when she frowned back.

  “You can be very off-putting,” he said. “I imagine that serves you quite well being the housekeeper. However, I am a guest at Chavensworth, and such behavior doesn’t put me off. I could even mention to Lady Sarah that you’ve been brusque with me.”

  She looked unimpressed at his threat.

  His smile broadened. In addition to being incredibly lovely, she was also intelligent.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. McDonough?” Her look dared him to say something improper.

  “I would like some tea,” he said.

  “There is a bellpull in your room, sir. If you will but ring it, the maid will serve you anything that you desire.”

  “I’m afraid that will not do, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “I am desirous of your company. Besides, you owe me an explanation.”

  She folded her arms in front of her, and he could almost hear her toe tapping.

  “I have no intention of partaking of tea with you, sir. And what explanation do I owe you?”

  “How do you know Spanish?” he asked.

  A flush transformed her face, rendering it younger.

  “Let us just say I have some knowledge of Spanish, Mr. McDonough.”

  She moved to close the door, and he inserted his foot between it and the frame.

  “Mrs. Williams, I am here on behalf of Mr. Eston, who is my friend. Mr. Eston is married to Lady Sarah, who is responsible for everything at Chavensworth. Do you not think that the two of us have significant interests in common that we could become cordial acquaintances?”

  He held up his hand before she could speak, and added, “I’m not saying friends, Mrs. Williams. I am merely saying that it is a very large house, and I have no one with whom to speak. Your Thomas is a very nice young man, but I do not feel that he is as schooled as you in certain matters.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. McDonough. I shall think about it.”

  He removed his foot from the door, and she immediately closed it in his face.

  He really shouldn’t have felt like laughing.

  Chapter 21

  A knock on the door made Sarah roll her eyes.

  “Can you get that, Florie?” she asked. “There have been more people in this suite in the last hour than I’ve seen in days.”

  Florie went to the door. Sarah heard two female voices, then Florie appeared once more.

  “Linda Tulloch is here, Lady Sarah, to take you into dinner.”

  Who was Linda Tulloch?

  Sarah walked into the sitting room to find a woman standing there, attired in a dark blue dress with a full hoop, drawn up at the bottom in two places to reveal an underskirt of white lace. A delicate cameo at her throat was her only ornament. Her hair, a shade between brunette and blond, was parted in the middle and drawn into a severe bun at the nape of her neck.

  She was lovely but gave the appearance of either being bored with her looks or uncaring for them. Winged brows arched over deeply brown and thickly lashed eyes. Her cheekbones were high, almost as if she were an exotic creature from the Far East and not Scotland at all. A mouth, perfectly formed, was pulled into a thinner line than nature had designed, however, giving Sarah the impression that Linda Tulloch did not often smile.

  “I’m your cousin,” she announced. “My father was your mother’s brother.”

  Until this moment, she’d not even known she had an uncle.

  “I’m here to take you to dinner, but we must hurry.” Linda turned, and glanced behind her impatiently. “Grandfather does not allow for any tardiness. If you’re late for dinner, you simply won’t be served.”

  Sarah nodded to Florie. “Don’t wait up for me,” she said.

  As they descended the stairs, Sarah noticed what she hadn’t seen earlier. Shields and claymores, broadswords and dirks were mounted on the walls, above the arches, and sweeping into a large, spacious room where three people stood waiting.

  Douglas was there, and beside him the man she recognized from the porte cochere, and her grandfather, Donald Tulloch, who was frowning in her direction.

  If he thought to unsettle her, he was doomed to disappointment. Ever since childhood, she’d been forced to stand in front of her father’s desk and wait until he raised his head to acknowledge her, all the while praying that she wouldn’t cry when he spoke. After those childhood experiences, Sarah doubted she was capable of being intimidated.

  The two of them approached the others, Donald reaching out to take Linda’s arm, as Sarah went to stand beside Douglas.

  “She’s my cousin,” she told him.

  “You’ll find that a great many of us are related.” The man to the side of Douglas stepped forward. “Robert Tulloch,” he said, introducing himself. “Another cousin. Third or fourth or more, I believe.”

  Donald turned, and began what Sarah could only call a procession. Linda and Robert next. Douglas offered Sarah his arm, and they followed.

  “He’s not an adversary,” he said in a whisper. “He’s at least seventy, and deserves some respect. For survival if no other reason.”

  She frowned at Douglas, but he only shook his head and escorted her into the adjoining room. The dining hall was as cavernous as the room they’d just left, with an arched ceiling reminding Sarah of a cathedral. The sound seemed magnified here too, as Douglas pulled out a thronelike wooden chair for her and walked around the table and took his place. Legs grated against the pitted stone flooring, and for a few minutes that was all she could hear.

  The table where they sat was pocked and scarred, at least twenty feet long and made from rough planks nailed together at irregular intervals. In places, the lacquer was darker than in others. The chairs were upholstered, seat and back, in cracked brown leather. Did this table, did all the furnishings in the Great Hall, date from Kilmarin’s beginnings? Everything was rustic and oversized, built for Scottish warriors, a definite contrast from the furniture in the Queen’s Suite.

  The settings looked oddly out of place, as they seemed like something she’d find at Chavensworth. She immediately identified the Spode china, with its distinctive crimson-and-black pattern. The napkin was well-pressed linen, with a wolf’s head embroidered in the corner. The silverware was sterling, as were the serving pieces.

  Sarah sat opposite Douglas in the middle of the table. Linda sat next to Douglas, and Robert sat to Sarah’s right. At the head of the table was Donald, while the foot of the table was left empty.

  Donald waved his hand, a signal, evidently, because a parade of young girls came through the door at the far end of the room bearing trays of food.

  “Move the cattle tomorrow,” Donald abruptly said in the silence.

  “I’ve already moved them,” Robert said.

  Donald stared at him. “Did I give you leave to do so?”

  “Yes,” he said, an answer that evidently surprised the older man. “The minute you put the herds under my control, you gave me leave to do so.”

  Donald sat back and regarded Robert for a minute, then surprised Sarah by repeating: “Move the cattle tomorrow.”

  Robert only smiled.

  Evidently, this was a game of long standing, and the only conversation at the table.

  Dinner consisted of two types of fish, neither one of which Sarah could identify, slices of beef, a selection of ripe cheeses, and a dessert made from strawberries and tayberries atop a round of cake and topped with cream.

  The fish was flaky and delicate; the beef was succulent, and each selection of cheese seemed more pungent and aromatic than the next. But it was the dessert that almost made her moan aloud, and more than once she caught Douglas looking at her as she savored her po
rtion.

  Her dessert finished, Sarah placed her spoon on the edge of the dish and blotted her mouth with the napkin.

  Was she supposed to remain silent? Did everyone at Kilmarin treat Donald as they would a king? Was he as much a despot as her father? Was he as cruel? She had stood up to the Duke of Herridge; she would not cower before Donald Tulloch.

  “My mother never talked about you,” Sarah said, lobbing a comment into the silence. She glanced at Linda. “I didn’t know that she had a brother, let alone that he had children. I thought, until tonight, that I had no family other than my father. And you.”

  “Did she not tell you of Kilmarin?” Donald asked.

  “She mentioned the name once or twice in stories she told me, but nothing of her family.”

  Donald closed his eyes, as if Morna’s silence was a sorrow greater than her death.

  “You’ve not asked about her. Don’t you want to know? If she was happy? Or even how she died?”

  Linda looked aghast. Robert only wore a small smile as if he was applauding her rebellion. As for Douglas, she didn’t dare look across the table to see his reaction.

  “Would you like me to assist you from the table, Grandfather?” Linda asked.

  Donald focused a stern look at her, and Linda subsided without a word.

  The silence in the cavernous room was loud enough that it was an occupant. Thunder rolled across the roof, and Sarah was grateful for the sound of the renewed storm. In those minutes, when Donald placed his napkin on the table and folded his hands on top of his lap, Sarah discovered that she was capable of being intimidated after all.

  However, Douglas was here, and she knew he would protect her.

  Donald still didn’t speak, and it was a silence left uninterrupted by the other occupants of the dining hall.

  “Your mother chose to leave Kilmarin,” Donald finally said. His voice was eerily calm, his Scottish accent adding a sweetness to the raspy tone. “On that day, she stated that nothing would ever bring her back. Nothing did. Not her mother’s death. Not her brother’s death. Nothing.”